Yeah, I took another Certification II advanced Invisalign course last Friday and sometimes Chicago seems a lot closer than Costa Mesa. I got wasted on sports-talk radio on the looong early morning drive down to the OC and by the time I turned around for the grim journey home even the sports-talk guys were pretty much sports-talked out.

The PM sports jocks moved onto to some social topics that kept me safely interested and alert while I was averaging about 15mph through outposts like Tustin, Placentia, and Fullerton. And relationship talk can get fairly hazardous in the company of women but there’s basically no risk attached to that kind of conversation among a bunch of primitive chronic sports fan types.

The topic was “Why wouldn’t you call her back after the first date?” And since I was in the privacy of my own slow speed chase-mobile on the road to nowhere and I had the shades on disguising the bloodhound eyelids that just don’t go with the words “first” and “date”, I actively listened in.

There were the usual Seinfeld variations such as “She used to go out with Newman!” or “I’m in the unfortunate position of having to consider other people’s feelings.” And there were others like “She wouldn’t talk” (really) or “She wouldn’t stop talking” or “She smoked” or “She wouldn’t stop talking…about her Ex or her cat,” or “she laughs like hyena” and yada…yada…yada. And of course, none of those embarrassing Neanderthal excuses apply to yours truly.

But then the old single radio guy threw in, “Needy does it every time.” And hey, I get it…totally. Needy and selfish (me) are sort of like oil and water, or Palin and foreign policy (or Katie Couric), or bruin and football; they just don’t mix.

But then the old guy went a little deeper; “If any woman is that crazy about me after just one date, I figure there’s gotta be something wrong with her.”

Suddenly, I was back at the Hilton in Costa Mesa and you’ll probably never move me outa the back row again and it’s not that dangerous going back in time when you’re only movin 5mph up The 57.

So Invisalign has helped make beautiful smiles for some 1.6 million folks who’d have probably never opted for metal braces and even though the approach is the most awesome dental innovation I’ve ever seen, it’s getting exponentially even better. Aside from making cock-eyed smiles beautiful, Invisalign goes a long way in helping mouths function effectively while also restoring the natural self-cleansing nature of properly aligned teeth.

We’ve actually provided Invisalign for folks who were so high risk regarding tooth decay and gum disease that traditional braces would have probably caused some tooth loss. So if you want straighter teeth, just ask. Straight teeth also mean improved oral health.

Anyway, after staking out a spot in the back of the conference room, three of the hottest molar jockettes I’ve ever seen sat down in the row right in front of me. And it’s a shame they were all so freakin needy…in my dreams.

Seemed like I just blinked and next thing you know I was cruisin’ through Diamond Bar at a brisk 30mph pace…and channeling George Costanza. And if awesome lady DDSs are gonna travel in packs because they need to learn more about Invisalign, then I’m committing my continuing education efforts to the needy.

Ask about Invisalign. And you can call any time.

One of the kindest, most caring young ladies I’ve ever known had to work full-time with demanding and always improvising yours truly, doing a job usually reserved for the two best in the business. And she was the lucky one.

My two dental assistants Kolleen and Dani are Golden. For starters, I’d love to call ‘em my daughters; it’s just that I don’t quite have enough “thoughtful” and “always pleasant” DNA to make the claim stick. Some folks can only fantasize about working together with friends they love. I guess the idea is familiarity will breed some sort of sense of entitlement or worse yet, contempt.

All I can say is for me, the last seven or so years have been more about greater and greater respect and appreciation and…I might as well just come out and admit it, love.

So Kolleen and Dani are sticklers for detail; they require organization and predictable systems just to breathe. And you have to admire their chutzpah for choosing to be Radars O’Reilly to my Colonel Blake with an inner ear infection.

Both of my dental assistants keep me on track, relate to patients on “Hello” and anticipate way better than Pete Carroll can sniff out incoming NCAA violations and penalties.

The two women with whom I spend extended weekdays couldn’t be insincere if their lives depended on it. When I see them interact with folks generous enough to honor us with their trust and loyalty, I know we’re family. If they seem for the moment cynical or sarcastic, I know their just coaching me to a wake-up call. I’ve never seen two lovelier smiles.

If you show up every day and perform a task and you’re compensated for your time and effort, you’ve got a job. If on sight, your co-workers bring a smile and “Good morning” hits warmly like a shot of Tequila, you have yourself a career.

Funny how I used to feel safe and sound when my parents were under the same roof. Funny because whenever either Kolleen or Dani are away, I start looking for my TCDC “security blanket.”

And to think I once figured great dental assistants had awesome technical abilities and great verbal skills, plus the kind of initiative that was more mythical than the Trojan horse toolin’ down Las Tunas? Kolleen and Dani are so much more.

My two dental assistants are human in only the greatest sense of the word; they’re compassionate in the universal sense of the word. Kolleen and Dani are understanding enough to have only walked out on me once. And I deserved the life lesson learned. Thanks again Dani.

And I just can’t seem to lose the image of Dani crying one morning recently. And I’m not so sure I should.

Kolleen took over the assisting duties for a week because Dani’s family at home really needed her. One of twelve siblings had lost a brief, cruel battle with cancer at far too young an age. And just like at the office, Dani was the eloquent source of strength I’ve come to respect, admire, and love so much.

If I close my eyes, I can still see Dani reacting to a sister’s sentimental favorite song and kids asking for their Nana. I know from experience Dani’s hurt and tears will always be there, maybe hidden a little more under the surface as time goes by.

And that sad morning still brings a twinge when I think back at it. And so does the love.

Got me to thinking and trust me, sometimes hooking up a few synapses and building a legit thought can be hard work. If you don’t believe me, just search George W. Bush malapropisms and you’ll find 15,200 examples. One of my favorites: “The police are not here to create disorder; they’re here to preserve disorder…”

Don’t know about you guys but it seems my patience on the road wears thinner faster these days. And if the cops are here to preserve disorder they seem to be doing one heck of job on Rosemead Blvd.

Yeah, it finally hit me I just might be getting old when I started hating a street. I said it out loud, “I hate Rosemead.” And it felt good too. And remember, within the most sophisticated dental continuing education circles, I’m known as Smilin’ Jack.

If I’d even thought of using the word “hate” when I was a kid (under 30; okay, 40) my Mom would’ve washed my mouth out with soap and I don’t mean un-fluoridated toothpaste. Seemed like it was time for some serious self-evaluation.

So I thought I was sick and tired of Sarah Palin, Dancing with the Stars (with Palin’s skanky kid this season), Wannabe Wang, and Old Hypocrite Pete Carroll. And I’ll throw in any tunes screeched out by Michael Bolton or whimpered out by James Blount. Okay, and let’s add any cutesy songs by Michael Buble, retirement parties for Bret Favre, and all the cigarette butts some jackass leaves behind our building every morning.

But what really gets my eyes rollin’ back in their sockets is forever ground-under-repair, dirt flyin’-in-the-air, slower-than-petrified molasses, freakin Rosemead. From the shifting pile of dirt aka The Piazza (coming soon) to the clogged two-lane artery north of Huntington “I ha-, I mean I’m challenged by Rosemead.”

And I do hate Salmonella, E. Coli., the Tijuana trots, and Wells Fargo so maybe it’s not as bad as I thought. Maybe I just can’t adapt to the sight of Rosemead anymore. There, that’s a little more positive, huh? It’s like Tommy Bahama flower shirts and Dockers; if I show up with that combo, don’t shoot me. Just run over and hose me down with some Tabasco or Dunn Edwards until I skulk out and away to the closest yard sale and a new wardrobe.

And there it is. I just had a full out argument in print, debating the merits of hatred over an inanimate object when it’s really just a preference I’m talking about…to myself. Good grief, I bet I was even wearing that mean looking hawk-like scowl I’ve seen permanently etched on some old folks who never smile back (and I bet they watch Fox and Dancing with the Stars.)

So maybe that’s why the old guys (USC class of ’51) I played Friday golf with over at Santa Anita asked me if I was still working? They also worried that I’d be okay carrying my clubs with the sun out and all; I was just waiting for ‘em to ask me if I knew Dr. G. V. Black, the guy who invented the foot-driven dental drill. Later that same day at my fav Pasadena restaurant, a little cutey offered to buy me a glass of wine…just before she respectfully referred to me as her elder. Ugh.

So here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m embracing Rosemead. And I’m savoring all the time I get to spend smelling the roses (and other stuff too), appreciating other viewpoints (on talk-radio), and developing my own smile from within; hear that kind of thing keeps you young.

I love Rosemead. Really.

Shucks, I used to have my own little bank account in elementary school. My parents effectively instilled the spirit of saving money way before I ever even heard of our City hoarding away millions in reserve right in the middle of an El Niño type rainy day.

And back in The Day, the Bank of America spotted me enough cash to get my practice off the ground from scratch (I lied; I actually had about 50 battle-tested patients.) My collateral back then was my whole-life insurance policy. Really.

Didn’t even understand compound interest, had never had a checking account or a credit card. Didn’t know a thing about payroll tax or worker’s comp (USC D-School was very good at money; just not very good at teaching it.) When I saw my total loan balance was almost twice the amount I had borrowed, I experienced my first of many moments of bank doubt. A little later, grizzled old Doc Shima patiently explained the essence of compound interest.

My parents paid cash for everything. If they didn’t have the dough, they didn’t buy. I hung in without a credit card until well after I’d paid off my seven-year loan to the B of A.

A week or so ago, I went online for my second Chase Bank credit card payment of the month. The first installment was for 5 grand; the follow-up effort would be good for $2K.

That’s when I found out my credit limit had been reduced by $4,000 just ten days following the first payment. No letter or email; as usual, no service. For the uninitiated, the practice is called “Chasing the balance.” The nuance seems to be the latest rage in the business…and my latest cause for more bank doubt.

Oh, and I finally got my official Chase notification in the mail about a week following my expensive Internet discovery. Sure am glad I didn’t sign on the line for any silly junk like continuing education or supplies.

And I can’t wait to speak with the messenger; that would be someone called “Credit Department.”

I realize I’m not the only one going through chronic and episodic bank purgatory these days. And I’m grateful I get to sit down and blow off some steam here while there aren’t any cats within drop-kick range.

Just curious, is there a segment of humanity less trustworthy than corporate banking? Didn’t these knuckleheads practically get the U.S. to go el busto? Didn’t they actually place bets against the high risk loans they were handing out? Guess Fantasy Football doesn’t do it for these “professionals?” Why not play Fantasy Economy?

So banks practically trigger a depression, get bailed out by the government, and continue to refuse making loans. Now when I pay down my business card, my credit line gets cut and my credit score plummets right along with it.

And our business to-date is enjoying its best year ever…in spite of banks.

The Sunday afternoon “banker” at Chase assured me they’d run a periodic evaluation and made a decision to cut my credit line. My response was somewhat muted because even weekend liars can’t be real bankers. Seems to me, any industry with the service instincts of Forrest Gump on Quaaludes would see the opportunity of informing the client before imposing new guidelines or limits.

I’ve always been taught to be responsible, to accept what I have as exactly what I deserve. Sometimes being responsible can be frustrating.

And I can’t help fantasizing about banks getting exactly what they deserve too.

But first off, I wanna thank all my buddies at GE Capital for finally seeing it my way. Turns out, I spoke with someone who understood that me paying a five-year lease from 1999 to 2004 and then onward to 2010 just wasn’t very cool.

And since the GE folks assigned to molar jockeys were only willing to give me back 10%, I pretended I was just like USC Coach Lane Kiffin or our own Temple City darling, Randy Wang. I became fearless and selfish; totally un-phased by my own stupidity and lack of social skills (hopefully, temporarily.)

And yeah, I got all my money back. As I told GE Capital Portfolio Leader Steve, “I was becoming a hater; now, I’m a fan.”

So I’ve been experiencing some of the same wonder over Kiffin and Wang. Could I ever be a fan? Thing is, they both surfaced in 2004 (the very same year my lease payments got some over-payment CPR.) Would you believe I just felt some cold sweat drip down my back?

Couldn’t have been more surprised to run into Randy and Lane at El Pollo Loco; I only stop by these days when informants assure me La Polla Loca isn’t back in the kitchen adding the Loco secret sauce that tends to raise lumps on my head just before shutting down my airway.

As usual, the opinions expressed in this virtual interview do not express those of La Polla Loca, TCDC, the NCAA, the Piazza/Plaza/Whatever, or even University of Tennessee Vols (Victims of legal statutes) athletics.

“So it’s cool seeing both you guys together! Lane, hope you enjoy the tension around City Hall this time of year. Randy, hope you’re not looking for another lot.”

“Dr. Von Bulow, as the genius behind the Piazza/Plaza/Whatever, I’ve always enjoyed the way you call the City Council “The Gang of Five.”

“Thanks Wangster, the pleasure was mine.”

“Yeah Doc, thought it was cool the way you called the old guy “OH” Carroll. Old Hypocrite Carroll, Haha! He dyes his hair white and he wouldn’t have done Jack at USC if it wasn’t for my Dad.”

“Hey Lane, remember, like my name’s Jack.”

“Yeah, why don’t ya sue me? Haha! Take a number; you’ll be right behind those hicks from Nashville. My Dad can kick their…”

“Hey Coach, stuff the attitude. You’re in my house. One more peep out of you and I’ll send you back to Heritage Hall straight through Alhambra. Huh, guess you’re not as dumb as you look.”

“And Randy, have you noticed how you and good ole silent Lane over there have so much in common?”

“Dr. V, even though I’ve been developing the Piazza/Plaza/Whatever since you were a lad, I don’t understand. And is it true you are still the foremost elite athlete/dentist/scribe in the San Gabriel valley?

“Developer Wannabe Wang, the answer to your question is “yes.”

“Doctor, I still don’t understand.”

“Oh yeah, that. Okay, you both got started at what you’re so lousy at in 2004. The Piazza/Plaza/Whatever started out as a 5-story tower with 250-350 condos and then became a multi-use 2-story project at 125,000 square feet with 52 condos. Now the plan is one story, 50,000 square feet, two restaurants and a grocery store. In six years, you’ve produced a pile of dirt and two fences. As a developer, you suck. And you still have the property and the job.”

“Hey, what about me Doc?”

“One more word Kiffin and you’re going straight down Main St. So okay, you cost my beloved Trojans two national titles with your lousy play-calling. I paid your cab fare to the airport and you barely lasted a season with the Raiders. Then Tennessee hired ya and you ditched ‘em after one year. Now you’re back at USC making $4 Mil and you got the school sued even before the season started.

You guys both suck at what you do. You knuckleheads should be paying us just to share the air.”

“Doctor Jack, as the owner of Piazza/Plaza/Whatever, if you keep talking like that, I will need to bring my tape recorder. Hahaha!”

“Bite me, Developer Jockey!”

I’m thinking; why not choose something that has nothing to do with health and fitness? Over here at TCDC, our goal is having folks be totally happy with their choices and down deep, I know “Bulldog” would want the same for me.

So what’s not healthy? Our town; but I guess I could do a virtual exit interview with hypocrite Coach Pete Carroll. Or maybe I could virtually fire nitwit USC Athletic Director Mike Garrett right in the middle of his “more hideous than UK smiles” golf swing? Nah, I’m not nearly passionate enough about that stuff to have the cortisol my adrenals secrete get my BP that much higher than 200/100.

But what about our town? Yep, paying worker’s comp around here will drive you nuts if you’re smarter than spit.

You could have a fatal laugh attack just by closing your eyes, slowly breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth and visualizing the words “city council” or “redevelopment” or “reserve.” And if lack of vision, decisiveness, and common sense was currency, the recent years of uninspired city jokers would make Bill Gates look like me holding a roadside message offering “Will drill for food” (not so funny anymore.)

So I’ve done time in Temple City since Disco and I never used to think of it as years in the slammer until I started realizing there are ghost towns and bombed-out parts of Afghanistan with more interested business advocates.

And when we (TC) hire someone who finally presents a concept and a plan, all I hear is “We can’t…” So lets fire the redevelopment/revitalization firm because our newbie City Manager says his own abilities overlap (good for him.) Pouring it on, city council members blame the redevelopment guy for not doing the city’s implementing job.

And I don’t know, maybe being all caught up with stuff like plea bargaining and pre-trial hearings can minimize the going-broke plight of the local small businesses you’re supposed to represent.

So the Chamber can’t possibly manage a farmer’s market because it would compromise their ability to capture new members. My question is who wants to belong to a Chamber that presides over too many empty store fronts and can’t even put on a stinkin’ farmer’s market?

The City Manager is doing an awesome job saving $5,000 here and $20,000 there and it’s great that we can’t even sustain a local newspaper because no cities pay $40,000 a year to be printed up. And you’d think at some point someone might consider doing a few things differently than anyone else. I mean, why keep doing what got us to where we are?

Oh, and what’s our reserve? Something approaching $40,000,000.

Wonder what we’re reserving the reserve for? Could the reserve help out the Distinguished Schools school district that keeps home values up? Could the reserve help by making loans available for small businesses struggling through an uncertain economy unlike any other since the Great Depression? Is there ever going to be a better time to improve the city’s infrastructure or revitalize the business community than when we have a load of money and the construction industry is hungry for work?

So we have huge challenges and, as usual, local leaders are playing small. We’re hoarding a few thousand here and there when a fraction of what the city already has would be transformational. There is absolutely no sense of urgency. Apparently, the city leadership doesn’t know the meaning of the word “embarrassment.”

Maybe if I take really good care of myself, I’ll live long enough to see Temple City be something more than a joke. And I guess I have some perspective to share because back in Disco, TC was way more Norman Rockwell than the Bozo it is today.

As easily as I can remember Clarence the Angel’s note to George Bailey in “It’s a Wonderful Life” I know what the Angel, Second Class really meant to say was, “He is not a failure who has friends…and family.” When we’re one of the really lucky ones, we get to have both.

So in “Up in the Air” George Clooney played a confirmed bachelor who, on the surface, was totally comfortable with his independence and freedom from all legit personal commitments to anything but his career. And I’ve always wanted to identify with Clooney on some level.

While I’ve successfully dodged giving up free Sundays or the gym every night or personal relationships that could lead to me calling or seeing that special woman every single day, I’ve never held back on my commitment to family.

Hope I’m not grossing y’all out with this personal stuff and next week’s column is all about dentures if you can wait that long.

My immediate family is down to Aunt Clara these days and if I don’t give her a shout-out she’ll call Palermo collect and OM Dalila will finally get that younger DDS replacement she’s always talking about.

Believe it or not I’ve read “The Secret” and there are far worse ways to start the day than by expressing gratitude. So every morning “I’m grateful for…doing something I love and working with people I love.” There are also far worse ways to spend a day.

My TCDC crew of six has been solid for the last seven years (and I include myself to make the number more impressive but you know you’re an integral part when everyone else has headaches and you don’t.) OM Dalila has been around for over eleven years and whaddya gonna do when you finally find someone else who’s smart and went to Mark Keppel HS. Well, what you do is say thanks all the time, especially when you get to be Godfather for Dalila’s daughter and future barrister, Ashley.

I couldn’t have two finer dental assistants than Dani and Kolleen, even though their considerable technical skills don’t even come close to equaling their stature as human beings. If I had daughters I wish they could be Dani and Kolleen (we’ve already gone through most of the difficult stages.)

My dental hygienists Jennifer and Peggy have the skills that used to save teeth and today more likely save at least quality of life if not life itself. Peggy’s the Mom of three and Jen commutes all the way from Manhattan Beach; they both relate to people on “Hello.”

So my family away from home has been there when my Mom died; most of ’em started out shortly after four team members got scared off by a business plan. They all wore black the Monday after the Trojans lost to Texas. A couple of years ago, they made a dream come true and there I was one bright Sunday morning eating a canolli in Piana degli Albanesi in Sicily.

A couple of weeks ago, I had to make some hard choices to get us through a difficult 2009. Later that day (having impersonated Scrooge,) I opened a Christmas gift from my team; it was two VIP tickets to a Celtics’ game at Staples.

I’ve been a diehard Celtics fan since grammar school.

But my quintet trumps even the Celtics. They’re every bit as gifted…and I love ’em… because they’re family.

So alright, you win. It was the movie.

And admit it; you guys probably have some innocent guilty pleasures just like me. Stuff like chocolate, purses, shoes, cigars; or maybe even flossing, or something totally cool…like USC football.

Don’t know about you but I don’t necessarily need any company when I’m indulging. Especially when I’m watchin’ Trojan road games or going to Michael Moore movies.

Why am I such a fan of Moore’s stuff? There are times when I’m practically positive I think Moore is awesome just because most of my molar jockey brethren can’t stand him (that alone is better than any fish oil or load of amino acids for my heart and soul.)

There’s more. I’m at least open to Moore’s views most of the time and again, that could just be my basic, usual, and customary anti-conservative DDS reflex. But I do have to admit I like the guy’s audacity; he’s totally fearless. Fearless enough to pull an armored truck up to AIG’s double-doors and ask for the Bailout money back. Audacious enough to surround all of Wall Street with yellow crime scene tape and reassure the Gordon Gecko wannabes inside, “You’ll like Federal prison; it’s a nice place.”

So how in the world does someone who graduated from conservative USC become an ardent fan of Michael Moore? I guess maybe the avocado doesn’t fall too far from the SoCal tree.

Moore didn’t go to college and I went mostly on my Dad’s check from the Teamsters Union. Moore’s Dad supported a family with a union job and gave his children advantages he never had. My dad had twice my brains and never had the educational opportunities he gave me. I bet Moore’s Dad never turned away from folks down on their luck; I know my Dad didn’t.

It might just be me, but Capitalism: A Love Story seemed more like a tribute to whom we used to be more than a sarcastic reference to what we’ve become im Moore’s eyes: a Facebook Fan Page where we fall in love with the concept of being the 1% that has more than 95% of the rest of us all put together.

So do we really want what the B of A and Wal-Mart have become? Do we really want to profit from the death of co-workers and cynically refer to company-owned life insurance as “Dead peasants” policies? Or do we want to send our best science/math students to Wall Street “derivatives” grad school where they can bet we lose our mortgage and hedge that bet by betting against themselves?

The movie’s not about the “S” word. Moore’s concern is that capitalism (more accurately a plutocracy) is causing us to lose sight of democracy. During the last several decades, Moore sees only one surviving American value: Money. Humanity, responsibility, and compassion seem to be fading fast.

By the time the credits are rolling, it’s clear that Moore is anything but maybe the only living lifetime NRA member/Socialist. Instead, Moore comes off as an unrepentant, modern day FDR-admiring New Dealer inspired by the possibilities of a restored democracy fueling opportunities for everyone, including hard-working Americans in the survival mode. And Moore sees the steady decline of unions and the country’s current dilemma as no coincidence.

I’m pretty sure my Dad would agree. And I may be a Trojan molar jockey but I still have my Teamster withdrawal card.

Sinatra was there for Mom and Dad and I guess if you took a deep breath, rolled the dice, and still pursued the American Dream during the Depression you were apt to be emotionally attached to FDR.

Some of my more conservative friends will never get this but losing Senator Ted Kennedy to cancer this past week hit me like a loss in the family. I think I understand but I’m not so sure I can really explain.

When I do my “The Secret” thing every morning and click off all the length of stuff that merits my lasting gratitude, I start with my family and follow with my childhood.

Things were pretty innocent back in The Day. A kid could have heroes. I had many. No one could touch Mom and Dad and brother, Jay in the hero department but what if you were twelve years old the morning you saw JFK being sworn in on a biting cold Inauguration Day?

Don’t know about you but I’ve always been a card carrying sucker for inspiration. And maybe it was my impressionable youth but I still haven’t heard anyone more inspiring than President Kennedy. JFK made greatness seem more than possible; he made it seem natural. All you needed was the will and determination. Until that November Dallas motorcade.

When I was 21, I actually shook Robert Kennedy’s hand in Monterey Park the day before he won the California Presidential Primary. I still remember the victory speech. The disbelief that followed moments later still remains.

Within several months, Ted Kennedy and I had both suddenly lost a hero and brother. I know when I got my news that Sunday morning, a bit of my confidence and trust disappeared and never quite returned, replaced by some cynicism that unfortunately has never left.

Ted Kennedy survived some major errors in judgment, even though not all those around him were quite so lucky. He endured family tragedies, public humiliation, and lost his only chance to return a Kennedy Presidency.

I selfishly hoped against hope that Teddy could somehow regain his brothers’ inspiring promise of greatness. Instead, what I was moved to appreciate was Ted Kennedy’s ironclad will to make a difference, take a stand, and never give up.

Senator Ted Kennedy authored some 300 bills that became law. If you or a loved one has ever been confined to a wheelchair or worked for minimum wage or had a child who needed health insurance (there are approximately 6,000,000) or needed a better standard of education you can thank Ted Kennedy.

Ted Kennedy never backed down but always sought collaboration. He was always a stand for the little guy, the right thing, and the opportunity to make the most of a life comprised of faults, all too human.

In 1980, August 2008, and one last time from the voice of his son, the words, “…the work goes on, the cause endures, the hope still lives, and the dream shall never die” still touch and inspire.

He definitely wasn’t perfect and he couldn’t be JFK or RFK but he was still my hero.

RIP Teddy.

And I know you won’t have a clue if you’re a powder puff blue bruin because this kind of stuff is rarer for you guys than a trip to Pasadena in January. But I digress.

A ticket to the USC-Notre Dame game: $68. Grilled Brats on campus: three bucks. Walking into Gibson’s after a win wearing a USC hoodie and getting a table with no reservations: priceless.

So this was my fifth consecutive trip to Chicago and South Bend for the game, the chapel, the Grotto, and yes, even Touchdown Jesus. Back in 2001, I received a solid, sincere Midwestern “Welcome to Notre Dame Stadium” and nothing’s changed since. For me, the trip has become a pilgrimage.

Truth is, this is the one indulgence the economy, the Piazza (coming soon) and even leaping lizards or leprechauns can’t derail. Arctic air, too many carbs, lousy Pac-10 officials or not, my immune system thrives on trips to the Windy City and South Bend every two years.

And this year, there were no vacations, unless you wanna call the hell I put myself through on local golf courses recovery time. Just seemed like this time around it made sense to play things safe. And when I started wondering about South Bend, the voices I heard seemed to be coming from my brother Jay and Bobby McPherrin; they were harmonizing “Don’t worry, be happy…it’s almost October.”

So I rarely go to Mass these days, don’t place flowers at cemeteries, and haven’t even really prayed since Mom died. But that doesn’t mean I don’t talk with and dream about Mom and Dad and Jay all the time, especially on Sundays. The Pasadena restaurant pasta sauce almost passes the Mama Von Bulow test but the lack of homemade unconditional love always gets in the way of a strong “thumbs up.”

Every two years at South Bend, spare ticket or not, Saturday is all about quality time with brother Jay, my all-time marketing director and Trojan fanatic mentor. And it’s amazing how your big brother never stops having your back, being your protector or guardian.

Went solo to Chicago this year and spent most of a week with the Days, a TC family that makes the Huxtables look dysfunctional (and that’s even including Brian.) Hung out with a young Jesuit at Long Beach International, shared umbrellas with USC Chaplin Father Lawrence at the Friday rally at the Naval Pier; I think maybe Jay was tryin’ to tell me something.

And when I finally made it to my stadium seat, I spent a few minutes wiggling my fingers, toes, and ears hoping to avoid pre-game frostbite when I heard, “Jaaack! Dr. Von Bulooow!!!” Wound up sitting next to our own TCHS/USC football hero, my Facebook buddy, Desmond Reed and his girlfriend.

I think my brother, the Jesuits and other divine powers that be kept the game close out of respect for a special day precious few will ever experience. And that’s why I still have the greatest big brother any grad from even the University of Spoiled Children could ever have.