Thanks to everyone for their kind emails, texts and phone calls about Rocket Ships. Based on the volume of notes, a lot more people might have commented, but considered the post too personal and thus stayed on the sidelines. Though their rationale is a bit curious, since this a site available to the entire Internet, I understand. Lurkers are generally the most polite of netizens. Small correction: samhilliard.com might be blocked in parts of Asia; that’s due to the Great Firewall of China rather than a design plan.

Monday begins week two of the post-divorce life and things are going well. Work is quiet. Krav Maga is on hold for a few more days, while I nurse my rib back to one hundred percent. Officially I was back in business two weeks ago, and had resumed training. During some stick disarms on the 21st, I fell on my elbow. Unlike in May, this time the rib is merely bruised. Once I can cough without wincing, I’ll be back in class.

Still in the running at one literary agency. I anticipate an answer shortly after July Fourth. Fiction is a very tough sell these days. Towards that end, I’m considering another project that will lead in a different direction.

On the non-fiction front, I’m in discussions with a woman who has an incredible story about escaping a bloody civil war that killed her entire family. We have tons of details to sort out, but I’m hopeful we can reach a compromise that works for everyone. It’s the sort of book that needs to be written, and I’d be honored to help translate her experiences into a compelling narrative.

Among all the great men, only one could make me feel pride about living in New Jersey–Mr. George Carlin. The comic master taught me a lot more than the seven dirty words; he taught me when to say them, too. Hint: not in front of Mom.
His observations were biting, humorous and painfully true.

” . . . we’re going to ban the toy guns, and keep the F-ing real ones . . . ”

” . . . Next time you civil war buffs reenact the battle of Gettysburg, do us all a favor. Use real ammunition! . . .”

” . . . I would like to be Pope, because they can pick their name. I’d be Pope Corky the 23rd . . . ”

Almost twelve years to the day Susan and I moved in together, the court system legally dissolved our marriage. For the past twenty-two months, we have lived separately. A divorce was the only option. For the record, this is the civil matter I mentioned in the prior entry.

Those who know our story, also know that the earliest connection we shared was Antioch Park. As children we both played there, neither having any idea the other person existed. One of the most salient features about the place was an all metal rocket ship twenty-five feet high, with a massive slide down the middle. Standing beside the behemoth structure was truly awesome to a seven-year old.

It sounds a bit odd now, but our initial meeting went very badly, and almost ended without either of us realizing we had anything in common. Until I mentioned an upcoming trip to Kansas. That off-handed reference led the conversation into Antioch Park, and then the rocket ship; that was when things really started clicking.

Shortly after meeting Susan, I visited my Grandparents. My mission was simple. To bring back a picture of the rocket ship. The only hitch: after walking forty-four acres in six inches of snow, the rocket ship was nowhere to be found. My grandfather and I found a park ranger who explained it had been sold for scrap in the late eighties. Though foiled, I took a lot of other pictures of the park, which made great talking points for a first date.

And the next thing I knew we were living together . . . and now we are divorced.

While a very amicable split, being bound to someone who lives more than an hour and half away, who I once saw daily and now only see when business compels it, has been quite a distraction. To end on a positive note in a clean fashion makes a huge difference.

I want to thank all my friends and family for being supportive, offering help when needed, and advice only when asked. You allowed me to plot the right course by offering me the best navigation tools you could–your faith that I would figure it out eventually. I never felt anything less than full approval from any of you.

The people who had my back: Mom and Dad, My grandparents, Pollster, Justin, Katie, The Men’s Group, Jaysen, Ian, Matt and Michelle, Todd, Jason, Super Duper Cooper, Elena, Bill, Ryan, Jon “call me Spike”.

Each of you brought me closer to who I am, and I am grateful. Thank you.

To Susan: May the one you choose love you back with the same level of intensity you extend them. May you find balance in all things. May you be happy, healthy and wise. May all your dreams come true. Thank you, Susan, for the experiences, the support, and the love. We’ve let each other go, for the right reasons, and at the right time.

You know, when I close my eyes, I can still see the rocket ship. And I understand why it’s no longer in Antioch Park. The kind park ranger had it half-right. The rocket ship disappeared, yes, but only because it took us where we needed to go.

Now it’s flying somewhere else.

The past few weeks have been very sparse in terms of posts. Bottom line: after a court date next week–civil court, rather than criminal–I’ll share the appropriate details and publish a lot more frequently. Till then, it will remain an unspoken hiatus of sorts around here.

Personal details being what they are, I’ve still held back way more than is really necessary because of the outstanding litigation. Which was a decision–reasonable though it was–that ultimately contributed to far fewer site updates. I’ve always strived to inject a sense of humanity into the site, and demonstrate that I do something besides read and write constantly. Hence entries about skydiving and Krav Maga. Even those type of entries all but disappeared.

But the silence. The path to it started innocently enough. Months ago, I posted a minor detail here that upset the other party in the lawsuit. It had very little to do with the legal matter itself. But by mentioning that the case existed, I made the situation more “public”, which in turn offended them. The infrequent correspondence turned non-existent.

From a financial standpoint, such a standoff becomes expensive as without communication, it takes longer to reach a settlement. And that’s the desired end in any legal proceeding: to get out fast while spending the absolute minimum on court fees and lawyers. Because if there’s anything more onerous than courts, it’s lawyers and their perpetual machine billing mechanisms. If they can dream of way to invoice, they will.

So I squelched the next entry that I planned, one which had a tiny reference to the case. That initial omission led to not mentioning other situations going on in my life, which had absolutely nothing to do with the case, but again, might ruffle some feathers and protract the matter–the last thing I wanted. Eventually I posted less and less.

Soon it seemed there was an ever growing list of issues that could be construed as sensitive and I found myself not really wanting to blog at all. Actually, I found myself not really wanting to write about anything, either. It was stifling.

And it was entirely my decision. Whether it was necessary, I think perhaps, though I took it to extremes. Still, the initial choice seemed like the right one at the time.

So I’m making another choice. More details will follow after the court date next week.

Two good friends left for a new life in Chicago today, and I feel like my dog–who has long since passed–died all over. Although it’s been a mere few hours, and I joined them for breakfast before they piled into the Penskie truck, bound for Route 80, I miss them fiercely.

Back in college, a professor once made an offhand statement that at last made sense to me today. As people age. their friendships are less superficial, and more relationships of consequence. For no matter how close someone was with their fraternity brothers or sorority sisters, or high school buddies, odds are the friends they make and keep after graduation–the ones who matter–have far more influence on their life. Even if years pass between meetings.

So to Jamee and Mario: You both deserve all the success in the world, and best of luck with your move, your new jobs, your new life.

We will meet again.

Much like Krav Maga, the first rule of this site is that there are no rules; if a topic intrigues me, I hope that it might interest someone else and I’ll jot an entry. Or I’ll try one out, anyway. Quite a few entries are stuck in draft limbo right now, awaiting revisions. Regardless, if an entry goes over well once in the wild, I might consider another one about the same subject. That being said, there is an unwritten–and unspoken, until now–rule: To avoid discussing politics.

I have a few reasons. For starters, political issues have a frightfully short shelf life. One year’s million persons march is next year’s thousand person tailgate party. As interest in the topic fades, so does the relevance of entries about that issue. Not that I’m going for immortality with a blog, but among the hundreds of entries on the site, it is nice to have at least a few are worth reviewing at a later date.

Another rationale for the blackout is a reflection of my interest level in the subject. Which varies between low to non-existent. I consider myself a particularly apolitical critter. When it comes to matters largely out of my control, I lose interest quickly. True, in high school, I attended a peace rally and signed a petition, but that had a lot more to do with the fact my girlfriend at the time was passionate about the issue. Certainly I was just as passionate about her joining me in the back seat of a Crown Victoria.

More importantly, for the past twenty years, presidential races have been extremely close matches. When the final votes are counted, the split of votes between the challengers can number in the mere thousands. Razor thin margins at the voting booth could mean a lot of things. Perhaps the candidates appear so similar voters have trouble separating them. Maybe the platforms fail to inspire the fiery sentiments that drive hordes of people to the ballots. In light of these uber-tight races, it seems there are better explorations than temporary diversions that might incite 1/2 of the population.

Mostly I’ve stuck with the above principles. Over the past four years on the site, only one entry contains a political reference–and that was pretty vague. Something about a ketchup bottle, I recall.

In the end, no matter how much television coverage the buildup to an election nets, long before the keys to the kingdom actually change hands, journalists move on to the next big thing. Which is what I’m about to do.

And so my comment about politics–the second ever on this site–is that I have . . . no comment.

Everything is OK in the little place some call Hell . . . er, I mean New Jersey.

I’ll be back shortly.