A Conversation with Meb Keflezighi, 2014 Boston Marathon Winner!

Boston Strong, Meb Strong, USA, USA, USA!!!

So honored to meet The Man, The Myth, The Medal...The Meb!

Meb and I holding court in the auditorium

People say that life is full of surprises, but it's not often that a random hallway conversation turns into a top five life moment. That's exactly what happened when I was asked, unofficially and somewhat as a favor, to host an auditorium Q & A session with professional marathoner Meb Keflezighi. 

I played coy at first, in part because I didn't want to seem too eager to agree to the request. In other part - the slightly more terrifying one - the thought of interviewing a world-class athlete in front of a packed auditorium of co-workers scared the bejeebers out of me. 

What if I froze up? What if got cotton mouth? What if I became a distraction because I couldn't stop clearing my throat? What if I fell off the stool and injured myself? What if I called him Meg? These ridiculous thoughts and more went through my head before, during and after I agreed to do it. 

And then Meb won the freaking Boston Marathon! 

One thing became certain as I surreptitiously watched the live feed of Meb's gutsy performance in Boston on April 21st - this was going to be a big deal. A thin line of perspiration formed on my brow, and I was unknowingly white-knuckling my desk as Meb wound down Boylston Street, peeking over his shoulder way too many times as the dogged field tried to overtake him. It was not an easy race to watch if you were rooting for him - 26.2 miles is a ton of distance to cover when playing rabbit to world-class marathoners.  

It was only when victory was imminent, when he placed his shades on his head and spread his arms out wide before crossing the finish line that I was able to celebrate and de-clench my jaw. As Meb - now forever cemented as a national hero - began his victory lap, the full weight and importance of his victory began to sink in. More for him, but also a tiny, terrifying bit for me.

Meb's heroic finish, forever frozen in time

He was the first American to win the Boston Marathon in 31 years, a fact as amazing as it is undeniably unbelievable. His historic victory came one year after the horrific terrorist bombings that rocked the finish line; as a result, there were more eyes on the event, greater media coverage and security scrutiny, emotions thick as an early morning Boston harbor fog. It was a time when America wanted - really, needed - an American to bring joy to this recovering city. A time to "Take Back Boston", as the rally cry went. 

Meb understood this more than anyone as he was there that fateful day, posted up for hours at the finish line, laid up by an injury, yet showing up to cheer as the collective of professionals and amateurs completed their arduous journey. Proof that not only is he a great runner, but an amazing and humble person, a true ambassador for the sport. Just another example of the DNA that makes Meb a genuinely inspiring athlete, as opposed to simply a great one.

Using the events of the previous year as motivation, Meb ran the race of his life. He referred to it as the gutsiest race of his professional career, and his greatest accomplishment in the sport he loves so much. If Boston is the holy grail for marathoners, and it is, Meb was drinking from the chalice with both hands, chin towards the sky. 

The Boston Marathon victory tops off an incredible career which includes, among other highlights: the 2004 Olympic silver medal in the Marathon, first place at the New York Marathon, first place US half-marathon Championships, Olympic Trials champ and owner of a host of US records and collegiate championships.

As a side note, you know you're a stud when you can describe the number of records you've held using the phrase "a host of..."

ALL of this was going through my head when I began to prepare for the Q & A session. I channeled my inner Charlie Rose and read any and everything I could about the prolific marathoner. I'm what could be described as a casual follower of the pro running circuit, so up to this point I knew Meb as the guy with an unpronounceable surname, the American who had won marathon silver in Athens, a consistent big-race challenger and, most interestingly to me of late, a dude who was succeeding in pro sports while wearing Sketchers. How could you not love the guy?

I scoured the Internet and learned about his family's incredible journey from war-torn Eritrea to Italy, and finally to San Diego, California. As a former Peace Corps volunteer living for two years without plumbing, I somewhat understood the impoverished environment of his youth, though the bombings he experienced as a child hit Managua two full decades before I took up residence in Nicaragua.  

What resonated, though, is how in countries with very little, a strong sense of family is not only important, but essential for survival. Authentic (spicy) food eaten by hand, music and especially dancing are what bring friends, family and neighbors together, instead of being separated by the invisible barriers put up by the Internet, texting and stuffy cubicle environments. When life is simplified, true priorities percolate up to the surface, and for Meb and the rest of the Keflezighi's, that means family, education, hard work and, fittingly, endurance. 

But I don't want to give away all of the good parts...this is his story. Buy Meb's book, Run to Overcome. Let him tell you about his father's own Pheidippides-esque odyssey (that's marathon humor), his family's arrival in the US, and his journey from a shy grade-schooler who ran one heck of a first mile to the man we know today: Marathon Meb.

Inspirational and entertaining with just the right amount of humor and training information

Meeting Meb

I slept terribly the night before I was to meet Meb, unable to shut down my brain as it played out and deconstructed every possible scenario for what could go wrong, right and terribly wrong during the Q & A session. Usually a trusted ally and source of humor, my inner monologue was being a real pain in the you-know-what as I analyzed an event that was yet to happen.

I finally managed to ignore myself - "get out of my head", as they say - long enough to reach a state of deep slumber, though this was mere moments before my morning alarm buzzed me back to reality. Game on!

Knowing that I would be jittery, I requested to meet Meb and his entourage earlier in the day, if for any reason hoping to get any "Meg's" out of the way before I did so in front of a crowd. First we gave him a hero's welcome, gathering in the lobby to cheer him on upon entering our friendly confines. Forty or so Garmin employees loudly applauded Meb as he slowly ambled into building, completely surprised by the affectionate display shown towards him, forcing him to (I assume) politely disconnect the phone conversation that our applause had interrupted.

Greeting the champ

It was quite the front lobby moment - certainly more memorable than the handfuls of times the receptionists have had to greet me as I request temporary badges on my forgetful days. We clapped, whistled, hooted and hollered while Meb flashed his magazine-cover grin, gave us a patented thumb's up and, coolest part of it all, held up the Boston Marathon first-place medal that had likely adorned his neck for four straight days and nights.

As the cheers subsided, Meb, who was hobbling a bit as his body was still far from fully recovered, began shaking hands and posing for pictures with anyone who requested it of him. He had an interaction with every single person who took the time to greet him in the lobby, creating 40+ uniquely personal and life-lasting memories in the span of a couple of minutes - further proof of his inspirational pedigree.

As the glowing crowd dissipated and Facebook became inundated with pics of Meb and his new besties, he was chauffeured, along with Merhawi  - his brother/manager - to a fully-stocked conference room that would act as his home base throughout the day. (To learn more about the brother/brother agent/athlete relationship, read this article from Competitor). 

He was all smiles and jokes as we entered the room. A passing (some might say creeping) employee caught him as he was sitting down, and told Meb how much of an inspiration (there's that word again) and hero he was to him. You could tell the guy was nervous, and Meb made a point to ask his name, shake his hand and sincerely thank him for the compliments. His day more than made, the guy all but floated out of the room. 

It was an odd sensation, sitting across from him. Here he was, a world-class athlete, Olympic medalist and record holder, 126 pounds of cheekbones, abs and smiles who had just freaking won the Boston Marathon. And he was talking to me! It was surreal. 

A couple of employees helped him setup some new vivofit's - Garmin's fitness tracking band - and made no-brainer jokes about how many steps he'd do in a day. I made a joke about how my high school track coach routinely got on me for looking over my shoulder too much, but how Meb's coach probably gave him a pass because he, you know, won the freaking Boston Marathon. That he afforded me a chuckle at this barb, even if he was humoring me, put me at ease. 

As he and Merhawi ate breakfast burritos, myself and Andy, who was pegged to introduce him to the audience later that day, asked if there was anything specific he'd like us to mention. "You wrote down Boston Marathon Winner, right?", he joked without missing a beat. With one quip, he not only cracked up the room, he put us both at ease, releasing us of any tension or anxiety we had once felt. 

My instinct was fortuitous, in that meeting him before the interview would prove to make it much (much) easier, though this was primarily due to Meb's easy-going nature and the fact that he's such an unassuming star. Powerful and impactful, with a vigorously competitive spirit, true grit and a never-ending desire to succeed - to win! - yet safe in his understanding of who he is and how to treat others. Inspirational. Again, that word. 

After our chat which I secretly didn't want to end (ever!), engineering came calling and Meb was pulled into what we joked would be an overly technical session with the fitness engineers about Garmin's running watches. Unlike most sponsored athletes, however, he was looking forward to this opportunity. A Garmin user years before we signed him, he's a true believer in the technology of GPS running watches; he even nerded out - I'm using the term affectionately in an attempt to portray his passion on the topic - to us, describing how he uses heart rate, step cadence and other features in training and competitions. Now there's a testimonial with legs. (Sorry for the running pun).

I left the meeting feeling great, unable to contain my excitement. Mike Tyson couldn't wipe the smile off of my face. I'm not sure why I returned to my desk because I was way too distracted to do any real work. I sent a couple of emails, but had resigned myself to stalling for a few hours until the Q & A. I found a few videos of Meb online, but had to stop watching them as I was becoming, embarrassingly, like a child, way too excited. 

When I couldn't stand it anymore, I got up and walked around for a bit until I found myself in the lower level of the building where Meb was doing on-air interviews for the local TV stations. Not coincidentally, this was the first time that I made the connection that there could be outside media at the event. Though not full-blown, a renewed panic ensued. Luckily, the majority of my sweating was psychological, allowing me to play it cool on the outside. 

Meb was released from his media duties and given a slight reprieve before he was to speak in the auditorium. A group of us chatted with him in the bowels of the building, passing the time and trying to soak up every minute with the champ. Someone gave him a putter, with which he sent a few golf balls flying towards the hole on the tiny practice green that I've never seen anyone use before, ever. 

Someone else brought a few boxes of his book - you may remember it as the book I once recommended that you purchase, Run to Overcome - for him to sign, as he would be selling them after the session. True to form, he wouldn't leave the putting green until he finally sunk one, and I must say, it took more than a few tries before he was able to raise the putter in celebration. The neat thing is, every time I pass that particular spot now, I smile as I recall the time I saw the Boston Marathon winner hole out. 

It took more than fore tries for Meb to sink it (terrible golf pun)

Getting training tips from Meb and Merhawi

The Author

Meb and my buddy Jay, who is tall, but not a giant

It was almost time...

It is here that I would like to state for the record that the single worst question to ask someone faced with nerve-wracking circumstances is, "Are you nervous?". "Of course not" I lied, unconvincingly, a lot, to everyone. There's a reason that the phrase "Good luck!" exists. Use it!  

We headed down the corridor towards the auditorium, where Jody, who manages our sponsored athletes - the one who I'll forever be grateful to for asking me to emcee the event - posted up with Meb at the door. Merhawi, Andy, myself and the rest of the crew snuck in the ground floor of the auditorium, where, to my immediate horror, we were greeted by a full house. 

Andy, wearing a ridiculous K-State shirt, grabbed the handheld microphone and began the proceedings. He ran through a number of Meb's accomplishments, generating raucous applause when he stated the time in which he finished the Boston Marathon, a mind boggling PR of 2:08:37. Upon hearing this thunderous ovation, Jody urged Meb into the room, where the intensity of the noise increased exponentially; the standing ovation lasted more than four minutes, reaching a crescendo akin to something felt in Allen Fieldhouse when the Jayhawks are on a roll. 

Meb stood there stoically and smiling, praising the crowd with humble bows and a few thumb's up. As Andy directed him to his stool, he joked that Meb jumped the gun (a layered joke, more running humor), and went on to complete the full list of his accolades. He finished, said my name, and handed the mike to me; as I grabbed it, two very real thoughts surfaced: 1) Holy crap, this is happening. Like, NOW!, and 2) I wonder if the cameras can pick up the visibly aggressive heart palpitations emanating from my chest cavity. 

"Are you all miked up, Meb", I awkwardly stated as I situated myself on the lone empty stool, making a mental note, a final reminder to myself to try not to fidget, blink too much, scrunch my nose, fall down or mistakenly refer to the newly anointed men's Boston Marathon champ as "Meg". 

It was on...

I may have looked calm and collected, but I was freaking out inside. On the other hand, I may not have looked calm and collected. 

I had an idea for how I wanted this to play out, but understood that flexibility was going to be key as I didn't know how the champ would respond to my questions. I had an arsenal of topics in my back pocket, heavily researched, and my only goal was to have some witty banter - to come off as knowledgeable, humorous and easy-going - before opening it up to the audience.

Knowing people would want to hear about Boston, I began with a question about how he was feeling leading up the race. A simple question in my mind, I ended up asking Meb how he felt, both emotionally, psychologically and physically as he prepared for Boston. You'll notice that I mentioned three terms, thus making my use of the word "both" completely and utterly inaccurate. Still...a decent start.

Meb took us back farther than the starting line, constructing a descriptive account of his fitness and additional challenges in the years preceding this Boston victory. He painted a detailed and informative picture of his training that lead up to Boston, and how he knew that he had to make a statement there to honor the bombing victims of the previous year. He summarily answered my three-pronged question, and without further prompting from me, checked off the next seven on my list as he recounted the race.

For the record, I was totally cool with it. His great answer/race recap gave me sufficient time to steel my nerves as I glanced out at an audience where I recognized more than a number of co-workers and friends.

It was extremely compelling to listen to him describe the last few miles of the race, as he maintained a tenuous lead, yet remained keenly aware that the field was advancing towards his targeted back. That he used the crowd as motivation to maintain his crazy-fast pace, and had to focus on not only his body, but his emotional state as he headed towards Boylston Street and the finish line.

He was alternately funny and serious, detailing his grueling adventure, inviting all of us to experience it as if we were there with him, waving an American flag in his direction as he sped past us, a victorious blur.

He was remarkably genuine and sincere in recounting how much this victory meant to him and his family, to the crowds cheering him on, to America and Boston. He was humble yet confident, and assured of the significance of his performance. It was a true joy listening to him tell his story, and I had the best seat in the house.

Proving in person he knows how to celebrate a victory

After his great race summary, I threw out a few questions to keep the conversation going. I wanted him to speak about the way in which he honored the bombing victims before the race, writing their names on his racing bib. I was also curious as to how "The Call" went, and Meb brought us into his conversation with President Obama, detailing how much it meant for him, an American by way of Eritrea and Italy, to speak with America's top boss. His sense of pride in recalling this event was tangible and contagious, and he had the audience completely captivated.

Not wanting to press my luck - no "Meg's" to speak of - I segued from that anecdote and let the audience have their turn. Hands shot up like fireworks. There were four floating mikes, and my goal was to shoot for equal coverage, both geographical and demographical (spellcheck just told me that this isn't a word, but it sounds so nice when paired with geographical).

A secondary goal was to make some sort of engineering crack, but looking out at the audience comprised primarily of engineers, I understood that it would have to be a delicate one...or extremely funny.

The audience questions were very good, and I unknowingly selected a diverse group of individuals. There were Garmin engineers and employees, of course; but I also nailed a few guests who came specifically to see Meb. One of which was wearing an orange Boston Marathon windbreaker from this year's race, an easily-recognizable badge of honor within the running community. It was apparent to everyone in the room that his day, month and year were made when Meb congratulated him for completing the same race that he won.

It also highlights the uniqueness of this event, that it's such a high profile race for professional runners, yet amateurs are there on the very same course, sharing the road, dealing with the same elements. Even among the non-professionals, however, qualifying times are dropping, making it increasingly difficult to secure a bib number, nevertheless finish the Boston Marathon. Which is why it was so special to see their exchange, the equivalent of Lebron James dishing out high-fives at a pick-up game at a local YMCA. 

When asked what data field he referenced most during training and on race-day, I sprang into action, commenting, "And thus begins the engineering portion" somewhat sarcastically. As I was saying it, some small part of my brain questioned whether this was a smart move, career-wise, you know. Curious if my smart mouth would get me into trouble, I was relieved as a small and somewhat nervous wave of laughter emanated from the crowd - turns out there were enough marketing, sales and support friends out there to generate a chuckle. And luckily the engineer (what else would he be?) remained unfazed, intently curious about Meb's forthcoming response, as if he had a fedora, disposable flash camera, a pen and pad. Meb made his day and probably created a new running watch by answering the question.

Boston Strong!

Meb was top of the podium (running analogy) for the audience, which consisted primarily of those with engineering degrees, many of whom were part of the team that developed the running watch technology that Meb has been using for years. I asked all members of the fitness and Garmin Connect teams to raise their hands in recognition, so that he could personally thank them (with a thumb's up), and to demonstrate just how many individuals were on the project.

All those who raised a hand that day were able stake a tiny claim as a contributing member of Team Meb, as they pumped him up when he pressed "start" on his Forerunner at the beginning of the race; they helped him keep up his super-human pace while in lead, surrounded but alone with his beeping virtual partner; and they gave him permission to stop churning after breaking the ribbon with his chest with one final, ceremonial "beep" that registered 26.2+ miles, a digitally-frozen moment in time and marathon history.

The event could have gone on for another three hours, or until Meb's legs began to cramp due to dehydration, or an excess of witty banter. With 300+ potential autograph seekers in the audience I was given the "wrap it up" signal after 45 outstanding and all-too-quick minutes.

I closed the session by summing up how proud we are to have Meb as part of the Garmin family, the only part of the proceedings that I had rehearsed prior to the event. After some words of thanks on his part (totally unnecessary, by the way) he received a huge ovation from the crowd before I instructed them to filter to the right and form an autograph line.

In all the commotion, I didn't want to miss my chance walk away with a customized souvenir from the man himself. So out of fairness to the crowd, and riding high on post-interview endorphins, I helped bring the autograph table to Meb, then helped myself to the front of the line. Even after meeting him ahead of time, after sharing his spotlight in front of my co-workers, I felt like a Justin Bieber fan chasing after a lock of hair.

Meb has this unexplainably comforting and familiar aura about him, yet he also exudes supreme confidence, coolness and humor. He's a man who is comfortable with the fact that if he does his job well, he'll be on TV's and newspapers across the U.S. and around the globe, not to mention every corner of the Internet. And he's good with that. What I'm saying is, he's an easy guy to have a dude crush on.

He stayed and signed posters, racing bibs, medals and even a few Forerunners for everyone who had the patience to stand in the seemingly-growing line. While he did that, Merhawi sold signed copies of his book until he was left standing next to a pile of empty boxes.

After the visit to Garmin, Meb, Merhawi and their entourage - namely, Meb and Merhawi - went on to bigger stages and brighter lights. I went home and talked my lovely wife's ear off like a teenager checking in after a great first date. It was a memorable day, a special moment, and I'm thankful that my name was the one thrown around in the "Meb Brainstorm" session that I wasn't a part of.

Congrats once again to Meb and the entire Keflezighi family. I look forward to seeing Meb toe the line once again; and even though Boston was, as he put it, the greatest, most grueling victory of his professional career, I have a feeling this isn't the last we've heard from Marathon Meb.

Check out the Kansas City Star's report on Meb's visit to Garmin HERE.

Meb and I on the home page of the KC Star

Meb and I hanging out on Facebook together, solidifying our friendship

If you're interested, check out these interesting stories about some pretty interesting individuals that I happen to know: 

Linda Brantner: CEO, Wichita State Alumni Achievement Award Honoree

Neil Stratman: Singer, Writer, Brother, Performer, "Mixtapes for an Ex-Girlfriend"

April Speaker Series: Neil Gets His Kurt Elling on!

A Talented Singer/Blogwriter Validates Subway Love...

If I find out that Neil was attempting to make a heart with this hand gesture, I'm going to feel somewhat embarrassed for the both of us. 

April was an exciting month to be a Brantner, know a Brantner, have a sister married to a Brantner, win the Boston Marathon or catch a Brantner miked up. In the span of two weeks during April 2014, four of us - including those closely related to us - stood in front of an adoring crowd and preached a personal gospel. My next four posts will celebrate this passion that makes us such a special family, and honor some amazing individuals in the process. One award, one performance, one interview and one celebration. Four stories...

Linda Brantner: CEO, Wichita State Alumni Achievement Award Honoree 

Neil Stratman: Singer, Writer, Performer, "Mixtapes for an Ex-Girlfriend"

Meb Keflezighi: Winner, Boston Marathon (interviewed by me)

Suzi Brantner: Fundraiser, Executive Director, SCARF 

Act 2

Davenport's Piano Bar and Cabaret - Where I watched Neil become a man!

I listen to three different Pandora stations on regular rotation, so naturally I consider myself somewhat of an expert on music. My taste in music is as impressive as I am humble about it. I listen to a diverse range including - but not exceeding - jazz, reggaeton and whatever Melody, my lovely wife, makes me listen to in the car. Which is why I was curious when said that she wanted to take a mid-week trip to Chicago to see her immensely talented brother perform his one-man show, Mixtapes for an Ex-Girlfriend.

Lacking confidence in my understanding of the term cabaret, I could only assume it was similar in pitch and tone (no idea what those words really mean) to the slower jams found on a reggaeton compilation CD. You know, the ones you skip. 

My second thought on hearing about his show was that it reeked of plagiarism, since Neil is way too young to know what a mix-tape is. Even though, in a random act of musical serendipity, his dad posted the image below just today. 

Neil has no idea that hapless men used to fill these with Aerosmith songs in futile attempts to woo women

I had so many questions and understood so little about what to expect from what I imagined to be a vaudevillian form of entertainment (again, not entirely sure what that word means), that I had to see this in person. Besides, I've wanted to see Neil perform ever since I first met him; the only time he sang before me in person was at my wedding, and I was resigned to sneaking looks because I was ordered to focus on the "love candles" that our mothers lit before the ceremony.

And while it would be amazing to see him perform in Rent or Indian Pippin, this show was going to be about him. I'm familiar with his writing, and have witnessed him zing me in person - he's one funny dude. The thought of Neil singing non-lame love songs and beatnicking about chicks up on stage, bathed in red light, surrounded by a gaggle of his besties, made this one performance we couldn't miss. 

Melody wanted to keep it a secret, adding to the James Bondery of our mission. We discussed the best way to orchestrate the reveal, wanting to thrill him with a good surprise, yet avoid rattling his focus.  

After what seemed like - and actually was - a full day of travel, we found ourselves in a Chicago cab nearing Davenport's. I planted in Melody the idea of sending Neil a "good luck!" text as if she were still in KC, then asked the cabbie to stop by a hardware store so we could buy a shovel to scrape Neil's jaw off the floor. On an almost daily basis, I wish I could somehow find a way to incorporate these mostly useless skills of shenaniganry into something positive at work or home. As is, it's mostly my lovely wife and pets who have to deal with them.

We arrived roughly 30 minutes before kickoff ("kickoff" works for shows, right?) and sauntered up to the bar, having noticed Neil at the other end, obscured from us. I felt so devious that my heart was beating out of my chest. Nervous and unsure of how to proceed, I tried to convince Melody to call Neil as a follow up to the text. Part of me assumed he'd simply screen her call so close to performance, but what I was really hoping for was the chance to have Melody talk to him, make a comment about a particular item of clothing he was wearing (say, his awesome vest), have him go "What the...", then pop out and be all like "SURPRISE BRO!". 

Cats in the Cradle is blasting. Doves flutter out from behind us. Neil falls backwards theatrically with the back of his hand on his forehead, knees crumpling into a pretzel, spilling his martini while letting out a lovely groan. We're served free drinks. 

In what was probably a good move for Neil's career, none of that happened. We simply ambled down the bar and caught his attention, though our trip was immediately validated by his "What the..." deer in the headlights look. Perilously teetering on being overcome with emotion, this is the only time that I've seen Neil struggle to find his words. 

We both exchanged long hugs with Neil and let him know how excited we were for the show. Still looking moderately shocked but now sporting a grin that needed cowboy boots, he composed himself and retired to a hidden room to complete his preparations. 

It's difficult to put into words just how amazing this made us feel (especially big sis), but I can honestly say it was one of the greatest and most vibrant (tingly almost) moments that I've ever experienced. I felt slightly selfish, seeing that we came here to support him, and in return were rewarded with a morphine shot to the bloodstream.

Giddy, we left the bar and headed for the cabaret room, a small, dimly-lit space that could just as aptly house an illegal poker game full of men wearing un-ironic fedoras as it would a black & white era crooning lounge performer - both roles I could envision Neil pulling off. 

We found a table in front, so close to the stage that Melody's oversized broken foot boot rested on the hardwood floor. If Neil was ever going to sing our faces off, now was his chance!   

It was surreal scanning the self-printed, hand-cut playlist, which detailed both the songs he would perform as well as the stories he would tell. I recognized a few of the songs, but what really intrigued me were the stories, with names like "Conversationalist 1", "Long-Term Struggle-Town 2" and my fave, "Subway Love". 

Pretty sure when Neil sang "You and I Both" he was staring into my soul, but that may have been a side effect of the booze. 

As the room filled up and the soon-to-be-overworked waitress began canvassing the area, we caught up with Neil's roommate/personal trainer Nick, a man who has literally slapped a piece of pizza out of Neil's hand in order to keep him lean and buff for a role. What have you done for your friend lately?

Drink orders in, we anxiously waited with the assorted masses. I would later find out that there were representatives from many of the past lives that Neil has lead. Various co-workers, classmates, neighbors and family (us) all came out for this landmark occasion to support him, and take advantage of such a great deal. It goes without saying that there will undoubtedly be a time in the not-too-distant future where seeing this talented troubadour will set you back much more than a cover charge and two drink minimum.

Classic cocktails for a classic crooner

A few waves of cheers arose when Neil appeared behind the glass door leading into the room. The lounge was dark, as was the hallway leading up to the door, so when his head popped up, it was reminiscent of the classic, silhouetted Queen album cover.

Finally, after unintentionally drawing out the drama, he karate kicked the door to shreds (slight exaggeration) and hopped up onto the stage to massive applause. He chatted with his band for a while, as they fine-tuned their instruments, putting their drums, guitar, tambourine and piano through the paces. This professional yet casual interplay captivated the audience's attention, as we knew the fun was mere moments away. The anticipation was palpable.

Neil strode up to the mike quickly and with resolution, as if it were the last unspoken-for girl at the dance. He greeted the crowd and setup the show, playing up his charm and adorability, whether intentional or not. As his mom would say, he acted very "Neil-like". He almost appeared nervous, speaking about how humbled and excited he was to have everyone come out for the show. For a micro-second, I too felt nervous, as for the very first time I put myself into his medium-sized shoes, staring down at a crowd - albeit an adoring one - hanging on his every word, expecting to be entertained.

I say a micro-second, because in quick succession Neil turned back towards his band, made a few hand gestures, did a sweet looking "A one, two, a one, two three..." number, then forcefully attacked the mike as if it had tried to steal the last unspoken-for girl at the dance from his respectful waist-clutching arms (see what I did there?).

He turned into another being entirely as he confidently began the show with Eric Hutchinson's OK, It's Alright With Me - a classic I'm told, even though it's never appeared on any of my three Pandora stations. For me, the transformation was incredible. It made me realize that though I've seen him sing before, I've never witnessed him perform. Huge difference. It was magical, entertaining, thrilling, exciting and a whole heck of a lot of fun.

Trip = Worth it!

The performance was made all the better, more vibrant and real, seeing that we were seated just two baseball bats away from this potent and lyrical Mac truck. From what I know about singers - and we've already established that it's a lot - I'd say that Neil is one of the more passionate ones out there. Not a phony bone in his body, he wears his emotions, and heart, on his sleeve. It was as if every girl in the room was an ex, every guy there playing the role of the sympathetic buddy helping him get through some shit. "I totally feel you, bro!"

His voice was clear and energetic, soothing when he needed to be soft, vigorous when less subtlety was required. He held complete command of the room, even playing nice with the right side of the audience, who, though supportive, had been over-served as some point in the evening and let everyone know about it.

I'm going to throw out some names from my Kurt Elling pandora station. Now I'm not going to state for the record that I believe that Neil is more talented than these accomplished fellas; but if they're looking for a quality opening act to take under their wing, or for someone to play them in a VH1 movie, then Neil is the obvious choice. Michael Buble; Jamie Cullum, Dean Maratin; Harry Connick Jr.; Bobby Darin; and if he decides to dabble in all things reggaeton, Daddy Yankee.

As exciting as the musical performance was, I was even more excited to hear Neil read - artistically perform, rather - the stories from his blog that divided the musical assortment into sections. True to this great storyteller's form, Neil did not disappoint.

He dramatically read stories of chasing love, losing love, falling in love and making lo... - let's keep this PG-13 for the 'rents. His passionate mannerisms and wild gesticulations punctuated wistful points on stories about how it feels to be in love but struggle to keep a relationship going. How love is not always a two-way street. That if you're going to meet your future wife on the subway, you have to act FAST!

It was heartfelt and insightful, with a heavy dose of the Stratman family humor and candor that makes them so much fun to be around. Had I heard this show as a confidence-lacking (in girls, that is) teen, I would have saved myself from years of hard luck in dating, and possibly the previous three girlfriends before Melody. (OK, the ex-girlfriend pool might not be that deep...)

In fact, Mixtapes for an Ex-Girlfriend can be considered, among other things, a valuable learning tool that should be part of the US high school curriculum. Not to celebrate Neil's difficult and complicated dating past, but rather to celebrate the pain and hardship that every single kid will inevitably face. To show them that it's possible to find humor in the misadventures of love. Eventually.

Melody and I derive so much pleasure openly laughing about our exes and the craziness they brought into our once unstable lives. The bizarre situations our past squeezes got us into (highway lobster claws) and that we somehow survived (Hulk destroy pillow!) gave us the character we needed to make the decisions that lead us to find each other. And for that, we're grateful. Neil's show is a celebration of these wonderful and mostly innocent times.

There's no cautionary part of this tale - no amount of professional-grade songsmanship will prevent men and women from falling in and out of love and doing stupid, emotional, irrational, self-destructive things. But as Neil rhythmically beat his chest while singing Cry Me A River he was letting us know that yes, love can be a burden at times, but that's on the bad days. On the good days...well, on the good days, there's nothing better.

I'm so glad that I was able to see this show at this point in Neil's life. Seeing how talented he is, and how much of a success Mixtapes for an Ex-Girlfriend was, there will undoubtedly be more one-man+band shows. They'll be different though - both his personal life and career will evolve, causing his perspective to change. Performing theater in Chicago and working odd jobs to supplement his income while navigating car, apartment, computer and co-worker issues, he is generating new material to pull from by the minute.

With the possible exception of Neil himself, no one knows the theme for his next show, however if you play your cards right - or entirely wrong - you may play a central role. Regardless, if you're looking to catch a bold performance - part Kurt Elling, part Mike Berbiglia - make sure to stay within grabbing distance of the coattails of the one and only Neil Stratman. Coming to a theater near you!

Neil, crazy dialed-in during his performance

April Speaker Series: Linda Shines for Wichita State

Recognition 25 Years in the Making...

Linda schooling the crowd on what it's like to be a leader!

April was an exciting month to be a Brantner, know a Brantner, have a sister married to a Brantner, win the Boston Marathon or catch a Brantner miked up. In the span of two weeks during April 2014, four of us - including those closely related to us - stood in front of an adoring crowd and preached a personal gospel. My next four posts will celebrate this passion that makes us such a special family, and honor some amazing individuals in the process. One award, one performance, one interview and one celebration. Four stories...

Linda Brantner: CEO, Wichita State Alumni Achievement Award Honoree 

Neil Stratman: Singer, Writer, Performer, "Mixtapes for an Ex-Girlfriend"

Meb Keflezighi: Winner, Boston Marathon (interviewed by me)

Suzi Brantner: Fundraiser, Executive Director, SCARF 

Act 1

You know an event is important if you can get our entire, scattered, family to meet up in Wichita on a Wednesday night. Such was the case when we learned that Linda was being honored by her wheat-schucking alma mater for an amazing career that spanned two and a half decades. 

There we sat, six Jayhawks and one Illinois grad, surrounded by an engaged Shocker alumnus, listening to what ranks as one of the single most inspirational speeches I've ever had the honor of seeing in person. It was not simply a ceremony to list off Linda's achievements as CEO of Delta Dental, which are numerous and long-lasting. It was a story-telling opportunity, the tale of how a trained art student was bit by the business bug after college, and how her passion for both art, business and, eventually, insurance led to a unique and fruitful career path. 

The awardee, looking calm and collected before her speech

Dad surprising Linda, probably trying to take credit for writing her speech

The fam, enjoying meal, wine and conversation, just a bit more dressed up than usual

It's an impossible task to sum up a successful 25 year career in one non-filibuster speech, which is precisely why the WSU Alumni Association made videos to show us before the speakers took the stage. Linda's ten minute video included interviews with long time co-workers who spoke glowingly of her passion for the job and her leadership, plus the results she was able to achieve while in the captain's chair at Delta Dental (see the full bio below). 

The video chronicled how much the company prospered during her time as an exec, both in staff and revenues. It alluded to her hands-on and enthusiastic style as a leader, as well as her penchant for voicing an informed opinion, regardless of whether or not it went with, or in contrast to, the overall group sentiment.  

More importantly, it highlighted just how serious she could be. When it came to costumes. The evening's levity reminded us that no one would out-costume her at work. And if that meant that she had to hide in her office all day before a "big reveal", then so be it. Seeing that the costume closet at her house has now helped three generations of Brantners and Whites win Halloween (and the random Thursday), this came as no surprise to the fam. 

Once the video concluded, Linda took the stage as the final of seven speakers. The event ended on a high note. She spoke with such passion about her time at Delta, and seeming to enjoy every minute up on stage, vascilated between stories of lessons learned and successes, with the perfect amount of candor and humor mixed in there. It was an amazing speech!

I was struck by how comfortable she was and truly inspired by the stories she told. From negotiating a few cents extra per hour at Pizza Hut corporate early in her career, to strategizing how to bring Delta Dental into the modern age, and everything in between, she had us and the rest of the packed room hanging on her every word. 

She gleefully led us through her illustrious career, in which she not only thrived from a business perspective, but also put a great amount of her energy and support into philanthropic, artistic and community efforts. Her pride in these latter efforts was palatable, and serves as a great lesson for professionals trying to prioritize what really matters. 

Amazingly she made it through without being overwhelmed by emotion, which is more than I can say for myself and rest of our table. Our family avoided direct eye contact until our tear ducts had had sufficient time to dry out again. 

I've since remarked to my dad how I wish that the two of them would have sat me down years earlier - they're currently celebrating their 10-year wedding anniversary in Europe - and allowed (nay, forced) her to tell me her story in detailed fashion. There's a difference between knowing that she was a CEO and really understanding how she got there. This story of smarts, wit, passion, creative thinking and a solid understanding of business strategy should be used to inspire my generation and other's to find their place in the world. 

Wichita State has a real winner on their hands! Seeing the Alumni Association's response to her speech that night, along with the fact that they had her batting clean up, they realize this and are as honored to count her as a Shocker as she is proud to be one. 

I've always been proud of Linda, and I hope that as a result of this award more and more people will get a chance to know her, and her story. If you've ever heard a cliche about working hard paralleling success, go ahead and put Linda's name next to it. I know that I'll think of her when challenged at work, and when reflecting on where my career is, and where it is headed. I'll try to make less excuses, and just get things done. I'll work harder on my costumes.  

The entire White/Brantner family was extremely honored to be a part of her special evening. 

Congrats again to Linda Brantner, a 2013 Wichita State Alumni Achievement Award Winner!

Linda, along with the rest of the award winners

Linda's appropriately artistic award, on the mantle

Linda's full bio, per the WSU Alumni Association: 

WSU Achievement Award

Linda Brantner has always been one of those key Wichita people you should know. In 2012, that became a statewide item of note when Ingram’s identified her as one of 50 Kansans You Should Know. That same year, the Wichita Business Journal recognized her with its Women in Business Award. Now retired, Brantner served as president and CEO of Delta Dental of Kansas. In that role, she provided strategic direction for the company and represented Kansas to the national Delta Dental Plans Association through her membership and service to its board of directors. In her 25 years with the company, revenues grew from $7 million in 1988 to $250 million in 2012. Under her executive leadership in 2008, Delta Dental of Kansas was presented the state’s highest quality award, the Kansas Excellence Award. Prior to being named president and CEO in 2006, Brantner served first as director of operations and then as chief operating officer. Described by colleagues and associates as intelligent, motivated, compassionate and as having a flair for the artistic and theatrical, Brantner is connected to numerous community and university organizations, including the WSU National Advisory Committee, the Ulrich Museum of Art Advisory Board, the United Way of the Plains, the Make-A-Wish Foundation, the Wichita Metro Chamber of Commerce and the Wichita Art Museum. For her professional prowess and dedication to bettering her community, Linda Brantner is recognized with a 2013 WSU Achievement Award.

Nica Stories: The Piñata

(More) Tales from a non-traditional honeymoon...

This poor frightening clown had no idea what he was in for

After a rather lengthy and completely random discussion with a co-worker about overstuffed 3rd world buses, I've once again become nostalgic, and motivated to continue documenting my Nicaraguan honeymoon. I take you now to San Carlos, my official Peace Corps site during my two year term as a small business volunteer. The stories I can tell about this hidden and muddy gem are many, however I'll attempt to focus on two aspects: my nica family and the amazing piñata party that Melody and I threw for them. I'm convinced that the primary reason that Nicaragua - the country and all of its wackiness - remains dear to me is due to the care and loving nature that my Nica family showed me from the very moment I was dropped off at their concrete doorstep, by a nun. (True story, by the way...and it involves a 10 hour bus ride with my saintly chaperone).


"It's not a successful piñata party until someone cries!"

Me, explaining to Melody why our party was all sorts of awesome. 


I was 24 when I first met what I then referred to as my host family, but now simply call my Nica family. I was assigned San Carlos as my official Nica 35 Peace Corps site, and after two months of language training in Niquinohomo, I spent a week in San Carlos getting to know the town, the school I'd be working in, and future co-workers.

One of them, Reyna Granja Delgado, graciously offered to put me up for the week and act as both my tour guide and social coordinator. You see, Reyna was a teacher at Colegio Cristo Rey, the small town high school that had brokered a deal with the Peace Corps to secure a handsome gringo small business teacher. Or something like that.

Reyna's boss - my bus companion - was Sor Xiomarra, the nun who was the director of Cristo Rey, and who once famously uttered the following phrase in front of my entire group when we first met: "Gregorio es un regalito de Dios". Gregorio is a little gift from God. By the time I met Reyna, it's safe to say that my reputation preceded itself.

Throughout my week long dry run in San Carlos, I fell into a pattern that didn't stop once it became my official home. I would run around like crazy all day, talking to anyone and everyone, eating all sorts of food offered to me by strangers non-stop, at all hours of the day, sweat my skin off (San Carlos is a less glamorous rain forest) and limp back to Reyna's house late in the evening for some dinner and conversation.

After the kids went to bed or scurried to their real home, Reyna and I would stay up late eating rice and beans, tortillas, fried cheese, and on a good day, maybe a fried egg or an avocado. I'd chug water to rehydrate and she'd grade student's papers with one eye while watching telenovelas (spanish soap operas) with the other. We'd talk about our students, the fam, politics, gringos, the weather, and from time to time she'd dish out some amazing neighborhood gossip. Teachers do hear all!

From the very first night I spent in her house, I knew that I had found my family; this was a development that comforted my gringo family more than I needed it, as they were assuredly uncertain about where I'd be living. No matter that my room in the house (pictured below) didn't technically have walls, or locks, or even a door for that matter. I turned a blind eye to Peace Corps regulations - not for the first time - that stated that host families must offer volunteers sleeping quarters with walls, locks and, you know, doors. If a hung bed sheet was good enough for the fam, it was good enough for me.

Reyna remains a true gem, the hardest working woman in San Carlos, maybe the entire country - and after my honeymoon, she's now the proud owner of red and blue Kansas Jayhawk bracelets. She does love her fashion jewelry! Not surprisingly, she's risen to become the Director of Education for all schools in San Carlos and the surrounding areas. I miss our late night chats and debates, the times I snuck us Cokes after the kids fell asleep, and our short trips up the steps to the park by the house.

I miss the woman who took me in as my Nicaraguan mother and caretaker, then became a great friend and inspiration.

Typical kid-filled scene

Four generations of my Nica Fam: Mama Elena, Nilda, Reyna (sitting) and Isaacito

Man I forget how awesome my hair was back then!

The other person who participated in the nun's gringo trade-off would become my very best Nica friend. The only real sister that I ever had. Nilda Granja Delgado. Or as I called her affectionately, Nildicita. And non-affectionately, Gordita. Hey...she's my little sister so I can totally call her that.

I constantly joked that Nilda was like a walnut (though I actually just said "nut" because I didn't know how to say "walnut" in Spanish) - that is to say she's tough on the outside and only slightly less tough in the inside. She was not a big fan of what you would call people. I had no idea of this because she was overly hospitable from the moment I was first plopped into her living room.

She'd make Mama Elena (her grandma) get out of the one good rocking chair and politely demand that I sit in it - a weird thing to happen to a healthy twenty four year old male. She'd make the little kids around the house run to the corner store for cookies and Coke (hilariously referred to as "gaseosas" in Nicaragua) just for me. Also, it took more than a few months before she relented and let me compensate her for hand-washing my clothes. (As an aside, this always felt a bit weird, however after a few pitiful attempts of washing my clothes by hand, I realized that a) it took freaking forever and b) while I succeeded in stretching my clothes out to the very last fiber, upon drying they were just as rank as before).

When I told Nilda what the phrase on her shirt meant, she was surprised, to say the least

Soon we began talking just like Reyna and I did, only at different times of the day. Over lunch - typically rice, plantains and chicken, beef or pork - we'd talk about the kids, the heat, crazy gringos and she'd tell me which girls liked me, which ones were married and which ones I had a shot with - something that, apparently, wasn't mutually exclusive. Having a sister-figure was great! It was not lost on me that I was one of just a few individuals that she felt comfortable enough with to gab for hours.

We talked a lot about her two children. Her oldest, Isaac, pictured cradled in Reyna's arms, suffers from congenital hydrocephalus, a disease where the primary symptom is an excess of cerebrospinal fluid in the brain. Shortly after his birth, he was operated on and given a stent that allows the fluid to be drained from his head, but has obviously resulted in other complications.

Reyna taking great care of the ever-growing Isaacito

He has to be cared for full-time, mostly by Nilda, Reyna and Nilda's dad, Chepe. He can't talk or walk, but he can communicate and express emotion. He recognizes voices and understands touch, song and compassion. He's one of the most popular kids in El Proyecto, the neighborhood they live in. Barrio kids take short play breaks to come in and talk to him, scratch his skinny shoulders and ask how Isaacito is doing.

He has tough moments when pain comes out of nowhere, but he also has beautiful times when he can't stop grinning and laughing. Both come quickly, and man, are the good times gratifying. It took me aback when, four years after my last visit, he broke out a huge smile when Melody and I visited. The kid's amazing! To say that he's a miracle child is an understatement, as he was only given a few years to live, but now is a still-growing 11 year old. Simply amazing.

Nilda's other child was born less than a month after I arrived in San Carlos. Hany is the ear-to-ear troublemaker posing with the piñata clown at the top of the page. She was the first child that I saw grow up right before my eyes. Crawling, walking, first words, that sort of thing. I'll never forget the time Nilda forced her into my arms as a one-week old, and all I could think was, "Yep, totally going to drop her." But I didn't. And now she's adorable.

Hany and Melody posing with some vigoron, a delicious Nica treat

To this day, she still recognizes me as the guy with the mustache (a look I rocked for months on end in Nicaragua) with her in a hammock in the picture on the wall, right next to the family graduation photos. Hany and I are buds, as I continually bailed her out of trouble with Nilda during her terrible ones's and two's. Yes...Hany may have (awesomely) launched her plantain at the TV, but since the gringo picked her up, and she stopped her tantrum, she was in the safe zone. Much to Nilda's chagrin.

I feel like I owe you a Piñata story.

I'll use Hany as the segue...

Melody HAD to visit my Nica family. You see, Nilda and I are Facebook friends, and have kept in touch over the years (this still amazes me, as in 2004 San Carlos didn't even have Internet access). While a long-haired Jesus-bearded volunteer, she regularly reiterated that she would have to approve of my future wife. Never having had a sister before, I assumed that this was an ingrained right, and not up for debate.

Nilda liked the pictures that I sent her, and remarked that Melody was "muy guapa". Like she would expect anything less. She also dug the red hair, a rarity in her country, and I made the decision not to reveal that it's red dye number-whatever.

Since I wasn't able to visit San Carlos before the wedding, I took her "muy guapa" comment in good faith as a green light for inviting Melody into the Brantner family. When I let Nilda know that we were getting married, she was thrilled. When I told her that we were going to spend our honeymoon in Nicaragua, she was ecstatic.

I immediately began thinking of ways for us to pass the time with the Nica fam, since Melody's Spanish consists of what she's been able to glean from the Taco Bell drive-through. A particular party came to mind, the going-away party that I threw for the neighborhood kids who became my tiny brethren during my two years in the barrio El Projecto (Spanish for "The Project", by the way...that's right, singular!). The biggest hit of the rug-rat-packed celebration was the unveiling, and subsequent demolition of a Batman Piñata.

Kids went, pardon the pun, Bat-shit loco! THIS is what we were going to do! The plan was in place before I had time to think about it. It would allow Melody to be with the family for hours, but with plenty of distractions to make up for the fact that she didn't speak our language.

Here's what needed to happen:

• Tell Nilda that Melody and I are throwing a Piñata party
• Buy a Piñata
• Buy meat - probably beef or pork
• Convince someone to cook
• Buy Coke (Gaseosa : )
• Buy candy
• Find a house to party in
• Tell Hany to round up all of the kids in the ever-growing family
• Put someone in charge of music (VERY important)
• Find a stick
• Wait for darkness

Seems simple, and in some sense it was. In another sense, it was quite the opposite. Like, where do you find a Piñata on a Sunday afternoon? You see, commerce in the "downtown" area of muddy San Carlos comes to a stand-still on Sunday, something that I had not accounted for. We were headed for an adventure.

Melody and I snagged Hany because we thought it would be fun. After a quick Coke break, we decided to cab it to the center of town. When I lived there, I'd always walk the 20 or so minutes, however as visitors, true gringos, I ponied up the equivalent 78 cents for the not-as-sweaty cab ride.

Veggies were a lock, since the fruit and vegetable market was still open. No meat in sight, though. And the goods market - a high-stress, jam-packed bazaar that consists of staples such as fashion blouses, bundled socks, Barcelona-branded boxers, faux-leather shoes, knock-off belts, soccer gear, kids toys, and everything else in the world, including piñatas - was also closed.

With just a few items checked off of our list, we strode up towards the park to see if any small business looked promising along the way. I remained hopeful, but was already formulating Plan B for a piñata-less party; one that would be, in three words, way more lame.

A candy shop caught our collective eye, so we slipped in and bought enough candy to feed the entire Nicaraguan National Assembly (poignant Latin American political joke). Turns out it's tough to say "no" when you bring a nine year old candy shopping. Being a parent sounds exhausting.

We were all in for the piñata once we had the candy in our possession - eating candy that didn't erupt from a paper-mache belly would seem silly at that point.

Fortuitously, it was Hany who first spotted the apparently closed shop with a handful of crudely constructed piñatas in the window. Ever the diligent father figure, I rapped on the door and belted a hearty "BUENAS!!!". Just a few seconds later, and gray-haired man wearing slacks and a wife-beater undershirt (I can't think of another way to describe it, but it looks bad when typed out) ambled to the door and gave us a smile. We were in!

He flipped on the lights and let Hany guide us in. I told her that she was in charge, and that she had to pick out the very best piñata. I use the term "very best" very loosely, as these particular piñatas, though obviously crafted with love, appeared to have been built by middle-schoolers.

Regardless of the skill that went into creating them, we'd bash the tar out of it just the same. I thought Hany would go for the princess or a hilarious Sponge Bob(ish) facsimile, but she surprised me and chose a life size (for her) clown. It's pointy hat, which post-mortem would become a small girl's candy chalice, measured a good 3+ inches over her head.

So innocent, yet their thoughts towards this clown are devious

Already the center of attention

We headed back towards El Proyecto only slightly victorious, lacking in the meat department. I dropped off the goods so that Jahaira, Nilda's sister, could start the prep work, while Hany paraded her clown for all to see. It was the college equivalent of sticking party flyers on car windshields - one look at that sad sack clown and our entire barrio knew where the party was going to be that night!

We found a dusty pulperia off the side of the main road that looked promising. Pulperias are small convenient stores, primarily operated out of family's home, that sell everyday items such as rice, beans, cooking oil, sugar, vegetables, candy, Coke, toilet paper, shampoo, booze, etc. Some sell meat, though I greatly preferred to buy from the town butcher - being in the third world and all, raw meat of any quality is something typically not purchased from a countertop that is within visual range of the family latrine. Still, some risks are worth it. Other risks cause diarrhea. We rolled the dice. 

By process of elimination, we were having pork. It was fitting, really, because when I lived in San Carlos I would regularly awaken at two in the morning, jerked awake by a dying pig's blood-gurgling squeals. My neighbors, who killed pigs and sold their meat for a living, made up for my sleep interruptions by saving me a choice selection of (obviously) fresh chicharones (fried pig fat) in the morning.

Pork and limes - Jahaira's specialty

Speaking of my Nica neighbors, we decided to have the party in a place very familiar to me, my old house. When I moved out of Reyna's house, seeking my American independence, I didn't go very far. Thirty feet was all, in fact. I rented the house across from them, which was crazy convenient considering I ate all of my meals with the fam, Nilda hand-washed my clothes, and I spent most of my free time there anyway. I was the family member who enjoyed visiting and watching soccer at the house, but needed his own space. Kind of like when Carlton and Will moved into the pool house in The Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire. 

Melody checking out the barbed wire in front of my Peace Corps house. A top three pic from the trip. 

Don't be too impressed, but I totally dug out that dirt walkway eight years ago

Exhausted from the shopping ordeal, we rested with the fam for an hour or so before the party was to begin. Hany was in charge of gathering the troops for the event, impressing everyone with her leadership and organizational skills. Nilda surprised all by offering to MC the festivities - a shocking act for someone so naturally disliking of...people. But she's a great mother, and a successful piñata party is all about corralling kids and not taking any of their crap. In this regard, Nilda is a sensation!

Stuffing the poor bastard full of candy

As the Rio San Juan slowly swallowed the sun, silhouetting the numerous palm trees in El Proyecto, the party began to take place. Reggaeton billowed out of a boombox straight out the eighties, cranked up to twelve. Kids showed up, seemingly out of nowhere. I recognized most, but others were new to me, either born in the years since I resided there, friends of friends or street kids headed to the park looking to score free candy.

If you're reading this and have never been to a piñata party thrown by native latinos, then you know absolutely nothing about piñata parties. For instance, did you know that dancing is required? In fact, if you don't dance, not only can you not take a swing, you'll literally get booed away. I've seen it happen to many an imminently crying child.

Another rule, you don't just set it up and start whacking. That's insanity! No, you have to warm up first. This can come in the form of dancing-themed games; in our case, it was musical chairs. Nilda (somehow) turned Daddy Yankee up even louder, risking speaker blowout, then split the kids up into various age groups as she sent them around the dwindling supply of chairs.

Nilda, our dance instructor and piñata MC

No amount of training can prevent me from dancing like a white guy

The kids who simply walked around the chairs were told to dance. If they didn't comply, they were TOLD to dance! So they danced. Each and every kid shook it hard, from the stumbling little ones to the pre-teens who danced (uncomfortably for us) like the girls in reggaeton music videos. One by one they bowed out until each age group had its winner. The winner's prize was, you guessed it, candy.

After a few rounds of this, even those who bowed out early were awarded with participation candy, or what I refer to as piñata primer. This tiny sugar-spark would be the catalyst for the super-human strength they'd need to successfully beat the clown into submission and ward off the candy crazed kid zombies.

Creepy the Clown was strung up on the very same beam that used to support my hammock, that cloth pea pod that allowed me to slowly sway back and forth for hours upon hours, reading and napping during my time in that house. This day it would allow us to gyrate the piñata up and down, up and down, up and down again. Until it went down and out. For good.

If that clown only knew...

The kid circus milling about, pre-party

If ever there was a clown that need a smug smile wiped from its face

The little ones went first, what with their tiny T-rex arms, feather-soft power and lack of killer instinct. Before any swinging took place, they were handed the whupping stick and, same as above, told to dance. This proved to be the beginning of the hilarity. Tiny latino kids dancing with a stick is great, because they actually look like they know what they're doing. They held it over their head with both hands and moved their hips around in a circle, like Elvis. They held it in front of them, vertically, and did an innocent version of a pole dance, equal parts amusing and awkward. They swung it like a bat, danced around it, pumped it in the air and gestured with it as if it were a cane. All with a serious look on their face. I was cackling to the extent I was doubled over! Melody had tears in the corner of her eyes she was laughing so hard. Everyone was having a blast, and we had yet to take a swing.

What an experience for Melody. You grow up your whole life thinking you know how to piñata party, only to find out you have no idea. One of the many life lessons she picked up on this trip.

The teenies did virtually no damage to the clown, whiffing any time the clown was raised up and down. There were a few leg shots, but as any seasoned piñata aficionado knows the sweet spot is above the belt, out of reach of this demographic. Belting piñatas is definitely a group activity, so the little ones knew their older siblings would bring the candy home. As such, there weren't any tantrums or fits when the stick was grabbed from them. Just a few surprised reactions because of how quickly their time was up.

As the bigger kids stepped up to the clown, though, we had to shift our strategy. A good piñata party is similar to a successful 5-year life plan; you want the experience to be challenging, yet ultimately achievable. The advanced coordination and dexterity of the older group meant we had to make the clown a moving target. This required an advanced "puller", or at the very least, me.

I took hold of the piñata twine, spun the clown in a single swiping motion and began to drill for oil, so to speak. One by one the older ones took swipes at the clown, blindfolded and continually being ordered to dance, while I made it jump up and down like a mad puppeteer.

One strike out of five would land, and the special ones would really land. Still, it takes a village, or least a barrio to open up a piñata. Even with the candy nestled securely in the clown's belly, his arms and legs flew across the room one by one, revealing newspaper insides and ribbon trails. Kids dove on them, attempting to secure them to use as a candy scoop.

The less of the clown there was hanging from the ceiling, the more crazed the kids became. Though their eyes were covered with a blindfold, I have no doubt their pupils had rolled back into their heads. They were definitely white-eying it now that the could smell paper mache clown blood!

The force of their swinging intensified.

Whap!

Whoosh!

Crack!

Spark!

Boom!

Wait, what was that last one? Not the Boom! Did I hear a Spark!? That my friends, is what happens when your piñata string is rubbing back and forth over an exposed electrical wire on a wooden beam. This noise jilted us to a stand still - if there had been a DJ as opposed to a boombox, he would have made that scratchy sound that you hear on TV when someone says something ridiculous and everyone freezes.

I was certain that we were seconds from seeing the house blow up. What a way to say goodbye to the domicile in which I spent so many hours. Leave it to the gringo to ruin the party.

But as luck would have it, the tiny spark was nothing more than a tiny spark. I repositioned the mostly limbless clown, bracing him for the home stretch. Insanity was just a matter of moments away.

The last kid to swing played the role of the too cool for school adolescent who was just a bit too old to be having this much fun at what was essentially a children's party. The kind of kid who it wouldn't surprise me if he showed up with his own custom piñata stick.

He did his best baseball wiggle before landing the first true damaging strike to the clown's mid section. I was on my game, pulling the string quickly and decisively, with purpose, attempting to avoid the inevitable for as long as I could.

I was by now sweating profusely, beads dripping down my nose as I remained locked into my task. A particularly good strike loosened a few random pieces of candy, at which point the entire circle of kids hit the floor as diving for a loose ball on a basketball court. We grabbed the swinger so he wouldn't accidentally remove one of their heads.

The scuffling kids on the house's concrete floor were elbowing and jockeying for position, not knowing how few pieces had actually landed. After a few minutes, the adults were able to break up the melee and force the kids to spread out again, their mouths salivating.

A few more whacks split open the clown's abdomen, but no candy emerged. Solid strikes soon followed, but still no sugary windfall. At this point, the combination of anticipation, adrenaline, loud music and warm-up candy had the kids in a stupor.  They were uncontrollable - danger was imminent. They all wanted to be the first in the pile once candy fell, placing them at risk of charging too soon and getting smacked in the neck. The adults were no longer able to keep all of them at bay. Chaos theory proved. So Nilda made an executive decision.

The candy had apparently been stuffed so far deep into clown that even when the body was freed from its now-floating head, it didn't fly out. The clown's digestive track (the inside of a roll of paper towels) was full of candy, stuffed tight like foie gras. Nilda grabbed it, frantically ripped it in two and shook the two sides like maracas. A good amount of candy flew out, but that was just the tip of the iceberg.

Nilda randomly chucking candy

Nilda then ripped off the clown's chest cavity, and shoved her hand through the paper mache very much like heart removal scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. She threw out the first handful of candy, then shook the limbless clown chest like a kid erasing an Etch-A-Sketch.

If you look closely, you see many kids on the floor, plus grandma lunging out of her rocking chair, reaching for candy, while still cradling a baby. 

To say that pandemonium then ensued is an insult to the word pandemonium. The kids, no longer able to control their emotions or their bodies, fell into each other like a rugby scrum gone bad. EVERYONE was screaming, yelling, shouting, all while rolling around on the floor, with total disregard for who was in their way.

If you were blocking their path to candy, they went through you. The braver adults risked losing fingers helping to snag candy for the little ones. Lucky kids had a discarded clown limb - or hat - in which they stored their haul. Others used their shirt, pockets or mouth, some popping four or five pieces of candy at a time, just so they wouldn't lose them.

When I lived in this house, it typically not this hectic

One girl cried, which was to be expected. It's not a successful piñata party until someone cries. In this instance, someone had knocked into her clown leg, spilling her candy, at which point the other kids - mostly consisting of the older bunch - took advantage and swiped her goods. Us adults made it right by forcing them to return the stolen candy, which the kids then did, grudgingly.

As all of the candy found its way into a clown leg, shirt pocket or a pile on the floor, I assessed the damage. The house was a mess! The floor space not taken up by kids was layered with colorful paper mache bits, shreds of newspaper, candy wrappers, blood sweat and tears.

Nilda chucking more goods

This pic nails it. Kids following Nilda's hand, predicting where the candy will land, while in the background a sad girl cradles her clown leg. 

It was long dark by now, and the kids spread out on the floor, each in their own space counting their haul methodically, much like someone in solitary confinement would do if they had to make their meals last. Fortunately for their tiny bellies, food was on the way and there would be a pork and rice base to help absorb some of the massive amount of sugar they had ingested.

Dinner was great, as Jahaira served us delicious pork with rice, tortillas, vegetables and, her specialty refried beans. We all ate at the table, and were joined by Daniela - Nilda's niece - and her husband Noel, who was a student of mine when I taught at Cristo Rey. We talked about what his old schoolmates were doing and who still lived in town. They have a kid now too, which is crazy for me to imagine. So much changed in the eight years since I lived there.

After dinner, we went back over to Reyna's place to talk with her and Isaac. Adding insult to the clown's death, one of the little girls at the party was parading his limbless and now empty corpse from house to house, dragging it behind her like something out of a King Arthur movie. Its dignity long gone, the clown had but one salvation - that fact that it would likely be burned in a trash heap within a few days. Though not great for the ozone, it would bring closure to this clown's tragic life. He only lives on in the stories we tell.

We saved some candy for Reyna and Isaac, who had stayed at their house. Melody tried to explain to Reyna what she had just seen, and even before I could translate, you could see Reyna pick up on Melody's excitement and wonderment about what had transpired. So we sat there, laughing, recounting the craziness, joking about how Isaac would have felled it in a single swing.

After another hour or so, we left their house exhausted, both physically and emotionally, stomachs hurting because of having laughed so much. Orchestrating this event was not an easy task, but judging from the fact that we saw piñata debris scattered two blocks away, it was a huge success.

Melody had not only survived her first true piñata party, she had thrived. She found ways to communicate with adults, teens and kids alike, using hand signals primarily, and her smile as well. The kids hugged her, showed her how to dance and offered her candy. They showed her warmth, and made her feel like a special guest.

In spite of what top Nica political brass think of us gringos, most Nicaraguans have no such issues with Americans. They love hosting, especially foreigners and others who are passing through their country. I saw this in the hospitality they showed me when I lived there, and again with Melody.

I hope you've found this helpful, and use it as a guide if you want to throw your very own piñata party. Follow my advice, and yes, you may see tears, but you'll also see joy - through the screams, fighting and shouting, that is. Eyes-rolling-in-the-back-of-your-head joy though! Nothing says party more than destruction. And nothing is more fun than destroying something beautiful. So pop in Don Omar, crank it to 12, start dancing and let the candy fall where it may. Just be sure to bring a camera and some band aids.

To complete my San Carlos tale, here are some of my faves:

I am a freaking giant in Nicaragua!

My beautiful muse

San Carlos selfie

San Carlos at sunset - a fisherman casts his net

Posing in the concrete frame, a Nica tradition that I just made up

My precious Sandinista

Brothers in arms

Holy cow, how adorable is Hany in her festive traditional Nica dress?

Pano of the main park - the building on the left is the church/school that I taught in. I once, some might say famously, chucked an unruly school kid's notebook out of the second floor window, then told him to retrieve it and head to the nun's office for what I (wrongly) assumed would be a good flogging. 

I became fascinated with the Sandinista pink paint jobs all around town

El Mirador - the lookout (and teenage make-out) point with the ancient Spanish cannons

Don't laugh, this is the San Carlos airport

Don't laugh, this is the San Carlos airport runway

San Carlos city center, a beautiful dock highlighted by the Nicaraguan and Sandinista flags, accented with TWO RAINBOWS!!

Same shot, but with attitude!

The Fam: Before

The Fam: 8 years later!