I changed all of my passwords, which wasn't fun but I'm glad I did it

For years I used virtually the same password for every website and IT system on which I had an account.

I say "virtually" because sometimes it was just that base password, while other times I added numbers and/or special characters as directed by the site.

But really, once you had discovered one of my passwords, you weren't far from getting to most of them.

Any IT security expert will tell you this is bad. Actually, any 8-year-old will tell you this is bad.

It's one thing to have an easily guessed password when it comes to my ESPN Sportszone account (the worst a hacker could probably do there is switch my "Favorite Team" setting to the Pittsburgh Steelers, which while horrifying and morally wrong is still relatively mild). It's another to be using that same password to access your bank accounts.

I keep a list of all of my/our passwords, so I looked it over and changed every one that used that same password and its variations. There were dozens and dozens and dozens of instances. It took a few hours over a couple of days to get through them all.

In some cases I not only had to go through the password changing process on the website itself, but also log out and log back in to the associated app if it's something I use on my phone.

All (and I mean all) of my passwords are now unique and full of words, numbers, and characters that likely mean something only to me. Or they mean nothing at all.

That way, should one password be compromised in an all-too-common data breech, none of the others will be threatened.

If you're someone who uses the same password and close variations of it over and over, I suggest you go through a similar process. It's a little tedious, but it's safer.

And you'll feel like an actual responsible adult. Even at age 51, there's something to be said for that.

I love our white cats, but...

I did not grow up having heard of a lint roller, a genius device without which I now could not live.

It has become an indispensable part of my life owing to a decision Terry and I made way back in September 2007.

We went to the local humane society with the intention of bringing home a female cat, preferably a calico. Instead, we returned with two white male cats, whom we named after the Weasley twins from Harry Potter, Fred and George.

Happily, these two guys are still with us as they approach the ripe old age of 14. They are the oldest of our five cats and pretty much fixtures in our house.

Fred, in particular, is my buddy. He has slept at my side most every night since joining the family, and is just overall a good guy (if a bit overweight and off-puttingly fragrant at times).

As I type this post, I'm sitting in the computer chair in our room after George just spent time laying in it. I am wearing black pants.

The moment I get up, I guarantee you my butt will be covered in highly visible white cat hair.

Every article of clothing I own eventually gets covered in white cat hair. You don't notice it on light-colored garments, of course, but it really stands out on the dark stuff.

So I'm constantly lint-rollering my clothes, at least the parts of myself I can easily get to. There are almost always at least a few of these white hairs on my back.

It is in some way a small price to pay for two guys who have given us many years of love and joy, and hopefully many more to come. But if I had a nickel for every time someone pointed out the white cat hair on my clothes, well, I could probably buy a ticket for a first-run movie.

And nowadays, that's saying something.

We used to stupid and illegal things down by the railroad tracks

There was a period of about two years back in the early 80s when my friends and I spent a lot of time on or around the railroad tracks not far from my house.

What was the attraction of "the tracks," as we called them? They were just railroad tracks surrounded by woods.

Well, as I look back on it, there was actually a lot going on there.

For one, there were those woods (which are now gone, by the way). Young boys, for the most part, enjoy being in and around wooded areas. Not sure why, but that's just the way it is in my experience.

Second, there were the railroad light towers that we weren't supposed to climb but did anyway. That was fun.

Third, and probably worst of all, there was the occasional stopped train.

Back in those days, trains had cabooses on them. And more often than not, when there was a stopped and abandoned train, the caboose would be unlocked. So we would go inside.

This was both illegal and stupid. I'm shocked we never got caught.

There wasn't really much to do inside these cabooses, so we would just lay on the beds or sit at the little metal table. We did also occasionally steal flares.

Illegal and stupid.

And we would light those flares just because we could. At that point, we could have been arrested for trespassing AND theft.

There were also these little explosive things with metal tabs that you could put on the rails and, when a train came along and ran over them, they would emit a satisfying boom.

One time (this is a true story), my friend Mike and I were kidnapped at the tracks by two older kids from Eastlake. And when I say "kidnapped," I just mean they wouldn't let us leave because they had been doing something illegal and were afraid we would go and tell the cops about it. I can't even remember what they had been doing.

And besides, we had no intention of snitching on them. We just wanted to go home.

Eventually they let us go, but it did add to the adventure and mystique of the tracks.

Sometimes we would take 1- or 2-mile walks down the tracks just to see what we would find. Within the stacked blocks at the cinder block factory near the Worden Road overpass, for example, there was a little area where a homeless person had clearly been living. There were ketchup packets and other items of detritus (great word) in there.

We probably didn't call him a homeless person, though. I'm sure we referred to him as a "bum" or a "hobo."

There was also a little dirt road that ran alongside the tracks on which a police car could fit. I know this because, several times, a Willowick or Wickliffe police officer would be driving across the tracks on East 305th, look to his right, and see us playing on a light tower or something about 200 yards away.

So he would turn down that dirt road to try and get to us and we would scatter appropriately. Someone would yell "COP!" and we would take off in different directions into the woods. None of us was ever caught, though I do remember some close calls when we didn't notice the oncoming squad car until it was almost too late.

Anyway, the best thing to be said about our time hanging out at the tracks was that none of us was ever seriously hurt by jumping onto a slow passing train or arrested for whatever illegal activities we engaged in.

There are no dumber people in the world than young boys, but man, now that I think about it, we had a great time.

The hardest parental adjustment? It's going from zero kids to one kid.

NOTE: I hope you don't mind me recycling this post from September 2015, but it's something I'm occasionally asked about by young parents and those who plan to become parents. I still stand by my assertion here.

I've heard it said among people with three or more children that having that third child was the hardest leap for them to make.

The argument goes that when you have one or two kids, there is always a parent available to address any child-related crisis that might arise. And that suddenly, with three kids, you're outnumbered. You switch from man-to-man coverage to more of a zone defense.

Which I suppose is true.

But hands down, the biggest jump is going from the state of being childless to the state of parenthood. It's that zero-to-one adjustment that is, by far, the most life-changing.

Right? You parents remember what it was like when you were rookies. Life before the first kid and life after the first kid could not be more different. Everything – and I mean everything – changes.

The speed at which you complete even the most ordinary tasks decreases exponentially. Just going to the grocery store requires an effort akin to climbing Mount Everest when you have a baby in tow. There are endless supplies to take along. Your diaper bag fills up the cart even before you start actually selecting items off the shelves.

The spontaneity that was once a feature of your young, carefree life is gone, seemingly forever. You don't just up and DO stuff. You plan. You figure out whether you need a babysitter. You schedule everything around feedings, diaper changes and naps (yours and the baby's).

One minute you're deciding on the spur of the moment to go and see a movie. The next you're plotting out your life in three-minute increments through the end of next year.

And you know what? It's wonderful.

I'm not kidding, it's awesome.

Yes, yes, it's exhausting and all. And I mean exhausting in every possible way: mentally, physically, spiritually, emotionally.

But it's all worth it. Heck, it's MORE than worth it. I cannot describe to you the joy that comes when you're entrusted with raising a small human to adulthood.

It's work, but it's good work, you know? It's satisfying work. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll be willing to donate major organs just for the chance to take a 20-minute afternoon siesta.

And you'll love it. Parenthood is the single most fulfilling and exciting thing I've ever done.

It all starts with that seemingly innocuous jump from zero children to one. It's a big one, but it's a fun one. Don't be afraid.

The smell of pipe tobacco, four decades later

You know what they say about certain smells triggering the deepest memories? It's true, in my experience, and recently I was powerfully reminded of it.

I've told you how I go out walking very early most mornings, which generally means I don't come across many people. I was walking around 5:30 in the morning the other day when the scent of burning pipe tobacco suddenly filled my head.

Someone nearby was clearly smoking a pipe. I surmised it was someone standing on the porch of one of the houses I was walking past, though it was still so dark I couldn't make out anyone.

No matter, though, as that smell instantly transported me back to a very specific time in the late 1970s. I would wake up on a Saturday morning and go into the kitchen, and almost inevitably my dad would be sitting at the table playing solitaire (the real kind, non-electronic) and smoking his pipe.

He kept the tobacco in a zip-up leather pouch. Sometimes I would open the pouch and take a big whiff because I loved the smell of it. It didn't smell quite as good when it burned, but it still wasn't nearly as unpleasant as the unavoidable stench of cigarettes that was seemingly everywhere back then.

I also associate a certain sound with that smell—the sound of shuffling cards. Dad had a lot of experience playing cards, so he was a very good shuffler.

Shuffling cards and pipe smoke. Those were the Saturday morning sensory soundtrack of my youth. For a few seconds as I walked, I was taken back to that time.

My dad has been gone more than 20 years, but as far as I was concerned, he was right there with me. It was 1978, and the only two things ahead of me that day were a morning of cartoons and an afternoon playing with my friends.

It only lasted a few seconds, but it was nice. In a moment I snapped back to reality and turned my attention back to the World War I podcast to which I was listening. The rest of the walk was that much more pleasant, though.

Heartfelt thanks to the person who was smoking that pipe. It's not a healthy habit, but I'll admit, you made my day.

I didn't used to require a running fan to sleep at night. Now I do.

 

I am, by and large, a very good sleeper. I fall asleep quickly, and for the most part I stay asleep.

I do, however, have two requirements:

1. The room must be relatively cool. I do not sleep well in the heat at all.
2. There must be a fan running.

#1 has always been true for me. #2 only became a thing within the last decade.

I don't recall how it happened, but at some point I turned into one of those people who must have white noise in order to sleep. There is a small white window fan on the floor near my side of the bed that I switch on every night as Terry and I are settling down.

I realize I'm not alone in this and that many people also like to have a fan going at night. I just wish I still had the same championship-level sleeping ability that one time allowed me to get three full hours of sleep while laying on my friend Kevin's concrete driveway in the middle of a hot summer night (this is absolutely true).

Maybe it's because I've hit middle age, I don't know. The fact is, to get the rest I need, that fan has to be humming along all night.

My son Jared is the same way. It is not the only curse I have passed down to him, but along with my addiction to nasal mist, it is among the worst. I'm sorry, buddy.

It's the people you don't see onscreen who make your favorite movies and TV shows possible

It is important to establish at the outset that I am anything but an expert on this topic. Only through strange and varying circumstances have I had the chance to look behind the scenes at how Hollywood really works.

I have visited the sets of exactly two movies and maybe a dozen television shows in my life. I've met some of the stars of these shows, and for what it's worth, they were almost uniformly polite and pleasant people.

But even I—someone who can generously be described as "unobservant"—could immediately tell that the real heroes of these productions are the people whose names you ignore in the end credits.

The prop masters. The gaffers. The production assistants. The carpenters and electricians. The craft services people.

The whole edifice rests on the labor of these folks. And trust me, they do labor. A lot.

The hours they spend on set are long, sometimes hard, and usually boring.

From what I can tell, none of them is getting particularly rich. And as much as some complain, they keep coming back for more because they love it. They love being part of this crazy industry.

One time I got to watch the cast and crew of the show "Modern Family" shoot an outdoor scene that took place at a carnival. They rented out a local park and set up real carnival rides and booths. All of this work, I was told, had happened overnight.

Who do you think handles this stuff? The stars? You think Ed O'Neill was out there erecting a ferris wheel at 3 in the morning? He was not. It was a bunch of people whose identities you will never know.

Speaking of that ferris wheel, I enjoyed the fact that there were mannequins in every seat to make it seem (from a distance) as if real people were riding it. Stuff like that is common in movies and TV and, for my money, is so cleverly done.

Anyway, I have no point today other than to suggest that, the next time you're binging some show on Netflix, you should pause the credits and read the names of these real people who did the real work to make your show come to life.

They are, in my limited experience, a jaded lot with dark senses of humor. They are the complete opposite of star struck. Indeed, they pay no notice to the actors on set. At best, they treat the talent like co-workers. At worst, those pretty boys and girls who can't get their lines right or hit their marks on time are the reason the whole crew is going to have be on set until well past midnight again, and they are rightly resentful of them.

They are, in short, my absolute favorite kinds of people. God bless them all.