Do I have a writing background? Why Yes, Yes I do!

 

Last night, I was paid a huge compliment at a parish reveal for a major school rehab (aka sell job). My role was simple: lead prayer, welcome people as a quasi-emcee, answer questions, and—per the job description—be eye candy. Those of you who know me, know I have a face for radio.

A parish employee/parishioner from one of our three campuses pulled me aside and said what I did was beautiful and that it was obviously spoken from the heart. Then came the kicker: “You have a real knack for writing and speaking. Do you have a background in that?”

Why Yes. Yes, I do.

Driving home, I had one of those cinematic John Rambo flashback moments—slow motion, dramatic music, shirt optional—wondering where this so-called “gift” actually began.

My writing career launched in high school, where I made my debut on the Freshman Edition of the Rockhurst High School Prep News. I wrote a controversial piece asking the hard-hitting journalistic question of our time: Do Track & Field weight men really run?

It was a hit. The Shot Put and Discus coach was mortified. And suddenly, this no-talent Hispanic kid became the Sports Editor during his freshman year. That gig lasted until the beginning of senior year, when I yielded the desk to a grade-school chum named Joe Drape.

Who is Joe Drape, you ask? Joe Drape is a New York Times reporter, author of seven books, two of which were NYT Best Sellers. So yes, I lost my job to a future literary rock star. No bitterness. None at all. Totally over it.

After yielding the Sports Desk, I became Campus Editor. No controversial columns. No coaches breathing down my neck. Just words. Lots of them. Our moderator and Prep News editor would frequently throw an unabridged dictionary at me—sometimes literally—to prove that words I tried to sneak into my columns actually existed. They were persistent.

And who was my editor? None other than the great James Grimaldi, who went on to win three Pulitzer Prizes while working for The Wall Street Journal and The Washington Post. Apparently, the Rockhurst Prep News was a bit of a talent incubator. Who knew?

And now, my claim to fame: I blog.

A small blog. One that began as a way to get my head straight and purge the toxins rattling around upstairs. A blog that’s been around since 2004, left for dead more than once, and then shockingly revived with defibrillator paddles in August of 2025.

That same blog now averages about 20 peeks a day and—twice—hit 60 reads. That, my friends, is my New York Times Best Seller moment. I’m waiting for the movie deal.

I know James and Joe have impacted countless people through massive platforms. I hope I’ve done the same—on a much smaller stage, with fewer zeroes and significantly less applause. But impact isn’t measured by clicks; it’s measured by connection.

Now don’t get me wrong—I get published multiple times a week, with the pièce de résistance landing on Fridays in Friday Notes, giving parents and parishioners valuable nuggets about SSP School. Even more meaningful to me is the cover letter, which actually speaks from the heart.

Ironically, everywhere I’ve been, I’ve had to remind parents that the attachment—not the cover letter—is the most important part. The Notes, especially the first page (left column), are meant to be folded, magnetized to a refrigerator, and used as a survival roadmap for the upcoming week at school.

In addition, I’m at times, quoted in local newspapers—the Post-Dispatch, The St. Louis Review—and recently had a feature piece in the TTEF (Today and Tomorrow Education Fund) publication. Not because I have anything life-shattering to report. I just really love bragging about our kids, teachers, and programs at our wonderful Catholic school.

Here’s what I may have overlooked all these years: Words matter.

They build trust. They calm fears. They rally communities. They remind people why we do what we do—especially in education, where leadership often requires explaining hard decisions, selling hope, and occasionally convincing people that change isn’t the enemy.

And if I’ve learned anything along the way, it’s this: when words are rooted in faith, spoken honestly, and aimed at serving others—not yourself—they tend to land where they’re supposed to.

So if last night’s words sounded like they came from the heart, it’s because they did. And if writing has been a constant thread through my life, maybe it’s not an accident—just one more gift God keeps nudging me to use, whether 20 people read it… or 60.

A Decision Is a Decision

Yesterday, my aunt, who also happens to be our Learning Consultant and a former administrator, told me I made a good decision to hold a full day of school, even though several City & County Catholic schools chose to close or delay until 9:00 a.m.  Even though she was campaigning for a late start, etc.

My response was simple: It was a decision.

After 41 years in education, 26 of those in administration, I’ve learned one undeniable truth, you are not going to make everyone happy. If I make parents happy, teachers and staff are often frustrated. If I close school because teachers live far away, cars won’t start, or someone gets stuck on a side street, then parents are scrambling for childcare.

So today, I made a decision.
And I lived by it.
I stood by it.
And I did not second or third-guess myself.

Here’s a little secret, pulling back the curtain like Dorothy did in The Wizard of Oz: I rarely make an important decisions alone.

Most decisions are informed ones, shaped by what I call my “Brain Trust”: the pastor, the administrative assistant, the head of facilities, and, the Learning Consultant (a former 30+ year school administrator). They offer their perspectives. They give their opinions.
And then I make the decision.

That’s leadership.

Ever since I started decluttering my head, since I decided that my peace would no longer be ruled by others’ approval ratings, I sleep better at night. I don’t lie awake replaying the day, wondering who I made happy, who I annoyed, whether it was the perfect call, or how I could have done it differently.

Every night before I go to bed, I ask God to make me a better version of myself than I was today. But I no longer live my days in checklist mode.

I make a decision.
I own it.
And I move forward, into the rest of the day, the night, and whatever comes next. 

A "Snowmageddon" Reflection

Catholic Schools Week always invites us to tell our story—to celebrate faith, excellence, service, and community. It asks us to reflect not just on what we teach, but how we live what we teach.

And this week, that reflection has come wrapped in snow boots, wind advisories, and the humbling force of nature.

Somewhere between checking forecasts, scanning road conditions, and rereading calendar contingencies, there’s an internal administrator’s monologue that plays on repeat:
Save the days.
But save the people.
February is coming.
But so is tomorrow morning.
What if we need these days later?
What if someone doesn’t make it here safely today?

It’s not dramatic—it’s daily. And it’s never just about school. If I’m honest, there’s even a moment of gallows humor in it all. The part where I’m standing outside in sub-zero wind, bundled like a human marshmallow, smiling and waving while my eyelashes threaten to freeze together—thinking, Ah yes, this is leadership.

Catholic Schools Week reminds us that our schools are ministries before they are institutions. Those policies serve people—not the other way around. That prudence, compassion, and common sense are virtues, too.

So when we call a snow day during Snowmageddon, it’s not giving in. It’s living out what we profess. It’s choosing safety over stubbornness. It’s trusting that learning will continue. It’s acknowledging that grace sometimes looks like a delayed bell schedule—or no bell at all.

And as our students enjoy the magic of a snow day, my prayer widens.
For the families who still have to report to work. For those navigating icy roads with no option to stay home. For the homeless in our community, may warming centers be open, shelters full, and neighbors attentive.

In this season of snow and service, may we remember:
We don’t just count instructional minutes. We count people.
And sometimes, the most Catholic thing we can do… is close school.

Snow Day in a Season of Snowmageddon

There is something undeniably magical about a snow day. The world quiets. Time stretches. Childhood memories resurface—pajamas that stay on too long, hot chocolate that tastes better simply because school is closed, and the unspoken permission to slow down. Snow days feel like grace.

But when you sit in the seat of school administration, snow days are no longer just magic—they’re math, safety, stewardship, and discernment.

Most schools only have a small handful of days built into the calendar—maybe three or four—before make-up days begin to steal weekends, spring breaks, or the fragile balance families rely on. And so, when a system like this current Snowmageddon rolls in—snow, ice, and dangerously low temperatures stretching from Friday into late Sunday night—an internal tug-of-war begins.

Do we save the days for what February might bring, especially if the Almanacs are right and predict an above-average snowy month?

Or do we do what feels immediately right—protecting students, families, and staff from icy roads, car wrecks, and bitter cold that can cause real harm in as little as 30 minutes?

For me, this decision is never theoretical.

I stand outside every school morning for thirty minutes, welcoming families as they arrive. I feel the cold in my bones. I watch parents grip steering wheels a little tighter. I see students hop from warm cars into biting wind. Weather is not an abstract forecast—it’s lived reality.

And while schools have the privilege of snow days, many families do not.

As we debate closures and calendars, I hold in prayer the parents who still have to report to work, regardless of road conditions or wind chills. The first responders, utility workers, healthcare professionals, and hourly employees whose jobs do not pause for snowfall.

I pray, too, for our neighbors without shelter—the homeless in our community—hoping warming centers are open, accessible, and safe, and that no one has to endure these temperatures alone.

A snow day, then, becomes more than a closure.

It becomes a moral decision.

A reminder that education is important—but so is safety. That learning happens in classrooms—but also in the choices we model. That sometimes the most responsible thing we can teach our children is how to care for people over productivity.

Snow days may feel magical.

But they are also an act of trust—trust that learning will continue, trust that schedules can flex, and trust that choosing people first is never the wrong call.

In the middle of Snowmageddon, perhaps the real lesson is this:

Grace falls quietly—sometimes like snow.

 

I’m sitting here prepping to be snowed in, trying to make alternative plans for Catholic Schools Week Open House—a make-or-break day for our registration efforts. I keep telling myself that once I make the momentous call (delay, pivot, pray harder), I’ll finally have time to catch up on blogging. Or, more accurately, to drain the brain overflow.

Amid snow forecasts and contingency plans, I fired off a text thread to the people who help me make the big decisions. Half-joking, I asked the Holy Spirit to intervene—this one needed divine clarity. Almost on cue, a familiar voice surfaced. One of my favorite priests (and former bosses) used to say: “Spit in one hand, and put all your hopes, wishes, and wants of doing over—or doing better—in the other. Which one has substance in it?”

That line landed harder than any weather alert. So, for the sake of this blog, I’ll defer the snowy Open House decision and turn instead to the other things I tend to clutch tightly in that other hand—the hopes, the what-ifs, the alternate timelines.

In a strange way, it feels like one of those MGM betting commercials voiced by St. Louis native Jon Hamm. The temptation to roll the dice on another life. Another version of me. Or maybe it’s more like Nicolas Cage in The Family Man, waking up to see how a single decision could unravel into an entirely different existence.

I often write about not letting the past hijack the future. Still, if I’m honest, sometimes it’s human—maybe even healthy—to imagine the redos, without the pressure of walking on eggshells like The Butterfly Effect, where one tiny change ruins everything. So… what would I change?

One thing I can’t undo—no way in Hades—is living with a bit of Napoleon syndrome. At 5’4”, I spent a good chunk of my life proving this frame could be just as athletic as my 6’-something counterparts. And I succeeded, sometimes.

When I was younger, I regularly leg-pressed the entire stack of weights as if it were a point to prove. Even now, I run into people I haven’t seen in years who say, “I see you still have those Sturgill thighs!” Those choices gave me explosive 10–20-yard bursts—useful when I played rugby at SMSU, a proud member of a team ranked #7 in the country in the early 1980s. But those same choices most likely contributed to both knees and both hips being replaced far earlier than I would have preferred.  

There’s pride in that chapter. And regret.

If I hadn’t wrestled so hard with body image, maybe I would’ve trusted myself more. Maybe I would’ve asked out more young women, especially one who, like me, worked hard from an early age and worked alongside my mother. Ironically, I’m only just getting to know her now… at the ripe age of 63.

And yet, this is where the butterfly effect becomes real. I am deeply blessed with my wife, my children, and my grandchildren, who enrich my life beyond measure. Change one thread, and that entire tapestry may never have existed. I do sometimes wish I had met my wife earlier in life. We probably crossed paths the summer before our senior year in high school at a St. Louis Hill Day celebration. We were that close to rubbing elbows.

I wonder if I might have made a bigger impact as a lawyer than as an educator. Would I have reached as many lives if I’d taken that part-time social studies job at Bayless instead of committing fully to Catholic education? The pay certainly would’ve been better in public schools. Should I have taken that head football coaching job in Humansville, where I knew people in high places? 

Would it have been wiser to stay up North for college rather than head to San Antonio?

If I’d stayed, I might have gained some things—but I would have lost fraternity brothers and friendships that have taken up lifetime residence in my heart.

I wish I had met my brother Darrell before I turned 55. My brother Jeff before I was 63. The same with my sister Kelly. I wonder what life would’ve looked like without fractures in my family—if my sisters Debbie and Susie and I had grown up together in a more traditional home, would we still be estranged?

And maybe the hardest truth to admit: I wish I had trusted myself more. I had—and still have—the skills to have been “someone” with “something” on YouTube or Facebook. Fear, doubt, and timing got in the way. But here’s the thing. All of those other-hand thoughts—the wishing, the wondering, the do-overs—have very little substance.

What does have substance is gratitude. So for now, I choose to thank God for the many blessings in my life—blessings shaped not by perfect decisions, but by real ones. Decisions made with limited information, imperfect confidence, and a whole lot of grace filling in the gaps.

Snow will fall. Plans will change. This Open House has pivoted. And tomorrow, I’ll still have two hands. One for letting go, and one for holding onto grace.

Just Because I Can Doesn't Mean I Should!

I’ve been thinking about a thought that has followed me through different stages of life, usually arriving a little later than it should have: Just because I can doesn’t mean I should.

As a kid, I rarely asked that question. As an adult, I ask it more often, sometimes out loud, sometimes while reaching for the antacids. As a 63-year-old man, I ask it while putting on a jacket I once swore I’d never need.

The thought first came to mind while watching news clips of people interrupting church services, convinced that their constitutional right to free speech gives them permission to speak anywhere, anytime, and as loudly as they choose. Now, I’m no constitutional scholar, but I am fairly certain the Founders didn’t envision the Bill of Rights as a license to hijack other people’s sacred spaces.

Rights are important. They matter. But they don’t float in a vacuum. They live inside relationships, communities, and what I like to call other people’s personal bubbles. Free speech protects us from government overreach; it does not exempt us from courtesy, reverence, or common sense. A church is not a town square. A worship service is not an open mic night. You may be able to speak, but wisdom asks whether this is the time, place, or manner.

That same principle shows up in far less dramatic ways. Take NFL games, for example. Every winter, without fail, there’s at least one shirtless fan painted team colors, proudly enduring what looks suspiciously like a near-blizzard. I watch from my couch, wrapped in a blanket, holding a hot drink, thinking, Sure, you can do that… but why?

I did foolish things in the cold when I was younger, too. I went outside in single-digit temperatures without gloves because hands were optional?! I survived. That does not mean it was smart then, nor does it mean it’s a solid life strategy now. Nostalgia has a way of convincing us that endurance equals wisdom. It doesn’t. Sometimes it just means we were lucky.

The same logic applies at the dinner table. I grew up in the “clean your plate” generation. You ate everything, whether you were hungry or not, because somewhere, very far away, someone else might not have dinner. The intention was good. The outcome was, occasionally, a belt notch surrendered unnecessarily. Just because I can finish everything on my plate doesn’t mean my stomach, or my doctor, thinks I should.

Then there’s my lawn. I am fully capable of letting it grow unchecked until it reaches a point where normal lawn equipment waves a white flag. At that stage, my options narrow to industrial machinery or a small herd of goats. I haven’t chosen the goats yet, but I’ve come uncomfortably close. Capability is not the same thing as stewardship.

And music,  I can play it loud. Very loud. Loud enough to rattle windows and announce my impeccable taste to the entire neighborhood. But just because my speakers go to eleven doesn’t mean my neighbors want to experience my playlist as a shared spiritual journey.
All these examples circle the same quiet truth: we’ve confused freedom with the absence of limits. Somewhere along the way, restraint started sounding like weakness instead of maturity. But self-control isn’t about denying joy; it’s about preventing joy from becoming excess, and excess from becoming someone else’s burden.

As we get older (and wiser, one hopes), the question shifts. It’s no longer “Can I?” That answer is often yes. The better questions are: Should I? And perhaps most importantly, who pays the price if I do?

Growing up means recognizing that our actions ripple outward. They land in pews, on neighbors’ lawns, in shared spaces, and in relationships we claim to value. Wisdom lives in knowing when to speak and when to be silent, when to push through discomfort, and when to put on the coat, when to indulge, and when to stop.

Just because I can doesn’t mean I should. It’s not a restriction. It’s an invitation to maturity, to charity, and occasionally, to wearing a sweater.

The Exit 163 Phenomenon: Why Marketing is Best When It’s a Little "Wrong"

 

If you read my post back in October, you know I have a minor obsession with Uranus, Missouri. Specifically, their "The Best Fudge Comes from Uranus" campaign. It’s the kind of marketing that makes HR departments sweat and middle-schoolers rejoice.

If you thought the fudge was the only joke, the "Mayor" of Uranus (owner Louie Keen) has ensured the innuendo is structural.

• The Uranus Examiner: Their local news source. Their slogan? "The Best News to Come Out of Uranus."
• The Uranus Sideshow Museum houses historical oddities, but its marketing often centers on "Seeing the wonders inside Uranus."
• The Putt-Putt Course: It’s not just mini-golf; it’s a chance to "Play around in Uranus."
• The "Number 2" Pencils: Sold in the general store, featuring a poop emoji and a warning that the eraser "leaves skid marks."
• The Police Force: Exists to “Protect and Serve Uranus”
• The Factory Workers are referred to as “fudge packers”.

I recently discovered the "full, unedited, and superior version" of this story. If you’re driving down Interstate 44 in Missouri, keep your eyes peeled near Exit 163. There, standing tall against the Ozark sky, is a directional sign that lists two nearby destinations in perfect, vertical alignment: DIXON URANUS

It is, quite literally, the most profitable unintentional (or perhaps genius) comedy set-up in the history of the Department of Transportation. It’s "pure comedy gold" because it’s a Social Souvenir, you laugh, you take a photo, and suddenly, two small towns have more brand equity than a billion-dollar insurance firm.

Why does this work? Why does a sign for "Dixon/Uranus" or a "Fudge Packer" t-shirt trigger such a strong reaction?

In marketing psychology, this is called the Benign Violation Theory. To be funny and memorable, an ad must:

1.     Violate a norm: (Mentioning "Uranus" or "Dixon" in a suggestive way).

2.     Be completely harmless: (It’s just a town name; it’s just chocolate).

When you hit that sweet spot, the brain releases dopamine. You aren't just a customer anymore; you're a co-conspirator. You’re in on the joke.

The Hall of Fame vs. The Hall of Shame

When small towns like Uranus do it, it feels authentic. When "Big Corporate" tries it, they are often walking a tightrope over a canyon of "cringe."

The Successes

• KFC’s "FCK" Ad: When KFC UK ran out of chicken in 2018, they didn't release a dry press release. They ran a full-page ad with the letters on the bucket rearranged to FCK. It was humble, hilarious, and immediately turned anger into laughter.
• Poo-Pourri: They took the tabooest room in the house and used a prim, proper British spokeswoman to talk about "leaving the throne smelling better than you found it." They leaned into the "gross-out" factor with such class that it became a multi-million dollar empire.

The Failures

• Bumble’s "Celibacy" Blunder: In 2024, the dating app tried to be "edgy" with billboards that said, "A vow of celibacy is not the answer." Instead of laughing, people felt shamed. The violation wasn't "benign"; it felt personal. They had to pull the ads and apologize.
• Reebok’s "Cheat" Fiasco: Years ago, Reebok Germany used the slogan: "Cheat on your girlfriend, not on your workout." They thought it was "cheeky." The public thought it was "encouraging toxic behavior." It was pulled faster than a hamstring on leg day.

Beyond the Missouri Border

Uranus isn't the only place using "Sophomoric Sophistication" to stay on the map. If you’re looking for more "Marketing Gold" hidden in plain sight, look at:

• French Lick, Indiana: A high-end resort town that has spent decades trying to balance its prestigious mineral springs with a name that sounds like a dare.
• Big Dick’s Halfway Inn: A legendary bar in the Lake of the Ozarks. Their gift shop, selling shirts that say "I got it at Big Dick's" reportedly brings in more revenue than the actual beer.
  
• Hell, Michigan: They don't just acknowledge the name; they celebrate the damnation. You can pay to be the Mayor of Hell for a Day, which ends with you being "impeached" and given a certificate of your reign.
  The Slogan: Their official tourism site encourages you to "Go to Hell" and visit the Hell Hole Diner. They even sell "Square Inches of Hell" to people who want to claim land ownership in the afterlife.
  
• Fucking, Austria (Now Fugging). This is a "tragic" version of this silly story. For years, the town of Fucking was a pilgrimage site for teenagers and pranksters. The town eventually grew tired of people stealing its street signs (which cost taxpayers thousands to replace). In 2021, they officially changed the spelling to Fugging. It’s a cautionary tale: if a town doesn't want to be "risqué marketing gold," the joke eventually becomes a burden.

Marketing isn't about being "safe." It’s about being human. We live in a world drowning in AI-generated, boardroom-approved, sanitized content. When a brand, or a town, is willing to look a little silly, we trust them more. We feel like we know them.

So, the next time you see a sign for Dixon Uranus, don't just roll your eyes. Take notes. That’s the sound of a marketing strategy working at 70 miles per hour.

 

Your Car is Hiding Things From You (Hidden In Plain Site Part 3)

 

Let’s be honest: most of us treat our car owner’s manual like a Terms of Service agreement. We click "Accept" (by putting the car in Drive) and never actually read the fine print.

But it turns out, your car is basically a high-tech Swiss Army knife with a bunch of "Easter Eggs" hidden by engineers who clearly had too much coffee and a whimsical sense of humor. From "secret" buttons to literally turning your dashboard into a fireplace, here is everything your car can do that you probably didn't know about.

The "I’m Not an Idiot" Gas Arrow

We’ve all been there. You pull into the gas station in a rental car, sweating because you don’t know which side the tank is on. You start doing that awkward neck-craning maneuver out the window.

• The Secret: Look at your fuel gauge. See that tiny triangle next to the pump icon? It points to the side of the car where the gas cap lives.

• The Humor: Engineers put this there specifically so we’d stop looking like confused meerkats at the Shell station. Use it. Live it.

The "Black Ice" Snowflake

If you’re driving and a little snowflake icon pops up when it’s 37°F (3°C), your car isn't asking you to go skiing.

• The Secret: This is the temperature where bridges and overpasses start to freeze. Your car is essentially saying, "Hey, I know you think you're a rally driver, but the road is about to become a skating rink."

Tesla’s "Mario Kart" Mode

Tesla doesn't make cars; they make iPads with wheels.

• The Secret: If you have Autopilot, flick the gear stalk down four times fast. The gray road on your screen turns into a psychedelic Rainbow Road from Mario Kart.

• Bonus: You can also name your car "42" to unlock the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy theme, or enter "007" to turn your car icon into James Bond’s submarine. Because why not?

The F-150 Office Space

Ford knows that truck owners basically live in their vehicles.

• The Secret: In many new F-150s, the gear shifter literally folds flat into the center console. Then, the armrest flips over to create a massive, flat desk.

• The Humor: It’s perfect for "working from home" while actually hiding in a parking lot eating a burrito.

The Jaguar’s Heartbeat

If you drive a Jaguar XE, look at the Start button before you press it.

• The Secret: It pulses red at exactly 72 beats per minute.

• The Fact: That is the resting heart rate of an actual Jaguar in the wild. It’s cool, slightly creepy, and 100% designed to make you feel like a predator while you're driving to the grocery store.

The Hidden Vauxhall Sharks

If you own a Vauxhall (or Opel), you are participating in a 20-year-old prank.

• The Secret: There is a tiny plastic shark hidden somewhere in the interior trim—usually inside the glovebox hinge or the center console.

• The Backstory: A designer’s son dared him to draw a shark on a sketch in 2004, and the company has been hiding them in every model ever since. It's the automotive version of Where’s Waldo?

Quick-Fire "How Did I Not Know This?" Table

Feature	What it actually does
The "Oh Crap" Handle	Formally for "mobility," actually for your mom to grab when you go 26 in a 25mph zone.
Visor Extension	Most sun visors slide out on their metal rod to block that one specific ray of sun hitting your eye.
VW "Play" Pedals	On the ID.3, the gas pedal has a Play symbol , and the brake has a Pause symbol.
The Headrest Tool	If you're trapped, pull the headrest out. The long metal spikes are designed to shatter the side windows.

Your car is much smarter than it lets on. It’s got hidden sharks, heartbeat sensors, and built-in desks. The only thing it can't do is tell you where you left your sunglasses (check the "conversation mirror" in the ceiling—they’re probably there).