Sometimes I stop by the library just to visit my books

Last year I published a book, but I don't really talk much about it here anymore because I figured it has sold just about all of the copies it's going to sell.

Which, for the record, is something like 230 total sales when you count paperbacks, Kindle versions and the audiobook recording.

Not exactly Danielle Steel territory, but then again, I never did it for sales or money or anything like that. I did it as a bucket list item, and because I found the whole experience to be so cool.

You know the best part? It's the fact that our local library carries four copies of my book.

I want to note that initially there were five copies on the shelves at the Wickliffe Public Library, but now there are only four. Presumably someone borrowed a copy and lost it, which I assume happens all the time.

Whatever the case, having a book I wrote on the shelf at my childhood library is something I never imagined would happen. I just love it.

Sometimes I will look it up in the electronic card catalog to see how many of the four copies are actually in circulation. As I type this, for example, two are sitting on the shelves while two others have been checked out.

I like when they're checked out, of course, but I also like stopping by the library to see the available shelf copies.

Every time I'm there I sneak over to the appropriate stacks (call number "248 TEN") and stare at "my" books for a minute. It never gets old.

Do you think Stephen King ever does that? I'll bet he did when he was first starting out.

Let it be known that on the day two of my books were checked out, both copies of Mr. King's "Pet Sematary" were also in circulation.

Which, as far as I'm concerned, means Steve and I are pretty much on the same level, as far as famous authors go.

The dilemma of the unjust Facebook ban

A screen shot from my apparently illegal Olympic field hockey video

Last month while in Paris, I took a short video clip of an Olympic women's field hockey match and posted it on Facebook. It was less than a minute long and showed the Netherlands team on the attack against Great Britain.

The idea was to share this unique experience with family and friends. Watching an Olympic event live, particularly a sport with which I was only passingly familiar, was thrilling.

I wanted others to be able to enjoy it, too, if only vicariously.

No big deal. People post video from live sporting events all the time.

Yet within a day or two, I received a notice from Facebook that my clip "violated community standards" and was an infringement of copyright owned by the International Olympic Committee. I filed a formal appeal and requested an explanation as to why my short personal clip, shot on my iPhone, was in any way violating the IOC's copyright.

I never received a response.

I tagged Meta (Facebook's parent company), Facebook itself, and the IOC on Twitter to see if they could explain the situation to me there.

Again, no response.

Being banned from Facebook for four days isn't the end of the world, I realize. I rely on FB to drive most of my blog traffic, but it's not like I'm making a living from this blog anyway.

It was more the principle of the thing.

Nowhere on our tickets or in our official Olympic emails did I find a ban on videography or photography. The ban notice from Facebook even admitted it was discovered "using our technology" (i.e., a bot) and that no human had actually reviewed the video.

The whole thing seemed patently unfair.

Yet I might argue it was also necessary.

As both a content creator and a content consumer, as well as a corporate communicator and former newspaper journalist, believe me when I say I get the need for tight enforcement of copyright law. People who write, photograph, shoot video and otherwise provide the stuff that makes the Internet interesting need to have their content protected if we expect them to continue doing what they do.

It's impossible to police copyright over the entire vast universe of the Internet manually, so bots are needed. There aren't enough people available to do it the old-fashioned way.

I'm guessing the vast majority of what the bots find really is copyright violation, which is good.

But as my own experience suggests, they also get it wrong sometimes. Or at least, they got it wrong in my situation as far as I know. I may simply not have seen a sign prohibiting the taking of video when we entered Stade Yves-du-Manoir for the field hockey match.

This might just be a case of having to break some eggs if you're going to make an omelet. Some people will be unjustly banned, and that may be unavoidable. On balance, automated copyright enforcement is probably effective the vast majority of the time.

So I'm torn.

In the end, I don't believe I did anything wrong. And a four-day ban from being allowed to post, comment or even "like" someone's Facebook content is absolutely no big deal.

There's no foolproof way to protect copyright online, or even to stop the spread of blatantly untrue political and social content. So if a relatively small percentage of us get the shaft, that's probably a fair tradeoff.

That doesn't mean I'm not still annoyed by the whole thing, though.

I give blood for the wrong reasons, but the end result is still positive

He looks so happy, doesn't he?

Donating blood is one of those things you really should do if you're able, but I get why many people don't.

Some have less-than-cooperative veins, others have had various medical conditions that render them ineligible, and many others simply can't do it without passing out.

For whatever reason, I am built to give blood. I have what one Red Cross phlebotomist termed "amazing" and easily accessible veins running the length of both inner arms. I have no fear of blood or of needles, nor do I pass out.

Interestingly, once the needle goes in, it rarely takes more than 5 minutes for my donation to be complete. The red stuff comes out of me quickly.

Thus, giving blood is something I have done with some regularity since 1987 (or maybe it was 1988), when I made my first donation as a senior at Wickliffe High School.

In the early 90s I used to go to the Downtown Cleveland Red Cross Donation Center and give platelets, a process that would take upwards of two hours and required needles in both arms (one to take the blood out, the other to put it back in once the platelets had been stripped out).

For the most part, though, I just do run-of-the-mill whole blood giving. I try to do it every 8 weeks, which is the minimum time interval that must pass between these types of donations.

As I type this, I have given blood 116 times in my life, which works out to a little more than 14 gallons. I know people who have given far, far more than this, but I'm proud of my total.

In fact, it's the act of pushing my donation number higher and higher that most motivates me. I want to tell you the main reason I give is to help people in need, and that obviously IS the best reason, but foremost in my mind is that my personal total ticks one notch higher with each donation.

Recently I tried giving during a blood drive at work but was deferred because my iron level was slightly too low. I was miffed, but not because it meant that one fewer pint of blood would be available to someone in need of it. Rather, I was annoyed that donation #117 would have to be put off for a few weeks while I worked on upping the iron in my blood.

This is silly in many ways, not the least of which is that I'm competing only against myself. It's not like I'm in a race with anybody to see who can give more blood. I just want to win against...me, I guess?

This competitive streak extends to the actual blood-giving process, as well. Sometimes I'll schedule a donation at the same time as my co-worker Mary Ann, and we will frantically squeeze the little foam balls they give us over and over in an attempt to suck the blood from our veins faster and finish before the other person.

One time she beat me by one second.

One second.

I was so angry.

Oh, but someone lying in a hospital bed eventually received my A-positive blood, which is obviously the real goal.

Or at least that's what I have to keep telling myself.

You can really take the convenience of summer for granted

It's only around this time of year, with the beginning of autumn just a couple of weeks away, that I realize the best thing about summer is the convenience.

Like, for example, when you want to go somewhere, you just throw on shoes and leave. No jacket, no boots, no hat and gloves. You just go.

And when you're driving around Northeast Ohio like I do, you don't have to add any extra travel time for weather delays. If it's normally a 15-minute trip, it will be a 15-minute trip.

That's not to mention the fact that I never have to worry about small cuts caused by excessively dry skin on my fingertips in June. That's a January thing, as are chapped lips. I keep a steady supply of lotion and Chapstick close at hand during those winter months.

Even on the hottest and most humid days, summer is generally just easier for those of us living in temperate regions.

I suspect this will soon be brought home to me during my five-mornings-a-week trips to the gym.

I started working out in early June. To date, that has meant leaving the house in just my workout clothes and gym shoes. Nothing else.

In a few months, that same excursion will also involve:

• Bundling up in appropriate outerwear
• Driving on potentially slippery roads to the gym
• Walking into the gym and taking off my coat, hat and gloves
• Also taking off my boots or other winter-proof shoes
• Replacing those with gym shoes
• Putting everything back on as my sweaty self leaves post-workout, likely soaking the inside of my coat and gloves.
• Driving back home on those same slippery roads

All of which suggests a move to warmer climes sometime in the future to avoid all of the winter hassle.

But I can't imagine that ever happening. After all, where's the fun in that?

Happy birthday, Dad

My dad and me, circa 1980. Nice bowtie, Scott.

Next month my dad will have been gone for 25 years, which is strange to me.

On one hand, it feels like 25 years since he passed away. So much has happened since that terrible night in October 1999, not the least of which were the births of his last two grandchildren (my daughter Melanie and son Jack). So many milestones missed, so many sporting events I would have loved to watch with him.

At the same time, it doesn't feel like 25 years ago at all. I can still picture him. I can still hear his voice clearly. Heck, I can still smell his post-shower Aqua Velva aftershave! (I am a frequent shower-taker just like he was.)

I think he would be pretty proud to see how his family is doing now. My mom, his wife of 48 years, is gone now, as is my sister and his oldest daughter Judi. But the rest of us are doing OK.

My sister Debbie and brother Mark are the most youthful 69- and 67-year-olds (respectively) you will ever meet. You would have no clue of their chronological ages just by looking at and talking with them. I love them a whole bunch.

Dad's oldest grandkids, Mark Jr. and Jessica, have children of their own and are among the best people I know. They've both lost their moms but soldier on with their wonderful families.

And Terry and I can certainly count ourselves blessed not only by all of our kids but also by the lives we get to lead. Speaking for myself, at least, I don't feel I especially deserve any of it, but I know our situation would have made Dad very happy.

In fact, if he had somehow made it to 95 (the age he would have turned today), I'm sure his life would still revolve around his kids and grandkids, as it did up until the day he died.

This is the point where I'm supposed to tell you to hug the people around you and tell them you love them, but you know that already.

You also know to count your many blessings, but it doesn't hurt to be reminded.

Helping your kids navigate the job hunt

There are certain things for which you go to Mom when you need help and certain things for which you generally go to Dad.

In our family, the kids approach Terry for assistance on a myriad of topics, especially anything having to do with cooking, owning a home or tackling the day-to-day challenges of domestic life.

The list of things in which I specialize is perhaps not as long, but I like to think it's equally impactful.

One of my areas of expertise is the world of work. Often when the kids create or update a resume, write a cover letter or fill out a job application, they ask me to review it.

I'm happy to do this. I also coach them on job interviews and proper methods of follow-up.

"What do I say if they ask me about my salary expectations?"

"What am I supposed to tell them if they ask me what my biggest weakness is?"

"How do I get across all of the reasons I'm a good fit for this position?"

I have ready answers for all of these questions because I've been involved in dozens of interviews in my life, both as an applicant and as an employer.

My daughter Melanie recently got a job working with a financial services firm. We talked through each step of the process, and I hope what I told her along the way was helpful. Well, either that or she managed to impress the firm's owners despite my counsel.

I don't think I've been quite as helpful getting my children to understand the realities of work once they actually get the job. That part I suppose you have to learn on your own.

I've just not been able to bring myself to tell them, "Hey, congrats on the new job! Now all you have to do is work full time for the next 45 years or so, try everything you can to save up enough money to retire, and live out your remaining years in more or less decent physical shape until you die and your kids pick up where you left off."

I have a feeling Terry would deliver a more positive message there.

I'm a confirmed headbanger, but not in the heavy metal sense

I hit my head on stuff a lot.

Getting in and out of my car, walking past a protruding shelf, trying to adjust the weight on a machine at the gym. Whatever the activity, I manage to bang my noggin on some inanimate object (and occasionally animate objects like, say, other humans) at least once a week.

The result is often a gash or welt around my scalp that my barber Tom will notice and ask, "What happened there?"

So I have to relate the story to him, and it's usually embarrassing.

There are two possible explanations for my tendency toward inadvertent cranial smashing:

(1) MY HEAD IS LARGE: It's not freakishly large, but it's big. I remember when I played football having the second-biggest helmet on the team. The only person with a larger helmet was Jermaine Porter, and he was half a foot taller and 60 pounds heavier than me.

(2) I AM NOT ESPECIALLY COORDINATED: This feels more likely. Quite often, my sense of where my body is in space does not align well with the reality of where it actually is. I'll be striding through the house thinking, "I have plenty of clearance to get past the refrigerator!" Then BANG, the refrigerator will jump out and painfully smack me in the head.

Whatever the cause, I blame continuous skull thumping for my failing memory. It has nothing at to do with the fact I'm almost 55 years old and everything to do with the mini-concussions I sustain each week.

Somehow, that part of it at least makes me feel better.