Day 7: Basketball, I Heart You

Sitting at basketball practice isn't the same as practicing basketball. I'm grateful to have a child who loves the game, though. I miss playing so much on these days when I'm watching my daughter play. I miss the sweat. I miss the challenges. I miss the battles and wars. I miss the locker room and the laughs. I miss the bus rides and watching the night pass by out the frosty window. I miss the smell of the gym and the echo of the ball off the walls as it bounced. I miss the hot summer games at night and scooping the driveway free of snow in the winter so we could play. I miss hearing my dad's voice yelling at me from the stands. I miss playing defense. I miss watching teammates who didn't get many chances for glory get it and revel in it. I miss cheerleaders and pep bands. I miss eating licorice before dressing for the games. I miss sitting awake in bed at night and dreaming of what could be. Sports isn't about winning. It's about where the journey toward winning takes you. God, I miss basketball today.

Day 6: Thanks, Gas Station Slacker Guy

I love the gas station by my house. Well, I love the music it plays, anyway. The morning crew pretty much consists of a bunch of disgruntled ladies who have obviously smoked too many cigarettes in their time and are obviously not very happy about refilling the donut tray and selling lottery tickets. Still, I love the place because there's seemingly always an unexpected treasure waiting for me the second I step out of my car. 

I'm not entirely sure why, but whenever I pop in, the music piping out the speakers inside and out is always set to really cool, semi-obscure stuff that the average guy stopping in to pump $10 worth of gas probably doesn't have a clue about and doesn't even notice. In my mind's eye, I picture there's an overnight clerk who's a slacker type with great taste but not much gumption working the register. The minute the day crew hits the bricks, he switches the satellite radio station to whatever he's in the mood for, kicks he feet up, and lets the night come to him. 

I've heard everything from Link Wray to Hank Williams to The Pixies to Elvis' "Pork Salad Annie" to General Public's "Tenderness" on this very morning. Some days, like today, it's all I can do but break into my ole' one-leg bob-and-swing  move from high school and show all the soccer moms, truckers, and bleary-eyed high school kids filling up their coffee mugs and stocking up on energy drinks the kind of moves that got me voted "Best Dancer" back in my glory days. 

It's stuff like hearing a great song in an unexpected place or unexpected time that brightens my days. It's as if someone is looking after me, throwing me a bone, saying, "Hey, kid, here's one I know you're going to like. Enjoy." It's even more rewarding and appreciated when the song is one that reminds me of something or someone specific, which "Tenderness" does. 

There are so many fantastic things about this track, including Rankin Roger's hair, the cool-ass hand claps, and the song's general message, but the greatest aspect is that it instantly transports me decades back in time to a simpler time when I was sitting in a certain girl's room and we'd pop this tape in her cassette player and press Play, Rewind, Play, Rewind, and Play over and over.

I try not to live in the past, but it's sure great to visit now and again. Thanks, gas station slacker guy. 

Day 5: How About This Weather?

On either side of me where I work sit sales people. They’re on the phone all day talking to customers and potential customers. Invariably, they do what most sales people do, talk about the weather. It’s amazing how many ways they can do it, too.

For weeks and weeks, I’ve been hearing how wonderful Nebraska’s weather has been this winter. “It’s only snowed once.” “Yeah, it’s gorgeous again today.” “We’re really getting spoiled this winter.” “You know, it’s been great really. Not your typical Nebraska winter, that’s for sure.”

It’s not just co-workers I hear making these types of comments, either. It’s seemingly everyone. I read them on Facebook. I hear them from friends, relatives, and neighbors. Hell, I even raved about the weather recently when I actually played 18 holes of golf with friends on New Year’s Eve day. I loved the hell out of the sunshine and unexpected warmth, even as I missed putt after putt. And today, the weather forecasters are calling for temperatures to reach 64 degrees by noon here in beautiful Lincoln, NE. 64 flippin’ degrees in January. Terrific, right?

Wrong. There’s a reason we’ve only had one snow. There’s a reason the temperature has consistently crept up the ladder each winter year after year. There’s a reason I’ll be able to take a walk this afternoon without a coat on. There’s a reason my daughter will be riding the new bike she got for her birthday weeks ago instead of a sled. It’s not because Mother Nature is blessing us. It’s because her polar ice caps are breaking off and melting faster than she can replenish them. We’re making Mother Nature too damn hot. Ice melts, oceans rise, and bam! Hurricanes, tornadoes, droughts, and gorgeous January weather ensue. It’s not imaginary. It’s not scientific hocus pocus. It’s reality.

Each morning when I walk out to my car yet again without a winter coat, I revel in another beautiful morning that I don’t have to scrap frost off my car windows, I can’t see my breath, and my bald head doesn’t scream in agony from the chill. It doesn’t take long, though, before a twinge of guilt and stark reality ruin the sensation, though. I know what’s going on and why, and I know if something isn’t done fairly soon, we’ll only continue to receive warmer weather, which really isn’t something to applaud or welcome.

These are the kind of things that depress the hell out of me. I’ll probably cruise through the rest of my life and remain mostly unaffected directly by the climate’s and earth’s ongoing transformation, but our kids and theirs and theirs will suffer, and it’s mostly due to our generations’ inability to do something concrete and constructive to address the problem. And that sucks. It’s irresponsible, and it’s wrong. So, while I laugh and giggle and bask in watching my little girl peddle her little legs down the sidewalk on her new princess bike in the dead of winter, I know one day she’s going to be dealing with some serious problems that the population as a whole now inhabiting the planet should have least tried to do something about in a collective manner.

So, what if anything is positive about any of this? Well, despite my doubts that greed, lack of vision, ignorance, and general selfishness won’t allow my generation to truly address such problems today—there’s too much to sacrifice and lose apparently in the way of money, power, military security, favorable tax laws, etc.—I have faith in generations younger than mine will see through such crap do take responsible action.

I’m optimistic about the intelligence, compassion, dedication, and abilities of these generations. I’m optimistic about the constantly evolving technology being produced and the ability to use it to not only make our lives easier, more connected, and more entertaining today but to help remedy what is ailing the world tomorrow. I’m optimistic that there are brighter minds than ours to come that will recognize that to fix a problem, you must sacrifice, toil, and commit to repair—not continue to make the problem worse. I’m optimistic that rather than breaking the ice, as it were, by talking about how nice the weather is, tomorrow’s generations will actually respond to the fact that weather in most regions isn’t supposed to be pleasant and ideal all year round. It’s supposed to fluctuate in order to replenish resources. It’s supposed to be variable in order to remain constant.

I truly am optimistic about future generations’ ability to, if not completely rectify the problems we’ve made, than to at least address them with actual vigor and energy to ease them much as possible. I see evidence of such abilities every day in my own children and others. Further, I’m optimistic that the evidence I see is being birthed by at least some good influences trickling down from current generations, meaning that it’s not too late for me and you to get our shit together and better the cause, too.

Day 4: I Have Two Words For You

“Thank you.” That’s two words, pal. Two measly little words you could have easily strung back to back but didn’t. Would it have been that difficult?  I’m sure you’ve done it at least one time in your miserable little life. At any rate, I can’t tell you how much you’ve pissed me off by not uttering these one-syllable words one after the other. Proper decorum dictates that you should have, nitwit. Hell, my 4-year-old does it all the time without anyone telling her to; I’m sure somewhere within that dark recess you call a brain you could conjure up the ability to do it, too. Yeah, I’m talking to fella, the guy who couldn’t be bothered to squeak out a mere “thank you” when I held the door open, the guy who acted as if I’m your butler or personal doorman. Are you kidding me? Are you frickin’ kidding me, man? OK, since this simple gesture seems beyond your abilities, how about we make things simple for you? How about we narrow things down so even your pea-brain can get a grip on how to execute simple manners? How about we simplify matters down to the point that you only need to say, “Thanks.” Now, we’re talking one word. Think you can handle that? No? How about you just grunt or nod your bulbous head in appreciation? Or how about I hunt down your parents and point out their failings? How about you turn around right now and give me what I deserve? Just say “thank you,” and we can be on our way.

Yes, the above actually happened this morning. I did hold open the door at a gas station an inordinately long time for a young man apparently far more entitled than me to pass by, only for him to fail to offer up a simple “thanks” for the gesture. We’re talking simple manners here, kid. It’s not difficult to be kind. In many ways it’s enlightening.

Now, in the past, all the thoughts and bitterness and resentment and demented thoughts that I illustrated above would have also been true. I would have held on to this five-second exchange for the entirety of my day or longer. I would have brooded over the details over and over until they wore a distinct path in my brain. I would have played the scenario out in a fantasy-like way time and time again, with me maybe punching the guy in the back of the head to punish his ignorance or me kicking him in his impolite ass or even spinning him around so that we were eye to eye so I could I dress him down in front of everyone looking on for his lack of etiquette.

Yeah, moments like these have always been hard for me to let go of. Right is right, I’ve always reasoned. No one should be above doing or saying what’s right. Saying “thank you” when it’s fitting is right. No way around it. We don’t have to like each other or know each other or ever see each other again, but any man or woman should be humble enough to offer up thanks for a gesture well done.

Today, though, I’m going to look at this situation in a positive light. I’m going to focus on the fact that it’s not my manners in question but his. I’m not going to make this problem my own. I did the right thing because it was the right thing. After all, do I execute good manners because I expect a payoff in the end? No. I do it because I believe it’s appropriate. I expect it of myself. Too often, I take on others’ problems and actions or lack thereof as my own. They aren’t my own. It’s not my problem, for example, that you use foul language in public. I’m just an unfortunate recipient of your inconsideration. It’s not my fault that you crank the bass up to impossibly uncomfortable levels in your car. I’m just on the receiving end of the public nuisance you’re creating. It’s not my fault that you drag puff after puff of your little nicotine stick in my general proximity or that you thoughtlessly throw the butt out your window on the city streets we all share. It’s sure not my fault that you can’t drag yourself away from your phone long enough to play with your kid at the park or that you treat the waitress like a robot instead of a woman. That’s your choice, not mine.

Today, I’m not going to hold onto all this hostility and let it sink my day. I’m not going to wish that bad things happen to you or that karma sucker-punches you in the jaw. In fact, I’m not going to give you another second’s thought. I’m going to keep on doing what I’ve been doing all along, the right thing at the right time.

Tomorrow morning, if I should encounter this same young man on my way into the gas station, will I hold the door open for him? Yeah, I will. I won’t do it with a smile on my face and I probably won’t even dignify his presence. I’m not that mature or easy going. But I will hold the door open. And if he should drop his keys, I’ll bend down to pick them up. If he should slip on the ice, I’ll offer a hand to help him up. I won’t like it, and I might even regret it temporarily, but I’ll do it. What I won’t do today is let bitterness linger on. It’s only damaging me, not him. 

Day 3: Bald Is Beautiful, Baby

If there’s any template I can apply across the board where being positive is concerned, it’s the approach I’ve taken to being bald.

Being bald isn’t so bad. It really isn’t. I’d even say there’s plenty about being bald that’s positive. For example, I haven’t spent a nickel on a haircut or hair products in, geez, at least 15 years. At $10 to $15 a pop, that’s a lot of bread saved. Being bald means I also spend no time after a shower making myself pretty. Just shower, dress, and go. Being bald means a little bar of soap will do you. No fancy shampoos. No fancy conditioners. No fancy gels. No hair drying. No combs or brushes. Nothing needed but a towel. Hell, a wash cloth will do really. Being bald means my hair is never in my eyes. It means I no longer have cowlicks to keep in the pasture. It means I no longer worry about bedhead. It means no fussing or primping. It means I don’t carry around the same big, fat load of vanity each day that a good many people do. Being bald forced me to accept what I am. And I’m bald, baby.

Oh, some mornings, I wake up after an oddly peaceful night of sleep, groggily stumble to the bathroom, look deep into the mirror, and reality hits harshly. “Frick, it was all a dream. I’m still bald.” And sure, I miss the feeling you get after a haircut and how good creating a new look by growing hair out or cutting it short feels. And I can’t express how much I miss the whole act of sitting in a salon chair and being pampered. I’ll always hold dear that special day in North Platte when that majestic stylist massaged my head for seemingly eons with such tenderness, I swear I would have married her right there based solely on her blessed, beautiful fingers. The hair-induced stupor that little hair siren put me in was beyond blissful. It’s possible to massage a bald head, but it ain’t the same. Trust me on that.

Being bald also means putting up with a certain amount of prejudice. Ask any bald man if you don’t believe me, particularly one who went bald still in his early years. Women look at you differently, if they even look at you at all. Small children poke fun at you. Skinny, bald men are perceived as weaklings. Bald men with goatees and a certain edgy look might even be associated as being a skinhead or white supremacist. (It’s happened.) Even weather taunts a bald man. Winter wind pistol whips a bald man’s head unmercifully. Summer sun blisters his scalp with like a frying pan gone mad. Rain drops “splat” like a stick hitting a drum. Sunbeams reflect uncomfortably off his head into the eyes of those around him. (It’s happened.) Being bald is a burden—if you let it be.

I came to terms with my baldness a long time ago. There was no choice. My hair wasn’t going to grow back. There were no miracle cures waiting to undo what genetics and gravity were performing right before my eyes. The writing was on the wall (or on the pillow and shower floor as the case was). Going bald was a reality I couldn’t avoid or pretend wasn’t happening. It made its presence known strand by strand. Going bald wasn’t easy; I liked my hair. It was a big part of my identity. Hell, my hair even won me “Best Hair, Class of 1985.” But going bald wasn’t the end of days. It wasn’t a tragedy. It was just a minor inconvenience that gradually turned into a non-issue, at least for me. Better, being bald forced me to take the focus off of looks and appearances and put them where they belonged: integrity, intelligence, humor, morals, decency, compassion, understanding, patience, passion, etc.

Would I take my hair back if given the chance? You’re damn right. But I’m good with my current state of being. Now, that’s positive.  

Day 2: Facing Up To Facts

If I’m going to be honest about this whole positivity thing, I have to admit to myself upfront that being positive has always been a problem. Not much of a realization there really. I just naturally lean toward seeing the negative aspects in most things vs. the positive. For the longest time, I’ve been fine with that. I’ve reasoned that the world needs those who can point out the flaws in the system that others take for being wholesome or pure. I’ve reasoned that my presence was needed to counterbalance the bubbly optimist who seems ignorant to the harshness that life so obviously and unflinchingly kicked in the faces of so many with so little regard. My job was to bring reality to those who couldn’t or wouldn’t deal with it.

If I’m going to get anything out of this venture, I have to also admit that mentality is complete crap. What a moronic sense of self-importance. What a self-posturing position. What a self-defeating escape. What a drag for everyone around me. But, hey, a moron can justify just about anything he’s determined to when given enough time alone to do as much, and I’ve seemingly always had a healthy supply of alone time. Funny how that works when you convince yourself you don’t really like people all that much anyway, that they don’t have much that’s constructive that you can benefit from, and that you’re better off not being in their company. The more likely reality all along, however, probably was it was me that people didn’t like that much and it was me that couldn’t offer much that was constructive, and it was others who were better off without my company. 

When I think about the possible reasons I am the way I am, it’s not all that difficult to find solid leads. It’s not difficult for example, to understand why I’ve always been more apt to view a challenge as being a pain in the ass vs. being an opportunity. Although my life hasn't been exactly full of strife, I haven’t been handed a whole lot, either. Pretty much what I have, I earned. I’m proud of that, but also, at some point along the way, you just get tired of working. Hence, a new challenge just becomes more toil.

I’ve never been clinically diagnosed with depression, but the signs are clearly there. I’ve always moved through periods where it was easy as pie to see God in all the details to periods of time when it was easy as pie to see nothing but shades of black. Often, within the same day, I can be filled with such enthusiasm concerning my possibilities and future; be so certain of my abilities, intellect, and place in the world; and feel so confident and intact only to gradually shift into a condition of feeling lost, desperate, confused, misunderstood, and beyond dreary. In such moments, I literally feel I’ve accomplished nothing that I can take pride in, nothing I can point to and say, “That’s mine, and I’m proud to acknowledge it.”

Drinking has always accelerated this transformation, sometimes scarily. Drinking has always been a pleasure-pain proposition for me. Those early drinks are bliss. Laughs. Joyful recollections. Beauty. Those later drinks are hell. Self-loathing. Judgmental declarations. Stupidity. I rarely drink these days, but when I do, pouring drinks on this personal torch of mine instigates a fire that’s likely to be fueled on aggression, meanness, and eventually sadness. There’s nothing passive about the way alcohol can enable me to find kinks in the system and verbally point them out. Depending on which side of the line you’re standing on, you’re a target for my judgment, no matter how longstanding our relationship has been. My drunken bravery sees all things true, and my drunken mouth reports it the way I see it without much of a filter between. The problem is my drunken bravery amounts to really nothing more than me being a short-sided dick who is only reporting about himself but is only too dim to recognize it.

I’m not fooling myself into thinking that by forcing myself to find something positive in what surrounds me or what I read or what I hear each day for an entire year that I’ll be able to permanently jail my demons and never hear their taunts again. I am convinced, though, that by purposefully stepping toward joy and rapture and maybe letting it wrap itself around me even temporarily, I will be changed for the better. God (whatever that means) is in the details. I’ve always been able to see the details; it’s just that I’ve always concentrated too hard and too long on the wrong details. It takes courage and bravery to be positive, to live positively, to believe in positivity. It doesn’t require much mettle to deem everything as being shit. I’m tired of seeing so much shit. 

Day 1: Good Intentions

Is there anything more hopeful and full of optimism than the first day of a new year? Hell, no! Anything is possible on this day. Anything is up for grabs. I realize the concept of time is silly, and that nothing really truly has been altered from 11:59 p.m. to 12 a.m., but Jan. 1 wipes the slate clean and presents a chance to start afresh. Jan. 1 is the origin. The beginning. The outset. 

On a typical New Year's day, I would set all kinds of goals for the new year, including a bunch that I didn't have any intention of actually keeping or even addressing, most probably. In fact, typically, I'd carry over a whole bunch of stale resolutions from years previous. 

Normally, I pencil these resolutions in with very, very light force, with the pre-eminent thought in my mind being, “What’s the point really? I’m not going to do any of this stuff when all is said and done." 

Well, not this year people. Even if I don’t get around to losing the ever-expanding belly, publishing that book I've been plotting year after year, writing that album of original tunes that lives in my guitar strings, and so on, this year, I won't sell myself short before I even get started. 

This is the year that anything is absopositively possible. Stand back, and revel in the vibe because it's going to live each and every day this year. Even on those days when all the evil forces unite to kick my ass, I will take the time to focus on at least one bit of positivity each day. 

Today, I'm positive about all possibilities. I'm looking forward to the next minute, the next day, the next month, and the next year. 2012, bring it.