Day 48: At The Movies

Took my girls to see "The Secret World Of Arrietty" today.

I absolutely love spending time with the girls alone. I don't get a chance to do it enough, but when I do, I always enjoy it. It's difficult finding something that a four-year-old and a 14-year-old will both like and be interested in. I mean it's really hard, but man, it's worth the effort finding those things.

I absolutely love going to movies, and it's also something that I don't get to do enough anymore. There was a time when I saw tons and tons of movies. When I had spare time, that's what I do. Today, well, I don't have much spare time. I've always been that guy who didn't mind going to movies alone. In fact, sometimes I prefer it. In the last few years, though, there's just been far less chances, and I didn't realize how much I missed it.

The last movie I saw in the theater was probably two years ago. It's amazing how much better resolution of the image is now. I wasn't expecting that, but it was a pleasant surprise.

It's also amazing how much I missed movie popcorn. God bless movie popcorn, even if my daughter bogarted it.

It's amazing how much movie popcorn costs. Amazing.

As far as "The Secret World of Arrietty," it was a pleasure. It's based on "The Borrowers," which I've never seen, so everything was a surprise. It's also from the man who wrote "Spirited Away," which is not only one of my favorite children movies ever, it's one of my favorite movies period. I love Japanese films, everything about them.They're quiet but meaningful. There's minimal dialogue but they're incredibly intelligent and thought-provoking. They're truly art, and they truly give you as much to ponder visually as they do audibly and mentally.

Great afternoon. 

Day 47: Upon My Death. . . .

It seems that celebrity grieving has become a national pastime. Every time someone who achieves even the slightest bit of notoriety meets his or her demise, seemingly every monkey with an opinion climbs down from the tree to publicly wax poetic about how much Mr. or Mrs.  Showbiz or Billboard or Baseball Field or Reality Show meant to their lives and how “I’ve been a fan of so and so since the age of dawn.” Whatever.  

Thus, today, I’m going to take a somewhat morbid but positive, proactive approach to my upcoming death—one that I hope will save a lot of people a lot of otherwise wasted time.

In the highly unlikely chance that I should become a celebrity in the near future and my untimely or tragic or unexpected death should soon follow, the following are my publicly stated instructions for all my would-be devoted fans, distractors, and curious lookie loos to follow: 

• Feel free to spend exactly one minute grieving or detailing, reflecting upon, or sizing up my life 
•  Immediately get back to living your own

The fact is, I’ll be dead, and anything you say about me, positive or negative, won’t matter one flippin’ bit to me anyway—unless I’m immediately reincarnated as myself, in which case I’m going to be so pissed off at the universe, I still won’t give two shakes what you have to say about me anyway.

If you choose to disobey my wishes (and what kind of fan are you, anyway?) and spend your valuable time discussing such things as where I rate all time compared to my contemporaries, how I wasted my God-given talent, how my fame wasn’t deserved, or there will never be another like me, you’re an idiot. Let the family and friends and acquaintances who actually had access to me and all the good and bad that encompasses pass judgment. 

Sure, I’m touched that you’ll be touched that I’ll no longer be walking the earth, but really, if you have nothing better to do than engage in endless discourse about how I didn’t write my own music or that I was only famous because I slept with my manager or that I could have been a contender if my prowess for snorting blow hadn’t gotten the better of me, that’s sad on you.

Look, I understand the need to grieve and share that grief—if it’s genuine. I even understand grieving celebrities to a certain degree. When Jerry Garcia and Johnny Cash died, I shed tears. When Bob Dylan dies, I’ll probably take a vacation day and curl up in bed for 24 hours. But overall, I’ve grown more than little tired of false tributes from false fans who could and should be busy carving out their own bits of history and their own life’s worth if not so preoccupied with being occupied by someone’s else’s lives. You know who are, so stop it. I beg you.

Day 46: Let The Blood Flow

I gave blood again today, which sure doesn’t make me unique or special but sure makes feel as much every time I walk out the door after donating. What’s not to like about the experience? A few sticks of the needle are all it takes to do a whole lot of good.

I donated blood the first time in high school but only sporadically thereafter until the past few years or so. (I’m not counting all the visits I made to give plasma; I did that purely for the money.) For reasons I’m not really sure, I got inspired to really make a commitment to donate regularly, and I’ve been making a habit of doing so every 60 days or so since.

Here are a few facts:

•  The blood I gave today can wind being used in any one of 10 Nebraska health-care facilities.
•  I donate at this Nebraska Community Blood Bank location; it’s just down the street from my house, so there’s no excuse not to.
•  If you live in Lincoln, you can find a location near you here.
•  You can schedule a donation time online here. 
•  If you don’t live in Lincoln, visit the America’s Blood Centers or American Red Cross to find a location.
• Currently, the Nebraska Community Blood Bank reports that transfusions are outnumbering donations, and “the community’s blood supply is sitting at a dangerously low level.”
• This remarkable donor has given 75 gallons of blood. Amazing. 

 If you are already a regular donor or this has motivated you in any way to start, Like this post on Facebook or leave a comment and I’ll give you a well-deserved shootout. If you donate but don’t want to call attention to yourself, kudos to you and keep it up. 

Day 45: Brothers From Different Mothers

I don’t have any biological brothers. It wasn’t in the cards. I do have three “brothers from a different mother, though—three lifelong friends who are constant, steady, reliable forces in my life that would do anything for me, and I’d do the same for them. We don’t need to state the commitment. We don’t advertise or flaunt it. We don’t really even talk about it in in-depth manner or have to reaffirm it every so often for it to remain true. It’s just a fact, understood and concrete. Hell, I don’t even have to mention their names because they know who they are (but I will anyway: Chris, Daryl, and Tim). They’re brothers, and that means the world to me. The positive influence they’ve had on me . . . I can’t due justice with words.

I love these “brothers” unconditionally. I say that truthfully and without hesitation because there are certainly traits and nuisances and idiosyncrasies and personal tastes they have that I don’t understand or aspire to possess myself , and I know there are definitely characteristics and beliefs and practices about myself that they don’t agree with or care for, either. Still, if you mess with me, you mess with them and vice versa. That’s because we have history.

History means so much to me. History is the foundation. The bedrock. History is the origin. History is from what all the branches stretch and grow. I bled and cried and laughed with these “brothers.” They picked my ass off the ground when I landed hard, and they kicked me in the ass when I needed it. They made me laugh when I didn’t think I could or wanted to. They put up with my crap and indulged my whims more than they probably should have. They didn’t turn their back on me when I went down paths they couldn’t relate to, and I didn’t either when they did the same. They taught me invaluable lessons. They inspired me. They pissed me off and tested my patience. They got me in trouble. They got me recognized. They helped me tempt fate and test boundaries. They watched me fail and excel, and I watched them do the same. They changed over time, and so did I, transforming into teenagers, young men, and then husbands and fathers. I hope to watch them grow into old men. I watched them succeed and fail and do things I didn’t know they could. We drank together. Ran from trouble together. Studied together. Avoided adulthood together and then embraced it.  I value their opinion without question, and I’d absolutely fight you on the spot if you aimed to do them harm.

It took me awhile to understand what having a “brother” really means, but now that I think I do, I couldn’t be more grateful for these lifelong relationships. I might have friends that I spend more time with and have more in common with, but they aren’t brothers, and I don’t share the same ties. It took me awhile to understand it’s OK that I don’t have to approve or condone everything they do, and it’s OK that they don’t have to do the same for me.

Some people are lucky to have one really good friend even for a short duration throughout the course of his or her life. I’ve had three steady, constant friends for decades. “Friends” doesn’t do the relationship justice. I’ve been blessed in a lot of ways but having “brothers” who have been in it for the long haul with me rates way, way up near the top of the list. 

Day 44: Thoughts On Valentine's Day

People say spending Christmas alone is the craps. I'd say spending Valentine's Day alone is worse. I've experience in this department. I've spent plenty a V-Day solo, and it bites. It bites seeing those around you reveling in their flowers and candy and cards and stuffed animals and the emotion and attention and everything else that goes with being romantic and expressing love.

Charlie Brown was no sucker; he was just unlucky. He deserved a cool girlfriend as much as the next guy. I  sympathized with Chuck those years I spent V-Day reading a book or watching some crappy sitcom vs. sharing a candlelit dinner and so on. Spending V-Day alone is unwanted solitude. It's a hard pill to swallow. Some years I'd buy myself a box of chocolates and tell myself, "It's cool, man. You'll find someone some day when the time was right." Accepting that as truth took a beverage or 20 to wash down, but I tried to believe. I once went through a dry spell that lasted a couple years where not only didn't I have a Valentine on Valentine's Day, I didn't have a flippin' single date. Not one. I know about loneliness, people. It's crippling if you let it. So don't.

That's why it's so important to take nothing for granted. It's even more important to express your fortune.

I'm so thankful for my wife and the ability to share this day with her and all the rest, too. I'll always remember the effort she went to years ago back in our old house on Judson catering a meal for us, a meal we actually got to share alone, sans kids. She's provided a lot of answers and solutions and comfort and purpose for my life, none the least being how she filled that sprawling chasm of loneliness that once existed. I'm a lucky man, and I'm privileged to state as much publicly.

I'm also so grateful for my children and watching them grow and turn into the beautiful people they have become. They possess such great minds and hearts, and I'm so proud of their creative personalities and their acceptance and tolerance of all races and creeds of people. They teach me lessons continually, and I'm not embarrassed whatsoever to admit that a father can learn as much from his children as they hopefully learn from him. You're wonderful children, and I should tell you all that more often.

If you're spending this day alone and struggling, my heart is with you. I have no advice or suggestions to ease that discomfort. I can only say suck it up, survive the day, and take any steps possible to change your situation if you so desire. Take risks. Show some vulnerability. Improve your station. Believe in your self and what you have to offer. Trust. Make it happen. Believe.

I'm not certain where love originates or what constitutes love or how to even recognize it. I do believe, though, no one is excluded from obtaining it.

Day 43: Work Ethic

Today, I worked my ass off. That's a good thing. It's a particularly good thing because my job is one that I can't pass off responsibilities to someone else. I'm get a deadline to meet, and from there it's up to me to meet it. I like that arrangement. It forces me to be organized, timely, responsible, independent, and driven. It's also stressful as hell some days, such as today. Survive it, though, and you're a better man on the other end.

None of those traits I'm sure I would have come to acquire on my own. I had some pretty damn good examples along the way, starting with my dad and mom. My dad worked his off ass pretty much his entire life, starting on his grandparents farm and then throughout the rest of his life. My mom worked all day, came home and worked some more, and I don't recall her complaining once.

Most every job I've had prior to my present one, I've been paired with someone who I had to work with day in and day out. Working with the same guy every day takes a lot of patience, particularly when you don't share a lot of the same interests or pastimes. That was the case when I worked on a tree nursery one summer. I worked every single day with a guy named Don. When everyone else was taking 30 minutes breaks and long lunches and heading back to the farm to leave for the day, Don worked by the numbers and beyond. I can't say I always appreciated Don's exemplary work ethic on those oppressively hot July days when we were digging holes by hand to plant trees, but damn if he didn't teach me something about responsibility, no matter the job at hand.

I painted houses pretty much every day for four  years with a guy named Randy, who owned his own business. The guy's dedication to doing a job perfectly was amazing, and although Randy and I had our moments, I couldn't have admired his commitment to the task in front of him and to pleasing his customer more. At the core, Randy was a good guy, and his attention to detail was stellar. I learned a lot of life lessons from Randy, and for all the crap he took from me, he was extremely good to me.

I've had a few examples who fell completely at the other end of the scale, including a Vietnam vet I worked with one summer who plotted for a good month or so how he could hurt himself on the job to draw disability checks. As much fun as I had working with him and listening to his highly fabricated stories, I didn't care much for the fact that he had three DUIs on his record or that his paychecks were sent directly to the court to pay for his massive amount of back child support. Eventually, he did pull off his self-inflated injury by dropping on his knee his end of a 200-pound fuel tank we were carrying together. I can still see the sly smile on his face after the deed went down. Another summer I worked every day with a guy who owned his own landscaping company. All I can say about him is that he did 5% of the work and took 100% of the credit after the job was done. I still run into around town occasionally and have to fight an urge to seek and destroy.

I'm not sure how people around me would characterize my work ethic. I think some days it's through the roof. Others, if falls ways below that mark. It really depends on the task, which I'm a bit ashamed of. One of the great lessons in Zen is tackling every task with the same care and dedication, whether it's doing the dishes or erecting a skyscraper. My hope is that one day I'll reach that state of mind and being. Who knows? I do know I don't have to look too far examples of how it can be done.  

Day 42: Sunday meals

I'm fortunate enough to be able to stuff food in my mouth pretty much whenever I want to. If there isn't food in the kitchen, I've been blessed to have the means to go out and get some. I'm grateful for the ability to keep myself nourished and to do the same for my family. I truly am. 

I'm also thankful that I've been able for the vast majority of my life to have family to share meals with. Growing up, every supper was shared as a family. I can't stress how much that means to me now. It was a priceless gift my parents gave my sister and I. 

My favorite meal of the week has always been Sunday breakfast and supper. Waking up to the smell of bacon or sausage was magnificent. Making sugar rolls with my mom was the best. Being assigned to make the toast for everyone was a job I actually took fairly seriously. Not sure why; just seemed important at the time. Sunday meals were even better. Smelling a meal cooking all day long that you can't wait to partake in was a tantalizing gift. 

I'm not sure if my kids will look back on meals with the same reverence. I doubt it. We have different lives than the one I had as a boy. The world is far more hectic. Schedules are far different. There simple aren't the same opportunities to sit down each and every night and dig in together. I've accepted that this is the reality we live with, but it's still a shame. My hope is that my kids will perhaps make sharing meals together as a family their own tradition, but if not, I'm confident they'll have others they'll share. Whatever those traditions may be, I hope they're as fulfilling and meaningful as Sunday meals have been for me.