Day 125: Ready for planting

Got the garden tilled today and ready for planting, always a good feeling. But after sitting in the sun all morning at a track meet and all afternoon in the sun, I'm exhausted. Still, the sunburn, sore muscles, and farmer's tan will all be worth it come July or so.

Considering the money you can save and the tastes you gain, not having a garden is criminal. Let the planting begin.

Day 124: Much Love & Respect, MCA

"Now my name is M.C.A./ I've got a license to kill/I think you know what time it is/It's time to get ill." - "Paul Revere"

What's gonna set you free? What'd you think, did you miss your calling? Look inside and you'll see. - "Gratitude" 

Damn it, I'm sad today. Really sad. Adam Yauch is gone. Damn it. MCA is gone. 


Label me a white boy, hip-hop wannabe if you will, but I could give a crap what you think. I love hip-hop. I especially love old school hip-hop. 80s old school hip-hop. I've written essays on Public Enemy for music magazines kind of love for old school hip-hop. I consider A Tribe Called Quest magicians. KRS-One and Boogie Down Productions, god damn right. Big Daddy Kane, cold blooded stud. Eric B & Rakim, oh hell yeah. The Disposable Heroes of Hiphopricy, so so smooth. Uncle L, going back to Cali, indeed. Onyx, let the damn boys be boys. 


But for me, the top of the crop has and always will be the glorious Beastie Boys, equal parts magnificent hip-hop trailblazers and punk true-ists. Equal parts mad scientific geniuses and nuts and bolts mechanics. True musicians and visionaries. As much as Dylan has meant to me, the Beastie Boys have arguably meant the same. I watched them grow. We are roughly the same age. Our lives have run parallel. We changed, we grew, we transformed, we become husbands and fathers. We weathered the times. But no more. Damn it.  


I was so looking forward to the next Beastie Boys' record. I was so looking forward to seeing them again. I was so looking forward to witnessing where they would take their unique spin on the world and weave their creativity in the coming years. And now that's changed. Damn you, death. 

People who know me well know my love for music, and they know my devotion to certain artists. The Beastie Boys are one of those artists. I've been in the Beastie Boys camp since day 1. "Licensed To 'Ill" intrigued me from the get go. And although I didn't foresee myself becoming a lifelong fan by any means from what I heard initially, the B-Boys won me over and kept winning me over and over. And I was happy and proud to try and win anyone else over on their behalf that I could, from my girlfriend Stephanie in college who would tease me by mocking "you gonna fight for you right to party, tonight?" on through to my wife, who thought I was an idiot for liking "those guys." Guess who became fans in the end? 

The B-Boys may have started out as Def Jam's frat brother-ish, smash-and-destroy, bad-rapping knucklehead rejects, but they did what a lot of kids do: change. They may have made fools of themselves touring with Madonna in the early days, but they did in fact change. They may have forever cemented themselves as gross, loudmouthed, untalented dipshits with the "Fight For Your Right" . . " video in the minds of people who don't take music all that seriously, but for those of us who do, The Beastie Boys not only changed, they became important. They became vital. They became masters of their craft. They became "Paul's Boutique," about as game-changing a record as there has ever been, certainly one of the most, if not the most, revolutionary hip-hop records ever.  

I only saw the Beastie Boys live once. It wasn't enough. I was expecting more. So much more. The Beastie Boys nation truly is a nation, and when you're in the middle of it participating in the magic, you feel a part of it. It's a nation of black and white and brown and yellow kids and adults who appreciate quirky diversity. Who appreciate smart exploration. Who appreciate lyrics that ooze intelligent coolness. A Beastie Boys' record is an adventure that you can relive and relive and relive gladly and wholeheartedly. A Beastie Boys' song is an sonic wonder containing layers and layers of funky, passionate textures. A Beastie Boys' instrumental is like chomping on a delicious jazzy apple that tastes a million kinds of tastes. A Beastie Boys punk song is an unending wave of demented wasps biting you in the ass with unrelenting fury, laughing as you hop in agony all the while. An hour with the Beastie Boys' music is like taking a 1,000 voyages into strange, exotic, intoxicating lands--like being drunk for the first time all over again. 


I so admired Adam Yauch. I admired the transformations he made as a man. I admired where he let his beliefs take him. I admired his charitable work and his Buddhist faith. I admired how he expanded his horizons into film making and turned out important, vital visual work. Most of all, I admired that he wasn't timid about looking back at his early years and saying, "Yeah, I did some stupid stuff I don't condone now, but that was then, and this is now." That's the beauty of growing up. The change. The growth. The newness. Always the newness. 

This year is really starting to suck as far as losing musical friends goes, but there's much to celebrate in these deaths. There's much to hold up and say "thank you" for. I truly am saddened at Adam Yauch's passing, as odd as that might seem to some people considering he's a man I never met or exchanged one word with. Yet, if it's possible for a "beastie boy" to be important to another man's life, Adam Yauch was to mine. 

I Give Thanks For This World As A Place To Learn
And For This Human Body That I Know I've Earned
And My Deepest Thanks To All Sentient Beings
For Without Them There Would Be No Place To Learn What I'm Seeing


"Bodhisattva Vow" 

Day 123: Farms & Farmers

When you grow up in the Midwest in a small town that’s surrounded by farmland, there aren’t too many opportunities job-wise, except, you guessed it, working on a farm. If you’ve never worked on a farm, you should. If you’ve never visited a farm, you should. If you’ve never spent a day with a member of a farm family on the farm, you should. The farm is a way of life that sadly too many people don’t have Clue 1 about. In fact, I’m almost completely serious when I write that if you live in America, spending an entire day on a farm toiling away should be mandatory, if only to pay your respects to the good people and the good land that makes stuffing your face full of food possible, whether they means eating the goods that come from an organic operation or a family-owned farm. (My respect for farms and farming doesn’t extend so generously to corporate-owned operations.)

My dad spent the majority of his working life working for grain elevators and Farmer’s Co-Ops. He also grew up on his grandparents’ farm in southeastern Nebraska. Those two factors gave me some insight to farming in general. I remember vividly riding with him as a kid in the trucks that delivered food to the pig farms and being mesmerized by the squealing that filled the air. I also remember not seeing him during the spring and fall months during harvest because he seemingly worked around the clock.

Early on in school, I learned that farm kids were tough. I learned that they didn’t complain a lot. I also learned that typically there was a great deal that was expected of them. We didn’t see much of the farm kids during the summer when school was out, and later I found out why—they were busy working their asses off.

It wasn’t until I actually started doing farm work, however, that I truly started to appreciate the demands that farming places on spouses and children living on that farm. Like a lot of kids in my hometown, my first official farm job was walking beans, a job that meant arming a bunch of teenagers with large, sharp corn knives and turning them loose in the fields to cut the weeds out of the rows. Not a terribly difficult job, but for teenagers not used to walking miles and miles in hot, humid weather in the middle of green vegetation with mud caked on their shoes and pants, the job wasn’t a pleasant one. The lucky kids were the ones who had parents who bought them a corn hook, a device that equipped them with the means as to not to have to bend over to cut weeds; they just reached the hook around the weed’s stock and tugged. Whammoo. I always felt like it was cheating. Back in the day, walking beans paid about $3 or $3.50 an hour. Not bad for a kid back then. Dick Styskal was the first to hire me, but eventually I’d walk beans for a lot of families until ultimately graduating to spraying beans, which was almost fun by comparison.

Bailing hay, however, was the “real” farm work for kids in my town. It paid $5 or $6 per hour, depending on the farmer, but it was hard, hot, and long work. I bailed the first time at 14. I weighed about a 125 or 130, and trying to heft hay bales three or four bails high was nearly impossible. We worked some days from 6 a.m. to midnight, and spent hours upon hours in stuffy, hot barns unloading rack after rack while dodging angry wasps that were torked off at having their nests clobbered by bails. Riding a hayrack in a hayfield is an art form onto itself, sort of like surfing but not nearly as much fun. Riding a full hayrack on top of hay stacked five rows high is trickier yet and was often terrifying depending on who was driving the tractor. On those occasions the rack did spill and you were left picking up every last bail and restacking them, you nearly cried.  

Despite how difficult bailing hay could be endurance- and stamina-wise, I have great memories of the people I bailed with. Bill Smith made me laugh nearly nonstop. Chris Craven did the same. My cousin Dicky was a man of few words, but he sprung for lunch at the Memphis Lake café almost every day, and the hamburgers were damn tasty. Food, in fact, was a strong motivating factor in bailing hail. Farm meals were to die for. Lunches were four-course affairs, and afternoon snacks were full-on sandwiches, cookies, and more. It wasn’t uncommon for Kenny Rogers’ (no, not that one) wife to serve fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, rolls, green beans, and pie at lunch. We ate so much, getting back to work was nearly impossible.

I find myself thinking about farms and those days at this time of year when the air starts smelling like growth and I see farmers out in the field planting. Each time I drive back home, I try to get off the interstate and instead take the less traveled highway, and even then get off the highway and take the country, dirty roads from there. The aroma never fails to disappoint, and the sun shines differently in the country than it does the city. Moreover, the country just feels different. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, it’s time you visit a farm. 

Day 122: Tis The Season For Prom

Last weekend as I was coming home, I noticed the neighbor’s high school-aged daughter outside their house in the middle of suffering through photos with a young lad before heading off to what I assume was their high school prom. Either that or they were in route to an event celebrating girls in hideously colored formal dresses, because her peach-tinted affair rated as one of the worst I’ve ever seen. Still, despite the visual assault her dress launched on my eyes, seeing the young couple all awkward and irritable in the presence of her fawning parents made me smile and reminisce.

Back in my high school days, I never really understood the whole idea or notion of prom, honestly. The entire event seemed like an excuse to spend a lot of money for what essentially turned out to be another high school dance, except it was held in some hotel conference room and all the boogying was done in uncomfortable clothes with ruffles and shiny shoes. Throwing in a semi-decent meal wasn’t exactly a big enticer for me, either. Really, and probably sadly, in the big scope of things, prom seemed like an opportunity for a few hundred or so underage kids to congregate together after the formal stuff was out of the way and proceed to drink themselves silly until the sun came up.

I also felt the officials in my school failed in the opportunity to inform students why prom was even an important event in the first place and maybe even provide a little background and history of prom’s origins. Why was it exactly that kids dressed up, rented limos, and bought each other flowers? Not that I minded; I just wasn’t sure what the occasion was exactly. As it was prom was just kind of announced a few months before the shindig took place as being on such and such date and at such and such location. Wear a tux or a dress, cover the cost of the meal, bring a date if you can get one, and that was that. Not sure what the importance of prom themes where, either, and I can’t remember a single one.  

Despite all my reservations and questions about prom, I have to admit I got sucked into the pageantry of the whole thing and actually liked seeing my classmates all prim and proper—well, some more than others; powder-blue doesn’t flatter everyone. In a small town where you see the same kids all year, day in and day out, there’s something refreshing about seen the gearheads and band members and jocks and thespians and wallflowers and farm kids and others get out of their tennis shoes and jeans and get all dolled up for one night.

I went to prom four times starting my sophomore year and coming back for one more as a college freshman with my girlfriend who was still a senior. That first one was an eye-opener. I was only 15, it was the first time I was measured for any type of clothing in my life, I didn’t know what cufflinks were or where they went, and the usefulness of a cummerbund escaped me (and still does). Worse, there were very few of my own classmates there, and I felt out of place with so many older kids. Even worse still, I got dumped at the party afterward, which was held in a cornfield. (Glitz and glamour, baby.) On the positive side, there was plenty to drink my sorrows away with, and although my ego was bruised a bit, I wasn’t all that upset with being ditched. It wasn’t like we were in love, and it wasn’t like I really expected our “relationship” to be long-term. I just thought it was cool I got asked. Besides, my best friends were at the party, and we tore that cornfield up.

The next three proms were much better and much more fun. My tuxes got progressively better-looking, there were many more of my friends in attendance, I got to drive big daddy’s car to all the gigs, and the two girls I went with those three years were great friends and great people I was proud to be there with.

My senior year, I got to see my main man Chris get crowned as king, and truthfully it nearly made my entire year. That year was also the first time in my life I wasn’t given a curfew, something I can’t believe occurred to this day.

I’m pretty far removed from proms, but I know through my kids how much has changed. Back in my day, there was no school-sponsored post-prom party with raffles and events and good-intentioned parents looking out for the kids by keeping alcohol and other substances out of the equation. In fact, back then, I think it’s safe to say kids looked forward more toward the after-prom party where the beer would flow than they did the actual event. Kids will be kids. Today, there are also different kinds of proms, including an “alternative” prom at my daughter’s school where gay and lesbian kids can celebrate without a hassle. Very cool.

Some kids never go to prom, which I find a shame but understand. I’m thankful I did. I’ve great memories, and when I see photos from those proms, it reminds me I had a pretty good childhood. 

Day 121: Happy Birthday, Willie

79 years young. That's how old Willie Nelson is, but I guarantee he's not feeling today. What a life. What an institution. What a treasure.

I saw Willie Nelson for the first time live at FarmAid in Memorial Stadium in Lincoln, Nebraska. I was 19 or 20. My friends and I came in from Kearney, started drinking promptly at 8 a.m., and I was drunk by noon. Didn't stop us from bum-rushing our way to within about 25 yards of the stage and hearing Willie and band break into "Whiskey River." In the middle of that opening set and when Willie would return to the stage much later with Neil and Mellencamp and before Joe Walsh would play his set only to return as everyone was exiting the stadium and bash out "Rocky Mountain Way," we endured the likes of Rattlesnake Annie and others with determination and grit. Worse, we lodged our way so close to the stage, there was no room to sit down and rest our legs. So for 12 hours we stood, and stood, and stood. We didn't eat or drink a thing. Turns out getting drunk before noon wasn't such a good idea, but it seemed like something Willie would have approved of. It also turned out that we managed to situate ourselves right next to a very happy and generous biker with a cigarette case fulls of joints, something I know damn sure Willie would have approved of. Dude smoked every last one, with a little help from those around him, including a few of my friends.

My very first encounter with Willie was the cover the "Red Headed Stranger." It was love at first sight. In the years since, I've managed to listen to almost every Willie album at least once, whether I bought, dubbed, or borrowed it. "Angle Flying Too Close To The Ground" brings tears to me eyes, depending on my mood.

I've managed to sneak in a few shows in the years that have passed. I managed to miss one that I bought tickets for because I ended up laying in a hospital bed while my wife and mom went instead. Missed another one because of a snow and ice storm.

My friend Jeff crossed paths with Willie in Florida and managed to get himself invited on the bus. He's got photos to prove it. Jealous, I was.

The "Tao of Willie" is one of the books I've enjoyed most reading, and I highly recommend it. You'll learn why Willie is so happy, at peace, and how you might obtain a little of his enlightenment if you let yourself.

Decades ago, I loved Willie's turn in "Honeysuckle Rose," and seeing him swap lines with Slim Pickens was nirvana.

I once reviewed Willie's album "Countryman" for a magazine, an album of Jamaican flavored tunes that featured a big, fat marijuana leaf on the front cover. There was a bit of controversy whether the magazine was going to let the review in but especially if it would print the album cover. Eventually, they did run a sanitized version of the cover, but not before a friend asked me, "Blaine, did you get your Willie in?" I said, "Yes, but please don't call it Willie." <Ba dum>

I rate Willie as my third favorite guitar player behind Stevie Ray Vaughn and Buddy Guy, and I think all his work with Wynton Marsalis is genius.

Happy birthday, Willie. The world will be a far less joyful place when you're not around.

  

Day 120: Friends

I've been so blessed as to have a collection of really diverse, really intelligent, really compassionate, and really supportive friends throughout my life. Beyond having three lifelong friends who I know will always have my back, I've been so fortunate as to have crossed paths with widely creative and determined and motivated people. Beyond that, I've been beyond fortunate to have basked in the talents of these people. Painters. Musicians. Writers. Mechanics. Designers. Engineers. Financial wizards. Teachers. Cooks. Preachers. Gardeners. The amount of information I've learned and gleaned just being in their presence is immeasurable.

I often wonder what is it I bring to the table? What do these people get from me? I don't dwell on it, by any means, because ultimately I just believe friends are friends, and there must be some attraction that makes two people want to share conversations and observations and time. But when I stop and ponder why I've crossed paths with the particular people that I have, it makes me wonder what they took from me when we went our separate ways. I hope it was something worthwhile and equally beneficial as what they gifted me with.

I've never been someone to surround myself with only people who share the same likes and dislikes as myself. Truthfully, as long as you respect my choices and why I made them, I can pretty much tolerate any belief if you really, passionately hold it dear. Doesn't mean I agree or condone the belief, but I'll respect it. Politically alone, I have so many friends who flee for their dear lives when the topic even remotely approaches the words "Democratic" or "liberal." Religiously and spiritually, I have friends who are Catholic, Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist, atheist, and so on. Again, doesn't pose a problem. As long as you're abiding and supportive of my journey toward whatever faith means to me, we're cool.

What do I look for in a friend? Loyalty. I don't want to be lied to. I don't want to be taken advantage of. I don't want to be set aside when something better comes along. I'm looking for sincerity. I'm looking for the truth. I'm looking for someone who believes in something. For someone who cares for anything more than he or she care for himself/herself. I'm looking for decency. I'm looking for humility. I'm looking for passion. But at the end of the day, I'm looking for respect.

When I think about my friends, I think about how many good fathers and mothers there are in the lot and how many of those parents I take inspiration from. I think about how many hard workers there are, and how many of these hard workers have achieved what they did because of desire, not because of privilege. I think about how many of these people are accepting of others. I think about how many don't flinch from adversity. I think about how many have seen so much adversity and preserved. I think about the single mothers who raised good, decent children. I think about the divorced fathers who didn't abandon their kids and didn't cheat them of their time. I think about those who kicked me in the ass when I needed it. Those who challenged my notions when they were misguided. Those who saw things in myself that I didn't see. I think about those who see the world in a different, unique light, and how much I've been able to view and experience because of their visions. I think about the places we've traveled together. I think about the fears we've shared. When I think about my group of friends, I think of the countless hours I've had the opportunity to swim in emotions and education and wisdom and difficulty and tears and pain and joy.

Sincerely, if I could wish one thing for my children, it's that they collect the same type of diverse, talented, decent friends I've been able to somehow manage to collect. 

Day 119: Johnny Cash

For years and years, if you were to walk down the steps and into our basement, you would be greeted with two posters prominently displayed on the far wall. One was of Bob Dylan. The other featured a young Johnny Cash. Together, they represent the pillars of all things influential in my life. Prophets. Trailblazers. Teachers. Messiahs. Angels. Devils. Professors. Magicians. Conjurers of spirituality.

Today, for some reason that I won't question but just accept, I found myself playing Johnny Cash songs on my guitar in the morning while sitting next to the bath tub as my little girl took a bath. We sang a few songs together. "Ring of Fire." "Cocaine Blues." "I Got Stripes." And we had a good time. Later in the afternoon, while flipping through TV stations aimlessly, I happened upon "Walk The Line," and as I pretty much always will when the movie is on, I stopped and watched for as long as I was able.

There's something about Johnny that's part father figure, part teacher, part preacher, and part sacred treasure. But there's also something about him that's part bad influence, part "the brother who went bad," part instigator, part rebel, and part forbidden fruit. It's amazing to me how someone so easily jumped across the line that marks decency and could still become so universally revered. Sing hymns and sing about murder with equal conviction and with utter power.

There aren't too many singers who travel with you throughout the decades of your life, singers who you routinely turn to again and again. There aren't too many singers you accept as completely authentic from the first hearing and never waver on that belief. There aren't too many artists who you feel compelled to listen to, as if there's a calling higher than anything you could imagine is at work and demands and commands you to set eyes on that which is weaving magic over you. That's what Johnny Cash has always been for me, a calling. A pull. A magnet. Whether it was hearing "A Boy Named Sue" or "If I Was A Carpenter" on my dad's old LPs as a kid or "Delia's Gone" as an adult, there's never been a time when I wasn't a member of the Church of Johnny.

Three of the greatest days of my life where standing in Sun Studios at separate times, a place where Johnny Cash, Elvis, Carl Perkins, and Jerry Lee Lewis all walked the floors. As much as I revere Jerry Lee and Elvis, I admirer Johnny Cash. I put him on a higher level. I see him in a slightly different light. He's the real deal. A man of earth, heaven, and hell.

For whatever reason things occur in the manner that they do, I'm thankful this Sunday was one filled with Cash.