Day 202: carry on

Carry on. That's what you have to do sometimes. Hold tight to what you believe. See the big picture and carry on. Sometimes the best view and the truest is yours. Believe in it.

Day 201: Waging War On Senseless Violence

Yesterday I wrote about being less serious and more frivolous. That pretty damn hard to do on a day like this. Sadly, days like this seem to becoming increasingly too common. I’ve seen some shitty, despicable events go down in my years on the planet, and honestly they never get any easier to swallow. There was a time after 9/11 when I was standing with my young kids among my fellow Lincoln citizens, singing songs and joining hands, when I thought things were going to forever change for the better. As much as I realized then that my kids would be growing up in a far different world than the one I did, I sincerely had hope that we’d arrived collectively as human beings and citizens at a place we could make long-lasting positive changes. Now, however, they’re just seems to be a hell of lot more shitty events than ever to swallow, and that pisses me off.

When people die, it without question deserves reflection. When people die so needlessly and so often as has unfortunately become the case, something deserves to be done. The problem is that those things that need to be done never get done. If I piss you off by what I’m about to write, I apologize, but frankly, pissing you or your senses off are the least of my concerns right now. This shit has to stop. It’s time to stop merely “keeping those who have suffered in my thoughts and prayers.” It’s time to prevent the damn madness from happening in the first place.

This doesn’t mean putting a metal detector at every damn entrance to a movie theater or school door or airport gate, either. It means changing the way we treat people. It means paying attention to our neighbors. It means stop obsessing about ourselves and our wealth and incessant need to feel good every second of every day and instead start taking a seriously long, hard look around. It means making the process of obtaining weapons that no fucking man off the street should every need in the first place a near damn impossible one. It means creating so many hoops to jump through that only the most credible and legitimate among us can jump through them all. It means getting the fucking guns off the street, out of the god damn Wal-Marts, out of the underground online black markets, and out of the back of publicly sold and privately distributed magazine and newsletters born from the likes of “Soldier of Fortune.” It means taking the power away from those who can’t handle or deserve it and putting it back in the hands of the responsible collective. There have been any number of responsible, reasonable gun control plans offered up over the years, going back decades to when I was a kid and school was dismissed early because our President had been gunned down in the god damn street. These plans deserve a chance to prove themselves. We’ve proven the right to bear arms doesn’t. Which leads me to our leadership.

President Obama and Mitt Romney have both today called for us to come together. To reflect on the lives lost. To put those who have died and been injured in our prayers. To put politics aside. Well, yeah, OK. That’s all fine and good. I’d expect you both to say as much. But now show us how, god damn it. Show us by example. Run clean campaigns. Run clean administrations. Practice what you preach, not just today while the nation collectively mourns but tomorrow and the day after and every day after that. Show us when everything is seemingly fine in the world. The same goes for Congress. Stop talking about the moral high ground your party walks on and just pass the laws we instruct you to. Represent our beliefs and desires. Stop telling us what those should be. Stop showing us on a daily basis that your primary objective is to cut the opposition’s throat. Conduct your business with respect and professionalism. Work toward your individual and respective beliefs, but do it above the belt.

As for you, talk show host, fuck you. Fuck you for telling me even today that it isn’t your fault when these acts of violence occur. Fuck you for telling me how much you love this country. How much you love this country more than anyone else. Stop telling me what a piece of shit I am because I don’t agree with you. Stop making your arguments with insults. Just fucking stop. Fuck you for telling me that politics doesn’t matter on a day like this while the whole time you practice those politics from out the other side of your mouth.

If our leadership and so-called educated and the so-called patriots of our country can’t conduct themselves without petty attacks and backstabbing and the most ill of intentions, how do they expect their nation’s citizens to do the same. When our leadership splits the country so deeply in two sections and with such conviction and extreme force, how are our citizens, particularly those who are young and entirely influential, not supposed to notice?

Attack, attack, attack. This country is obsessed with aggression. Obsessed with dominance. This country’s citizens have become so obsessed with pounding its beliefs on anyone who doesn’t agree with them, on anyone who hails from a different background, it’s like living in a battlefield. Conflict is what we do best. The population has become so single-minded in getting individual opinions across as being morally and legally and ethically correct that there’s no room for dissention. Absolutely none. The possibility of resolution seems incredibly remote. Common ground has disappeared. Pick or side or else. . . .

Bullshit. I’m sick of my kids knowing so much about division. So much about opposition. So much about judgments and hate and superiority as it relate to class and race and religion. I’m sick of bombs being dropped on their heads every day in the form of example after example of senseless and needless violence. I’m sick of every day of their existence seemingly being tainted in one way or another with mass exposure to threat, including terroristic attacks stemming from abroad and from within. I’m sick of their lives being filled with adults passing judgments on their gay friends or friends of different ethnicities or religious backgrounds. Filled with peers passing judgments on their tastes, their likes, and their dislikes. I’m sick of the snide remarks. I’m sick of racists and homophobes. Sick of political party bashers. Sick of the pursuit of power and wealth. And if you tell me, “Well, if you don’t like, move to another country,” I’ll tell you to “fuck off.” You move. I’ll stick it out and do what I can to make the country I was born to and the country my children live in one that won’t chew them up and leave them laying.

Sweet Jesus, what has been gained for any of that power? The citizens of our country hate one another. Our children believe there’s no future for them. They resolve their despondence by eliminating those they believe made them despondent.

The world is a mean, ugly place. I get it. But does it have to be this ugly and mean? Here’s an idea. Let’s focus on the reality of the situation: Our country is fucked up. It’s become hostile. It’s become unforgiving. It’s become violent. It’s become manipulative and demeaning. The hostility is being fueled in part by so many living in society filled with so much disparity, a lack of acceptance, and sense of entitlement. Those problems must be rectified and healed. There’s enough to go around. There’s work for everyone to do. Everyone must be held responsible. Everyone. You, me, billionaires, homeless on the street, and everyone in between. These events are no longer ones that can be passed off as “some psycho went nuts.” We’re growing the breeding ground, people. This world is serving as the breeding ground.

There is no appropriate justice we can place on someone who kills 12 people and injures 50 others. There’s no equity there. Take his life, OK. Does that make us equal? Hell no. It’s not a matter of justice anymore. It’s a matter of prevention. We must change the system. We must change the mindset of what it means to be American and on a larger and more important scale, what it means to be human. We must stop talking about how sorry we are when people lose their lives to senseless acts of violence and actually instead do something concrete and formidable about it. We must use our sorrow to create something positive in exchange. It’s not a coincidence that this event in Denver and the one in Columbine and the one in Arizona and the one at Virginia Tech and the one in Omaha and so many others involved youth.

Here’s the deal, you and I can rant and rave or profess and pray about our sorrow all we want, but unless we’re willing to start doing something, we’ve accomplished nothing. For now, start by reassessing your beliefs. Reassess what you stand for. If you stand for nothing, get in the god damn game already and change something for the better. Ask if your beliefs unite or divide? Ask if they leave someone in a better position than before. Then, turn your attention toward being a better parent. Give your kid hope. Reinforce your love. Reinforce your support. Reinforce their faith in family and community. Give them reasons to believe instead of to give up.

Look, I’m no source of great wisdom. I’m just pissed off. I’m likely misguided in some areas and speaking out of a place of rage in others. But fuck, my eyes are open, and I’m ready to do what it takes. It's time to stop wondering why these things happen and reacting when they do. It's time to care enough to change what we can. Now. 

Day 200: Less Serious, More Frivolous

There’s something utterly satisfying about having friends who you can communicate with so comfortably and in such great depth about such inane and essentially meaningless topics that makes life so satisfying.

Today, I had conservations with two different sets of friends concerning movies. In no way at all will these conversations advance society, or even myself, in any conceivable manner. Still, it’s amazing how much joy I take away from these kinds of simple exchanges.

Does this make me a simpleton? Does is it mean I have a limited scope of the world? Does it mean I lack vision? Does it mean I need to stir my attention in other directions? Hell, I don’t know. I don’t really care. What I know and care about is that I’m a lucky bastard for having outlets for such meaningless.

Man, life is way too complicated and way too serious the majority of the time. By the time you enter your 30s, it seems the pulling and tugging on your time never ceases. I firmly believe we waste a hell of a lot of time worrying about most of the things related to that pulling and tugging. I mean, really, pertinent is it long-term how our hair looks or if the curtains we’re eying match the color of the carpet. Even the amount of time we collectively spend career-wise deflates me. So much is lost in the chase.

Having friends to distract you from the day-to-day crap is priceless. Having people who help you forget that you need to get the brakes on your car fixed or your cell phone bill is late or that the latest project isn’t coming together at all or that your brother is still pissed at you or blah, blah, blah is beyond a treasure.

I’ve never been one for mindless blither blabber. If there’s one thing I don’t excel at it is small talk. What I do find especially gratifying, though, pointed, specific blither blabber. Ask me what my Top 5 favorite songs are and I’ll blither blabber until the sun goes down. Want to debate the treatment of dogs in Wes Anderson movies like my friends and I did today, and I’m all in. Want to pick out the influences that the original “Total Recall” had on later sci-fi movies like I also did today, man, I’m onboard. I’d go insane without that outlet. 

Day 199: If I Had My Way

If I had my way, I'd be in the mountains right now, hiking my way to some hidden lake that only I knew about, alone with only my thoughts to keep me company. 

If I had my way, I'd have a room filled with my favorite candy, so whenever I opened the door, thousands of pieces would come rushing out. 

If I had my way, I'd be on a motorcycle riding on a winding, long road situated next to the ocean with the sun going ever-slowly down over the horizon. 

If I had my way, I'd be walking barefoot on the softest, greenest grass imaginable in Ireland with a pitching wedge in my hand. 

If I had my way, I'd be getting my bangs trimmed up as I chatted up my favorite barber for the latest gossip. 

If I had my way, I'd be dialing up my eye doctor on the phone right now to tell him his services will no longer be needed. 

If I had my way, my entire wardrobe would consist of only shorts, tennis shoes, and T-shirts. 

If I had my way, George Carlin would be my neighbor to the left and Willie Nelson to the right. 

If I had my way, my house would reside directly beside the tee box to the first hole on my own private course. 

If I had my way, my friends and I would meet every Friday night for another round of demolition derby in my backyard. 

If I had my way, my band would be taking the stage in Madison Square Garden. 

If I had my way, my yacht would be at about the halfway point toward taking me to my own private island. 

If I had my way, the popcorn would be hot, fresh, buttered, and sitting on my lap right now as I got set to watch the new Batman flick. 

If I had my way, I'd soon be walking in the Olympics opening ceremonies representing my country in the decathlon. 

If I had my way, my pet dolphin would be taking me for a ride around my private cove. 

If I had my way, my personal chef would be finishing up my supper just about now and bringing it to me in my XXXXL-sized bathtub. 

If I had my way, I'd be playing a pickup game with the President on my home court. 

If I had my way, I'd have a fleet of clowns at my beck and call. 

Day 198: What It Means To Be A Yankees Fan

As of today, the New York Yankees are 55-34, giving them the best record in Major League Baseball. Owning the sport’s best record isn’t unfamiliar territory for the Yankees. In fact, dare I say, it’s common ground. It’s ground the Yankees have worn out because seemingly, the Yankees are always in first place.

You’d think being a fan of a team that perpetually stands on such familiar terra firma would be easy, but it’s not. To change up Spiderman’s Uncle Ben’s sage quote a bit, “With great success comes great torment.” Or should I say jealousy? Envy? Bitterness and resentment are also fitting, I guess. Animosity. Acrimony. Those definitely fit. Let’s just say that non-Yankees fans are the worst fans and leave it at that. Personally, I choose to ignore these bitter little pills who spread their nastiness like a bad smell emitting from my dog, but sometimes it’s impossible. The stink is just to putrid to escape. But my tolerance for these fools only goes so far. Instead of holding up the greatest sports franchise ever erected, these gluttons for punishment try to tear the House That Babe Built to the ground, bit by bit by bit. Sadly for them, this house is made of bricks.

Being a Yankees fan means having thick skin. It’s means being able to take the heat. It means you’re going to hear a steady stream of complaints. You’re going to hear whining. You’re going to hear cries of “it’s unfair” or “if they didn’t spend so much money. . . .” or “they buy their success.” Well, welcome to America, suckers.

Being a Yankees fan means enduring the weak-sauce alternative names that the jealous pool of sorry dreamers come up with for those who deck themselves out in pinstripes, names like “Spankmees” or as my friend Randy likes to say, “Yankmees.”

Being a Yankees fan means possessing the discipline and fortitude to endure the gloating and “in your face” carrying on during those rare occasions when your friends’ favorite team happens to find a bit of blind luck in his/her pockets and uses it to win an important game.

Being a Yankees fan means having to share the planet with Red Sox fans and hoping your immune system is strong enough that you don’t come away with some sort of horrible affliction, like chronic losing or excuse making.

Being a Yankees fan means having to humor pitiful Cubs fans who have fooled themselves into believing that despite having never won a damn thing their team is “iconic” or an “institution.” Harry Carey and Mark Grace an institution do not make, woeful ones.

More importantly, being a Yankees fan means you grieve still for Thurmon Munson and Billy Martin.

It means you bow down twice daily in the direction of The Bronx.

It means you consider Catfish Hunter and Ron Guidry gods.

It means October is your favorite month.

It means you think of Reggie Jackson every time you stir a drink with a straw.

It means you’ve look upon Daryl Strawberry, Doc Gooden, and Roger Clemmons as misguided children who made a mistake but whom you’ve forgiven.

It means you say “Aaron F*cking Boone” in your sleep.

It means your two favorite words are “Bucky” and “Dent.”

It means you want your son to grow up to be just like Don Mattingly.

It means George Brett = pine tar = “you’re out!”

Being a Yankees fan means you’ve chosen to associate yourself with greatness.

Being a Yankees fan means you know all the words to “Enter Sandman.”

Being a Yankees fan means “Sweet Lou” makes you think of Pinella and Reed.

Being a Yankees fan means you happily stare for hours at the painting of the old stadium that you bought in Midtown from a street artist years ago.

Being a Yankees fan means you can do a 180 and spend a few more hours staring at the original drawing of Yogi and Lou that hangs on your wall.

Being a Yankees fan means that no matter what else should happen in your life, you can rest assured that you’ll not only know what it feels like to be a perennial contender, you’ll know what it means to be a champion, um, 27 times and counting.

Day 197: Stop Bitching & Moaning

Sometimes, I have a tendency to bitch and moan too much. Sometimes, I wonder how much that bitching and moaning bothers those I subject it to. Sometimes, I wonder if the things I’m bitching and moaning about are even worth bitching and moaning about. Sometimes, I wonder what I could do that would be a better alternative to the bitching and moaning. Sometimes, I wonder how much of what I consider to be “constructive criticism” is actually bitching and moaning. Sometimes, I think I bitch and moan because I just like to bitch and moan. Sometimes, I think the bitching and moaning leaves me feeling worse.  

Without a doubt, I don’t believe all the bitching and moaning I do is over frivolous, inconsequential matters. In fact, I like to think a good percentage of the things I voice my disapproval about are worth the effort and deserve the attention. I realize there are things I should let go and probably don’t need to offer up my 2 cents about, but more often than not I hope I bitch and moan about worthwhile things. I’m not the kind of guy who is going to go on and on about the bad service he just got in a restaurant. I’ve got bigger worries. Plus, I’m eating food. A lot of people don’t have that basic luxury. I’m not the kind of guy who is going to ask to see a manager or supervisor. I’m not someone who is going on for days about how much the weather sucks or how I got shortchanged at Christmas or any other crap that reeks of entitlement. We live in a privileged country that by birthright grants most of us incredible advantages. Why bitch about annoyances and nuisances. It only perpetuates that which annoyed you in the first place.

No, what I like to bitch and moan about is those who bitch and moan about the annoyances and nuisances. I like to bitch and moan about those who can’t recognize the entitlement they’ve been born into. I have a feeling I take such pleasure because it gives me a sense of superiority, which in its own right is a complete crock and reprehensible. This is a weakness I know, yet take joy nevertheless.

Take yesterday, for example, when I crossed paths with a family arriving at the same ice cream shop as were at but in a big, fat, gas-guzzling SUV. Bad enough they were traveling via environmental deathtrap. That I could look past. What was impossible to not notice was the fact that they left the fricking big rig running, with the air conditioner on, with no one inside, while they all piled out into a FLIPPIN’ ICE CREAM SHOP! Are you kidding me! Did they not see the obvious joke they were making themselves the punch line for? I guess braving the elements upon existing the ICE CREAM SHOP armed with a fat hunk of ICE CREAM scooped up in a fat bowl was too strenuous. It’s this kind of moronic crap that sets me off and sets my mouth into motion, only to leave me wondering later, does anyone even care? Did I accomplish anything other than bugging the people around me? “Oh great, there he goes again.” Maybe I care, but does anyone else give a crap that these people are likely the same who bitch and moan about gas prices?

Maybe I’m just bitter? Am I just too good at spotting stupid stuff? Am I too sensitive? Do I seek this stuff out? I honestly don’t know. Sometimes, I think this stuff finds me just to torment me. Like later in the day, for example, when I randomly picked a seat in the bleachers at the gym my daughter was playing basketball in. I was waiting for her game to start, so I sat and watched the one being played before hers. Fate could have opened up a seat anywhere, but it didn’t. It made the only available seat right in the middle of a pack of wild mother-dogs way too eager to bite and snarl and bitch and moan about every call that didn’t go in favor of their little momma’s boys on the court. Worse was the conduct they saved for a girl playing on one of the two boys teams on the court made up of eighth graders. The girl was good. In fact, she was damn good. She was smart and smooth. She played with composure. She knew where to be and what to do. She made her teammates better. Everything you’d want in a player, she provided. You’d think these women being women would have been thrilled. Here’s a girl more than holding her own among bigger and taller boys. Here’s a girl performing with grace and dignity and doing it with terrific results. Here’s a girl taking all the borderline cheap shots these insecure, petty momma boys on the court were doling out and ignored them to just continue producing at the highest level. But no. These women bath-mouthed this girl at every turn. They derided her. They questioned her femininity. They took delight when she was knocked down. They bitched and moaned when she bested their precious little boys. “How dare she!”

Enter my mouth. First subtly, but then progressively with more vitriol and condemnation, to the point that by the end of the game I was opening quarreling with said wolf pack, holding them back with a stick and swatting them on the end of the nose. I took tremendous pleasure in it all—until later when I was left alone with only my thoughts. I had lowered myself. I had reduced myself to levels I didn’t need to go. I took the lower road when the higher road would have been better to conduct myself on. I welcomed the confrontation and took joy in participating in it. That girl didn’t need me to defend her from these attackers. She had already moved beyond them long, long ago. She had already elevated herself to a place where they didn’t affect her. She was far more mature and focused than any of us. She didn’t bitch and moan. She just lived in the moment she was in.

Christ, anyone who says you can’t learn by just observing something or someone is crazy. Anyone who says you can’t learn from children is blind. Anyone who doesn’t believe in chance encounters isn't paying attention.

I probably won’t stop bitching and moaning anytime soon about those who bitch and moan. But this girl, whose name I don’t know and whose background I’m clueless about, taught me more about bitching and moaning through her actions and conduct and spirit than I could have ever hoped for. Something is at work in this world. Something helped me pay attention and recognize the affect a perfect stranger can have. Somehow, someway, this girl inspired me to be a better person. To stop bitching and moaning and instead influence change through personal conduct, not condemnation. I have a feeling I won’t be the only one to witness the same type of dignity and class and perseverance from this girl and walk away better for it.

Day 196: Deja Vu

I love deja vu. Always have. I seem to experience it a lot, too. Like I'm living in "The Matrix" a lot. Take my youngest daughter, for instance. Right now, she's crying in her bed, as she has just about every night for seemingly a month straight. She doesn't want to be in bed, so she goes through the usual laundry list of activities to prolong the inevitable until finally she resorts to crying. At that point, she can cry anywhere from five minutes to a good hour. It takes a lot of will power and focus to just ignore it. Just let it play out. Otherwise, you're just feeding the beast responding to each and every request that comes from her bedroom. "Daddy! I want a XX." "Mommy! I need XX." "Daddy, I XX." It's a vicious cycle that just goes on and on until the crying turns into whimpering and the whimpering turns into talking and the talking finally turns into snoring. Fortunately, these periods don't seem to last long and come in short periods. But each time it has happened recently, it seems like the same set of occurrences also play out. Sunday night. I'll tell my wife, "This is getting old." She'll respond by saying, "She never used to do this." And then I have a feeling of deja vu.

I've always been fascinated by the experience and concept of deja vu. I'd like to know who the first man or woman was who able to articulate the feeling. When was that? What brought the topic up? How did the other person respond. Cave man time? "Hey Unk, me swear me see that tree before." "Me know what you mean, Onk. Me feel me been here before." 

What I really wish is I was able to experience episodes of deja vu with other people. Like a group deja vu thing. We'd get together once in a week in some room in a church basement, hold hands, and experience the same moment together that we'd already experienced. 

What I'd like more is having the feeling that I had gotten smarter since the last time I experience deja vu, but that doesn't seem to be the case. Seemingly, I experience the same moments over and over again with the inability to know what I've learned since last time.

At any rate, the ability to feel different sensations and emotions than those that typically pollute a typical day is a positive. Fear. Euphoria. Exhaustion. Being overwhelmed. Being surprised. Feeling as if I've lived this moment before. I guess recognizing as much is occurring mean I'm paying attention.