Saturday, August 4, 2012

Day 216: Ah, That's Better

I set today to do nothing but have fun, and for the vast majority of the day I did.

Made it to Adventureland? Check.

Ice cream? Check.

Popcorn? Check.

Icee? Check.

Roller coaster? Check?

Stomach ache? Check.

Better off than yesterday? Definitely.

Friday, August 3, 2012

Day 215: Off The Grid At Adventureland

Here's the pledge I'm making to myself this weekend: Big boy, get the hell off the grid and stay off, no matter what that entails.  

What does getting off the grid mean. It means forgetting about every last thing that is my life that doesn't something relate to having fun. I'm piling in my car, pointing toward the east, and once I arrive at Adventureland with my girls, get out and go mad-crazy wild. 

I plan to ride the roller coaster and every other ride I can physically get my old bones to possible and do it with a big, fat smile on my face. I plan to stuff my trap with as much grub as possible that's not in the least any bit good for me. I plan to waste copious amounts of money on playing games that I have no shot at winning. I plan to watch my little girl go crazy with giddiness on each and every ride she deserves to climb aboard. I plan to laugh it up with my older daughter as our stomachs drop out on the curves, spills, and 360s we'll expose ourselves to. I plan to coax my wife into engaging in harrowing adventures on the Teacups and live to tell about it. 


Maybe more importantly, I don't plan to devote a second to thinking about chicken sandwiches or Chick-Fil-A. I don't plan to spend even a brief moment contemplating gun control laws or the lack thereof. I don't plan to worry about the economy, gas prices, the lingering drought, the unemployment rate, Syria, bills, deadlines, replacing brakes, braces, loans, or anything else that can even be slightly construed as negative. I plan to revel in laughter. I plan to navigate sno cones. I plan to float down water rides. I plan to bask in the sun, come undone, make my family No. 1, and do it all with fun. I'm giving myself a break from political ideologies and the environment and health care and taxes and offshore shelters because truthfully, I need it. I need an escape from reality. I need a fantasy land full of adventure. 


I plan to go all Dragon and Inverter and Raging River on my sorry carcass. And I plan to do it all with an overflowing sense of happiness, because damn it me and my family deserve as much once in a while. No computers. No ear attached to cell phone. No cable TV. No earbuds blocking out the world. This weekend, I plan to enjoy the fruits of my labor. Wish me well. 

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Day 214: Feel Free To Turn The Channel Anytime, Partner

I love America, but damn if we can't be a whiny bunch of people. Sweet lord, if I hear, read, or have to witness another person complaining about Olympic coverage I'm going stick a javelin in my eye. For the love of the high jump, people, you have too many choices to seek out badminton, track and field, basketball, tennis, boxing, gymnastics and every other conceivable type of coverage. You're problem is definitely not a lack of coverage. Online. Apps. Internet radio stations. Multiple NBC affiliates. Web sites. Newspapers. And on and on. Count your damn blesses, yo. 

As far as quality goes, short of being teleported onto the same damn basketball court that the Dream Team is thrashing Angola or some other unfortunate scrubs on, what more do you want? Back in the day, your damn parents and grandparents might have gotten one camera angle delivered in black and white and all herky and jerky, and they were astonished such quality was humanly possible. You're bitching about having to live with tape-delayed coverage delivered in pristine HD? Talk a walk around the block, oh entitled one, and get a grip. You live in the grandest, more technologically advanced period in history. Revel in it. Stop complaining about what it owes you. 

We Americans, meanwhile, live in the most privileged, overstuffed nation in the world. We expect too much because we have too much. I'm having trouble picturing scads of town's folks living in some tiny country that you and I can't pronounce all gathered around the lone  television set in a 50-mile radiance spewing out a constant stream of tweets to their legions of Twitter followers focused on what a piece of sh*t their country's equivalent of Bob Costas is. If you don't like what's being shown, here's an idea: Buy a ticket and fly over the pond and watch the damn events you want to in person or turn the TV to one of the other 450 stations on the dial and stop moaning. Your mammy and pappy had maybe three channels to "surf," ingrate. 

Personally, I don't like gymnastics. What do I do when it's on? Go out in the garden and pick weeds until it's over. I do like track and field, so I watch what is shown and am thankful for it. Seriously, the Olympics last two weeks every four years. It brings together not only athletes but citizens from a couple hundred countries all to one location where they intertwine peacefully and happily. They participate in an event that stretches back centuries. At what other time does this occur? Isn't that enough? Isn't that plenty to just be grateful for? Isn't the fact that you're sitting on a big fat couch with cool air pumping out vents in the floor with a big bad bag of chips on your lap and beer between your legs while sitting in front of a billboard-sized TV enough to look upward and say, "Whatever forces are at world, thank you for letting me born in this country, where I can watch an insane assortment of television programs at any time of the day or night, record them for later if I choose, including multiple stations' worth of Olympics action. Thank you, oh sweet forces, for I am truly blessed." 


Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Day 213: The Tattoo

For as long as I can remember, I've been fascinated by tattoos, the art of tattoos, and the general culture surrounding tattoos. My fascination runs the full gamut, covering everything from the moment of inception when someone even begins to contemplate getting a tattoo, on through the decision-making process of where to put it, to choosing the artist to do the honors, on through ultimately the moment when the vision that was  initially conceptualized becomes a reality etched on skin. In about all aspects of life, I'm all about the process, and I guess tattoos are no different. 

My fascination encompasses all forms of tattoos. Although I'm particularly drawn to the Samoan style of tattooing, I'm also enthralled by prison tats, "old school" work, military tattoos, tribal work, Japanese and Russian tattoos, and tattoos emanating from pretty much every other corner of the world. I'm also fascinated with how one becomes a tattoo artist, what their apprenticeship entailed, what training they undertook, how they learned about the different parts of the body and acquired knowledge about different types of skin and how different colors and shading combine to influence the outcome of a tattoo. I'm fascinated with the use of the body as a canvas for the artwork, and tattooing is most certainly art in my book. 

I'm not sure where or why my fascination was born. It wasn't like my parents walked around with a body full of ink. My dad has exactly one tattoo on his back, and he didn't get that until I was in high school. My uncle did own his own tattoo business for a period of time, but it wasn't as if I hung out on a stool for hours at a time watching him ply his trade. In fact, I never witnessed him practicing his craft even once. There wasn't a tattoo parlor in my hometown that I'm aware of that would have influenced me. I wasn't exposed to all that many people growing up who had tattoos, and the ones that did frankly weren't sporting work that was all that eye-catching or that wasn't fairly run-of-the-mill. And still somehow and for some reason this fascination grew. 

I've met a lot of people over the years who frown at tattoos and the people who possess them. I personally know people who view tattoos and those who wear them as being low-brow. I've met people who consider tattoos undignified or beneath them, people who pass judgement based on the number of tattoos on a man's arm. I'm not that person, but to each his own. My judgments about tattoos pretty much start and stop with what I believe to be the quality of a tattoo and where a tattoo is located on the body. Opinion on quality is something everyone forms, so I'm not unique there. Although I'm not a fan of "homemade" tattoos, self-inflicted tattoos, or tattoos that feature cartoon characters or other cliche images, that's all a matter of taste, and what I consider lacking quality others may not. As far as location goes, I may be a bit of a snob, but I'm not a fan of tattoos on the neck or face. Aesthetically, it doesn't appeal to me and I don't understand it, though I notice increasingly more people these days donning ink in those areas. 

All that said, my fascination of tattoos is primarily fueled on knowing what a tattoo means to the person who wears it. I crave to know the insight behind the tat. In the same way I want to know why a person buys a particular painting or is drawn to a particular style of music or what exactly she sees in the same photograph I'm viewing, I desire to know why a person selects a particular image to have permanently inked on his or her body. Meaning is big to me. Representation is key. Symbolism is something I gravitate to. I'm a big fan of significance, and that's very much true where tattoos are concerned. 



Take the tattoo on my left arm, for example (above). I've gotten a good amount of comments about it, but most of them have been something to the effect of "what is it?" or "what does it mean?" I like those questions. I like that people are curious. I like that they're curious enough to need to ask. When I explain what it means to them, I think it also helps them to learn a little bit more about myself (whether they're really interested in doing so or not). I know that's the case when I ask others about their ink. 

So, what does my tattoo mean? Good question. It's inspired by a painting done by an artist belonging to the Salish tribe, native people traditionally located along the Pacific Northwest coast. As legend has it, members of the tribe equated the sight of lightning in the sky to be the Thunderbird, a supernatural creature that some believed humans descended from. One legend states the Thunderbird battled a killer whale on behalf of the tribe's people in order to return to them the food supply (salmon) that a killer whale had cut off from the people. The Thunderbird's main weapon was the Lightning Snake, which the Thunderbird kept under its wings and which is shown in my tattoo emerging from the clouds. For me, the entire scene represents my willingness to strike and battle whatever enemy is at hand on behalf of my own people (my family and loved ones), as well as to provide for them what they need to survive. 

Overall, I love that tattoos and why people get them are unique to the individual. The experience is unique. The way the individual views the end result is unique. No matter the quality or placement even, the tattoo is special in one way or another. 



The tattoo above belongs to my friend Tim, who says his "love for the Sox runs deep."  I can attest to that, and this tattoo suites him well.



The tattoo above belongs to my longtime co-worker and friend Marty, who says, "i GOT ThIS IN folsoM tu MAke mee LooK tuffER." If you know Marty, that makes perfect sense. In reality, though, Jada is his daughter, and I have to say this is pretty bad ass. 



The tattoos above you'll find on the back of Shawn, a former co-worker and friend. From the left to right, the first symbol is "a personalized version of the alchemical symbol for the Perfect Red King (sulfur), the 'fiery male element' that represents potential energy." To Shawn, "it reminds me to seek the *potential* in the everyday, rather than just accepting what is there in front of me." The center (spiral) symbol is based on the Golden Ratio, which in art and mathematics is seen as "perfect," he says. "It reminds me to strive for perfection in everything I do." The tattoo on the far right, meanwhile, is a symbol from the cover of the *Hagakure*, a feudal Japanese book on living the way of the Samurai. "Specifically, it brings to mind this bit of the book: 'When one has made a decision to kill a person, even if it will be very difficult to succeed by advancing straight ahead, it will not do to think about going at it in a long roundabout way. The Way of the Samurai is one of immediacy, and it is best to dash in headlong." While Shawn by no means endorses killing anyone, he does say "when I set to a task, this reminds me to charge straight in, to keep hammering at it until the task is done." Shawn's ink is the very reason I love tattoos. 




The little girl above belongs to my former co-worker Joy, who says, "for my 22nd birthday, my husband gave me a gift certificate to get a tattoo. This is what I got." When Joy's husband was 18, she says, he and a friend got tattoos. Joy's husband, all 6' 2" of him, got a smiley face on his shoulder. "Tough, right?" she says. "Smiley faces quickly became 'his thing,' and when we started dating, they became mine. I can't tell you how many smiley face gifts we've gotten over the years! So, this tattoo is my girl smiley face, complete with eyelashes, a daisy in her 'hair,' and lips." The next time Joy gets ink, she wants it to be something that represents her kids.  




My friend Brian, who just happens to own many a black belt, sports the tattoo above on the entire left side of his back. The kanji translates to "karate." The actual work was done by a Japanese man. Brian has had the tattoo 18 of the 28 years he's trained in the martial arts. "You can imagine the significance," he says. He plans to expand on the tattoo soon and will probably add "the kanji for my school, Shorei Shobu Kan," which  itself means "school of courtesy and manners." On a personal note, I can attest to Brian's love of martial arts. Early on, he literally knocked me out with a roundhouse kick to my mug while we were sparring in his dorm room way back in the day. My face still hurts. 






I see the tattoo shown above pretty much every day. It belongs to my wife, who "got this with my best friend. It is a serotonin molecule. Serotonin is one of the chemicals responsible for making us happy. Plus it just looks cool," she says. Agreed. 




Probably the best example of what a tattoo can mean to the person wearing it that I came across while putting this post together related to Linda, who I grew up with and spent every year of elementary, junior high, and high school in the same class with. Her story is beyond touching and it oozes with significance. Linda has "two very unique matching tattoos, uncommon among some, yet an unwanted reality among others. My tattoos are my nipples," she says. "Simply put, they are what gives the skin grafting that was needed for the nipple reconstruction its color. 



Linda was diagnosed with breast cancer in the left and right breast in April 2009. "Early stage 1, thank God," she says. "To me my options were simple, remove it all whatever it takes, and if that means me getting a pair of 'new girls' out of the deal so be it. That was and is the ONLY perk because what I really cared about was my four babies." At the time she was diagnosed, Linda's four children were 17, 16, 12 and 8. What she cared most about was "not leaving this world before they had a chance to live and to watch them live and be a part of their lives."
After a double mastectomy in June 2009, Linda's last procedure four surgeries later was in November 2010. "To me seeing the color of my tattoos somehow makes my 'new girls' better," she says. "While they will never be the same as the 'old girls,' they put it all in perspective and in all honesty now complete me. However corny that may sound, they somehow made it alright. I wear my scars proudly and they are the icing on the cake," she says. 
Not everyone's tattoos carry as much significance as Linda's. Mine certainly don't. But I do believe everyone's ink is "their ink," no matter what it represents. 
If you're someone with tattoos and we should cross paths somewhere down the line, you'll now know why I'll probably be staring at your work so intently and why I'll probably ask why you got it, where you got it, who did it, what it makes you think of. . . . 


Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Day 212: Being In Love


I truly feel badly for anyone who has never been in love. I mean hopelessly, deeply, impossibly in love. So in love that you can’t think straight. So in love that your existence depends on the recognition of a significant other. So in love that you live and breathe solely to please that other. You devote all your energy and resources to making that other fulfilled and uplifted and beyond satisfied. I mean so in love that you willingly and readably make yourself completely and utterly vulnerable without any fear of any repercussions that could occur. I mean so in love that you walk lightly, think and speak freely, and engage in every possibility because you know that even if everything else in the world fails you, you still have the love of that person you hold in the highest regard, and that’s all that really matters to you anyway.

I know many people not only never experience such exultation, they never even get close. For whatever reason, they never even sniff love that’s offered up from another, love that holds no conditions or qualifications or limitations or barriers. Maybe it’s the fear of rejection that prevents one from making the leap into love. Maybe it’s simply that there’s no desire to even introduce love in one’s life.

Sadly, I know some people are pegged by others early on as being unworthy of love or unlovable or without merit to be loved, and even sadder, there are people who believe such characterizations and resign themselves to living solitary, lonely lives. It’s quite possible that living a life of never knowing the romantic love shared with another suits some people just fine. If you’ve ever been in love, though, you know what these people are missing.
The people I really feel for are those who so desperately want love, who so crave and yearn for it that they sell themselves out, and often to the lowest bidder. They make themselves too available. They go too far in their pursuit. In a perfect world, no one would be taken advantage of. No one would be stepped on and over and left to pick up whatever pieces might remain. But this is far from a perfect world.

Having been in love, I can’t think of a better gift that life can bestow than that of love. Meet the right person and no matter how brief the encounter is, being in love opens all kinds of doors that you can otherwise never peer into. Being in love makes possible all kind of emotions you’d otherwise never experience, including many that have no name or label. They don’t need names. They just affect. They just deal. They just develop and churn and extract and fill and mold and embrace and unite and conquer.

Having been in love, I can think of no greater pain and suffering that can come from something that can conversely be so full of potential and positivity. I can think of nothing that can harm and maim and devastate and destroy and crush and tear as deeply as love. I can think of nothing that can undo promise and expectations as quickly as love, that can rip holes in the fabric as severely as love. I can think of nothing that can drown one in such confusion and torment as remotely as a love gone bad can.

And yet, for every single negative aspect that love can induce, love is worth the risk, every time. 

Monday, July 30, 2012

Day 211: The Walk

Just about the greatest gift I've even given myself during any particular work day has been  the 3 O'clock Walk. It's pretty self-explanatory really. I try as much as possible to each day  get my arse up and away from my desk and take a walk. It's that simple. Doesn't wound like much, but some days it means the world to me. Some days, when my head is about to pop off from the pressure and stress that's pounding and pounding and pounding because I can't seem to understand this or that bit of logic, the 3 O'clock is my salvation. Some days, when the noise that is surrounding me keeps growing steadily more pronounced and omnipresent and incessant and is working on my last nerve, that walk is the cure to all those apparent realities. 

I'm a big fan of walks in general. I have been going back to my first reading of "Cancer Ward." I took a great many things away from that book, but high up on the list was not only the importance of a walk, but how to walk with intention. That was roughly 25 years ago, and I can honestly say there haven't been too many walks since down some sidewalk, roadway, or path, beaten or otherwise, in which I haven't thought about Oleg and the walks he took in "Cancer Ward" and how he took them. I've found that Oleg was correct: A man does think more clearly and with more intent when he walks with his hands clasped behind his back. His ears do open. His busy, complex thoughts do become less so. His preoccupations do tend to fade into the background, like dust in a steady rain. 

I'm a slow walker. I love walking with companions, and often prefer it to walking alone, but I've found that no matter who I'm walking with, I have trouble keeping up. My slow feet interfere. My problem is that I'm not in a particular hurry to get anywhere usually, so I fall behind. About the only people I don't have trouble matching pace with are small kids, and even then they are too quick for my feet quite often. But the fact that I tend to meander doesn't really bother me. I see and sense and feel more things the slower I go. I'm not burning a whole of calories I imagine, but I don't walk to burn calories. I walk so that I don't have to think about those kind of things, the things that make life complex and overly complicated. I don't walk to work out problems. I walk so that I can forget about them. I don't walk to escape. I walk so that I can see to new visions. I don't walk to accomplish anything. I just walk to walk. Sometimes, that simplicity is all that's required. It's all that I need. 

I'm convinced there have been days when I wouldn't have made it through without the 3 O'clock Walk. I would have melted down. I would have lost touch. Maybe that speaks to my focus and discipline, or lack thereof. Maybe the fact that I can recognize that I need to get away, if even for a few minutes, speaks more to the fact that I know my limitations and have found a way to work around them. I don't know. What I do know is that after the walk, I feel better. I feel refreshed. I feel I've stepped on better, more stable ground. Some days I wish I could just walk on forever.

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Day 210: Goodbye Sunday

It's hard for to positive about Sunday nights. They've always felt vacant to me. Limited. Defeating. But I'm choosing tonight to think about what led me here. The golf. The parade. The playing with my daughter. The relaxing and extra sleep. Ah. That's better. Goodnight, Sunday.