Day 236: Cars

I'm not much of a car person. A car gets me around, and that's pretty much the extent of it for me. I understand why a car is a big deal to some people. I wouldn't spend a whole lot to buy one, but I get it. I'd spend a whole lot (if I had it to spend) on other stuff, say, a guitar or stereo system, for example. This week, I've spent a small fortune to keep the various cars in our family able to get us around, and still the hits just keep coming, including today when another surfaced. My initial reaction was, "Good Christ, you have to be kidding me? What the hell is happening here?" But as my wife so wisely said, at some point, the whole thing becomes so comical, all you can do is laugh. She's right. The bad luck train is just going to keep rolling down the tracks whether you want it to or not. So laugh is what I'm going to do. Of course, I'll be a bit more broke while I'm chuckling away, but what the hell.

Day 235: Dear, Blowhard

Dear Blowhard, 
I feel compelled to inform you that you no longer bug the hell out of me. In fact, I've come to realize recently that I feel more sympathy for your plight than I feel contempt for the space you occupy in the world. It must be terribly lonely to know that you're taken with such little regard and respect that the your only friend is your own voice. And while I consider that voice worse than air pollution or cigarette smoke blown directly up my nostrils, unfortunately short of stuffing a sock in your talk-hole, there's not much I can do about your right to breath. Your perseverance to keep on yapping is greater than my will to muster up the effort to clam you up, so I'll be saying, so long. 

Unlike days prior, when I felt obsessed to do everything in my power to discount your every dumbass word, I pretty much don't give a crap any longer as to what you have to say--period. Not that I gave much of a tinkle before, but for some reason, you grinded on my nerves with such annoying consistency, I couldn't help but feel the need to pay you mind.  Our relationship was sort of like stepping on a nail; I couldn't help but have to take action. No longer, though. So spew on and on. It doesn't matter. 

The fact that I'm even addressing you here makes me cringe somewhat with embarrassment, but so be it. I'll deal with that later. But you talk too much for me to take seriously. You talk too much for me to continue filtering out the good from the moronic. You talk so much, the only ones listening are the other blowhards. There was a day when you suckered me in, but I'm free now. I've seen the light. I've been saved. Salvation is here. My time is too valuable. I've important matters to tend to, like washing dishes, picking up dog poop, sweeping the garage floor, and shining my shoes. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, piss off. 

With absolute sincerity, 

Me 

Day 234: Eat & Be Merry

Today, I'm feeling a little rough around the edges. Been a long, long week. A lot of driving. Tons of tasks. Seemingly one problem surfacing after another. Very little "me" time in between. At any given time during any given day during this week, I've gone over to the "dark side." As each new headache surfaced or a new responsibility reared its head or another hour of sleep was lost, I let my internal whiner run free at the mouth, and man, he can whine with the best of them when he wants. "Wah, wah, wah." There's nothing I hate more than a whiner. Fortunately, it seems to take a lot less time than it used to for me to realize what an asshole I'm being. 

Just now, for example, I let the internal whiner in me carry on by bitching and moaning about having to go to the store, come up with something for supper, and cook it. Lucky for me, I have a bad-ass realist who also lives inside me, a guy who is willing to voice his displeasure in my whenever needed. "Hey, asshole, at least you have money to go to the store and buy food. At least you can hop in your car, buy your family some grub, and drive back to the house that you own to cook it up for them. Stop your damn pissing and moaning." 

I love that guy. He tells it like it is. He makes me see the light. So, when the whiner wants to fill my head with, "Oh, I hope my little girl is doing OK at her first day in a new daycare today," the realist is saying, "Well, dude, it is good that her parents have jobs so they can pay for daycare." When the whiner starts yapping, "Jesus, this drive across town to pick up my kid from school is a real pain in the ass," the realist says, "Come on, man, you have a choice in where your kid gets to obtain an education." When the whiner starts sobbing that "life is a real struggle today," the realist says, "Really? Really? What's so damn hard? That you get to sleep in your own bed at the end of the day? That you get to turn on the TV to relax? That you had to clean up dishes from which you stuffed your face? That your daughter made you laugh yet again? That your kids still talk to you willingly and often? That your dog showed you unconditional love? That your fenced in backyard gave you some privacy to look at the stars? That you were woke up and lived to see another day? Shut the hell up already." 

I do that guy. I really do. 

Day 233: Photographers

For some reason I’ve known quite a few photographers in my life. I think it’s because I’ve subconsciously always wanted to be one myself. Unfortunately, I don’t quite have the chops. I think I have a decent eye, but my technical skills are pretty much crap, at least professionally. That’s why I admire photographers of the real sort so much. They have the eye and they have the skills. The eye is God given to a great extent I believe. The skills aren’t. 

I started reviewing digital cameras, for example, when the very first models arrived on the scene. Those models didn’t have external memory, the resolution was incredibly poor, and they were ultra-expensive. I’ve continue reviewing and working with cameras right on up through today, but my skills have never progressed to the point where adjusting a camera’s settings for different lighting and environments is what I’d call second nature or instinctual. Real photographers don’t have the luxury to struggle through proper settings. Time is money. Time is available light. Time is motion. Time is being in the moment to capture the perfect shot. If you’re not able to manage photographic time, you can’t manage being a true photographer.

At any rate, my inefficiencies as a photographer have never diminished by ability to be a lover of good photography. And although I’m a fan of many photographers who are or have been nationally or internationally known, I really like to view the work of photographers I personally know. By knowing the person behind the camera, you seem to be able to read a little something more into the shots he or she captures. Some of my favorite photographers make a living from photography. Others don’t. They’re just passionate about art in general, and using a camera is one way they execute their art. My friend Jason, for example, isn’t a professional photographer per se, but I think he could be if he wanted. The photo below is his, and it’s an example of why I love photography in general; a good photo conveys a feeling and creates a sensation.

My friend George is a pro. He owns his own studio in North Platte, where he's lived for more than 20 years plying his craft. What I love most about George is that he's self-made. He rode bulls in local Nebraska rodeos to earn the money to buy his first camera, and from there he carved out a path to become a professional. His work has been circulated nationally and international, and today, he makes annual pilgrimages with Habit For Humanity to snap shots of President Carter and others. 

My friend, Nathan, meanwhile, is extremely talented and extremely original. He operates 40 Night Photography, and if you're planning a wedding or just want a kick-ass photo in general, Nathan can deliver and do so in a unique manner. Among my favorite work of Nathan's are shots he took while volunteering in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. They'll move you to tears, just like good photography is apt to do. 

I met my friend Tamra when I was a reporter way back in the day. We often got stuck doing the "Man on the street" gig on the weekend. I'd harass people to answer that week's question, and Tami would take their photos. It was a horrible aspect of the job, and I hated it more and more every week I had to do it. Thank God, Tami made it bearable with her incredibly positive spirit and attitude. I would have killed one of those people otherwise. Tami's photos I think reflect her own personal sweetness. That's a gift, being able to transport yourself into an image. Tami does freelance work, which you can check out here. Watch out, though. Hire her and you're likely to make a lifelong friend. 




I hope they don't mind that I've shared  their work. I just like pointing out talent and quality when I can, especially when I know those responsible for it personally. 

Day 232: Vogue

Ever so often, I take a long, long hike into the land of  "what if?" Not so much in an attempt to escape my present situations or change my life because actually, I like most aspects of my life. Sure, there are certain aspects that aren't entirely ideal, but who among us can't say the same about their lives? Overall, though, I'm fairly satisfied most of the time these days. 

That wasn't always the case, though. There were times when I was stuck in a dead-end job or without a significant other to spend the hours with when I spent most of my waking hours feeling and believing there was something different that I was meant to be tied up in. There were other locations I was meant to be roaming among. There were other people I was meant to be mingling and interacting with--to the point that I often wondered why I was so preoccupied with places and people and experiences that had no basis in reality. I wondered what it would take to be able to immerse myself in what was right in front of my face. I think youth had a big part to do with my confusion. 

As the years passed and my maturity grew a little longer in stature, I was more able to put things in perspective. I had a better mind for the present. I had more patience for the here and now, and I had a better acceptance for what was in my immediate realm vs. what was not. But there are those times still, as infrequent as they may now be, that I still wander off on long trips to the land of  "what if," ventures in which I imagine the alternative worlds that certain actions or reactions might have created. 

I think as a father and husband and son and friend and brother, I do important work on a daily basis, but there are days when my imagination teases me by putting images in front of my face in which my work is  devoted in other areas. Those images are usually filtered with a heavy dose of selfishness, but I have to admit, I enjoy those flights of fancy for what they are. There's something to be said for having the freedom to do nothing but explore whenever the urge hits and to satisfy any urge that freedom enables. I wrote the poem below on one of those days. For some reason, it has a positive affect on me. 

Vogue

Passing waiting-room minutes

in the pages of Vogue,

I invest myself elsewhere,

waking in NYC,

owning Paris,

tainting London,

breaking souls in Rome--

anywhere escaped of Nebraska soil.

I’m stepping out,

smelling fine,

entirely dashing,

completely sublime.

I’m a poet haunted,

painter revered,

actor possessed,

songwriter gone gold.

I’m self-made,

self-aware,

self-contained,

self-assure.  

My model accessory,

she's so skinny good,

fit to be tanned,

a sophisticated drunk,

a bedroom treasure.

My cigarettes burn sweet.

My liquor fuels favors.

My cocaine lights fires.

Another daybreak ignored.

My apartment bears witness,

pitches no black,

divulges no cracks,  

entices the elite.

Only the elite.

Only the elite.

Only the elite.

Only in the pages of Vogue.

Day 231: Black Flag

I don't profess to be a Black Flag expert. I don't know the name of every B-side. I don't know every city they hit on the 77 tour. I don't know what kind of guitar strings Greg Ginn used. I don't know Henry Rollins birthday. I was just a kid who was initially enamored by the culture and mystic that  Black Flag created. Later on, I was terribly influenced by the music, the recklessness, the rule breaking, and the fortitude. There was a time when I listened to barely anything other than Black Flag, and if I had not I'm not sure I'd be the person I am today. I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing, although my personal take is that that's an entirely good thing, at least if grit and guts and self-pride and self-loathing mean anything, and I think they do. 

I have no proof, but I have a sinking feeling that Black Flag isn't a name that elicits the same kind of response and emotion in kids as it did in me. Of my kids, only one listened to Black Flag with any intent. I'm not sure any of them, however, have made a career of it like I did. That's not too surprising, though. Each kid has his or own mission to live out. Black Flag was beyond my kids, but it always makes me a bit sad when something important starts to lose its luster, especially when it still holds merit. I tend to feel disheartened when something I still have faith in loses its street cred, loses its name recognition among the population. 

I doubt many kids today know much about Chuck Berry or Little Richard. I'm sure they know even less about Bo Didley and Link Wray and Chess Records and Phil Spector and Berry Gordy and Winterland and Bill Graham. I doubt all the kids who are so into the 10,000 tangents of music that make up Indie rock today have listened to the Beach Boys' "Pet Sounds" and can make the connection between those beautiful harmonies Brian Wilson cooked up and their own beloved modern sounds. Such is life, though. I'm sure previous generations to mine felt the same way, believing my peers and I recognized the pure musicianship and talent of, say, Lieber & Stoller or any of the writers who resided at Tin Pan Alley.

Still, I guess what's important isn't the number of people who Black Flag or other bands remain relevant with today. What's important is the impact they had on individuals and what that impact meant. For me, the impact seemingly meant everything. Black Flag gave me the juice to get through days. It gave me the fire to fight back. It gave me an important connection to the outside world. It showed me music didn't have to be played terribly well or record expertly or sung by magical vocal cords to be meaningful or pure or towering. Black Flag also gave me purpose in the sense that I realized one didn't have to make a fortune or hold an office or be a community leader to have a voice and be able to use it. There are a whole lot of other avenues available that don't require a golden ticket to travel on to be able to do and say something of importance. Black Flag taught me you didn't have to be pretty, built like a brickhouse, or well connected to stand out. You could just be yourself and speak from the heart. Maybe the most important lesson I've ever learned. 

Day 230: Nonstop Love

Since Friday at 5:30 p.m., I've spent roughly 2:30 hours apart from the four-year-old shadow that's been following me everywhere I go, and that time apart was only made possible because I got up far ahead of her this morning and sneaked away to golf. Rest assured, when I returned, so did my shadow. But I don't mind. I love that this kid is so happy to be with her dad she wants to fill up every minute doing something fun. I know this time won't last, and although there are brief periods where I think I'll go insane if I don't get two straight minutes to think an adult thought, I couldn't be more content with the constant show of love she gives me. If I've learned anything from helping raise her older three siblings, it's that this time is so fleeting and is gone before you know it and before you want it to be. And when that time comes, there's no getting it back.

This weekend and last weekend have been particularly intense on one-on-one time with my little toddler. Last weekend her mom worked, and this weekend she was out of town. In that time, we've managed to do a whole lot of coloring and drawing, put together countless puzzles, told countless stories, went to the children's museum, went to a movie, went to the park multiple times, enjoyed a fire in the fire pit complete with smores and hot dogs, read countless books, snacked on popsicles and fruit and candy and hot chocolate and God knows what else, played in the sandbox, and tons more. I'm exhausted at the end of the day, but beyond grateful. I know there are so many people who want nothing more than to have a child of their own to do all these things and more but for whatever reason can't. It seems like every time my little one makes me laugh, which is all the time, I realize as much and take great thanks for my luck. Most days, I feel as if this kid gives me far more than I could ever give her.