Day 250: Fatherly Advice

There aren't too many feelings that are better than when your child seeks out your advice. I mean, it's fantastic for so many reasons. Even better is when they actually take the advice, not that that's the point, but it sure doesn't hurt. When a kid looks you in the eyes, listens intently, and then executes exactly what you offered forth but with their own personal twist, it's magic. 

Day 249: Damn Straight, Jean-Luc

"I heard police or ambulancemen, standing in our house, say, “She must have provoked him,” or, “Mrs Stewart, it takes two to make a fight.” They had no idea. The truth is my mother did nothing to deserve the violence she endured. She did not provoke my father, and even if she had, violence is an unacceptable way of dealing with conflict. Violence is a choice a man makes and he alone is responsible for it.”-Patrick Stewart


One thing that I find about as positive as possible are women who fight for other women. Something I find about as disheartening are women who actively combat those women. I see examples of both a lot these days with the election brewing and women's rights and women's health care issues being so prominent in the news. Obviously, having never been a woman, there are things about being a female I could never begin to fathom, and thus, my words should be taken with a grain of salt. But I don't think one has to have been a woman to understand that, historically, women have been treated with what can be accurately described as everything from mere indifference on the low end to outright and utter denigration on the high end. 

There are endless examples of how women have been chronically been mistreated, including  going back to the proverbial caveman dragging his woman around by the hair like a common object. Women have been bartered and traded like cattle, burned and scorned for being witches and whores, considered to dense to vote or teach or earn equal pay. Women have been deemed as having no skills worth offering society other than cleaning the home, raising the kids, washing her husband's dirty shorts, and having supper on the table promptly when he got home from work. 

Sadly, there are still far too many examples of how women are viewed as second-class citizens throughout the world, including young girls trafficked internationally for sex, women physically mutilated in the name of various cultures, women indiscriminately raped and tortured in the name of religious and ethnic cleansing, and  more. 

Personally, as the father of three daughters, my blood boils when I see women objectified and demeaned. When I see a woman talked down to or having to endure crude comments plainly spoken loud enough so she can hear them, it mystifies me as to how that behavior was ever deemed OK but how it's still considered socially acceptable by the assholes who utter them. Having been in some of the bars I've been in and having watched some of the poor girls who had to walk a gauntlet of leering eyes stuck in the heads of men who felt somehow entitled to act as boorishly as desired,  I can't imagine the burden of being a woman in some regards. I can't imagine the constant stream of moronic behavior that must be tolerated simply for being one gender vs. another. 

And that's why I admire women who don't tolerate the behavior. I admire the men who don't either. Without question, there are inherit burdens to being born a man that aren't pleasant, but I believe women have it far worse. 

I love the photo above and the message that accompanies it. I ran across it today, and it's a good reminder that being born a man doesn't translate to greater intelligence, vision, or rights. It definitely doesn't entitle you to treat women, or anyone else for that matter, in an inferior, harmful manner. 

Day 248: Dig Dug & Commander Chris

Today, I ran across an article concerning old-school arcade games, the likes of Asteroids, Centipede, Super Breakout, and others—games that kids today would most likely scoff at with utter disrespect due to the lack of gameplay and challenges, low-end graphics, and flimsy story lines that those games of old offered up compared to their high-res, movie-quality combat competitions of now. But for the kids of my generation, those games are looked upon with sincere and lifelong adulation.

The article took me instantly back to one of the greatest days of my life, a day when I witnessed a peer no different than me get every last bit of conceivable joy, pleasure, tension, stress, fatigue, mental and physical endurance, and hand-eye coordination possible out of a single, solitary quarter.

Never before or after have I gotten as much unmitigated happiness and sense of accomplishment out of 25 cents, and all I did was stand there and watch it all go down.

What I witnessed was absolute magnificence.

A towering accomplishment.

A boy transformed into a conquering hero.

A small town kid morphed into a valiant knight.

A warrior in possession of supreme skills.

A ninja master who effortlessly brought together his most excellent skills and forged them into a finely honed weapon of destruction.

What I witnessed that day was the personification of an ordinary boy overcoming all odds and obstacles relentlessly put in front of him only set each one aside to climb to the top of the proverbial mountain and reign supreme among all.

What I’m talking about, good people, is the day I witnessed my friend, a boy named Chris, plug a quarter into the Dig Dug machine at the Gas N’ Shop on the corner of Main Street and proceed to spend the next several hours in complete and total domination, until in the end, he rolled that machine, humbling it and all who watched in the process.

It was an epic day. A magical day. A moment I’ll never forget. There was no indication of what was to come. There were trumpets sounding. There was no parade. There were no screaming crowds. But damn it if the world didn’t stand still ever so briefly that late afternoon as that period after school slowly faded into supper time and then beyond.

Level after level, tunnel after tunnel, pattern after pattern, Chris wore that joystick out. Though his legs were fatigued (as were mine), though his throat grew dry, though his forehead sweat bullets like never before, he persevered. I was in awe.

Chris was the undoubted master of arcade games among my click. While Tim was the undisputed Gorf master, winning free pizza after free pizza at Buck’s Place each week for charting the high score, Chris was a master of all games. He always got his quarter’s worth, unlike me who might as well of had “Sucker Coming” plastered to his forehead. I sucked, but I sucked equally at all games. That was my calling card.

Chris, though, he was pure. Defender, Asteroids, whatever the game, he was fluid and unflappable. That day on the Dig Dug machine, though, he was in the zone. He was not to be f*cked with. He might have been among the shortest of my friends, but he stood tallest that day.

Hour after hour he went on and on. Soon, I realized I would either have to make the long walk home in order to make it in time for supper and miss the epic achievement that was happening before my eyes as a result, or I could accept that I was going to be in trouble and stay and revel in Chris’ glory. I stayed. I’ve never regretted the decision. I’ve never seen a machine rolled since.

Today, when I drive past that lot where that Gas N’ Shop used to stand this is the memory I attach most greatly to the empty space. A boy. An arcade game. And one quarter.

Day 247: Float On

Alright don't worry even if things end up a bit to heavy
We'll all float on alright

- Modest Mouse 

Sometimes when I'm running--an activity that I've been forcing myself to do fairly religiously since the turn of the year in an attempt to live a more (semi) healthy lifestyle--magically things happen. 

Usually, the magic takes the form of me pushing through some mental or physical barrier that I wasn't sure I could overcome, like running longer or farther than I have before. Sometimes, the magic is just the simple pleasure of running under a beautiful, peaceful sky or on a Sunday morning when the world feels sleepy and dreamlike. Sometimes, the magic is a certain, enticing aroma that's heavy in the air, like the various smells that a recent rain has stirred up and is drifting around my head, much like the ones that last night's rain concocted. Sometimes, the magic is a rainbow that forms in the sky directly in front of me,  much like the one that did also last night as I was coming down a hill that I had just barely made my way up. Sometimes, though, the magic takes the form of memories filling my head that are actually connected to the act of running. 

It's been a long time since I was 15 and 16 and running came easy to me and I genuinely enjoyed it. During the summer months back then, I'd do my running in the dead of the night, when pretty much everyone else in the town I lived in was fast asleep. Some nights were eerily quiet. Other nights the junebugs would be hopping under every street light or a bat or two would be flapping its wings or a car with someone I knew inside would pass by and keep me company. Most often, though, I just floated on those streets that surrounded my town, as if I was on clouds all alone in the world without any place in particular to get to and without any time limitations putting constraints on me. I never seemed to get tired back then. I never seemed to get mentally fatigued, either. I just floated on and on. 

When I run today, it's nearly impossible not to focus on the running, as much as I try not to and as much as i try to place my thoughts elsewhere. Some days, it's deflating and defeating. Other days it makes me pissed at myself for being so mentally weak. Once in a while, I just accept I'm older and I've room to improve. 

Why are my legs dead already?

I shouldn't have drank that beer last night? 

I've never felt that twinge in my knee before? 

I wonder if it's been three miles yet?

Why the hell am I even doing this?

Back when I was a kid and was free of such thoughts, I focused on everything else but the running it seemed. I just took off. There were no notions of running in order to get healthy. I already was. There were no worries about drinking a beer. The worry was how to get the beer. There was no unexpected pain that popped up, other than those that concerned why everyone else I knew seemed to have a girlfriend except me. Back then, my mind and thoughts seemed as expansive and wild as the cornfields I'd run past. 

Man, the moon is fricking brilliant tonight. 

I wonder if I run by her house if her bedroom light will be on. 

College is going to rock. 

I wonder if all that Aqua-Net really will make my hair fall out someday. (Yep.)

What's crazy about running today is that every so often, I'll get a peek at that kid back then and remember how running made him feel and how it can still make the me today feel. The rain or the sky or the music that I'm piping into my ears will serve as some kind of secret passageway where I can temporarily put my thoughts on hold, and I'll just float. The floating doesn't happen anywhere nearly as long as it once did, but when it does, I'm completely content. I'm talking myself into running marathons. I'm envisioning myself with a runner's body. I'm filling my heads with all kinds of possibilities . . . until ultimately, I wind up bringing the act of running right smack dab back to the forefront of my thoughts and kill the vibe.

That's the secret of life I'm convinced, not killing the vibe. Not dictating thoughts. Not micromanaging the moment, but letting the moment manage itself. On those days when I drown out the nagging thoughts tied to dead legs and winded lungs, I feel possessed in an entirely good way. I feel anything is possible because I'm worried about nothing at all. If only I could learn to flip that switch at will.

I admire my 16-year-old self for having figured all this out decades ago, whether he knew it at the time or not. He had it made. I'm glad he took advantage of the gift and of the freedom he was given and of the solitude of the night and of the ability to just float. I'm glad he taught me what it's like to float. 

Day 246: Pass The Ketchup

Some days, the best thing that can happen for my soul is seeing a familiar face in a different place. Same familiar face. Entirely different place. Ah.

Take today, for example. I had lunch with my wife in a setting that wasn’t our home. What’s the big deal, you ask. Let me tell you. It doesn’t happen very often. Not nearly as much as I’d like. It’s understandable why. We have a four-year-old. Before that, we had three other children who had various needs to tend to. On top of that, we both work in fairly stressful occupations. We’re both busy with appointments, driving here and there, meeting obligations (many of which aren’t our own), keeping the peace, re-establishing the peace, mending wounds, buying groceries, cleaning floors, surviving. We both move in a million different directions at the same time seemingly each and every day. Such is life.

So, when the world slows down just long enough so that our days can collide in the same vicinity that isn’t our house, I take great joy in the rare opportunity and in basking in the unfamiliar surroundings. I take great pleasure in not being interrupted by whatever child should happen to enter the room with a need more pressing then our own. I take great happiness in being able to make direct eye contact with my wife without piles of dirty dishes or the furry tails of too many pets or broken crayons or heaping mountains of unwashed laundry obstructing the view. I take great delight in for at least an hour, not dealing with the mundane, ordinary, and commonplace. I revel in it. It’s amazing how serene and peaceful and exciting the simple act of picking up a perfectly crinkled, deliciously salted French fry and placing it in my mouth while listening to the grownup words coming from the mouth of an adult I love to be with can be.

This may very well turn out to be a perfectly uneventful day (which isn’t all bad considering the possibilities, many of which I’ve previously experience and lived through), but days like this in which I get to spend an hour alone, unencumbered, unhinged, and under no demands, with the person I decided a long time that I wanted to spend my life with doing exactly this is good living in my book. I’ll gladly take it. 

Day 245: E.T.

I looked forward all weekend to watching "E.T." with my daughter tonight. We talked about it and talked about it, but the entire time leading up to actually watching the movie, I feared she wouldn't actually follow through and watch the entire thing. Sure enough, she made it through about the first half hour and then proceeded to complain that she wanted to watch something else. Pretty much just as expected. Although I'm disappointed, I understand. I think I've learned that the things that were meaningful to me in my childhood don't always transfer to my kids', as much as I'd like it to. What I've also learned is that even though the experience generally doesn't come off as I'd like, it doesn't diminish my own experience any. I still get the kick watching as I did all those decades ago. I still feel child-like, and I still feel awed and in wonder. 

Day 244: Dinosaurs

Today, my daughter and I spent the afternoon among dinosaur bones, fossils, artifacts, old weapons, and all the other goodness contained in the museum. I'm always fascinated watching her and seeing what catches her eye. I'm intrigued by how she interacts with history and what she makes of it. Most of it is still beyond her grasp. She recognizes that she is in a place where everything surrounding her is aged and older than she could possibly be, but she doesn't know how it all fits together into her world. She will. She wants to learn, and that's about as encouraging as anything. I hope she continues to gravitate toward education and fulfills her need to know. I could wish for little more than that for her life. I'd like to say learning and interacting with history was at the top of her list today, but that wouldn't be true. Of utmost importance was the gift shop and buying the rubber snake she made friends with. She named his Swacky, and I'm sure they'll be fast friends.