Day 257: Rock Star

Today, my kid told me I was an old man and couldn't be a rock star. I suppose she's right, but man that one cut to the bone. Worse, when I asked which was better, being a rock star or being a dad, she said, "Definitely a rock star, and it's not even close." I guess at four, the world had gotten to her already. She wouldn't get an argument from too may people, either. What stings more is that there's a part of me that agrees with the little urchin. I'd love to be a rock star, even an old one. I'd love to travel the world with my six string on my back. I'd love to have a groupie or two to do my laundrey at beck and call. I'd love to have Lemmy's cell # in my contacts or know that my summer European tour was sold out. I'd love to rock Cleveland. But it ain't happening.

Someday, my kid will know what's really important, but who am I to shatter the illusion now? Let her view the world big for now. Let her believe there's glit and glammer waiting out there. Maybe she'll believe so much she'll want to be a rock star herself, and god knows if she really wants to she can. Then I can live through her.

Day 256: Another Day At The Shop

Some days, amid all the craziness that's going on, little moments of peace and moments of quietness and moments of realizations manage to pop up and make me know that the craziness isn't what really matters. What matters is what happens between the craziness. 

Everyone deals with their share of craziness. Not everyone deals with it the same, though. Some days, I'm better at putting the chaos under wraps than others. Some days I manage to do it with calmness and even a bit of expertise. Other days, I just freak and the mayhem gets the better of me. Today was somewhere in the middle. 

Generally, I've grown use to a certain amount of craziness in my life. I live among crazy people, and I mean that in the best, most loving way. So, craziness is to be expected. Some days, I even embrace and welcome it. Living a life that is anything but normal and predictable is beautiful in many regards. It's always challenging and requires a fair amount of faith. Rise to the challenges enough, persevere, and keep on stepping forward and there's not a lot that can halt you in your tracks permanently. That's something to be thankful for.  

Day 255: The Neverending Story

It's pretty amazing watching your child grow up right before your eyes. This wonder seems to happen to me all the time, and I'm so thankful. I particularly like seeing my kids come into their own when they're in the younger years. My four-year-old, for example, is watching "The Neverending Story" right now as I type. Each time I look across the room, I see her sink deeper and deeper into the fantastic world being displayed for her. I can see her amazement rise a little bit with each second. I can see the awe and fear and sadness effect her in various ways, including some I've never witness in her before. I can see her react to each occurrence. It's brilliant. Every so often she offers commentary to me. She gives me her reasoning and tells me what she thinks of the characters, pointing out their strengths and flaws as she sees them. I'm fully content to just watch her and not give myself even a second to enjoy the film myself. Watching her react is the better picture, honestly.

If you don't stop to just watch your kids once in awhile, really watch, you're missing out on probably life's greatest gift. You're missing out on watching yourself because sooner or later you will show up in your kids' actions and thoughts. How they react to events will greatly be impacted how you do. How they judge will greatly by influence by how you judge. What they find humorous and how they display their own humor will greatly follow yours. How they confront fear and challenges and pain will very much pattern how you do yourself. When I recognize a weakness in myself that I'm fully aware of and then see it manifest itself in my child, it pains me deeply. Conversely, when I see them rise up to an occasion and tackle an obstacle without fear in a way that I might or I see them practice patience in a manner they might have seen me do, I'm filled with a pride. It makes me feel as if I'm doing something right. I'm doing something worthwhile. I'm doing something that's worth continuing. 

Right now as my kid lays on the couch and takes part in "The Neverending Story," I'm thankful I can watch her and take part in her world. 

Day 254: Memphis On My Mind

Pretty much all day, I've been thinking about Memphis. 

Memphis, Memphis, Memphis. 

It's almost gotten to the point that I've had to admonish myself to "get it together, man" and snap out of it. But I can't. I seriously have Memphis entrenched in my being today. And as much as I'd like to say I'm referring to the glorious southern city that I've visited numerous times, including with my beautiful wife on a escape to Graceland roughly 11 years ago to the day, I'm not talking about the home of Elvis, or that of B.B. King. Not the land of Sun Studio or Beale Street. Not Martin Luther King. Not the Gibson Guitar factory. Not The Peabody, either. 

I'm referring to the Memphis BBQ Six Dollar Burger at Carl's Jr. Great balls of fire, do I ever want this sandwich in my mouth right now. I mean, I want to stuff this bad boy, juicy goosey, souped-up mountain of goodness into my food tunnel bite by delicious bite. And then maybe do it all over again. 

It's been that way since last night when I saw a commercial on TV for this skyscraper of gorgeous grub, although I have to admit the ad was a bit on the racy, questionable side, unless you don't consider soft porn-quality TV ads that play during prime time hours questionable. Hey, I  accepted long ago that companies like to use beautiful women to pitch and sell their goods. But Carl's Jr.? It pushed the boundaries a bit but using girls who looked barely able to tie their own shoes engaging in cheeseburger eating rituals with one another that I'm pretty sure never really happen at backyard picnic. At least not the gathering I've attended. But I digress. Back to the sandwich. 

We're talking pulled pork combined with a cheeseburger combined with onion crisps and all of it topped with BBQ sauce. Why have I not thought of this before? Why have I deprived myself of this for so long. All those years I could have been putting this monstrosity together in my own kitchen, only to settle for toast or microwave burr

So, after a bit of investigative work and several solid leads from my man Daryl as to where I can acquire this edible beauty, I pinpointed a location roughly 37 miles from my home. There, I can lay down some greenbacks in exchange for this monster. 

So, what's stopping me? One, today I weighed myself after lunch and to my great delight, saw three digits staring back that amounted to a weight that I'm more than thrilled to have dropped to. A weight that pretty much equals the one I was at when I graduated high school. I'm not sure I want to set myself back with three or four months of flipping running mile after mile by devouring this testament to meat. Second, this triple stacker of a sandwich packs a whopping 1,000 calories (500 being from fat) and enough sodium to melt a glacier. I'm semi-serious when I say that might kill me with my bib on.  

Still, I'm a firm believer that you only live once, and partaking in life means partaking in joy, and I'm pretty damn sure partaking in the Memphis BBQ Six Dollar Burger would give me a great, great, great amount of joy. I'm also quite certain that just thinking about this towering achievement has brought a positive glow to my being today. Even if I don't oblige, I'm a better man for just letting my eyes take in this heavenly creature. I somehow feel stuffed without having taken one bite. 

Day 253: 9/11

In the summer of 2001, I took a work-related trip to New York City that lasted several days. We stayed in Manhattan, arrived in time to catch the end of the glorious madness that is the Gay Pride Parade, and ate some of the best pizza in the world that first night in the big city. Gotham was everything I'd hoped and expected it be and more. Big, bustling, beautiful, boisterous, and brimming with possibilities at any hour of the day or night. 

During those days, we spent hours and hours walking the city's streets. We toured MOMA. We rode along Central Park. We ate wonderful Salvadorian cuisine. We downed many beers at Jimmy's Corner (the "veritable shrine to boxing"). We snacked on halal from food carts in the middle of the night. We did all this and so much more. But the highlight of the trip was walking down to the financial district on one chilly but beautiful evening, entering one of the World Trade Center buildings, and taking that long elevator ride to the top to bask in the glorious view of the skyline of the world's most exciting city. 

In retrospect, I'm so glad I made that walk and that I took that elevator ride. Given what would happen to those buildings a few months later, that experience has resonated strongly with me since. I think of that night often. I think of the co-workers I took that walk with, co-workers who remain good and valued friends still today. I think of walking down the sidewalks along Wall Street, of riding the Staten Island Ferry on the choppy water and being enamored by the Staten Island Yankees stadium all lit up and buzzing with game-day excitement in the near distance. I think of the Statue of Liberty standing tall and proud as we floated by. But I think mostly of the Trade Center buildings. Their enormity. Their purpose and meaning. The flags from countries throughout the world  waving in the breeze on the plaza. I think of those buildings' massive presence. 

Truth is, I was tired that night and hadn't really wanted to make that walk. I very nearly passed on the chance. Something or someone must have intervened and made me go. I'm entirely thankful. Eternally grateful. Again, considering what fate would hold for those buildings a few months later, I'm beyond thankful. 

I've always been a person who has had a difficult time dealing with blatant sadness. There are certain movies I can't bring myself to watch because I know what's in store. There are certain images that I turn away from because my personality isn't one that's prone to walk away with much more than numbing pain. 9/11 is certainly one of these scenarios. There have been few times in the years since that day that I've been able to view an image related to the buildings being hit and crumbling. I just won't allow myself to even try. For the same reason, there have been few times when I've forced myself to read or listen to an account from those who made it out or those who lost family and friends. Just last week I listened to an audio account of a boy whose grandmother, someone he never got a chance to know, died in the buildings but how the legacy she created by refusing to leave behind her co-workers has provided inspiration and purpose for that boy. I was moved to tears pretty much instantly and each time I thought of his words the rest of that day. 

9/11 signifies so many things for so many people. It's hard to digest it all in  one passing moment, so I don't try. Too often, I'm left debilitated. Death. Loss. Anger. Shock. Fear. Courage. Unity. Division. Innocence lost. Hatred introduced. I think of 9/11 often, but for reasons I can't explain or understand, I can't confront the most emotional moments of that day visually. I'm not trying to pretend the event never happened. I'm not trying to forget or distance myself. But I can't watch those buildings fall down. I don't need to see them crumble. I feel the effect of those building collapsing a little bit in every day life. In the changes this country underwent and is still dealing with. In the changes this country' citizens underwent. In the changes the world underwent.

Beyond the buildings dying, beyond the dust clouds rising and swarming, and beyond the dread-filled faces of those people running for their lives down those city streets we had walked on not long prior, the strongest image related to 9/11 for me is that of my young children. I envision them still standing next to me outside the State Capitol building following 9/11, along with throngs of other people gathered in sadness, holding candles in our hands, singing songs of patriotism and love, saying prayers in unison. I envision myself looking down at my children, knowing full well in those moments that they'd never know the same type of childhood that I had been privileged to have had, one in which the outside world seemed so far away and so mysterious, so exotic and promising, so vast and full of possibilities. Not dangerous. Not invading. Not ugly. Not demented. Not threatening and cracked. 

My children looked so beautiful that night standing among all those adults, their faces full of wonder and curiosity, not knowing or understanding what we were there for. Not understanding the meaning of all the words being lifted up. Their faces were so young and bright. So innocent. So alive. I still tear up when I think of it. I'm sure I always will. I was thankful then, and I'm thankful now that they were with me then and still are here today, walking this planet, free to speak and believe and choose their own paths. Free to explore the world, despite the ugliness that unwittingly entered their own worlds that day. 

Day 252: "Dad, I'm Proud Of You"

I won't lie, some days I long to hear those words. I don't even care what they were said in reference to. They could be spoken because I managed to brush my teeth three times in one day. They could be uttered because I washed all the dirty towels and folded them neatly. I really don't care. It would just be nice to hear those words come out of the mouths of my babes now and again. 

The thing is my kids aren't ingrates or self-entitled little monsters. I firmly believe it's just the expected tradition and norm for words of praise to flow with much more frequency coming from the parents than vice versa. I don't think it dons on kids even that their parents value their opinion and that to hear such words would mean the world and then some. That's understandable. Sadly, some parents give off the vibe and probably mean it completely when they say they don't give a damn what their kids think or say. I don't think that's the case with the vast majority, though. I do think, though, that it would take some form of vulnerability for many parents to express to their kids that they'd like to hear something glowing or ego-stroking once in a while or they'd like to know when they've done something particularly well that some parents aren't willing to risk. To do so might be to give up some power or put them on a more even playing field that they're not comfortable with.  

Whether they'll admit it or not, or even believe it or not, I think beyond our own parents, many parents most want the approval and  hear words of praise from their own kids. After all, it's our kids that we do all this for, isn't it? They are the reason we get up in the morning and do what we do. They're the reason we sacrifice our greater good. They're the reason we lose many nights to no sleep and years of life to stress. What wouldn't be grand about hearing  some raves about ourselves from the people we give so much for? 

Especially during the early years of my kids' lives, I think I've been good about giving due where it's deserved and providing positive reinforcement. "Where it's deserved" being the key phrase, though. Like a lot of people feel I guess, I think kids are patted on the back a little too much these days, gloried for every minor accomplishment that eventually makes the real accomplishments feel less important and meaningful than they should. Watered down. Luster lost. 

I understand the arguments for praising often and early to create self-confidence and security in children, and I believe in that to a great extent. I also believe and have seen that eventually there come expectations that doing mediocre work is good enough, something that truly bothers me. That's something that I don't believe in, and especially in the elder years, doing mediocre work is something I haven't praised. Maybe to a detrimental degree. Maybe not. I'm not sure. I think that I believe that doing so is equivalent to lying to myself and to my kids. I guess I fall on the side that by only handing out praise when it's truly deserved is doing them a greater service. Hopefully, they come to understand that on those occasions when accolades and kudos do come flowing from my mouth, they carry weight and mean something. They don't float innocently into the ether or carry the risk of falsely inflating an ego. 

Sometimes, the phrase "nothing is good enough for you" is deserved. I also think it's been thrown around so often and with such negligence in TV shows and movies that it carries no purpose that being an excuse. My own take is that I don't buy the phrase at face value. It requires some digging to validate or deflate. Doing mediocre work when I believe you are capable of more is what's not good enough for me. Rising to the challenge and meeting your individual expectations, given your strengths and weaknesses, will always be good enough. 

Which brings me back full circle to hearing words of praise from my kids. I often wonder what they might say behind closed doors or what thoughts they might think in their heads. How exactly do they feel about their old man? How exactly do they envision their old man? Does he impress in any way? Does he ever surpass their expectations? Does he ever surprise with what he delivers? Expressing such things for many kids is an impossibility. It's hard enough to know what to make our your own life and feelings at that age, let alone worry about giving your parents some confirmation from time to time that they're doing OK. Still . . . 

It all makes me feel I should revisit the topic of giving praise, particularly in how often I  hand it out. For whatever reason, as time comes by, it becomes easier for many family members to praise non-family members, even strangers, than their own family. That's a shame and probably avoidable in most cases. Like many situations, this is most likely an area where it's up to the parents to set the tone. 

Day 251: Street Musicians

Someday, when I'm long past retired and looking for new ways to kill my time, I hope to take my guitar to the street and just play. I really admire and love watching street musicians. There aren't a whole lot of them around these parts, but when I'm in a major urban area, which isn't enough these days, I'm thrilled at how many musicians who are really excellent and really engaging there are to watch. This morning, I heard this article on NPR about a classical guitarist who takes to the street in the Berkeley area in California. Besides playing beautifully, the guy had a beautiful outlook which has stuck with me all day. "It's nice putting some positive feelings into the ambiance," he said. True. I'm not nearly talented enough to fill the "ambiance" with the type of joy he can, but who knows, maybe some day.