Day 321: Talking Movies

You can learn a hell of a lot about someone by knowing simply two things: what kind of music they like and why kind of movies turn them on. I've found that talking about music with strangers is pretty difficult for me. I'm a snob. Mention to me, for example, that you're a die-hard Billy Joel fan and we're probably going to have trouble moving forward. I can't say the same for movies, though. I'm a fan of the sophisticated and the stupid. I can find myself absorbed equally as much by "Requiem For A Dream" as I can by Billy Madison." I'm sick that way.

Because of my weird, all-over-the-map taste, my snobbishness isn't nearly as pronounced when it comes to talking flicks. Tell me that your thing is sports movies, and I'll tell you Susan Sarandon's Annie Savoy from "Bull Durham" could possibly be my dream girl. Tell me you're a devotee of buddy flicks, and I'll suggest we put on dark sunglasses and suits and act out scenes from "The Blues Brothers" ("For fried chickens and a Coke.") Tell me you prefer horror, and I'll suggest we put on our spelunking gear and dive into the "The Descent" or don our devil horns and sink into "Rosemary's Baby." Want to compare originals to remakes. I'm down with the that. Want to talk book adaptations. I'm all in. Want to make lists of the best supporting actors ever. I couldn't be happier. Want to compare documentary notes, I've seen my share. I love movies, and I love knowing what others think of them and how they fit movies into their lives. 

Today, my daughter and I were talking movies, and it donned on me how powerful a force movies are. They cross so many boundaries. The bridge so many gaps. You can pretty much sit any two people from any part of the world from any economic background in the same room and tell them, "Name your favorite children's movie," and a conversation will occur. I particularly like people who will experiment with their viewing. I like people who take risks. Who let a director speak to them. I like storytelling, and I like people who like storytelling, too. Most of all, I like talking with people about how they interpreted the story. That's why I love talking with my kids about flicks. You learn a lot about how they view the world. Who and what they find evil and sinful. What they think is funny. What they fear. Who they find brave and determined. You learn what makes them feel warm. What makes them feel motivated and inspired. You learn how they like to pass their time. Tonight, I'll be watching a movie with my four-year-old. I'm leaning toward "The Jungle Book." I wonder what she's in the mood for. 

Day 320: Cornfield Parties

For some reason, I find myself missing cornfield parties tonight. Being outside in an empty cornfield under the Nebraska moon on a cool, autumn night. A million stars up above. A cold beer in hand down below. Songs beaming in from some car radio not too far in the distance . Air fresh. Nose cold. Contentment warm. 

Might sound dopey or weird to "city kids," but a good cornfield party was the answer to everything that was troubling a soul. If you grew up in Nebraska like I did, there's a pretty good chance you attended a cornfield party once or twice in your formative years. If you grew up in a small town in Nebraska, the chances were all the much greater. There are only so many places to escape when you're a kid to begin with. In a Nebraska small town, that's all the more true. And if there's one thing there's no shortage of in Nebraska, it's cornfields. Find someone to buy a 12-pack for you, or if the Gods were particularly kind that night, a pony keg, and life was about to get very good very fast. No worry of the police breaking things up. No worries of the dufus who always broke something breaking something. No worries about being too loud. No worries of torking off the neighbors. No worries about cover charges or admission fees. No bottles broke. No carpet damaged. No harm done. 

I can hear my friends laughing now. I can see their faces lit up by moonlight. I can hear the same stories being told a million times over. God, for some reason, I'd like to be hearing those stories right now. 

Day 319: 10th Avenue Freeze Out

Tonight, roughly 50 miles down the road or so, the Boss is about to rock Omaha for all it's worth for what will likely be three-plus hours of rock-and-roll heaven on earth. I'm sitting at my kitchen table in Lincoln, Nebr. writing about it. So close but so far away. If you see tears on this Web page, you'll know why. 

What makes this all the worse is that I wanted to go. A lot. But circumstances are what they are and I couldn't buy the ducket. And then a friend offered me his tickets today bless his heart. And yet still, circumstances are what they are, and I had to turn them down. <sniff, sniff>

But alas, not all is bad. The positive spin on this is that I've seen Springsteen before. Twice, in fact. The first time was 28 years ago in November no less. I was a senior in high school, and Springsteen was at an all-time high in terms of popularity when the Born In The USA tour came rolling into Lincoln that night. My girlfriend and sister had camped out all night weeks prior for tickets, God bless them. 

I remember pretty much everything from that show, including the 20 minute-plus encore of "Twist and Shout" with the house lights on. Before that there was Springsteen telling us about he recent visit to our fair state while introducing "Nebraska," a song off the album of the same name in which he name-drops Lincoln. And of course, there was Clarence "Big Man" Clemmons taking center stage. God, I miss Clarence. 

That night still ranks among the best I've spent at any concert, and I've seen a few in my time. I've seen pretty much seen most of my heroes (sans Van Morrison, Townes Van Zandt, and a few others), but Springsteen was the "it" in my musical world that night and for a long time after. I learned about rock and roll that night. I learned how music can transcend. I learned how it can unite and tear down the fricking house down, and it did, brother. 

Not long after that show, I saw Springsteen on the "Tunnel of Love" tour, which had a completely different, less blaring, less bombastic, less going-for-the-kill feel about it, yet that show was just as powerful and just as memorable. 

I have a lot of those types of memories associated with Springsteen. His Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction speeches are beyond mandatory listening. His scene in "High Fidelity" is one of my favorites ever. His reworking of Pete Seeger's songs are so dead-on glorious that I find myself more in awe and finding something different I love about them with every listen. Springsteen is the real deal. He's among the most charitable men alive, certainly among the most giving of musicians. He's ethical and idealistic. He committed, but he doesn't take himself too seriously. He's humble and honest. Maybe most important to me is that he's a fan of music. He lives for it, and I can appreciate anyone who is of that make-up.  

I'm really envious of the scores of friends I know who are reveling in Springsteen's immense and deserved power tonight, but I'll take some solace in knowing he's brought much joy into my musical world already. So, even though I couldn't make the short trip to Omaha tonight, I'll still be thankful for the music. I'll slip on my headphones, push play on "The Wild, The Innocent & The E Street Shuffle," and let the rock and roll wash all over me. 

Day 318: Single Parents

I have the greatest respect for single parents. I've known quite a few over the decades, and like all parents, some single parents I would say have been better than others, but all have a rough job. 

This week I've been reminded of my admiration. My wife has been out of town since Sunday and will be gone a week or so by the time she returns. My time has been filled with constant running back and forth between school and home, tending to a sick child, heading to the doctor, to the grocery store, to work, to the pet store, cooking, cleaning, and so on. The thing is, I know my time as a single parent is finite. I'm not truly a single parent. I'm a part-timer. That's not the same for "true" single parents. Theirs is an everyday struggle to keep the ship above water captained alone. 

I do have a little experience in this single-parent territory. My wife works 12-hour stretches every other weekend, and we see her little if any during that time. At her previous job, she worked 36-hour stretches where we essentially didn't see her at all. During those days, I was pretty much on my own, fighting the good fight and keeping things afloat. But I know that this doesn't begin to qualify me as being a single parent. During all of those days, my wife was only a phone call away if I needed some backup, some inspiration, or a sounding board. If I needed to check out something about one of our kids, I could. If I needed to vent that one of them was driving me crazy and might not be present when she got home, I could. If I needed my wife to be the bad guy for a bit, that was an option, too. 

Single parents don't have that luxury. They are it. They are the first and last line of defense. There is no go-to partner in crime to provide some much needed relief. From my limited experience in facing down a house full of children alone, I can't imagine waking up every day and facing that reality. 

But there is a yang to the ying. I've noticed among many of the "good" single parents that I've known that they develop and continue to share a special bond with their children that many two-parent families never reach. I think the same is somewhat true of my family, despite being a two-parent household. I spend an inordinate amount of time, for example, with our four-year-old, to the point that some nights by bedtime, I'm ready to pull my hair out (if I had any left). But good lord if we don't do a hell of lot of bonding before I reach that point. And further, all of the time I've spent with my older kids, and they with me, in which we were forced to deal with each other in the moment, whatever that moment contained, was positive in the end. All the battles and differences and all intensity that might have transpired also gave way to a lot of communication and compromising and growth. 

Some moments during these long stretches of being a "single" parent, I long for another adult voice to converse with, but I'm lucky. I know that voice will eventually walk through the door, and with it she'll bring some relief and reason and sanity back into our domain. I'm sure single parents have all types of the same relief built into their lives. I'm also sure they count their own blessings for what they have. 

Day 317: The Smell Of Basketball

My girl has been going through high school basketball tryouts the past two nights. As her sister and I have been driving across town to pick her up, traveling the busy city streets in the early darkness that fall time brings, it's been impossible to not smell the basketball in the air. Each night as we've walked from the house to the car on our mission, I've noticed that the odor has gotten a little stronger and a little more enticing on each successive night. Even though we haven't stepped a foot in the gym, I can smell the gym. We haven't come near the locker room, but I can smell it. I can smell the leather. I can smell the heat. The sweat. The hustle. The intensity. I can smell the drive and want. I can smell the attitude and hunger. In all the crispness that these nights offer, I can smell basketball, and it just might be the best smell I ever taken in. 

I may be wrong, but I imagine most people who have played know exactly what I'm talking about. They know the beauty of which I speak. It's a glorious odor, and it lingers in the thin air pure and true. A true baller can take as big and as deep as breathes as possible and still not get enough. It's just not possible. True ballers will always be left wanting more. 

I often wonder what others parents who played sports and who loved it as much as I did think and feel as they sit in the darkness, waiting for their respective child to comes strolling out to the car after a practice. Each night as my girl comes walking out in her shorts and her hair all out of whack and in a sweaty mess, I think about all those nights after my own practices when I bolted out to the car of whoever I was leeching a ride off, exhausted, beat down, sore, hungry, and spent. Entirely and completely worn through, yet as happy and as at peace as I can ever remember. That was a magical time. Young, athletic, full of potential. Surrounded by friends. Surrounded by laughs. United in jokes and put downs. United in a purpose. That doesn't happen much anymore at my age, and I find that I miss it terribly at times. 

That's why I'm so excited for my kid. I want her to feel half of what I did back then. I want her to always get goosebumps when she hears the squeaking of basketball shoes on the hardwood. Every time her nose picks up the smell of fresh popcorn floating down a school's hallway as she enters the building, I want her to remember how it felt on those Friday and Saturday nights, coming out of the locker room to those piping-hot first notes shooting out of the pep band trumpets. I want her to feel the same shots of adrenalin spiking down her spine as I did feeling those magnificent drum beats bouncing off the sticks of one Tony Christenham behind the kit blasting me straight in the face. I want her to know how it feels to hear little kids scream her name when she drains a bucket or hear a cheerleader belting out a "S-I-N-K, sink it!" in her honor as she stands at the free throw line. I want her to feel butterflies as big as jets crashing inside her stomach as she's lacing up her shoes. I want that and so much more for her because it's the top of world and everyone deserves at least some bit of time there. 

I wish there was a way to bottle up the smell of basketball, but I suppose that would spoil the magic. I suppose it would make these fall nights a little less special. I suppose there's much to be said for said for reveling in the here and now and not trying to reproduce what's special whenever the mood strikes. I suppose I find these nights and this feeling that basketball produces so special because it's not available all year round and not everyone feels the same way as I do. Maybe it's just me who gets this goofy about a "smell" that doesn't really exist anywhere but in my mind, but somehow I doubt it. 

Day 316: All The News Unfit To Print

Sometimes, I read the headlines just for the amusement factor. Like, when I need a pick-me-up, I head to a few Web sites dealing in "news" and chuckle away. Soon enough, I'm good to go, ready to tackle life again. I'm mean, really, my life seems like like a big piece of cheesecake compared to some people's unfortunate circumstances. 

Sometimes, the headlines are uplifting. 

"Meth-addicted baby." 

"Voice of Elmo Denies Sexual Relationship With 16-Year-Old"

"Retailers Vow To Kill Thanksgiving" 


Sometimes, the headlines give me all kind of inspiration and real-world advice to move forward. 

"How To Cheat Like A Spy." 

"Jessica's Weight Loss Reveal" 

"11 Signs That Your Boss Is A Psychopath" 

"Why Anne Hathaway Plans To Keep Her Pixie Cut" 

"The Faux Leather Leggings You Should Own" 

Sometimes, I learn what's truly important. 

"Miley's short shorts." 

"The Biggest Misconception About Infidelity" 

"Robot Sex"

"I Was The Other Woman"


Sometimes, on days like these, I wish I was just living some of this news. 

Day 315: Where Does The Time Go

I swear, I work harder on the weekends than during the work week. Well, it's a different kind of work, at least. It sure requires a lot more patience. Take your your resident four-year-old breaking one thing after another. Brutal. All day long. But you survive. You live on. You relish what you have. And then you get up and do it all over again the next day.