Day 228: Read This, You Won't Regret It

One thing that I feel I'm really good at it passing along things that I run across during the course of the day to those people who I know will appreciate what I'm passing on. It might be a new book, Web site, news article, upcoming movie or play, museum opening, exercise, or recipe. For whatever reason, I've been pretty good in my life about picking up on and remembering those things that particular friends and family find important or have an interest in or have expressed a passion for. When I see something I know someone would take pleasure in or benefit from, it makes me happy in some way to extend it on. 

To that end, here's a link to something that I think anyone will benefit from and that everyone should definitely click. It's a link to a post from a blog called Straight Outta Boise that my longtime friend Clark recently started. I met Clark way back when I was 21. We worked at the same newspaper. He was the Ag editor. I was the cub reporter who didn't know the first thing about anything. Clark not only showed me the ropes, he made life in a new job in a new city a hell of a lot easier. He's been a valued friend since. He's about as smart a person as I know. He's even funnier. He runs marathons in his spare time. He worked his way to becoming an attorney but remained a true and avid outdoors man in the truest sense. All the while, he's remained one of the most down to earth people I know.

This particular post concerns his mom, who recently moved to Clark's city of Boise after losing her husband of many, many years to cancer. As always, Clark's writing is funny and personable, but this post is also particularly touching, moving, meaningful, and thought-provoking, especially for anyone who has a bond with their parents and for anyone who cares about and helps foster the relationship between his or her parents and his or her own children. 

I found this post so moving and meaningful for a couple reasons. One, I never really had a relationship with my grandparents. They were gone before I reached an age where I could form but a scant few memories of them, and those times I was in their presence before that were few and far between. Growing up, it was difficult for me when my friends and other relatives would head off to their grandparents for a visit or when their grandparents would come to visit them for birthday, holidays, cookouts, and other times. I could never relate to what it must be like to have a grandparent in any sense other than I was just envious. I always wondered what it would have been like to head off to my grandparents for a couple weeks in the summer or have my grandfather take me fishing or to ball games. I always wondered what it would have been like to have a grandmother dote on me. As I grew older, I knew I had missed out on something special, including having relationships with people older and wiser that could have taught me much. 

I continue to miss those relationships today, particularly as I've watched how my children have benefited so much over the years from the relationships they have with their grandparents. Watching firsthand how their grandmothers take such interest in their lives makes me entirely grateful and appreciative, but also a little vacant and hallow somehow. My wife consistently speaks so lovingly of her grandmother, who passed years back but who  meant so much to her and so many others growing up. I see and recognize ways constantly of how her grandmother's love influences my wife's own feelings and ideas about family; its an influence that's strong and that I believe has resonated down to my children despite never  having known their great-grandmother. 

Clark's words, however, offer something more than a relationship between a grandmother and grandchildren. At least to me, his post is also rooted in a son's love for his mother and the worry that this invokes. Although he doesn't explicitly state as much, I could feel the pain he feels for his mother's loss and the deep, deep care contained in his words. There's anxiety residing somewhere in these words, in the sense that no one knows what life holds tomorrow for those we hold close; we can only hope for the best and do everything possible today in order that we have no regrets tomorrow, no regrets about what we could have done or said for our loved ones to make their lives better. 

There's much "manhood" and maturity in Clark's words. What he wrote may not be a complete coming-of-age realization, but it certainly contains at least some bits and pieces of someone who realizes that life is constantly on the move and that death and sorrow is a reality, but so too is carrying on and paving new beginnings. There's a maturity and sense of responsibility involved in helping our children create new possibilities but also helping our parents create new possibilities. There's growth involved to reach a place where our relationships with our parents transcend beyond being the child who has traditionally been the one receiving the care and moving into a space and realm where we are giving and doing the caring. 

I'm happy for my friend Clark and the new beginning he's now experiencing. I'm also very happy to pass that experience along to others. 

Day 227: Bad Karma Day? So What

This day has been one calamity after another. I mean, I haven't experienced a day like this in a long, long time (thankfully). It started brutal, it took another turn down an equally brutal street (literally), and it's ended up even more brutal. But at some point in mid-afternoon, I had somewhat of an epiphany: Things may get worse yet, big boy, but so what.

I think I've excepted that I can control only a very few things. Moreover, I can't control the way anyone thinks or reacts. I don't even won't to. I just want to put my head down and keep going full steam ahead. What comes, comes. What doesn't, doesn't. That's it. It's that simple.

Man, that's positive change for me. There was a day not that long ago when I would have obsessed about each and everything thing that had gone bad. I would have turned them over and over, pick and prodded, and then gone into angry, depressed mode for however long it took, all the while giving off the vibe that I didn't want to be screwed with. Today, I felt myself entering that all too familiar space and just backed off. Didn't run from it, just backed off. Recognized where that place was going to take me, knew it wasn't going to end up well in my favor, and turned around and walked the other way. That's a good progression for me, and I'm happy about, even if this day is the shits.

Tonight, I'll just lay my head on my pillow knowing the events of this or any other day won't always play out the way you want, and some days, the events will bash you upside the head in rapid repetition. But so what. They only leaves bruises. They don't hurt forever. 

Day 226: Being Grounded Means . . .

• Picking up poop left behind by creatures lower on the food chain than yourself
• Cleaning up other forms of excrement that emit from the bodies of previously referenced creatures
• Eating macaroni and cheese out of a box because your kids likes it
• Listening to KRFX and other bubble gum-spewing radio stations because you know it will make the someone riding in the backseat or passenger seat happy
• Spending Super Bowl Sunday at your kids volleyball game 
• Skipping Sunday morning golf because you'd rather see your kid play ball
• Handing over the last $5 in your pocket because your kid is thirsty
• Spending your hard-earned money on braces vs. the motorcycle that's eluded you for a lifetime
• Wearing the same white work shirts until holes emerge in the elbows so that your offspring can have new school clothes 
• Forgoing date night again because the sniffles, coughs, and running nose has reared their ugly faces
• Sleeping on the very edge of a king-sized bed because your toddler had a nightmare and is now sleeping horizontally and hogging far more than her share
• Mowing the lawn long after you've reached your 40s
• Washing and folding someone else's underwear
• Cleaning a toilet 
• Unclogging a pipe
• Cutting your own hair

I'm a firm believer in being grounded and being humble. Nearly every person is grounded in same way or another, even the most self-gratifying people I know. Some people I know are so grounded and so humble, it literally amazes me, and in some ways mystifies me. My admiration knows no boundaries for such people, and I spend a lot of time wondering how I can obtain such levels. Fortunately, there are plenty of examples of people who I encounter daily who exhibit behavior I never want to pattern myself after. I'll never run dry of reinforcement. 

At any rate, today, I'm feeling especially grounded and real. I love these days. I love feeling not only down to earth, but below the earth. For some reason, I've grown so tired of the complaining and snarky, condescending pissing and moaning polluting my space lately, maybe I'm feeling compelled to run in the other direction. Or maybe, just maybe, all this positiveness really is taking hold. Snarky, condescending complaining used to be my bag, after all. Maybe I just need a vacation.   

Day 225: All The Way Up To 11

Nothing, and I mean nothing, feels as good as switching on an amplifier, plugging in a guitar, and feeling the shock and buzz that travels up the cord and blasts you all the way up and down the arms. It's unbridled magic. It's the personification of power. It's fricking' all out bliss. If you've let even one E chord rip in your time, you know of what I'm talking about. You know the potential that three notes combined can offer. Chug away at an F power chord and you hold the keys to skyscraper full of ass-whoopin fury.

Some days, the amplifier and guitar sitting in the corner of my basement are the only things that get me back in the game. Some days, I'm beyond wiped out. I'm beyond exhausted. I'm beyond paying attention anymore. I just want to blast my face right off my skull, and electricity is the means I choose to do just that.

It's amazing to me to watch people who can't play a lick give it a shot anyway. I love to see their faces light up when they get an axe in their hands. They noodle around like newbs will, but god it's beautiful how power can take them away, transport them into a new land. Every time I see it, I think, "Oh yeah, kid, another would-be Hendrix has been born." When they're done, I guarantee they're better off than when they began.

One of the greatest days of my life was when my neighbor came knocking on our door in the middle of the afternoon, imploring that I turn it down. "Sure thing," I replied. When she hit the bricks, I went from 8 to 7 and proceeded to make myself happy and fulfilled again. I never promised how much. These days, as I'm laying awake in bed on any given night when her daughter throws a party and the god-awful music she's polluting the air with is throbbing against my outer walls, I feel no regret at all.

God gave me the guitar. He didn't give me all the talent that he gave others to go with it, but he gave me the guitar. And in doing so, he gave me an outlet. He gave me an avenue. He gave my electric glory. He gave me escape. It may not always sound pretty. It may not always be polished and refined, but dman if it isn't satisfying nonetheless.

  

Day 224: A Lost Painting

I used to have a painting years and years ago that I bought at some Goodwill store or another. I hadn't really bought too many painting up to that point, and doing my painting buying at Goodwill probably didn't put me in a positive light among my artist friends, but as more than one of those friends has beaten me over the head with during the years, "art is art, man." 

I loved that painting. It was black and white and had this island vibe and Jamaican feel about it that put me completely in a zone of comfortableness and joy that was a bit hard for me to enter without the assistance. I must have been 21 or so years old when I bought that painting, and I'd stare at it for what seemed like hours at at time some days. I had plenty of spare times on my hands, depending on the day of the week, sitting in the tiny, run-down apartment I called home on the top floor of a three-story house. I had no television, computers were around then, and music was pretty much my only companion on my days off from work (Tuesdays and Wednesdays). Well, music and the paintings and photos that I hung on the walls of that apartment. That particular painting, though, was my favorite. 

Most of the art I've gravitated to during my life has tended to lean toward the dark and gloomy side, not necessarily in a "I'm hear to glorify Satan's presence on Earth with this depiction of him cultivating souls" sort of way, but certainly in a Edvard Munch "Evening on Karl Johan" sense where the subjects of the piece don't appear all that thrilled with being alive, or at least appear to be struggling emotionally or spiritually to make their way from one day to another. I think "struggle" typified the way I was approaching life at that time; it was less about embracing the minutes as they presented themselves and more about surviving them. The sense of surviving, it seems, introduced itself to me early in life and never really wanted to leave. Work and toil, work and toil, work and toil. That summed up how life felt many days, starting very early on. And while that can definitely still be the case on any particularly day now, that feeling of "work and toil" isn't nearly as defining or as strong, and it definitely doesn't stick around nearly as long. I credit that painting I bought at the Goodwill for what must have been $10 tops in some ways to making me see the light. 

I remember that painting had a spiffy, ornate frame that was painted gold. It perfectly complemented the black and white colors that the artist (I have no idea who he or she was) used to create the women that the painting featured. While they didn't quite reach caricature status, the women and their over-exaggerated smiles and too wide of eyes and amplified bosoms that were accentuated by skimpy island dresses sure came close. The overall effect caused me to daydream endless about meeting such women, about traveling to such islands, about finding a place among the locals, about finding a place was life was so joyful and simple. 

I think about that painting often. I don't recall when or why I parted ways with it. I'm sure it wasn't for a good reason, but such has been the way of many things in my life--no good reason. But despite being physically absent, that painting lives on. Such as been the way of many things in my life. 

Day 223: Finding Time To Be A Kid

Today, my daughter and I went to the Children's Museum. She loves the place, and although the luster has sort of rubbed off the place for me a bit (not surprising considering I've going there for 16 years or so and not much has changed), I still appreciate the opportunity to watch my kid grow and pick up on how she's changing. A couple years ago, she would move from station to station, play with a toy for maybe a few seconds, and move on. Today, she uses her imagination to the fullest, devising up scenarios, and putting her heart and mind into each. She stayed at the puppet theater, for example, for what seemed like a half hour, going through a dozen or so puppets, and putting on as many performances. I was thrilled, humored, and having all kinds of fun. I realized that she's growing up, but more importantly, her mind is growing up. She's creating her own word, her own possibilities. What's not to enjoy about that.

We didn't have things like children's museums when I was a kid. We had pretty much what was in the front and back yard or down the block or around the corner. That was it, and that was OK. We made do, and I don't feel like I missed out on anything of great important. Still, it would have been nice to have the opportunities my kids have had. I wonder how my imagination and creativity might have been altered and how that would have influenced the way I see the world now. It's impossible to say, but just perhaps I would have gone down some different paths. Who knows. What I do know is I'm thrilled to have these creative outlets available for my own kids, place where they can 1.) have fun, 2.) explore in a safe environment, and 3.) create new world and sensibilities. I have to admit, as many times as I've been to the Children's Museum, I still manage to let my own reality go temporarily and just find time to be a kid again. 

Day 222: Tired Eyes

When my daughter gets tired toward the end of the night, which doesn't happen all that often, she tell's me that she has "tired eyes." It always reminds me of those nights as a kid when I got "tired eyes." Those nights when I watched television deep into the night, trying to stay up longer than my dad, but always failing. Those nights when my parents would take us to the drive-in for a double feature and I try desperately to stay awake, only to fail. Those nights when I would be in the back seat of the car on a ride home from one place or another and trying to watch the lights pass out the window, trying to watch the stars, and trying not to give in to the stillness of the night and nod off. On those nights when I would manage to stay awake, I would do my best acting that I was fast asleep as we pulled into the driveway. My dad would open the car door, pick my sister up first and carry her in, and then come back to get me. Today, when my daughter tells me she has tired eyes, I wonder what my parents were thinking back then. 

Day 221: The Places I Will Go

Fridays are the best day to let the brain run free, to let imagination take you places you might not be able or fit to go the rest of the week. I like Fridays for planning the escapes and escapades I plan to make someday. Hell, deep down I know most of the journeys I conjure up in my mind will never actually take place, but I have a hell of a lot of fun planning the whatifs. Life is all about the possibilities, people. 

Some day, for example, I want to attend The Gathering of The Juggalos. If for no other reason to just get funky and nasty and live among the Juggs, I would love it. I mean, what's not to love about leaving responsibility behind, entering the woods where the Juggalos congregate, and just going for it? Survive and imagine the stories you'd have to tell. Perish and at least you would have went out in a way that few can say they have or will. 

I also want to get myself to Amsterdam one day down the line. Sure, a guy can get freaky and let it all hang out there just as well as with the good Juggs of the world, but much like the Juggalos, I would also just love to observe the local scene. I'm that guy who takes a seat anywhere and everywhere and just watches the people walk by in fascination, always taking mental notes, always making best guesses about their histories, always wondering where they'll wind up. Amsterdam would be great for that. Grab a cup of a coffee and whatever else I desired and get caught up with the locals. 

Then I head over the Tokyo, Taiwan, and Tibet. In Tibet, I'd find a monastery and forgot about the world, myself, troubles, problems, quagmires, stress, tension, pain, pushing, pulling, and everything else that sucks for a good long time. Eventually, though, I'd get back in the game, and when I did I'd hike the Appalachian Trail. All of it. All at once. No breaks. 

Once that was done, I'd hop on a two-wheeled cruising vessel and crisscross the country as a snail's pace, stopping each and every time the urge struck. No regrets and no wish-I-would-haves. I'd follow that up with a summer road trip touring baseball parks across the country before heading to Australia for some surfing, after which I'd scale a few mountains in the Rockies, enter my first cage fight, and take a cruise along the West Coast before settling in for a month or so in some remote Alaskan region with the natives who adored me. 

Today, though, I'll resign myself to hole up in Lincoln, NE and do some more plotting. Someday, though. Someday. 

Day 220: Why I Believe In (A) God

I've been taking photos of sunsets and sunrises for longer than I can remember.  These photos are only the most recent. I've probably snapped 200 or 300 in the past few years on various cameras. 

I've been staring at the sun even longer (which would probably explain a lot of things about myself). I've spent a lot of time thinking about what it is exactly about the sun that especially turns me on and makes me stop and take notice. It doesn't matter where I am or who I'm with, the sun has a pull on me, especially in the morning and fading daylight hours. I know I'm not unique in this way. I've met plenty of people who feel drawn to the sun and believe it holds or provides some kind of power over or to them. For me, the sun is a spiritual gift. It gives me faith and makes me believe. 

I've tried to describe to many people over the years why the sun convinces me that there's something bigger than you and I that's at work in this world, why the sun convinces me that there is a god of some sort, if "god" is what you want to label this "something." Words never do my feeling justice, though, and they probably won't here, either. 

Simply put, a sunrise and sunset creates a very positive disturbance for me. The way the sun reflects off of water, the way it hits a window, the way it bounces off chrome,  the way it lights up a face or burns through someone's hair, the way it separates one minute from another is proof of perfection. 

The colors that the sun elicits in the clouds and in the sky shakes me to the core. It concentrates me. It focuses me. For me, those colors are the essence of beauty. They are the embodiment of tranquility and meaning. Those colors cause a reaction within, and it isn't a chemical reaction as some would want me to believe. It's a reaction to being. It's a reaction to feeling integrated with life, to being a tiny part of the bigger whole. Those colors are church. Devotion. Truth. Existence. Love. 

Those colors represent everything that is living and breathing and growing inside myself. Those colors are proof to me that something indescribable exists, and it is creating and drawing out something that resides inside me to make me aware and make me care. Make me conscious. Those colors are the gift from something that is desperately trying to deliver enlightenment to me.   

Like I said, words fail. But I believe. I'm not always entirely sure in what or what form it takes, but I know I believe. For me at least, photos like these are the evidence. 

Day 219: Welcome To High School

Last night, we attended incoming freshman orientation proceeding for my "little girl" who is entering her first year of high school. I say "little girl" because she's my baby and will always be my baby. Yet, the reality is, she's not a baby anymore, no matter how much I wish she  was. She's as nearly as tall as me now. She's every bit as intelligent and probably more so. She's witty and clever and thoughtful. She in tune and in touch. She's worldly in ways I couldn't have conceived of being at that age. The world she lives in demands kids her age be. In short, she's grown up. She's not the five-year-old kid who I told stories to at bedtime each night. She's not the little girl who stuck it to the boys by being just as good and better than them on the flag football field. She's not the little kid who learned to ride her bike with the help of her big sister holding her up and chasing after her down the sidewalk. She's the big sister now doing the teaching. 

In so many ways, I dread the first day of school. It means my kids are another year closer to being gone, out of the house, and on their own. In so many ways, I look forward to the first day of school because it means they are one year closer to becoming the adults I envisioned them as being as they were growing up. 

Every year, as another new school year starts, I still get the same nervous feeling in my stomach that I did when I was in school. Those little butterflies start flapping their wings furiously inside my stomach. The waves of anxiousness start tossing and turning with no ending in sight. The possibilities of the great unknown start to play out over and over in my head. The freedom of summer draws closer to an end, bringing with them responsibility. Those few years when one of my kids had to start a school year at a new school where they didn't know anyone only made was is already difficult even more so.  This is one of those years. 

For as many mixed feelings as I'm feeling about my "little girl" who is starting high school, I'm feeling just as many mixed emotions over my other "little girl" who is starting her last year of school. By December, she will have graduated and will be making her way into the "real world." I'm beyond proud, beyond excited, and beyond scared.  What will the real world that I know all so well hold for her? How well will the real world I deal with every day regard her? How will it treat her? Have I fully prepared her? Have I done all that I can? My feeling is that no parent can honestly say that they have done everything possible.There's too much that the "real world" does on a daily basis to interfere and keep that from happening. The "real world" is too demanding and manipulative to allow a parent be the type of parent he or she would like to be at all times. It just isn't possible. But I hope I've done enough given the constraints I was working within. 

All these emotions and feelings are only compounded by the fact that I'm not nearly done with all this. By this time next year, my baby baby, all four years old of her, will be starting her first year of school. Sweet Lord, am I prepared for 12 more years of the public school system? Am I ready at this age to tackle more choir performances and field trips and conferences and all the ups and downs that are sure to come? The answer is that I don't have a choice but to be. I must be ready. At least I've been well broken. At least I have many, many years of experience under my belt. 

Day 218: Freedom To Pop Off & Bite My Lip

On some issues I tend to pop off with little provocation. On others, I'm able to take a few minutes, mull all the issues over carefully, form my stance, and then proceed with a calculated, articulate argument. 

For whatever reason, all this talk about frickin' chicken sandwiches has me flustered and unable to do either. I want to pop off, but I can't bring myself to. I want to gather my thoughts, and in fact have attempted to do just that more times than I can count, only for them to become entangled soon after for any number of reasons. 

This dilemma tends to happen to me each an issue comes to the forefront in which a group of people introduce their First Amendment Rights into the equation. I can't think of anything that's cited more often and used with such carelessness and disregard. I can't think of anything people will pull out of their pocket and fire the trigger on, only to turn around and try choke off the words from coming out of the opposing  outh of someone who attempts to use their supposed same right to free speech. 

I know where I come out on the great Chick-Fil-A debate of our times, and anyone who knows me a little bit can probably figure that out without too much help. Deep down, I can't foresee my stance, however, from stopping me from conversing with those who oppose my view. It's not going to cause me to "unfriend" anyone or denounce their opinions or think any less of them as I've heard more than a few people do in recent days. I hope those who disagree with me would choose to work to come to common ground, but if not, so be it. It's not my job to make you like me, or for heaven's sake, agree with me. Our true right as Americans, at least in my opinion is to have the freedom to disagree. 

Where I will take more aggressive steps, however, is when bigotry, blatant or subversive, becomes the issue. I will take sides when the issue concerns inequity. I will stand firm when I believe a specific and targeted group of people are being singled out, whether it's done through the use of weak semantics that carry all kinds of connotations or through the instant use of a gun fired by a member of an extremist group out of hatred for a particular group of people, as happened over the weekend in Wisconsin. 

In the end, I'm fine if an owner of a business wants to expound on his personal beliefs in a public manner. It's my choice later not to buy what he's selling. He's a human being and entitled to live his life by the means he chooses. But please don't characterize his words as not having ill intent. Please don't say their not in some way not meant to exclude a certain group of people. Too many people in this country have become good and clever at expressing comments meant to target certain groups of people, whether for their religion, race, sexuality, etc., in a way that's politically correct and in a way that most people refuse to examine beyond the words' faith value. Words carry intent. Always. 

In my opinion, whatever that is worth, a business owner is allowed to think and say what he wants, and I believe further he can put his money that he's earned from that business where he wants, including the Family Research Council and other anti-gay organizations, if that's what he believes and sees fit. Just don't tell me that because he delivered his words in a manner that you might deem harmless and within ill intent that I don't have the right to examine his words, examine his past actions, and examine who he associates himself with to make up my own mind. I do have the right, and I will. 

Day 217: Being At Peace

Nothing beats the sense of being completely comfortable with one's self. I am right now. Not caring about caring what others think is uplifting.

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.

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. 

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." 

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. . . . 

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. 

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.

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.