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.

Day 209: The Olympics

It's funny. At no other time would I watch a swimming event than the Olympics. At no other time would I watch diving or gymnastics or any number of other of sports than the Olympics. But not only that. At no other time would I watch any other sport with as much intensity and joy. There's something about watching a legitimate race with everything hanging in the balance that's beyond intriguing and fascinating. There's something about watching an event where there's so much pomp and circumstance that's captivating.

There's also an aspect about the Olympics that takes me back to my childhood and sitting in front of that tv in the living room and seeing what the world and athletes looked like on a huge scale made me feel large and small at the same time. The world was so much smaller then. So much more mysterious and full of promise. Perhaps more than anything the Olympics makes me feel a part of something bigger, knowing do many the world over are watching what I am.

Day 208: Lucinda Williams, You Complete Me

I don't want you anymore

cause you took my joy

i don't want you anymore

you took my joy

you took my joy

i want it back

you took my joy

i want it back 

- Lucinda Williams 

When I need a bit of a pick me up or kick in the ass, I listen to this song. Besides being impossibly funky (a nearly remarkable accomplishment considering it's only one chord), this song in an in-your-face declaration that I'm going to get what's mine, and if you don't like it, kiss my arse kindly, sir. Everyone should have such an anthem. Everyone should be able to decree such intent and purpose.

Me and Lucinda go way back. Longer than she knows. I meet Lucinda through Roseanne (Cash) and Shawn (Colvin). She also used to hang around Mary (Chapin Carpenter). I feel hard for Lucinda the first time I heard her belt out her songs. She wasn't famous yet. She was just starting out. Her voice wasn't even the best my ears had fell prey to, but god, she had a way with words, and if I'm a sucker for anything, it's a woman who knows her way around words. Lucinda had me wrapped around her finger from our first encounter.

I introduced Lucinda to everyone I knew, including my family. My kids fell for her about as hard as I did. Today, there's not a soul in my brood that hasn't been affected by Lucinda. Three of my kids have her music in their digital libraries, and the fourth would if she was old enough to know what a digital library is. I've danced with my wife while Lucinda played just a few feet away on one stage or another picking and singing. I've listened to Lucinda when I was happy and sad, angry and elated, dejected and rejected, grounded and high. But it's when I feel like I'm losing ground or losing my grip or slipping away that I find Lucinda most endearing. Those are the times when she speaks to me with the most feeling. Those are the times when Lucinda is able to ground me. Smell the dirt. See the sky. Feel the breeze. Sense my surroundings. Put my feet on the ground.

I have had love affairs with a lot of women--singers, that is. Rickie Lee (Jones), Ella (Fitzgerald), Nina (Simone), Bjork, Lena (Horne). None, though, make me swoon like Lucinda. Maybe it's because I can see Lucinda and I having a drink, having a conversation, taking a walk, drawing comparisons. Maybe it's because Lucinda is beyond vulnerable, and I dig people who are vulnerable. Maybe it's because she's honest and true. Maybe it's because she has been around the block, and I dig experience. Whatever it is, I'm in deep for Lucinda. I also owe her mightily. She's kept me company on many a night when I needed it..

Day 207: Beers & Cigarettes

A few weeks ago I traveled back to the town where I attended college. My daughter had a basketball tournament there, and I was excited to see the old sights again. It had been a long time. A long time. So much so that the entire experience seemed like an extended dream as I was living it. At every turn, I could vaguely remember the streets and houses and bars and buildings and sidewalks and more that I was traversing down and that had been part of my life for four and a half years, but still, everything was completely hazy and unfamiliar at the same time. 

Sure, driving past the Amigos that was still in the same spot as 20 or plus years ago conjured up the memory of Danny being banned from that fine establishment because of some drunken escapades, but I couldn't really remember any other events of that night. It seemed as if I couldn't remember many events from any other nights either. I couldn't remember the names of the bars I had spent so many hours in. I couldn't remember the names of the streets I had walked down. I couldn't remember the names of but more than a few professors that I had spent hour after hour learning from. I couldn't recall many of the names of the kids who lived in the same dorm as I did. The experience was a disconcerting one to say the least, and I felt badly because of it. 

But later on, as things soaked in and I was walking along some campus walkways, some things started to come back. I started to be able to picture myself all those years ago in some of the buildings. I could remember every so faintly how they looked and felt. I started to recognize some of the sights off campus, as well. Even the ones that weren't present any longer seemed to come back. The more I walked, the more I remembered. 

Like the night my roommate Doug said he was going to 7-11, said he would be right back, but didn't return until the next day for reasons he was eager to discuss or clear up. Or the mud volleyballs games we played in that pit west of campus. Or those long, long walks I made in the winter to west campus to that dreaded economics class I struggled so mightily in. I started to remember all the bad food I ate and stole from the PFM and all the Frisbee golf we played and all the meeting and sporting events I sat through so I could write about them in the student newspaper. 

More than anything, though, I started to remember the conversations I had deep into the night with friends, who like me, were just starting to find their way through life on their own. I started to remember those nights Connie, Doug, Steph, and I sat around that kitchen table smoking cheap cigarettes and drinking Buds. I started remembering those late nights my roommate Ray and I talked about any and everything after the parties we had and everyone else had left. Talking about anything was a talent that Ray was a master of and of which I miss greatly. I started t remember those many nights sitting alone in the library trying to study and the night Doug somehow got himself locked in and decided to use the time exploring. I started to remember the many mornings when I was walking out the door to head to class as Daryl was walking in the door after spending all night out. I started to remember the countless poker games. The countless drinking games. The countless pool and ping pong games. I started to remember the long, long walks we made to parties at some house located miles away in the dead of winter and never seemingly feeling cold. I remembered all those parties Ray, Carter, Jeff, and I had while living in that farmhouse and how much fun that year was. I remembered the semester I hosted a talk show for the campus TV station, the horrible sweaters I chose to wear, and how horrible I was in front of a camera. I started to remember how Suzanne could make me laugh until my sides hurt and how much I appreciated that. 

I used to really believe for years that I didn't enjoy my college years all that much. I guess it just took putting some distance between then and now to realize I was wrong. I grew up a lot during those years. I opened a lot of doors and got to know a lot of people. Some of those people still influence me in one way or another today. Some of those times still resonate within me. In many ways college seemed like a constant struggle that was made up of work, work, work, and more work. I realize now that wasn't really the case. I so fondly appreciate those many night sitting and drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. I miss those nights sitting across from a good friend in a bar booth, sharing a pack and scraping together enough change for another round. I miss those hours built on beer, cigs, and no discernible responsibilities. Beer and cigarettes will never appeal to me again the way they did then. 

Day 206: Bubble Gum, Bubble Gum, In A Dish

The other day, my older daughter was teaching my younger daughter this gem. Man, it was amazing how quickly those few words, "Bubble gum, bubble gum, in a dish," could conjure up such strong memories. Almost magically, I was transported back to my grade school playground choosing kick soccer teams. I was transported to the front yard of my neighbor's house picking up sides to play "war." I was right back to being eight or nine years old and sitting in a circle with my friends, all with our right foot in the middle, waiting to see who got the last piece of candy. 

Man, if only it were so easy to select this or that today using the same means. Hell, some days I'd even settle for grabbing a baseball bat and choosing an outcome by stacking one hand on top of another. There's no broad announcement that comes when the days of "Eenie, meenie, minnie, moe" are winding down to an end, but one day that's what happens. Poof! They're seemingly gone. But they're not really. They live in, in our kids, in our hearts, in our memories. Watching my little kid bumble her way through attempt after attempt of "bubble gum, bubble gum" gave me about as warm feeling as about as much hope and encouragement for her future as anything in recent memories. Watching my older daughter pass that down to her, as inconsequential as it might seem to some, was tremendous. 

Day 205: Too Many Fences

I mean that literally. There are too many fences in the world today, including my own. Despite keeping my dogs safely tucked away in my backyard, I've grown to very much dislike the concept of the fence. A fence separates. It blocks views. It divides and conquers. I look out the back windows and deck door of my house and all I see are fences. Brown ones. White ones. Chain-link ones. All there to keep something in and keep something out. 

Years ago, it wasn't that way. I could look out from my elevated deck and see across the neighborhood without a maze laying out before me created from intertwining and connected panels of wood and plastic. I could see the neighborhood boys playing baseball in the yards flowing one into the other, without any barriers separating them. I could see all the way down the block with no obstructions. But no more. There is no straight view. There is no vision that's unobstructed. 

When did we become a nation so concerned with secluding ourselves from each other? I don't know, but it definitely clears up a lot of the questions floating about concerning trust and privacy and so on. I'm all for privacy. I'm all for the protection a fence provides. But damn if all these fences don't create what has essentially amounted to a bunch of islands onto ourselves. Are our backyards really so valuable and prestine  that we need to keep everyone else out. What are we all doing behind these wooden walls that we can't let our neighbors peak in? It makes me wonder if we just assume the worst about those living among us and make them prove their worth over time. It makes me wonder if society has disintegrated to such an extent, we'll ever trust one another implicitly again. 

I guess America has always somewhat been about creating borders and barriers. We carved the land into territories and later states. We keep cattle in vs. roaming freely. We devised reservations for those we didn't want to look at any longer to reside on. We've sprung up gated communities and private properties and secluded edifices at about every turn. I suppose the proliferation of fences was only natural. Over years and years, we created the mindset that "what's mine is mine." We separate the rich from the poor. The have from the have-nots. We built fences out of stone, steel, concrete, and brick. We supplied them with electricity. We put guards at their entrances. 

Some days, I wish I had never put a fence up. It's ugly, and it's limiting. It's confining. I find it funny that we've gone to great lengths to build house after house in such close proximity, only to stick fences up in between them. Welcome to the neighborhood. 

Day 204: Why, Coward, Why?

Why does it seem when one group of people has a problem with another group, the first group never addresses their problem in a man-to-man, woman-to-woman, or face-to-face fashion? There always seems some kind of four-on-one beatdown involved. It always seems so-and-so was jumped from behind. It always seems innocent bystander never saw it coming. There always seems like some kind of weapon involved. There always seems some kind of cowardly instance of violence taking place by some kind of coward who hides his face, waits until night to carry out the deed, or just doesn’t take a step without the odds being heavily in his favor.

If you need an example of the kind of chickensh*t courage I’m talking about, just read this touching account from the Lincoln Journal-Star of a situation that happened a few days ago in my city. It’s a heartwarming telling a heartwarming hate crime in which three upstanding males bumrushed a woman’s home and proceeded to do all kinds of neighborly things to her, including carve “homophobic slurs into her skin” and attempting to “light her house on fire.” Beautiful. Outstanding. Yet another example of the human race fulfilling its massive potential and demonstrating its prowess at being the most intelligent creature on earth.

Seriously, sometimes I’m embarrassed to be human. Sometimes, I’m embarrassed to be a man. Sometimes, I’d embarrassed that these kind of stories don’t surprise me, even when they occur right in my backyard. Nothing really surprises me anymore. Nothing. And that’s not a fact I like to readily admit. It’s not a reality I really want to embrace but have been forced to. I’m embarrassed to have to prepare my children to fend for themselves one day in such a world.

I have no idea what motivates a man to even think thoughts such as the ones involved in this case, let alone actually carry them out. I have no idea how it is that more than one man can gather around in a room and actually have a conversation with another man about doing such things to someone else. When did it ever become acceptable to utter, “Hey Larry, you know what would be riot to do tonight?” “No, Ted, what?” “Whatcha say you and me get us a can of gasoline, sharpen up our pocket knives, and scare the sh*t out of that lezbo across the street?” “Hee, hee. I’m with you, Ted. You know what would be even better. We should wear masks so no one will know who we are. We can’t have people actually holding us responsible for our actions, can we?” “Oh, hell no, Larry. Can’t have people look us in the eye and see the piece of sh*t they’re dealing with directly.”

OK, so there are at least three dimwits running freely around in my city. Know what’s even scarier? They aren’t alone. There more than likely is a good chunk of people who deep down are congratulating them, others who aren’t bothered in the least by what they did, and others still who might be repulsed but would never publicly say as much. Kudos to those who don’t belong to any of these groups.

I’d like to believe and trust that there’s a hell waiting for such people who run in packs because they lack the honor and integrity to face their miserable existences alone. I’m not convinced, though. What I am sure of is that these vacant souls have never tasted anything in the way of true self-respect, self-pride, self-accomplishment. Small consolation, but sadly, it’s about all I can come up today. For me, I’ll continue to teach my children the exact opposite. I’ll teach them to act alone and come to the aid of others, to not attack, and certainly not to stand tall only when you’re in the company of likeminded others, especially when the others of fricking idiots.

Day 203: Being Sick

The past week, both of my daughter's were sick. So guess who is feeling the oncoming of being sick now? That's right, your's truly. So, what are you going to do. Fight it off the best I can, suck it up, and hope it goes by quickly. What sucks is being sick when you know there's a whole truckload of work ahead. That makes the outlook a little less bright, but again, what are you going to do? So, with that, I'll retire for the day and get myself primed for Monday. 

Day 202: carry on

Carry on. That's what you have to do sometimes. Hold tight to what you believe. See the big picture and carry on. Sometimes the best view and the truest is yours. Believe in it.

Day 201: Waging War On Senseless Violence

Yesterday I wrote about being less serious and more frivolous. That pretty damn hard to do on a day like this. Sadly, days like this seem to becoming increasingly too common. I’ve seen some shitty, despicable events go down in my years on the planet, and honestly they never get any easier to swallow. There was a time after 9/11 when I was standing with my young kids among my fellow Lincoln citizens, singing songs and joining hands, when I thought things were going to forever change for the better. As much as I realized then that my kids would be growing up in a far different world than the one I did, I sincerely had hope that we’d arrived collectively as human beings and citizens at a place we could make long-lasting positive changes. Now, however, they’re just seems to be a hell of lot more shitty events than ever to swallow, and that pisses me off.

When people die, it without question deserves reflection. When people die so needlessly and so often as has unfortunately become the case, something deserves to be done. The problem is that those things that need to be done never get done. If I piss you off by what I’m about to write, I apologize, but frankly, pissing you or your senses off are the least of my concerns right now. This shit has to stop. It’s time to stop merely “keeping those who have suffered in my thoughts and prayers.” It’s time to prevent the damn madness from happening in the first place.

This doesn’t mean putting a metal detector at every damn entrance to a movie theater or school door or airport gate, either. It means changing the way we treat people. It means paying attention to our neighbors. It means stop obsessing about ourselves and our wealth and incessant need to feel good every second of every day and instead start taking a seriously long, hard look around. It means making the process of obtaining weapons that no fucking man off the street should every need in the first place a near damn impossible one. It means creating so many hoops to jump through that only the most credible and legitimate among us can jump through them all. It means getting the fucking guns off the street, out of the god damn Wal-Marts, out of the underground online black markets, and out of the back of publicly sold and privately distributed magazine and newsletters born from the likes of “Soldier of Fortune.” It means taking the power away from those who can’t handle or deserve it and putting it back in the hands of the responsible collective. There have been any number of responsible, reasonable gun control plans offered up over the years, going back decades to when I was a kid and school was dismissed early because our President had been gunned down in the god damn street. These plans deserve a chance to prove themselves. We’ve proven the right to bear arms doesn’t. Which leads me to our leadership.

President Obama and Mitt Romney have both today called for us to come together. To reflect on the lives lost. To put those who have died and been injured in our prayers. To put politics aside. Well, yeah, OK. That’s all fine and good. I’d expect you both to say as much. But now show us how, god damn it. Show us by example. Run clean campaigns. Run clean administrations. Practice what you preach, not just today while the nation collectively mourns but tomorrow and the day after and every day after that. Show us when everything is seemingly fine in the world. The same goes for Congress. Stop talking about the moral high ground your party walks on and just pass the laws we instruct you to. Represent our beliefs and desires. Stop telling us what those should be. Stop showing us on a daily basis that your primary objective is to cut the opposition’s throat. Conduct your business with respect and professionalism. Work toward your individual and respective beliefs, but do it above the belt.

As for you, talk show host, fuck you. Fuck you for telling me even today that it isn’t your fault when these acts of violence occur. Fuck you for telling me how much you love this country. How much you love this country more than anyone else. Stop telling me what a piece of shit I am because I don’t agree with you. Stop making your arguments with insults. Just fucking stop. Fuck you for telling me that politics doesn’t matter on a day like this while the whole time you practice those politics from out the other side of your mouth.

If our leadership and so-called educated and the so-called patriots of our country can’t conduct themselves without petty attacks and backstabbing and the most ill of intentions, how do they expect their nation’s citizens to do the same. When our leadership splits the country so deeply in two sections and with such conviction and extreme force, how are our citizens, particularly those who are young and entirely influential, not supposed to notice?

Attack, attack, attack. This country is obsessed with aggression. Obsessed with dominance. This country’s citizens have become so obsessed with pounding its beliefs on anyone who doesn’t agree with them, on anyone who hails from a different background, it’s like living in a battlefield. Conflict is what we do best. The population has become so single-minded in getting individual opinions across as being morally and legally and ethically correct that there’s no room for dissention. Absolutely none. The possibility of resolution seems incredibly remote. Common ground has disappeared. Pick or side or else. . . .

Bullshit. I’m sick of my kids knowing so much about division. So much about opposition. So much about judgments and hate and superiority as it relate to class and race and religion. I’m sick of bombs being dropped on their heads every day in the form of example after example of senseless and needless violence. I’m sick of every day of their existence seemingly being tainted in one way or another with mass exposure to threat, including terroristic attacks stemming from abroad and from within. I’m sick of their lives being filled with adults passing judgments on their gay friends or friends of different ethnicities or religious backgrounds. Filled with peers passing judgments on their tastes, their likes, and their dislikes. I’m sick of the snide remarks. I’m sick of racists and homophobes. Sick of political party bashers. Sick of the pursuit of power and wealth. And if you tell me, “Well, if you don’t like, move to another country,” I’ll tell you to “fuck off.” You move. I’ll stick it out and do what I can to make the country I was born to and the country my children live in one that won’t chew them up and leave them laying.

Sweet Jesus, what has been gained for any of that power? The citizens of our country hate one another. Our children believe there’s no future for them. They resolve their despondence by eliminating those they believe made them despondent.

The world is a mean, ugly place. I get it. But does it have to be this ugly and mean? Here’s an idea. Let’s focus on the reality of the situation: Our country is fucked up. It’s become hostile. It’s become unforgiving. It’s become violent. It’s become manipulative and demeaning. The hostility is being fueled in part by so many living in society filled with so much disparity, a lack of acceptance, and sense of entitlement. Those problems must be rectified and healed. There’s enough to go around. There’s work for everyone to do. Everyone must be held responsible. Everyone. You, me, billionaires, homeless on the street, and everyone in between. These events are no longer ones that can be passed off as “some psycho went nuts.” We’re growing the breeding ground, people. This world is serving as the breeding ground.

There is no appropriate justice we can place on someone who kills 12 people and injures 50 others. There’s no equity there. Take his life, OK. Does that make us equal? Hell no. It’s not a matter of justice anymore. It’s a matter of prevention. We must change the system. We must change the mindset of what it means to be American and on a larger and more important scale, what it means to be human. We must stop talking about how sorry we are when people lose their lives to senseless acts of violence and actually instead do something concrete and formidable about it. We must use our sorrow to create something positive in exchange. It’s not a coincidence that this event in Denver and the one in Columbine and the one in Arizona and the one at Virginia Tech and the one in Omaha and so many others involved youth.

Here’s the deal, you and I can rant and rave or profess and pray about our sorrow all we want, but unless we’re willing to start doing something, we’ve accomplished nothing. For now, start by reassessing your beliefs. Reassess what you stand for. If you stand for nothing, get in the god damn game already and change something for the better. Ask if your beliefs unite or divide? Ask if they leave someone in a better position than before. Then, turn your attention toward being a better parent. Give your kid hope. Reinforce your love. Reinforce your support. Reinforce their faith in family and community. Give them reasons to believe instead of to give up.

Look, I’m no source of great wisdom. I’m just pissed off. I’m likely misguided in some areas and speaking out of a place of rage in others. But fuck, my eyes are open, and I’m ready to do what it takes. It's time to stop wondering why these things happen and reacting when they do. It's time to care enough to change what we can. Now. 

Day 200: Less Serious, More Frivolous

There’s something utterly satisfying about having friends who you can communicate with so comfortably and in such great depth about such inane and essentially meaningless topics that makes life so satisfying.

Today, I had conservations with two different sets of friends concerning movies. In no way at all will these conversations advance society, or even myself, in any conceivable manner. Still, it’s amazing how much joy I take away from these kinds of simple exchanges.

Does this make me a simpleton? Does is it mean I have a limited scope of the world? Does it mean I lack vision? Does it mean I need to stir my attention in other directions? Hell, I don’t know. I don’t really care. What I know and care about is that I’m a lucky bastard for having outlets for such meaningless.

Man, life is way too complicated and way too serious the majority of the time. By the time you enter your 30s, it seems the pulling and tugging on your time never ceases. I firmly believe we waste a hell of a lot of time worrying about most of the things related to that pulling and tugging. I mean, really, pertinent is it long-term how our hair looks or if the curtains we’re eying match the color of the carpet. Even the amount of time we collectively spend career-wise deflates me. So much is lost in the chase.

Having friends to distract you from the day-to-day crap is priceless. Having people who help you forget that you need to get the brakes on your car fixed or your cell phone bill is late or that the latest project isn’t coming together at all or that your brother is still pissed at you or blah, blah, blah is beyond a treasure.

I’ve never been one for mindless blither blabber. If there’s one thing I don’t excel at it is small talk. What I do find especially gratifying, though, pointed, specific blither blabber. Ask me what my Top 5 favorite songs are and I’ll blither blabber until the sun goes down. Want to debate the treatment of dogs in Wes Anderson movies like my friends and I did today, and I’m all in. Want to pick out the influences that the original “Total Recall” had on later sci-fi movies like I also did today, man, I’m onboard. I’d go insane without that outlet. 

Day 199: If I Had My Way

If I had my way, I'd be in the mountains right now, hiking my way to some hidden lake that only I knew about, alone with only my thoughts to keep me company. 

If I had my way, I'd have a room filled with my favorite candy, so whenever I opened the door, thousands of pieces would come rushing out. 

If I had my way, I'd be on a motorcycle riding on a winding, long road situated next to the ocean with the sun going ever-slowly down over the horizon. 

If I had my way, I'd be walking barefoot on the softest, greenest grass imaginable in Ireland with a pitching wedge in my hand. 

If I had my way, I'd be getting my bangs trimmed up as I chatted up my favorite barber for the latest gossip. 

If I had my way, I'd be dialing up my eye doctor on the phone right now to tell him his services will no longer be needed. 

If I had my way, my entire wardrobe would consist of only shorts, tennis shoes, and T-shirts. 

If I had my way, George Carlin would be my neighbor to the left and Willie Nelson to the right. 

If I had my way, my house would reside directly beside the tee box to the first hole on my own private course. 

If I had my way, my friends and I would meet every Friday night for another round of demolition derby in my backyard. 

If I had my way, my band would be taking the stage in Madison Square Garden. 

If I had my way, my yacht would be at about the halfway point toward taking me to my own private island. 

If I had my way, the popcorn would be hot, fresh, buttered, and sitting on my lap right now as I got set to watch the new Batman flick. 

If I had my way, I'd soon be walking in the Olympics opening ceremonies representing my country in the decathlon. 

If I had my way, my pet dolphin would be taking me for a ride around my private cove. 

If I had my way, my personal chef would be finishing up my supper just about now and bringing it to me in my XXXXL-sized bathtub. 

If I had my way, I'd be playing a pickup game with the President on my home court. 

If I had my way, I'd have a fleet of clowns at my beck and call. 

Day 198: What It Means To Be A Yankees Fan

As of today, the New York Yankees are 55-34, giving them the best record in Major League Baseball. Owning the sport’s best record isn’t unfamiliar territory for the Yankees. In fact, dare I say, it’s common ground. It’s ground the Yankees have worn out because seemingly, the Yankees are always in first place.

You’d think being a fan of a team that perpetually stands on such familiar terra firma would be easy, but it’s not. To change up Spiderman’s Uncle Ben’s sage quote a bit, “With great success comes great torment.” Or should I say jealousy? Envy? Bitterness and resentment are also fitting, I guess. Animosity. Acrimony. Those definitely fit. Let’s just say that non-Yankees fans are the worst fans and leave it at that. Personally, I choose to ignore these bitter little pills who spread their nastiness like a bad smell emitting from my dog, but sometimes it’s impossible. The stink is just to putrid to escape. But my tolerance for these fools only goes so far. Instead of holding up the greatest sports franchise ever erected, these gluttons for punishment try to tear the House That Babe Built to the ground, bit by bit by bit. Sadly for them, this house is made of bricks.

Being a Yankees fan means having thick skin. It’s means being able to take the heat. It means you’re going to hear a steady stream of complaints. You’re going to hear whining. You’re going to hear cries of “it’s unfair” or “if they didn’t spend so much money. . . .” or “they buy their success.” Well, welcome to America, suckers.

Being a Yankees fan means enduring the weak-sauce alternative names that the jealous pool of sorry dreamers come up with for those who deck themselves out in pinstripes, names like “Spankmees” or as my friend Randy likes to say, “Yankmees.”

Being a Yankees fan means possessing the discipline and fortitude to endure the gloating and “in your face” carrying on during those rare occasions when your friends’ favorite team happens to find a bit of blind luck in his/her pockets and uses it to win an important game.

Being a Yankees fan means having to share the planet with Red Sox fans and hoping your immune system is strong enough that you don’t come away with some sort of horrible affliction, like chronic losing or excuse making.

Being a Yankees fan means having to humor pitiful Cubs fans who have fooled themselves into believing that despite having never won a damn thing their team is “iconic” or an “institution.” Harry Carey and Mark Grace an institution do not make, woeful ones.

More importantly, being a Yankees fan means you grieve still for Thurmon Munson and Billy Martin.

It means you bow down twice daily in the direction of The Bronx.

It means you consider Catfish Hunter and Ron Guidry gods.

It means October is your favorite month.

It means you think of Reggie Jackson every time you stir a drink with a straw.

It means you’ve look upon Daryl Strawberry, Doc Gooden, and Roger Clemmons as misguided children who made a mistake but whom you’ve forgiven.

It means you say “Aaron F*cking Boone” in your sleep.

It means your two favorite words are “Bucky” and “Dent.”

It means you want your son to grow up to be just like Don Mattingly.

It means George Brett = pine tar = “you’re out!”

Being a Yankees fan means you’ve chosen to associate yourself with greatness.

Being a Yankees fan means you know all the words to “Enter Sandman.”

Being a Yankees fan means “Sweet Lou” makes you think of Pinella and Reed.

Being a Yankees fan means you happily stare for hours at the painting of the old stadium that you bought in Midtown from a street artist years ago.

Being a Yankees fan means you can do a 180 and spend a few more hours staring at the original drawing of Yogi and Lou that hangs on your wall.

Being a Yankees fan means that no matter what else should happen in your life, you can rest assured that you’ll not only know what it feels like to be a perennial contender, you’ll know what it means to be a champion, um, 27 times and counting.

Day 197: Stop Bitching & Moaning

Sometimes, I have a tendency to bitch and moan too much. Sometimes, I wonder how much that bitching and moaning bothers those I subject it to. Sometimes, I wonder if the things I’m bitching and moaning about are even worth bitching and moaning about. Sometimes, I wonder what I could do that would be a better alternative to the bitching and moaning. Sometimes, I wonder how much of what I consider to be “constructive criticism” is actually bitching and moaning. Sometimes, I think I bitch and moan because I just like to bitch and moan. Sometimes, I think the bitching and moaning leaves me feeling worse.  

Without a doubt, I don’t believe all the bitching and moaning I do is over frivolous, inconsequential matters. In fact, I like to think a good percentage of the things I voice my disapproval about are worth the effort and deserve the attention. I realize there are things I should let go and probably don’t need to offer up my 2 cents about, but more often than not I hope I bitch and moan about worthwhile things. I’m not the kind of guy who is going to go on and on about the bad service he just got in a restaurant. I’ve got bigger worries. Plus, I’m eating food. A lot of people don’t have that basic luxury. I’m not the kind of guy who is going to ask to see a manager or supervisor. I’m not someone who is going on for days about how much the weather sucks or how I got shortchanged at Christmas or any other crap that reeks of entitlement. We live in a privileged country that by birthright grants most of us incredible advantages. Why bitch about annoyances and nuisances. It only perpetuates that which annoyed you in the first place.

No, what I like to bitch and moan about is those who bitch and moan about the annoyances and nuisances. I like to bitch and moan about those who can’t recognize the entitlement they’ve been born into. I have a feeling I take such pleasure because it gives me a sense of superiority, which in its own right is a complete crock and reprehensible. This is a weakness I know, yet take joy nevertheless.

Take yesterday, for example, when I crossed paths with a family arriving at the same ice cream shop as were at but in a big, fat, gas-guzzling SUV. Bad enough they were traveling via environmental deathtrap. That I could look past. What was impossible to not notice was the fact that they left the fricking big rig running, with the air conditioner on, with no one inside, while they all piled out into a FLIPPIN’ ICE CREAM SHOP! Are you kidding me! Did they not see the obvious joke they were making themselves the punch line for? I guess braving the elements upon existing the ICE CREAM SHOP armed with a fat hunk of ICE CREAM scooped up in a fat bowl was too strenuous. It’s this kind of moronic crap that sets me off and sets my mouth into motion, only to leave me wondering later, does anyone even care? Did I accomplish anything other than bugging the people around me? “Oh great, there he goes again.” Maybe I care, but does anyone else give a crap that these people are likely the same who bitch and moan about gas prices?

Maybe I’m just bitter? Am I just too good at spotting stupid stuff? Am I too sensitive? Do I seek this stuff out? I honestly don’t know. Sometimes, I think this stuff finds me just to torment me. Like later in the day, for example, when I randomly picked a seat in the bleachers at the gym my daughter was playing basketball in. I was waiting for her game to start, so I sat and watched the one being played before hers. Fate could have opened up a seat anywhere, but it didn’t. It made the only available seat right in the middle of a pack of wild mother-dogs way too eager to bite and snarl and bitch and moan about every call that didn’t go in favor of their little momma’s boys on the court. Worse was the conduct they saved for a girl playing on one of the two boys teams on the court made up of eighth graders. The girl was good. In fact, she was damn good. She was smart and smooth. She played with composure. She knew where to be and what to do. She made her teammates better. Everything you’d want in a player, she provided. You’d think these women being women would have been thrilled. Here’s a girl more than holding her own among bigger and taller boys. Here’s a girl performing with grace and dignity and doing it with terrific results. Here’s a girl taking all the borderline cheap shots these insecure, petty momma boys on the court were doling out and ignored them to just continue producing at the highest level. But no. These women bath-mouthed this girl at every turn. They derided her. They questioned her femininity. They took delight when she was knocked down. They bitched and moaned when she bested their precious little boys. “How dare she!”

Enter my mouth. First subtly, but then progressively with more vitriol and condemnation, to the point that by the end of the game I was opening quarreling with said wolf pack, holding them back with a stick and swatting them on the end of the nose. I took tremendous pleasure in it all—until later when I was left alone with only my thoughts. I had lowered myself. I had reduced myself to levels I didn’t need to go. I took the lower road when the higher road would have been better to conduct myself on. I welcomed the confrontation and took joy in participating in it. That girl didn’t need me to defend her from these attackers. She had already moved beyond them long, long ago. She had already elevated herself to a place where they didn’t affect her. She was far more mature and focused than any of us. She didn’t bitch and moan. She just lived in the moment she was in.

Christ, anyone who says you can’t learn by just observing something or someone is crazy. Anyone who says you can’t learn from children is blind. Anyone who doesn’t believe in chance encounters isn't paying attention.

I probably won’t stop bitching and moaning anytime soon about those who bitch and moan. But this girl, whose name I don’t know and whose background I’m clueless about, taught me more about bitching and moaning through her actions and conduct and spirit than I could have ever hoped for. Something is at work in this world. Something helped me pay attention and recognize the affect a perfect stranger can have. Somehow, someway, this girl inspired me to be a better person. To stop bitching and moaning and instead influence change through personal conduct, not condemnation. I have a feeling I won’t be the only one to witness the same type of dignity and class and perseverance from this girl and walk away better for it.

Day 196: Deja Vu

I love deja vu. Always have. I seem to experience it a lot, too. Like I'm living in "The Matrix" a lot. Take my youngest daughter, for instance. Right now, she's crying in her bed, as she has just about every night for seemingly a month straight. She doesn't want to be in bed, so she goes through the usual laundry list of activities to prolong the inevitable until finally she resorts to crying. At that point, she can cry anywhere from five minutes to a good hour. It takes a lot of will power and focus to just ignore it. Just let it play out. Otherwise, you're just feeding the beast responding to each and every request that comes from her bedroom. "Daddy! I want a XX." "Mommy! I need XX." "Daddy, I XX." It's a vicious cycle that just goes on and on until the crying turns into whimpering and the whimpering turns into talking and the talking finally turns into snoring. Fortunately, these periods don't seem to last long and come in short periods. But each time it has happened recently, it seems like the same set of occurrences also play out. Sunday night. I'll tell my wife, "This is getting old." She'll respond by saying, "She never used to do this." And then I have a feeling of deja vu.

I've always been fascinated by the experience and concept of deja vu. I'd like to know who the first man or woman was who able to articulate the feeling. When was that? What brought the topic up? How did the other person respond. Cave man time? "Hey Unk, me swear me see that tree before." "Me know what you mean, Onk. Me feel me been here before." 

What I really wish is I was able to experience episodes of deja vu with other people. Like a group deja vu thing. We'd get together once in a week in some room in a church basement, hold hands, and experience the same moment together that we'd already experienced. 

What I'd like more is having the feeling that I had gotten smarter since the last time I experience deja vu, but that doesn't seem to be the case. Seemingly, I experience the same moments over and over again with the inability to know what I've learned since last time.

At any rate, the ability to feel different sensations and emotions than those that typically pollute a typical day is a positive. Fear. Euphoria. Exhaustion. Being overwhelmed. Being surprised. Feeling as if I've lived this moment before. I guess recognizing as much is occurring mean I'm paying attention. 

Day 195: Jens Pulver

I don't make any secret about my love for MMA. I've written about that love before, trying to explain what it is I see in the kicks, punches, and knees. I'm starting to think people either get it or they don't. Some people never get past the "violence." Those that do understand there's more going on than just two guys beating each other senseless inside a cage. I could spent the next five years trying to describe what exactly it is that's going on, at least the way I see it, but I really believe if someone is even really remotely interested in understand Mixed Martial Arts, and martial arts in general, they're better off doing some research and reading first. Read a few biographies of some of the legends. Watch a few documentaries about the sport. Go beyond the posters and movies featuring Bruce Lee and read his writings, listen to his lectures. Put on your philosophical hat for a few hours and listen to their words. Consider their life journeys. View where they came from, where they are, and where they want to be. Martial arts isn't about the violence or kicking someone's ass. It's about honor. Discipline. Focus. Insight. Integrity. For some individuals, it's an avenue out of a horrible situation.

Jens Pulver is someone who belongs in the latter camp. Read his about his background and you'll know how martial arts more or less saved his life. How wrestling first was his savior and then striking, kickboxing, Jiu-Jitsu, and other disciplines saved him later. I've always admired Jens Pulver, for being a world champion and pioneer in the sport, but more so for the straight-forward manner in which he discussed his "childhood from hell" and the daily beatings his alcoholic father put on him and his mother and brothers. I always admired the strength and tenacity he demonstrated in not letting that past swallow him up. I admired his willingness to also show weakness and vulnerability. To not just utter a big "F*ck you!" to a father who was never there in any way but a monster, but to admit it hurt not having his father there as a father. To admit how much it would have meant, and admit that even today he would have cared for such a relationship.

But reading about someone's history and hearing them tell it in first person are two different things. The other week I watched a documentary called "Driven" that centered on Pulver and his past, present, and future. I shed tears several times. I felt some agony, too. I also became inspired and motivated to find someone stronger within myself. The truth is, Jens Pulver has had to fight on way too long and has probably taken on way too much damage to his body and spirit. He can't afford to quit, and he's not good enough anymore to keep going on. His life is shaping up to be a tragic beginning and tragic ending. Still, I can't help to think that someone martial arts will somehow enable him to find a pleasant ending, whether it's teaching the benefits of combat sports to others or helping him find peace of mind.

At any rate, my love of martial arts has only grown more and more over the years. I wish more people understand the truth behind the violence, but that's their journey and responsibility to take on if they desire. There's much to find, however, if the effort is there.

Day 194: The Color Run

 I’ve run more races this summer than I have in the 10 summers previous combined. That’s a good and bad thing. Good in that I’ve gotten my arse off the couch and into gear. I’m healthier. I’m leaner. I’m of better mind and spirit. I feel just a little bit better about myself. Bad in that I let my arse sit on that couch all those years and let the time slip away. Still, it’s a good awakening, this fitness phase I’m currently in. I guess “fitness” is being a little generous. It’s not like I’m tearing up the roadways running my way to lofty heights by any means, but I have to say, the scenery on what little of the roadways I’ve managed to make my way down is a far better than the one I had from the couch.

That’s not to say I was a complete bum over the years. I worked hard for a living and hopefully gave my family a good way of life. I played ball some of those years. I golfed, and I did some bike riding on and off. Plus, I’m an active dad. When my kids were still of the age, I played with them for what I consider to be more than the average dad does. I gave of my time pretty willingly and pretty liberally. With my four-year-old, I think I’ve carried that on. Still, I’ll be the first to admit that playing five innings of softball a week isn’t anything like running several miles at a time several times a week. Not anywhere close. My affection for running hasn’t really grown any over the summer months, and most times I still find it a struggle to stay focused and keep putting one foot in front of the other, but I have to say, my affection for not feeling like a piece of washed-up crap day in and day out fuels me to keep the running up, and I’m grateful for that.

Tomorrow, it’s off to The Color Run in Omaha. Upon completing each 1K of 5K total, I’ll be rewarded by having complete strangers throw environmentally safe paint all over me. By race’s end, me and everyone else taking part will look like human equivalents of a Jackson Pollack painting. Better than that though is the opportunity to just get out and do something different and novel. Day to day life can be so mundane and repetitive. A venue to get a little crazy is definitely welcome. Plus, the ability to even get up off the couch and put one foot in front of the other isn’t lost on me. I’ve grown to really value of the ability to work toward being physical fit, to create some personal goals and challenges, and then have the focus to go out and make them happen. Not everyone has that ability.

Life is short. Kooky events like The Color Run make life stretch a little longer. They give you something to look forward to. They give you some strange moments to share with others. I love strange. Looking forward to seeing my friends and family get kooky, too.

Day 193: Not Every Pet Is Created Equal

In some ways, I think comparing pets is sort of like comparing kids. You shouldn’t do it. A pet is a pet, after all. Sure, some are easier to care for than others. Some might be more affectionate. Some might be more protective. Some might even be a bigger pain in the neck. Still, a pet is a pet, and if you really care for each equally and invest the same amount of time and give of yourself with the same enthusiasm, shouldn’t the love you provide each also be the same?

Well, no, actually. It would be nice, but it doesn’t work that way usually. It’s a hell of a lot easier to love a good dog than a hermit crab. It’s a hell of a lot easier to cozy up with a cat than a turtle. It’s a hell of a lot easier to get instant feedback from a faithful companion that a damn goldfish that is only looking for its next meal to come magically falling from the sky. At least in my experience with pets, that’s the way it’s been, and we’ve had a few pets roll through our house over the years. Dogs, cats, fish, birds. A ferret. A rabbit. Hermit crabs and rats. Frogs. Flipping zoo.  

That said, I still hate to compare one dog that has been part of my life to another. I always feel bad when I do it. I feel worse when I badmouth one of my pets, but I can’t say it stops me from doing it. Take our current dog Slim, for example. He’s a purebred chocolate lab that is beautiful and the picture of grace when he’s out in the wild running to and fro. In our house, though, he’s a complete tool and dofus. The biggest part of the day is hoping that some morsels will fall from my daughter’s plate into his wide-open waiting mouth. Sincerely. That’s all he lives for. If those morsels don’t come, he’ll just adlib and snatch up whatever else isn’t tied down. And when I write “whatever else,” I mean it. Pans of bacon grease. Entire tubs of bubblegum, wrappers and all. Ears of corn from my garden. Loaves of bread. Cat extract. Jars of Vaseline. You name it, he’s eaten it. I love Slim, and he’s a good protector, and I value his dopiness on some level, but he tests my patience each and every day, and he without a doubt makes life harder than it has to be.

Our current cats are much the same. They’re both male, and they’re both weird. I like them, and occasionally they’ll even put aside the quirky ways long enough to sit on my lap and watch a little television, but for the most part they keep to themselves and engage only on their terms. That’s pretty much true of all cats, I suppose, so it doesn’t upset me too much. Like Slim, our cats, Lou and Beck, are good pets, but there seems to be a ceiling to which our relationship will never extend beyond not matter how much time and energy we spend together.

This kind of distance between a pet and its owner seems to become so much more obvious when the owner has previously had that once-in-a-lifetime pet that transcended the obvious human-animal barrier. Miles and Scout were those kinds of pets. Miles I miss every day. There are reminders of him all around our house in the form of photos and old dog collars and even his paw prints permanently etched on paper, but more often than not, those reminders make it only harder to accept he’s not following me around from room to room and that I won’t ever hear his booming snore deep in the night again. He was a friend’s friend in every sense that a human is a friend. The only difference is we couldn’t speak actual words. We didn’t really need to, though. There was an understanding still.

Loyal and reliable. Protective and dependable. Loving and caring. Affectionate and pure. Miles was there when you needed him but never seemed to ask for anything but a bowl of food once in a while in return. He watched over my kids and my house. He played with my daughters and tolerated their tugging and pulling. He made friends easily and was loved by pretty much anyone who crossed paths with him. He got into trouble, but it wasn’t hard to forgive him.

When Miles got sick and his future days were numbered, it broke my heart in ways that I didn’t know possible. He wasn’t my first pet by any means, but he was the most difficult to let go of by far. I’d literally take years off my own life if it were possible to bring him back, he meant that much. He unified my family in ways we didn’t know when he was alive, and I couldn’t be more thankful for his presence. People who discount the importance of pets or belittle animals’ importance in general are morons. Straight-up morons.

Scout we had for 15 years. We got her, along with Cleo, the same year my daughter was one. We watched all three grow up together, and Scout became my buddy. We watched TV together, we read books together, and we tolerated the chaos and madness that was at work in my house together. We snuck off to quiet spots together and when time would allow, took naps together in the peace and quiet. Scout was a beauty, and just like the little girl in “To Kill A Mockingbird” that she was named after, Scout was independent and could hold her own. Watching television late at night hasn’t been the same since she has gone.

Day 192: This Machine Kills Facists

On July 14, Woody Guthrie would have been 100 years old if still alive. If alive, you can be damn sure he’d still be kicking ass and taking names. You can be guaranteed he’d be fighting for the poor and disenfranchised. You can be guaranteed he be appalled and disheartened, as well.

I love my country, and I believe Woody firmly did, as well. But it’s hard to dispute there’s much that could not be made better, and it’s hard to dispute that there’s a great many people who could use lifted up. That’s what Woody Guthrie spent his life attempting to do: lift up those who needed it. God knows, he went about in his own unique, slap-to-the-face manner, but God knows, he inspired a hell of a lot of people along the way to do the same for others who needed the helping hand.  

My first exposure to Woody Guthrie was the same as most people’s—singing “This Land Is Your Land” in grade school. That just so happens to be one of the first songs I learned on guitar, primarily because it’s easy to play, but also because it’s a beautiful protest song full of controlled rage and anger. Better, it’s a song written for and to be sung by every American. Not just the rich. Not just the land owners. Not just the privileged. EVERY AMERICAN. Read the lyrics. Recognize the “fog.” It still exists, and it still needs lifting.

When the sun came shining, and I was strolling

And the wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling

A voice was chanting, As the fog was lifting,

This land was made for you and me.

My real education into Woody came through Bob Dylan. You can’t admire and be a follower of Dylan without admiring and being a follower of Woody. Dylan’s story of meeting Woody is a famous and well-known one, but for those who don’t know it, Dylan bummed rides from Minnesota to New York City while still just a kid with the primary objective of meeting his hero, Guthrie. When he got there, he learned Woody was holed up in a hospital getting ready to die, so he made his way there instead. They met, Dylan sang for him, and the rest is history.

I admire Woody’s travels.

I admire “Bound For Glory.”

I admire Woody’s friendships.

I admire the way he played guitar.

I admire the influence he had on Ramblin’ Jack Elliott.

I admire that Billy Bragg has spent years carrying on Woody’s efforts.

My favorite Woody Guthrie song is “Do Re Mi”  

For years, a poster hung in the apartments I lived in and then the house I shared with my wife and kids that bore the words listed below. I’ve always wondered how many of my kids’s friends, or even if my kids read the words and if they got any meaning from them over the years. I look at my kids and the way they carry themselves and how they treat and regard people less fortunate than themselves and I believe they did.

"I hate a song that makes you think that you are not any good. I hate a song that makes you think that you are just born to lose. Bound to lose. No good to nobody. No good for nothing. Because you are too old or too young or too fat or too slim too ugly or too this or too that. Songs that run you down or poke fun at you on account of your bad luck or hard traveling.

I am out to fight those songs to my very last breath of air and my last drop of blood. I am out to sing songs that will prove to you that this is your world and that if it has hit you pretty hard and knocked you for a dozen loops, no matter what color, what size you are, how you are built.

I am out to sing the songs that make you take pride in yourself and in your work.”

Woody Guthrie

Day 191: Giant Silva

As I type this, I'm watching a 7' 2" inch man called Giant Silva lumber around a boxing ring, trying his damnedest to fight a guy roughly a foot smaller than himself in an MMA fight. It's a sad sight really. The poor man can barely walk two steps in a row let around dance around the ring gracefully. Hell, he looks like a cartoon, and I don't mean that to be demeaning; it's just the truth. 

It makes me wonder why we are born the way we are. Why are some of us tall, others small? Some born one color and others different altogether? Why are some of us born without sight or hearing and others without limbs? Why are some born intelligent and others without any wits at all. Is it the luck of the draw. Is it genetics? Is it God's will. A combination of all?

Truth be told, I'm thankful I'm not Giant Silva. I'm grateful I'm just a run of the mill guy with average looks and average intelligence. It's not so bad being average. It leaves you room to work your way up. It leaves room to fall a bit, too. No one is gawking at me because of my height. No one places any stereotypes or expectations on me based on appearances alone. It's a good life being normal, whatever that means.

But who am I to pity Giant Silva? I don't know the man. Maybe he's happy being a giant. Maybe it's brought joy and happiness to his life. Maybe being tall has brought him opportunities that he'd have otherwise never experienced. Hell, Giant Silva has probably traveled and seen things I never will, and all because he's a giant. He's probably met more interesting people than I'll ever know. Maybe he thrilled with his natural born fortune. I don't know. 

Still, based on what I do know, I'll stick with what nature gave me. It's served me well. I've seen my own share of things. This average body and average abilities has shown me tremendous beauty, filled my ears with tremendous sounds, taken my mind on tremendous journeys. I guess I don't envy Giant Silva, but I guess I shouldn't pity him either. 

Day 190: Doing Battle With The Beast

Some days you find out what you’re made of, or at least you find out what you can tolerate. Today was one of those days. I took a vacation day Friday, which pretty much guaranteed that Monday would be hell.

My job isn’t one in which the guy sitting next to me is able to just pick up the pieces when I’m gone and cover me for. Nope, everything I leave behind is waiting for me when I get back. Either I do it before I go or I better be prepared to weather the storm when I return. Both options are tricky to navigate sometimes, and both options present their own unique snags.

So, I knew what I was in for this morning upon returning to my desk. What I didn’t know was that I’d be tackling it with a killer headache that would last all day, and I didn’t know how many more little morsels would fall on my plate throughout the day to tackle. Such is the nature of the beast.

Still, despite everything I was staring down, I managed to pull away long enough at lunch to get in a run (with headache in tow), return to the battlefield, and finish everything I needed to--plus some.

I set my expectations fairly high where some things are concerned. Others not so much. Where work is related, though, I don’t like to turn in crap. The words I write represent me, and I like to be well-represented. The people who I consider good at the same job I do don’t turn in crap, either. That’s a good trait to have. It’s also one that requires commitment. That’s not bad, either. But that doesn’t mean that obtaining such a level of commitment isn’t taxing at times, and it sure doesn’t mean it isn’t challenging. Meet the various challenges that the day throws at you, however, and you’ll walk out the door feeling better than you did walking in, no matter how mentally fatigued or physically exhausted you are. That’s the nature of that beast.

So in summation, beast, we met again today. You lost. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon, though, and you can take your best shot again. I’m not hard to find, sucka.

Day 189: Digging Deeper

Things are never as bleak ad they seem, but that doesn't mean it is easy looking past that. This is one of those days, but you just keep walking.