Day 299: Happy 18th; An Adult Is Born

 Today is my daughter’s birthday. What an eventful, wonderful, supercharged 18 years it has been, too. But as of today, I have two children that are 18 years old or older, and that’s a strange reality for me—something that’s hard to grasp. Seems like it was only yesterday that I was helping them get dressed for school. Tying their shoes. Cutting their meat. Pouring their milk and then cleaning it up when they spilt it. Seems like it was yesterday we piled in that old Gold van on the way to school, wrapped in blankets because the heater didn’t work. Seems like yesterday we were heading to the park, climbing the ladder, swinging high, and stopping at the gas station to get some candy on the way home. Seems like yesterday we were building tents in the basement for all-night movie marathons. Like yesterday when were rolling around on the floor wrestling and playing hide-n-seek. Snuggling on the couch watching cartoons. Seems like it wasn’t that long ago that my kids were coming home from grade school, getting their afternoon snack, and heading out the door with seemingly everything OK in their worlds. Then junior high crept in, followed by high school, and here we are.

Life passes at the same rate for everyone. But there are those days, like this one, that deserve a little extra contemplating to be done, that require a little more remembrance to be performed. On these days, life seems to travel at a pace that’s unfair and impossible to keep up with. I’d like to have some of those 18 years back again. I’d like to change a few things. Rearrange a few things. Take a left instead of right. I’d like to offer better advice than I did on a few occasions. I’d like a chance to ease some of the burdens I could have. Reduce the stress and tension I didn’t know existed then but do now. I’d like to go back and open more doors. Knock down a few more walls. Help blaze some paths. I’d like to go back and listen more often and more intently. See more. Learn more. I’d like the gift of hindsight, knowing that what I considered to be pressing matters back really weren’t. I’d like to have given my kids less possessions and more laughs. But that’s not possible.

As strange as it seems to have kids of “legal age,” I don’t think I’ll ever think in that way. I guess I’ve considered them to be grown up for some time now, whether I always liked that or not. Usually, I try not to put too much emphasis on age. It doesn’t take too long, for example, to size someone up and know if he or she is mature and world-wise. You don’t need to spend months with someone to know if he or she is introspective, if she’s enlightened and rich with creativity. Conversely, you don’t need eons to figure out if someone is pessimistic, shortsighted, narrow-minded, lacking insight and depth. You just know. Generally, I don’t try to equate those traits to someone’s age, although there’s no denying that acquiring many of those characteristics does tend to take weathering some years and overcoming a significant obstacle or two. I can testify that my children, like a lot of kids today, have overcome their share, probably before they should have had to. Such is today’s society.

As grown as they are and as grown as they consider themselves to be, I still see children, and not in a sense that they aren’t capable, aren’t wily, aren’t wise and durable. I see children because in some ways, I want to. In other ways, I see children because in many respects I’ll always feel the need to provide and counsel and guide, even if those are things that aren’t wanted or asked for as much as once upon a time.

All that said, having had the privilege and gift to be able to watch someone grow over 18 years, and having had the privilege and gift of having had something to do with that growth, are two life-altering, soul-building experiences that can’t be understated. This is glorious day. It’s an achievement. It’s a testament. I don’t know if every parent who has ever had a child turn 18 has felt the same, but I’ll cherish this day for what has happened before it and what will happen from here on out. And I’ll cherish the reality that 18 years from now, nothing will have altered the way I feel today. If anything, the gratitude I have for being a parent will have only further expanded.

Day 298: Sleepless Nights

For the last 10 or so years, I go through periods of surviving many sleepless nights in a row. To be accurate, I sleep like a cozy little baby for the first two hours after my head hits the pillow. The next four or five hours, however, are hit and miss. Usually miss. Despite zombie-walking my way through the daylight hours and being every so slightly irritable (ha), I do find staring at the ceiling for prolonged periods during the night oddly satisfying. I get my greatest thinking done during those stretches. I've plotted great projects and escapades, as well. I only wish I'd carried out even a tenth of them. Still, the process of even dreaming them up has always been aces. 

This week I've been contemplating on a nightly basis all the books I'd wish I had written by now. You should know that if I had actually put pen to paper, they would have been stellar and you would have been entertained. You should also know all the songs that are floating in my head are hits and would have made their way to your heart and soul. The vacations I've taken during my insomnia-induced minutes have also been absolutely magnificent. The mountains I climbed, the oceans I swam in, the temples I knelt in, the churches I bowed my head in, the theaters I clapped in . . . yeah, they were amazing. 

Not sleeping isn't a preferable state of being, but it isn't so bad, either. The key is accepting that you can't force sleep. It will come when it wants to. I've come to believe that there is a reason I'm not snoring the hours away. Something or someone wants me awake, and they want that for a reason. There must be issues I need to work out. Matters I need to tend to. What time is better than when the rest of the world is quiet, tucked away in their own bubbles, and I'm free to explore in solitude? 

Day 297: The Night Jason Voorhees Took Me Down

I’ve had some excellent Halloweens in my life. Of course, watching your kids trick and treat when they’re youngsters is beyond awesome, and there are few things that can beat that, but long before I had kids and long before we hit the night in search of candy, there were many incredible Halloweens that had nothing to do with being a parent. A lot of those nights would involve copious amounts of alcohol and various forms of debauchery, but a lot of them didn’t. Many were memorable for reasons that had nothing to do with howling at the moon, as it were.

Take the Halloween that I was in second grade, for example. Back in the day, kids were allowed to take their costumes to school, and better, in my school we paraded around the top floors of the school so the junior high kids could check us out (and ridicule us). That particular year I had a boss Frankenstein costume that I was majorly stoked about. Green and purple and wicked with black scars on the mask, that costume was bad-ass, and I couldn’t wait to show it off. Problem was that somewhere around mid-morning, I started to feel sick. I was determined to gut it out, though, because besides the Halloween parade, my school had Halloween parties, and that meant food and fun. But damn if I didn’t start to feel so poorly that I was sent off to the school nurse and then later packing my Frankenstein goods and headed home for the day. Depression set in, and it would only get worse. Not to get too graphic here, but what my seven-year-old brain had taken for a severe stomach ache turned out to be nothing that a trip to the bathroom wouldn't end up solving, if you know what I mean. Five minutes later, I was back in top form. My friends at school didn’t see me as Frank, but I still scored candy that night.

When I think of Halloween, though, I think about that damn bastard Jason Voorhees. On Halloween night the year I was 14 and in ninth grade, that ghoul-faced clown scared me so badly, the feeling went out of my legs. Literally. Prior to that little happening, though, the entire rest of the night was glorious. In addition to sharing my first kiss with my then girlfriend, my best friend and I tormented the mean streets of Ashland. Well, not really, but we thought we were. What freedom we had then. No worries of creeps doing us in. Nothing to watch over our backs for. Just fun. 

Eventually, that night we would make our way back to my house for a brief pit stop, during which I sat down near the television, which just so happened to be playing “Friday The 13^th” on HBO. Having never seen the flick before, I never saw what was coming. Sitting on the floor, legs crossed in full-on Yoga style, I watched Mr. Voorhees meet his apparent end. Only, the little crapper wasn’t done for. When he suddenly made his presence once again by popping out of the lake in that now infamous final shot, my legs locked in what was a massive cramping. The pain was unlike any I had ever endured, and I yelped and screamed as if I were walking on fire. It seemingly took hours before I could straighten my sticks out. 

To this day, even seeing a poster, commercial, or passing glimpse of that mute screwface makes my legs hurt. But it also makes me think of Halloween and how much fun those days so long ago were. What a different time. What a great time to grow up. 

  

Day 296: Say It Before It's Too Late

Today, a friend said something to me that was about as positive and reinforcing and meaningful as anything that anyone has said to me in recent memory. More or less, he simply said "thanks for being a good friend." 

I don't know about you, but that's not a real common occurrence in my life. I'd like to think that's not because I'm a crappy friend but more due to it just being difficult for a lot of people to let one another know how they feel. That includes me. 

By default, I'm not vulnerable and open in that way. I understand the reasons why, but it doesn't mean I like it or even necessarily accept it. It typically takes something fairly monumental for me open up like that. Well, unless I have a few pops in me, and then it gets pretty easy. But that's unfortunate because I shouldn't need to be liquored up to hand out an "atta boy" more often. 

When questioned what brought my friend's sudden and unsolicited outpouring of gratitude about, he said because he was reminded that essentially, we sometimes think we've been gifted with more time than we actually have left to spend. In other words, say those things you should be saying anyway before it's too late. 

So, with that in mind: 

• Family, I love you all and appreciate you always. 
• Friends, ditto. Many of you helped shape me, and I don't mind saying I don't think you did too shabby in most regards. (In others, I still have much to learn from you.)
• Mentors, thanks for setting me straight and showing me the light. 
• Teachers, thanks for helping me read, write, and reason. Among the three most important gifts that I've received. 
• Coaches, thanks for toughening up my skin and kicking me in the ass when I needed it. I can take criticism when it's deserved, and you're largely the reason why.  
• Reverend, thanks for helping guide me spiritually, morally, and ethically. 
• Enemies, thanks for showing me what's truly important and truly insignificant. 
• Doubters, thanks for inspiring me to become more than I would have been. 
• The obnoxious and self-centered, thanks for showing me how not to act. 
• Myself, thanks for not giving up. 

Thanks for the reminder, D. 

Day 295: Lance Armstrong

I feel sorry for Lance Armstrong. Somewhere along the line he obviously got enamored with the idea the winning at all costs was worth the risks. Unfortunately for him, and most others, too, the risks usually catch up to you at some point, especially when the risks attract all kind of attention to yourself. 

Who knows whey people do the things they do. Why they don't look far enough out into the future and see that taking shortcuts probably isn't going to cut it in the end, I'm not sure. I've been guilty of it enough times myself, you'd think I know the answer to that question myself.

What I do know is that everyone takes shortcuts at some point. It's inevitable. At some point, the situation or matters or time or whatever factors are at work become so overwhelming, we take the easy way out, sometimes just so that we can live to fight another day. Guys like Lance Armstrong are different. Guys like Roger Clemmens are different. Barry Bonds. Mark McGwire. Women like Marion Jones. They see glory that for some reason they must grab, no matter if that glory is tainted in the end. 

Maybe Lance Armstrong looked around and saw everyone else was doping and thought, if I don't do it, I'll get left behind. I tend to think he went the other direction. He seems like a dominate sort to me, like most athletes are. I think he took the initiative and lead the charge, thinking he could probably cover his tracks or get others to do it for him. Whatever the case, he's taking a fall from grace now, as he rightfully should, but unlike some people I've heard in the past week, I don't take a lot of satisfaction in that. I don't enjoy in watching a guy who obviously grew comfortable lying to himself and others now tumbling down the mountain. I feel sorry that he never realized his true potential. He never gave himself the chance to see what he could conquer truly. 

The fact is, if Armstrong would have come clean a lot sooner on up the road, he wouldn't be getting dealt one crappy hand after another right now. We would have forgive him and probably even praised him for stepping up and using honestly as his strength. My question is will anyone pay attention to anything other than the fall? Will they learn from his mistakes. Will they reason that obtaining glory really is worth the effort unless you do it the right way? That if you take shortcuts, you not seeing all the sights? You're not fully engaging. I hope so. That's the real lesson here, no that someone got what he deserved. As with most occurrences that are negative, there's something positive to be gained. 

Day 294: My Running Playlist

I wonder sometimes what running would have been like way back in high school if I would have been able to listen to music while I ran. All those runs out to that church and beyond in the country or out along the Guard Camp Road probably would have been a hell of a lot more enjoyable with some tunage in my ears. Back then, I either sang or talked to myself to help  the time pass. 

Today, I pretty much count on my headphones and iPhone to help me survive during a run, and survive is excellently what I try to do. I'm far from an accomplished runner, and I need all the help I can get. The few times that I've run without my audio companions were miserable for the most part, probably because all I could hear was the disgusting amount of panting for breath I was doing. 

When it comes to what I listen to exactly, most runs I just press Shuffle before I head out and call it good. Some days, though, I rely on a good ole' playlist to get me through. Usually I reserve playing the playlist on a run when I need to take a strategic course of attack, like when I know I'm going to (attempt) to run longer than normal and am going to need the added motivation. Today was such a day. 

I actually put a lot of thought into making playlists. I always have going back to the two-deck tape cassette days. Loved the playlist, and I haven't found a situation that can't benefit from a group of songs painstakingly culled together by someone who cares about such things. It's probably why one of my top five movies is "High Fidelity." I was the cat back in the day who carefully crafted mixed tapes. Put the right songs in the right places, created the right ebb and flow when they were needed, matched the song to the given atmosphere or environment, and did it with finesse and passion. Or at least I liked to fancy myself as being able to. 

Nearly as much as making playlists, I like seeing the songs other people put on their's. I've wasted a fairly shocking amount of time throughout the years doing just that. 

I've made several playlists specifically for running, but I have one that's my go-to. It's the one I pull out when desperate times call for desperate measures, which is pretty much always. So with that, for the curious, here's what the top 10 consists of, but honestly there's plenty more where this came from: 

1. "Battery," Metallica -- This starts things off with a surge, and I need it, because it's in those first two or so minutes that I really want to quit running before I really get started. This gives me the thrust not to. Mucho energy right off the bat to set the tone. Favorite lyric: "Pounding out aggression / Turns into obsession / Cannot kill the battery" Spot on, James. Spot on. 

2. "Bloody Mother Fuckin Asshole," Martha Wainwright--This song's lyrics make me think (and believe) that no one is going to do a damn thing for you unless you do for yourself first, so get off your arse and start doing it. Favorite lyric, "You say my time here has been some sort of joke/That I've been messing around/Some sort of incubating period/ For when I really come around."  

3. "Remedy," The Black Crowes--By now, my head, lungs, and legs are starting to hurt a little bit, but worse, my mind is starting to get pissed at me for putting my body through this. This song helps me remember that this running stuff is supposed to be fun. Seeing the Crowes live is about as much fun as a person can have in my book. So putting two and two together isn't too difficult as the Robinson brothers start coming through my earbuds. Favorite lyric, "If I come on like a dream?/Would you let me show you what I mean?"

4. "God Made Me Funky," The Headhunters--This is just one of my all-time favorite songs, and truthfully, I'd listen to it any time of day or night no matter the scenario. When I'm running, though, I need a little God in my life, and this is the source. Favorite lyric, "He says God can give you anything you want. Anything you want." 

5. "Who Are You," The Who--Typically, by the time this song comes on, I'm just about through climbing a fairly big hill not far from our house. Around about the time Roger Daltry is asking me, Who the fuck are you?" I like to be able to answer him, "I'm the sonofabitch that just climbed that hill." Favorite lyric, "11 hours in the tin pan, God there has to be another way." 

6. "The Walls Came Down," The Call--I can't even guess the number of times I've stuck a song by The Call on a mixed tape. This band was a huge, huge part of my formative years, and for good reason--they kicked ass. The band's "I Don't Wanna" is just about my favorite song ever, but I love this one nearly as much, and when I'm running, it makes me forget how flipping old I am. Songs are magical in how they can transport you to another time and place. I've come to count on it. Favorite lyric, "I don't think there are any Russians / And there ain't no Yanks/ Just corporate criminals / Playin' with tanks." 

7. "Walk," Pantera -- If you've heard the song, you know why this one is on the list. It's a fighting song. It's a song for calling suckers out, including myself. Favorite lyrics, "Is there no standard anymore? What it takes, who I am, where I've been / Belong." Sometimes, a man has to look himself in the eye and call his own bluff. That's why I like this song.

8. "Ms. Jackson" and "B.O.B.", OutKast--Right about now I'm entering my hip-hop phase of the run. I don't know why, but hip-hop gives me fuel. These two songs make me think about other things than running, which I desperately need because when I start to  obsess about something, like how tired I am, I'm done for. "Ms. Jackson" makes me think about my kids and my wife and I all in the car on some long car ride singing this together or the times when my older girls were younger and we danced like fools. "B.O.B." is just one of the best constructed hip-hop songs ever made, and it's electric. Favorite lyric, ""You can plan a pretty picnic, but you can't predict the weather, Ms. Jackson." 

9. "Made You Look," Nas--I love the ferocity of this track. The swagger. The confidence. It definitely translates when you're concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Step after step. Beat after beat. Favorite lyric, "This ain't rappin, this is street-hop. Now get off your ass like your seat's hot." 

10. "Gravel Pit," The Wu Tang Clan --Another song that's just among my favorite ever. It also has the grooviest, tightest bass lines. If you can't dance to this song, you just can't dance, so quit trying. When I'm running, this just makes me smile, and that's never a bad thing when you're struggling. On a couple of occasions when I've been running and this song is playing, I've passed an elderly man or lady out getting their exercise. It's makes me laugh when I think about stopping just long enough to hand them an earbud and get in on Method Man, the RZA, Old Dirty Bastard, and the rest of the Clan. Favorite lyric, "Remember what Old Dirty said, 'I'll fuck your ass up!'" 

Day 293: Rest

Today was all about laziness. God, it was excellent.

Day 292: Envy, You're Not So Bad

Today, my cousin sent me a text from a movie theater. Worse, he did it right smack dab in the middle of the day. On a Friday. On a cold, ugly, windy Friday.

“How dare you!” I thought as I read it. “You have a lot of nerve, dude.”

Didn’t he know I was sitting at my desk, looking out a dirty window at the dreary, gray clouds existing on the other side of the glass?

Didn’t he know it was now impossible for me to picture anything else in my mind than him sitting in that big, reclining, cushy theater seat, popcorn in his lap, big jug of sugar drink resting comfortably in the soda holder, and maybe even if a bag of Skittles to wash it all down for good measure? God, it made my water a bit, I swear.

Sometimes, envy is the worst trait to be stuck with. Even if it’s temporary, and even if there’s no malice or contempt involved in how it was brought forth, envy is still a bitch. It can leave you feeling discontented. It can leave you feeling incomplete, knowing you’re missing something better that’s located in a better place probably involving better people.

Damn, I wanted that popcorn.

I want that dark movie theater.

I wanted the free time.

I wanted the peace of sinking fully into nothing buy enjoyment. No place to be. No thoughts to summon up to complete a task. No energy to spend other than sticking my hand in a heaping pile of popcorn and then licking the butter from my fingers.

I wanted that damn popcorn seemingly as much as I ever wanted anything in my life.

But that’s the way life presents itself sometimes. With envy. Even for something as inconsequential as a movie and popcorn. You can bemoan your misery, or you can get over it and move on. Today, well, honestly, I choose to bemoan my misery. Not the wisest choice, but honestly, just daydreaming of being someone more preferable was oddly comforting. Imagining myself in that theater, propped up in front of that screen, ears being blown away by a kick-ass audio system. Yeah, today, I choose envy and envy didn’t let me down. 

Day 291: On Soup Kitchens, Elections & My Friends

Paul Ryan, the would-be vice president of the United States, has got me thinking today. More precisely, Ryan’s visit to a Youngstown, Ohio soup dinner last week has me thinking and pondering and wondering and realizing a few things. For that, I have to thank Ryan because, although he and I share next to nothing in the way of political beliefs, he has made me come to see a few faults with myself that I’ve exhibited this political season and that I’m not that proud of.

But first, for the uninformed, here’s what is certain about Ryan’s visit: He, his wife, and several members of his team dropped by a soup kitchen in Ohio. Ryan asserts he did so to pay kudos “for doing what you do. This is what makes society go. It makes it work. Helping people.” The president of the Mahoning County’s St. Vincent De Paul Society that runs the facility, however, says Ryan’s party didn’t have permission and “ramrodded their way” in. Reportedly, Ryan donned an apron, washed dishes that were already clean, and stayed roughly 15 minutes total without serving a meal. Ryan’s camp says they called ahead and got the OK.

Personally, I’ll take the word of a faith-practicing man dedicated to running a soup kitchen over a politician. Any politician, that is. But I’ll leave it to you to make up your own mind. The thing is I’m not even all that upset with what Ryan apparently tried to pull. Um, politicians and photo-ops aren’t anything new. They happen every day and in every way. We’ve seen that “let me kiss your baby” scam going down for generations, right? No, what has me pissed, and honestly fairly well depressed, is that according to the president of the society running the soup kitchen, many donors prior to Ryan’s visit have pulled their support following the visit due to how Ryan was depicted later on. This despite the soup kitchen president assuring anyone interested that his is an organization that’s apolitical. As he stated, "If this was the Democrats, I'd have the same exact problem."

Here’s where my disappointment in myself comes in. Upon reading all this and staying current on the developments, there was no hesitation in my mind whatsoever to form thoughts of, “typical republican bullshit--party first, people second.” But maybe because this situation in particular involved a soup kitchen, I did some deeper, longer thinking, and today, for whatever reason, saw errors in my ways. And although I’m somewhat embarrassed with myself, I’m thankful.

Each summer for two years now, I’ve helped raise money for the local People's City Mission, a homeless shelter that provides the homeless population all kinds of generosity and assistance, including a place to sleep, clothing, and meals. When I write “helped raise money,” what is more accurate is that I sought the help of friends and family to donate money for the cause. During the first summer they helped raise more than $1,500. This past summer, their help brought in close to another $1,000. Not huge sums of money, but nothing to sneeze at, either. Ultimately, that money helped serve a lot of warm meals that otherwise wouldn’t have been possible.

What’s important about this and how it relates to Ryan and the Ohio soup kitchen is that it's made me stop to remember that many of those friends and family who so kindly gifted money to my cause aren’t on the same political page as me. How do I know? Some of these people I’ve known for decades, and their political affiliations aren’t a real big secret. In other cases, I’ve read their Facebook posts over the past few months and pretty easily deduced they don’t prescribe to my way of thinking. They've read mine, as well. I lobbed some political grenades in the directions of republicans. They’ve lobbed some back. I engaged in an argument here and there, and more times that I can count, I’ve made careless judgments based entirely on someone’s political view, conveniently putting aside that they're entitled to their opinions every bit as much as I am to mine. More importantly, I somehow failed to remember that these people are generous, giving, kind, caring souls. They’re republicans. They’re Romney backers. They’re Obama detractors. Their ideologies don’t jibe with mine. But they gave, and I’m fairly certain they give elsewhere and most likely they give often.

Sometimes, I’m prone and even eager to judge someone’s strong convictions concerning matters that don't align with mine as being misguided and even wrong. Just as often I'm prone to prop my positions up as being pious. Simply put, I’m guilty of honing in on the stereotypes from time to time. I guess that’s not too surprising given the amount of hatred and ill will that’s been in the air this presidential election. But stereotypes aren’t the whole enchilada and often, they're  dangerous. Thanks for reminding me, Paul Ryan. And thanks to my friends, all my friends, who gave and give to others in need.

Speaking of which, I'm pretty sure this place can use everyone’s help:

Mahoning County St. Vincent De Paul Society

P.O. Box 224

Youngstown, Ohio 44501.

Day 290: The Big Blow Off

There’s nothing I enjoy more than watching some dude get the big blow off from a woman who doesn’t have time for his painfully obvious, moronic, ass-kissing, mack daddy-lacking, pathetic ways. I mean I truly love a good kiss off just about more than anything. The visual is so sweet.

From start to end, this scenario is a thing of beauty. First, Mr. Smooth lays down his go-to line. He follows that up with his ever-so enticing smile, maybe even a delightful little chuckle to show just how hip he is. But just when he thinks he’s in, he’s not. Instead, he’s left shattered by the savvy, wiser-than-thou woman who delivers a swift dropkick to his oversized, ego-filled head. Boom!!! Smack!!! Thud!!! Dude is left lying in a pool of his own lost pride. What makes this even better is when she walks away slowly, confident, unaffected, all the while sporting a straight-up “I’m ignoring the hell out of you right now because that’s the only action any sane woman can take.”

What truly makes watching one of these scenes go down is when the dude is someone I’ve had to tolerate, put up with, and watch pollute my environment for longer than I ever could have wished for.

I realize my loathing for such overbearing, domineering, “look at me” men probably isn’t the most positive vibe I can offer up, but truly, without even an ounce of exaggeration, I can say it does my heart and soul great good when an idiot like this, someone who deserves the beat down, gets the beat down and he can do nothing about it but sit in the mess he’s created and pretend it didn’t just happen. I wish I could witness such an occurrence every day.

Today’s was a beauty, though, so I’ll hold on to it as long as possible. Who knows when it will come around again? Although, considering the vast population of knuckleheaded, chest-puffing dimwits that seem to be walking the planet, I probably won’t be waiting all that long.

I’m not sure when my disgust for this breed of male began, but I just know it hasn’t dissipated much over the years. You know the guy. He’s got an opinion for everything, and his is the only one that matters. He speaks just loud enough so that everyone can hear him, even when no is paying attention. He follows up every story told by someone else with a story of his own to top it. He’s been everywhere. He’s done everything. He hands out advice like candy on Halloween, despite most of his candy being spoiled and bitter-tasting. He too cool to acknowledge the presence of anyone who can’t benefit him directly, but he’s always cool enough to say hello to the “ladies.” But only some ladies. Only the ones he can picture himself with. Only the ones who aren’t up higher on the food chain. Only those who physically “speak” to him. This is the guy who knows he’s a white male living in a land where being a white male makes you the cream of the crop, and he’s going to ride that creamy train for as long as possible.

So, call me petty, but on this day, the most positive thing that I’ve witnessed or experienced is watching said flake get what was coming to him. Brilliant.

Day 289: The Hobbit

On many a rainy or cold, snowy Sunday afternoon, I'd lay in my bedroom as a kid reading those pages in my copy of "The Hobbit" in which Bilbo engaged in a game of riddles with Gollum. I read and re-read "The Hobbit" numerous times, but on these days when the wind was whipping outside and the covers of my bed were toasty warm, I tended to skip directly to this passage and take in Tolkien's brilliant words over and over. 

As any great book makes possible, I formed my own visions of Bilbo and Gollum in my mind, and even now if I close my eyes, I can conjure those images up with fairly impressive clarity. It has been more than 30 years, after all. On a really good day back then, I could even convince myself that I knew just how damp and suffocating and horrible the tunnels that Gollum resided in really were. I undoubtedly could feel Bilbo's fear. No matter how many times I read those pages, that fright never seemed to diminish. 

Of anything that I read during those years of my life, "The Hobbit"  provided the greatest escape from the real world. It could transport me to a different time and place like nothing else I'd experienced previously, with the possible exception being "The Wizard of Oz," which when I was young, a kid only got one chance a year to see on television. "The Hobbit," though, felt more sinister and real. The stakes were much higher. Bilbo's responsibility far greater than Dorothy's. Bilbo obstacles far greater. He had no comrades or confidants other than Gandalf, and Gandalf wasn't by his side constantly for reassuring and positive reinforcement life the Scarecrow for Dorothy. Those who were with Bilbo didn't believe in him and didn't want him around in the first place. Bilbo had everything to prove. I learned a lot from Bilbo's courage as a kid. Better, I learned that a sharp mind can accomplish a great deal. 

I've seen the theatrical trailer for the upcoming "The Hobbit" more times now than I can count now it seems. I still don't know how I feel about it. As much as I loved "The Lord of The Rings" trilogy and as much as I've viewed each installment (ask my wife), I don't hold the same attachment to them as with "The Hobbit." I don't have visions of them in my mind in the same way. "The Hobbit" opened up doors and possibilities and meanings for me, including in the way of entertainment, literature, morality, alternative worlds, bravery, wisdom, etc. Moreover, it provided a great deal of inspiration to start writing on my own. More than anything, though, I fear "The Hobbit" the movie will somehow alter my relationship that I formed with Bilbo and Gollum in that tunnel, somehow changing the fear I've always felt, changing the tension I've always sensed, changing the attachment. Whether that really happens or not, I don't know. I tend to think not. Still, there's something to be said of leaving well enough alone.  

Day 288: Solitude

I pretty much need solitude to survive. Not as much as I used to require, but enough that I can clear my head from time to time. My head needs a lot of clearing it seems. It's not even that there is an overabundance of thoughts circling around up there. Sometimes, my head gets stuffed with the same  thought playing over and over on a loop. Literally, I have have to tell myself, "Stop fixating, man. You're bugging me." Mine is a simple mind, it seems.  

Most of my solitude these days comes when running. For at least an hour, I can all but guarantee that I'm not going to have to talk to anyone and no one is going to talk to me. I can think about whatever I want. Or I can choose not to think. I can just run and observe. And although there are runs where pretty much all my energy is spent sucking in air and desperately trying to figure out how I'm going to make it even one step more, there are runs that are glorious. Runs where I don't see any cars. I don't see any faces. I don't see anything but the blue sky, the clouds, the landscape, and the distance. Those are the days where I'm most thankful for the solitude. 

Back in the day, I had arguably too much solitude on my hands. In my early 20s, I didn't have a television for several years, for example, a situation that only added to the already considerable quietness. Just books and music and pen and paper. The music added voices to the air, but often those voices only added to the atmosphere; they didn't add companionship. But honestly, I didn't mind a bit. I grew used to letting my thoughts roam free. I grew accustomed to letting my imagination perform the greatest of tricks. And I think I'm the better today for it. I may not always like myself, but I'm almost always comfortable being by myself. I don't search for ways to pass idle time. I don't need someone to make the most of the minutes in front of me. I'm fine with just "sitting." A friend of mine uses that term, "sitting." Just sitting and being. If you do it, you know what I'm talking about. If you don't do it or can't do it, you're missing out. You're missing out on really, truly knowing yourself. Facing your demons. Making friends with them. Making them your allies. Turning them down the path of good. 

Spend enough time by yourself and you learn to be honest with yourself. Face up to your limitations. Stare down your inadequacies. You know what's what. You learn that you can lie and cheat and attempt to fool others into thinking something different about you, but you're just a sucker for doing so. You've gained nothing. You've gained no true respect. False respect is dead respect. It's nothing to be honored or toted out as a badge of honor. Fool others into believing you're something you're not and you're not getting over; you're just a fraud. That's an aspect of running that I love most. You can lie and fabricate and beef up your times and distance, but when you're out on the pavement or trail alone and break down and quit short of your goal, you know the score. You know you didn't measure up. You know how to be truthful with yourself. That carries over. 

There are days when I wish I had more solitude. More time to explore alone. More time to write and rewrite and rewrite some more the lines filtering through my head. But the trade-off is minutes lost with people I don't want to be separated from. And there's much to be gained from being united. I suppose, though, that I'll always be a person who gravitates toward solitude in one respect or another. I'm thankful for the people around me who understand the need. 

Day 287: Pink, pink, pink

Every time I turn the television on these days to watch a football game, all I see is all kinds of pink. Pink shoes. Pink sweatbands. Pink goalposts. Pink towels. Pink hats. Pink, pink, pink.

I wonder if people who don't like sports know about all the good that sports do. I wonder if they understand the ungodly numbers of people that sports touches. The attention that sports demands. The influence it can have to the positive.

All the eyeballs now seeing all that pink are becoming aware that cancer is a big fricking problem. They're asking each other, "Why are they all wearing pink?" And they're learning. Remembering. And maybe they'll take action. They realize that sports does and can make an impact.

Day 286: Popcorn & Peter Pan

There's something so damn cool about settling in on a Saturday afternoon for a movie and a bowl of popcorn. I could spend entire weekends this way if given a chance. 

Today offered such an opportunity, in the form of "Peter Pan." It was my daughter's choice, and I trust her taste about as well as I do my own. So, with popcorn in hand (popcorn we actually cooked ourselves, mind you), we hunkered down on the coach and proceeded to watch. 

I've seen "Peter Pan" numerous times over the years, but I guess I wasn't anticipating and  I had put out of my mind just how disturbing it is on a couple of fronts. First, Peter isn't all that kind to Wendy. In fact, he's pretty demeaning on a couple occasions, and he makes no bones about flirting with other girls right in front of her. He definitely has a problem with women in general, and he isn't shy about treating them inferior and putting them in their place. 

Second, Tinkerbell is way out of line and in need of some anger management therapy. She flat out attempts to put Wendy 6 feet under at least once and nearly gets Peter and the rest of the gang blown up. Beyond that, she doesn't so much character when forks over the goods to Captain Hook without much of a fuss. There's jealously, and then there's Tinkerbell. She makes no attempt to hide her contempt for the chick moving in on her would-be man (Peter), and she has no problem getting others to do her dirty work. 

What's really disturbing and even appalling about "Peter Pan," however, is the way Disney choose to represent Native Americans. Now, anyone who has watched a Disney flick or two knows Walt didn't go to great lengths to cover up his prejudices, and Peter Pan is no different. First, there's Captain Hook referring to the Natives Americans living on Neverland as those "redskins." Then there's the Lost Boys referring to them as "injuns" over and over in the cute little song they sing. Worse of all, though, is how the Disney animators chose to draw the "redskins," obviously working in every stereotype imaginable. 

I try not to get too bent out of shape about these things. It was a different time and place and ignorance was the name of the game when "Peter Pan" was released. Racism was prevalent. Old white guys were at the head of every movie studio, just like about every other organization. It's not all that surprising that Disney movies would be distasteful and outright offensive by today's standards. 

I'm only glad that such things go right over the head of a four-year-old. Well, mostly. There was the moment when my daughter asked, "What is an Indian?" and I had to explain but first give a lesson in proper terms, which I'm sure just confused her. There was also that moment when she said, "Why does Tinkerbell hate Wendy so much. That's not nice." Or the scene that caused her to say, "Those mermaids are pretty much naked and really coming on to Peter, aren't they?" Well, she didn't say that last thing, but heaven knows she very well could have been thinking it given how little those mermaids really did have on and just how they were throwing themselves at Peter without so much of a blush. 

At any rate, at least my kid now knows what an "Indian" is and what the proper term is that we should use. She knows that murder isn't the solution to a problem, even if you can convince someone else to do it for you. And most of all, she knows that just because a boy can fly, that doesn't give him any right to treat a girl like dirt. 

Day 285: Boo! The Art Of Halloween Costume Selection

The other night, my wife ordered my daughter's costume for Halloween. This seemed funny to me--ordering a Halloween costume. Why, in my day, we trucked on down to the good ole' Ben Franklin store, sized up what was available by looking through the plastic on the front of the costume box, and then picked out the best one from what was available on the whole two shelves stocking the item. Ordering costumes? Different time and age, I guess. 

Online ordering issues aside, I'm happy to report that my four-year-old will be living out her curiously strong fixation to vampires on this Halloween, a fact that should make her incredibly happy and me just a little more disturbed than I already was. She latched on to vampires when she was all of about two years old, and it's been a growing obsession since. Why, I don't know exactly. Maybe it's the teeth. Maybe it's the cape. Maybe it's the white skin, long fingernails, bat wings, or weird voice. Maybe it was a "Scooby Doo" episode she saw. She does after all have an equally strong fixation on that hound that I find just as disturbing. At any rate, I'm looking forward to where she takes this, whatever dark recesses they may be. 

There was a few  years a while back when I was on a roll with Halloween costumes. Instead of going the traditional route and buying one at some store or another, my older daughter and I went from thrift store to thrift store piecing a costume together that was original and from our hearts. I loved those years. I felt like a kid again when my mom did the same for me, helping me make a costume. Even if the results were decidedly mixed, I covet those memories. The year she helped transform my boyish face into rock drummer extraordinaire Peter Criss of Kiss, well, that was special, and I kicked Halloween ass. The year she turned me into Pinocchio, however, complete with a long nose fashioned from a piece of paper grocery sack that was taped to my nose, well, that wasn't so kick-ass, especially because I was 10 or so, and wearing red rouge on my cheeks wasn't my idea of an All Hollows Eve night out with the fellas.   

But I digress. What my mom showed me then was that you didn't have to spend money to make something cool and noticeable. I may be biased, but my daughter came alive those years when we worked up incredibly cool Elvis and Joker costumes. They weren't great because we bought something patterned after The King and Batman's nemesis. They were great because we were motivated to use our own imagine to pattern a costume based on our love of The King and The Joker. I'm only sorry to say that my daughter lost faith somewhere along the way in my costume-making skills and began to venture down the dark path of department store Halloween outfitting. Oh, lost youth.  

I think half the excitement for kids around Halloween is dreaming about which larger-than-life character they want to escape into, if even just for one night. My daughter has been plotting this year's costume since about last February, fluctuating among a dragon, vampire, Iron Man, Spider-Man, zombie, pirate, and so many other possibilities. Literally, every night for at least seven months straight, I've had to tell her a "spooky" story at bedtime because no other type of story seems to do. These stories are always either prefaced or followed by, "Dad, I think I know what I want to be for Halloween" conversations. 

Truthfully, I'm shocked she was able to settle on one. Just last week as we walked the aisles of the toy store, she changed her mind literally five times in a minute's span looking at what was on the shelves. Typical for every kid, I guess, but considering this one has seemingly given little else much thought in recent months, I was a bit surprised. I'm sure, though, she's going to be just fine with being a vampire, and I have no doubt, she'll put all her energy into diving into character and vamping it up, as it were. I only hope she comes out of character once Halloween is over. 

The only remaining question now is what do I want to be for Halloween this year? I could be Frankenstein like I was in second grade, which still ranks as my second all-time favorite. My favorite would be the full-body skeleton outfit I had going all the way back to kindergarten. That thing was straight-up sinister, and every costume has paled since. I could break out my purple and gold Luchador mask and turn myself into a pro rassler, but I've done that already. I guess more daydreaming is in order. 

Day 284: Sean Penn, Kid Rock & Me? Forget About It

Sean Penn, in my humble opinion, is a remarkable human being. He's made the most of his life. He's lived his life in as about an uncompromising manner as I can imagine anyone possible with his celebrity status. He very well may be a dick, but I'd be willing to expose myself to his wrath and anger for just a few hours of hanging out time. The guy is well read. He's arguably the best actor walking the planet (certainly one of the very best, at any rate). He's a filmmaker. He's a writer. He's a humanitarian who puts his money everywhere he puts his mouth. He knows how to surf and skateboard. He wears cool clothes. He lives what he believes. I could care less if he's a dick. 

Kid Rock? Well, let's just say I'm less of a fan, at least of his music. But in other facets, you can say he's very much like Penn. He lives his life pretty much the way he sees fit. He does what he wants, when he wants, how he wants, and with who he wants. He drinks like a fish. He likes fast cars. He wears funny hats and pulls it off impressively. Besides, I can respect anyone who holds Merle Haggard and Run DMC in the same high regard. I may not be crazy about his duets with Sheryl Crow  because, well, it is Sheryl Crow (sorry ladies), but he's alright in my book. And yeah, I wouldn't mind a few hours of hanging out time, even if he is backing Romney. 

Put all three of us together? Holy hell, the things I would learn. The insight I'd receive. The pointers I could use to my benefit. The alcohol we would consume. Why can't my fantasy life come true even once? Why can't the dream world meet the real world if even for a fleeting moment. Maybe it will one day. Who knows? Until then, I've got moments like this. I love living in the Internet age. It makes it possible to live all my weirdness out from behind the keyboard. Rock on, Kid Penn! Rock on! 

Day 283: Malala Yousufzai

Considering that I've never met Malala Yousufzai, she's been on my mind a lot today. I guess that would be otherwise surprising, being that she lives half a world away in Pakistan and that she's just 14 years old. But after reading the details this morning about how a cowardly, grown man blatantly and unflinchingly walked up to her in broad daylight and proceeded to put a bullet through her neck, I guess it's not all that surprising after all.

I guess it's not all that surprising either to be deeply affected and moved, including to tears. When a grown man approaches a girl, waiting to get on a school bus no less, and puts the barrel to her flesh and pulls the trigger, it's not that shocking that people would be taken for a loss. Outraged. Devastated. Incensed. Saddened. Lost. Dejected. Speechless. 

So, I guess despite having only crossed paths with Malala Yousufzai on this very day and only through news reports, it's not that surprising that I'm utterly inspired. That I've thought about her often today. That I've contemplated my own courage. What I'm willing to fight for. What I'm willing to not back down from. What I'm willing to die for.  

I have the greatest admiration and respect for anyone who exhibits bravery, particularly when doing so means your outcome isn't guaranteed, when it exceeds the norm. It's admirable when someone, say, faces down a life-threatening disease, but it's entirely different when someone takes on the welfare for an entire gender, for fellow citizens, for humanity to a great extent, knowing that doing so means staring down an uncompromising violent force that will not hesitate to end you. To snuff you out as if you never existed in the first place. 

Malala Yousufzai has done more in 14 years than I could contemplate doing in my lifetime. 14 years old. Just think about that. 14. Not 40. Not 60. Not an age that carries decades of experience and acquired wisdom. 14. Still a kid. Amazing.

Moreover, she's a girl in a in a land where being a female certainly is nothing like being a female in the United States or other countries. A land where a group like the Taliban has a definite idea about a women should and should not be. To disagree with such notions and show such unbridled courage and tenacity to speak out against that dominating voice as a 14-year-old girl, well, that's impossible to ignore or impossible not to pay due respect. And she's been living her beliefs for years, as this passage from the Associated Press indicates:

 

"At the age of 11, she began writing a blog under a pseudonym for the BBC about life under the Taliban in the Swat Valley. After the military ousted the militants in 2009, she began publicly speaking out about the need for girls' education, something the Taliban strongly opposes."

I wish I would have crossed paths with Malala Yousufzai before today. Despite the timing, however, she's left a deep, lasting impression. I only hope I can live up to her amazing example. 

Day 282: Sweet Honey In The Rock; Salvation Delivered

From Psalm 81:16 comes the promise to a people of being fed by honey out of the rock. Honey – an ancient substance, sweet and nurturing. Rock – an elemental strength, enduring the winds of time. The metaphor of sweet honey in the rock captures completely these African American women whose repertoire is steeped in the sacred music of the Black church, the clarion calls of the civil rights movement, and songs of the struggle for justice everywhere. 

I've never really been a person who falls prey to road rage. Sure, I have my moments when I can't tolerate the "idiot" driver in front of me or I feel the need to shoot a menacing glare at the "dumb-ass" that just cut me off, but for the most part, I'm not an angry driver. I have plenty of other things that regularly piss me off. Frankly, I don't have room to add many more instigators of frustration, annoyance, and irritability. 

That said, I'm finding my rage levels spiking upward more and more as the school year progresses. Every morning from roughly 7:15 a.m. to 7:50 a.m. as I traverse Lincoln roadways across the city to Southeast High School and then back across the city to my workplace, it seems as if my blood pressure rises higher, my mouth starts spewing the nastiest of phrases more frequently, and my "you're really pissing me off" game face gets pulled out used more often. 

In no way am I proud of this. In fact, I pretty much hate it. I hate being a passenger in a vehicle where the person behind the wheel lets every little frustrating incident be the cause of an inflammatory reaction. I hate that people's emotions are so quickly manipulated and played when they're behind the wheel. What the hell is it about driving that induces the Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde phenomenon, turning a normally pleasant person into a barbarian? It's as if you can see the horns and claws come out. It's a wolfman transformation. It's ugly and scary and sometimes brutal.

 Literally, I'm physically starting to notice the toll the stress of driving in bumper-to-bumper morning traffic, coupled with my growing intolerance for little ole' lady drivers, is having on my psyche. By 7:59 a.m. I'm ready to beat someone's ass. Anyone. This morning was no different.

Thank the sweet,sweet Lord for Sweet Honey In The Rock. This beautiful band of ladies came to my rescue just when I need it rescuing today, providing sweet, sweet salvation. Pretty much at the time I was ready to go to work banding my forehead against the steering wheel to relieve the pain mounting inside my anger-filled, throbbing skull, I heard these incredible words come pouring out of my car speakers, delivered in a heaven-sent, a cappella, spine-tingling, mind-altering, soul-pacifying, rage-reducing touch of brilliance in the form of "I"m Gon' Stand":  


I just can't tolerate racism. 
I just can't tolerate injustice. 
I just won't tolerate exploitation.
What you going to do? 
I'm gon' stand. 
I'm gon' stand. 
I'm gon' stand. 
Yeah. 


Divine intervention? Heavens, yes. Suddenly, the lion was tamed. The beast was soothed. I was a changed man. A calmer man. I gentler man. A better man. 

Damned if it doesn't take a woman to set the coarse straight. Damned if the voices of beautiful, God-fearing, faith-toting women of conviction can't make a narrow-minded, short-sided, easily-swayed man see the error in his ways. 

Damned if I won't praise the power of Sweet Honey In The Rock from now until eternity. 

Want to feel the power yourself? 

Take a listen yourself here. 

Buy the song here. 

See the influence it's had on others here. 

Praise to sweet honey. 

Day 281: Talking About My Generation

"Everybody talks about the entitlement generation. There is no time I would rather live in than now. ...There's a tendency to live in a nostalgic state in this country, and think that other generations possessed an integrity and a tenacity better than the generation that is now. I wholeheartedly disagree with that, and I believe this is a group that will rise up to any challenge that comes before them, as well as any other generation in America would have done. My advice to them would be to please don't think of me as an entitled moocher when I'm collecting my government benefits."

- John Stewart during recent Internet-held debate with Bill O'Reilly

I get caught up in the mentality that John Stewart is describing here myself time and again. The mentality that today's younger generation is somehow inferior to mine and the ones that came before it. I know when I fall into that mindset, I'm not alone. I hear and read others stating as much in no uncertain terms all the time. Often, these statements are derogatory and mean-spirited. They're delivered in an attempt to humiliate and echo a certain amount of disgust. They're meant to illicit an "Oh, hell yeah" reaction from others reading them who agree. "You're damn right. Today's younger generations are an entitled lot of slackers who don't want to get a job. Who don't want to feed themselves. Who don't to move out of ma and pa's basement. They'd rather sponge than earn."

I start to kid myself into believing that current generations really do lack the work ethic and drive that my generation possessed. Until I take the time to remember all those people I've crossed paths with along the way who were my age and older who didn't like to work so much themselves and therefore didn't. 

I tell myself periodically that kids today do lack respect. Until I start to think back on some of the  kids I knew who didn't have a problem with breaking a principle's window in the dark of night or throwing eggs at random houses or breaking mailboxes or stealing from the downtown dime store or worse.

I start to convince myself that today's younger generation is more concerned with meeting their own immediate needs than helping the community progress. Until I live through another election and am reminded yet again at just how drastically far apart people belonging to all generations really are where helping all mankind vs. doing for me and my own is concerned.  

I start to fool myself into believing that current generations want everything handed to them right from the start without paying any dues. That they've been babied and cuddled. That we've strung so many medals around their necks for just participating that they don't know how to truly compete or truly strive or how to really, really want something so badly they'll do anything it takes. Until I wake up and realize just what my generation and others handed today's youth. The environmental messes. The climate messes. The diseases. The earthquakes and tsunamis. The oil spills. The debilitated economies. The rapidly disappearing natural resources. The rapidly disappearing animal species. The polluted waters. The terrorism at home and abroad. The gulfs in race relations and religions and sexuality still. 

I realize  how drastically different an educational experience today's younger generations have and are having compared to mine. How they're pushed and pulled to "catch up with the world." How they have homework for hours after school after sitting in school for the equivalent of a work day. How they're pushed to specialize. Hone in. Pick up a discipline. How they're encouraged to take a career path before they know what careers are out there. I was a good student, but I rarely, if ever, did homework for an hour, let alone several, on a consistent basis after school. I never felt as if college was out of my reach because I was going to put myself or my family in deep debt or spend decades paying back loans for the mere prospect of actually landing a job I'm qualified for. 

I never felt as if the problems my peers were being asked to solve were literally being counted upon to save the world and ensure the future of my children's children. To rectify irreversible climate damage incurred by generations who ignored the warnings. To bridge the gaps between the classes that is tearing the country apart currently. To learn to live in an increasingly corporate world where "the America dream" arguably has never been more difficult to obtain. 

I don't know. When I stop to think about today's younger generations, for as many things that I might not personally like or wish were different, I know how misguided such beliefs are in reality. 

Day 280: The No Cable Experiment

We're about three weeks into the no cable television experiment, and I couldn't be happier. Honestly, I was a bit worried, but now I wondering what I was ever worried about in the first place. More time to read. More time to listen to music. More time to draw and play games. Honestly, cutting the cord to cable television has been nothing but gains. A gain in money saved. A gain in children wasting time moving from one channel to another. A gain from more time to just think uninterrupted. Less strange voices floating about in my house has been a godsend. Honestly.