Day 242: Politics Sucks, Continued (The Clint Eastwood Edition)

I found myself left feeling very sad watching Clint Eastwood looking at an empty chair, trying to make a point but only coming off ultimately like a delusional old man. I have respected the hell out of Clint Eastwood for decades. I mean that sincerely. And for more than just being an actor. He epitomized to me what it meant to be a man. A standup man. On and off the screen. He's always carried himself in a confident, non-effected manner that I've truly admired. 

This opening from an Esquire article from years ago sums it up pretty much: "Why is Clint Eastwood still the man? Because no other man's come along to unseat him. And even though he's eighty, we could use someone like him as the epitome of masculinity right now."

To me, Eastwood meant far more than John Wayne or any other "man's man" that has come along over the decades. Eastwood was a true artist who also so happened to be a true man, at least in my book. Watch some videos of him playing piano sometime. Look at the films that he has directed. Read about his run as mayor of Carmel, Calif., back in the 1980s. Eastwood has always been more than just a face and image and guy who could spit out some memorable lines. There was a brain with a definite artistic vision behind those steely eyes in his chiseled face. 

I've seen "The Outlaw Josey Wales" more times than I can count. Literally. I still watch it with the same appreciation and awe. It takes me to a different time and place, and it leaves me wanting to jump on a horse and fight for a cause. That's Eastwood's doing. 

Years ago, on a flight to Portland, I picked up that copy of Esquire before taking off because there was an article with Eastwood inside titled "What I've Learned." I think I read that article a dozen times in the following weeks. It was full of so much gold, and I felt better about myself, life, and the future after each time. It also made me laugh numerous times for nuggets like this, which I identify with: Kids piercing themselves, piercing their tongues -- what kind of masochism is that? Is it to show you can just take it?

Despite leaning the left on pretty much all issues, I'm pretty old school in the ways I approach life, particularly where respect and honor and integrity are concerned. I don't always live up to the billing I'd like to achieve, but I try. Moreover, I respect endlessly those who are known for those traits who have truly earned the reputation. I consider Eastwood definitely one of those people. 

I hope Clint Eastwood isn't remembered ultimately as the bumbling old guy who spoke to an empty chair at a convention. I hope the jokes stop sooner than later. But I think what I've learned from Eastwood has to also apply to Eastwood: That as a man, you're responsible for your actions and how you carry yourself. Your words are your own, and after they come out, they are your's to possess and defend. No one pushed Clint Eastwood on stage and made him target President Obama and come off looking like a sorry bully who didn't have his full capacities in tact. He did that to himself. I'll choose, however, not to think and remember him in that way. I think of him as a guy who might have had good intentions where his beliefs are concerned but made a mistake. We all make them, even the most manly of men. 

Day 241: Politics Sucks

I sincerely am struggling these days. I'm trying to play the good soldier and weather on, but it's getting harder and harder. Every day that the presidential election gets closer, I find myself having to work just a little harder than the day before to wrap up my wicked little tongue tightly and securely and keep it from spouting off at will.

I know it's my right to say whatever the hell comes to my mind, and frankly most of what would come flowing out would be "left-wing," "liberal," and democratic in nature. So take that for what' it's worth. But I'm trying to walk the fine line and keep my opinions in check. I'm trying to be responsible and not antagonistic. I'm trying not to be confrontational or reactionary or get sucked into the traps the "opposition" is setting for me. But it's hard, man. It's hard. It's hard watching it from both sides of the divide. 

There was a time when I lived and breathed politics. I loved the game. I loved the fight. I loved the ability to seek out a candidate who I wanted to back and then get to work championing his or her cause. I loved the process. I loved the system. There was a time when I even would make the argument that I truly believed most politicians had the people's best interests always at heart. Always. They always did what was best for the people they represented. Always. Without question. There was a time when my energy and enthusiasm for the political machine was without limits. 

No more. I've grown tired and weary. I hate to admit as much, but it's true. I'm tired of the pessimism. I'm tired of the half-truths. I'm tired of the games and wasted time and money and energy. I'm tired of the facades and charades. I'm tired of the blind following the blind. I'm tired of the ill feelings and bad blood and lack of good will. I'm tired of the low blows and hurdles and hoops. I'm tired of rhetoric. The stereotypes. I'm tired of the hidden and blatant racism. I'm tired of the rich vs. poor. I'm just tired of it all. 

I'll continue to vote, and I'll continue to inform myself so that my vote is a qualified one made with the best of intentions. I won't abandon my duty to educate myself and arm myself with all the pertinent data. ALL THE PERTINENT DATA. I won't stop investigating and digging and tunneling a little deeper than the top headlines to find the real bits of truth. That's the least I can for all that I've been given living in this country. It's the least you should do, too. But I won't allow myself any longer to be baited into meaningless debates. I won't allow myself to fall prey to those who only spew the party line but know nothing beyond that. To those who don't go deeper than the surface, but rather rely on merely what their neighbor or spouse or Fox News or MSNBC tells them is true. I won't walk down paths of arguments with those who don't recognize historical facts. When I read public declarations from friends and family about why candidate X is the savior, I won't pour my heart and soul into discounting why he's really not. I won't take my precise time to take what you say personally. 

Unfortunately, I've come to recognize I live in an increasingly more hateful, divided, and disconnected country. I recognize there's an odd need at foot to pick sides and go to battle, tearing at the throat, scratching at the eyes, and breaking bones--even if many of those doing battle are ill-equipped to wage war truthfully and honestly. I'll respect your opinion sincerely and honestly--if it's been developed and grown sincerely and honestly. Otherwise, I don't think I can afford to recognize the ignorant any longer, if only for my own sanity. 

I have to somehow remain positive about this political animal running free now, this beast that continues to grow more nasty every day. If not, I fear I just might turn my back on that animal once and for all. I can feel the urge to do just that growing increasingly stronger each day. I don't want that to occur. I want to take part in this system because I believe in this system. I believe this system still has potential. 

But without a doubt, the system is flawed, and I can't pretend it's not. The system is full of minds that are flawed, and I can pretend they are not. They system is full of landmines and trick doors, and I can't pretend there are many who would willingly step on them and walk through without question. I'm fairly well convinced that I can't continue to engage politically with such people. I don't have the inclination any longer. I have to concentrate on being and becoming a better citizen. For me, that means fostering what's right and changing what isn't. That starts with myself. That means solidifying my beliefs, not working so damn hard to make everyone else aware of them or agree with them. That means less counterattacks and more progression. That means recognizes what meaningful vs. what's just more cluttering and nonsense polluting the air.  

Day 240: Dress Shoes & Snow

Back in second or third grade, for some reason my mom instituted a rule that I had to wear my dress shoes to school at least one day a week. I think she wanted to get her money's worth, because other than that one day, there weren't a whole lot of other opportunities popping up regularly to slip those bad boys on and start to stepping. 

I hated those shoes with great, intense passion, and I wasn't all that pleased with my mom on those days, either. That damn shoes put a serious dent in my kick soccer skills. They also made my feet feel like someone had taken a hammer to them. Beyond that, they made me look like an insurance salesman in the making, especially compared to all my peers who were sporting tennies on their toes. 

(My mom also instituted a rule somewhere along the line concerning wearing a "nice" shirt or sweater, but I circumvented that one pretty easily by wearing an extra shirt underneath whatever buttoned-up abomination she set out for me. I simply stripped off her good in favor of my tattered bad once I got to school and did the opposite before I got home. Not so easily done with shoes, though.) 

Eventually, I found a good use for those damn shoes, although I'd pretty much instantly regret it. Every year at my grade school, when the weather would take a turn for the worse and the snow started to fall,  it would cause pretty much every kid with a lick of adventure running through his or her bones to head off to the killer hill that sat off to the edge of the playground. Add a little snow and ice to that natural decline, and you had the makings for an all-out, downhill, shoe-sliding bonanza. Damn if my 1970's-era platform dress shoes weren't fast as lightning on that snow and ice. I mean, jet-like fast. Unfortunately, I only experienced the rush and thrill of racing down that hill on those shoes once. Yep, exactly once. 

Those shoes were so amazingly slick, I couldn't get back up the hill--literally. I vividly remember slipping time after time after time after time while trying. Take a step and WHAM! Face first in the white stuff. Take a step and BLAM! Right on my arse. I fell so often and so hard, it wasn't long before I started to cry. Hard. Beyond being legitimately worried I was never going to get back up that hill, kids were whizzing by me with no regard for my immediate safety. It was like dodging human bullets. Add to that the school bell going off with me still at rock bottom, and I was beyond flustered and panicked. Somewhere along the line, I decide that crawling on my hands and knees served as my best chance of getting up. Eventually I made it, albeit soaking wet, exhausted, and with a face covered in a nasty mix of tears and snot. I froze all day sitting at my desk in those wet clothes. At recess when the other kids headed back to the hill, I ran the other way. I'd seen that monster, and I wasn't about to look him in the eye again. 

For whatever reason, I still think about that day and those shoes surprisingly often. I've never really demanded that my kids wear certain clothing, although in certain situations where some decorum was called for, I really wanted to or might have even strongly suggested as much.  But I can't recall flat-out telling any of them that they couldn't wear their hair in a certain way or implemented too many other similar restrictions. I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing honestly. I can't decide if my mom was right for getting her money's worth from those shoes. Some days when my kids start squawking about this injustice or that, I wish I had those shoes still. I'd tie them to their feet and tell them to get to marching. I'd like to see if they hated them as much as I do. Sometimes, though, I'm thankful for the bits of discomfort that have surfaced over the years. Some things come to easy to too many people. We all should have dress shoe-snow hill setbacks to toughen us up along the way. 

Day 239: Writing In The Car

I do some of my best thinking while in the car riding alone. I always have, going back decades to those late nights when I'd drive my way from western Nebraska to eastern Nebraska. You could get a lot of thinking done in those days driving along the mostly abandoned highways and interstate in the wee wee hours. 

These days, most of my solo driving takes place in the morning, which really is the perfect time to collect your thoughts. Although my morning drives don't allow as much time to conjure up the song lyrics and poems and movie ideas and daydreams that traveling those hours-long stretches across Nebraska did, I still manage to compact a lot of notions and schemes into a short time frame. 

Way back in the day, I made several solo road trips across various parts of the country. I was in my mid-20s, just about dirt broke, and there weren't a whole lot of career prospects on the horizon to keep me tied to one place unfortunately. But what I lacked in professional production, I damn sure made up in life experience. My skin got pretty thick and tough during those days, and living essentially on nothing made me grow up in a damn hurry. You learn to make a lot of different things last when you're not sure when or if you're going to be able to replace them again. I probably didn't appreciate the lessons of longevity I was learning then while making a sandwich stretch into two meals or a bottle of water last all day so that I would have gas money in the next town, but I sure appreciate the lessons today. 

Not having a lot of possessions to keep you preoccupied means you cook up others things that can take up your mind's attention. You devise plans. You create mythical situations. You think about past and future relationships, repairing them, bridging them, replenishing them, creating them. Given a lot of alone time in a moving vehicle, you learn to see. You learn to observe. Your intuition begins to sharpen and take over. You learn to trust yourself, have confidence in yourself, relearn what it was you once found appealing about yourself. You become honed and formidable again. 

I wish I had more time for road trips these days. I long some days for the years when I could pack everything I owned into one car, when I could take off and had no place to necessarily be or a time to necessarily be there. I regret I didn't take better advantage of those days, but I'm eternally thankful for those times I did experience. I know many people never do. I know many people never leave their comfort zones or their backyards for that matter. I can't imagine who I'd be today if I hadn't. 

Riding in the car is magical for some people. For me, it's magical for the solitude it provides. I'm not a true appreciator of cars in general, and I barely know one model from another, but at least from the perspective of the freedom that four wheel and a black top provides, I completely understand and covet the magic of the automobile. I've spent plenty of time sitting behind the wheel thinking about this and so many other things. 

Day 238: Kindred Spirits

This morning on the way to taking my daughter to school and then myself off to work, we drove by the park near our house just as we do every morning. I like to think of this park as being more than an ordinary park, however. It's special. Our park sits on the edge of several acres' worth of wetlands, all of which is protected by law from the land being development or from other projects taking place that would ruin the aesthetic beauty and way of life that exists there. It's also a park that stretches from north to south, leaving you to look east to take it all in. On just about any morning in which the sky isn't cloud covered, you can sit on the bench or picnic tables and watch about as amazing of sun risings as I can imagine existing anywhere, sun rises that inch up over the horizon ever so slowly, heating up and flushing with color land that hasn't been touched since before the first settlers came barreling across Nebraska in their covered wagons. 

On some mornings, like today, that sun will be accompanied by a fog and a dew and a haziness that's so thick and seductive, you'd swear you could climb right on top of it all, curl up, and embark in the greatest sleep of your entire life. The way the sun bounces off the whiteness of the fog is beyond spectacular, and the colors that bounce and dance and spiral off the leaves and grass is hypnotic and utterly mesmerizing. 

Most mornings I drive by, I feel as if I'm alone in the world witnessing this beauty occurring.  Despite years of pestering whatever child was sitting next to me in the car's passenger seat to wake up long enough and "just look at that sunrise, will you," they have never been anywhere nearly as impressed as me. These days, I rarely even make mention of the natural miracle happening right outside the car window for their benefit. I just resign myself to take in the wonder alone and leave it at that. 

Today, though, I noticed a woman sitting on the picnic table under a canopy at the far edge of the park. She was leaning back, just basking in that sunrise, and in a mere second, I thought to myself, "I know exactly what she is feeling and seeing right now." As far as I know, we've never met, but for that brief second, just seeing the way in which she was reveling in what was being presented before her, I felt like we have always known one another. 

Life is strange in that way. We can feel completely isolated and devoid of any human contact while standing smack dab in the middle of a bustling crowd, and we can feel completely connected and as one with someone we've never looked at face to face or exchanged one word with. Sometimes, I need to know there are people in the world like me. I need to know that somewhere there is someone who values the same things as me. Even if I don't know them from Adam. 

Day 237: Being Content

For some reason I'm feeling content today. I have bills up the wazoo, and tomorrow is  Monday, meaning the start a new and busy work week, but I'm feeling good about life. Being happy in your home makes all the difference. Have happiness in the home and all the problems that the outside world brings seem to go away, or at least become entirely more bearable. I'm lucky in this way. I don't take that for granted. I can't afford to.

Day 236: Cars

I'm not much of a car person. A car gets me around, and that's pretty much the extent of it for me. I understand why a car is a big deal to some people. I wouldn't spend a whole lot to buy one, but I get it. I'd spend a whole lot (if I had it to spend) on other stuff, say, a guitar or stereo system, for example. This week, I've spent a small fortune to keep the various cars in our family able to get us around, and still the hits just keep coming, including today when another surfaced. My initial reaction was, "Good Christ, you have to be kidding me? What the hell is happening here?" But as my wife so wisely said, at some point, the whole thing becomes so comical, all you can do is laugh. She's right. The bad luck train is just going to keep rolling down the tracks whether you want it to or not. So laugh is what I'm going to do. Of course, I'll be a bit more broke while I'm chuckling away, but what the hell.

Day 235: Dear, Blowhard

Dear Blowhard, 
I feel compelled to inform you that you no longer bug the hell out of me. In fact, I've come to realize recently that I feel more sympathy for your plight than I feel contempt for the space you occupy in the world. It must be terribly lonely to know that you're taken with such little regard and respect that the your only friend is your own voice. And while I consider that voice worse than air pollution or cigarette smoke blown directly up my nostrils, unfortunately short of stuffing a sock in your talk-hole, there's not much I can do about your right to breath. Your perseverance to keep on yapping is greater than my will to muster up the effort to clam you up, so I'll be saying, so long. 

Unlike days prior, when I felt obsessed to do everything in my power to discount your every dumbass word, I pretty much don't give a crap any longer as to what you have to say--period. Not that I gave much of a tinkle before, but for some reason, you grinded on my nerves with such annoying consistency, I couldn't help but feel the need to pay you mind.  Our relationship was sort of like stepping on a nail; I couldn't help but have to take action. No longer, though. So spew on and on. It doesn't matter. 

The fact that I'm even addressing you here makes me cringe somewhat with embarrassment, but so be it. I'll deal with that later. But you talk too much for me to take seriously. You talk too much for me to continue filtering out the good from the moronic. You talk so much, the only ones listening are the other blowhards. There was a day when you suckered me in, but I'm free now. I've seen the light. I've been saved. Salvation is here. My time is too valuable. I've important matters to tend to, like washing dishes, picking up dog poop, sweeping the garage floor, and shining my shoes. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, piss off. 

With absolute sincerity, 

Me 

Day 234: Eat & Be Merry

Today, I'm feeling a little rough around the edges. Been a long, long week. A lot of driving. Tons of tasks. Seemingly one problem surfacing after another. Very little "me" time in between. At any given time during any given day during this week, I've gone over to the "dark side." As each new headache surfaced or a new responsibility reared its head or another hour of sleep was lost, I let my internal whiner run free at the mouth, and man, he can whine with the best of them when he wants. "Wah, wah, wah." There's nothing I hate more than a whiner. Fortunately, it seems to take a lot less time than it used to for me to realize what an asshole I'm being. 

Just now, for example, I let the internal whiner in me carry on by bitching and moaning about having to go to the store, come up with something for supper, and cook it. Lucky for me, I have a bad-ass realist who also lives inside me, a guy who is willing to voice his displeasure in my whenever needed. "Hey, asshole, at least you have money to go to the store and buy food. At least you can hop in your car, buy your family some grub, and drive back to the house that you own to cook it up for them. Stop your damn pissing and moaning." 

I love that guy. He tells it like it is. He makes me see the light. So, when the whiner wants to fill my head with, "Oh, I hope my little girl is doing OK at her first day in a new daycare today," the realist is saying, "Well, dude, it is good that her parents have jobs so they can pay for daycare." When the whiner starts yapping, "Jesus, this drive across town to pick up my kid from school is a real pain in the ass," the realist says, "Come on, man, you have a choice in where your kid gets to obtain an education." When the whiner starts sobbing that "life is a real struggle today," the realist says, "Really? Really? What's so damn hard? That you get to sleep in your own bed at the end of the day? That you get to turn on the TV to relax? That you had to clean up dishes from which you stuffed your face? That your daughter made you laugh yet again? That your kids still talk to you willingly and often? That your dog showed you unconditional love? That your fenced in backyard gave you some privacy to look at the stars? That you were woke up and lived to see another day? Shut the hell up already." 

I do that guy. I really do. 

Day 233: Photographers

For some reason I’ve known quite a few photographers in my life. I think it’s because I’ve subconsciously always wanted to be one myself. Unfortunately, I don’t quite have the chops. I think I have a decent eye, but my technical skills are pretty much crap, at least professionally. That’s why I admire photographers of the real sort so much. They have the eye and they have the skills. The eye is God given to a great extent I believe. The skills aren’t. 

I started reviewing digital cameras, for example, when the very first models arrived on the scene. Those models didn’t have external memory, the resolution was incredibly poor, and they were ultra-expensive. I’ve continue reviewing and working with cameras right on up through today, but my skills have never progressed to the point where adjusting a camera’s settings for different lighting and environments is what I’d call second nature or instinctual. Real photographers don’t have the luxury to struggle through proper settings. Time is money. Time is available light. Time is motion. Time is being in the moment to capture the perfect shot. If you’re not able to manage photographic time, you can’t manage being a true photographer.

At any rate, my inefficiencies as a photographer have never diminished by ability to be a lover of good photography. And although I’m a fan of many photographers who are or have been nationally or internationally known, I really like to view the work of photographers I personally know. By knowing the person behind the camera, you seem to be able to read a little something more into the shots he or she captures. Some of my favorite photographers make a living from photography. Others don’t. They’re just passionate about art in general, and using a camera is one way they execute their art. My friend Jason, for example, isn’t a professional photographer per se, but I think he could be if he wanted. The photo below is his, and it’s an example of why I love photography in general; a good photo conveys a feeling and creates a sensation.

My friend George is a pro. He owns his own studio in North Platte, where he's lived for more than 20 years plying his craft. What I love most about George is that he's self-made. He rode bulls in local Nebraska rodeos to earn the money to buy his first camera, and from there he carved out a path to become a professional. His work has been circulated nationally and international, and today, he makes annual pilgrimages with Habit For Humanity to snap shots of President Carter and others. 

My friend, Nathan, meanwhile, is extremely talented and extremely original. He operates 40 Night Photography, and if you're planning a wedding or just want a kick-ass photo in general, Nathan can deliver and do so in a unique manner. Among my favorite work of Nathan's are shots he took while volunteering in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. They'll move you to tears, just like good photography is apt to do. 

I met my friend Tamra when I was a reporter way back in the day. We often got stuck doing the "Man on the street" gig on the weekend. I'd harass people to answer that week's question, and Tami would take their photos. It was a horrible aspect of the job, and I hated it more and more every week I had to do it. Thank God, Tami made it bearable with her incredibly positive spirit and attitude. I would have killed one of those people otherwise. Tami's photos I think reflect her own personal sweetness. That's a gift, being able to transport yourself into an image. Tami does freelance work, which you can check out here. Watch out, though. Hire her and you're likely to make a lifelong friend. 




I hope they don't mind that I've shared  their work. I just like pointing out talent and quality when I can, especially when I know those responsible for it personally. 

Day 232: Vogue

Ever so often, I take a long, long hike into the land of  "what if?" Not so much in an attempt to escape my present situations or change my life because actually, I like most aspects of my life. Sure, there are certain aspects that aren't entirely ideal, but who among us can't say the same about their lives? Overall, though, I'm fairly satisfied most of the time these days. 

That wasn't always the case, though. There were times when I was stuck in a dead-end job or without a significant other to spend the hours with when I spent most of my waking hours feeling and believing there was something different that I was meant to be tied up in. There were other locations I was meant to be roaming among. There were other people I was meant to be mingling and interacting with--to the point that I often wondered why I was so preoccupied with places and people and experiences that had no basis in reality. I wondered what it would take to be able to immerse myself in what was right in front of my face. I think youth had a big part to do with my confusion. 

As the years passed and my maturity grew a little longer in stature, I was more able to put things in perspective. I had a better mind for the present. I had more patience for the here and now, and I had a better acceptance for what was in my immediate realm vs. what was not. But there are those times still, as infrequent as they may now be, that I still wander off on long trips to the land of  "what if," ventures in which I imagine the alternative worlds that certain actions or reactions might have created. 

I think as a father and husband and son and friend and brother, I do important work on a daily basis, but there are days when my imagination teases me by putting images in front of my face in which my work is  devoted in other areas. Those images are usually filtered with a heavy dose of selfishness, but I have to admit, I enjoy those flights of fancy for what they are. There's something to be said for having the freedom to do nothing but explore whenever the urge hits and to satisfy any urge that freedom enables. I wrote the poem below on one of those days. For some reason, it has a positive affect on me. 

Vogue

Passing waiting-room minutes

in the pages of Vogue,

I invest myself elsewhere,

waking in NYC,

owning Paris,

tainting London,

breaking souls in Rome--

anywhere escaped of Nebraska soil.

I’m stepping out,

smelling fine,

entirely dashing,

completely sublime.

I’m a poet haunted,

painter revered,

actor possessed,

songwriter gone gold.

I’m self-made,

self-aware,

self-contained,

self-assure.  

My model accessory,

she's so skinny good,

fit to be tanned,

a sophisticated drunk,

a bedroom treasure.

My cigarettes burn sweet.

My liquor fuels favors.

My cocaine lights fires.

Another daybreak ignored.

My apartment bears witness,

pitches no black,

divulges no cracks,  

entices the elite.

Only the elite.

Only the elite.

Only the elite.

Only in the pages of Vogue.

Day 231: Black Flag

I don't profess to be a Black Flag expert. I don't know the name of every B-side. I don't know every city they hit on the 77 tour. I don't know what kind of guitar strings Greg Ginn used. I don't know Henry Rollins birthday. I was just a kid who was initially enamored by the culture and mystic that  Black Flag created. Later on, I was terribly influenced by the music, the recklessness, the rule breaking, and the fortitude. There was a time when I listened to barely anything other than Black Flag, and if I had not I'm not sure I'd be the person I am today. I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing, although my personal take is that that's an entirely good thing, at least if grit and guts and self-pride and self-loathing mean anything, and I think they do. 

I have no proof, but I have a sinking feeling that Black Flag isn't a name that elicits the same kind of response and emotion in kids as it did in me. Of my kids, only one listened to Black Flag with any intent. I'm not sure any of them, however, have made a career of it like I did. That's not too surprising, though. Each kid has his or own mission to live out. Black Flag was beyond my kids, but it always makes me a bit sad when something important starts to lose its luster, especially when it still holds merit. I tend to feel disheartened when something I still have faith in loses its street cred, loses its name recognition among the population. 

I doubt many kids today know much about Chuck Berry or Little Richard. I'm sure they know even less about Bo Didley and Link Wray and Chess Records and Phil Spector and Berry Gordy and Winterland and Bill Graham. I doubt all the kids who are so into the 10,000 tangents of music that make up Indie rock today have listened to the Beach Boys' "Pet Sounds" and can make the connection between those beautiful harmonies Brian Wilson cooked up and their own beloved modern sounds. Such is life, though. I'm sure previous generations to mine felt the same way, believing my peers and I recognized the pure musicianship and talent of, say, Lieber & Stoller or any of the writers who resided at Tin Pan Alley.

Still, I guess what's important isn't the number of people who Black Flag or other bands remain relevant with today. What's important is the impact they had on individuals and what that impact meant. For me, the impact seemingly meant everything. Black Flag gave me the juice to get through days. It gave me the fire to fight back. It gave me an important connection to the outside world. It showed me music didn't have to be played terribly well or record expertly or sung by magical vocal cords to be meaningful or pure or towering. Black Flag also gave me purpose in the sense that I realized one didn't have to make a fortune or hold an office or be a community leader to have a voice and be able to use it. There are a whole lot of other avenues available that don't require a golden ticket to travel on to be able to do and say something of importance. Black Flag taught me you didn't have to be pretty, built like a brickhouse, or well connected to stand out. You could just be yourself and speak from the heart. Maybe the most important lesson I've ever learned. 

Day 230: Nonstop Love

Since Friday at 5:30 p.m., I've spent roughly 2:30 hours apart from the four-year-old shadow that's been following me everywhere I go, and that time apart was only made possible because I got up far ahead of her this morning and sneaked away to golf. Rest assured, when I returned, so did my shadow. But I don't mind. I love that this kid is so happy to be with her dad she wants to fill up every minute doing something fun. I know this time won't last, and although there are brief periods where I think I'll go insane if I don't get two straight minutes to think an adult thought, I couldn't be more content with the constant show of love she gives me. If I've learned anything from helping raise her older three siblings, it's that this time is so fleeting and is gone before you know it and before you want it to be. And when that time comes, there's no getting it back.

This weekend and last weekend have been particularly intense on one-on-one time with my little toddler. Last weekend her mom worked, and this weekend she was out of town. In that time, we've managed to do a whole lot of coloring and drawing, put together countless puzzles, told countless stories, went to the children's museum, went to a movie, went to the park multiple times, enjoyed a fire in the fire pit complete with smores and hot dogs, read countless books, snacked on popsicles and fruit and candy and hot chocolate and God knows what else, played in the sandbox, and tons more. I'm exhausted at the end of the day, but beyond grateful. I know there are so many people who want nothing more than to have a child of their own to do all these things and more but for whatever reason can't. It seems like every time my little one makes me laugh, which is all the time, I realize as much and take great thanks for my luck. Most days, I feel as if this kid gives me far more than I could ever give her.  

Day 229: Spongebob

My kids get a kick out of Spongebob. They quote lines. The invest in characters. The look back fondly years later on episodes. Now, my youngest is falling in love with the series. It's funny how something that annoyed me years ago I now find joy in. Maybe it's because of the tie all my kids have to one thing. The oldest can sit down with the youngest and watch an episode and they laugh together. If you don't think that doesn't feel good to watch, you're crazy. I generally have mixed feelings about TV, but it does some things right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 227: Bad Karma Day? So What

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

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

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

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

Day 226: Being Grounded Means . . .

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

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

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

Day 225: All The Way Up To 11

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

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

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

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

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

  

Day 224: A Lost Painting

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

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

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

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

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

Day 223: Finding Time To Be A Kid

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

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