Day 21: What Knockers!

Look at this face. Who couldn't love a face like this? I love this face. I love this face so much, I've watched Mr. Monster get a spanking new brain plopped into his dome dozens and dozens of time. I love this face so much, I'm going to watch it sing and dance on stage today at the Lied Theater. This face made such a lasting impression on me the first time I saw it in the movie theater all those years ago as a teenager, I'll never forget it. This face reminds me of my friends Brett and Bobby, who saw this face with me in that theater. This face reminds me of my children and how we laughed at it over the years as it tried to sing and dance in tux and top hat. This face reminds me of my wife's laugh and how it cackles when this face appears on screen.This face reminds me of my teenage crush on Teri Garr and Madeline Kahn. This face reminds me of "I-gor" and blind monks and wayward darts and sausage and a woman's love of horses. Look at this face. Who couldn't find it adorable?

It's the small things, always the small things that make life a treasure. A movie may just be a movie, but it just may be something a whole lot more, as well.

Day 20: Force Of Will

These, honestly, are the type of days I find it hard to find some positive in. These are the days when I don't want to write. Don't want to think. Don't want to create. I just want to wallow. Just want to sink. No, it's not that difficult really to pick out something positive here and there. There are a lot of things to be optimistic about really. It's a definite positive that I have a job, food to eat, good kids, and all that stuff. But personally, trying really hard to find some deeper meaning for getting off the couch where there doesn't seem to be too many signs, that's hardl positive about. There are days like these during which I wonder about the difference I'm making and I don't find too many positive indicators. And yet, I only have to think of all the men and women who sacrificed so much and received far less than they deserved in return. So many mothers and fathers who pushed their personal  gratification aside to commit fully to their children's happiness. I find something very positive in that, and the bonus is that forcing myself to think of those things forces me to think a lot less about myself, and that's always a good thing. In fact, taking the focus off of myself by thinking about anyone or anything else is the most positive thing I've done today. I'll take it. 

Day 19: I'm in love with a cabin, and I don't care who knows it.

I have something to get off my chest. Something I must admit.

I am an addict. I am hopelessly addicted. I am hopelessly suffering from a lust stronger than I. I’m perpetually drawn to a mysterious power that draws me closer to reckless abandonment each passing day, to something that blankets me in positiveness. 

Friends, I am addicted to cabin porn.

Its power over me is remarkable. Look for yourself. Try and deny it organic beauty. Try to resist its sultry gaze. It is magnificence personified.

Yet, I’m saddened to the soul that I’ve yet to experience my addiction in the flesh, and in fact, I may never. It pains me further to know that although our interaction may never transpire, it has carved an impression so profoundly deep and wide into my heart and mind, I’ll be haunted for all time.

I dare not speak of my obsession too frequently for fear that any remaining power I have against its charm will evaporate, a loss that I can’t afford if I am to weather on. Still, I’m powerless to its invitation, wisdom, natural curves, lines, and endless color. I am at its delightful mercy. I’ve given my thoughts over.  I no longer function as I once did.

As much as I struggle to break free of its hold, I know I don’t want to. I don’t want to escape. I want to give into its allure, which swells more intensely each day. I want to be summoned. Teased. Enticed. Invited. I want to hear promises whispered that if I should bring myself, I’ll never have to leave, that if I arrive, I will be provided everything needed to live unhinged, unbridled, unrestricted.

I know if I don’t terminate this yearning soon, it will swarm my senses, and I’ll wind up alone in a room with only my books, paper and pen, and thoughts. Nothing outside but expanse. Nothingness. Sweet, delicious, glorious nothingness.  

Day 18: Now & Then

I wonder sometimes how differently my life would be today if I had had a smartphone in my pocket at age 13 and could talk to whoever I wanted anytime I wanted. I wonder how differently I would have turned out if my parents let me play games on their iPhone as a preschooler or if in high school I would have had the choice of 10,000 movies to watch anytime I wanted or I could have dialed in virtually any song ever recorded. Would I have the same tastes I do now? Would I have talked to my friends more or less? Would I have more friends or less really good ones? Would I have learned too much too soon? Would my friends and family have learned too much about me? How would have I have felt about them having a separate digital presence? Would had having so many avenues in which to express my opinion made me less shy? Would I have only ended up echoing someone else’s opinion because I was too distracted to develop my own?

I wonder how life would have been different if I had had a digital camera at my fingertips to document the world and share what I saw so easily with others. I wonder what life would have looked like to have had a blog or Web site at my disposal to spread my teenage-aged whims globally. Would I communicate or write differently today? Would I have discovered my beliefs and fears and aspirations and strengths and weaknesses in the same way? I wonder what it would have been like playing games online with perfect strangers. I wonder if watching and reading about sports would have mattered as much or would I have spent more time exploring other interests that weren’t available to me back then? I wonder if I would have grown up too soon.

That last point is the one I spend a considerable amount of time contemplating where my kids and their friends and others in general are concerned. Did my kids grow up or are they growing up too quickly due to technology constantly inundating them with ideas, images, and more that were beyond my scope at a similar age? I’m not sure.

I’m not someone who bemoans all the ways technology is ruining society, cheapening culture, inflating egos, and destroying interpersonal communication. All of those things are probably true to some extent, but for every negative stemming from technology, I believe I can point out 10 positives technology enables. Beyond that, life simply changes. My time as a youth isn’t supposed to be the same as my kids’ time. Mine wasn’t the same as my parents’, and theirs’ not the same as their parents’. My kids know of no other life than one that puts technology right at the core. So, while I despised the influence that something like MySpace and its “look at me being so risqué” culture had on my older kids and accelerated the rate at which they grew up, I’m filled with gratitude for things like the vast amount of diverse and eclectic people my kids have encountered and interact with daily thanks to technology.

Day 17: Yes, you will be mine one day, friend.

I have an unhealthy obsession with motorcycles--unhealthy in the sense that my soul is aching to own one but reality keeps crushing my soul with brutal force. Reality can be a bastard.

There are any number of reasons I'm not riding the bad boy pictured above or one like it to work everyday or through the city streets on a Sunday afternoon or on the back roads running through the hills outside of town. Chief  among them is the fact that growing children apparently need food, water, clothes, a safe place to sleep, and a few other odds and ends to survive. Odds and ends don't come cheap these days. Thus, the dreaded Priority List rears its ugly head. Priorities can be a bastard.

Middle-aged men riding a foreign bike, unfortunately, doesn't rate too highly on the "must-have" list. As bad ass as I would look propped up on this Royal Enfield, and trust me, I would look bad ass, reality isn't having any part of it.

"Sorry, man. Can't swing it right now," he'll say.

"What about tomorrow?" I'll ask.

"Doesn't look good, kid. Daycare, pre-school, car insurance, braces, vet bills . . . You know the routine, man."

"Yeah, I know. I was just hoping."

"Well, that's your problem, brother. Stop hoping."

And there you go.

But "this is the year the Fink beats the Stomach." (Look it up.) This is the year I become an optimist of the highest order. I won't allow myself to go all, "Well, I guess it's not meant to be. Not everyone is cut out to hit the open road."

Hell, no. This year, I'll keep socking away a buck or two here and there and keep thinking, "Oh, how much greater the sights I'll see one day will be for having worked and waited for these bad ass two wheels."

Day 16: Story time

Every night, right after my four-year-old daughter crawls underneath her covers to head off for another night of sleep, I tell her a story. I make it up on the spot and then let it twist and wind and curve and cross wherever it take us. The results are mixed. Once in a while, something comes out that makes me think, “I better write this one down while I still remember it.” No matter the quality, though, my daughter has come to expect this routine to occur nightly. Doesn’t matter how late or early it is, where we are, if she’s nodding off or is wide awake. On the rare occasion when a story didn’t go down, there was big trouble.

Sometimes, my daughter will return the favor and tell me her own story. These are my favorite nights. If I’m patient enough and really listen, I never fail to learn something new about her and the way she feels and thinks and reasons and ponders. Other nights, we talk for a while about birthday parties or bikes or swimming or snacks or whatever is on her mind as she’s crawling into bed and then there is a story. It doesn’t matter if I have a headache, stomachache, or brain-ache. It doesn’t matter if I’m mentally exhausted and would rather watch butter melt than have to think up new characters and take them through new deeds in new lands with new beginnings and endings. It doesn’t matter; story time goes on as scheduled.

This has been our way for three years, and I can’t imagine not having this time. I know how lucky I am to have it. I don’t waste it. I don’t take it for granted. I might complain (mostly) silently some nights that I’m not feeling story time, but I still do it. I like that my daughter needs me in this way. I like that she’s come to depend on something that involves me to make her feel good and content. I like that when the story is really good, she tells me, and when it’s really lacking effort or creativity or I’ve slugged my way through it, she lets me know that, too. I like that she’s honest with me and there are no barriers or boundaries keeping her from being true with me. I like that her thoughts are innocent and broad and intentional and pointed and without a filter. I like that she pays attention and isn’t too proud to ask questions.

Having older kids (19, 17, and 14) has taught me this won’t always be the case. At some point, she will start heading off to bed without pomp and circumstance because she wants to be alone or has some thinking to do or she just doesn’t want to be around anyone, including me. At some point, she’ll keep more of her thoughts to herself where they’re well-guarded and safe. At some point, she’ll find that telling stories with her dad isn’t as fun as it used to be and it isn’t what girls her age do.

That’s why now, no matter the conditions or situation, telling my daughter stories is something I make a point of doing. I know there will come a day when she probably won’t remember all these nights of stories. But I will, and I’ll know that I got as much, if not more, from the experience.

Day 15: Writer's block

I write pretty much every day. Writer's block does exist. So does deadline anxiety. So does being out of your element and not being familiar with the terrain. Some days, writing is just a burden. Another chore. A means to the end. Mostly, though, writing is a godsend. It's an instrument, a device. Writing is a honed tool. It's the gateway and a damn good therapist. But writer's block does exist. Some sentences sizzle. Some are just born from laziness. Sometimes, you're in the zone. Sometimes, the zone disappears before you see it. Writer's block does exist. 

The upside, though, is that if you have something to say and writing is the best or only way you have to express it, you don't tend to suffer from writer's block too long. 

 

Day 14: On Guitars . . . .

Last night, I sat in bed watching television with my guitar in my hands. I had intended to play it. Only I didn't. I never picked a note. Yet, there she remained in my hands for that couple of hours, as if that's exactly where she was always meant to be. Few things put me in as a positive state of mind as my guitar.

Sometimes, I think about what if one of my guitars belonged to someone else or got lost or was stolen. Monetarily, it wouldn't be big loss; they aren't worth that much. Sentimentally, though, I'd be devastated. Seriously. A person's relationship with his or her guitar is a funny thing. I know a lot of other people who think of their guitar as the best damn friend they ever had. I wouldn't argue. There's a lot to like about a guitar. There's a lot of potential waiting to be drawn out of that body and six strings. The best aspect of owning a guitar, though, is that when the relationship is good, it's one of the few things in the world you can feel truly comfortable with at any time.  

Day 13: Friday Night At The Gateway Inn

Friday night is special to me. There’s some kind of weird metamorphosis that takes place on Friday nights that I can’t explain but leaves me feeling more relaxed than any other time of the week. More at peace and less responsible. I think the sensation is tied to the fact that many of my best and longest-lasting memories are associated with Friday nights, memories that make me realize how fortunate I was to grow up during the period of time in which I did, to have the friends and family that I did, and to have been able to enjoy small things as much as I did. If you grow up in a small town like I did, small things are often all you had. 

One of my favorite Friday night memories started from time I was five or so and lasted on through my college years. Often on Friday night, some collection of my mom, dad, and sister and I would eat supper at the Gateway Inn in Ashland, NE.  I’m not sure if dining out on a Friday night was an intentional move by my parents (I think it was), but the choice seemed the perfect way to wrap up a week of school and work. No worries about making supper. No worries about doing dishes. No worries if everyone would like what was on the table. No worries other than having to pay the bill, and that wasn’t my domain, although my father always said “if you pick up the check, you pay it.” My only duty was to pile in the car, stare out the window as we made the short ride to just outside of town, and walk through the doors of the Gateway Inn.

I loved the place. Loved the way it looked and smelled; loved the way the old, wooden booths and tables were scattered about; loved the scads of Husker helmets, posters, autographed photos, and other memorabilia on the walls; loved the allure of the candy bars sitting behind the glass counters; loved the shape of the beer tap handles and the bottles of booze; and I loved the TV hanging up in the corner that was seemingly always tuned into “The Rockford Files.”

I rarely ordered anything from outside my comfort zone, a trait that’s done me well to today. Usually, I went with a cheeseburger and fries. Tried and true. But on those nights when I was feeling particularly daring, I’d go with a hamburger steak to mix things up. On those even rarer nights when I was determined to throw caution to the wind, I instructed the waitress, the mom of a boy in my class, to bring me a grilled cheese sandwich. It would arrive pre-cut, piping hot, and oozing yellow goodness all over the plate. I can still taste the pickle juice that the bread would sop up from the nearby slices. I can still see the shape of the small glass that I’d drink my soda out of. I can still hear the bubbles forming at the top of my dad’s more slender glass as he poured a beer. On some nights after we ate our plates clean, the owner would slip my sister and I some candy before we left, and I’d wonder if we were the only kids he looked out for that way.

On the ride home, I wondered what we’d watch on TV when we got home, if dad would let me stay up late and watch “The Night Stalker” once the local news ran through all the high school football or basketball scores first. Later, as Johnny Carson’s voice registered somewhere far off in my mind, I wondered how much longer my eyes could fight off the inevitable and I could prolong the end of another Friday night.

I’m lucky to have such memories.  

Day 12: Scooby-Doo, We Are Not Going To Be Friends, But. . . .

Scooby-Doo, you honestly never did much for me. I found your voice annoying and grating, and sometimes when you talked, it sounded like sludge filtering through a sock. 

Shaggy, I definitely didn't like you. You were stupid for stupid's sake, and that's no way to go through life.

Velma, what can I say? You're smart, but your humor bone is broken. You're dull. You dress dull. You look dull. You give dull a bad name. Lighten up and we'll talk.

Fred, you wear a scarf every day. It's your security blanket.  You should lose it.

Daphne, step into the light already. 

Yeah, I never cared much for the ole' gang. I didn't appreciate Scrappy Doo on any level, and seeing Vincent Price just depressed me to realize how far he'd fallen. The "Oh, we're so hungry" gag got old fast, and the Scooby Snacks thing just doesn't make sense. Scooby has been afforded a brand of snacks named after him, yet he travels in a van filled with people who trick him into doing things that will put him in harm's way by enticing him with the very snacks that are named after him. Makes no sense. 

A lot of Scooby-Doo doesn't make sense to me, including why people like it so much. People including my daughter. She's obsessed. Obsessed because of monsters and mysteries, and probably because there are a lot of snacks being eaten. Old me looked at her fondness as a pain to be endured. Now me, though, is thankful Scooby makes her laugh. As dopey, dimwitted, and food-obsessed as I find Scooby, this isn't about me. It's about a little kid being happy. 

 

 

Day 11: A Tent Isn’t Just For Sleeping In

Last night, my daughter and I set out to build a fort in our basement living room. I’m not hesitant to say I’m a good fort builder. I’ve had lots of practice over the years with three previous kids. Still, I’m always amazed at how differently I tend to view something like building a tent than how my kids do.

The fun for me is deciding how to strategically place each and every blanket and where to best situate the couch cushions and how to use the chairs to guard the entry way. The fun for me is making everything grand. In other words, I think like an adult. Ugh. Boring. Pretentious. Self-important. The fun for my kids is what you can do with the tent, not what it looks like. They want to build fast and get to playing. They want to battle the pirates gathering outside or trap the bear clawing at the roof or the fight the ghosts trying to break in.

I love that, too, but sadly my ability to suspend belief has gotten more difficult as I’ve gotten older. I think that’s the product of living in a result-oriented world where personal worth is often determined by what and how much you produce. The fact that it carries over into imaginary worlds is terrifying. It’s troubling that I find myself more worried about the tent’s roof that’s now sagging because the cat jumped on it and it might appear to strangers than what we should do about the witch my daughter says is cackling outside the door and is going to do terribly hideous things to us.

I know my daughter has the right perspective. It’s not like we’re going to move into this tent smack dab in the living room and take up residence. Why not get it up fast and get to playing? We can always build another tent. We can’t get back moments lost to build imaginary worlds. Last night offered proof. By the time I put the final touches on a first-rate tent featuring three separate chambers, including two sleeping rooms, bed time was approaching and we’d barely even begun fighting pirates or wrestling grizzly bears. Tent wasted.

Lesson: Sometimes spending less effort upfront means better results later on. 

Day 10: Off To School She Goes

Today, my baby started preschool. Word is she wasn’t too happy about it. I can understand her trepidation in heading off to a strange, new place. She has a cushy life at home, a place she’s spent pretty much every morning of her short life doing what kids should do in the morning: eating a good breakfast, playing, watching some “Little Bear,” coloring, riding her trike, and doing whatever else the day brings her way. Now, she’s being forced to leave all that behind for a world where she has to share everything. Ugh, the horror. She’s entering a land where little creatures with itty bitty hands and fingers and boundless enthusiasm and energy are about to surround her in masses—a far cry from bleary-eyed adults she usually spends mornings with drowning coffee down their gullets instead of Juicy Juice.

Despite her misgivings, I couldn’t be more excited. My girl is bright and well-spoken and can reason and communicate beyond her years. She is that way because she’s 10 years younger than the next oldest child, and she’s surrounded by adults and teenagers nearly every day, meaning she has a steady diet of older people around who talk differently than toddlers; who are taller, faster, and grumpier than toddlers; who have less patience than toddlers; who don’t fit into spaces that toddlers do. In many ways, I’d say the adults she’s around are also less well-behaved than toddlers.

I’m excited for my little girl to be around other little people all morning doing what little people do. I’m excited for her to play and learn and watch and listen and interact with little people, not adults who dictate where she goes and why and when. My aim with this child is to keep her a kid for as long as possible. My older children grew up too fast. It was hard to slow them down. It was hard to convince them that all they found tempting in the world would still be there for them later on. It was harder convincing them that some of the things they found tempting weren’t everything they’re cracked up to be. I want my preschooler to live each second as a preschooler and do the same in every grade thereafter. As odd as it might seem, I love that she’s starting preschool and temporarily getting away from the people who love her the most.

Day 9: Babies, babies, babies.

In the last week, several friends have announced to the world that soon, little wee ones will be invading their home. I couldn't be happier.

I love babies, and it almost always makes me happy when people have them--if I think they'll be good parents, and these most recent friends I trust will be.

Some people, though, just don't like babies. They don't like that they need to be fed or changed or that they cry a lot. They don't like that babies can't talk or walk or hit the toilet right out of the gate. I've found these people are usually selfish people in one way or another, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. Hey, if you're an adult and you've reasoned that your freedom means more to you and makes you happier than an infant who demands your every waking second, it's hard for me to argue. Hell, I can't describe how much I miss jumping in my car and heading off in any direction without anyone to answer to or think about after I put foot to pedal.

But that was then. Today, a corporation of children own my freedom, and they dole it out every so slightly. Evidently, having a place to live, food to eat, clothes that look cool, and iPods to keep entertained take precedence over pop's would-be aspirations. I understand this, and I knew what I was getting into before I became a dad. And the sacrifices I make aren't any more than millions of others, and for the most part, I gladly make them, especially when the effort is recognized.

Still, it's difficult when my freedom disappears for weeks on end. Sometimes, I forget what he looks like. Sometimes, when he comes wandering back after a long time away, it's awkward because we don't know how to act around each other. I'll say, "How you been?"

"Bored," he'll say. "When are we going to play?"

Invariably, I disappoint him with my answer.

"Not today, I have a bike to fix."

"What about tomorrow?"

"Sorry, man. Got to work."

"Tomorrow night?"

"No good. Basketball practice."

"Well, what if we stay up late and play guitar?"

"You know, I would, but I'm really tired already."

"Fine, whatever.

And so it goes.

Now, the flip side to that freedom lost are moments of complete and utter joy gained, moments you can't obtain if you're not a parent, such as completely out of the blue hearing, "Dad, I love you." Or "Dad, want to color because I like the way you draw dogs." Or "Hey, I just wanted to say 'thanks' for making me do all that stuff myself." Or "Dad, what's your favorite band ever?" and listening to the answer.

Sometimes, I have to remind myself what's so great about being a dad. There are a lot of things that will try to get in the way of that, including children growing up and not needing you nearly as much as they once did. That's why I always get a kick out of a friend who is expecting a baby. It reminds me of the importance of those early years and all the rewards that turn up over the years that follow.

Day 8: Playoff Football

Baseball playoffs are my favorite sports playoffs because the tension that can build up ever so slowly over nine innings if fantastically nerve-wrecking. There has to be a conclusion, and you're duty as a fan is to anxiously wait for it to come. No hustle. No bustle. No hurry or worry. Just wait for it to come. NFL playoffs, however, as nearly as equally marvelous. Although it rarely happens anymore, there's little that's more appealing to me than planting my plump arse down in a big, comfy chair smack dab in front of the TV and watching about five hours straight of football. If it's snowing outside, the weather is unfriendly, and there's no excuse to go anywhere, that's even better. If there's a team that I really like, nirvana.

These days, I have a four-year-old with boundless energy and the determination to see that all of it is expended every day. I also live with four girls, and only one shares a remote interest in the game. On any day, there may be two or three additional girls in the house, all of which works against me watching in peace. Add in the work I invariably bring home on many weekends, kids fighting, dishes to get done, supper to make, basketball games to take kids to, blah, blah, blah, and football tends to fall down the priority ladder all to quickly.

I'm not sure why football is so appealing to me. It's brutal and violent and egocentric and some parts of it display man's worst traits. It's also brilliant with strategy and determination and will power, and some parts of it display man's best qualities. Playoff football just ramps all that up five or six notches. Everything becomes more intense. Leaders surface to the top. The brightest minds who can defy the distractions of tension and pressure survive and move on. I know it's only football, meaning it's only a game, but it's often riveting and often draining in an entirely good way. Why question it?

Playoff football can also make people from different walks of life, occupations, incomes, beliefs, etc., stop and collectively watch the same moments unfolding in front of them. That's beautiful. A decade or so ago, I was stuck in a hospital bed with pretty much the only thing keeping my spirits up being the playoff games happening on the TV above me. At one point in the afternoon, my doctor came in for his rounds, got caught up in the action, pulled up a chair beside me, and we ended up watching several minutes together. He escaped the grind that comes with being a doctor; I escaped from constantly dealing with being sick. Just two men who didn't really care about much else in that particular moment than what the next play was going to be and if the defense could stop it.

I understand why some people dislike the game. I live in a house with some of those people. I also understand why some people stop whatever the hell it is they're doing for an afternoon and let the world creep away for a few hours by getting caught up in a "game." I may be just a game, but it's a beautiful one. I'd say it's even important on a few levels. 

Day 7: Basketball, I Heart You

Sitting at basketball practice isn't the same as practicing basketball. I'm grateful to have a child who loves the game, though. I miss playing so much on these days when I'm watching my daughter play. I miss the sweat. I miss the challenges. I miss the battles and wars. I miss the locker room and the laughs. I miss the bus rides and watching the night pass by out the frosty window. I miss the smell of the gym and the echo of the ball off the walls as it bounced. I miss the hot summer games at night and scooping the driveway free of snow in the winter so we could play. I miss hearing my dad's voice yelling at me from the stands. I miss playing defense. I miss watching teammates who didn't get many chances for glory get it and revel in it. I miss cheerleaders and pep bands. I miss eating licorice before dressing for the games. I miss sitting awake in bed at night and dreaming of what could be. Sports isn't about winning. It's about where the journey toward winning takes you. God, I miss basketball today.

Day 6: Thanks, Gas Station Slacker Guy

I love the gas station by my house. Well, I love the music it plays, anyway. The morning crew pretty much consists of a bunch of disgruntled ladies who have obviously smoked too many cigarettes in their time and are obviously not very happy about refilling the donut tray and selling lottery tickets. Still, I love the place because there's seemingly always an unexpected treasure waiting for me the second I step out of my car. 

I'm not entirely sure why, but whenever I pop in, the music piping out the speakers inside and out is always set to really cool, semi-obscure stuff that the average guy stopping in to pump $10 worth of gas probably doesn't have a clue about and doesn't even notice. In my mind's eye, I picture there's an overnight clerk who's a slacker type with great taste but not much gumption working the register. The minute the day crew hits the bricks, he switches the satellite radio station to whatever he's in the mood for, kicks he feet up, and lets the night come to him. 

I've heard everything from Link Wray to Hank Williams to The Pixies to Elvis' "Pork Salad Annie" to General Public's "Tenderness" on this very morning. Some days, like today, it's all I can do but break into my ole' one-leg bob-and-swing  move from high school and show all the soccer moms, truckers, and bleary-eyed high school kids filling up their coffee mugs and stocking up on energy drinks the kind of moves that got me voted "Best Dancer" back in my glory days. 

It's stuff like hearing a great song in an unexpected place or unexpected time that brightens my days. It's as if someone is looking after me, throwing me a bone, saying, "Hey, kid, here's one I know you're going to like. Enjoy." It's even more rewarding and appreciated when the song is one that reminds me of something or someone specific, which "Tenderness" does. 

There are so many fantastic things about this track, including Rankin Roger's hair, the cool-ass hand claps, and the song's general message, but the greatest aspect is that it instantly transports me decades back in time to a simpler time when I was sitting in a certain girl's room and we'd pop this tape in her cassette player and press Play, Rewind, Play, Rewind, and Play over and over.

I try not to live in the past, but it's sure great to visit now and again. Thanks, gas station slacker guy. 

Day 5: How About This Weather?

On either side of me where I work sit sales people. They’re on the phone all day talking to customers and potential customers. Invariably, they do what most sales people do, talk about the weather. It’s amazing how many ways they can do it, too.

For weeks and weeks, I’ve been hearing how wonderful Nebraska’s weather has been this winter. “It’s only snowed once.” “Yeah, it’s gorgeous again today.” “We’re really getting spoiled this winter.” “You know, it’s been great really. Not your typical Nebraska winter, that’s for sure.”

It’s not just co-workers I hear making these types of comments, either. It’s seemingly everyone. I read them on Facebook. I hear them from friends, relatives, and neighbors. Hell, I even raved about the weather recently when I actually played 18 holes of golf with friends on New Year’s Eve day. I loved the hell out of the sunshine and unexpected warmth, even as I missed putt after putt. And today, the weather forecasters are calling for temperatures to reach 64 degrees by noon here in beautiful Lincoln, NE. 64 flippin’ degrees in January. Terrific, right?

Wrong. There’s a reason we’ve only had one snow. There’s a reason the temperature has consistently crept up the ladder each winter year after year. There’s a reason I’ll be able to take a walk this afternoon without a coat on. There’s a reason my daughter will be riding the new bike she got for her birthday weeks ago instead of a sled. It’s not because Mother Nature is blessing us. It’s because her polar ice caps are breaking off and melting faster than she can replenish them. We’re making Mother Nature too damn hot. Ice melts, oceans rise, and bam! Hurricanes, tornadoes, droughts, and gorgeous January weather ensue. It’s not imaginary. It’s not scientific hocus pocus. It’s reality.

Each morning when I walk out to my car yet again without a winter coat, I revel in another beautiful morning that I don’t have to scrap frost off my car windows, I can’t see my breath, and my bald head doesn’t scream in agony from the chill. It doesn’t take long, though, before a twinge of guilt and stark reality ruin the sensation, though. I know what’s going on and why, and I know if something isn’t done fairly soon, we’ll only continue to receive warmer weather, which really isn’t something to applaud or welcome.

These are the kind of things that depress the hell out of me. I’ll probably cruise through the rest of my life and remain mostly unaffected directly by the climate’s and earth’s ongoing transformation, but our kids and theirs and theirs will suffer, and it’s mostly due to our generations’ inability to do something concrete and constructive to address the problem. And that sucks. It’s irresponsible, and it’s wrong. So, while I laugh and giggle and bask in watching my little girl peddle her little legs down the sidewalk on her new princess bike in the dead of winter, I know one day she’s going to be dealing with some serious problems that the population as a whole now inhabiting the planet should have least tried to do something about in a collective manner.

So, what if anything is positive about any of this? Well, despite my doubts that greed, lack of vision, ignorance, and general selfishness won’t allow my generation to truly address such problems today—there’s too much to sacrifice and lose apparently in the way of money, power, military security, favorable tax laws, etc.—I have faith in generations younger than mine will see through such crap do take responsible action.

I’m optimistic about the intelligence, compassion, dedication, and abilities of these generations. I’m optimistic about the constantly evolving technology being produced and the ability to use it to not only make our lives easier, more connected, and more entertaining today but to help remedy what is ailing the world tomorrow. I’m optimistic that there are brighter minds than ours to come that will recognize that to fix a problem, you must sacrifice, toil, and commit to repair—not continue to make the problem worse. I’m optimistic that rather than breaking the ice, as it were, by talking about how nice the weather is, tomorrow’s generations will actually respond to the fact that weather in most regions isn’t supposed to be pleasant and ideal all year round. It’s supposed to fluctuate in order to replenish resources. It’s supposed to be variable in order to remain constant.

I truly am optimistic about future generations’ ability to, if not completely rectify the problems we’ve made, than to at least address them with actual vigor and energy to ease them much as possible. I see evidence of such abilities every day in my own children and others. Further, I’m optimistic that the evidence I see is being birthed by at least some good influences trickling down from current generations, meaning that it’s not too late for me and you to get our shit together and better the cause, too.

Day 4: I Have Two Words For You

“Thank you.” That’s two words, pal. Two measly little words you could have easily strung back to back but didn’t. Would it have been that difficult?  I’m sure you’ve done it at least one time in your miserable little life. At any rate, I can’t tell you how much you’ve pissed me off by not uttering these one-syllable words one after the other. Proper decorum dictates that you should have, nitwit. Hell, my 4-year-old does it all the time without anyone telling her to; I’m sure somewhere within that dark recess you call a brain you could conjure up the ability to do it, too. Yeah, I’m talking to fella, the guy who couldn’t be bothered to squeak out a mere “thank you” when I held the door open, the guy who acted as if I’m your butler or personal doorman. Are you kidding me? Are you frickin’ kidding me, man? OK, since this simple gesture seems beyond your abilities, how about we make things simple for you? How about we narrow things down so even your pea-brain can get a grip on how to execute simple manners? How about we simplify matters down to the point that you only need to say, “Thanks.” Now, we’re talking one word. Think you can handle that? No? How about you just grunt or nod your bulbous head in appreciation? Or how about I hunt down your parents and point out their failings? How about you turn around right now and give me what I deserve? Just say “thank you,” and we can be on our way.

Yes, the above actually happened this morning. I did hold open the door at a gas station an inordinately long time for a young man apparently far more entitled than me to pass by, only for him to fail to offer up a simple “thanks” for the gesture. We’re talking simple manners here, kid. It’s not difficult to be kind. In many ways it’s enlightening.

Now, in the past, all the thoughts and bitterness and resentment and demented thoughts that I illustrated above would have also been true. I would have held on to this five-second exchange for the entirety of my day or longer. I would have brooded over the details over and over until they wore a distinct path in my brain. I would have played the scenario out in a fantasy-like way time and time again, with me maybe punching the guy in the back of the head to punish his ignorance or me kicking him in his impolite ass or even spinning him around so that we were eye to eye so I could I dress him down in front of everyone looking on for his lack of etiquette.

Yeah, moments like these have always been hard for me to let go of. Right is right, I’ve always reasoned. No one should be above doing or saying what’s right. Saying “thank you” when it’s fitting is right. No way around it. We don’t have to like each other or know each other or ever see each other again, but any man or woman should be humble enough to offer up thanks for a gesture well done.

Today, though, I’m going to look at this situation in a positive light. I’m going to focus on the fact that it’s not my manners in question but his. I’m not going to make this problem my own. I did the right thing because it was the right thing. After all, do I execute good manners because I expect a payoff in the end? No. I do it because I believe it’s appropriate. I expect it of myself. Too often, I take on others’ problems and actions or lack thereof as my own. They aren’t my own. It’s not my problem, for example, that you use foul language in public. I’m just an unfortunate recipient of your inconsideration. It’s not my fault that you crank the bass up to impossibly uncomfortable levels in your car. I’m just on the receiving end of the public nuisance you’re creating. It’s not my fault that you drag puff after puff of your little nicotine stick in my general proximity or that you thoughtlessly throw the butt out your window on the city streets we all share. It’s sure not my fault that you can’t drag yourself away from your phone long enough to play with your kid at the park or that you treat the waitress like a robot instead of a woman. That’s your choice, not mine.

Today, I’m not going to hold onto all this hostility and let it sink my day. I’m not going to wish that bad things happen to you or that karma sucker-punches you in the jaw. In fact, I’m not going to give you another second’s thought. I’m going to keep on doing what I’ve been doing all along, the right thing at the right time.

Tomorrow morning, if I should encounter this same young man on my way into the gas station, will I hold the door open for him? Yeah, I will. I won’t do it with a smile on my face and I probably won’t even dignify his presence. I’m not that mature or easy going. But I will hold the door open. And if he should drop his keys, I’ll bend down to pick them up. If he should slip on the ice, I’ll offer a hand to help him up. I won’t like it, and I might even regret it temporarily, but I’ll do it. What I won’t do today is let bitterness linger on. It’s only damaging me, not him. 

Day 3: Bald Is Beautiful, Baby

If there’s any template I can apply across the board where being positive is concerned, it’s the approach I’ve taken to being bald.

Being bald isn’t so bad. It really isn’t. I’d even say there’s plenty about being bald that’s positive. For example, I haven’t spent a nickel on a haircut or hair products in, geez, at least 15 years. At $10 to $15 a pop, that’s a lot of bread saved. Being bald means I also spend no time after a shower making myself pretty. Just shower, dress, and go. Being bald means a little bar of soap will do you. No fancy shampoos. No fancy conditioners. No fancy gels. No hair drying. No combs or brushes. Nothing needed but a towel. Hell, a wash cloth will do really. Being bald means my hair is never in my eyes. It means I no longer have cowlicks to keep in the pasture. It means I no longer worry about bedhead. It means no fussing or primping. It means I don’t carry around the same big, fat load of vanity each day that a good many people do. Being bald forced me to accept what I am. And I’m bald, baby.

Oh, some mornings, I wake up after an oddly peaceful night of sleep, groggily stumble to the bathroom, look deep into the mirror, and reality hits harshly. “Frick, it was all a dream. I’m still bald.” And sure, I miss the feeling you get after a haircut and how good creating a new look by growing hair out or cutting it short feels. And I can’t express how much I miss the whole act of sitting in a salon chair and being pampered. I’ll always hold dear that special day in North Platte when that majestic stylist massaged my head for seemingly eons with such tenderness, I swear I would have married her right there based solely on her blessed, beautiful fingers. The hair-induced stupor that little hair siren put me in was beyond blissful. It’s possible to massage a bald head, but it ain’t the same. Trust me on that.

Being bald also means putting up with a certain amount of prejudice. Ask any bald man if you don’t believe me, particularly one who went bald still in his early years. Women look at you differently, if they even look at you at all. Small children poke fun at you. Skinny, bald men are perceived as weaklings. Bald men with goatees and a certain edgy look might even be associated as being a skinhead or white supremacist. (It’s happened.) Even weather taunts a bald man. Winter wind pistol whips a bald man’s head unmercifully. Summer sun blisters his scalp with like a frying pan gone mad. Rain drops “splat” like a stick hitting a drum. Sunbeams reflect uncomfortably off his head into the eyes of those around him. (It’s happened.) Being bald is a burden—if you let it be.

I came to terms with my baldness a long time ago. There was no choice. My hair wasn’t going to grow back. There were no miracle cures waiting to undo what genetics and gravity were performing right before my eyes. The writing was on the wall (or on the pillow and shower floor as the case was). Going bald was a reality I couldn’t avoid or pretend wasn’t happening. It made its presence known strand by strand. Going bald wasn’t easy; I liked my hair. It was a big part of my identity. Hell, my hair even won me “Best Hair, Class of 1985.” But going bald wasn’t the end of days. It wasn’t a tragedy. It was just a minor inconvenience that gradually turned into a non-issue, at least for me. Better, being bald forced me to take the focus off of looks and appearances and put them where they belonged: integrity, intelligence, humor, morals, decency, compassion, understanding, patience, passion, etc.

Would I take my hair back if given the chance? You’re damn right. But I’m good with my current state of being. Now, that’s positive.  

Day 2: Facing Up To Facts

If I’m going to be honest about this whole positivity thing, I have to admit to myself upfront that being positive has always been a problem. Not much of a realization there really. I just naturally lean toward seeing the negative aspects in most things vs. the positive. For the longest time, I’ve been fine with that. I’ve reasoned that the world needs those who can point out the flaws in the system that others take for being wholesome or pure. I’ve reasoned that my presence was needed to counterbalance the bubbly optimist who seems ignorant to the harshness that life so obviously and unflinchingly kicked in the faces of so many with so little regard. My job was to bring reality to those who couldn’t or wouldn’t deal with it.

If I’m going to get anything out of this venture, I have to also admit that mentality is complete crap. What a moronic sense of self-importance. What a self-posturing position. What a self-defeating escape. What a drag for everyone around me. But, hey, a moron can justify just about anything he’s determined to when given enough time alone to do as much, and I’ve seemingly always had a healthy supply of alone time. Funny how that works when you convince yourself you don’t really like people all that much anyway, that they don’t have much that’s constructive that you can benefit from, and that you’re better off not being in their company. The more likely reality all along, however, probably was it was me that people didn’t like that much and it was me that couldn’t offer much that was constructive, and it was others who were better off without my company. 

When I think about the possible reasons I am the way I am, it’s not all that difficult to find solid leads. It’s not difficult for example, to understand why I’ve always been more apt to view a challenge as being a pain in the ass vs. being an opportunity. Although my life hasn't been exactly full of strife, I haven’t been handed a whole lot, either. Pretty much what I have, I earned. I’m proud of that, but also, at some point along the way, you just get tired of working. Hence, a new challenge just becomes more toil.

I’ve never been clinically diagnosed with depression, but the signs are clearly there. I’ve always moved through periods where it was easy as pie to see God in all the details to periods of time when it was easy as pie to see nothing but shades of black. Often, within the same day, I can be filled with such enthusiasm concerning my possibilities and future; be so certain of my abilities, intellect, and place in the world; and feel so confident and intact only to gradually shift into a condition of feeling lost, desperate, confused, misunderstood, and beyond dreary. In such moments, I literally feel I’ve accomplished nothing that I can take pride in, nothing I can point to and say, “That’s mine, and I’m proud to acknowledge it.”

Drinking has always accelerated this transformation, sometimes scarily. Drinking has always been a pleasure-pain proposition for me. Those early drinks are bliss. Laughs. Joyful recollections. Beauty. Those later drinks are hell. Self-loathing. Judgmental declarations. Stupidity. I rarely drink these days, but when I do, pouring drinks on this personal torch of mine instigates a fire that’s likely to be fueled on aggression, meanness, and eventually sadness. There’s nothing passive about the way alcohol can enable me to find kinks in the system and verbally point them out. Depending on which side of the line you’re standing on, you’re a target for my judgment, no matter how longstanding our relationship has been. My drunken bravery sees all things true, and my drunken mouth reports it the way I see it without much of a filter between. The problem is my drunken bravery amounts to really nothing more than me being a short-sided dick who is only reporting about himself but is only too dim to recognize it.

I’m not fooling myself into thinking that by forcing myself to find something positive in what surrounds me or what I read or what I hear each day for an entire year that I’ll be able to permanently jail my demons and never hear their taunts again. I am convinced, though, that by purposefully stepping toward joy and rapture and maybe letting it wrap itself around me even temporarily, I will be changed for the better. God (whatever that means) is in the details. I’ve always been able to see the details; it’s just that I’ve always concentrated too hard and too long on the wrong details. It takes courage and bravery to be positive, to live positively, to believe in positivity. It doesn’t require much mettle to deem everything as being shit. I’m tired of seeing so much shit.