Day 62: Maturity

I don't like growing old in the physical sense. Everything is harder. Walking. Climbing. Staying awake until 10. There's very little that improves. Hair falls out where I want it to stay and comes in where I never imagined it could. My eyesight was poor at five years old to begin with and has only gone downhill since. My teeth are fighting to stay alive. My hearing has definitely suffered from years of constant headphone wearing and loud concerts. My knees creek and crackle if I even think about running. Nothing improves physically.

That's the deal. We all know it. We just try to fight it off as long as we can. Some of us go to greater extremes than others, to the point of mutilating what nature gifted us with. But that isn't an improvement. It's a cover up.

What does improve with age (or should, at least) is maturity. In most ways, not all, I've become a more understanding, learned, well-rounded person who is capable of doing more and taking on more and willing to explore more. In some ways, I'm just as short-sided and prone to stumbling as always, but these days, I'm much quicker to recognize that I'm stumbling and stop it before I fall too far down that I can't get up. I'm quicker to do something about it because I know it's going to save me a lot of grief in the end. There was a day when I'd just say, "Screw it," live the moment for all it was worth and pick up the pieces later, if I ever picked them up at all. Fun at the time. Miserable later on.

I think life (at least my own) should be lived somewhere in the middle of those places. There's something to be said for living balls out every minute of the day. Taking on every minute like it's the last. There's also something to be said for knowing this minute isn't the last. Maybe I'm mistaking maturity for responsibility. Or maybe ultimately they are the same thing. What I do know is that there's nothing wrong with being mature or responsible. It's not always fun or easy, but that doesn't make it wrong.  

Day 61: 45 Years Of Marriage & Counting

This weekend, my parents will celebrate their 45^th wedding anniversary. That’s four-plus decades of relationship experience from which I have been privileged to draw upon from up close and personal. What a gift to have been able to watch your parents move through the years together, unwavering and united. What a foundation from which to have been created and to which to be able to constantly return.  

My parents married when they only 17 and 18. Within two years, they had two babies in the house to tend to. Not an easy task for any parents, but at such a young age, all the more difficult. At 18, I could barely buckle my belt, let alone work day in and out and then come home to raise babies at night. At 18, the most that I was responsible for was picking which party I was going to hit on any given night or what hat I was going to throw on my head in the morning on the way to class. I was more worried about restocking my supply of hair gel at that age than buying diapers. The differences between my existence and theirs at that age were night and day. Night and day.

My parents gave me everything I needed throughout my life and little that I didn’t deserve. I’m entirely grateful for that. They showed me what life could be like if you marry your best friend and stay committed to the greater cause. They showed me what loyalty means on the deepest level and what respect can return you. They showed me how to protect your loved ones and why it’s important and vital. From my parents I learned what’s possible when you hand your trust and well-being over to another, despite the inherent risks involved, and why it’s worth risk.

I realize how fortunate my parents are to have one another. I know too many people who have spent the better parts of their lives searching for the right someone or trying to escape the wrong someone or who are too enamored with their own selves to be aware of anyone else. I realize that a good many events had to line up just right for them to cross paths and head down the same road together. I realize how many lonely, lost souls walking the planet would give anything for even a month of what my parents have had for 45 years. I know all this.

I also know that sticking it out with someone for 45 years takes more than just waking up in the same bed every morning. It takes a lot of acceptance and patience and endurance and tolerance. It takes vulnerability and honesty and devotion to fill the years with happiness and joy and success. It takes covering each other’s weaknesses and putting forth each other’s strengths. It takes work, a lot of work.

I’m so proud of my parents. I’ve always been envious of how they found each other early on. I’m so thankful for my heritage, and I salute it in the most sincere, authentic manner.

Day 60: The Boob Tube

Today, I read an article from “Variety” with a photo of the cast from “The Sopranos.” The article was an excerpt of an oral history of the show from the cast as told several years after the fact. Man, I miss that show. I mean, I really miss it. I wasn't (and am still not) an HBO subscriber when the show was on, so watching all six seasons involved some tricky maneuvering. In addition to renting the various seasons on DVD, I watched  re-runs on A&E that I'd record on Thursday nights and Sunday mornings. The catch was that some of the episodes were shown out of sequence or I’d miss certain episodes so I’d have to see them out of sequence. To get my New Jersey mob history straight and all in line, I’d have to head off to HBO.com and read episode recaps. What I couldn’t gather from there, I’d hunt down elsewhere online. The effort was taxing but ever-so rewarding. 

It’s funny how when you latch on to a really good TV show that you really love, the show and characters and settings and general atmosphere the show emits can make your life feel somehow enriched. I’m not sure that a TV show should be the source of such joy, but why fight it? If not for living for the next episode of “Northern Exposure” each and every Monday night back in the day, for example, I’m not sure my life would have had nearly as much purchase back then. Sad but true. I was stuck in a nowhere job with little prospect for things changing, and I poor as hell. The hour of escape that Chris, Maurice, Ed, Joel, Holling, and company offered me every Monday night made everything better, if even just for a short while. 

Later, when circumstances changed and my future brightened up considerably, my wife and the kids and I would gather around the set every Sunday night to take in “Freaks and Geeks”during its criminally short one season run. We did the same for “X Files” before that, even though the kids were probably too young to really understand why Mulner was so nutty and Scully was seemingly always in a tizzy about this or that. 

Today, I try to be picky about how I spend my time watching TV, but these days I’m not nearly as vigilant as I used to be, and it's something I'd like to change. Nowadays, when I turn the TV on, more often than not, it seems I’m doing it just to space off and not really engage in what I'm watching in a zombie-like gaze. I have a few shows that I make a point of seeing and investing in (“Sons of Anarchy,” “Louie,” "Parks & Rec," etc.), but when I’m not watching those, I’m just as apt to perpetually flip through stations in fear that I’m missing something better until it's time to go to bed. It’s a sickness I like to call "foolish indecision."

I never felt that way watching “The Sopranos” or “Northern Exposure” and the like. I was so invested in those characters, I felt for them. I cringed for them. I experienced their pain and joy. When Joel finally hooked up with Maggie, I felt like I was the one in love. When Christopher fell of the wagon and started shooting smack again, I felt like I had failed myself and all those around me. When the FBI was closing in on Tony and prison looked like a foregone conclusion, I felt like plotting my escape routes. When Big Pussy was thrown overboard to permanently sleep with the fishes, I actually shed a tear. When Joel finally made his way back to New York City, I felt like my life had taken a new route and everything was about to change. I don't know if TV's abilities to make me feel that way is to be credited to good writing, acting, and directing or just my own pathetic need to fill gaps. Who cares? 

These days, plenty of people are that TV is the superior platform to tell a story than a movie. Throw out the reality television that plagues the air, and I argue that’s right. Characters evolve over years, not hours. Characters gradually grow up and age before our eyes. Shows become more brilliant or fade into mediocre. Time moves at a natural pace. Intricacies are allowed to exist more fluidly. I love these facets. I love the anticipation of not knowing what’s coming next. Maybe I could be spending my time in a better, more efficient manner, but ultimately, I like to be entertained and made to feel better. I like the idea of identifying with people I'll never know. I know TV is just TV, but creativity and manifests itself in all sorts of ways. 

Here's to you, Tony. 

Day 59: Thoughts On Bob Kerry

Back in 1992 when I was a reporter for the North Platte Telegraph, I interviewed Bob Kerry during his campaign for President of The United States. I had to share the interview with a reporter from the local television station, and we were only granted 20 minutes or so of his time, as he was making a cross-state trip, stopping in several other cities throughout the day.

I was all of about 22 years old and without a doubt I was out of my league. To say my nerves were all in a flutter interviewing a potential president is a tremendous and stupid understatement. To make matters worse, as some of the local TV reporters were apt to do then, the reporter I was sharing the time with didn't have much to offer other than a variety of softballs she lobbed in Kerry's general direction. I think she was too busy flirting with a prominent official to remember we were there to do a job. I was taught not to pitch my questions right down the middle of the plate and felt compelled to ask at least a few questions that readers were expecting to be asked.

With each passing question, I managed to fumble my words out of my mouth with a little less grace and clearer articulation than the one before. But with each bumbled question, Bob Kerry patiently waited for me to finish stumbling all over myself and answered each with an in-depth answer. I've always appreciated that.

I'm a long ways from news reporting days. I wasn't really cut out for the gig. I didn't like calling officials at night. I didn't like confrontations. I didn't like covering robberies and murders. I didn't like deadlines or not having a social life. I didn't like sitting in court for long afternoons. I didn't like sitting at school board meetings all night or trying to decipher legislative bills or attending Wal-Mart grand openings. I'm glad for the years I spent doing the job because I met tremendous people who taught me lessons I still apply today, but it wasn't a good fit for my personality. Still, there are moments I truly value, and interviewing Bob Kerry was one of them.

Growing up during his stint as Nebraska's governor, I respected his dedication. I respected his service and sacrifice for his country. I respected that he was adamant about carrying on a life outside of the Legislature and politics. I still admire Bob Kerry. I don't care that he hasn't lived in the state for 12 years. I guarantee you he loves his home more than 99% of Nebraskans. I guarantee I can trust his moral compass and ethical base. I guarantee he'll do his due diligence and he won't be easily persuaded by lobbyists, and he'll listen. Let me repeat those last words: He'll listen.

I'll admit, my politics and Bob Kerry's politics are probably pretty much in line. It wouldn't matter, though. The man looked me directly in the eyes, and I sensed his commitment. I believe in that. At least in my very humble opinion, I feel extremely positive about Bob Kerry's decision to seek election again to the U.S. Senate. 

Day 58: App Maniac

I'm writing this post from my iPhone using the Blogger app from Google. I am a hopeless app addict. So, while I'd just as soon be writing these words on my PC's much larger and much easier to use keyboard, in a pinch I don't have to. I can whip my smartphone out wherever I am (bed, ball game, passenger seat, park, parking lot, etc.) and start blogging. Imagine what Shakespeare or Milton or T.S. or Dante could have done armed with such a tool. Imagine the observations and insights they could have relayed to us. Scary. 


I've probably downloaded and experimented with 500 or apps and games over the years of  owning first an iPod touch and then an iPhone. I also use apps regularly in Google Chrome and less regularly on the Wii and my Blu-ray player. Apps, for me, are the primary reason to own a smartphone. (I don't get that many calls, and the ones that I do get are usually someone under 18 who is asking for my permission to do something.) 


My car breaks down on the road at night and I can't see what's going on under the hood? No worries. Take my iPhone out of my pocket, press an icon, and I have a flashlight. Don't know which road I'm on? No problem. Google Maps to the rescue. Need to find an auto parts store close by? No sweat. Launch AroundMe, and I'm golden. Need to past some time waiting for the tow truck to come? The New York Times is just a finger press away. So are hundreds of  free classic books via Kobo. 


My favorite use of apps is plugging my electric guitar into one end of a cord I picked up for roughly $30 and plugging the cord's other end into my iPhone's headphone jack. Open up Stomp Box or any other of about 10 apps I've run across for the guitar, and I instantly have multiple choices of simulated amps and effect pedals, all of which I can listen to through headphones so as to no wake the rest of the sleeping brood in my house. 


Two of my favorite apps are Instapaper and Squrl. Run across interesting articles or videos online throughout the day but don't have time to read or watch? No sweat. Click a browser add-on installed in Google Chrome and there saved to my account. Later on when I get home, open up Instapaper and I'm reading those article. Open Squrl and those videos I saved are waiting in my queue for watching on the iPhone. Ultra flippin' handy. 

My other favorites include TuneIn Radio, Instagram, NPR Music, and Flipboard. If you have an iPhone and don't have these loaded, you're doing yourself a disservice. 


Here's the deal about apps, if I want to be a filmmaker for a day, I can make a cheesy 70s-era flick starring my kids with Super 8. If I want to shoot cool panoramic photo while on a hike in the park, I open DMD and I'm good to go. If I want to record my latest three-chord punk masterpiece or learn the chords to "Seek and Destroy" or practice with a metronome or learn a new scale or tune my acoustic guitar, I can. If my wife is working and I haven't seen her all day, I just launch Facetime and we're eyeball to eyeball. Get an idea for a book or new project, I open Evernote, jot it down, and get back to doing what I was before, knowing that when I want to return to the idea I can from any computer. Feel like watching a movie in bed or catching up on The Walking Dead, I open Netflix and start Flixin', as my man Daryl would say. Want to draw, I open Doodle. Want to cook, I open BigOven. Want to find a place to eat, I open Ness. Want a refresher on Article II, I open Constitution. Want to catch up on world news, I open NewsFlash. Want to be humiliated, I open Temple Run and watch my four-year-old proceed to kick my butt. 


I like my smartphone, but I love my apps. 

Day 57: Spring = Baseball = The Greatest Show On Earth

Whenever someone asks me what my favorite sport is, I always respond that basketball is my favorite to play (although golf is quickly threatening to change this), but baseball is my favorite. This time of year, when the days stretch a little longer and the nip in the air grows a little less biting and pitchers and catchers have reported and started throwing, I feel renewed and alive. In baseball terms, spring represents hope, and hope springs eternal.

Unlike some attention-depraved sorry-sacks who say “baseball is so boring” or “the games last too long” or “there’s no action,” I have no problem sitting hour after hour watching the next nine innings or more unfold before my eyes. My answer to such complaints is “You’re really not comfortable with yourself, are you? Because if you were, you could just sit in that chair for more than five minutes in a row without checking who hasn’t texted you and realize the beauty that’s before you, that baseball is quite possible the most beautiful, well-thought creation ever brought forth.”

On some levels, I understand certain people’s dislike for baseball. It is slow. The “action” can be lacking in this “give it to me now” world. No one is getting his head handed to him by a guy on the other team, so the “ooh and ah” moments occur far less often. No one is moving at the speed of light on a pair of skates or defying gravity flying to the basket or driving a 2,000-pound vehicle in constant left turn risking death while doing so. I get all that. I’d argue, though, that these are the very reasons baseball is superior. Baseball gives you time to ponder and reason and anticipate and predict what’s about to occur. Baseball isn’t instantly gratifying; it’s perpetually gratifying. Baseball requires your patience and mind to work simultaneously. Baseball is discipline. Some people don’t have that at their disposal.

For those who can’t stand the thought of spending even one moment of a day without socializing in some form or another, I’d suggest getting yourself out to a ballpark post-haste. Your reward will be two-plus hours of uninterrupted socializing opportunities—with the added bonus of stuffing your face with some of the finest food ever concocted by man. Wash a few peanuts back with a frosty-cold beer while sitting in the sun and tell me I’m not right. Honestly, I’m of the opinion that too many people have forgotten how to relax. Spend an afternoon at the park and you’ll remember. Think you can’t afford that? Think again. Major league games aren’t the only ones around. I’ve had just as much fun randomly stopping my car to watch nine-year-olds battle it out at a park with maybe five rows of bleachers to sit on as I have had sitting in major league parks, and I didn’t spend a penny to do it.

Here’s the thing: I believe in baseball because even after roughly four decades of watching and playing it, the game still mystifies me. It’s almost impossible to cheat, but players try to do it every game. There’s no official rule that says if your pitcher hits my batter, I’m allowed to do the same, yet every team does it. Like a lot of life, what’s unstated and unofficial about baseball is just as important as what is official and spoken.  

Sadly, I understand why baseball is dying, so to speak. It’s nearly impossible to get 18 kids together on any afternoon to get a game going. (How can sunshine compete with “Call of Duty”?) Not every kid owns a bat, ball, and glove. (Yet, every kid seems to somehow own a cell phone.) There aren’t enough baseball fields for kids to play on. (Yet, $10 can buy you a whiffle ball set and the most fun you’ll ever have.)

Sadder still to me personally, none of my kids really took to baseball in the way I did, and I don’t anticipate they ever will. That means there’s a lot of afternoon we’ll never spend sitting side by side, sharing sunflower seeds and downing hot dogs and catching up on life. But here’s what I’m holding on to while I prepare myself for another season of Yankees’ dominance: One day, I’ll have grandkids, and my every intention is to teach them early on to love the ballpark and what it represents. Then, they ask Grandpa to take them to the park every chance he gets. And I will. 

Day 56: Oscars

Since I was a really little kid, I've loved Oscar night. I've watched the awards with a lot of people. I watched a lot of the awards by myself. But I always remember watching. There was a time when I would have seen nearly all the nominated movies. These days, I'm lucky if I've seen one. Doesn't matter, though. I love the pageantry and glamour and the buzz. Weird, because I pretty much despise all other award shows. 

Day 55: Patriotic Duty

There was a time when I was fairly obsessed with politics. I was a current events junkie. When major news events broke, I jumped from network to network to absorb the various perspectives. There was a time when I could listen to talk radio for hours. Those days are over.

I still follow politics, but now, it's primarily because I feel a sense of duty to do so. It's not because I enjoy. In fact, I despise it. It's rotten to the core. It's snide and dirty and completely muddied. It's a shame. Still, I follow politics because I don't want to be left behind. I don't want to be hoodwinked. I don't want to be categorized or stepped on or stepped over. It happens every day to honest, decent people, and I don't want it to happen to me.

Years and years ago I sat at a campfire with a friend and debated politics until the sun came up. I took the position that politicians weren't inherently evil. I reasoned that they didn't enter politics and run for office for selfish reasons. I reasoned they had good intentions. How naive I was. Today, I see politics being played on just about every level of my life, from Washington D.C. to the streets and sidewalks I walk every day.

What's the positiveness in all this? That I'm aware. I don't have to like having to participate, but I thankful for the ability to do so. 

Day 54: When Doves Cry

Last night, I heard Prince on the radio while driving my daughter across town. You don’t hear Prince much on the radio these days, which is a shame. In fact, you don’t hear Prince much at all anywhere. A great deal of the blame for that is Prince’s. He’s a hermit. He’s a bad business strategist. He's fiercely independent and bullheaded. Eccentric. His fashion sense is suspect. And he somehow defies the laws of aging. I’m not sure Prince is even human or of this earth. Man, I love Prince.  

I’ve known Prince longer than I’ve known my wife, kids, or a good chunk of my friends. By “know,” I mean “known of.” His Purpleness and I have never actually crossed physical paths, but it feels as if we have. For as damn weird as Prince can and has been, I’ve always felt like I was in tune with what he was going for at any particular time. I don’t know if that makes me damn weird, too, or even a “Slave,” but over the years, no matter what strange, career-killing move Prince was making, I somehow understood and even approved of it.

I first heard Prince at around 15 years old at a party I wasn’t supposed to be at. “1999” was spinning on the turntable, and “Little Red Corvette” was getting played over and over. I quickly went about scrounging up any dubbed tapes of Prince I could weasel my way into. It took a while before I could get my hands on all the songs from “Dirty Mind,” but I was persistent and eventually made it happen. From there, I made it my life’s mission to get “Controversy” and “1999.” By the time “Purple Rain” rolled around, I was fighting off urges to convert my entire wardrobe to purple pants, shirts, and scarves.

Prince came along at the perfect time in my life. I was in high school, and he was an oddball who opened doors to all sorts of oddballness that I wanted to explore. Eventually, he found massive popularity. Although I’ve always hated when musicians I like make it big and I had to start sharing them with others, I didn’t mind so much in the case of Prince. I thought more people deserved to be let in on the magical madness he was conjuring. When “Let’s Go Crazy” and “When Doves Cry” and “Darling Nikki” blasted through the stratosphere, it justified my adulation for his music. The “Purple Rain” craze also warmed my heart, as I took great satisfaction in watching all the “open-minded” kids who had once labeled him as a “sawed-off f*g” now dancing their little hearts out on the dance floor at the big high school dances.

I don’t listen to Prince much these days, and I haven’t bought much of his music since “Diamonds and Pearls” (seriously, “Get Off” is the baddest, funkiest song ever), but good Lord, my memories tied to Prince are incredible. I’ve seen “Purple Rain” dozens of times, and I’ll even waste an hour or two every few years or so suffering through “Under A Cherry Moon.” I fished for hours and hours at the Wahoo Creek with my boy Daryl listening to “1999” on a portable boombox, and the night that my man Tim and I went bonkers at a party trying to woo girls lip-syncing to “I Would Die 4 U” was, well, embarrassingly beautiful. (Poor Lynette.) “Purple Rain” may be my favorite song of all time, and I truly believe “The Beautiful Ones” is about as good as music gets.

Whenever I hear Prince, like I did last night, I think of being in my small bedroom, staying up way, way deep into the night, my head stuck directly between my two crappy stereo speakers, listening to “Purple Rain” over and over again. I miss that stereo. 

Day 53: Growing Up

I take so much joy in seeing how people I grew up with turned out. There’s something oddly fascinating about not having seen, heard from, or have had access to people and then one day all that changes. It’s as if this magical bubble carrying years and years of history floats right in front of my face and bursts open to reveal all sorts of varying details, some great and some, unfortunately, the opposite. Especially in those cases in which the person has turned into someone completely different than I would have ever guessed or suspected or even thought possible, the experience has been all the more gratifying and brilliant. I love alternative endings.

I can’t pinpoint why it is, but it’s fascinating seeing people I thought I knew once upon a time take on likes and interests that they once either denounced outright or never gave any indication whatsoever they would eventually gravitate to. Kids who found the darkest corner of the gymnasium during P.E. back in the day, for example, are now avid Husker fans. Kids who showed no inclination for sports are now running marathons. Kids I never would have guessed had leadership skills tucked somewhere inside themselves have evidently found their inner pioneer and now letting those skills roar. Kids who I once deemed unsocial or shy or inhibited are now full of life and living on the edge. Beautiful.  

All this is exactly why life is such a tremendous experiment. At any given time and in any given place, you can decide to become whatever you want. You can literally change everything about yourself, and it’s allowed. You can flip-flop, backtrack, rearrange, morph, tear apart, and build and destroy in a mere second, and there’s nothing that can stop it.

I try not to live in the past, but I like to revisit it, and I love when perceptions I held in the past are decimated and turned to dust. I love surprises, and I love more the surprises people from years ago continually spring on me.

It makes me wonder how I was perceived and if those perceptions have changed.  

Day 52: The Gift Of Realizing The Gift

I might play the role of a part-time philosopher now and again, but I don't have any better idea of what the meaning of life is than probably 99% of the rest of the population does. What I do know is that I'm alive today. That's the most important aspect of my life now and tomorrow and until I die. I'm alive, and that makes all other things possible. Don't take that for granted. Don't fail to appreciate the gift. Don't fail to recognize the potential that the gift provides. Pay proper respect to the people, places, ideas, tears, laughs, and more that the gift introduces. Make the gift my own. Make the gift your process. This is mandatory.

Sometimes, it takes a struggle or uncertainty or questioning one's self to reaffirm that this magic exists and is always at work. It takes being stood up straight to be reminded that the gift wants to work for me. I think I've always been pretty good at noticing the small details present in any given day, but I haven't always been good about using those details and applying them to a larger purpose. I was reminded of this today. I was reminded that defining a life's purpose should be up to the individual, not others. The personal work I produce should have meaning to me and stem from me and reside in me. If it resonates in others, that's a glorious bonus. If not, the work and the journey required to produce it are still worthwhile and of value because it involved growth and realizations and truth.

Some days, it takes reality spitting in my face, mocking me, taunting me, and challenging me to get me off the mat and fight back and re-establish priorities, to be able to witness true "essence." I'm always up for a good fight, but I'm learning that I don't have to win the fight this second. Some battles are long and drawn out and painful. Today, I was reminded that pain isn't evil. I was reminded that pain can motivate. Confusion can result in beauty. Uncertainty can pay dividends. Today, I was reminded that the process is where I really grow, if I choose to participate. I can read or listen to how others arrived at their purpose, but there are lessons lost in that approach. Being a bystander is ultimately senseless if you're unwilling to apply what you've seen and learned.

Every day, the question I should be put forth is, "Do I choose to participate?" If so, get to it. If not, ask what are you afraid of? What are the barriers? Where do the obstacles lie? Then, how do I work past the fright, overcome the barriers, and knock down the obstacles? But always I must realize the opportunity to do so is a gift. Always a gift.  

Day 51: Coffee Is King

I pay my respect to coffee every morning by drinking it with much love and support. I happily spend my money on coffee because it never fails to bring me enjoyment. It never fails to brighten my morning. It never disappoints. I’m not picky; I can buy or make my own coffee. I’ll drink either type with the same gusto.

I drank my first cup at about eight years old. No lie. It’s been a long love affair since. Admittedly, a great deal of the initial allure was that I simply wanted to sit at the same table that my mom and aunts were at and listen to them gossip about whatever it was they gossiped about. When there were vanilla or chocolate cream-filled cookies to dip in my cup, bliss ensued. Even though at the time I sort of believed the warnings they’d shoot my way that coffee was “going to stunt my growth,” I didn’t care. I loved the coffee experience then, and I love it now.

I love the allure of coffee’s aroma. The smell that rockets out of the can and blasts me in the nose is intense beauty. The odor that coffee creates as it’s brewing in the machine is brilliance. That coffee can fill rooms of my house with sweet, sweet love isn’t lost on me.

I love the sounds of coffee nearly as much. Listening to coffee beans grind isn’t distracting; it’s angels singing. Listening to the pitter pat of individual drops adding to the pot’s collective is a chorus singing gospel. The swirling, chugging sound that coffee makes as it’s entering the mug is my favorite of all. I love picking out the mug I’m going to drink from. I love the act of adding cream and sugar. I love the “tinks” and “clinks” of the spoon banging against the mug’s sides.

The first sip of coffee is always utopia. The hesitation experienced from not knowing if the liquid will be too hot for the lips and tongue never grows old. I love coffee’s aftertaste, and I even love the little puddle the last remnants make at the bottom of the cup.  

On Sunday mornings growing up, I loved making coffee for my mom and waiting for her to tell me how it tasted. In college, coffee united my friends and I around a table where we’d discuss life between sips and draws from cheap cigarettes. On camping trips, I’d argue that coffee is the one thing you can count on that will be truly great about the coming day. On Sunday golfing mornings, coffee is my fuel. During desserts, cake isn’t cake without coffee to wash it down. And don’t get me started with donuts, pancakes, French toast, or scrambled eggs.

I love knowing how people “take” their coffee. (Cream and sugar for me, thank you.) I love that some people only drink coffee from the same mug. I love that some people drink coffee all day long. I love that people make their own coffee at work instead of drinking what some schmoo concocts. (I refuse to drink my company’s coffee unless absolutely mandatory. Coffee is not meant to be chewed.) I love that I can buy a cup of coffee from the same gas station every weekday morning and each and every person behind the counter not only knows my name, but expects me to present my coffee card to get my deserved discount. If I don’t, they ask for it. Hell, I even love the movie "Coffee & Cigarettes." 

Much respect, coffee. You’ve been a good friend. 

Day 50: Where The Wild Things Are

I recently saw this interview with Maurice Sendak at Open Culture, which itself is possible the best Web site online. Like just about every other kid who ever had "Where The Wild Things Are" read to him and then read himself a billion times over, I love the simplistic brilliance of the book and the illustrations and the deeper and deeper meaning I find in every time I flip the pages. And I'm still reading it some 40 years later. I've read it to all my children, including now my four-year-old, and I've read it for my own enjoyment even more. Some days, I'll just stare at the pages and forget about time and space. What a gift.

How does this book hold so much power and charm? How is it so completely engaging and frightful and happy and sad and peaceful and turbulent and uniting and dividing and painful and soothing simultaneously? I understand this book, yet I don't understand it a bit. How can a book with so few words be so universally appealing and demand every reader and looker's attention instantly? I don't know, and maybe these questions are not to be questioned. Magic is magic, after all.

I'm coming to feel the same about Spike Jonze's cinematic retelling. I've watched it on and off the past two days with my daughter, and I'm falling more and more in love with it. Again, simplistic brilliance. I can't pinpoint why the movie has sunk so deeply into my psyche, but I'm content to just it roll around in there a while and work its own magic. Perhaps my growing attachment stems from reveling in the inspiration Sendak had on Jonze who is now giving to others himself. Magic is magic.

My daughter and I just finished watching the movie again, and I would be content to just press Play and relive the last few hours all over with her. Her questions about the characters and their motivations and actions are so keen and spot on, I'm so fascinated to know exactly what thoughts are being created in her mind. I want a peek inside to know if she's seeing what I am, if she feeling the same emotions as me, etc.

I've seen a lot of movies, and I've read a lot of books, but I'm not sure there's been a better marriage where one book inspired a visual creation. 

Day 49: Playing Like A Kid

In the last two days I've played I Spy, Who Am I?, Hide n' Seek, Candy Land, Hot Wheels, video games, babies, bus driver, wrestling, and about a dozen other games I'm too tired to think of right now. My kid wears me out, and that's a great thing. Some days, when I wake up already exhausted, I wonder how I'm going to make it through the day, but I always do. And I always seem pretty happy, if not a little relieved to be laying down again. I've been pretty blessed to have kids who want to and like to play for pretty much 20 years now. Having a baby at 40 years old presented all kinds of physical and mental challenges, but man, she's kept me young and on the move. What a wonderful gift she's given me. I'm always forced to think young, and if you don't think that's a blessing, then you really wouldn't understand even if I tried to explain it to you. I'm blessed to have days like these, days that I don't worry about the outside world. Days when I don't think about my problems or what I don't have enough of or what I'll never have. Days like these make appreciate what I do have. And the thing is, I had a blast today, and it didn't cost me a cent. All I had to spend was some free time, and that was a price I was glad to pay. 

Day 48: At The Movies

Took my girls to see "The Secret World Of Arrietty" today.

I absolutely love spending time with the girls alone. I don't get a chance to do it enough, but when I do, I always enjoy it. It's difficult finding something that a four-year-old and a 14-year-old will both like and be interested in. I mean it's really hard, but man, it's worth the effort finding those things.

I absolutely love going to movies, and it's also something that I don't get to do enough anymore. There was a time when I saw tons and tons of movies. When I had spare time, that's what I do. Today, well, I don't have much spare time. I've always been that guy who didn't mind going to movies alone. In fact, sometimes I prefer it. In the last few years, though, there's just been far less chances, and I didn't realize how much I missed it.

The last movie I saw in the theater was probably two years ago. It's amazing how much better resolution of the image is now. I wasn't expecting that, but it was a pleasant surprise.

It's also amazing how much I missed movie popcorn. God bless movie popcorn, even if my daughter bogarted it.

It's amazing how much movie popcorn costs. Amazing.

As far as "The Secret World of Arrietty," it was a pleasure. It's based on "The Borrowers," which I've never seen, so everything was a surprise. It's also from the man who wrote "Spirited Away," which is not only one of my favorite children movies ever, it's one of my favorite movies period. I love Japanese films, everything about them.They're quiet but meaningful. There's minimal dialogue but they're incredibly intelligent and thought-provoking. They're truly art, and they truly give you as much to ponder visually as they do audibly and mentally.

Great afternoon. 

Day 47: Upon My Death. . . .

It seems that celebrity grieving has become a national pastime. Every time someone who achieves even the slightest bit of notoriety meets his or her demise, seemingly every monkey with an opinion climbs down from the tree to publicly wax poetic about how much Mr. or Mrs.  Showbiz or Billboard or Baseball Field or Reality Show meant to their lives and how “I’ve been a fan of so and so since the age of dawn.” Whatever.  

Thus, today, I’m going to take a somewhat morbid but positive, proactive approach to my upcoming death—one that I hope will save a lot of people a lot of otherwise wasted time.

In the highly unlikely chance that I should become a celebrity in the near future and my untimely or tragic or unexpected death should soon follow, the following are my publicly stated instructions for all my would-be devoted fans, distractors, and curious lookie loos to follow: 

• Feel free to spend exactly one minute grieving or detailing, reflecting upon, or sizing up my life 
•  Immediately get back to living your own

The fact is, I’ll be dead, and anything you say about me, positive or negative, won’t matter one flippin’ bit to me anyway—unless I’m immediately reincarnated as myself, in which case I’m going to be so pissed off at the universe, I still won’t give two shakes what you have to say about me anyway.

If you choose to disobey my wishes (and what kind of fan are you, anyway?) and spend your valuable time discussing such things as where I rate all time compared to my contemporaries, how I wasted my God-given talent, how my fame wasn’t deserved, or there will never be another like me, you’re an idiot. Let the family and friends and acquaintances who actually had access to me and all the good and bad that encompasses pass judgment. 

Sure, I’m touched that you’ll be touched that I’ll no longer be walking the earth, but really, if you have nothing better to do than engage in endless discourse about how I didn’t write my own music or that I was only famous because I slept with my manager or that I could have been a contender if my prowess for snorting blow hadn’t gotten the better of me, that’s sad on you.

Look, I understand the need to grieve and share that grief—if it’s genuine. I even understand grieving celebrities to a certain degree. When Jerry Garcia and Johnny Cash died, I shed tears. When Bob Dylan dies, I’ll probably take a vacation day and curl up in bed for 24 hours. But overall, I’ve grown more than little tired of false tributes from false fans who could and should be busy carving out their own bits of history and their own life’s worth if not so preoccupied with being occupied by someone’s else’s lives. You know who are, so stop it. I beg you.

Day 46: Let The Blood Flow

I gave blood again today, which sure doesn’t make me unique or special but sure makes feel as much every time I walk out the door after donating. What’s not to like about the experience? A few sticks of the needle are all it takes to do a whole lot of good.

I donated blood the first time in high school but only sporadically thereafter until the past few years or so. (I’m not counting all the visits I made to give plasma; I did that purely for the money.) For reasons I’m not really sure, I got inspired to really make a commitment to donate regularly, and I’ve been making a habit of doing so every 60 days or so since.

Here are a few facts:

•  The blood I gave today can wind being used in any one of 10 Nebraska health-care facilities.
•  I donate at this Nebraska Community Blood Bank location; it’s just down the street from my house, so there’s no excuse not to.
•  If you live in Lincoln, you can find a location near you here.
•  You can schedule a donation time online here. 
•  If you don’t live in Lincoln, visit the America’s Blood Centers or American Red Cross to find a location.
• Currently, the Nebraska Community Blood Bank reports that transfusions are outnumbering donations, and “the community’s blood supply is sitting at a dangerously low level.”
• This remarkable donor has given 75 gallons of blood. Amazing. 

 If you are already a regular donor or this has motivated you in any way to start, Like this post on Facebook or leave a comment and I’ll give you a well-deserved shootout. If you donate but don’t want to call attention to yourself, kudos to you and keep it up. 

Day 45: Brothers From Different Mothers

I don’t have any biological brothers. It wasn’t in the cards. I do have three “brothers from a different mother, though—three lifelong friends who are constant, steady, reliable forces in my life that would do anything for me, and I’d do the same for them. We don’t need to state the commitment. We don’t advertise or flaunt it. We don’t really even talk about it in in-depth manner or have to reaffirm it every so often for it to remain true. It’s just a fact, understood and concrete. Hell, I don’t even have to mention their names because they know who they are (but I will anyway: Chris, Daryl, and Tim). They’re brothers, and that means the world to me. The positive influence they’ve had on me . . . I can’t due justice with words.

I love these “brothers” unconditionally. I say that truthfully and without hesitation because there are certainly traits and nuisances and idiosyncrasies and personal tastes they have that I don’t understand or aspire to possess myself , and I know there are definitely characteristics and beliefs and practices about myself that they don’t agree with or care for, either. Still, if you mess with me, you mess with them and vice versa. That’s because we have history.

History means so much to me. History is the foundation. The bedrock. History is the origin. History is from what all the branches stretch and grow. I bled and cried and laughed with these “brothers.” They picked my ass off the ground when I landed hard, and they kicked me in the ass when I needed it. They made me laugh when I didn’t think I could or wanted to. They put up with my crap and indulged my whims more than they probably should have. They didn’t turn their back on me when I went down paths they couldn’t relate to, and I didn’t either when they did the same. They taught me invaluable lessons. They inspired me. They pissed me off and tested my patience. They got me in trouble. They got me recognized. They helped me tempt fate and test boundaries. They watched me fail and excel, and I watched them do the same. They changed over time, and so did I, transforming into teenagers, young men, and then husbands and fathers. I hope to watch them grow into old men. I watched them succeed and fail and do things I didn’t know they could. We drank together. Ran from trouble together. Studied together. Avoided adulthood together and then embraced it.  I value their opinion without question, and I’d absolutely fight you on the spot if you aimed to do them harm.

It took me awhile to understand what having a “brother” really means, but now that I think I do, I couldn’t be more grateful for these lifelong relationships. I might have friends that I spend more time with and have more in common with, but they aren’t brothers, and I don’t share the same ties. It took me awhile to understand it’s OK that I don’t have to approve or condone everything they do, and it’s OK that they don’t have to do the same for me.

Some people are lucky to have one really good friend even for a short duration throughout the course of his or her life. I’ve had three steady, constant friends for decades. “Friends” doesn’t do the relationship justice. I’ve been blessed in a lot of ways but having “brothers” who have been in it for the long haul with me rates way, way up near the top of the list. 

Day 44: Thoughts On Valentine's Day

People say spending Christmas alone is the craps. I'd say spending Valentine's Day alone is worse. I've experience in this department. I've spent plenty a V-Day solo, and it bites. It bites seeing those around you reveling in their flowers and candy and cards and stuffed animals and the emotion and attention and everything else that goes with being romantic and expressing love.

Charlie Brown was no sucker; he was just unlucky. He deserved a cool girlfriend as much as the next guy. I  sympathized with Chuck those years I spent V-Day reading a book or watching some crappy sitcom vs. sharing a candlelit dinner and so on. Spending V-Day alone is unwanted solitude. It's a hard pill to swallow. Some years I'd buy myself a box of chocolates and tell myself, "It's cool, man. You'll find someone some day when the time was right." Accepting that as truth took a beverage or 20 to wash down, but I tried to believe. I once went through a dry spell that lasted a couple years where not only didn't I have a Valentine on Valentine's Day, I didn't have a flippin' single date. Not one. I know about loneliness, people. It's crippling if you let it. So don't.

That's why it's so important to take nothing for granted. It's even more important to express your fortune.

I'm so thankful for my wife and the ability to share this day with her and all the rest, too. I'll always remember the effort she went to years ago back in our old house on Judson catering a meal for us, a meal we actually got to share alone, sans kids. She's provided a lot of answers and solutions and comfort and purpose for my life, none the least being how she filled that sprawling chasm of loneliness that once existed. I'm a lucky man, and I'm privileged to state as much publicly.

I'm also so grateful for my children and watching them grow and turn into the beautiful people they have become. They possess such great minds and hearts, and I'm so proud of their creative personalities and their acceptance and tolerance of all races and creeds of people. They teach me lessons continually, and I'm not embarrassed whatsoever to admit that a father can learn as much from his children as they hopefully learn from him. You're wonderful children, and I should tell you all that more often.

If you're spending this day alone and struggling, my heart is with you. I have no advice or suggestions to ease that discomfort. I can only say suck it up, survive the day, and take any steps possible to change your situation if you so desire. Take risks. Show some vulnerability. Improve your station. Believe in your self and what you have to offer. Trust. Make it happen. Believe.

I'm not certain where love originates or what constitutes love or how to even recognize it. I do believe, though, no one is excluded from obtaining it.

Day 43: Work Ethic

Today, I worked my ass off. That's a good thing. It's a particularly good thing because my job is one that I can't pass off responsibilities to someone else. I'm get a deadline to meet, and from there it's up to me to meet it. I like that arrangement. It forces me to be organized, timely, responsible, independent, and driven. It's also stressful as hell some days, such as today. Survive it, though, and you're a better man on the other end.

None of those traits I'm sure I would have come to acquire on my own. I had some pretty damn good examples along the way, starting with my dad and mom. My dad worked his off ass pretty much his entire life, starting on his grandparents farm and then throughout the rest of his life. My mom worked all day, came home and worked some more, and I don't recall her complaining once.

Most every job I've had prior to my present one, I've been paired with someone who I had to work with day in and day out. Working with the same guy every day takes a lot of patience, particularly when you don't share a lot of the same interests or pastimes. That was the case when I worked on a tree nursery one summer. I worked every single day with a guy named Don. When everyone else was taking 30 minutes breaks and long lunches and heading back to the farm to leave for the day, Don worked by the numbers and beyond. I can't say I always appreciated Don's exemplary work ethic on those oppressively hot July days when we were digging holes by hand to plant trees, but damn if he didn't teach me something about responsibility, no matter the job at hand.

I painted houses pretty much every day for four  years with a guy named Randy, who owned his own business. The guy's dedication to doing a job perfectly was amazing, and although Randy and I had our moments, I couldn't have admired his commitment to the task in front of him and to pleasing his customer more. At the core, Randy was a good guy, and his attention to detail was stellar. I learned a lot of life lessons from Randy, and for all the crap he took from me, he was extremely good to me.

I've had a few examples who fell completely at the other end of the scale, including a Vietnam vet I worked with one summer who plotted for a good month or so how he could hurt himself on the job to draw disability checks. As much fun as I had working with him and listening to his highly fabricated stories, I didn't care much for the fact that he had three DUIs on his record or that his paychecks were sent directly to the court to pay for his massive amount of back child support. Eventually, he did pull off his self-inflated injury by dropping on his knee his end of a 200-pound fuel tank we were carrying together. I can still see the sly smile on his face after the deed went down. Another summer I worked every day with a guy who owned his own landscaping company. All I can say about him is that he did 5% of the work and took 100% of the credit after the job was done. I still run into around town occasionally and have to fight an urge to seek and destroy.

I'm not sure how people around me would characterize my work ethic. I think some days it's through the roof. Others, if falls ways below that mark. It really depends on the task, which I'm a bit ashamed of. One of the great lessons in Zen is tackling every task with the same care and dedication, whether it's doing the dishes or erecting a skyscraper. My hope is that one day I'll reach that state of mind and being. Who knows? I do know I don't have to look too far examples of how it can be done.