Day 307: Ah

Wore out and tired. That's a good thing I guess. But now I just close my eyes and revel in the silence.

Day 306: Memphis Lake

For some reason, I was thinking about Memphis Lake today, which a writer from "NebraskaLand Magazine" aptly described as "one of Nebraska's best secrets." He's right; it is, and that's exactly why I hesitated writing about it. 

Frankly, I'd rather not too many people knew about Memphis Lake. I'm sure there are a lot of people who have spent a weekend or two there that feel the same way. On the other hand, that lake is too much of a gem not to share. Maybe it's because Memphis seemingly sits out in the middle of nowhere that makes it special. Maybe it's because as you drive through the itty bitty town that it is, it looks and feels like time has no influence there. It's calm and unassuming. It's tranquil and still. There's no pace. There's no buzz. There's nothing to distract your motivation to just decompress and breath deeply. Just thinking about about the water bumping up against the lake's edge ever so softly makes me want to get in my car and immediately head in that direction. 

I camped at Memphis Lake as a kid with my parents, and I've spent weekends there camping with my own kids. In fact, I've told many people over recent years that arguably the most peaceful, relaxing, and renewing four days I've ever spent on this planet was camping at Memphis lake about five years ago with my daughter, 10 at the time. Time stood still that weekend. Honestly, time and life in general has never felt as slow and so wonderfully unimportant and inconsequential as they did over that stretch of the days. 

Some days, I believe I'd do just about anything to get that time back, to turn the clock in reverse and feel the sun shining as comfortably warm as it was, to watch that same sun dipping below the water line and turn the world into a million shades of pink and red and purple, to hop on that peddle boat with my little girl and zoom our way around the lake chasing the bullfrogs jumping all around us. I do believe some days I'd give everything away for a few more minutes of staring at those endless stars populating the black sky as we sat in our lawn chairs, our bellies gorged on chili and hot dogs and smores and more, listening to the coyotes sing, watching the fire fight on.  

Decades ago as a kid, my dad would take my sister and I there to fish on Sunday mornings. Most people from my hometown took the highway to get to Memphis, passing by the cattle yard that stretched for acres along the road and that emitted a smell worthy of a cattle yard for sure. Not my dad, though. He never seemed to take the path most traveled. Instead of the highway, we took the dirt roads, winding our way the six or so miles from Ashland at a slower but much more satisfying pace.

I loved those rides, seeing the corn fields spanning out, watching the birds fly up among the dust the car kicked up, and feeling my hair blow wild and mad with the window rolled all the way down. Our path brought us into Memphis over the old steel bridge just outside town until we hit the back edge of town, moving past Don's Bar and what passed for downtown Memphis. On most visits, we go back out the same way, stopping at Don's to get a soda for the ride home. Years later, after college was several years in the rear view mirror, I'd eat supper there with my mom and dad, with my mom invariable catching three numbers in Keno to pay for our meal with some cash left over. 

On those Sunday mornings with dad, with our fishing poles over our shoulders, we'd walk our way around the east end of the lake, find a place to sit on that old cement structure, and throw our lines in. Afterward, we stop at the playground and climb all over those old railroad ties, getting slivers by the handful. I never was ready to go home, and I was always ready to go back. 

Some weekends, my extended family of uncles and aunts and cousins would all camp there. I was the youngest boy among all my cousins, and my sister was the youngest girl. We'd follow our older cousins around the hills and roads and pathways down to the lake like they were royalty, listening to every word they spoke about their lives, which we couldn't begin to understand but were enamored with nonetheless.  We tried to keep up during their massive games of hide and seek, and though we were rarely successful, God we tried.  

In high school, Memphis Lake was the place you drove to late at night with your friends and girlfriends, stealing time and stealing freedom. The lake at night was a different lake than the one we saw during the day, and the lake at night with a girlfriend sitting next to you in the care was an even stranger, more exciting one. Overly quiet. Overly dark. Overly full of possibilities. 

During the summer months, the little cafe that doubled as a bait shop was where I'd eat my lunches when we stopped bailing hay long enough to refuel. I can still feel that air conditioning sitting in that little booth wishing the day was over and those hay fields were a distant memory. I can also still taste that hamburger that down so good and so tasty it still makes me smile. And those ice cream cones? Enchanting. 

I still feel virtually the same feelings every time I drive into Memphis, even at the age I am today. What is that power or magic at work? I don't have a clue really. I guess it's not even important. I'm just happy it found me and hasn't left. Maybe the best aspect of Memphis Lake is I still have one daughter who has yet to experience that magic. I can't wait until we put the tent up, start a fire, and dig in for the night. I can't wait for her older sister to walk her down to the lake, find some rocks, and teaching her to skip them across like I taught her. 

Day 305: Democracy & Why I Vote

Someone asked me the other day why I vote. I cananswer that question in one word, “democracy.”

Democracy is quite possibly the greatest gift that a only select group of humans who have inhabited this planet have ever been bestowed.

Every country has fire. Every country has the wheel.Every country has the means to make tools and weapons, even if they’re onlyrudimentary. Not every country has democracy.

I don’t equate democracy to freedom because they aren’tone in the same. I live in a democratic country, but I don’t enjoy the samefreedoms as some of my fellow citizens. Conversely, some of my fellow citizenscertainly don’t share the same freedoms that I’ve been afforded (simply bybeing born male and white). But there is undeniably a hell of a lot of freedomthat comes with living within a country founded upon democracy.

I really try not to take that lightly. Even if myvote won’t “count” in the presidential election in terms of the Electoral College(an extension of living in the Republican-dominated state of Nebraska), my votedoes “count” on a state, county, district, and city level. More importantly, myvote matters immensely on a personal level. It’s a true, immeasurable gift. Agift so many others around the world would die (literally) to have. Being ableto cast a vote in a democratic society is a towering achievement that a wholelot of smart, brave, and tenacious people before me made possible, including bysacrificing their lives.

The old cliché applies, I vote because it’s theleast I can do. It’s the least I can do to show my respect and gratitude and payhonor and tribute to the system and those who created it and saw that it livedon throughout the generations. Voting is the least I can do to educate myselfon the present issues at hand. To know the positions of the candidates who haveshown a desire to represent my voice. To help forge the future of my community.To set a course of action for my children and theirs so that they enjoy thesame privilege.

I have tremendously mixed emotions about the processthat has come about in which I cast my vote, no doubt. It’s maddening toconsider the vast amounts of money spent during election seasons, money thatcould be used so much more wisely and beneficially. I feel a great sense ofembarrassment at the bi-partisanship that I periodically exhibit myself and alsoat those with opposing viewpoints who do the same. I’ll always be leftwondering when this political gamesmanship got to be so contentious andpretentious and self-serving and ultimately detrimental to the end result,which seems to be bettering the lives of all citizens, not just those belongingto the winning party. I’ll always be left wondering when the end goal changed,but I’ll vote nonetheless because ultimately, the true beauty of democracy isstill at work.

I'm grateful that I don’t have to bow to a dictator. ThatI’m not forced to live behind borders. That I don’t fear for my life dailybecause a military regime is threatening to overturn the ruling party.

I’m grateful that I live in a country wheredemocracy is at work in which I vote for the candidate that I feel can bestrepresent me. What a gift. 

Day 304: Boo Radley, King Of Halloween

If I could, I'd nominate and make Boo Radley the Saint of All Hallows Eve. In my book (pun unintended), Boo has always been the man. He was never more the man, though, than on that fateful Halloween in Maycomb when he did the right thing at the right time, looking the Boogeyman in the eye and knocking him right on his drunken ass.

I remember vividly the first time I read “Mockingbird” and just knew more than anything I had every known before that Boo wasn’t a bad man. I just knew. It turned out I was right. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt as good about being right about a plot line since.

But Boo just wasn’t a good dude; he has a straight-up hero. Straight up, stone-cold, backward, Southern-boy doo-gooder, fighting the monster and protecting the innocent. The way Boo dealt with Bob Ewell is still one of my favorite passages contained in any book and still one of my favorite scenes from any movie. I can feel the wind now whipping around from inside Scout’s oversized ham costume and her terrified, wondering what the hell was going on all around her. I can still recall how I was mortified for Jem and how my arm hurt when Bob Ewell wrenched on Jem's limb for all it was worth.

I’ve long held Atticus in the highest regard (and even named a cat after him). I’m mesmerized by Gregory Peck’s depiction more it seems every time I see it. I’ve also long wished I could have been friends with Dill and participated in his chaos and humor. I’ve long believed that Jem, maybe my favorite “Mockingbird” character of all, grew up to become a senator or Supreme Court Justice. But it’s Boo who is the one that really intrigued me as a kid, and that really hasn’t changed much into my middle-aged years.

I can’t recall too many Halloweens where Boo didn’t come into my thoughts, wondering what his bedroom looked like and the view he had from his window. Wondering what would have happened if Heck hadn’t protected him from the publicity that Boo was due. Wondering what would have really happened to Boo if Heck hadn’t have had his best interest in mind. Wondering if Boo gave other little kids gifts. Did his dad beat him? Did his mother love him? Was that Halloween night Boo shining moment? The best he’d ever become?

Every town has a Boo Radley. That guy who is deeply misunderstood. Who is mysterious. Reclusive. Seen but not known. Silent but still manages to speak volumes. That guy who everyone wants to know but no one dares to get close enough to find out what’s fact and what’s fiction. The guy perceived as dangerous. The guy created from perception and half-truths.

The world could use more Boo Radleys, guys with golden hearts and the bravery to act when action is needed. Happy Halloween, Boo. 

  

Day 303: Frickin' Bullies

I’m sick of reading about bullies. Every day it seems, I pop open my Web browser and proceed to read about another kid who has committed suicide because a bunch of morons just wouldn’t leave her alone. Every day it seems there’s some video that’s gone viral of a bunch of kids beating down another kid for no apparent good reason (as if there’s even such a thing). Every day there's a story about another kid just trying to get by who wasn't able. Trying to just keep his head low as to not draw attention but failed, but through no fault of his own. 

I hate frickin' bullies. 

Sweet Jesus, human beings are an insecure, ego-maniacal, hostile group of creatures. 

Don’t feel so good about thyself? Just beat up another. 

Not doing too well in school and life doesn’t hold too many positive prospects for you? Live it up now by kicking the ass of some kid that’s going to be your supervisor a decade from now. 

Mom, dad, and the rest of society put you up on a pedestal because you bounce a ball really well or your muscles are over developed compared to Joe Blow sitting in the stands? Let it go to your head and tout your inflated sense of worth every chance you get by pushing around anyone who can’t push back.

Frick, I'm sick of bullies. 

Sick of thugs. 

Sick of violence-prone morons who can’t stand alone so they find a pack of other morons to stand with them. 

I'm sick of people who can't on their own merits. 

Sick of overcompensaters. 

Sick of sheep who follow narrow-minded dummies and carry out their stupidity for them.

Sick of the cattiness. Sick of idiots obsessed with status instead of substance.  

You’d think after all the years that humans have walked the planet, we would have worked out a way to deal with bullies by now that is effective, quick, and final. No messing around. No prolonged, drawn-out back and forth. No going through all the proper channels. No taking the problem to the proper authorities. No attempts to reason. That stuff doesn't work. You'd think we'd have learned to just nip the damn problem in the bud from the get-go. But that really isn’t the case, is it?

It seems like most humans are more apt to say, “Well, there have always been bullies, there will always be bullies. You just have to stick in there, kid. Things will change. Things will get better.” Ugh.

Maybe it’s the would-be vigilante in me or that the hostility is just flowing at a pretty high level in me today, but there’s a big part of me that just wants to take the “law” into my own hands and stamp the moronic, dimwits out one by one until they get the picture that the b*llshit won’t be tolerated any longer.

I’m half-serious when I say that we should collectively track down bullies, have a heart-to-heart about what’s about to happen if the crap doesn’t end immediately, and then follow on through with the threat if the moron carries on anyway.

But guess would happen? The bullies smashers would become the new bullies on the block. It's inevitable. I don’t trust that humans can act out in good faith for extended periods of time without it eventually ending badly. We’re too susceptible to ego-stroking and power to keep our eyes on the prize. 

But damn it, I’m sick of bullies and their pointless, misguided, dumbass tendencies. This may not be positive thinking, but I hate bullies and I'm looking forward to the day when the meek really do inherit the earth. I can't help but believe it will be a kinder, gentler place. 

Day 302: Skynyrd!!

Lynryd Skynyrd gets kind of a bad rap today among the "hipsters" and musical elite. I count myself as a music snob, but I love me some Skynrd, partially for nostalgic reasons, but for others, as well. There's a reason that pretty much every person my age and older knows just about every word to a dozen or so Skynyrd songs. They kicked southern ass, and ass all over the rest of the country for that matter..

Every time I hear Skynrd on the radio, I think of my dad and his Southern Rock leanings when I was a kid. The type of leanings that embraced Molly Hatchet. The type that welcomed .38 Special through our front door. The Allman Brothers and The Marshall Tucker Band, too.

I can still see those album covers. I'd pull them out of the big-ass stereo console that we and so many other families back in the 70s and 80s owned. I loved looking at those albums covers, pulling out the sleeves and seeing those scruffy beards and that long hair. Those patched, flared jeans that those southern boys wore. The greasy ole' hats and bandannas. I have to admit that I liked a lot of the music, too, even if I don't listen to it much, if ever, today by my own choice. But damn it, if a Skynyrd song comes on the radio, I'll turn the volume up and sing me a little "Sweet Home Alabama" or "Give Me Three Steps" or "Give Me Back My Bullets."

So many other tracks off of those albums I'd play over and over. Put the needle down on any Skynyrd album and you'll hear glorious piano runs and good to great guitar solos. You'll also hear well constructed songs with a whole lot of musicianship on display. It may not be you're cup of tea, but it's still good tea.

My favorite Skynyrd song, though, was "That Smell." The feel of that song haunted me. The eeriness is projected. The guitar's depressing, dark tones. Magic. And Ronnie Van Zant's lyrics were off the charts.That song is when I learned what "monkey on your back" means, and how it can refer to a whole lot of different things depending on who you're talking about.

Decades from now, when I'm old and in my 60s and I hear a Skynyrd song, I'll still think of my dad, his own scruffy beard and long hair, and how those tracks filled our house on many a morning, afternoon, and night with frickin' southern-fueled fun.

Day 301: Snow White

It's a Snow White night tonight on the old DVD player. Disney movies always get me to thinking. What a different world we live in than the ones Disney creates. What a difference in perceptions. 

Imagine if a woman randomly wandered into your house today. She'd be put in jail as soon as the police could cuff her and haul her away. Even if she did clean the joint first. She'd be considered nuts. She labeled a loon. A lunatic. Breaking and entry. She'd have a record. This woman who so willingly cleaned an entire house for a bunch of old men would be ostracized. 

What's happened to the world? 

Is there not a place for a friendly young woman with a glorious voice in today's world to stroll into a house here and there, do a good favor and go about her life without any ramifications? Nah, there's not. 

Hell, Goldilocks would probably get a bullet blasted through her tiny frame and it would be called justifiable homicide.

What's happened? 

I'll tell you what. We've grown pessimistic. We've come to expect the worse in strangers. We've come to look at them as threats and risks that we shouldn't gamble on. We cross road when they're walking down the sidewalk heading toward us. We shoot first and ask questions later. 

Well, I for one have a place for Snow White. Goldilocks, too. I don't want to grow so jaded and afraid that a woman who just wants to earn her keep and a girl who just needs a rest can't find a helping hand.  

Day 300: Nature Calls

Today, my little girl told me she wants to be an animal cop when she grows up. That's not surprising considering the house she is growing up in. We do have two dogs, two cats, a bearded dragon, rats, and who knows what else crawling around here. But already at just four years old, this kid had a knack for being around animals. She just has the touch. She gets it from her mom. If she really does grow up to do something with animals, I'd be thrilled. I'd like her to devote her time to something she loves and something that would benefit from that love. But equally as important is that she'd be good at it. She's caring and loving and she sees things from a moral and ethical perspective, which I find remarkable given her age. Given all things to do over, I'd like a chance to take the same path as I have a feeling she's going to take. But no matter what she does, I have a feeling it's going to be special. I'm sure every parent feels the same way. The way it should be.

Day 299: Happy 18th; An Adult Is Born

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

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

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

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

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

Day 298: Sleepless Nights

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

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

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

Day 297: The Night Jason Voorhees Took Me Down

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

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

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

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

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

  

Day 296: Say It Before It's Too Late

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

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

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

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

So, with that in mind: 

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

Thanks for the reminder, D. 

Day 295: Lance Armstrong

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

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

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

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

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

Day 294: My Running Playlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 293: Rest

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

Day 292: Envy, You're Not So Bad

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

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

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

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

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

Damn, I wanted that popcorn.

I want that dark movie theater.

I wanted the free time.

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

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

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

Day 291: On Soup Kitchens, Elections & My Friends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mahoning County St. Vincent De Paul Society

P.O. Box 224

Youngstown, Ohio 44501.

Day 290: The Big Blow Off

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 289: The Hobbit

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

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

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

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

Day 288: Solitude

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

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

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

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

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