Thanksgiving Night

There's only one thing that can beat Thanksgiving Day. And that's Thanksgiving Night. Hope you all had a wonderful time with family and friends. Sit down by the fire and get warm. The holidays are upon us.

Dad was right

When I was eight years old my dad bought a used Suzuki 250 dirt bike. I think it was partly because he wanted to hang out with his friends. But it was also because of what he got in return - freedom. A little time for just him that no one could take away. Shortly after his purchase, I got a Yamaha 80. We used to ride together on the weekends. We had tons of fun. We were as close then as ever. It was a great time in our lives. My dad taught me a lot about riding when I was a kid, but the bike taught me about freedom.

A Day Like Today

Today was beautiful. Truly one of those really special days you hear about in Kansas. There's only about 27 of them every year, each dodging oppressive heat, tornados and ice storms to get here. But they get here. And we had one today. Jeans and a flannel shirt will do the trick. You do a little yardwork. At some point in the day you wear some leather work gloves. You generally get some stuff accomplished, and at the end of the day, you eventually find yourself out on the patio. The flannel shirt is still hanging in there, but you throw on a knit hat and kick back with a beer. Life is good. You look around. The yard looks good. Your yard. Your house. You think back a little bit and remember your father, or his father. on a similar day. You remember they looked proud, with their chests stuck out a bit. You remember being small and how they seemed like giants then. You take a swig of your beer. And smile.

May 6, 2003

Something I wrote in May of 2003:

*******************

A day like today can really only hold one true lesson — that life doesn’t necessarily try to beat you down on purpose, it just tests your resolve, in case it decided to. And that’s just it about life - always with the lessons.

For some reason, life has taken it upon itself to prepare us. To be ready for anything and live to tell about it. Actually, when you break it all down, life seems pretty much a series of survival handbook pop quizzes. It’s a prep course in what's next. And maybe that’s the problem.

There is no memorization. There are no study questions, No tutors, either. No one knows what's coming, or what awaits us. It could be a curve ball inside or a romantic comedy with clean and palatable actors and a Hollywood happy ending.

More often than not, it’s a lot more like the weather. Bring an umbrella.

note to self:

c'mon, don't be an ass.

make time for what's important.

you pride yourself on being one that 'does' shit rathing than talk about it.
that's how you've ever accomplished anything decent or worthwhile in life.
that's how you've ever done anything that made you happy or proud.

why break precedent?

How?

How do you say you wish things were different? How do repair what's always been broken? How do you tell someone you're ashamed of yourself? Or, that they should be? How do you choose between wild abandon and fear? Cynicism and compassion? Between hope and resignation? How do you accept the unacceptable, and forgive the unforgivable? How do you move on?

I think you just do.

This and That

The weekend was full. Be certain of that. And this week promises more of the same.

Whether it’s Saturday and Sunday, or some less fortunate day of the week, life generally appears divided into two main groups – the “have to do” and the “want to do.” It’s a pity that the first group seems to win so much of the time.

The last few days have held nothing new. There was songwriting and lawn mowing. There was dog walking and script writing. There was furniture shopping and, well, more furniture shopping. After all, I am married.

All in all, I’ve spent a lot of the last several days creating, thinking about, working on or buying something because of, advertising.

This is just a hunch, but that can't be good.

hello again

It seems incredibly vain to apologize for how long its been since I've written. Strange as well.

Vain, because who am I to assume there's really anyone frequenting this online legal pad. And strange, because I'm somewhat apologizing to myself.

It's been June 12 since my last post. Almost a month. That's sad. But it does speak to my questions from a couple posts ago — whether this blog gives you discipline to write and whether it questions your overall commitment to write in the first place?

It's now July 9. I think both questions have been answered.

Words. Not again.

Sometime soon there will be a link here. Sometime soon there will be a photo that says something words cannot. Sometime soon there might be a sketch or pieces and parts of songs or half-conceived films. But today its just words. And tonight I feel so much more than that.

Space for Rent

I must admit, I‘ve never been completely comfortable with the idea of this blog. I’m not even really sure why, either. I casually mentioned to someone that I wanted to do more writing for myself to balance all the writing for clients, and he suggested a blog, One of the benefits, he said, was that it provided the discipline to write. Well, the jury is still out on that one. But I have come to wonder if an added benefit might be that it questions your commitment to writing. So, I signed up, thinking at the very least, it could be a journal.

What should I do with this little space? I continue to obsessively pour over what to write. What should I include? What should I leave out? Do I stay private? Or shall I be bold? And how bold am I comfortable being? Do I want to be able to send this to family? Or just friends? And how ‘bout profanity. Not using profanity could drastically reduce material. Honestly, I can't imagine I have more than 3 to 5 drive-by readers to begin with, so it’s ridiculous that I even give it a second thought. But at the end of the day, I’d rather those people enjoy those 45-seconds than not.

To that extent, I thought I’d pass along these great comments about how to approach art, ambition and aging.

Enjoy.


"Music is your own experience, your thoughts, your wisdom.
If you don't live it, it won't come out of your horn."

- Charlie Parker


“If your ship doesn't come in, swim out to it.”

- Jonathan Winters


“The man who views the world at 50 the same as he did at 20 has wasted 30 years of his life.”

-Muhammad Ali

At least once this year I ...

yelled at myself out loud

kept a secret

worn the same socks twice

almost been in a car accident

made my parents proud

done something I'm ashamed of

almost told someone they were an idiot

kept someone out of trouble

puked

really hurt someone's feelings

seen somethign i shouldn't have

layed on a beach in Jamaica

felt like just getting in the car and driving

thought about shaving my head

felt really loved

tried something new

shook my head in disgust

was surprised by someone

should have kept my mouth shut

wanted to beat someone up

doubted my abilities

tried to do something great

considered moving

and

picked up dog poop

Yes, dear.

Right before I got married, a seasoned man pulled me aside to reveal the secret of marriage. i was pleased, of course. Even, eager to learn. He leaned forward, raised his eyebrows and spoke in a raspy old voice. "He said, "Son, there's only one thing you need to know about marriage. And it's easy to remember. Two little words. Just two – 'Yes, dear.'

It's not the sort of advice that you understand immediately. In fact, some never get it. Maybe that's the reason for the fifty percent divorce rate? Regardless, the sooner you hear, understand, embrace and excerise this little piece of wisdom, the better off you'll be. And that's the truth.

So, here's the typical scenario: You're all set for a great day. You'll have coffee and read the paper. You'll meander around a bit before grabbing a shower and beginning the day in earnest. And you've got plans, too. Play some guitar. Do some recording, Futz in the yard, Listen to the ball game. Probably write for a little bit. Go for a bike ride. Wash the car. Take some photographs. Look for a motorcycle. Write some more. Finish off some stuff for work. Maybe watch a DVD. Fall asleep to some bad weekend B movie. Plus, it's beautiful outside. It's gonna be a good day.

And then it happens.

The wife casually mentions that we have company coming in and we're going to have to clean up around here. Your stomach sinks a little. Your mind starts racing. What's coming next. What does she have in mind? Are we talking major cleaning here? Or, just a little touch-up? And then you learn your fate. Your stomach sinks all the way to the bottom as she pulls out a folded piece of paper and reaches for her organizer..

The list is not pretty. It includes such things as vacuuming, dusting, moving things, cleaning the dog slobber off the glass patio window, fiixing whatever's wrong with the upstairs sink, and the distinct possibility that you might have to paint something. And that's just the stuff you remember. You easily missed half of it, trying to diguise your horror.

So, what do you do? What do you say? "Yes, dear." This simple and easy to remember phrase provides men with the three crucial elements needed to formulate their response:

1) Silence - This allows you some quiet to just stop and think for five seconds.
2) Time - This gives a chance to come up with some reasons why you can't do what's been asked of you.
3) A Head Start - This provide you the opportunity to get a lead, if in the event you decided to proceed to step number 2 in the first place.

You're kidding me.

I think today might have been the day when I officially became old. I've thought that I might be getting close for a while now, but I wasn't for sure. I've also considered the possibility that I might still have a few good years left. But today I think I may have made the transition. Or at least qualified.

Today I got a letter from Social Security. Yeah, that Social Security. And it wasn't some form letter informing every American citizen of some new change in the system or something. It was more like a comprehensive overview of what the hell I've been doing for the last quarter of a century. And what that amounts to. No joke.

According to their records, I've been putting money into the system for about two-thirds of my life. It detailed how much I contributed each and every year since I began working in some capacity. It even tells me how much I would collect at various ages of retirement. That, and how much my dependents might collect if I die.

It's make a person feel good to know that all their years working as a parking attendant, bus boy, pizza maker, dj, mechanic, reporter, photo assistant, musician, copywriter, etc., etc., have amounted to something.

But that feeling goes away pretty fast when you realize just how little it actually amounts to.

Thanks, Mom.

"My mother had a great deal of trouble with me, but I think she enjoyed it."
- Mark Twain

Dogs

I had one of those moments today. You know what I'm talking about.

I looked down at my dog, Marley. He looked back up at me. And we just knew what the other was thinking. What a great friend. Of course, my dog also technically french-kissed me this morning when I bent down to kiss him on the nose.

So you never really can tell.

No, it's not all about me.

"I want to talk to you again for a little while...even though i have hardly anything helpful to say — hardly anything useful."
-Rilke
Letters To A Young Poet

Avoid conversations that start like this

So, where were you last night?

Could you step in here for a minute?

Now, I'm only going to say this once.

Dude, I want my money right now.

There's no good way to say this,
so I'm just going to come right out with it.

You son-of-a-bitch!

There comes a time in every man's life when...

I swear it wasn't my fault.

So exactly how much have you had
to drink tonight, Mr. McNicholsmanson?

Okay, please don't be mad at me.

Can you feed my parakeet while I'm in the Army?

And you must be the boyfriend?

You seem like the kind of guy that recognizes
a good business opportunity when you see one.

#495312976

I don't know who originally said it, but there's an old adage that if everyone stood in a circle, threw all their problems into the middle, and had to take the same number back out, most everyone would be pretty content to take their own problems back and leave quietly.

I guess the point is that somebody always has it worse than you. But just out of curiosity, I wonder where I would rank?

a child will lead them

I've been thinking a lot lately about all the things I've learned from my younger friends. All the worlds opened to me. My shy and bashful eyes reveling in it all. My youthful masters play tour guide to all that exists, and without knowing, all that might exist within me. That makes me feel good. Innocent and a little ashamed of myself. But good.

I wonder if it's because youth keeps us young. Still, we age. But we pick up so many pieces of art, humor, technology and culture from our juniors. It's an all-you-can-eat buffet of stuff we didn't know about. Everyone should have the pleasure of wising up to the fact that they're not as wise as they thought. I highly recommend it. I feel sorry for the people who don't. I think they're missing out. It stings for a bit, but the upside is tremendous.

I do know this. I know it's not because people love feeling ancient. In fact, I'd venture a guess that most people who are ancient are only glad to be ancient because of the alternative.

We find ourselves in a conversation about music. We don't know the band and we feel old. Everyone wants to go to another bar. We want to take a handful of Advil and go to bed. We won't turn down sex. But sleep sounds pretty good, too, if it's really late. It's funny how it all works. It's happens. To most everyone.

We age and our opinions and habits age right along with us. We get stuck in our ways. And that's okay a lot of the time. But let's not let ourselves get to a point where it's easier to shake our heads than ask questions. It's been said that you're only as old as you feel. Maybe it's that you're only as smart as your pride.

The weekend

drink
table
fix
mower
yard
dog
car
computer
drink
write
cook
thai
movie
hurricane
sleep
nice
coffee
phone
paper
cat
mulch
clean
go
work
guitar
dead

So what?

Seems many of my tasks as of late have me searching for answers to that question. My job, my life, my relationships. Everything and everyone requires an answer to the ever-burning question - so what?

Just to make sure we're all together on this, "so what?" can have a variety of interpretations. But, basically it's a confounding mix of "Why should I care?" and "What's in it for me?"

Having said that, I'm as happy as a first date to officially announce that, after much searching, I have the answer.

In my head, I can imagine everyone gathered around in a big circle, waiting to hear. Everyone pulls their chairs in closer, all the while maintaining an eerie silence. You'd be able to hear a pin drop. It'd be almost spiritual. One of life's greatest mysteries is finally solved.

People from all over would travel to see it. They'd come with enthusiasm and a sense of relief. Of course, everyone would get there early and complain about it being general admission. We'd have to bring in a bunch of those Johnny on the Spot Where We Finally Found Out toilets to accomodate them all. There would be collector's edition T-shirts and concessions with snow cones and cotton candy. It would be quite the event. Quite the event, indeed.

But, I don't know.

The light blue plastic astronaut

When a was a little kid, my parents used to go to lots of garage sales. Not necessarily for the thrill of the hunt. Or because they were convinced they would find the matching bowling pin lamp that was broken in one of those regrettable “don’t play ball in the house” incidents. But rather, because we were poor. My parents constantly reminded us that the people holding the garage sales were actually fools. They were getting rid of stuff just as it was entering that perfect “broken in” period.

Anyway, one day we were at some sale in the country. Way far out in the country. I found a box of trinkets. Everything in the box was a penny. I took a particular liking to this light blue plastic astronaut. I was certain my parents had okayed the purchase and had pooled their money to the delight of their only son. We all piled in the car and headed back into town. As I
played space lord in the back seat window, my parents yelled from the front seat, “where the hell to you get that light blue plastic astronaut?” I said, “What do you mean? I got it from the garage sale. I thought you paid for it.” My father slammed on the brakes. Our brown station-wagon with faux wood grain paneling clawed its way to a stop. The white gravel was forced ahead, sending the jackrabbits scurrying for cover.

My father yelled, “Hell, no. I didn’t buy that piece of crap astronaut. You stole it.” Even though I hadn’t, my father was convinced to teach me a lesson. He drove the family straight back to that garage sale and parked at the bottom of the long drive way. He looked at me angrily and said, “Now, you get up there and tell those nice people what you did.” I was terribly
embarrassed, but began my trek up the driveway to the curious glances of the garage sale onlookers.

Once I’d gotten up to the garage and began my apologetic speech, I heard my father scream from the country road, “That will teach you to...” His last words trailed off as he sped away into town never to be seen again. The nice people at the garage sale took me in and raised me as one of their own until I was old enough to go to college. I could never understand why they were so nice, even eager, to take me in. Now, years later, I think maybe they were just really glad to get that light blue plastic astronaut back.

The end.

What is this? What am I doing?

It's my basic contention that blogs, and all writing really, are only as good, clever, innovative, fun or interesting as their authors.

In my case, I can be some or none of these things within the course of a couple of sentences. I'd average about two of the five on any given day. Because of this, I expect little to no readership of this blog. The point is that in writing this, I'm not only fully aware that that no one else gives a shit. I'm nearly counting on it.

For me, this is an exercise in discipline. While I write at work all day long, I write very little for myself outside of work. This is an effort to change that. A little place to go, clear my head and just write. Just for me. About anything. And maybe a little of everything. A collection of daily thoughts, jokes and stories. Things I just learned. Things I wish I hadn't. You know — stuff.

Basically, I'm practicing.

Although this way of writing seems light years away from more traditional diaries, essays and columns, in the end it's just a glorified pen and paper, right? It's a journal. A notebook. A doodle in class. It's a note to a girl that you never sent.

Here's an example. I wrote something silly at work today and my friend says to me, "You should put this on the blog." I thought "This is just silly. Stupid even. Why would I put it on the blog?"

Later, I thought, "That's why."

Hmmm

Earlier today I found myself in a conversation with a couple of my friends. One considers this whole blog thing rather self-indulgent. Another says it provides the needed discipline to write. And you know what? They're both right.

This little address gives me a place to go at night and talk. I can weave my little stories. I can talk and drink too much. Or drink and talk too much. To no one specific. About nothing in particular.

It's a bar with typewriters. And you bring your own booze.

If I Were a Reader

I am a writer. The thing is, I'm not a big reader. I should be. I want to be. As a writer, you'd think I would be. But I'm just not. I can only assume I'd be a better writer if I read more. And I want to be the best writer I can be. But no matter how hard I try, I just can't read on any regular basis.

Maybe I'm easily distracted. Maybe I lack discipline. Maybe it's because I'm just lazy. Or it might be that I just get tired of stopping after every page or two and wondering what the hell I just read.

I guess it stands to reason that someone who has difficulty reading in the first place wouldn't necessarily enjoy reading everything twice. Whatever the reason, I don't do a whole lot of it and I always find myself wishing I would read more.

When I have made the effort, however, I've usually been greatly rewarded. Here are some of my more successful and enjoyable efforts:

Letters To a Young Poet
The Catcher in the Rye
Still LIfe with Woodpecker
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Skinny Legs and All
Tuesdays With Morrie
Lolita


Admittedly, it's not the most obscure collection of literature. But, highly recommended nonetheless. Check out any or all of them if you're so inclined. It's been a while, so I can't imagine the ability to have an intelligent conversation on more than a few of them. I'm just saying, you know, if you're bored and want a good read.