Frogs Don't Wear Tights

Santa's Folly

2011-12-25T02:08:00.000-05:00

Santa fell off our roof tonight.

I was up late, excited about all the fun of Christmas morning and unable to sleep. I heard him land with a thump, followed by the treading of hooves across the roof. I was just slipping on my coat in hopes of snapping a photo of the happiest man alive when I heard a long scraping sound, followed by a loud "HO HO NO!"

He landed with a thud and a squish, like a fat lady's pair of panty hose filled with six quarts of homemade raspberry jelly and thrown from a third story window onto pavement. I rushed outside, fearful that Kris Kringle had just snuffed it on my driveway.

"Santa?" I hissed, shining my flashlight around in a panicked frenzy.

"Oh Oh Oh..." I heard him moan.

"Santa, are you okay?" I asked as I reached his side.

"You New Englanders and your tall houses! Ever think of moving west, were the houses are shorter?"

"Actually, yes." I replied, relieved at the humor in his voice. Fat men with broken spines didn't typically make jokes about the height of colonial architecture.

"What happened up there? I thought you had some kind of magic to keep you from falling off roofs?" I wondered aloud.

"Sort of. I'm used to snowy roofs in New Hampshire, so I changed into my boots that have little snowshoes for soles. They have no grip on asphalt shingles and I slipped after the first step." The puzzled look on my face spurred him into further explanation.

We hired a new wardrobe consultant this year. A right gay little elf, and sharp as a needle in the eye. He's all about new technology. I now wear trousers made of self repairing fabric and a belt made from intelligent vinyl. No more long nights suffering cold breezes up the whazoo from seams that split the first time I bend over, and my belt grows with my waist as I eat millions of cookies and drink rivers of milk each Christmas Eve.

"Nice. Thanks for the imagery that your explanation conjures up for me." I said drily.

"Are you going to help me up? My trousers are self-repairing, but not self-standing."

I looked down at the fat man, flat on his back and looking miserable on my back lawn. He could have been the hybrid offspring of a monstrous lobster and a sea turtle, his red coated arms and legs waving about in desperation.

"Too bad you didn't hit the trampoline, you'd have bounced right back up to the roof." I laughed.

"Yeah, too bad. Now help me up please, I need to get on with my deliveries. Several million more to make, you know."

"Hold your reindeer, Santa. You aren't getting any help from me until I get an answer to a question that has plagued me for over thirty years." I knelt down and leaned in close. I could smell gingerbread in his beard and peppermint chapstick on his lips. The rims of his glasses glinted in the beam of my flashlight. I shined the light in his eyes and watched them twitch in confusion touched by a hint of fear.

"What do you want know? I'll tell you anything; how I make it up and down chimneys, how the reindeer fly, how I can run such a massive gift giving operation in the black, I'll tell you anything you want to know. Just please, help me up so I can finish Christmas!" He pleaded.

"I don't want to know any of that," I replied.

"Then what?" He asked in a whisper.

"I want to know why you never brought me an NFL tabletop vibrating football game!"

Beautiful Red Ruin

2011-12-02T01:37:00.000-05:00

We left the volcanic wasteland behind, following the road down through the foothills towards the wide open plain below. The sky was the kind of blue that artists go mad trying to capture on canvas. A few wisps of white cloud floated overhead, pushed by a cool and gentle breeze. The sun touched everything in sight, leaving the darkness nowhere to hide. All the landscape needed was a cowboy on horseback being chased by Navajo warriors on painted war ponies.

Michael wasn’t smoking but I opened the windows anyway, letting the morning air rush over my skin and into my lungs.

“What a perfect day for driving to the Grand Canyon!” I thought aloud over the happy noise of our latest play list.

I saw Michael’s head nod in agreement. His dark hair was wrestling with the wind, his eyes scanning the beautiful, desolate world surrounding our little black rental car.

The road wound down through miles of curves and long straights before flattening out onto the plain. Several motorcycles passed us along the way, with riders decked out in black leathers and denim jackets. We sped up and passed a few RVs and slow moving pickups, but the road was for the most part lonely and quiet.

After several miles I slowed the car and took a right turn onto the access road for the Wukoki Pueblo. Before long we could see it standing in the distance. It reached high into the backdrop of blue, a rusty red castle complete with lookout tower. We pulled up and parked a couple of spaces away from the only other car in the lot.

I led the way up the path. Michael followed with the camera. I ran the final few yards, up the steps, and into the structure.

“Turn around, I’ll take a photo.” Michael shouted from down below on the trail.

I turned and looked his way, resting my hands on my hips as he snapped a shot. As he made his way up the steps to join me, I spun in a slow, scrutinizing circle. Ruin was hardly the right word to use when talking about the pueblo; the original owners had built their home to last. A formidable structure with straight edges, thick walls, and sharp corners, it has been standing strong against the elements for nearly a thousand years. The tower stood three stories high from the base of the rock upon which it was built. It must have afforded the occupants plenty of warning when anyone, friend or foe, approached from any direction. I doubted that anyone had ever snuck up undetected, and was sure that any attackers had suffered a nasty assault from high above.

We ducked into the tower through a tiny opening that must have been the door. I stood in the center of the uneven dirt floor and cocked my head back to look straight up at the blue patch of sky directly overhead. The red walls provided a colorful contrast to complete the picture.

“Beautiful!” I marveled. My voice bounced around inside the tower.

“There must have been a loft up there, you can see where the beams must have been.” Michael pointed up to several open pockets in the walls.

“Bedroom loft in a lookout tower. How cool is that?” I stared out through a large hole in one wall.

I peered out through an opening that must have served as a window. The wall was almost as thick as my arm was long, but I could still see far and wide into the distance.

“I wonder if anyone ever shot an arrow at someone through this window.” My imagination was hard at work placing a band of attackers out on the plain. I rained arrows down on them from my high vantage point.

After repelling the attackers, I pulled my head back from the window and my mind back into reality. I turned to see Michael staring out through an even smaller square in the wall to my right. Both his hands were planted on the wall, his head still. The camera cord hung out of his back pocket. I reached out like a reverent thief, pulling the camera free without a sound.

Michael was lost in thought. His gaze was intent, as if he were searching for something or someone far away on the horizon. I snapped a photo of him from across the little room.

Leaving my brother to his thoughts, I crawled back through the little doorway and out into the sunlight. I looked out across the large open area that made up half of the pueblo. Encircled by a waist-high parapet wall, it must have served as a work area for the people that had lived here long ago. I could picture deerskins stretched and drying in the sun, baskets full of gathered foods, a fire pit ringed with stones, and children chasing a flea-ridden puppy in happy, loud circles.

“This would have been a great place to stage battles with our Star Wars and G.I. Joe figures.” Not for the first time on our trip, Michael’s voice interrupted my thoughts in a good way.

“Definitely. Look at all the rock formations and great places for waiting in ambush.” I agreed.

We stood together, looking out at the red rock and pointing out the best places to play. As kids we had spent more of our playtime choosing our figures and vehicles, staging them on the battlefield, building their bases, and mapping out scenarios than we had in acting them all out. In fact, we took so much time to work out the details that we rarely made it past the initial setup. When friends came over to play, they often grew frustrated with all the time we required in the imagination and planning phases of our play.

Standing with Michael in the ruins of an ancient Native American pueblo, I was reliving some of the best moments of my childhood. It was an unlikely moment in an unlikely setting, one that my own imagination could not have ever conjured.

My eyes filled with tears and I wished that it could have been my imagination that brought us to the pueblo, rather than everything that had.

Rollerblades of Fire

2011-10-02T22:19:00.000-04:00

Cold rain, persistent wind, a beautiful woman, and an ugly running jacket. It was the morning of my first (and only) marathon. An uneasy night had left me without much sleep, and a summer of slacking left me without the training that I had promised myself to follow through with. Still, I wasn't as nervous as I should have been. Not since making known to friends that this race was to be run for Jared.

Elizabeth had been out shopping the day before, and had bought me a tiny little shoe pouch with a velcro strap. In it I placed the most powerful weapon in my energy arsenal. A teaspoon of Jared's ashes. My little brother would accompany on my run from hate.

After a sweet kiss from my sexy driver, I made my way into the crowd behind the starting line. I felt surrounded by expert runners. Skinny people looking confident and collected, as if they ran marathons for a living. Unhealthy BMI's, belts loaded with energy goo and water bottles, running shorts, tight leggings, and shoes that I've only seen while watching the Olympics abounded. I wore my old Asics, a pair of Hanes underwear coated with a handful of Anti-Monkey Butt Powder, workout shorts, and a white tee shirt. My daughter Hannah (12) had painted a message on the back of my shirt. It read (in an array of colors), "Pledge Love! Run Away From Hate!" On the front pocket I had drawn four slashes to match the little tattoo on my right shoulder. My brother, Elizabeth, and I went together to get them after Jared's death. He was the fourth child in a lineup of seven. Mom had always marked our clothes with Roman numerals according to the order of our births, in order to properly disperse the clean clothes on laundry day. Since Jared wore a lot of my hand-me-downs, he didn't get the traditional IV so that she could just add a fourth slash when they became his.

The race began with a starting gun shot by a soldier on leave from Iraq, which got the crowd pumped up with pride and appreciation. I stripped the jacket after the first mile. It was keeping me dry (sort of) but it was too hot to wear and way too ugly to keep. The rain did not let up, and the roads were riddled with puddles. It was impossible to keep my shoes dry, something that would plague me later on.

My Ipod was strapped to my arm, and without it the race would have been that much more difficult. I know that a true blooded macho runner scoffs at headphones, just as they do at treadmills, but I did mention that this was my only marathon, right? Anyway, I had chosen well my playlist, shuffling songs that were not too pumped up, yet not too mellow. I knew the words to them all and mouthed them as I ran, my hands occasionally waving to the beat just to keep it real.

The spectators were incredible. Supportive, encouraging, and entertaining, they held signs, rattled bells, and offered water to the runners. There were entire families, the children holding up cups and high fives. The best sign of the run was one that said "Chuck Norris Never Ran A Marathon!"

Mile 12 was tough. I had been running along, wrapped in a cocoon of runners at a 9:35 per mile pace. A sense of camaraderie had developed. I could do this! Then came the turn. Marathon runners to the right, half-marathon runners to the left (and the finish line just a couple of miles ahead). I followed the yellow cones alone, and found myself staring up an empty street. My heart broke. I felt abandoned. In an instant doubt crept into my mind, and I felt the raw grating of a blister forming on my left foot. My pace slowed. I wondered if I had over-reached, and for a moment considered turning around and running to the finish line as a halfer.

Then I looked down at my right shoe. I began to cry. I thought about Jared's final message to us. "I am so lonely. I have to go." I repented. I was not alone. Jared was with me, and I had to go. I had to go 26.2 miles. In a half shout I asked my little brother to help me. I told him that I missed him. And I ran.

A few miles later I saw a beautiful sight. Elizabeth and a dear friend were sitting out in the rain waiting for me. I paused for a kiss (from Elizabeth) and a water bottle (from my friend). When I started running again, my right knee burned with pain. I hobbled along for several hundred yards before my muscles heated up again and I resumed my pace, although not without some pain.

I cold sum up the next ten miles in two words; "Pain Conquered" but I won't. Blisters forming inside of wet shoes. Knees that refused to loosen up. Hallucinations. Every time I ran a hand through my wet hair, I grew light headed and felt as if I were sitting in a dentist's chair, my lungs filled with laughing gas. My pace slowed and I began to bargain with myself on walking versus running (if you could have called it running). Each time this happened, I looked down at my little brother and kept going. Elizabeth appeared at one point for a photo and a kiss. I love her.

Mile 23. Elizabeth and a final burst of love and energy before the finish. She snapped a photo, gave me some water, took my Ipod, and kissed me again. Her kisses at each stop were long and soft, and restored my strength.

For the next two miles I spent more time looking at my right shoe than I did at the road. Skeptics be damned, but at one point I swear Jared was there in corporeal form. Handsome as ever, but bare-chested, wearing shorts, and burning down the wet road beside me on his roller blades. His smile kicked my butt and pumped adrenaline into my legs. It doesn't matter if he wasn't truly there, because even as an emotion and fatigue induced hallucination, my little brother was motivation. I was going to finish.

And I did.

Pledge Love!

Run Away From Hate!

I love you Jared. See you on the flipside.

Run Away From The Hate

2011-09-30T17:49:00.000-04:00

I am running a marathon this weekend in memory of my little brother Jared. It has been twenty eight months since he walked out into the sunny woods behind his house and laid down to die. I have made no secret about the impact his suicide has had on my own life. Every day since has been for me a lesson in grief, guilt, fear, and despair. Through all of this darkness, however, each day has also been a blessing. My senses have been heightened to the point of total awareness, and I more fully enjoy the happiness of marriage, fatherhood, and life in general. Laughter is sweeter, my children more precious, my wife more beautiful, and life more passionate and livable. For that I thank Jared, although I would have rather learned the lesson through some other means.

Just this past month a young boy in New York killed himself. Biting comments, hateful verbal attacks, and criminal suggestions that he kill himself were hurled at him by his classmates, just because he was different from them. Just because he was gay. My little brother Jared was gay. We talked many times as adults about how he felt growing up knowing he was different. I cringe even now, as I think about how he must have felt to hear the way I spoke about faggots, homos, and queers. Jared must have felt afraid to tell me the truth. He must have felt alone. He must have felt like killing himself. I was just following the crowd, mimicking my peers at school, listening to my teachers at church, and believing the words of adults that I respected, but that is no excuse. I have my own heart, my own mind. I could have defied the tide of hatred, ignorance, and intolerance.

But I didn't. Not for many years, until tensions over Jared (and another brother of mine as well) being gay brought me to a pivot point. I had a decision to make. I could change from within, or continue to tow the line and punish my little brother for something none of us can ever understand in this life yet condemn just the same, because a poorly translated black book supposedly tells us to. Odd thing is, that same black book speaks more about love than anything else, and yet so many who profess to live by it choose to hate. In the end, I decided that the decision had been made for me; I had been told to love over anything else. And so I changed. I loved my little brother.

Not well enough, of course, and far too late. He still took his life a few years later, and while I know it wasn't my "fault," it still seems to me that I could have, should have, and had I known what I know now, would have done more to help him.

But Jared is dead. I can't help him. So I am going to run, because I can't run away. And I am asking all of you for a pledge, but not a monetary pledge. Money cannot stop hate. It can't put an end to intolerance. It won't slow the bullet train of ignorance.

I am asking you all to make a pledge.

To love.

It sounds corny, I know.

It even sounds kinda, well, gay.

But it isn't.

Ample Wingspan

2011-08-24T23:17:00.002-04:00

It came out of the bushes, a brown blur in the lower right-hand corner of my vision. As it crossed in front of my car I stomped on the brake pedal, sending my precious Nook, my glasses, and my sweatshirt off the passenger seat and into the air. I heard them slam into the glove box and drop to the floor as I watched the giant bird strike my front end dead center. The resulting thump passed through the frame of the car and into my seat. A bursting pillow's worth of feathers rolled up onto the hood and towards my windshield. Panic wrapped her cold fingers around my spine. I imagined the wounded bird falling through my open moon roof and into my lap. My face would be scratched and bleeding, torn by the frantic beating of terrified wings and vengeful cutting of the hawk's beak.

My foot remained jammed on the brake pedal. At last the car came to a halt, causing the bird to flop across the windshield and into the road on the left side of the car. I saw the hawk beating its wings in desperation. It could only manage to hop in little steps across the road and into the woods. The thunder of drums from the stereo speakers matched the meter of my heart. I sat in my car, stopped in the middle of the road, thinking of the lousy start to a first date twenty-five years ago.

Her name was Tamara. I had not known her long, but for some reason I wanted to know her more. It may have had something to do with the fact that she had developed far faster (and far more, in certain areas) than any other girl that I had ever known. After dancing with her for a single slow song at a church dance, I was sure that the devil had a special torture room under construction just for me. Oh, the thoughts and sensations that traveled my circulatory system for the next several days!

I had finally had the courage to ask her out and she had said yes. Since I was only fifteen, my sister drove us to the movies. Tamara's older sister Sherry came along too, riding shotgun up front. At least they had let us sit together in the back seat.

We turned left out of Tamara's driveway, then right around the curve that would take us out to the main road. As we approached the corner, the windshield turned red with the sudden burst of brake lights as the car in front of us swerved and braked. Our own car stopped with a jerk. The four of us squealed in helpless surprise as a raccoon ran beneath the rear tires of the swerving car. The scene played out in the dual spotlights of our low beams, like a center-stage murder in a Shakespeare tragedy.

"Is it dead?" Tamara asked, her face now protected from the horror by her hands.

"No, it's limping off into the woods." I answered, a fresh piece of Big Red gum burning my tongue.

"The poor thing, he's suffering." This from one of the girls as the car in front of us fled the scene.

"Jerk." I said to the driver who couldn't hear me. I opened my door and stepped out into the road.

A light rain had started to fall. I stood on the side of the road and listened through the sound of water dripping on leaves.

"I can hear him, he's crawling through the ferns. His back must be broken if he can't walk on all fours." I stood at the edge of the road, wondering what I could possibly do to remedy the situation.

"We can't just leave him out there like that, he's suffering." Tamara said, applying a pleading tone to her voice.

"Ok, I'll take care of it; you stay here." I said with an authority born of female distress mated with several thousand years of male ego-lution.

I spent a minute or so fumbling around in the dark for something I could use to "take care of it." I settled on a fallen branch that nearly sent me sprawling when my foot tripped over it. It was about five feet long, and just a bit thicker than a baseball bat on one end. As I hefted it in one hand, I thought that it would have made an excellent magic walking staff for an aging wizard.

The rustling had continued up to this point, making it easy to follow the broken creature into the wet underbrush. As I approached, however, the rustling stopped. This gave me pause, and I too halted my forward progress, even to the point of retreat. I had no desire to corner a wounded animal in the dark, wet, forest, no matter how ample the bosom of the girl waiting for me back in the car.

After a moment of silence, the raccoon continued on his dreadful way. I gave cautious chase, still not certain what I was about to do. I assumed that I was about to swing down on the creature's head with one, solid, crushing blow, ending his life and misery in an instant. I had never killed anything up close other than bugs and slugs, and while the thought of killing the raccoon bothered me, it would be an act of mercy.

Or so I thought. At last I found the crippled critter, in a little clearing with enough light to see that he was done for. His rear legs were dragging behind him like wet strips of paper mache clinging to a pull toy. I watched him crawling, an overwhelming sadness overtaking me so that I could not move. He had sensed my approach, and tried to look over his shoulder at me as he crawled. He began to hiss and wail, his angry warning passing through teeth that I could not see clearly through the dark, but could imagine as being sharp enough to draw my blood.

I was scared, sad, and sorry as I raised the makeshift club over my head. The first strike glanced off his back, and he made a crying sound that I knew in an instant was one I never wanted to hear again. The hollow thunk of the club's impact against his little body horrified me as it passed through my arms and into my chest. Adrenaline widened my eyes, blood swelled the veins in my head, and tears coated my cheeks as I swung at the poor animal a second time, once again missing his head. Soon all I could hear over the white noise of blood rushing through the veins in my head and past my eardrums were his screams. They mixed with mine as I brought the branch down several more times onto his back and eventually, his head.

At last his wailing ceased. I slammed the branch down onto his head a few more times, telling myself that the extra blows were to make sure he was actually dead and his suffering at an end. I stood over his little broken body, the instrument of death hanging from my right hand. My chest heaved with the deep breath of exertion and anguish. The rain was falling harder, but it felt like a cool relief dripping onto my shoulders from the dark leaves. Once I had regained my composure, I dropped the club and walked back to the car, wondering what the girls had heard. It must have sounded terrible and frightening, the sounds of the dying creature, the thud of the branch against his body, and me, his killer, weeping throughout the whole dreadful, merciful delivery of death.

I said nothing much, just climbed into the car and shut the door. The ride was a quiet one for several minutes, each of us lost in our own analysis of the experience. Tamara and I sat still and silent in the back seat, more than a center seat dividing us. I felt unloveable, and considered asking to be taken home, but was too much of a coward to Soon our two sisters began to chat quietly in the front seat, and before long the four of us were laughing as we made our way into the theater. The movie was some silly and forgettable farce. Afterwords, Tamara and I climbed into the very back of the station wagon, as far away from our sisters as we could. The evening took a better turn from that point on.

Sitting in my car, parked in the middle of a New Hampshire back road twenty-five years later, I watched the hawk as it hopped into the woods, wings flapping in a futile attempt to leave the ground. I got out of my car, wishing that Elizabeth and I had already bought the pistol she had been wishing for all summer. I followed the great big bird into the woods. It was a huge and beautiful bird, but looked rather pitiful hopping along on the ground, wings smacking into the dead leaves and twigs on the ground. It stopped at a fallen tree that lay across its path. Wings flapped and talons ripped at the side of the fallen tree, but the poor beast could not even hop high enough to get on top of it, let alone over it. As I watched, the hawk turned its head and looked at me. His eyes were skittish and desperate, the black and gold of them both wide with warning. The hooked beak below them looked too sharp to even think about, let alone get close to.

What was I going to do? I muttered a dammit, then walked back out onto the road for a moment's thought. No cars passed by, so there was no one to consult with. A house sat quiet across the road. I wondered what the occupants would think of a stranger knocking to ask them if they had a gun he could borrow for just a moment in order to kill a hawk? I walked back into the woods, once again cornering a wounded wild animal with the thought of beating it to death with a stick.

At my approach, the hawk the hawk warned me away with a weird sort of sound. I thought of my daughter's husky, scratchy, Kathleen Turner voice when she is truly sick.

"Well, whatinthehelldoyouwantmetodo?" I yelled at the bird.

As the sound of my voice died away, the hawk stretched its wings, and with a sudden bursting whoosh, took flight. My heart leapt inside my chest at the sight of his full wingspan. I laughed away the tension, watching the bird disappear into the woods.

I walked back to the road and checked the back seat of my car.

It was empty. My ample bosomed date had abandoned me.

Eating Painted Crow On Mars

2011-08-10T19:21:00.000-04:00

I turned the car off the interstate to enter the Petrified Forest National Park from the North end. We parked and headed over to the visitor’s center, paying a nominal fee to drive the twenty-eight miles through the park. Walking back to the car we passed through a tiny courtyard. Without a word of warning, Michael took off running like a bloodhound back on the scent. I followed close behind, pulling the camera from my pocket. I had no idea what my brother was about to do, but I knew that it was sure to be worthy of a photograph.

And it was. Michael dropped down to the ground in front of a simple sculpture of what appeared to be a cougar. The big cat had been cut from a flat piece of iron measuring one inch thick. The rusted animal was at least seven feet long, with a long metal tail curving up over its body. Michael rolled onto his back beneath the animal and made like he was fending off the cat’s attack. I snapped several shots while laughing at yet another silly moment on the side of the road.

Michael picked himself up, and we started across the courtyard once again. We stopped at the edge of an empty fountain. Recessed into the ground, the cement square was only a foot deep. It was bordered by three feet of round river stones on all sides, and the inside bottom and walls were painted a light blue. A metal sprinkler pipe stood silent and dry in the center.

“I’m going in.” I handed Michael the camera before pretending to wade into deep water. I lay down on my stomach and began to swim over the blue, pushing my hands and kicking my feet through imaginary water. I stretched my arms out long and straight, turning my head to take a breath after each stroke.

I heard the camera clicking away in Michael’s hand. I swam out to nowhere and back before relaxing my body and letting my head drop. The yellow sun was comfortable and warm on my back, the hard sea of blue beneath me calming and cool against my cheek. I could have fallen headlong into a nap, but the temptation disappeared with the sound of Michael’s laughter.

“Matthew, look over there, at those windows, is that a restaurant?”

I twisted around to take a look at a long string of windows in the visitor’s center building no more than forty feet away from my swimming hole. I squinted through the sunlight and focused my eyes on one window after another.

“Yep, it is. There are people in there, and they are probably watching us!” I laughed, then rolled onto my back and swam a few more imaginary yards before leaping to my feet. I took a bow for anyone that might have been watching.

“Dinner and a show, folks! Try the veal, we’re here all week!” I said it with a smile before walking back to the car, not really knowing or caring if anyone could hear me.

As we began our drive through what is known as the Painted Desert, it was made clear to me that Jared had at least one thing in common with God. They shared the ability to take hold of a drab, empty canvas and work a beautiful blend of colors and imagination into something capable of making me cry. I couldn’t help but think that we were weaving our way through God’s personal studio.

I pulled into a parking space at a well-marked overlook. Michael was out of the car and running into the red yonder before I could even release my seatbelt. I opened my car door and stepped out. I watched as Michael ran through a gap in the rock wall marking the edge of the parking lot.

A crow was perched on the corner of the wall. The big black bird didn’t so much as flinch when Michael sped past, despite the fact that he could have reached out and swiped the bird across the beak as he did. I stared in wonder at the confident creature.

He seemed to be looking right at me, his head cocked to one side as if he were scrutinizing me.

“What do you want?” I asked the bird. At the sound of my voice he jumped down from his rock wall perch and waddled a couple of steps in front of the car.

“This is incredible!” I heard Michael shout. The happiness in his voiced pulled my attention away from the fearless black bird. I had not expected to hear such joy in my brother’s voice for a long time, if ever again. I skirted around the crow and followed the path that Michael had taken.

I held my breath at the sight of a red landscape that could not have been anything other than a rough draft of the otherworldly landscape of the red planet nearest our own.

“Matthew, it’s like running around on Mars!” Michael’s unwitting agreement with my own thoughts made me feel good inside. I smiled as I watched him run down into a little valley below me. His shoepers left odd-looking tracks in the red dust.

I snapped a few pictures as Michael bent down, grabbed handfuls of red earth, and flung them into the air above him. Even from my position far above him, I could see the smile on my brother’s face. I laughed, his absolute joy opening a pressure relief valve somewhere within me.

Like a puppy off his leash in a park full of fir hydrants and buried bones, Michael ran around inspecting the terrain for several minutes. I watched from my vantage point and marveled at the beauty all around me. Tears wandered their way down my cheeks.

Michael ran up a trail on the other side of the little valley, stopping at the top of a hill matching mine in height. He turned to face me, both arms hanging at his sides. Warm winds tousled his hair and lifted the bottom corner of his pearl-buttoned western style shirt. His dark blue jeans and black bracelet-wristwatch stood out against the indigo sky behind him. In my mind’s eye we were acting out a living metaphor of our own past, standing atop two distinct hills, a deep chasm separating us.

I took a few pictures of my little brother and wondered if I looked half as cool, dressed as I was in brown shorts and a light blue tee shirt with a red dinosaur printed on the front.

“He’s right; I feel like I’m on Mars.” I whispered to myself, feeling self-conscious as the words left my lips and blew away into the Painted Desert.

Loosened Up

2011-07-24T18:21:00.000-04:00

There were over forty of them. We had nowhere to run, the terrain afforded us no hiding place. As we approached the cabin they came at us, their arms outstretched, eyes wide with anticipation. I watched as the horde surrounded us, swallowing us up to satisfy their appetite. There would be no escaping these love zombies. They came at me, smiling, laughing, hugging, and kissing me as I passed through their gauntlet of joy.

I was at my wife's family reunion.

I could hardly think of a thing to say to them that in my opinion didn't sound inadequate or stupid, but still they each had something nice to say to me. I hadn't seen some of them in well over ten years, and most of them for at least three, and yet it felt as though I had just returned from a short trip to the grocery store. When we pulled up to the cabin in the mountains they were all just right there, a giant cluster of people in a flurry of happy activity. They were making reunion shirts using fresh white cotton tees, cardboard stencils, and cans of spray paint. Within two minutes, after hugging the crowd in record time, my kids were part of the fray, blank tees and cans of paint in hand, their creativity flowing as freely as their happy chatter with cousins.

I stood on the porch and marveled at it all. Nervous, unquiet thoughts and emotions that had often plagued me upon arrival to their reunion scene in previous years were absent. I felt comfortable as I caught up with brothers-in-law, fist bumped nieces and nephews much taller and more grown up than I had imagined, and hugged women who offered up not only love and welcomes but food and beverage as well. It was like coming home, and not for the first time.

Come the morning of the next day, my heart and mind were on overload. Such happiness and outward expressions were not the family interaction to which I am accustomed. To witness, receive, and offer up such healthy proportions of love was suddenly too much for my system. I had thirsted so long that when the water was offered I more than accepted a glass or even a pitcher full, but rather dove into it, saturating every pore to the point of bursting. I was drowning from the inside out, and panic was taking control.

I thought it best to sneak away for a spell in order to regain perspective and settle my emotions. My goal was to settle in comfortably and become a part of this joyful troop by the end of the week. To lose sight of that goal, or to surrender to the discomfort and distance myself from them, was not an option I wanted to allow myself this time around. I had to collect my thoughts to the contrary and dispose of them before it was too late.

We had been extended the use of my mother-in-law's vehicle, and I jumped into it and drove out the front gate and towards the reservoir deeper up the canyon. A little machine known as a "Santa Fe," the car looked like the tiny niece to a more powerful and menacing four wheel drive uncle. It was the same car we had used the last time I had joined everyone up at the cabin several years back, and it had served us well then. The favor of its use and the freedom it afforded us was not lost on me. I was very grateful not to be looking forward to an expensive rental charge at the end of our trip.

I turned onto the dirt road and headed up towards the massive body of water. It took several minutes to get there, but I took it nice and slow, rolling the windows down and enjoying the dry heat of the sun on my arm hanging out the window. I played John Denver on my Ipod, filling the woods with the sweet sounds of comforting music. I began to feel a calm descend, and the positive outlook for my week returned.

I reached the reservoir and pulled to a stop at the bottom edge of it. I shut off the engine but left the music playing softly. The water level was higher than normal due to the rain and snow that had fallen in record amounts over the past several months. A few fisherman stood at the very edge of the water, waiting patiently for a nibble, and a few canoes lazed their way across the glassy surface before me. I gazed up at the mountains. They were blanketed in green, a nice contrast to the indigo that filled the sky above. My spirits soared with the sight of it all.

I sat and listened to John sing about rhymes, reasons, prayers and promises. My thoughts were happy ones and peace was mine to hold. I let the music play, and watched the water lay still for a time before deciding I was ready to return to the joyful mayhem at the cabin. I started the engine, turned the wheel, and touched the gas. As I turned the car around, I heard a popping sound and watched a puff of dust fly up above the right front wheel. My carefree bubble burst as I realized at once what had happened. I had popped a tire.

The windows were open, and Utah learned a few new words that morning. I sat in the little car and leaned forward, resting my head on the steering wheel. This was not the zen moment ending that I had been expecting as I drove away from my newfound serenity spot. After a minute or two of wallowing in self pity, I jumped out of the car and was suddenly very conscious of the vehicles in the immediate vicinity. No fewer than eight large 4x4 trucks, a host of four-wheelers, and five horses with riders were within a stone's throw of the tiny little Santa Fe and its punctured tire. The sweat that began to seep from my pores had nothing to do with the heat of the sun. It was due to the fact that I was surrounded by cowboy hats, Wrangler jeans, and sunburned necks.

I have always been self conscious. While I don't really care what people think of me, I really do care what people think of me. It is a strange way to live, thriving as I do on my individuality until it causes me to be noticed. Would that I could capture the elusive ability to pick and choose the times and locations for standing out, but that kind of control remains at large.

I did my best to act nonchalant as I walked around to inspect the flat tire. Dressed as I was in my black Converse sneakers, dark plaid Vans skater shorts, and blue tee shirt with the logo of a Boston based roller derby team known as "The Cosmonaughties," the chance of blending in with a bunch of cowboys was at best a pipe dream. If my attire was an arrow shaped sign indicating my out-of-place presence, the itty-bitty Santa Fe was a billboard lit by bright-red blinking neon lights, topped off with a pair of giant speakers through which played the "Which of these kids is doing his own thing?" song from Sesame Street.

I opened the tailgate of the car and pulled back the carpet. There didn't appear to be a secret panel underneath the which I would find a spare and all the tools needed to swap a flat tire. My core temperature began to rise in order to keep up with the panic building within me. I pictured a long walk back to the cabin, followed by a condescending ride back to the reservoir with my father-in-law. To top it all off, it was the fourth of July. Finding a garage willing to fix the flat (if it was repairable) seemed unlikely. Added to all of these thoughts was the fear that all the time spent in getting the car back on the road would mess up the family plans for the fourth of July. We had tickets to the Oakley rodeo and fireworks that night. I had heard more about this rodeo from Elizabeth and the kids than any other event planned for the week. They had been in previous years, and Elizabeth had been many times during her childhood. I was looking forward to it, and to think that I might be otherwise occupied with a flat tire made me angry.

Not one to ask for assistance until having exhausted all possibilities, I dismissed thoughts of asking one of the truck driving cowboys for help. I knew how to change a flat, but I needed s spare tire in order to do it. I was sure they didn't have a spare small enough to match the little Santa Fe, so what good would it do to inquire? My mind raced through my options, lighting upon the most unlikely of sources for assistance. I would read the manual.

I climbed back into the front seat and dug the manual out of the glovebox. In cases such as the one in which I found myself my mind tends to believe that if I follow common sense protocols to the letter, all will be well. In accordance with this belief, I flipped to the index and searched it for the page numbers related to the spare tire rather than thumbing my way through the book in hopes of finding it by luck. Sure enough, things began to go my way. The pages dealing with the spare tire indicated that it was hidden underneath the cargo hold, hanging from a metal strapping system on the outside of the car. I jumped out of the Santa Fe and knelt down to peer up at the undercarriage. The spare was not only there, but it was pumped full of precious air, and appeared to be a full size tire as well. Hope lit a match and held it out for me to witness.

The only thing missing was the set of tools needed to release the spare, jack up the car, and remove the lug nuts from the flat. I had already searched the cargo hold, and so I spent a few frantic moments searching the rest of the car. I stuck my hands between and under seats, searched the glovebox, and laid down in the dirt to inspect the harness holding the spare in place. No luck. Not wanting to add to my bad fortune, and believing that Utah had learned enough new words that morning, I refrained from cursing. I sat down inside the cargo hold to think, and spotted the manual next to me. I had dropped it there when verifying the existence of the spare tire. I thumbed through the pages detailing the spare tire and read more thoroughly. To my joy I discovered that a secret panel lay underneath a hard plastic layer in the cargo hold where I was sitting.

"Eureka!" I exclaimed at the discovery of the jack and lug wrench. In a flash I was underneath the car, loosening the nut that held the spare in place.

"Looks like you could use some help." A slightly drawling voice startled me.

I turned my head to see two pairs of cowboy boots not a few feet away from my face. I slid out from under the car to see that a rather large cowboy and his even larger but younger companion had moseyed on over from their vantage point to get a better look at the silly city boy and his teeny weeny flat tire. Their faces were tanned almost earth-brown from time in the sun and their jeans were American blue. I looked up at the giant cowboys and began to speak.

"Yeah, silly flat tire. This is my mother-in-laws car. I haven't even been in Utah for twenty-four hours and this trip is already looking to be more work than fun. I am out here from New Hampshire for the first time in about seven years, came for my wife's family reunion. I needed a few moments away from the loving mob. I am just not used to forty some-odd people being so nice to each other, especially when they are family. Then this happens. What a way to spend celebrate independence." I paused long enough to tell myself to shut up, and slid back under the car to hide my face and to finish pulling the tire down.

I watched from underneath the car as the cowboy boots walked over towards the flat tire, then turned around in a slow circle, as if searching for something. The tire harness let go and the tire dropped to the ground. I pulled myself to my feet and dragged the tire out, turned it upright and rolled it around to the front right side of the Santa Fe.

"Why don't you hand me that jack and I'll get 'er started." The older cowboy held out his hand as he said this, and I felt like grabbing hold of it in appreciation. My faith in mankind as a whole has long been on the ropes and his simple words, delivered like the easy going dialogue found in the countless Louis L'amour I had read growing up held restorative powers.

I laid the tire down and pulled the jack from the cargo hold, handing it and the tools to him. He laid down in the dirt to get a good look at the best spot to place the jack. His light-blue, pearl-buttoned western-style shirt was at once filthy from the dust. I choked on the realization that these men were heaven sent, and walked around to the other side of the car, using the pretense of chocking the wheels with rocks to hide as I wiped a few tears from my cheeks.

The jack wouldn't lift the car enough, so the man sent his hulking companion over to their truck to retrieve a large block of wood. I watched him go, and saw him talking to a couple of women and some children seated in lawn chairs next to a portable grill set up near their truck. A large trailer was hitched to the truck, and a few four wheelers were parked on it. A little white lapdog sat on the ground underneath one of the empty chairs. I smiled at the polaroid moment.

The younger man returned with a massive block of wood, dropping it next to the jack. The older man situated the block under the jack while the other used the lug wrench to attack the nuts that held the tire in place. The wrench handle was short, and so was the leverage. He had no luck in turning the nuts. I watched as he strained, his dark face turning a deep red with the effort.

"No luck, this wrench has no leverage. We need a pipe or something we can extend the handle with." The young man stood up tall, the tiny wrench a toy in his massive hand.

"Not sure we have anything like that in the truck, let me think." The older cowboy said, kneeling in the shade of the little car.

I considered my options. I knew there was nothing in the Santa Fe that could be used to gain additional leverage. I badly wanted to have a go at the nuts myself, but looking at the size of the young buck that had just about lifted the car off the ground in his attempt to loosen them held me fast. To try and fail, cementing my city boy image was not an attractive outcome, nor was besting the young man at a feat of strength. I felt trapped by circumstance.

"Let me have a go, for what it's worth." I said, desperate to extricate myself from this dilemma and willing to risk almost anything to do so. I took the offered lug wrench, and Goliath moved back to let little David have his go.

Every lesson I had ever learned about exertion, every word of instruction from coaches and trainers came into play. The phrases "lift with your legs, not with your back," "focus on the flexing muscles and channel your efforts into the ones that need it most," and "do your best, and forget the rest" rose from the depths of my memory, empowering my frame. I settled down onto bent legs, straightened my back, kept my head upright, and pulled on the wrench with every bit of strength and positive energy that I could muster.

The first nut twisted loose, and without hesitation or fanfare I moved on to the next, with the same result. Within moments all of the nuts were off and the tire ready for removal.

"I must've loosened them up for ya." Goliath laughed, my stunning display of strength having no ill effects on his ego. I heard the older cowboy chuckle as he began to crank the jack handle, raising the car enough for me to pull the tire loose.

I hefted the tire into the back of the little car while the two strangers put the spare on and began to tighten the nuts.

"You guys going to the rodeo tonight?" I asked, desperate to find some common ground with such manly men.

"No, we're just up here four wheeling for the day, grilling some dogs and enjoying the fun. We've been to the rodeo many times before." The young man offered in reply.

"My son here lives not far from Oakley, with my grandkids and my daughter-in-law." The old cowboy gestured at his son as he said this. I sensed more than just a hint of fatherly pride in both his tone, and in the way he looked at his boy-become-man when he said it.

Soon the car was lowered back onto all four tires, the tools and jack stowed, and the full size spare tire in place. The little Santa Fe was at last road ready once again. I approached the cowboys to offer up a handshake and my thanks. My hand was black, my arm covered in dirt. My clothes had hardly faired any better.

"Looks like you've been through it." Smiled the grandfather cowpoke.

"Yeah, but that's okay. Thanks for your help, sorry you got a bit dirty yourself there." I indicated to his shirt, now brown in more places than it was blue. The sight of it sparked another round of emotion for me, and I forced myself to hold it together until I had said my goodbye.

"No bother, we expect to get a little dirty up here in the mountains. It comes with the territory." He took my hand in his, and his grip was as firm as I had expected it to be. I fought the urge to hug him.

"Take care, glad we could help." He let go of my hand, and I moved over to his son.

The younger man's hand swallowed mine whole. "I looked around, and the only thing that could have popped that tire was a tiny little rock sticking up through the dirt. Funny how a little thing like that can cause such a big problem." He pointed at a little nub of a rock, protruding from the ground. I kicked at it and nodded in wondrous agreement.

"Thanks so much, I really am grateful, and wish I could return the favor." I said, knowing there was nothing I could possibly do to repay these men that I would never see again. I climbed into the little car and started her up, gave a wave, and pulled away.

I glanced back and saw the two men walking towards their truck and family. The father placed a hand on his son's shoulder, an affectionate gesture that broke open the damn holding back my waterworks. I started to cry, overcome by the swarm of emotions that had enveloped me since arriving in Utah the night before. I reached over and hit the play button on my Ipod as I drove my way back to the cabin full of forty-some-odd love crazed family members.

John Denver sang out loud, "Hey, it's good to be back home again. Sometimes, this old farm feels like a long lost friend..."

Post Script:

The rodeo that night was more fun than a naked pony ride through a field of goose down on a windy moonlit night.

And in case anyone was wondering, there was no condescension in my father-in-laws tone as he expressed his concern upon hearing about the flat tire. In fact, he spent the next afternoon in Salt Lake City, putting four new tires on the little car in order to ensure our safety while visiting. Thanks Bubba.

Ego Goosed

2011-06-03T12:07:00.000-04:00

It happened one night in Ogunquit, Maine.

Elizabeth and I picked up my little brother Jared and headed north in search of diversion. Jared knew well the layout of the town, and he was happy to serve as our tour guide. The night was warm enough for shorts, but cool enough for me to enjoy. We parked behind the fire station and headed off for an adventure that for the rest of my earthly life will wish I could relive. Our first stop was for dinner at the restaurant owned by one of Jared's friends. The pizzas, drinks, and atmosphere were tasty, fruity, and happy, but not necessarily in that order, as anyone who has been to Ogunquit will know. After a merry hour of food and conversation we headed out once again into the evening.

Crowded with chatting people, the sidewalks moved along like a babbling brook. Herds of people tend to bother me, but this one was too upbeat and friendly for the usual bad vibes to occur. We drifted with the smiling current of the people stream, the flow carrying us towards the beach. There was to be a fireworks display that night, and we didn't want to miss it.

"Curlers in your hair, shame on you!" A silly voice rang out in a sing-song tune. We turned to see a woman with large curlers rolled into her thick blonde locks and a large smile spread across her over-roughed cheeks.

"Curlers in your hair, shame on you!" She wagged a finger in our direction as she repeated the line several times. We laughed, entertained but cautious of her odd behavior and abrupt approach. Without being invited, the strange woman slid in between Jared and Elizabeth matching our pace. We sang along with her, despite our lack of understanding. Anyone who passed us was handed one of the many flyers she carried with her, and she explained to us that she was a comedienne performing at a local club on the main drag. The promotional department for the club was next to non-existent, so she was doing what she could to drum up interest in the show.

As we neared our fireworks vantage point, the silly woman broke ranks and drifted away from us. As the crowd ahead enveloped her we promised to check out her act later that night. She thanked us by repeating her silly song one more time before disappearing from view.

The fireworks were explosive. As a child Jared had never been one to enjoy their loud bangs and booms, but that night he marveled with the rest of us. He stood with Elizabeth and me, his mouth hanging open, head tilted back, and eyes reflecting the bright colors of the explosions overhead. We cheered along with the masses at the outlandish finale.

The fireworks were over, but the night was just beginning. We made tracks for downtown Ogunquit. Jared and Elizabeth soon fell behind, my stride much too long for their easy going gait. I glanced back at them walking together, but didn't bother to hurry them. Ever since the days when Jared had lived with us in our tiny apartment out in Seattle, I had known that Elizabeth and Jared would forever be close. To see them side by side, all smiles and laughter, made me happy. I turned back towards town and forged ahead. After several steps, I felt a warm, soft hand slide into mine. I squeezed it just a bit and continued on for a few moments before turning to smile at Elizabeth. Instead I saw Jared walking beside me, his arm swinging in time with mine, his hand held snug in my own.

"What the heck?" I pulled my hand away and felt my face flush warm.

"Did you really think I was Liz?" Jared asked, his hand reaching up to cover his mouth as it often did when he laughed.

"Yes, of course I did, you dork!" I gave him a playful shove. He stepped back to maintain his balance just as Elizabeth caught up to us.

"You should have seen your reaction!" She giggled.

"Gee, I'm glad I could amuse you both!" I feigned a hurtful tone, but my smile gave me away.

We laughed about Jared's little joke all the way to the ice cream parlor. I ordered a sugar cone piled high with my standing order of chocolate and peanut butter. It was rich, it was cold, and it was perfect. We munched our way through the streets, taking in the scenery of the shop windows and jabbering on about nothing important.

Once we had finished our ice cream, Jared led us to the local dance club. It was open, but there was no dancing to be had that early in the evening. Instead, a large crowd had gathered around a performer seated on a tall bar stool in the center of a small parquet floor. "Hedda Lettuce" was wearing a bright green evening gown that shimmered beneath the lights and matched the green highlights in her perfectly coiffed silvery hair. Her legs were crossed like a Bond girl on the hood of an Aston Martin, and every movement she made exposed more of her very long, very feminine legs. We watched as Hedda sang, her lyrics loaded with innuendos that sparked rounds of laughter, much to her feigned surprise. She flirted without shame, and carried herself in a way that I imagined Greta Garbo or Rita Hayworth might have long ago. It was the first time I had seen a drag queen up close. I was fascinated, conflicted, and entertained, all within the space of a few minutes.

Since the dance club had yet to open for dancing, we left Hedda behind and headed back up the street to the local piano bar. I had been to bars many times before, but never one such as this. The large room was filled to beyond capacity with happy, singing people, most of them men. From one corner came the sound of a piano, but I could only catch glimpses of it through the ebb and flow of bodies that surrounded it. Everyone in the room swayed to the music, singing along with arms wrapped around waists and shoulders. Had it not been a show tune they were singing I might have thought we had stumbled into an Irish pub in Dublin on St. Patrick's day. We spent the next few songs marveling at the fun of it all, joining in when we knew the words. Jared soon signaled our exit, and we followed him down the stairs and out the door.

The night air was cooler, a sharp contrast to the heat of the packed piano bar. We made it to the comedy club in time to watch the bizarre woman in curlers open her show. The curlers were gone, and with them everything else that had made her interesting. It was apparent within a few moments that she was better at singing silly songs to strangers in the street than making rooms full of paying customers laugh at her jokes.

"The dance club should be open now, you guys want to check it out again?" Jared asked.

"Yes! Let's go, this lady isn't funny, and I wanna get my groove on!" Liz made for the door.

Back at the dance club, the music was thumping and the lights were flashing. A mass of bodies gyrated to the beat. A man walked past us with a tray of drinks held high in the air. He wore nothing but black boots and a pair of white underpants. I stayed close to Jared, and as a silent signal to her that I was deep in the throes of unease placed my hands around Elizabeth's waist while following her into the fray.

The first few minutes on a dance floor are always uncomfortable for me. I find it hard to find my feet and match them to the beat. My hips grind away like a fan unbalanced by a broken blade. My arms grow ever more cumbersome, ignoring my commands to be suave. Even my head feels lopsided and void of rhythm. Elizabeth and Jared have never suffered the same dance floor afflictions, and that night in Ogunquit was no different. Comfortable as ever, their bodies merged instinctively with the thunderous baseline. Lights flashed, fog filled the room, and bubbles filtered down through the flickering scene. People were writhing and jumping to the music. It seemed that everyone around me was finding their own groove. I stood like a pillar of anti-rhythm in the center of the pulsating crush. I was a white-heterosexual-married-male in his mid-thirties standing on the dance floor of a gay night club.

And then it happened.

As a married man and father of three, it isn't often that I am confident in my ability to attract hormonal attention outside of the adoration of my wife. It is with great humility that I admit to knowing that Elizabeth finds me to be her everything, a handsome man with just the right measure of animal allure and sexual prowess. After many years of struggling with the absence of my ego, Elizabeth has shored up enough love for me to build sufficient fortifications against a significant drop in my self esteem. Her mending ways have repaired much of the damage done by a childhood lacking in adequate encouragement and positive reenforcement. For that I am grateful.

But...

It is good to get a boost of morale from an outside, unfamiliar source. An unexpected spike on the confidence meter that sends it into the red and kicks your ego into high gear. This type of jump can permanently reset the benchmark for your self-esteem, leaving your lowest level of worth at a much higher point than ever expected. I have experienced but a few of these self-image altering moments, but there is only one that stands out as unlikely, unforgettable, and worthy of telling.

The hands on my ass could not have been my wife's. Elizabeth was in front of me, dancing like a diva. They weren't Jared's, he too was in front of me, and he too was dancing like a diva. This realization took but a fractured moment. I spun around to see whose hands had not only grabbed, but squeezed my cheeks. A black man of a very muscular (and shirtless) build stood behind me, his hands only just removed from my tush and a bright smile on his face. He winked at me before turning away, presumably to dance, but the thought occurred to me that perhaps he expected me to return the handy favor.

I didn't. Circling back to face Elizabeth and Jared seemed to take several minutes. My dear wife was shaking what the good lord had given her, but she stopped when she saw the look on my face.

"What?" She shouted, her hands gesturing confusion.

I leaned over to shout in her ear, and the words felt funny crossing my tongue. "I just got goosed by a very large, half-naked black man!"

"No way! Where is he?" Her squeal of delight lightened the situation, and I started to notice just how funny it actually was. I pointed across the floor at my suitor.

"Wow! He's good looking! You should be happy!" Elizabeth laughed and grabbed Jared, pulling him out of his dance trance to include him in the fun.

"Nice one, Matthew! He's not my type, but he is hot!" Jared laughed, and the awkward moment was gone for good.

"What can I say? When you've got it, you've got it!" It struck me as a strange thing to say given my current location, but I was feeling sure of myself. I was an attractive heterosexual male, standing beside his beautiful wife on the dance floor of a gay night club. I was one of a kind!

My ego boost complete, I watched as Jared once again moved his body to the beat. Elizabeth pulled me in and gave me a kiss. Her lips were salty with sweat, but the sweetness of the act was all I could taste. I put my hands on her hips and we began to move. I found my feet. My arms obeyed, following the rhythm as I commanded. I threw my head back and closed my eyes, and the blinking lights above painted my eyelids in colorful fireworks. It was a good night to be alive.

I had found my groove.

So Many Doggone Reasons!

2011-04-28T14:38:00.001-04:00

I am not fond of dogs. The reasons are many, and I often number them for my children. At last count we are well into the four digit numbers, and the list continues to grow. A basic few of the many grounds for my argument against dogs living with humans would be that they bark, they puke, they drool, they shed, they crap, they piss, they fart, and they sniff at human crotches. Now, I will agree that we humans are messy enough. Indeed, we do many of the same disgusting things that dogs do. I myself am guilty of all of the above. The difference is that we are capable of cleaning up after ourselves. If I take a dump on the side of the road, I can pick it up and dispose of it. Oh blessed opposable thumbs! Of course, if I take a dump on the side of the road, the police will most likely pick me up and dispose of me, but that is a matter for another essay, hopefully one that will never be written from an experienced point of view.

Another reason for hating canines would be that I have carried around since childhood a great fear of dogs. I am not sure if there is a single incident that sparked this terror, but I do recall a neighbor's dog being rather large and threatening. The animal seemed vicious to me, so much so that he thwarted my first attempt at running away merely by standing behind his fence and growling. In my experience, you can never tell what a dog will do. Even the most friendly and welcoming dogs have become dangerous in a flash-pan instant. I recall our cousin's dog Bingo. Bingo lived on their dairy farm in Idaho, and he was the nice dog. They had other dogs, but we only saw them from the windows of the van as we pulled up for our not-so-frequent visits. The moment we arrived, our cousins had to drag the angry dogs into a shed and lock them up for the duration of our visit, presumably so that they would not eat us. Over the course of one summer, something mysterious was killing the chickens in great numbers. We spent a few days on the farm that year, and I remember filling a wheelbarrow with dead chickens, then throwing them into the canal. We had been instructed to bury them, but the ground was too hard and the fun we wanted to have too tempting. On the last day of our visit, just moments before we were to leave, Bingo was found in the hen house, killing chickens. I have a very vivid memory-image of a farmhand heaving a very large rock at Bingo, just as our van turned the corner of the house and out of view. I never learned of Bingo's fate, but have often wondered if that rock had something to do with it.

Whatever the reasons, dogs still cause a twinge of fear to course through my body. Even snotty little lapdogs, with their nasty little teeth, yippy barking, and ass-breath trigger something within me. I try to be kind to dog owners. I tell them it is no bother, letting their foul animals lick my hand and sniff my crotch, even as the cold sweat squeezes up from within me, my heart thuds against my chest, and I begin to wish I were anywhere else. As a parent of human children, I try to keep my kids from annoying, threatening, or sexually molesting any visitor to our home. Why is this not the case with all dog owners? Some are gracious and kind, hiding their beasts away in some dark corner of their house, but just as many if not more seem to enjoy my discomfort. They employ that ridiculous baby talk and laugh sweetly as their four-footed child sniffs my butt, slaps my shins with their anxious tail, and plants their paws roughly against my groin, as if digging for-yes, I am going to say it, a bone!

I am running a lot these days. The reasons? Fighting off old age, losing weight, training for a race, or eluding depression, I don't know on any given day why I run. The fact is that I run many miles throughout the week, and I see a lot of angry, drooling beasts. They all want a piece of me. I pump loud music through headphones crammed deep into my ears so that I will not hear their menacing barks trailing after me as I try to keep both my pace and my calm. On bad days, typically the days when I am running from my own thoughts, I will laugh at them, mocking them as they run to the very edge of their invisible fences. Sometimes I even bark back. Elizabeth hates that I do this, and is sure that one day I will be dragged into a police cruiser wearing a straightjacket.

Returning to the mess that dogs make. I am father to three children that I love beyond measure. I changed my share of their smelly diapers, and wiped their bums through the terrible training years. I did this out of love, and not because I hoped that they would someday do the same for me should I need it. With all of that done and behind me, I don't want to do it again. No more babies except for the occasional loaner, and even then they have to be truly cute, and no matter how cute, I will not wipe their ass. I like to be clean. I love a good shower or four throughout the day. If a pair of my shoes gets dog mess on them, I throw them away. No need to worry myself over the poop germs spreading like an oil spill over the entire shoe and up my legs. No shoes are worth what the worry will do to me.

Today, I broke all my rules. My fifteen year old son had committed to walking his friends two dogs while he is away for vacation. My wife and kids headed into Boston for the day, prompting me to volunteer to drop by and care for the dogs. All the way up the street, I felt the dread growing within me. I got to the house, unlocked the door, and waited for the barking to start. Nothing. I entered the house, and saw the green crap bags and leashes hanging by the door. I grabbed them, and a gagging sound entered my throat as I thought of what I was about to endure. The dogs were in the family room, one on the couch and one in her kennel. They gave me no trouble, allowing me to fasten the leashes without a fuss, a bark, or so much as a moan. One did lick me, and my skin seemed to tighten as her spit dried into an invisible icing of germs coating my forearm.

We made our way outside, and I found myself speaking to them with a high-pitched British accent.

"Walkies? Are you ready for walkies, guys?" I felt ridiculous, but knew the worst was yet to come.

I have always laughed at dog owners as I drive past them. No matter the weather, they walk their damn dogs. They stand in gale force winds, under the hot summer sun, or in the pounding rain at a discreet distance while their beloved pets squat and pinch off loaves of stinky waste onto the ground. Some will try to act the essence of nonchalance, but we who pass by know that they are waiting for their pet to poop. The indignity of it all is then amplified as they casually stroll over and bend to pinch the nasty surprise into a little blue or green plastic bag. A quick tie-off, and they hang it from a single finger, as far away from their whole hand as it can be without dropping it. The bag of crap swings in time to their gait as they finish their walk, their furry companion sniffing spots on the ground that I picture to be yesterday's drop off spot, or perhaps the drop off spot of another dog.

And so I walked up the road a piece, waiting for these two to perform their magic trick. The bigger one decided on a spot, and that must have been a sign for the other to proceed, because she quickly followed suit. Their poop was green, and there was so much of it I almost felt for their bowels and all the work they must have had to perform that morning. I had trouble opening the silly green bag, and in a moment of absent-minded panic almost licked my finger to get the sides to part. I had not even come close to the mess, but to stand in the general area of it gives me a feeling of germy dread. To lick my fingers in the presence of it would have put me in the hospital. At last the bag was open, and my moment to shine arrived. I had my headphones in, my music pounding loud so I could not hear the words of disgust leaving my mouth as I reached out and grabbed each pile, the bag acting as both glove and receptacle. No cars passed that I noticed, but then again a parade could have been in procession nearby and I would have missed it, my mind taking me to a happier place and time rather than focus on my living nightmare.

The deed done, we took a brief walk before I returned the dogs to their home. They were very appreciative, and gave me no trouble at all, but for the fact that I had to clean up their waste. I washed my hands until they were red before jumping into my car and heading home for a shower and a change of clothes.

And that is reason 6, 312 that we will never own a dog.

West of Independence

2011-03-31T17:45:00.002-04:00

West of Independence

My 1rst Place Winning Essay (Non-Fiction Category) in the

2011 Seacoast Writers Association Writer's Contest

The seedy motel was far behind us. I had driven our little black rental car through the dark without stopping. Michael was a restless passenger beside me, alternating between fitful naps, passionate conversation, and acrid cigarettes.

We were headed westward, completing the unfinished journey of our brother Jared. Months earlier Jared had jumped into his car and driven west from New Hampshire, with a plan to gaze upon the beauty of the Grand Canyon before driving his car over the edge of it. He had made it to that sad motel in Independence, Missouri, before running out of gas money and the will to live.

Michael and I had spent a solemn hour in the motel parking lot before merging onto the highway. It was hard to drive with tears clouding my eyes and one arm across Michael’s trembling shoulders.

We had planned this odyssey to honor Jared’s memory, and at its end we would scatter his ashes into the Grand Canyon. Determined to uncover caches of joy along the way, we had compiled a road trip bucket-list. The pocket notebook that I kept with me at all times listed sights and adventures we hoped to experience before declaring our work finished.

And so we sped down the long, straight highways of the west, along the way stopping to pick cotton, pose for photos with road kill, and climb atop welcome signs on the side of the highway in order to moon entire states.

Sixteen hours west of Independence, we were well into New Mexico. The sun was dropping into the other side of the afternoon, when I saw a cluster of abandoned buildings off in the distance. I thought of our list; sandwiched between "windmill" and "oil well" I had written "abandoned building."

I was climbing through the fence before Michael had even stepped out of the car. As I slipped between the wires, my pants caught on one of the rusty barbs. It took me a moment to pull my leg free without injury. By the time I was on the other side, my brother had caught up to me.

"Ranchers mean business in these here parts. Their barbs are sharper than an Arkansas toothpick. They also pull the wire tight, just the way they like their jeans." My southern drawl was barely passable.

Once through the fence, we raced each other across the red dirt, leaping over bunches of sage and tufts of tall grass along the way. At the edge of the abandoned town, we slowed to a walk, surveying the area. Several of the buildings stood quiet and strong, boarded up tight as if against a hurricane that would never come.

Michael and I headed for the front steps of a little house with a sagging porch and broken windows. The wooden clapboard had been stripped of its paint by years of weathering sun. To one side of the house we could see an ancient truck, yellow paint of the cab mottled with rust. It had long ago settled comfortably onto flat tires that dug into the red earth beneath them. Michael entered the house, but I remained outside on the porch, fascinated by that yellow truck.

I imagined the family that had lived here long ago, a husband, his young wife, and two little girls. The young couple, I thought, had spotted each other across the floor at a dance hall in Albuquerque. He had been too scared to ask such a pretty girl to dance, but his friends and hers had pushed them out onto the dance floor. They were married three weeks later. Soon a baby was on the way, and he had moved them out here to their own little house far away from the pressing matters of the "big" city. They had been happy here, a second baby girl adding to his joy, and his modest trucking business providing well enough.

His weeks were long, but coming home after a long stretch was the greatest feeling in the world. He would honk his horn as he drew up, and his girls would come running out waving and laughing with joy as he parked his bright yellow truck next to the little house. He would leap from the cab, scoop his daughters up in his arms and spin them around, kissing them and loving on them, their laughter and adoration renewing his will to live.

As he put them down and they spun away in dizzy circles, his wife would step out onto the porch, an apron tied tightly around her tiny waist, a smile on her face. He would approach the porch, stopping on the top step to look into her happy eyes before kissing her deeply. This was their heaven on earth, their own private eternity. Everything they could ever want was growing within the shelter of these walls.

"Matthew, check this out." Michael’s voice cut my dream right down the middle, but it was just as well, because I was sure to imagine something bad happening to that happy little family, something that destroyed them. Turning from the truck, I walked inside the little house, which now seemed haunted, to see what Michael had discovered.

"Take a picture of me on the floor, like an addict passed out in a crack house." Michael laughed, breaking open my somber mood.

I looked around the room. It was littered with broken furniture, trash, and a generation of dust. It looked as though some bad calamity had indeed befallen the little family. They must have left in a heartbroken instant. I kicked at an old toaster that appeared to be full of straw. "It does look like a crack house," I marveled, turning on the camera and taking a few photos of Michael lying on the floor with a clouded Mason jar in his hand.

We spent a few minutes exploring the inside of the house before heading out to the back yard. An old water tank sat atop a crumbling concrete shed. Michael scrambled up the side of it and peered inside to snap a photo. We worked our way around the house to the truck, and I climbed into the cab. There was a large hole in the windshield, and Michael took a picture when I stuck my head through it and made a nasty face, as if I were flying out onto the road.

"We should get going," I said with great reluctance. I could have explored the little town for the rest of the afternoon, waiting for dark when all the ghosts would appear.

"Wait," Michael said, running over and picking up a long, narrow piece of shredded tire. He leaned back, spread his feet in a powerful stance, and held the piece of tire up into the air like a bow, his other hand pulled back against his chest as if pulling on its string. The tire arced like a longbow made from black wood, adding to the effect.

"Hold it, don’t move, you look so cool right now. Let me get a picture!" The sun cast a long shadow on the road, of Michael pulling back on his bow, reminding me of the Native American petro glyphs that I had seen on my last trip to Arizona.

Back at the car, Michael drew a line through "abandoned building" on the bucket list. While he did, I took a moment to check on Jared. He was right where we had left him, a neat little package resting on the back seat, wrapped carefully in what had been one of his favorite tee shirts. I thought about the many times Jared had told me that he wanted nothing more out of life than to know the happy comfort that comes from true love. I reached out and touched the soft grey cotton fabric of my little brother’s tee shirt, wondering how many years it would take for the color to fade, like the once bright yellow paint of that forgotten truck.

"Keep your eyes peeled for a windmill and an oil well," I reminded Michael as I climbed behind the wheel.

"Will do." He replaced the notebook and pulled out a cigarette.

I rolled the windows down and puzzled over the owner of the yellow truck. What could have brought such an abrupt end to his living dream?

Blues and Greys

2011-01-31T22:25:00.000-05:00

And on the eighth day, God created the Dallas Cowboys. Years later in a stony communique with a man named Moses, he stopped short of adding an eleventh commandment to love the Cowboys above all other teams. With that being said, I've read the text between the lines in Exodus, and so I do as God says.

Much like the Jews living under the copper fist of slavery in Egypt, I spent four long years of my childhood in Steeler country, just outside of Pittsburgh. I took my share of beatings for the love of God's team. During the 1970s the Cowboys went to the Superbowl five times, losing to the Steelers twice. New England fans could learn a thing or two from my eight year old self. It takes little heart to cheer when those you love are winning, but it takes everything you have to keep cheering when they lose.

I was in the third grade when the Cowboys lost the Superbowl to the Steelers in 1979. I was puny, weighing about as much as the pads that Roger Staubauch donned each week before heading out onto the gridiron. Still, I loved my Cowboys, and so I wore my number 12 jersey to school the next day with courage and pride. I got my ass kicked, and the teachers watched. No bloody nose, no abrasions, but some bruises that my favorite shirt covered up well. Worse than the physical thumping was the verbal abuse. I was threatened, called filthy names, and teased without mercy.

The following year the Steelers once again made it to the Superbowl. This time they were to face the Los Angeles Rams. I had a choice to make. My Cowboys were out of it, and while I didn't love them any less, you can't pull for a team that isn't playing. I agonized over what to do. Steelers fans were the sworn enemy of Cowboys fans, and to become one, no matter the reasoning, seemed a betrayal of the highest degree. On the other hand, the Rams had taken Dallas out of contention, and I loved them not a whit. To pull for the Rams was a fresher betrayal of my 'boys.

Putting all of the above aside, I felt that for once I might belong if I could find it within myself to cheer for the "Black and Gold." I had never fit in at school; it seemed that everything I did served to push me further away from popularity. I longed for complete social invisibility and the comfort I imagined it would bring. To be ignored entirely had to be better than living every day as a walking target.

After a few days of painful deliberation, I decided that the better benefit would be to embrace the enemy of my enemy for a short while. I thought I might find temporary refuge from the storm of social persecution that had rained upon me for years.

It amazed me, how quickly the mindless mouth-breathers accepted me into their black and gold flock. All I had to do was declare my (momentary) loyalty to the Steeler cause. The mad mob rushed to embrace me as if I had arrived at an ill-planned lynching with a rope in one hand and a stack of pizzas in the other. I was soon enjoying the thrill of walking through the lunchroom rather than being chased, and the odd joy of sitting with fellow students as I ate. I felt no shame in opening my lunch box to reveal a homemade lunch, as my peers inhaled hot brown food substitutes from the green plastic trays that were in my mind the lunchtime standard of popularity.

I was soon reminded, however, that my childhood was not destined to be one of fearless security, endless acceptance, and joyful ease. The recollection itself was not so difficult to take as the fact that it came from such an unexpected direction.

I was at home one afternoon, singing the Steeler fight song that my new friends had taught me. I don't remember the words now, I never intended to. I knew that ours was a winter romance, centered around one Sunday night in Pasadena. After the game (win or lose Pittsburgh) I would let the fervor die down for a week before putting on my Cowboys gear again, and wait for another year of ass-kicking and solitary confinement to commence. Nevertheless, I knew the words on that afternoon and my heart was happy, so I gave them voice as I sat on the floor and played with my Star Wars toys.

"Matthew, stop singing that song! It hurts my feelings!" The sudden boom of my mother's voice bouncing off the paneled walls of the family room startled me into silence.

"I grew up in the Los Angeles area, you know that. Didn't you stop and think that I might want the Rams to win? " I stared at the floor rather than face her. An action figure quivered in my hand.

She went on to explain how insensitive and thoughtless I had been in my decision to cheer on a team that stood between her hometown and a championship title. I knew then that I had hurt my mother with my reckless betrayal of the Cowboys. And for what? A short break from the persecution of my classmates, who were sure to go back to hating me the moment I showed up for school dressed in blue and silver. I felt the warm welling of tears, but held them back as best I could. I sat on the floor, quiet, embarrassed, and ashamed. Within a few moments she was gone, and I was left to digest what had occurred. I spent the rest of the afternoon in muted play, unable to fully enjoy myself.

Later that night, as I lay in my bed wondering what I was to do about school the next day, I began to think about mom's blitzkrieg-like descent upon my new found social standing. I searched my memory banks for a single instance of my mother having claimed the Rams as her favorite football team. I could not recall one such moment; in fact everything I had ever heard her say about California led me to believe that she had fled the state like a refugee. I could not understand her intentions, and it angered me that she would accuse me of being insensitive, when she herself had been so thoughtless.

Still, she was my mother, and I feared her. I decided to root for the Steelers in secret at home, and with great vigor at school. All that week, there were pep rallies and posters making parties, and I participated in all of them. I made new friends, stopped fearing the bullies, and even garnered the respect of the teachers that had given me such grief over my love for the Cowboys.

The day came and the Steelers beat the Rams without much trouble. I was happy inside, and ignored my mother as best I could. The following day I shared in the joy at school, squeezing the last bit of happiness out of a strange situation.

Life soon returned to normal. I didn't last the wee, and the blue and silver colors of my apparel betrayed my true loyalties, and I was cast out, forced to live once again on the fringes of schoolyard society. The Cowboys have since had their ups and downs, and but for a few moments of disgust with some of their off the field antics, I have remained loyal. So much so that I was once caught half-naked in a hospital waiting room, watching the Cowboys play the Bills. It was Superbowl XXVII, and I should have been in surgery prep, having my privates shaved for an emergency appendectomy.

All of this loyalty has paid off, for I now have an heir in Solomon, my eight year old son. He loves his Cowboys, and is so fond of the sweatshirt that we bought him for Christmas that we have to sneak it into the wash.

My oldest, Caleb, was born in Seattle. Though he doesn't watch much football, he has expressed a love for the Seattle Seahawks. This year, they surprised everyone by beating the Superbowl champion Saints up and down the field, expelling them from the playoffs.

Gee, isn't he lucky I never lived in New Orleans?

Will The Gay Giraffes Go To Hell?

2011-01-26T00:02:00.001-05:00

Giraffes have always fascinated me. Their long necks and dark tongues, along with the fact that they remain for the most part mute would qualify them as excellent candidates for family members. Their heads up in the clouds, they munch on leaves that few other animals can reach while little birds perch on their backs and search their skin for ticks to eat.

I have recently given giraffes some thought while driving from one appointment to another, and these are some of the things that occurred to me regarding the tallest animal on earth.

I am confident that given the chance, giraffes could really get into yoga. Their long necks and legs would flex and bend with such grace into all of the poses that yoga offers. Happy Baby and Frog would be the ones I'd most like to see a giraffe attempt, as well as the entire Warrior series. My only concern would be the uncontrollable farting. It always seems to befall me whenever I practice yoga, so it stands to reason that it would befall giraffes as well.

I also think that giraffes would make great therapists. As I mentioned earlier, they are for the most part mute, which could make them good listeners. Being so very tall, they are very aware of everything going on around them. Their early warning system might easily be converted to watch for the onset of all sorts of mental and emotional afflictions. They also look down on the rest of the animal kingdom, and I am sure that more than one human therapist does the same with their patients. My last therapist kept calling me by my brother's name. What would Freud say about that?

Regardless of their height advantage, I don't think that giraffes would be very good at basketball. I doubt they could dribble without losing control of the ball due to the cloven shape of their feet. They can also kick the head off a lion, so their passes would be far to dangerous to catch. On a side note, last week I had the great pleasure of going to a Celtic's game. Even from the nosebleed seats, Shaq looked like a giraffe that swallowed a family of hippos. The man is very large.

I do think that giraffes would make great friends. They seem calm and patient, and not all that demanding. Since they can kick the head off a lion and run thirty miles per hour, they would be good to have on your side in a fight. If something was out of reach, they could grasp it for you and bring it down to your level. I once saw a video of tick birds eating the flesh right out of huge open sores on the skin of a living giraffe. It reminded me that relationships can be draining at times, and it is easy to be taken advantage of. I would never eat the flesh of a living giraffe friend. That would be too rude, as well as disgusting.

In documented studies, it has been shown that male giraffes tend to "neck" with each other, and this behavior often leads to them mounting each other to completion. Indeed, 50% of all male giraffes are bisexual in their behavior. Only about 1% of female giraffes participate in similar behavior with those of their same sex, leading me to believe that very few lady giraffes ever lived in a sorority, and that most male giraffes will probably go to hell, if so very many of the world's religions have their say.

What a shame.

Reaction Time

2011-01-15T01:53:00.000-05:00

I might have been twelve, I don’t remember. The warm surge of blood, the beating of my heart, and the adrenalin coursing through my system as I felt the release; it all felt so satisfying. I didn’t understand why, but I certainly wasn’t going to ask anyone for answers. It just happened one day. It felt good, so I kept doing it.

My hands have always been fast. I remember the day we measured reaction times in science class. Each lab partnership was given a specially marked ruler. The test was simple; your lab partner held the ruler in the air, while you waited for them to drop it without warning. The line pinched by your thumb and forefinger denoted your reaction time. I had the shortest. My lab partner was a mammoth-sized football player. He was impressed with my speed and spent the bulk of the lab time talking about how fast I was. He shook his head in disbelief as he made me catch the ruler over and over again. I felt special, but in a good way. I had never been the best at anything other than acting like a punching bag. Still, I didn’t share my newfound habit with him. That would have been weird.

That habit has since divided into three separate manifestations. I have never demonstrated any of them in full for anyone. Elizabeth has heard the sounds, caught hints at times, but I am not sure that she has ever witnessed the complete process. It’s not that I am embarrassed to show her, she knows everything about me. I just don’t show anyone. My habits are like cats humping; we all know it happens, but has anyone ever seen it?

Of the three, my bathroom habit is the most vulnerable to detection. Keeping secrets in public bathrooms is tough. I used to wait until I was alone, or go into a stall for privacy. Over time I have devised a subtle way of making it happen without detection. I can stand at a urinal and do it with confidence, even if there is no divider, like in the bathrooms at Fenway Park.

But I did get caught recently. I was alone in the restroom at a client’s office. Those are dangerous moments. When alone I tend to take it up a notch, making the most of the solitude. It’s quite a display. On this particular morning the owner of the company walked in and I couldn’t stop fast enough. He paused, his mouth hanging open. My hands and eyes didn’t have anywhere to hide. An awkward moment passed between us before he farted and walked into the stall to crap. I zipped up and flushed, my face warm with embarrassment. I felt better when he started to laugh. I guess everyone has his or her strange and unexplained habits of comfort. At least mine don’t release clouds of noxious gas.

They release clouds of tension.

Behold! My ticks...

1. When taking a piss, I hold out my hand (or hands, it depends) and twitch my wrists. My fore, third, and pinky fingers are extended. My second finger is curled into my palm. The rapid twitching makes my ring finger slap against my thumb at a high rate of speed. It sounds like a plush machine gun. If I am alone, my arm makes wide circles over my head. The veins in my temples expand and my eyes open wide. A second or two more and it ends. The rush recedes. Flush, wash, and exit, a paper towel in hand for opening the door.

2. In the shower, my hands slide-clap against each other. It starts with my arms straight and low, my wrist pressed together. They slide back and forth against each other, gaining speed. My fingers slap against my palms until everything is numb. The sensation flows up to my shoulders and into my back, and then recedes back down my arms and out the tips of my fingers. The tension slips down the drain with the soapy water.

3. While pulling on my pants, I shake them. It starts as I slide the first leg in and continues until it is over, typically when my pants are up to my knees. Sometimes I am still shaking them as I button up the fly. It depends. Muscles in my neck flex, and from them bursts a sudden rapture. It flows down my back and into my legs.

I have noticed an increase in the intensity of these moments since Elizabeth and I found my little brother Jared dead from suicide in the woods. I still don’t think that it’s OCD. No one will suffer if I skip it. Harm will not seek me out should I stop mid-cycle.

I don’t have to do it, I just do.

Surfing For Dollars (and pride).

2011-01-09T22:32:00.000-05:00

Neil is a friend.

Captain Rob is a friend.

Captain Rob bet Neil that he could get me to go surfing.

Neil tried to pay me double not to go.

Neil owes Rob some money, and I'm going surfing again.

New

2011-01-05T22:03:00.000-05:00

Watching this made me very happy this afternoon.

I was at home alone watching a trashy BBC

soap and browsing for some sweet

house beats on youtube.

I came upon a Journey remix with a nice thump

and a smooth blending with the original vocals.

To the right were listed other videos

that youtube thought I might like.

Not sure why this was on there, or why

I clicked it, but I am glad I did.

Everyone should be in a music video

like this one.

Maybe I'll make one with my wife and kids.

The Jesus Of Prostitutes

2010-12-25T01:44:00.000-05:00

I have been asked by more than one reader if I would explain the term "Jesus of prostitutes" that I added to my thankful list last month. Since today is Christmas, I thought now would be a great time to explain.

Have you ever longed for something that you really don't want to have? Do you know what it's like to hold at arm's length someone that you want to embrace? Maybe you've run from something that you wish would catch up to you.

Years ago, Elizabeth and fell in love without warning. (That really is the best way to do it, a sudden, explosive, spirited attraction.) Wanting to be together, we tried to bolt from each other instead. We may have run, but we wanted the same thing; to be chased and eventually caught. That thrill of the hunt(ed) carried over into our marriage. We played the chase and prey game for a long while, although not always in a good way. They were passionate, yet tiresome years, and at some point we decided to stop running and be happy. We harnessed the passion to better use. It has worked out well.

These days I find myself on the run again, but not from Elizabeth. The Jesus of prostitutes is a term I grabbed from a song called "Hawthorne" by Mat Kearney. The Jesus of prostitutes is nothing more than Jesus himself, the star of this weekend's show. He is hot on my heels, chasing my soul. I hear his footsteps behind me. I sense his urgency to reach me. It's not that I don't want him to catch me. I just don't want him to catch me yet. Because it's nice to be wanted. No matter how undeserving I might feel or be.

Anyone that believes in Jesus should know that feeling. To be wanted by him, regardless of their faults.

After all, he came for the imperfect; he's the Jesus of prostitutes.

Photos From The Edge Of My Phone

2010-12-23T08:50:00.000-05:00

I take photos of bathrooms. Here's one in a gas station near Newburyport, MA.

Shopping for the zombie apocalypse.

So hot. Nothing like your woman holding a weapon and shouting at varmints.

I couldn't resist.

Shopping with Caleb is always lined with laughter.

Solomon studying his spelling list for school. Notice how the hole in the sock does not detract from the coolness this kid exudes.

Solomon waiting for the toast.

This was me waiting for the toast 35 years ago.

Roller derby. Everyone should go to at least one bout.

Imogen Heap in Boston at the sweaty theater. Girl got mad skills.

Mat Kearney up in Maine. Boy got mad skills.

Moving my brother David up to Dover on the hottest day in recent history. Somebody get my ass a towel!

My brother Michael playing guitar in my yard. Boy got mad skills.

Michael Meyers smoking a cig.

How's about a poke? Check out the 'tache and the tight 80's jeans! Sexy smokin' hot!

Only uncle Michael can do Hannah's hair the way she likes it.

Hello Good People, It's Me. Are You Out There?

2010-12-03T00:32:00.001-05:00

I wanted to chemically alter my state of being. I bought the kids a trampoline instead.

As we were setting it up, a hornet stung my left arm. Right on the muscle. I swiped at the pain, and the nasty little bugger leapt from my arm to my hand, stinging me again. The sting on my knuckle began to throb in time with the one on my arm.

I do not like being stung once, let alone twice. Elizabeth was there for me, sweet salve and soft bandages at the ready. My hand began to swell and a lump formed on the underside of my arm. I am not allergic, and the pain would have subsided without her attentions. But who doesn't like some love and kindness when they are stung?

Later, while once again assembling the trampoline, I picked up a bolt. There was a sharp metal sliver clinging to the head. It pierced my thumb. Blood dripped down onto page three of the trampoline assembly instructions that I had placed on the ground between my knees.

I thought about that bolt later, while underwater in the tub (yeah, I tub). That metal splinter had been hanging on to that bolt since the machining process. It made it through the cold forging, the inspection, the packaging, the shipping, and the storage phase of that bolt's journey. It waited in that plastic bag, deep inside the giant box that held the trampoline destined to be ours. How long it had to wait to cut me I do not know, but I bet it was a long time.

For many years I could not understand why Jared would get so angry at God when a plane crashed, killing happy, traveling people. I remember his rage at the news about a little boy from Cambridge, MA that had gone missing. The boy's body was discovered some time later, in a weighted rubbermaid bin at the bottom of a pond near Jared's house. Jared lived up in Maine at the time, a long haul from the boy's neighborhood. My little brother was visibly shaken when he described to me the wellspring of emotions that roiled inside his heart and mind during his daily drives over that bridge. A happy, innocent, undamaged boy had been discarded like trash after being tortured, raped, and murdered. To know that as he drove over that bridge ate at away at Jared's loving heart. He was angry at God for letting it happen. I tried to explain that God didn't let it happen, but that he loved the little boy. I told him that the men responsible were just bad people, and that they would pay someday.

It didn't soften Jared's anger. He couldn't fathom a loving Father in Heaven that would allow men that would do that to a boy come to earth to live. I couldn't either, but I held the party line, stating that the devil was at work in the world and that some men were just plain evil. I had heard grown men that I respected say it, and it felt like a reasonable explanation at the time. Jared didn't agree. I was uncomfortable with his bitterness towards heaven, and blind to the foundation of his rage.

Until now.

I myself am not bitter towards heaven, but I am beginning to understand Jared's bitterness. We grew up together in the same house, in the same church. We sat near each other in Sunday School, listened to the same sermons and teachers, and of course, the same parents. While I was infatuated with every older girl I met, Jared was confused about his feelings for our father's male friends. I felt guilty for some of the things I did which were "bad," but the impulses that I gave into were categorized as "the natural man,"and so I at least had a fighting chance. Jared's impulses were, on the other hand, categorized as "unnatural," and so he was a living affront to God and his plan for man. Jared could not understand the motivations of a "loving" God that had sent him to earth as a homosexual, while commanding him not to be one at the same time. Add to that life-long challenge the insensitive, unforgiving nature of religious zealots and the rejection of family members. The odds against a happy life go from bad to incalculable.

I cannot recall ever having heard that the world would be better off without my "kind" of people, and that we should all be gathered together onto an island and nuked. To have heard that must have made Jared's heart weaken, and his blood to lay still and cold in his veins. If being gay is unnatural, then what is it to be so hateful and cruel? Seems unnatural to me, maybe anyone who thinks that way should be gathered together on an island...

What does all this mean? The hell if I know, I freely admit to wandering in mind, body, and spirit for some time now. It does feel good to express myself though, no matter how few people hear me. Or how even fewer of those that hear me will understand me.

The other day we went into the elementary school for a parent-teacher conference with Solomon's teacher. She said something that split a crack right down the middle of my grey, letting a burst of happy sunlight shine through. She confessed to having told the kids in her class that she didn't care how long it took them to read or write well. She only cared that they become good people.

I think the world would be better off with more people like that. Let's gather them all together on an island, so I can go live there.

Thanks, in no particular order, for...

2010-11-26T02:50:00.000-05:00

-ICarly-it'sfunny, with (or without) the kids
-Chicago with Elizabeth, Ricky Gervais, and Louis CK, and hotel sex (with Elizabeth, not Ricky Gervais and/or Louis CK
-The sound of Michael's car pulling up in front of the house
-Harper Blynn's cover of Beyonce's "Halo"
-Courier Font
-The Jesus of prostitutes
-Judy, the waitress with the crooked back that works at the T n' A diner and serves up great pie
-Hannah's kick-ass attitude (most days)
-Solomon's mischief
-Caleb's confidence
-Dark Chocolate
-Jared, for wandering in and out of my dreams once again
-The BBC (1, 2, 3, 4...)
-Alien Beings
-Calm without an impending storm
-Weird, honest, friendly, good, and real people
-Books, Words, Language, Expression
-Feeling good
-My newly open mind
-A man named Zap Rowsdower
-Fried turkey and nobody to share it with but the wife and kids
-The 4th of July Rodeo
-Headphones-so many applications for them it astounds me
-Snaps on my shirts
-Planet Fitness
-Great clients
-The Ability and Will to change

Black Op

2010-11-15T21:24:00.000-05:00

It was a beautiful day for killing. The sun was warm and the air still. Mark and I started out early that morning, riding motorcycles up the mountain. We each carried both a rifle and a pistol, and two bricks of 22 caliber ammo between us. The ammo would last for half the day if we took our time and shot patiently.

We set up our shooting stand atop the massive rock formation in the center of our favorite meadow. I had always imagined the long, flat rock to be a sacrificial alter placed at the center of the grassy meadow by an ancient tribe of deadly warriors. Thousands of years before Mark and I showed up it had been bathed in the blood of captured enemies, ugly women, and small children.

We loaded our guns and began to shoot at anything that chirped, tweeted, or flew. Our first several shots were disappointing, but we soon dialed in our sights and our nerves. Before long we were hitting just about everything we aimed at. The rifles worked best, but we used the pistols for celebratory shots directed skyward. In between volleys and reloads we would sip soda, munch snacks, and wait for the birds spooked by our gunfire to return.

We were patient. The ammo lasted for hours.

Long after the cracks of our final shots faded, Mark and I sat and listened for sounds of life in the meadow. We heard nothing but grasshoppers twitching in the grass. Bloodlust coursing through our veins, we walked out into the grass and inspected some of our kills.

I have shot many guns since that day, but not one of them has been aimed at a bird.

Don't ask me about chipmunks, rats, or squirrels.

Some Hose, Some Hose, My Kingdom For Some Hose!

2010-11-09T21:26:00.000-05:00

I don't recall the first time I noticed them, maybe the nurse that carried me fresh from the womb and over to the heat lamp was wearing a pair (white in color would be my guess). The swish of her nylon-sheathed thighs might have brought on my first smile, or my first gasp for breath.

Most of what I remember about my first grade teacher was the soft sound her legs would make as she walked past me, sitting on the floor of her classroom with a book in my lap. In memories she is nothing more than a pair of light brown legs that I want to reach out and touch. It was in first grade that I first made accomplices of dropped pencils, loosely tied laces, and insects. They all made excellent excuses for dropping to the ground. Down there I could sneak a better look at all the lovely nylon columns swishing past me.

In third grade, my dreams were weird. I remember the most common, in which all of the female teachers would line up in the main hall of our school. They were always wearing nothing but tight fitting body suits made out of panty hose. These suits were something I imagined as fantastic but impossible. I did not know a thing about lingerie in those days, and so I had no idea that such outfits did in fact exist. Had I known, my Christmas wish lists might have shocked my parents. Since I wasn't all that familiar with the female anatomy, the women in this dream were, but for their most obvious curves, androgynous. I would walk along their ranks like a drill sergeant and pick out my favorites. These favorites would then climb onto a long waterbed in a long locked room. Once they were settled into a comfortable row of floating panty hose and soft curves, I would disrobe and roll over the top of them. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, I continued to roll, enjoying the silky layer of nylon bobbing up and down beneath me. Though I loved the sensation, the dream always ended in a hollow feeling, as if something more was supposed to have occurred. Nothing ever did, and so I would wake up to a frustration that I did not understand. The only thing I knew with certainty was that I was a sick little boy that would never spend any amount of time in heaven.

In fifth grade I spent so much time picking up pencils in front of my favorite teacher's desk that one day she actually asked me how the view was from "down there." In an instant I was flash frozen to the floor by my shame. She would tell my parents. I would be exposed to the world for the creepy kid that I already knew myself to be. My family would be humiliated. Dad would lecture and Mom would cry. I would be punished by my parents, shunned at church, and expelled from school. No longer welcome at home, I'd have to run away and live in the woods near the cemetery. My brothers would divide up my Star Wars toys, and I would soon be forgotten. These were my thoughts as I slowly climbed to my feet. Standing before my teacher, a red mask of guilt covering my face, I expected her to hiss, screech, and curse my name. Instead, she smiled at me. After a very long moment I retreated to my desk, confused, worried, and embarrassed. I had been caught on all fours, staring at my teacher's legs; why wasn't I on my way to the principal's office, or being pushed into the back of a police car? Every day for the rest of the school year was an experience in awkward agony, putting a damper on my panty hose habit for a long spell.

Easter, the celebration of the resurrection, and another reason for me to hang my head in absolute shame. Little plastic eggs hidden around the house by a magical rabbit. They should have held no real significance for me in relation to my eternal well being, but they did. Those little plastic eggs would mock me every year, reminding me of my nylon hunger. They were just miniature versions of those I saw in panty hose ads on television, and on display in great big bins at department stores.

By the eighth grade, I knew a heck of a lot more about the female anatomy than I had in third grade. This was due in part to the many pencils dropped more conspicuously in grades four through seven, as well as many magazines stolen from under the mattress of my friend's older brother. The distractions that this new knowledge about girls brought on forced a great portion of my nylon fantasies into remission. This did nothing for my salvation, nor did it erase any of my guilt, however, because my focus had only been redirected to what was behind the nylons.

As a twelve year old I tended to drift in and out of attention during church meetings. I wanted to be anywhere else, except for school of course. Church was (and still is) boring, monotonous, and spiritually tedious, especially for the guilty. I already knew that I was going to hell, and that my life would produce nothing of great value. Why did I have to be reminded of that every week by some creepy old man with a greasy grey comb over and a vacuum-like sense of humor that sucked all the fun out of the room?

To further compound my confusion over religion, one Sunday morning the old face informed us that we had to produce a video for the upcoming church film festival. He presented his idea, which was based on the "less filling, tastes great" tag-line argument of a popular beer commercial. Our commercial would be for panty hose. We would split into two factions, arguing over whether it was the fact that the nylons were "laced great" or that they were "less chilling" that made them the best brand of panty hose to wear. The hilarity of the video would be that a group of twelve year old boys were dressed up as women. We would all, of course, have to wear nylons for the video.

I remember sliding into them on the day of the shoot. I sat on my bed and collected one side of the panty hose up into my fingers like the women in so many commercials I had watched over the years. My toes pointed, I slid them over my foot and up along my leg, smoothing them out as I did. They were so soft and cool against my skin! It was wonderful. Years before, my mother had made me wear tights to school in the winter. I hated them. I had sworn to never don them again, and that I would never force my future sons into such a humiliating position. But this was somehow different. While I felt silly for wearing something made exclusively for women, I felt as if I were being let in on a secret that only women knew. Soon both legs were covered in a thin, silky membrane. I closed my eyes and rubbed my hands over them, imagining Kate Varnseck's legs instead of mine.

Soon I was dressed as a woman. Complete with makeup, hat, shoes, and a purse, I walked through the neighborhood without a thought to being embarrassed. There was no way anyone would recognize me all made up and dressed like a woman, and I really didn't care anyway. The video shoot went well. I hammed it up, slapping a hand on my thigh, stomping my heels, and heaving a big sigh as I argued my case for why the panty hose were so great to wear. I don't recall if I was assigned the "less chilling" or the "laced great" side of the argument, but I do remember the sensation of the cool air on my legs as I crossed them in mock disgust during the debate.

While I enjoyed my brush with panty hose, it didn't stick. That video shoot brought an end to my obsession. I was like a boy whose father makes him smoke a whole cigar in order to kill his curiosity. I gave it a shot, and it didn't play out. I had never wanted to be a woman. While I still loved the soft, silky texture of panty hose, I found it easy to avoid wearing them. I do admit, however, to reaching out for a touch now and again, especially when offered the chance openly by a girl.

Years later, after lusting after many brunettes, I found myself enthralled, enraptured, and engaged to a feisty blonde. She was beautiful. I wanted to impress her. Shakespeare seemed a safe bet. I read to her from Romeo and Juliet by candlelight.

Wanting to look the part, I wore nylons.

A Happy Birthday Story for Jared

2010-10-25T23:52:00.000-04:00

We didn’t have to keep our eyes peeled for long. Within a few miles we were pulled over once again, Michael and I both running for the barbed wire fence.

“Hey, was ‘plastic eating cow’ on our list of photo ops?” I asked, pointing at a large brown beast standing in the shadow of my windmill. It was chewing on one end of a long piece of lightweight black plastic.

“Nice, get a picture of the plastic eater.” As he spoke, Michael was stretching his arms high into the air and tilting his head back, face to the sky. His words were accompanied by a loud groan of satisfaction, and he looked and sounded like a dog standing on his hind legs to stretch and yawn after a long nap.

I climbed the fence carefully, dropping down on the other side between two fresh piles of cow manure. “Watch your step,” I warned Michael as he followed me over into the minefield. I had noticed the state of his shoes when we stopped for lunch in Amarillo, and they were not fit for running carelessly through a field of moist cow crap. They were old and worn, the leather soft and pliable, like that of a beloved baseball glove. Not only were they creased with wear and shiny from age, but the heels were mashed flat. Michael no longer pulled them up over the heels of his feet, choosing instead to slide them onto his feet like leather slippers.

“I wouldn’t want you to get cow shit on your shoepers.” I shouted over my shoulder as I ran toward the windmill.

“Ha!” Michael caught the meaning of my word combination joke immediately, and laughed as he caught up with me.

“How can you run in those things?” I asked, not really looking for an answer.

Michael didn’t offer one anyway; he was focused on his stealthy approach towards the plastic-eating cow. He needn’t have bothered, because the cow was more intent on munching her synthetic snack.

“I think I’m gonna grab that out of her mouth.” Michael said, looking back at me with a grin.

“She’s gonna kick you.” I warned.

“You ready?”

“Yeah, I’m filming.” I answered, stepping in closer to capture the action.

Michael took a few quick steps alongside the cow, then reached out a hand and grabbed the plastic as he ran past. Instead of pulling free from the cow’s mouth, the plastic parted with a snap. Michael kept on running, circling the windmill while I laughed myself breathless. Through it all, the cow chewed on, impervious to my little brother’s attempt at stealing her treat.

Once the laughter faded, I turned my attention to the real reason for jumping the fence and risking a shoe full of cow manure. I stood at the base of the windmill and listened to it creak as the warm breeze turned it round and round. The metal blades sifted the afternoon sunlight, creating a dizzying pattern of shadows and light on the ground at my feet. I took a deep breath and held it in as a wave of unexpected emotion washed over me. I couldn’t suppress my sadness at the thought of passing countless windmills over so many years worth of family road trips, but never gathering enough courage to ask my father to pull over so that I could climb a barbed wire fence, run across a cow patty field, and stand this close to one. Regret and anger merged inside of me, just as it had so many times over the past several months. The good news was that I was becoming more proficient at converting the deadly cocktail of emotions into fuel for change within myself. A great part of that change had come in the realization that the happiest memories my children would carry with them into adulthood were sure to be the moments in which we shared something on their own level and terms instead of mine.

It was silly and I knew it, but standing in the shadow of that giant metal flower with tears in my eyes, I allowed myself to accept that I had chased down and conquered a windmill of my own. It felt good, and I shouted for joy before joining Michael in running back to the car, jumping over crap mines along the way.

A Comfortable Crisis

2010-10-06T20:50:00.000-04:00

You can find me on the couch. I'll be the one taking a long pull on a cigarette from one hand, with a bottle of beer in the other. A plate covered in pizza crusts rests on my lap, while pudding cups and cookies wrappers lie scattered about me. I lounge in my lightweight corduroys and a roller derby tee shirt, watching "Rev." on BBC and planning my next "wank" of the day. I am the one that looks numb while remaining wholly enraged. Unless you know where to buy some weed, don't bother knocking on the door.

Is there a point to this farce?

Not really, but it beats the hell out of commenting on a sermon filled with bigotry and fueled by ignorance, spewed forth in between discourses about a loving God that seems bent on confusing the heaven out of me.

Deposit

2010-08-30T23:52:00.000-04:00

As I drew to a complete stop at the top of the hill, I looked across the street and saw Jared sitting on a red milk crate. He was leaning against the brick wall of an old building, wearing a red flannel shirt and a pair of well worn blue jeans. A cigarette hung casually from the left corner of his mouth, and it looked about to fall, but somehow clung to his lip and even bounced a bit as he returned my stare with a smile. He was old; his hair grey, his face marked by crow's feet, and his eyes wise with experience. In his hands he held a sketch pad and pencil. He nodded at me, just as a tear splashed down onto my hand. A rumbling truck wrested me from the moment and I hit the gas, lurching forward. As I drove past, he held my gaze, cigarette still clinging to that smile.

I pulled into the parking lot less than a block away, parked and ran into the bank, spending all of thirty seconds inside to make a deposit. I jumped in my car and was back on the road in a flash, and as I approached the old building the thought occurred to me that I could, or rather that I should, sit down next to him and talk to him.

But he was already gone, leaving me to wonder a bit longer.

Going once, going twice, almost gone!

2010-08-12T21:58:00.000-04:00

While I appreciate a nicely restored car just as much as anyone else might, I am not one to spend my idle hours studying them, learning their horsepower, estimating their value, or memorizing the years they were produced and what might make them more collectible than other cars of their day.

Having said that, I do sometimes get caught up in something that I normally wouldn't find fascinating. I recently spent close to ten hours watching a weeklong car auction out of Indianapolis. There were over 1,700 cars to be sold, and the event was televised live in HD. I sat on the couch, usually with food or a laptop at hand (sometimes both), and watched as Corvettes, Mustangs, Chargers, Ramblers, Novas, Camaros, and many more makes and models than I can remember were rolled out for display and bidding.

Having been somewhat of a car junkie during my teenage years, I knew many of the cars that were pushed, pulled, and sometimes, but rarely driven up to the block (low mileage makes a car more collectible). I have always loved Porsches, and a few were sold, but the majority of the cars for sale were American cars, with American muscle under the hood and American memories behind the wheel. It was captivating, all that shiny chrome, bright paint, and pure horsepower on display en mass. I was drawn in and stayed there for days, watching to the end, until the very last car rolled off the red carpet and into a new owner's collection.

That auction set my mind to thinking, or rather many recent events, combined with that auction got me to thinking. There have been hundreds of makes and models of cars that will only ever be seen again in photos, film, or memories. These cars were functional enough in their day, (although that is probably debatable in many cases), but they were never as lovely or desirable as others, and therefore they have been allowed to rust away into memory. A photograph or the mention of them might bring to mind a road trip, a destination, a fight, a particular evening out, a life changing event, or even a specific relationship, but the fact remains that at some point they were no longer functional, practical, or desirable, and became more trouble than they were worth.

Much like those car models that never became collectable, I have over the past several months concluded that some of the relationships that I once thought of as useful, functional, reliable, lovable, and desirable should in fact be discarded and replaced with newer, highly functional, and more dependable models that will hopefully be instrumental in building new memories, new happiness, and in filling new photo albums. It has been and will continue (for a time) to be sad to let go of relationships that are no longer worth the time and effort of maintenance, but in the end the good will out. I have found that some things in life are easier to let go of than we first thought, especially when we have been kidding ourselves for years when it comes to their true value. The key is to know which relationships are worthy of attention, affection, devotion, and efforts towards restoration.

Of course, some people go missing regardless of how much we care, or how much we try, or how much we love. While these people may be the most precious, most lovable, and the most worthy of our attentions, we can not have them back in this life, no matter how hard we wish we could. These impossible situations are the most frustrating, because we will wish away our days, imagining that if we could have them for even but a few moments we would appreciate them for all that we didn't recognize in them before they left us. Living with this regret leaves a hollow space inside of us, one that cannot be filled, no matter the number of things we try to cram into the deep empty within us.

Among the relationships that I have had to let go of is one that has taken a little longer to break off than all the rest. It was a one-sided association with a judgmental, self-righteous, ignorant fool that refused to change, to flex, to question, to learn, or to grow. He was an intolerable tyrant that was quick to anger and slow to forgive. This guy was a real horse's ass, dwelling on the insignificant and carrying around with him the oppressive weight of grudge-filled buckets that dangled from the unwieldy yoke that had been laid across his shoulders at birth. Not someone that anyone with one-third of a heart would want to spend any measure of time with, he sucked the joy out of anything and anyone that dared to cross his path not looking, behaving, or believing as he did or as he thought they should. Farewell I say, to the ignorant dogmatist!

And so I admit to having been a right bastard, and I think that in order to make up for some of it, I'll buy Elizabeth a convertible someday, and we will drive away into the night without a thought to destination.