Kickball

S.O.S. (Save Our Summer), or, I dream of Joe Brainard.

2013-07-22T13:53:00.001-05:00

First and foremost, let’s all take a few deep collective breaths and calm way the fuck down.

I know it’s oppressively hot outside, the news media keeps telling me that it’s even hot in places where shit like that really matters, like New York City. I’ve never been a fan of the summer myself, it seems everyone gets too easily upset; scientifically speaking, heat agitates things and has a tendency to change their nature. It also makes trash smell way worse. So we all need to find a little shade and maybe a cold beverage and just take it easy for a minute. It’s like the sign on the side of the building says, “People Of The World: RELAX.”

Don’t know what I’m talking about? Here’s what people who haven’t been living in an ashram for the last six months have experienced: gays who want to get married against straights who don’t want the baby Jesus to cry, old white men with guns against young black men with sweatshirts, old white men against women’s vaginas (and not in a sexy way), the supremely wealthy (you guessed it, old white men) battling everything on God’s green Earth, and mostly winning, if you can call it that. From Trayvon Martin to Wendy Davis, from Edward Snowden to drones ripping through our airspace, from the erosion of our middle class to the cry of “entitlement” from above and below, from goddamn Supreme Court rulings that giveth and taketh away within a single 24-hour news cycle, we can’t seem to find our way to common ground anymore.

Maybe it’s time we took a little break, America. Maybe we should just see other people for a while. I, for one, wouldn’t mind spending some time with Western Europe. I hear she wears dresses, smokes cigarettes and always has wine at her place.

Even in Tulsa, my own “little engine that could”, there’s a debate over whose name will adorn an arts district that, although we love it with our whole hearts, no one from a larger city would give two shits about. The problem being that the dude it’s named after now (really old white man) in addition to being the one of the city’s founders, was also one of its larger racist cocksuckers. But people are more than willing to lie down on both sides of the tracks to make their point, to illustrate their higher moral stance, to attempt to win an argument that will be evidence to all within reach of social media that they are right. It is monumentally important to be thought of as "right" these days.

The sad part is it seems that everyone has just enough hope to keep fighting for their side, just enough energy to keep treading water and praying away the inevitable tide that will surely consume them. Everybody’s knocked in a few shots, but they know better than to look up at the scoreboard. It’s all too much and yet somehow never enough.

Perhaps that’s what happens to a country of people who have been constantly pitted against one another by decades of media savvy political puppet masters and are all so busy asking their doctors about drugs to make their fingernails whiter or their urine streams stronger, that we fail to see the bigger picture. Or maybe it’s just too damn hot (particularly in New York).

These issues are important. Human beings should have a point of view regarding them. I’m going to take a stand here and now on how I feel about these issues, and believe me, it is going against everything in my nature, every shred of decency left in me to do so.

Just for the record, I don’t give a fuck if you agree with me – it would be nearly impossible for most people to do so anyway. The wounds are too fresh, the soldiers are dug in and the shell casings still lie hot at their feet.

I just want it to be known that I am taking a stance on each of these issues using only one determining factor: common human fucking decency.

Benchley said, “There are two kinds of people in the world, those who believe there are two kinds of people, and those who don’t.” At this point in history, I suggest we have way too many people willing to subscribe to the viewpoint of the former.

So here goes. This is the part where I clear up everyone’s problems before the end of the summer so we can all spend August working on our tans, making out with people we once declared our mortal enemy and going on one epic badass float trip where everyone gets way out of control but no one dies tragically, cutting their lives short and shaming all of us involved into joining the clergy or worse, applying to law school.

First off, a subject most near and dear to my heart: Gay marriage.

Solution: Let gay people be married and receive the same rights the rest of the human population in our country receives.

Gay people are human, you know? They have blood and guts and feelings just like real people. And you know what else they do? They fuck just like the rest of us, well, not just like the rest of us, but you know what I mean. What the hell are we waiting for on this one? Are we waiting for our homophobic grandparents to die so we don’t have to talk to them about it?

The Queen Mum has given the go ahead for gay marriage and even Mexico has verde-lit the project in spite of being a nation hell bent on machismo and not particularly good at throwing parades.

Those of you who believe it is against God’s will, that’s fine, enjoy that belief. Tattoo it on your genitals. Buy a bullhorn, get some poster board, show up at places where gay people hang out (which by the way, would be EVERYWHERE) and let them know how disgusting they are to you and your Sunday school group.

Here’s the great part for you: you can quit spending time, money and energy opposing this from a political standpoint because marriage is a legal contract and not a biblical one. Even the leaders of the GOP have given up on this dog.

Listen, I know you get confused a lot because the people you hang out with keep telling you that the things you believe are always right, but here’s one way you can tell the difference between what you believe and what is actually true: churches need weddings, but weddings don’t need churches. Moving on.

Second: Trayvon Martin/Gun Control.

This is beyond a tragedy and anyone who touts it as a “win” for the NRA or any other entity is a complete asshole. Trayvon Martin’s case is symptomatic of the greater diseases, which are gun ownership and the state laws that govern gun ownership.

Look, I don’t understand guns and I don’t enjoy hunting, but a lack of understanding was never enough of a reason for me to wish the removal of them from those who do enjoy them. I’m not that kind of prick.

The problem is that those who enjoy the recreational use of guns have not done an effective job of keeping guns away from sociopaths who enjoy using them for shooting and killing people.

Sorry, if you loved guns you should have been willing to have extensive background checks, mandatory waiting periods and the closure of gun show sale loopholes. I love beer and I had to wait 21 years to drink it legally, I have to have a state issued license to prove I can buy it, and there are a host of laws governing what I can do with it once I get it - you don’t see me complaining.

And don’t even start with that bullshit argument about needing guns to organize a militia in case our government starts to turn on us. Guess what? They already fucking did. The NSA has been spying on every one of us. Where’s your fucking elite army of well-trained Joe six-packs? I didn’t see anything on the nightly news about you guys storming the White House or ambushing Camp Lejeune. Two words: drone bait.

Here’s how the gun laws should go, and if you feel like you’re being treated like children, it’s because you’ve been acting like them: Take away all guns for now and once everybody calms down we’ll give shotguns back to hunters, then we’ll take it from there.

Third: Local shit.

In case you weren’t aware, there are a host of buildings, businesses, and areas in Tulsa named after one Wyatt Tate Brady. Brady was a founding member and one of the earliest business owners in Tulsa. Basically, he set up a host of businesses that benefitted from the oil boom after the turn of the century: hotels, parking garages, stuff like that. It wasn’t rocket surgery. Also, in case you weren’t aware, Tulsa was the setting for one of, if not the most gruesome race riots in U.S. history.

So what the fuck does any of this have to do with the price of corn in Bixby?

Well, in addition to starting businesses in Tulsa, Ol’ Tater also helped organize groups that later morphed into the KKK. Additionally, he helped to pass laws to make sure that those African Americans who had lived and worked in the area razed in the riots could not legally redevelop it. Oopsie.

The thing is that when you help found a city, particularly from a financial perspective, people name shit after you. No big deal. But let’s be honest, Brady didn’t found Tulsa the way that John Smith founded Jamestown. He showed up with cash and built a hotel for people to eat, drink, fuck and sleep in. If he hadn’t done it, some other asshole would have. Anyway, he was a prick, and he blew his own brains out at the breakfast table in his mansion – a mansion called “Arlington”, that was built as a replica to General Robert E. Lee’s family home in Virginia. Coincidentally, that mansion sets at the entrance of the neighborhood in which I live, which is named Brady Heights.

So the question is: Do you remove Brady’s name from everything (a street, a theater, a neighborhood, an arts district) or not?

Here are the answers based on pure logic:

The street:

I don’t know. Seems like it might cost a lot and there’s not really a lot of punch there. I mean, a lot of other streets in town are named after people and I’m sure some of them were racists too, or worse, Unitarians. Seems like not enough bang for the buck.

The Theater:

The theater is so named because it sits on the street. It’s not like they only have white acts play there, or only let whites in the door. Also, it is privately owned so nobody I know could make them change the name. It’s my favorite place in Tulsa to watch a musical act, and they call it the “Old Lady on Brady”. The owners can call it what they want. I don’t care.

The Neighborhood:

Let the people who live there vote on it and decide. Fuck the rest of you.

The Arts District:

This group of people, the business owners of the area, doesn’t want to change the name. They claim it’s because “it’s such an artsy, inclusive area now that it is a fine example of how things change over time and now we are so much better than we were back then” or some bullshit. That’s more than likely a lie. The Brady Arts District has spent a boatload of money on branding (even though no one outside of Oklahoma has ever heard of it) and you don’t rebrand a horse in midstream or some shit. The bottom line is that the businesses in the area are thriving, no one is picketing and very few people give a shit – they just want to get drunk in a different part of town. We’re pretty simple that way. The name’s not going to change. The people who ran this town in 1921 didn’t care about black people and the people who run it today don’t either, they’d just rather you think that they did.

Now here’s the answer based on human decency:

Remove the name. Remove it from everything. Remove it because an entire race of people was hurt beyond comprehension. Remove it because people are still struggling to this very day because of the actions of that man. Remove his name from places of fun, discovery, peacefulness and respect. Add his name to history books and make sure it sticks.

Last: Vaginas.

You’d think I’d be happy to write about this subject, but I assure you that I am not. Old White Guys need to stay the fuck out of women’s reproductive areas – figuratively and probably literally.

What the fuck is wrong with you Old White Guys? Are you so hopped up on Lipitor and Cialis that it seems like a good idea to constantly whip your dicks out and show everybody whose boss? This game is getting old.

We realize that you have ALL the money and ALL the power, but you had better play it cool. You have been fucking us up for quite some time now and I got a feeling you’re about to receive an ass whippin’ of magnificent proportions.

The way I feel about Old White Guys is kinda like the way I feel about the whole gun control thing, which, when you think about it...: “You had your shot. We did it your way, and you know what? It sucks for everybody except you now. Fuck that. Time to try something else.”

I am going to take particular pride in watching Old White Guy’s regime come tumbling down – I’ve hated their message since the word jump street. There’s nothing redeemable about this crew. They can’t sing, they can’t dance, and they’re cocky as fuck. Time for a gut check, Chief Executive Cocksuckers. If you’re as self-reliant as you tell the rest of us to be, you ought to be out of the gutter in time for your morning meds. Good luck. Ain’t nobody gonna feel sorry for you when you go down.

Now that I’ve solved everyone’s summer problems, can we please get back to what this time of year is supposed to be all about?

Let’s meet at the cabin and shotgun some beers, then we’ll get high as fuck and shoot illegal fireworks into a dry field and at the end of the night, when we’re good and looped we’ll head down to the lake, strip naked, jump off a cliff, and swim by the light of the moon.

I don’t give a fuck how hot it is in New York.

Here’s a poem by Joe Brainerd to help you cool off. I gotta go put on a clean white shirt.

PEOPLE OF THE WORLD: RELAX!

Beware of boys in tight pants
They are perverts
Beware of tight pants
They chap the fanny and irritate the leg muscles
Your friends will laugh
And your mother will know
Do not feel guilty if showers turn you on
There is nothing wrong with masturbating in the shower
I masturbate in the shower
And there is nothing wrong with that
Everyone does it
If you do not do it, try it
Everyone does it

People of the world: RELAX!

If you want to be a movie star go to Hollywood
If you want to be a dancer dance right now
Or it will be too late
And you will be unhappy
Be a dancer if you want to be a dancer
Do not be afraid
Some of the best people I know are dancers

People of the world: RELAX!

Take it easy and smoke a lot
Make all the noise you want to on the toilet
Other people will hear you but it does not matter

People of the world: RELAX!

Put on a clean white shirt and RELAX
Do not be afraid
Some of the best people I know are afraid
Do not be afraid of death
It will not hurt you

People of the World: RELAX!

This is a good life
Go of-of-doors a lot
Smell flowers
Sit down in the grass
It will not hurt you
Look at the tree
The sky is blue
Climb every mountain
Air is the only hope
Do not kill any ants
They are your best friends

PEOPLE OF THE WORLD: RELAX!

The world is yours
Here, take it

Beau Adams in 4-D

2013-04-12T10:37:00.000-05:00

This is the year that nearly everyone I knew when I was fifteen will turn forty. I turned forty last week. To be truthful, forty is just as arbitrary as any other number, but it seems like a person should have something to say about it, so here goes:

I spent the first thirty years of my life trying to do what adults told me would make me happy, and I've spent the last ten years trying to unravel that. But you can't skip past the first part of that development. You can't kick down a door you've never seen.

God is real and so is Science. They're actually both the same thing: Human Beings struggling to make sense out of a world that scares them nearly to death everyday.

If you don't think Science is real, then you split an atom using only the Bible and prayer. If you don't think God is real, then explain Leon Russell.

My job as a human changes all the time. My job right now is to create an environment where my family can feel safe, secure and confident. What they do in that environment is their job.

If you want to change your perspective you should move to a part of the world where you've never been. If you want to change every single thing about the way you view the world and watch all of your most precious previously held beliefs evaporate, you should stay put and have a child.

I think the best thing I can do as a parent is say "Yes" a lot more than I say "No." This is not easy for me.

I think we should be more openly emotional. You can either show your emotions or you can bottle them up, but they're not going to stay in there forever. They will show up with a vengeance.

When I look back on my life, I have gotten almost everything out of it that I dreamed about when I was a child, but none of it came about the way I envisioned and most of it took a lot longer than I expected.

Writing is how I make sense of the world. When I didn't write I was as lost as I have ever been.

Everyone's doing their best, even if their best really sucks.

Everyone should be in therapy all of the time.

I attract a lot more attention from being quiet than I ever did by being loud.

I'm not great at being a friend, but I'm working on it.

People are a lot more interesting once they've had the stuffing knocked out of them a few times; Then you can see what they're made of.

On my best day, I'm as good as Fitzgerald, Maugham or Vonnegut. On my worst I'm as good as an Econ Major in Freshman Comp. I don't let either one get to me too much.

It's really hard not to buy into what people think you are when they think you have talent.

If you can be your authentic self for more than ten minutes a day, you're beating most of the human race.

I used to think that the answer was moving to the mountains. Now I know the answer is acting the way I acted when I was in their shadows.

If I don't laugh and cry (sometimes from laughter) during a day, it kind of seems like a waste.

Sometimes you have to wait for the ones you love to come around - believe me, they're doing the same for you.

Success is my son running toward me, arms spread wide and smiling, as I walk home from work.

It's still amazing to me that human beings can do things like play the piano, dance or paint.

Too much of writing is verbal gymnastics. Showing off isn't the point, the story is where it's at.

The economy is only as good or bad as you think it is. I've been rich during the worst of economic times and dirt poor when it seemed like everyone was making money. It had a lot more to do with where my head was at than it did with anything that was happening on the stock exchange floor.

Sometimes you need help. It might be a pill, or a friend, or a well constructed piece of music, but you need it.

I often feel pessimistic about human beings in specific but optimistic about them in general.

Most of the time I find that a cold beer and a friend is the best that it gets.

Spending money on experiences is a much easier decision for me than spending money on things.

I am fortunate to have so many brilliant women in my life. For a variety of reasons, women are really where it's at.

Okies are tough sons-a-bitches. There is little that is easy about living here, yet for the most part, people are pleasant to one another. That's what makes Oklahomans so beautiful.

I don't know if men and women were really meant to live together for an extended amount of time, but I admire the fact that we keep trying.

For the most part, the people in my life have been very forgiving of my insanity. I often feel like I have used up a good deal of the grace afforded me.

We really treat women, LGBT's, minorities, children, the disabled, the mentally challenged and the elderly poorly in this country. I hate this about us. I know it could be worse and in other countries it is, but it could be better too.

The sweetest word to my ear is, "Dad."

"This is Water" is one of the most transformative speeches I have ever heard.

Riding is better than driving and walking is better than both.

Confrontation is still one of the most frightening concepts to me.

I don't think there's much qualitative difference between painting, writing a poem or cooking a dinner for people you love.

To be sure, I love the people in my life more than they will ever know and more than I will ever be able to communicate to them.

When I was thirty I had a lot of time and very few interesting people to spend it with. Now that I am forty, the opposite is true.

Every human being is a walking contradiction. The trick isn't to suppress the parts you don't like about yourself, but to embrace them.

There's always enough to go around.

I can't wait to read these years from now and see how wrong I was.

- Beau at Forty

Battered Cattle and Hot Grease

2012-12-12T10:06:00.000-06:00

"What do you want? The double-double?"

"I don't know what that is... I'll just look at the menu when we get there."

"I have to call it in. We don't have time order it when we get there."

****

Photo stolen shamelessly from the internet

That's how my first trip to Mom's Place started. I was a sophomore at Stillwater High School in North-Central Oklahoma. I was 15. I had to hitch a ride - and that ride came with strings attached. It hinged on my buddy breaking out of class and placing a call to the restaurant just short of the exhaustion of third period, maximizing our lunch break. Timing was crucial, as I was told that fifteen to twenty of our allotted forty-minute lunch period was going to be spent in transit. I didn't even know where Mom's Place was. I wasn't sure how I got invited. I was just glad not to be walking to Big Ed's, a strip mall burger joint caddy corner of our high school, which necessitated a harrowing sprint in the crosshairs of our parking lot's inventory, in which traveled the popular and those who had the advantage of celebrating their sweet sixteen early in the school year - the pretty and the licensed. The fact that I was traveling with upper classmen, a perk not secured by my status but rather by my friendship to a classmate with an older brother, was a bonus.

****

"What are you getting?"

"Double-double."

"I guess I'll have the same."

****

Present day Stillwater High School is voluminous - its athletic facilities, auditorium and performance hall rivaling those of a small private university. Although the footprint is the same as when I attended, it's become nearly unrecognizable with its massive brick structures wedged into what used to be an acre of parking lot. It's intimidating to a degree. This is considered great progress.

****

"What is the double-double? A burger?"

"No, chicken-fried steak. It's double steak, double mash."

"What's double mash? Mashed potatoes?"

****

In the late eighties SHS was a low slung affair, mid-century in feel; a split-level brick structure built to withstand the consistent whipping of prairie winds. Its public face was unremarkable, mostly a sea of asphalt. Stingy with decor, there was little to suggest to an outsider that this structure was anything other than a correctional facility. The singular clue was a small raised bed with a three quarter-scale covered wagon, a nod to our moniker, the Pioneers.

We had an "open campus" back then, which meant that we were allowed to leave the school grounds for lunch. This was probably a bad idea. The freedom associated with an open campus would later encourage many of us to use that time to experiment with cigarettes, alcohol, marijuana and sex. But on this day, in my sophomore year, I just wanted a ride to lunch.

****

I have been told that my grandmother made the best chicken-fried steak in Noble County, where I spent my primary school days before moving to Stillwater. I am certain I never tasted it. As a child I had a peculiar affection for language and I could not reconcile what my grandmother frying a batter slathered steak had to do with a chicken, and quite honestly no matter how many times it was explained to me, the whole concept was unnerving. However, I do have pleasant memories of her prepping it as I did homework at the table in her kitchen. She pan fried the perforated cut of meat in a red-orange electric skillet, mashed her potatoes by hand, and somehow conjured a skillet full of gravy, some bizarre culinary alchemy, from the cast off bits of the main course by adding flour and milk and whisking like hell. By the time dinner was ready the house smelled like a diner. Once plated, the main course was often joined by green beans warmed from a can, slices of white bread with a coat of margarine and iced tea with or without saccharine.

Iced tea, it should be noted, is the perfect beverage accompaniment to chicken-fried steak. Its tannic qualities cut through the grease and gravy, effectively prepping your mouth for another attempt at finishing a dish that more often than not, is scarcely contained on an oval plate roughly the size of a state-issued license plate. I should note that I am a huge proponent of drinking alcohol with any and every meal, but I am afraid that pairing wine with a quart of cream-gravy-covered ranch-hand grub would vex even the most forward thinking of sommelier.

****

"This is going to be awesome."

My friend and I bolted across the courtyard towards a breezeway maybe 20 feet in length that led to the soccer pitch of blacktop where his brother would pick us up to make our way to Mom's Place - which as it turns out was across, and nearly out of, town.

"I don't think I like chicken-fried steak."

I could see his brother's convertible Bronco jockeying for departure in the crowded lot - in fact, because of its impressive stereo system, I heard it before I saw it.

"What? Who doesn't like chicken-fried steak?"

We climbed up the side of the beast and into the backseat.

"Maybe me."

****

Mom's Place was an unimpressive establishment in a chaw-spit of a strip center at the edge of town. If you didn't know it was there, you would pass it without a thought. It was hidden in plain sight. There was a marquis in the parking lot to recommend it, but I rarely remember any effort made to do such a thing. It was hole-in-the-wall before hole-in-the-wall was co-opted and brought squeaky-clean into mainstream, chain restaurant dining; it was a dive before the Food Network came to base a good deal of their programming promoting such things.

Once inside, what first struck you was the energy. It was loud with talk. Man talk, mostly. Farmers, ranchers, oilmen and utility workers were its base clientele. Men who chose their lunch spot by word of mouth. Men who didn't give a thought to the warnings on the sides of cigarette packs, much less cholesterol or saturated fat. Men who needed to secure a 2400-calorie lunch in order to make it through the rest of the physically demanding workday. Men, I thought, who had grown up eating this sort of stuff. Men, whose mothers, grandmothers and wives could make this dish blindfolded.

I was a little preppy kid who had never even tried chicken-fried steak, never smoked a cigarette, never done manual labor, never slept with a woman. I was out of my element.

****

Lamesa, Texas claims the right to the invention chicken-fried steak; they even started a festival in 2011 celebrating the 100th anniversary of the creation of the dish. In specific, their story claims that the recipe's inception was brought about by a short-order cook, Jimmy Don Perkins, who mistook separate orders of fried chicken and pan-fried steak as one bizarre epicurean marriage of beef, batter and fat.

Although Lamesa's claim is colorful, it's likely not true. There are instances of the dish in regional cookbooks pre-dating Jimmy Don's timeline. In fact, most food historians believe the dish to be an iteration of the German dish wiener schnitzel, a breaded veal cutlet smothered in cream gravy laced with salt and white pepper. As endearing as Jimmy Don's story may be, the migration of German immigrants to Texas hill country in the late 19th century coupled with the need to make tough cuts of beef palatable makes more sense.

Chicken-fried steak is a big deal in Texas. In fact, the Texas State Legislature enacted a "Texas Chicken-Fried Steak Day" in 2011. It is worth noting however, that Oklahoma added chicken-fried steak to its list of foods comprising "The State Meal of Oklahoma" in what I now refer to as "The Year of the Chicken Fry," my sophomore year in high school, 1988.

****

We sat at the counter, four of us, shoulder to shoulder. An older lady, our waitress, came to take our order and we explained that we had made prior arrangements by phone. While our server checked on the status of our meal, my friend's brother shot a look at us down the counter and said, "If you little fuckers didn't get this order in, we are leaving you here and you can walk back." It was a fair enough punishment, hypothetically speaking.

The service we received that day was consistent with the service I would receive every other time I ate at Mom's. Which is to say, it was shit. There was no small talk, no query as to our level of satisfaction; no offer to split up the tab. Maybe it was because we were kids. Maybe it was because we didn't belong. Maybe it was because the food was that good.

Our server returned (I was told after the fact that it was "Mom," herself). She slapped down our plates and retrieved some glasses of iced tea for our group. I surveyed the landscape of my plate: two irregular discs of battered-fried beef about the size of a hamburger patty perched atop toasted white bread, two ice cream scoops of mashed potatoes and so much cream gravy that the plate's rim was employed merely as a spillway for the counter.

Before I dove in to my first chicken-fried steak, I needed to warm up to the idea. I decided to start with the potatoes. Reaching for the pepper shaker, I caught a glance of disapproval from Mom. "How do you know it needs pepper if you haven't tasted it yet?" she asked. She had a point, but the fact is that unlike salt, you can see pepper, and I knew I needed more. "I like a lot of pepper," I answered.

Photo courtesy of Mitch Harrison

The potatoes were largely forgettable. The flavor was good, but the texture was too homogenous and smacked of boxed flakes. The gravy was the saving grace. It was smoky and smooth, creamy and briny, and I had been right to pepper it. The main feature more than made up for what the potatoes lacked in texture. The steak, protected from the soggy intentions of the gravy by a mantle of crust, was rich and earthy. I don't know if the meat was locally sourced as is now the hallmark of haute cuisine, but I'd say that given the flavor and the restaurant's geographical proximity to a number of cattle farms, it wouldn't have been out of the realm of possibility. The white bread toast beneath the steak was an unusual foundation for the dish, but provided a soggy starch that cleaved to the underside of each bite in a way that cushioned the crunch of the fried batter. The contents of our plates stretched the color spectrum from off-white to beige. The meal was life altering. It pressed me to seek out chicken-fried steak on future menus. For the first time in my life, I experienced comfort food. For the first time in my life I felt lousy for missing out on my grandmother's version before she had passed away.

****

A lot of things have changed in Stillwater, Oklahoma since 1988 - mostly for the better. Most obviously, the high school and college have been fed a steady diet of brick and mortar. Perkins road chain restaurants and their fraternal box-store sidekicks have arched their way North toward the boundaries of town. Hotels stretch out on the west side begging game-day patrons to make a weekend of it. Stan Clark's Three Amigos still remain packed despite minor geographical realignment. Downtown has been brought back to life with coffee, food, wine, shopping and even housing opportunities.

But Mom's Place is gone, apparently the victim of a self-inflicted and extremely flawed accounting strategy. If one is to believe the message boards, the owners neglected to pay taxes for a five-year stint, leading to a shut down by the tax commission until the debts and penalties are repaid. I'm sure that the place looks exactly the same from the outside whether it is open for business or closed on account of tax fraud. My guess is, at least twenty people a day ignorant of the seizure, test the door or are super- excited to find themselves the first vehicle to pull into the parking lot out front.

Regardless of where you fit into the political spectrum of the tax issue, one thing is certain; Stillwater has lost another unique dining experience. Put it in the books with Latigo's, The Ancestor, Bobo's, Bill's Italian, and to a lesser extent, Del Rancho. In the case of Mom's, you can't blame IHOP or the other Any Town, USA chain eateries for watering down the local flavor - they did this to themselves, and more indirectly, to us.

There's a faction of the Stillwater population campaigning to bring Mom's Place back - there's a Facebook Page, of which I am a follower. I don't know whether they plan to put their money where their appetites are and ante up to pay the back taxes and penalties, or if they are even aware of the owners' desires at this point, which is to say, do the owners even wish to re-open? But, it seems a worthwhile effort to take the temperature of those in the area and maybe attempt to reclaim one of the more unique dining experiences in Stillwater. I hope it goes well. I hope we can all meet up there again and have a meal and a laugh together. Because when you think about it, we have lost a lot more than chicken-fried steak, we've lost a bit of our youth - the really sweet and innocent part that just wanted a ride in a car, to the outskirts of town, to eat something in a diner, that maybe reminded you of something you’d get at home.

How to Ruin Your Life in Just Eight Complicated Steps

2012-09-13T14:43:00.000-05:00

My step-father used to have a chart hanging on his office wall in which were printed the necessary steps to achieve any goal, a mantra treated in calligraphy that read something to the effect:

Step 1: Figure out what you want.

Step 2: Figure out what is necessary to get what you want.

Step 3: Start doing those things today.

The simplicity of those words haunt me now as they did then, and though I now realize that they were not necessarily the prescription for finding one's life work, that's how I perceived them. Perhaps it was the calligraphy that gave the document a certain weight. Anyway, it seemed like these steps were to be followed for something more consequential than picking up a half-gallon of milk ("We need milk. Braum's has milk for just a little over a dollar. I have three dollars in my bank account, I'll go by there on my way home and pick some up. Success.").

When I used to wonder what I was going to do for a living (for like thirty years), these words mocked me. This little list, while simple, is deceptively charming. For example, the first step alone took me 38 years.

I've got a new list. Mine is not nearly as efficient, but it is way more fun.

Step 1: Figure out what you want. But more than that, figure out what you were born to do and don't deny it because you are afraid that people will think you are crazy (because they will, and quite possibly, you are).

This was the most difficult step for me. Not because it is difficult, but because I made it so. I have known that I was supposed to be a writer for most of my life (perhaps for all of it, if you believe in such cosmic intelligence, which, by the way, I most certainly do). It has almost always been the only thing that I am good at, the only thing I do with my brain that brings me joy. It should have been easy to choose to be a writer from very early on and then progress to the next step. Just one problem: I couldn't see how that was going to be possible. I didn't know anyone who made a living as a writer - I still know very few. I got majorly hung up on Step 2: How are you going to go about this whole affair?

I suggest throwing this step out.

Figuring out "how" to do something assumes that there is no universal intelligence, it presumes that only the power of the human brain is great enough to logically map out a solution, which if you know anything about the human brain, is just silly.

Here's what I now know: You don't have to know how it's going to work, that is not your position or your responsibility.

Think back on your life. Haven't there been about a million things that have happened to you that you could have never guessed were going to happen? You didn't set out a plan to make them happen, they just did. Remember?

I'll give you a few examples from my life: I never thought that I would move to Savannah, Georgia and yet in 1997, I did - sight unseen. I lived there for over seven years. I never thought that I would study horticulture and build golf courses, but I enjoyed that career for almost a decade. I never thought I would meet and marry (and subsequently get divorced from) a woman from Indiana. I never thought that I would live in Roanoke, Virginia or have a career in Sales. I never, ever, ever thought that I would live in Oklahoma again, the idea just did not appeal to me, but here I am since 2007, one of its biggest champions and critics. I never thought I would eventually be married to a woman who I knew only briefly when I was a young man many years previous. But, I did and now we have a beautiful baby boy (something I must admit I always thought would happen, although for a while I was beginning to wonder how). I never thought that I would do any of these things, but I am all the better for each of them.

Each of these things have happened with seemingly little concrete planning or goal setting. They happened because of intention. They happened because I decided there was something I wanted to change in my life, some new experience I wanted to have, and then the universe moved to create that for me. It may have never happened the way that I thought it would, or even the way I wanted it to at the time, but it happened when I quit worrying about how it was going to happen.

Step 2: Assemble an Army of Angels. You are going to need support.

I am fortunate. When I decided to quit my former career and begin the process of becoming a writer, I already had an entire support team in place.

First and foremost was my wife, who when I told her that I was no longer happy and I couldn't see a way that I could be unless I made a radical shift in my career arc, told me to do what I needed to do to change it. Mind you, this meant giving up an ample salary, great benefits and retirement package and ultimately, (perceived) security. She is one-in-a-million, which is exactly why she is my wife. I had to have a one-in-a-million type wife to be able to understand and support me. I now understand that finding her was one of the most integral initial steps in my "plan".

Secondly, I had friends and family members who supported and encouraged me throughout the process, even if they secretly wondered how I was going to pull it off. These people may have thought that I was bat-shit crazy, but at least they had the decency not to say it to my face. They gave me love and encouragement, bought lunches and dinners for my family, helped with babysitting duties and diapers, let me do odd jobs for them to make some extra money, gave us gift certificates to the grocery store, etc... Whether they did this because they believed in me or just because they didn't want to see my family suffer is inconsequential - they supported, that's what mattered.

I have a friend who is an extremely successful vintage guitar dealer. He helped me immensely by hiring me to assist him with his various guitar shows. About once a month, he and I would travel to some part of the United States and set up his wares in a large expo center. I helped him transport the guitars, set up his booth, drive the van, secure the money we made, etc... In turn, he would pay me well enough so that our family could get by. He has been dealing in vintage guitars for years, he has never had any help - he has never needed any. But, at this particular time he reached out to help me and I in turn, like to think that I helped him. One thing is for sure, I would have never made it without him.

You are going to need help, help that you cannot easily forecast - it will be necessary for a group of angels to emerge to assist you. Especially because of what is required in Step 3.

Step 3: Jump way off into the deep end.

Sometimes you have to let go of what is in your hands in order to grab something new.

I was always taught that you don't leave one job without having another. This is not a bad thing to teach someone, but it simply doesn't always work out this way. Some of the greatest success stories in the world have come from leaving (or being removed from) a job with no backup plan in place. Necessity being the mother of invention and whatnot.

Working without a net dramatically increases focus and intensity. Yeah, it is brutal, but effective. It makes it impossible to be stagnant. You have to move in the direction you have chosen because there is no "safe ground" of an existing job. I would have loved to ease into a writing career while still earning large amounts of money in a sales position, but that was not my path. I would have never done it. I would have remained scared to put myself and my work out into the world if I already had the "security" of a full-time position. I had to take an action that was so bold that there was no turning back. Some people don't need this level of discomfort to serve as motivation, but I did, and when I got very quiet and really listened to my inner self, it kept telling me to "jump" and eventually, once the pain of not pursuing my dream outweighed the pleasure provided by the security afforded by my job, I jumped.

Step 4: Understand the power of intention.

At the beginning of my unemployment, I was truly lost. I knew what I wanted to do, but could not bring myself to admit it to anyone. One day, a friend called me and asked if I would come and help him at the cabinet shop where he was working - his boss, the owner of the shop, was willing to pay $10/hour cash for some unskilled labor. I was happy to do it.

During one of our breaks, my friend told his boss how I had a left a great paying job at the height of the deepest recession our generation has ever known, and that I didn't even know what I was going to do next. To my surprise, this didn't strike his boss as irresponsible, or even moronic - he was interested. He asked me, "What do you want to do?"

Now this is key. I hadn't been able to publicly confess to anyone what it was that I intended to do at this point - I was still too afraid. But given the nature of the person asking, I figured there was no harm in giving it a shot. "I want to be a writer," I said.

The boss said, "Hmmm? A writer, huh? Well, I don't know how to help you there. What are you going to do about it?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said - and I really didn't.

"Well," the boss said, "I'll tell you this. The best piece of advice I can give you is to tell everyone you meet that you quit your job and you want to be a writer."

"You think?"

"Yep," he said, "and here's why: Because nobody can help you if they don't know what you want - and you are going to need a lot of help."

He was exactly right. In order to create change you must have intention and you must make that intention known. I made it known to him that day, I went public in a very private cabinet shop. He couldn't help me, though. He didn't know any writers or editors. However, within hours, I noticed a Facebook post from a local publication searching for writers in Oklahoma. I replied with no credentials and no former published work (the only writing samples I offered were in this blog). Yet with some luck and determination, I became a published writer over the next few months and now, I am listed as a Contributing Editor to that publication (an organization full of angels). I made my intentions known, and the universe moved to meet me.

This is worth stating again: No one can help you achieve your goals if they don't know what you want.

Step 5: Pay attention: There are signs along the way.

A few months ago, my family and I were very nearly making it, financially speaking. Not quite, but close. With the money I was making from working guitar shows, writing for This Land Press and the money Cari was making from working several days a week, we were pretty close to being able to pay our bills. We had no insurance (although our child qualified for insurance through Sooner Care) and no other benefits. It was a lot of work and it was terribly inefficient, but we were better off than we had been. I kept thinking that if I could just get one more steady writing job, we would have enough money to really start to feel secure again.

One day, a friend of mine, a guy I had known when I was in grade school but had not spent any time with in over 25 years sent me an instant message (Facebook, again). It said: "I have a technical writer position that I am filling for a 90 day period. Likely to turn into a full-time gig. You interested in getting back into corporate America?"

My response: "I think I'm good where I am. But, I am so thankful that you thought of me."

Now why did I do that? I had said that I wanted another writing job so that I could feel secure and someone just offered me one and I turned it down.

In my mind, this job wasn't the right one. At first blush, it didn't look like the other writing job I was supposed to get. The other writing job I was supposed to get was going to look kind of like the one I already had, just in a different city or something. I wasn't paying attention.

Luckily, I realized my error (trying to control the "hows" of the situation) and reached out to my friend for further details on the position.

Now I work for a company that has afforded my family consistent pay, benefits, vacation, an office space downtown where I do my work and job satisfaction. I call this my anchor job. I work for this company remotely (there are no offices in Oklahoma), I have a great boss and I have the freedom to work unobstructed. I am thankful to have the opportunity and most of the people that I work with on projects are happy to have me there to help them. It doesn't hurt that the company I work for takes great care of their employees and seems to have not only a social, but also environmental conscience.

None of this would have been possible if I hadn't learned to pay attention to the true essence of what was being offered and thrown away my notions of what something was supposed to look like or feel like. I can guarantee you, now that I am performing this job on a daily basis, it looks and feels just right.

Step 6: Surrender. You will fail miserably. At that point, give up.

You know how they say, "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again?" Well, I guess so. But in between all the failing and trying, I think it is important to completely give up.

I gave up writing so many times in the last two years- I will probably give it up some more in the future. Failure is brutal and it seems more personal in some disciplines than others.

You are going to try really hard at some point to make your dreams come true and you are going to fail, miserably. It's okay. You will regain the courage to try again - although, it may take some time. In that stretch of time between your miserable failure and your next effort (which will likely result in miserable failure), give up completely.

Now I'm not saying that if you want to be a painter and you fail to accomplish one of your goals that you should then give up painting until you feel like your ego has repaired itself. No, go ahead and paint if you wish. Just give up trying to be a success.

Trying to be successful is dangerous and ultimately pointless. First of all, there is no universal definition for the term. No two people view it in the same way. So forget it. Forget your own view of success and just surrender.

Early on in my attempt to become a writer I was struggling greatly. My God-brother, Gabriel (He's one of my angels, don't you know?), told me to stop trying to figure everything out and just put my ass, "in the river and go with the flow." A former boss of mine once told me, "It's like you're in a row boat and you're paddling and paddling. Sometimes, you just need to put down the oars and take a long look at the shore." I now understand this to mean: surrender.

Surrender should not be thought of as a negative. It is not giving up your power, rather it is turning over your perceived problems to a power that can actually do something about it. Look, if you have the intention and the belief and the effort, the only thing that can block the arrival of what you seek is you. This is what people mean when they say, "If only he could get out of his own damn way."

So fail. Fail, and then flow. Turn over your issues, let go of your preconceived notions, surrender the "hows" of the situation to God or Allah or Buddha or the Universe or Yoda or whoever the hell it is that you believe is bigger than you. Trust me, it feels great to let these things go.

Step 7: Give Thanks.

There are about five billion great quotes on this subject. I won't use any of them here. Just be sure that everyday you are thankful. Be overwhelmingly thankful to even get a shot at having a life. Be thankful for the successes small and large and be thankful for the great and seemingly cataclysmic failures and misjudgments and stupid mistakes.

If you are really down and out and feeling as low as you have ever felt and you can't think of anything to be thankful for, then just say:

"Thanks for this shitty day; and subsequently, the shitty way it turned out. I really enjoyed making a complete and total ass of myself in front of the people I respect and admire. This is going along just swimmingly. I can't wait for tomorrow to see what kind of fucked-up plan is in store for me. Jesus Lord!"

At least you will start to laugh, and laughter is always helpful.

Step 8: Return the Favor.

When you make progress, take time to help others. It can be large or small. Just remember how much help you needed (and still will need) and take the time to send an e-mail, make a phone call or buy a beer for someone who needs encouragement. Do this to the absolute best of your ability. You are not too important or too stressed for time to return a call or e-mail to someone who just wants a little help.

All of this being said, I can't say I have made it yet. I'm not a success, I have had some success. I aspire to more.

Since I believe in taking my own medicine, I will say this: I intend to write a book, a novel. I intend on it being well-received by the types of people who think about such things. I should like to work on collaborative projects with other writers - I would like to see what that is like. I would like to have tremendous of amounts of fun while working on these projects, laughing, often uncontrollably. I would like to feel impulsive and sustained bursts of creativity during this venture - that type of thing makes me happy. I would also like to make large piles of money from these efforts - which would allow me to take vacations with, and provide for, my family.

And along the way I promise to pay attention, surrender, be thankful and help others as I am able.

Fuck that lame-ass three step chart.

Better Living Through Chemistry; Or, how I stopped fearing the very much known and started to embrace my imbalance.

2012-03-12T12:33:00.000-05:00

Before I started my career as a writer, my professional life was a disaster. Writing has ruined that. Now my life is a seemingly surreal series of events woven together by adorable, crafty little elves that work at once both deftly and without cigarette breaks. My life is full of stories, potentially. Given the right angle, everyone has a story. And some have a story without an angle, more circular in narrative, I suppose. There aren't any stories about ship captains, though. That is where everyone gets it wrong.

Writing has helped me to value human life and even corporations if for nothing more than their potential for satirical send-up.

Another thing that helps me value human life is a prescription for, and the recommended daily ingestion of, a certain blue and green capsule that fights like the devil against the forces of anxiety and major depressive disorder that threaten to jab a million hate-spears into my brain. Specifically, the parts of the brain that regulate mood and the sort of anxiety that accompanies being a shivering mass of human being. Yes, this little botanical (maybe?) serves to block out the naturally dark chemicals and wave a red flag in front of the blessed ones, urging them toward their appropriate receptors like a neurological matador. Either that, or it simply increases the amounts of the optimistic chemicals, I am honestly a little fuzzy on the science. Nevertheless, I imagine from time to time that the blue portion of the pill sends a torrent of soothing water at the gloomy little soldiers of depression, washing them upon an island positively shamrocked with verdant low-lying vegetation (obviously, the green part of the pill) lightly swept now and again by careful breezes, lending it the eerily calming sensation of being alive, which it obviously is. Everything is alive. Even granite countertops. Just not ship captains, they are positively dead.

The pill ingested, the veil lifts. Not quickly. Not even noticeably at first. So in that respect, "the veil lifts" is an absolutely shitty metaphor. Another equally shitty way I have heard it described is the "fog clears". No. I don't really know what the hell any of this would have to do with fog clearing. Most people have no literal reference for that anyway. Be honest, when was the last time you got to sit somewhere and witness clearing fog? Maybe if you're from the Bay Area or something, or perhaps near the Puget Sound, but in Oklahoma we get fog like twice a year and usually I sleep through it. Besides it sounds like some kind of shit a ship captain would say anyway. Fuck him.

Anyway, so psycho-chemical-retreading is neither "lifty" fog nor its cousin, the equally, albeit more lacy, clearing veil. It is more of a gradual, quiet loss of hatred.

Here's how it happens. At first, you might notice something that would normally inspire all amounts of rage and/or hostility, like a poorly executed traffic circle or the prattling on of a self-aggrandizing pet food lobbyist. Things that in the past would have never escaped an audible swipe. But this time, nothing seems worth putting forth the effort to upsettedness. Then, a really strange thing occurs. Your brain realizes that it almost got worked up over the ingredients in a loaf of artisan bread, or how you never lettered in lacrosse because your high school only recognized it as a "club sport" or whatever (meanwhile the football team just couldn't have enough fucking different versions of their "road uniforms"), and it looks at itself, your brain, and kind of softly laughs. That's exactly how it happens. That's right, your present brain looks at the memory of your past brain and chuckles a bit, somewhat patronizingly, too. Just a little. It doesn't overdo it like some kind of pretentious ship captain or anything like that. Just enough to let you know how smart you were to quit being on of the biggest pricks in the world and start to get help for your chemical imbalance. It is a kind of knowing laugh. The kind of laugh that you laugh now when you hear people who are younger than you complain about stuff like entrance exams, or how their crippling huffing addiction came about as a result of not being able to find enough activities in which to engage their free time.

So what the hell does any of this have to do writing?

I can hear you now. You're saying, "Kudos to you, friend. It sounds like your propensity for being a gigantic ass has been at least partially masked by employing the use of psycho-pharmacological mood-altering super-mind-fucking pills which at best will work for the time being, but must bring along to the impromptu daily chemistry experiment that is now taking place in your skull-hole a host of concerning side effects that if not at any time physically debilitating, than almost certainly sexually embarrassing. Great. Good for you. But this enlightenment of ennui is manufactured, it is not the byproduct of an artistic mind. What's wrong with you, besides the established?"

To which I say, "That's just like you to shit all over this, ship captain!"

The overarching truth is that without writing, I may never have acquiesced to the science fair that is now being conducted daily in my wrinkly-pinkly brain. And without writing, I wouldn't be able to accurately explain this brave new world to others with the obvious efficiency and precision of a laser-guided laser. Writing has demanded that I expose the parts of myself that are vulnerable, squishy and otherwise ludicrous. It is truly the only way I know to convey information of interest. Nobody wants to read about how great you feel all the time and that you just don't know why, but things just kinda-sorta naturally work out for you. People want guts strewn about and feelings ricocheting off of every possible surface (I am speaking somewhat figuratively, but it has not escaped my attention that a lot of people, "Gamers", I think they call themselves, actually like the literal spreading of guts, at least from what I can gather from the television commercials that ran during the most recent Super Bowl).

"Yes," you say, "people do seem to respond to emotion and the exposure of certain basic human qualities. They long for a witness. A translator who might illustrate that in one manner or another, we are all flawed, all scared to our wits and yet, all capable of a sort of redemption, a modicum of peace if not outright transcendence. So, seeing how you have achieved this by simply taking a time-released capsule, why should we listen to anything you have to say?"

"Oh, you nautical hobgoblin - I swear." (fist shaking).

Why should anyone listen to me? They shouldn't. I shudder to imagine what state the world should find itself in if I have become required reading. But here is what I have a need to confess. If others find it useful, I am glad. If they find it impotent and laughable, I would suggest that they keep their damn mouths shut on the matter.

What I must confess is that once I found my passion (which, incidentally, I had known for my entire life but was simply too fearful to name it), I had barely the strength left to pursue it. Once I had been given the chance to pursue my dream, I nearly sabotaged it for lack of mental health. But for some reason, I chose to ask for help. And for some other reasons, I continue to choose to ask for help. The pills help. For now (which is really all there ever is), they help. And I only need them to help for now. I am not looking for a lifetime guarantee. I don't need to conquer Everest, I just needed to quit carrying it around for a bit. Writing about it helps. The pills help.

Perhaps the toughest thing I have done is to try and learn to surrender. I am still miserable at it, but I am trying. I had to surrender to the fact that I couldn't manage my mental health on my own at this time in order to manage my mental health on my own at this time. That's the trick. It was either that, or purchase a boat, hire a crew and become the captain of a ship.

Awww Screw It, I'll Write About Football!

2011-11-23T11:31:00.001-06:00

I have been holding off on writing about football on this blog because it's not really what this blog is about. If you haven't guessed, this blog is about family, jobs, parenting, love, loss - in short, it's about life. But the truth of the matter is that sometimes my life is about football. So, although their are people that do a much better job of writing about football than myself, (Katie Hull Rathkey, in particular) I'm wound up, so I am gonna say my piece.

First of all, I am pissed off that my beloved 'Pokes lost to Iowa State and I will accept no excuse for it.

(For anyone in the dark, I am referencing Oklahoma State University, the OSU, not to be confused with the school that occasionally cheats it's way to the top of the Great Lakes League, you know, the one who always looks like it is playing in super slow-mo? Don't adjust your set, it's just the Big Ten.)

But back to my rage: "Why, Pokes, why?!"

Let's run down the list of excuses:

It was a classic trap game.
How was this a trap? We won the previous game before halftime in a contest that was as even-sided as a Iron Chef match featuring Anthony Bourdain going spatula-to-whisk with The Cake Boss, Secret Ingredient: Bone Marrow! (Jeez, a Food Network reference? No wonder I don't write about football very often.) And as for the looking ahead distraction? We have the week off! What were we being distracted by? Oyster dressing?

They had a new quarterback we were not familiar with.
Yeah, and he plays for Iowa State! That's like saying the Marlins have a new ace on the mound. Who cares? The rest of the team is still Iowa State. And last time I checked, OSU has a decent media facility, we should have been able to break down some game film. Hell, we could have started working on it at halftime in Lubbock!

They had nothing to lose.
Yeah, and we had everything to gain. So what? When you are a championship caliber team you handle your business. You were playing a team with an atrocious defense. One of the worst in the Big 12. This game should have been out-of-hand quickly, which would have forced the Cyclones to throw their game plan out the window and play catch-up. That's how we win ball games against inferior squads.

We lost two coaches in a plane crash the day before.

I will not try in any way to diminish the loss of two very special people in our tight-knit Cowboy family. This event, no doubt weighed heavily on the hearts and minds of every coach and player that evening. Additionally, it was a real class move from the folks in Ames to assign a moment of silence in honor of our fallen comrades before the game began. But the truth of the matter is, the only way that a plane crash should have kept us from beating Iowa State is if our starting offense would have been on it.

We blew it.

Chances like this don't come around often for Oklahoma A&M in the realm of real-deal championship football. In fact, I have been alive for 38 years, and we have never had a legitimate title shot - not once. We are the Andy Roddick of college football - we may not deserve to be in the hunt, but sometimes a perfect storm occurs and there we are. Texas is down, aTm is out and the Sooners are short 3 studs and somehow have a defensive backfield that is full of holes rivaling the ones in Wal-Mart's Black Friday Preparedness Strategy.

We had to come from behind in College Station and needed the help of a earthquake to stop the Wildcats from upsetting us at home. Rarely is a championship season built without some close calls.

But the debacle in Ames has turned is into spectators. Now our hopes are pinned to the former A&M of Alabama to see if they can pull the upset in Jordan-Hare. Take it from one who knows, Auburn may be the only other team in the country as unfortunate as the Pokes to live just up the street from such a storied and historically rich big brother of a football program. The difference is that when the Gods smile on Auburn, they take advantage and win championships. They are relevant.

In the end it doesn't matter that much what happens in the Auburn/Alabama game this afternoon if we don't focus on the only thing under our control: Bedlam.

The Cowboys have had the singular goal of winning an outright Big 12 Championship for several years now. Hell, one year we even had little bracelets made so that we wouldn't forget. The Sooners could get caught up in a Cyclone today in a rainy contest at Memorial Stadium, which would hand us the title without even having to play for it, but I wouldn't count on it. And I don't want it that way.

We need a Bedlam win and an outright Big 12 Championship. That's our next step. Forget Ames, don't worry about the SEC West and all the maybes and could-have-beens. Just win your game against your in-state rivals and let the healing begin.

It's been said often this year that, "these are not your father's Cowboys". Until last week, that was correct. But on a Friday night we played like a high school squad and we looked just like my dad's Cowboys.

The players on this team are too young to remember Bedlam collapses having to do with walk-on kickers, unscripted onside kicks and Sooner Magic. They don't even know the name Brent Parker. But they need to win this one for all of us who lived through their father's Cowboys. A Big 12 Championship, Bedlam win and a BCS bowl game are steps forward for Oklahoma State.

On campus in Auburn, Alabama today about 80,000 people will be rooting for a two teams that have so much football history that they often stumble over it. They also have serious confusion regarding their mascots. Alabama apparently is some kind of wave of blood or something to do with a pachyderm. Auburn, like 15 other southern teams claims the official (and wildly imaginative) moniker, Tigers. But what the fans will be chanting at the Iron Bowl (don't get me started) is "War Eagle". Another sketchy reference to some wonderful event that happened pre-printing press at a game between Auburn and the University of Georgia.

Today, Pokes fans will be watching OU take on Iowa State. Some rooting for the Sooners, the embittered and less informed rooting against them (it's not right, it's just in our nature). But no matter what happens in that contest, many will be tuning in to watch southern smash-mouth football. Teams with history, pageantry - teams with defenses.

Remember Pokes fans: If all the storytelling, all of the gaped-mouth announcing, all of stroking of the SEC's ego starts to get disorienting (and it will), just root against the team in crimson.

"War Damn Eagle!"

The Luck Stops Here.

2011-11-11T22:26:00.001-06:00

I wonder if it is easier to forgive a parent or a child.

In most cases, I'd say it would be easier to forgive a child because by definition, they should never be as old or learned as a parent. Then again, I can see where forgiving a parent could be easier at certain times due to the more flexible thought processing of the youth. Maybe it depends on the infraction.

Call me naive, but I can't see much use in holding a grudge these days. Maybe it's because I have found that withholding forgiveness affects me much more negatively than it seems to affect the person I may grace with such an act. Maybe it's because nothing that bad has ever happened to me.

I recently forgave my father, whom I had not had any contact with in almost 10 years, for failing to be the father I was supposed to have had. If that's not the silliest sentence I've ever written. Anyway, it wasn't easy. Took me nearly ten years to come around to the idea. We missed a lot of each other in that time - some of it needed to be missed, but probably not that amount. Because of my lack of willingness to forgive, my father and his wife missed the birth and almost all of the first two years of their (only) grandson's life. Hardly seems like a fair trade for not living up to my lofty expectations. I am sorry it took me so long to learn to forgive, but oddly enough, I had to have a child teach me about it. You see, once I had a child and became a father was the first time I could see how painful life might become if we couldn't find a way to forgiveness.

At first I thought, "Well, my father had a bad father, and I had a bad father, but my son has a great father. My son and I are gonna break this chain." There's only one flaw in that thinking. It assumes that I will either be a perfect father for the rest of my days, or that my son will need to learn how to forgive me at some point. Well, how was I gonna teach him to do that? Bingo.

I'm not the only one in my family with these issues. My father-in-law, Mike, recently made peace with his mother after several years of estrangement. What their issues were I don't really know, I'm not entirely sure if I ever knew. Actually, it doesn't matter. What matters is that they found a way back to one another and to a place where they didn't have to hold on so tightly and expend so much energy on proving a point. The point being, that somebody had let somebody down.

The downside of my father-in-law's story is that he and his mother were joined in this reconciliation by serious illness. Mike's mother became terminally ill and recently passed away. I am very proud of him for letting go of the anger and resentment he was carrying around before she was physically absolved of the material world.

I am not certain any of us did enough to say we were sorry to Mike when his mother died. We sent messages and such, and I know that he knows we care, but I for one, am terrible at grieving the dead. Always have been. I cried more when my cat had to be put down than I did when my grandfather passed away. I'll cry at a movie, a moving poem from The Writer's Almanac, even a particularly poignant episode of Parenthood, but death of a human, meh. I don't know what it is, I'm just not good at it.

But, fortunately for Mike, his grandchildren are fantastic at cutting through the ephemera and useless emotions that tend to accompany such an event. A few days after Mike lost his mother, he got letters from Sadie Bea (8 years) and Simon (6 years) - they call their grandfather, "Poppy":

Dear Poppy,

I am sorry to hear about your mom (drawing of sad face at the end of this sentence). I know that you are sad, but it was time.

Love you a lot,

Sadie Bea (with a little cartoon heart dotting the i)

Simon's offering of condolence was less nuanced, but quite frankly receives high marks for not dancing around the subject matter as much as his sister had.

(This written in the absurdly large and wobbly script of a person who is just now learning to write.)

Dear Poppy,

I am sorry that your mom died, but luckily she was ready to die.

Love,

Simon

Reportedly, Mike and his wife Rita were in tears at the reading of these letters. Mike could not stop laughing at the wording the kids used. "How lucky was that?" he would say to his wife. "She was ready to die," and then they would burst out laughing.

When I was in high school a woman called our house one afternoon and my stepmother answered the phone. After several minutes, she hung up and told me that the person who had called was related to my grandfather and they were calling to let my father know that his father was in a hospital (in Illinois, maybe) and he was going to die soon. They wanted to let my dad know so that he could go see him, so that he could make peace with him. My father declined. In fact, when my stepmother told him about the call, my dad used some choice words to describe his old man and the variety of reasons for which he would not be booking an airline ticket any time soon. Even at his funeral, my father was angry about the proceedings, the cost, etc...

I have visited my grandfather's grave several times - it is near my other grandparents' graves, so I kinda figure, you know, while I'm in the neighborhood. I don't know why my dad and his brother couldn't bring themselves to forgive their father, we've never talked about it that much. I do know that I have never heard anyone in our family tell one good story about my grandfather. His epitaph reads something along the lines of, "Loving Husband, Devoted Father". It would be as accurate to say, "Cured Polio, Walked on Moon".

I am sure it stung to have to pay for that headstone as my father and his brother surely did. I'm fairly certain that it must be rough to be told you've got a shot at burying the hatchet with your old man, only to leave him to die without you. And I hope I never know what it's like to be on my deathbed and place the call only to have no one respond.

Of course by then, luckily I'll be ready to die.

2011-09-28T11:03:00.001-05:00

Possible Alternative Names for the Brady Arts District (In response to Lee Roy Chapman's insightful article on one of our city's founding fathers in This Land Press)

1) Hatey District
2) Uncle Tate's Klantastic Family Fun Zone
3) Ku Klux Kreative
4) Hate-Ashbury
5) Konfederate Korner
6) Klavern on the Green
7) Greenwood

Thoughts on Tom Riley (1945-2011)

2011-08-18T22:36:00.000-05:00

(Author's Note: I have not been directed, petitioned, or otherwise received permission to write anything that would serve or substitute as a eulogy for Thomas F. Riley. I simply record these memories because they are important to me and because in such a small amount of time, Tom made an enormous positive impression.)

I met Tom Riley sometime around 1986. I was best friends with his youngest boy, Tim, and as such was a frequent stowaway at Tim's mother's duplex. Tom was there most weekends as well. Even though he and Tim's mother were divorced, they got along well and you could tell he enjoyed being near his boys. It occurs to me now, that this was Tom's insurance policy. He stayed close to remain in his son's lives and protect their shared relationships. He didn't let the break-up of a marriage impede him from the duty of parenting, and perhaps more impressively, he didn't use it as an excuse. He continued to teach his boys how to become men. And when the time came, he acknowledged their arrival.

It should be noted for those that did not know him, Tom Riley was a big man. Often, a person is described as big, figuratively - a "big" philanthropist, a "big" businessman. While these labels may have also applied, what I mean to say here is that his size was impressive. He had a shock of thick hair that at the time was more silver than black, always neatly cut and fixed. He carried a scent of masculine cologne with a undertone of cigarette smoke. I noticed even back then that he had the build and hands of an athlete, although it would be in his obituary that I would discover he had been a scholarship member of the football squad at the University of Tulsa. He had a deep voice and a relaxed laugh. He was handsome and strong, but never showy.

Whenever I was in Tom's presence, his focus was exclusively on his children and their friends. He doted on his boys. He hugged them and kissed them and called them "baby" and "honey" which initially struck my ear as effeminate, or at the very least, emasculating. What I would come to understand is that in the Riley's shared language these terms were not used in relation to gender but rather, spoke to level of affection. He loved his boys deeply and without shame.

The first time Tom addressed me in such a way was mat-side after a wrestling match I had lost. I was disappointed in my effort, and I was not a gracious loser. He wrapped his arms around me and said, "Honey, shake it off. You're a star. You'll get 'em next time." He cupped the retreating side of my sweaty head in his oversized hand and pulled it into his chest, mashing my face into his sweater. After that, I didn't care what he called me. I kind of just hoped he'd always be there when I lost.

As the years passed and we made our way to college, Tim and I found new sets of friends and interests. Our circles overlapped on occasion but with less frequency than in our teenage years. Understandably, I saw Tom less as well. I was too preoccupied at the time to know how much I missed him, but looking back on it now, it was evident.

The last time I saw Tom Riley was at Tim's wedding, it must be more than 15 years ago now. He was happy. He had so many people crowded around him, celebrating with him, that I was reluctant to approach. But he caught me in mid-slink and carved his way towards me. "I am so proud of all you boys, you all have really grown up to be fine young men" he said, absolutely beaming.

I didn't have the guts to tell him I was failing most of my classes, or that I didn't really know what the hell I was doing with my life. I couldn't have expressed how lost or scared I was that I would never know what or who I was supposed to be, even as we were celebrating the union of two people who were defining a significant part of their new identities - husband, wife. All I could really do was smile sheepishly and accept his misplaced praise.

Sometimes you can find yourself so physically removed from a person you admired earlier in life, that the time you spent together seems fictional. I don't know if my recollections of Tom - the way he looked, the way he talked, the way he acted - are true, or if they were constructed in decades of absence to fit the narrative of my life. I feel certain that I can see him in a v-neck sweater with a starched, button-up shirt underneath. I am fairly confident that I can recall the smell of leather and cigarette smoke belonging to the interior of his car (some kind of Ford - a Thunderbird, or maybe a Taurus?). My memories are slippery and I am often suspicious of them.

One thing I am sure of is that I enjoyed being around Tom. He never talked down to me or treated me like a kid. He cared for me because I was his son's friend. He cared for me whether I won or lost, whether I was right or wrong. For whatever reason most of my friends grew up in households affected by divorce, their fathers absent physically or emotionally or both. Tom was a father in a world that needed more fathers.

It's has taken a long time for the lessons I learned from being around Tom Riley to take hold. I guess I had to have a child before they could fully manifest. Legacies have a peculiar way of appearing at the right time.

Anyone who knows me well will tell you that I love my boy publicly, without shame - and that I call him "baby", "honey" and "darling" without a moments thought to how that might sound to any other person. I know the day will likely come when my son will be embarrassed of my affection and attention. I am prepared for that. When he questions my motivation for such behavior, I will be proud to blame it on Tom.

The Golden Driller: France's Most Generous Gift

2011-06-22T19:16:00.000-05:00

The following piece was originally written for the local publication, This Land Press, but was rejected at deadline for "missing the mark". This rejection not only came as a surprise, but very nearly disintegrated what was left of my questionable self-confidence. However, after much reflection and the absorption of several self-help pamphlets gleaned from the waiting room of a local therapist, I have decided to press on and publish the piece myself. It is my sincere hope that you enjoy the fruits of my (now) very public failure.

In a warehouse in Toulon, France, a young artist pulls an enormous canvas sheet pieced together from discarded sail material over a bronze statue in repose. The year is 1952 and Guy Montparnasse has completed his masterpiece. A golem outfitted with work boots, gloves, a safety helmet, pants and a belt with a buckle that reads, Tulsa. He takes one last look at the giant’s expressionless face before giving a hearty tug at the canvas and concealing the sculpture completely, a move borrowed from a mortician.

In the next several weeks, Le Petrolier Braves (The Brave Oilman), will occupy the lion’s share of a cargo ship headed toward the United States. Along the way there is a scheduled stop at the Port of New Orleans to unload several pallets of beignet mix and afford the crew a well deserved night on the town. Next, the statue will wind its way up the Mississippi, divert course at the Arkansas and deliver what will eventually become known as The Golden Driller to the Port of Catoosa in time for the International Petroleum Exhibition of 1953.

The statue (third largest in the United States) garners much attention and slack-jawed amazement of all who attend the exhibition. But what most casual oil slobs will never appreciate is the story behind its creator.

In the spring of 1946, Guy Montparnasse had nearly deserted his dreams of becoming an artist. Subsisting on a diet of absinthe, barbiturates and literary erotica, his life was not so much spinning out of control as it was ambling in the path of a steamroller. His application to the Sorbonne had been rejected for the third time, and in their latest correspondence, the institution had expressed their doubts not only his ability to become a significant artist, but in a manner that could only be described as unusually cruel, questioned whether or not Montparnasse was “fit to be walking freely amongst the rest of the French population”. It was true that Montparnasse was given to the more violent ebbs of manic depression and ritualistic self abuse via chronic masturbation, but as his friends had pointed out, these tendencies would seem to solidify one’s acceptance to such an institution.

Broke, jobless and without much hope, Montparnasse decided to give up his artistic delusions. He took a job as a dockworker but was excused after his foreman caught him in the act of defacing the side of a shipping container. In a bipolar fit, he had painted the words le sperme de singe (monkey semen) on the broadside of a cask of champagne bound for London. His next position was that of fishmonger, a job granted to him through the father of a mutual friend. But again, Montparnasse’s maladies betrayed his employability as he was fired for what his co-workers deemed excessive time spent in the salle de bain and for hurling fish guts at passing tourists on the boardwalk adjacent to the market counter.

Humiliated and cast aside by his friends and family, Montparnasse began making plans to end his own life, but his contradictory aversion to pain and painkillers conspired to leave him among the living. One day, while thumbing through the classified section of a homoerotic magazine in a church courtyard near the Place de la Liberte, he noticed an advertisement inviting european artists study in the United States. The Art Instruction School, based in Minneapolis, Minnesota was making a push for international accreditation and as such was willing to relax its normally stringent acceptance standards, which up to that point had required the drawings of a tortoise in profile, a cartoon bear replete with top hat and bow tie, and a mildly despicable rendering of a pirate. Within a week, Montparnasse had been notified of his acceptance to the AIS based on the strength of his portfolio comprised of drawings of suicidal rodents and a series he had titled “Amputated Dreams” which seemed to be abstract expressionistic works featuring photos of the Sorbonne’s admission board members smeared in a foul-smelling, tawny source material.

Montparnasse flourished in Minneapolis. Its arctic winters and the round, nearly featureless faces of its inhabitants seemed to inspire him. Even his turbulent bouts of auto-erotic flailing were coming on less frequently now. In the United States, Montparnasse had been given freedom - freedom to call himself an artist. The school sponsored quarterly gallery exhibitions and Montparnasse was quickly becoming a star. His employment of neckerchiefs, striped sailor shirts and his european accent lent instant credibility to his work.

In a chance meeting, Montparnasse was introduced to William “Bill” Skelly, an oilman from Tulsa, Oklahoma. The two got along famously and Skelly commissioned Montparnasse to create a massive sculpture to adorn his International Petroleum Exhibition. By this time Skelly was in his dotage and had made several questionable investments including a football stadium for the University of Tulsa.

Since its initial unveiling, the Golden Driller has created its own history. In 1966, it became a permanent feature at the Tulsa Fairgrounds, its brutish right arm resting on a retired oil derrick from a depleted field in Seminole. In 1979, the Golden Driller was adopted by the Oklahoma Legislature as the state monument. And in 2006, as part of an online promotional contest, the Golden Driller was named the grand prize as a top ten "quirkiest destination" in the United States, winning its nominator a $90,000 international vacation for two. Although its once bronze coating has been stained to a mustard gold by airborne contaminates, the result of westerly breezes carrying petrochemicals from the refineries across the river, the Driller remains one of Tulsa’s most beloved icons.

The monument’s creator, however, enjoyed no such fortune. He had planned to return to the United States in 1966 for the unveiling of the Golden Driller at the fairgrounds, but his agent argued against it, claiming that his attendance “could only jeopardize his reputation as a serious artist and confuse, if not horrify the people of Oklahoma, which are a kind and Godly people.”

Mentally and physically ill, Montparnasse died on Bastille day later that same year. While cycling home after night of rampant debauchery, his scarf became entangled in the spokes of his bicycle, and as he was traveling at a decent rate of speed, proceeded to snap his neck. The coroner’s report, however, claimed that the artist had died from erotic asphyxiation. When pressed for an explanation of this additional humiliating information, the coroner noted that although the subsequent winding of the scarf had likely broken the artist’s neck, one couldn’t help but notice that the subject’s left hand was in his trousers at the time of death.

I'm Sorry I Didn't Help You Move.

2011-06-10T10:54:00.001-05:00

Here's the thing. I saw your Facebook post asking if any of your friends might be available to help you move on fairly short notice and I feel really bad about not replying. I am currently in self-imposed exile from capitalism and I have a fair amount of time on my hands. I certainly could have at least pitched in and helped you with the heavy stuff or maybe even with some packing, but I didn't.

Perhaps it is for the best.

For one thing, I barely even know you. Maybe you would have thought it strange that I offered to help, certainly your real friends would have. I mean, I am your friend, but you know, not your friend friend. I am your Facebook friend, and that hardly warrants potential back injury. I know that we were once real friends (maybe?), but previous recreational drug use combined with the passage of some years have left my memory as blank and scratchy as a garage sale etch-a-sketch. Truth be told, I didn't even help my best friend move last time I had the opportunity. And the last time I moved, I hired some guys to do it for me, which means I didn't even help myself move.

But what has really started to gnaw at my soul is not my absence at your moving party (which as I understand included pizza and cheap beer), but why I can't figure out how we know each other. Forget about the fact that I didn't help you lug your crap from one apartment to another, how do I know you?

I have compiled a list of things I have been able to piece together from mutual friends, my damaged memory, and your Facebook profile:

You work as a bartender at several establishments in the downtown area. This much I know. When I used to have the kind of time and disposable income required to drink in public, you were there sometimes. We would acknowledge that we knew each other, but I never could put my finger on the origin of our aquaintance.

You have 454 Facebook friends! Impressive.

You wear glasses. Apparently, not just for reading.

I have the feeling that the way we know each other has something to do with church, but then I recall that I didn't ever attend a church service at the time I was supposed to know you.

You have curly-ish hair.

We attended the same High School.

Sometimes we talk about bicycles because we both seem to enjoy riding them.

I remember that I like you, doesn't that count for something? I have a generally "good" feeling when I see you at your job. Of course, since you are a bartender, I am drinking when I see you at your job, but I still have some memory of liking you more than most other near strangers.

The truth is... I just can't figure out how I know you. Why does it matter? Because you seem like a person that I would like to know. Because I am too afraid to be honest and explain that I have forgotten how we know each other for fear of seeming obtuse or inconsiderate. Because I need people to like me. I need to be one of the people who you showcase as your "talented friend" - I need to feel just a little bit more special than most people, not for the purpose of grandstanding, but so that I might humbly accept praise in a self-deprecating manner that would make me all the more attractive as a human being. I need to be thought of as clever and cute and witty and wise and all of the things that I am not when I am full of doubt, worry, and regret.

This isn't about you. It's about me - it always is. If it were about you, I would have answered your post and you would have had a much needed helper on moving day. Maybe then we would be friends, we would have eaten some pizza, drank some beer, and realized that we both weren't sure about the circumstances surrounding our initial meeting, but we were going to have a helluva good time trying to figure it out and piece it all back together.

Like I said, really sorry I didn't help you move...

Beau

Things I was Actually Thinking About When I Have Said That I Was Listening:

2011-04-15T22:31:00.000-05:00

Sex

Surfing - not really learning how to surf, but just kind of knowing how to do it - and how kick-ass that would be.

When sharks die, do they float to the top like smaller fish or what happens? 'Cause you never just see a dead shark floating around. Whales - same question.

Hang Gliding - How does that work? I have at best a precursory knowledge of thermal updrafts. This will require further investigation.

Having sex with the person that I am supposed to be listening to. I wonder what that would be like? Probably pretty good.

What kind of dog would best fit my trendy, urban lifestyle? No little yippers, though - I don't care for those.

How did I end up here listening to this asshole? I was supposed to be an English Professor at a prestigious all- girls college in New England with patches on my jacket sleeves and other shit like that.

Sex with supermodels - I bet it’s not all its cracked up to be. I bet there is a bunch of bullshit you would have to put up with and eventually you would just be like, "Man, this is too much bullshit to put up with."

Living in Italy on the Amalfi Coast wearing wrinkled linen suits and maybe learning how to sail. I don't know, sailing? It is sooooo pretentious. Maybe just something simple like "collector of fine art."

Maybe I should take up making things out of stained glass. I like stained glass, and I need a new hobby. No, fuck that. What would I do with all of it? Nobody likes to get that shit as a gift, anyway. That's a stupid idea.

Do they still make glue out of horses? Did they ever, or is that just bullshit? There are a wealth of adhesives out there these days - are they all made from horses? Wouldn't that be like a shitload of horses? What's up with that? And, why just horses? Why not Congressmen? Oh, Beau you’re so clever. Oh shit, stop smiling, they can tell you're not listening, again.

Did I eat anything yet today? Oh yeah, I had that crappy breakfast burrito from the convenience store. Why did I eat that? The checkout girl was pretty, though. I wonder what it would be like to have sex with her? Probably pretty good.

38

2011-04-07T18:53:00.000-05:00

It is the anniversary of my 38th year on this planet and there are a few things that I feel a compulsion to share. One is my own mortality. Without consulting any type of directory or scientific manual, I am certain that my life is, at least statistically speaking, nearly half over (although I have always felt that the title of octogenarian was well within my reach). And since the baby boomers have successfully marketed 70 as the new 40, I feel confident that I will be spared any mention of being "over the hill" and the ridiculous amount of black crepe paper decorations that use to accompany such a transition. However, being on the earth for this many spins has afforded a certain amount of perspective. A quick note: I have an overwhelming feeling that this piece may ramble (if you are easily nauseated, it may be time to exit this ride now) but a bit of rambling, I might tell you, I feel entitled to at the moment. So, instead of conjuring some comprehensive listing of "What I Have Learned in My 38 Years", I will simply describe some parts of my life and let that be that, by which I mean, politely draw your own conclusions.

It should be noted that for a great deal of my life I have had a hard time going to sleep - the truth being that it was a wrestling match between my restless brain and the inevitability of repose. Over the years I have hosted a number of worrisome soirees in my head at bedtime, the guest list including money, women, family, career, etc.. Now, as a result of having and raising a child, I can sleep at almost any moment, anywhere - I could sleep right now (some of you who are reading this may feel the same). When I wake, either day or night, I am greeted by the my son's voice. After several minutes of singing he begins to talk. At nearly 14 months his vocabulary is limited, but not necessarily unsophisticated. He greets the birds in the morning, "Hi, birds." He cannot see a bird from his crib as the curtains are drawn, so my feeble brain deduces that he is imagining them, which is not altogether different from seeing them in the first place, and to his world, perhaps no different at all. After his vocal gymnastics, he joins us in our bed where he wiggles around like a worm whose tail has been dipped in hot sauce and attempts by any means necessary to make us laugh (which he does with great acumen, as he is quite adept and we are of course, a very willing audience).

It is at these times that I wonder what his life will be like, and abstract thoughts of my own childhood will launch themselves into the movie projector in my head: The times I spent in a treehouse my father made for me (several graying, splintery planks lodged in the crotch of an elm) and the sounds the leaves made as they were rough-housed by the wind. The feeling of sunburned thighs and feet after a day at the lake. Deconstructing an oversized model of the human eye in my father's office, gripping and twisting the optic nerve like the throttle of an imaginary motorcycle. The sound of 52 children bouncing 13 basketballs in a YMCA gymnasium, the acoustics of that room affording each bounce a volume at least three times louder than it deserved. My grandmother's embrace and how she held me longer than I liked at the time. Removing my socks and shoes that were soaked with dew and seeing my feet wrinkled up and white like the flesh of a fish fillet. Laying on my stomach and face on the hot cement to warm my body after jumping into a cold, chlorine scented swimming pool. My mother's cologne - earthy and rich, hanging heavy in the air. The juxtaposition of the terra cotta flowerpots beneath the reddish-pink geraniums I planted on my mother's porch and the way those colors irritated my sensibilities as the temples of my eyeglasses now irritate the area behind my right ear, with a slight pressure. I remember family trips, singing along with the car stereo and being fascinated with the leather appointments near the car's gear shift. I can feel cold winds that made me believe that the bones in my face might shatter like a rubber ball dipped in liquid nitrogen, some sort of junior high science experiment. The smell of the Carnegie Library and its dark mustiness. I can taste the charred remains of the hamburgers that my grandfather used to press and handle until they achieved the form and resilience of a charcoal briquette. I recall the church bulletins with line drawings on thin paper the color of vanilla ice cream. Sweat running down my spine and into the pants of my polyester little-league baseball uniform. The smell of a freshly opened can of tennis balls. The complicated feelings of being attracted to girls who were older and much more developed than I was. Bloody noses and lips from fist fights with best friends. Hydrogen peroxide poured into scrapes on various parts of my body. Bunk beds and themed comforter sets belonging to my brother and me. Creaky would floors and airplane plants that hung in front of streaky windows in beaded macrame hammocks. The weight and heft of glass pop bottles and the beautiful sound of glass on metal as you removed them from the collars in the skinny vertical door of a coin operated cooler. Fireworks lit by my grandfather's cigarette. Fireflies in a mason jar with holes poked in the top by a rusty screwdriver.

After 38 years, these are the things that I remember from my childhood. I can be prodded to remember other events if someone will set the scene for me, but for the most part, I tend to recall the small things: The stains of mulberries from a neighboring yard or watching my math teacher get into her imported car at the grocery store and imagining she and her husband moving off to a more cosmopolitan city. I have always been lost in these thoughts, in their detail. In any classroom, church service, vacation motel, family visit, car ride, or sporting event, I have found time to focus on something in the periphery for far too long. I used to fight it, but now I realize it is just a part of who I am. Take me to a musical and I might spend a serious amount of time wondering about the life of the elderly usher, constructing a history for him, his deceased wife, and the persian cats that he shares his modest ranch home with now. At a baseball game my attention will be focused on a child with gum stuck to her shoe or a particular favorite, the hot dog vendor. No matter what the scenario, I will be present for only a short amount of time before I become fascinated with another person and check out momentarily.

My mother has always said that you can never tell if I have enjoyed myself until months or even years after an event has occurred. In many respects, she is right. These things take time. My life has taken time, as all lives tend to do, and I can honestly say to you now, dear reader - I am glad to have had the time to take.

Jerome

2011-03-21T19:45:00.000-05:00

A couple of weeks ago my wife, Cari, and I were sitting on our porch and drinking a glass of wine like we sometimes do after putting our child to bed for the night. I am not sure what got me started , but I began to tell her a story of one of the various characters that I used to know when I lived in Savannah, Georgia some years ago.

It should be noted that I sometimes talk too much - particularly when I am excited - and I certainly was excited on this occasion. This behavior wears Cari down. I know that she loves me very much, but there is only so much enthusiasm a person can take, and when I am excited about something (anything) I roll downhill with quite a bit of force. It is a wonder that she tolerates my stories and though I can see her contempt start to rise at the outset of one, most times my excitement gets the best of me and I must proceed.

Some years back, an associate editor for Esquire magazine named John Berendt wrote a book called Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil which chronicled the murder trial of a prominent Savannah resident named Jim Williams. A New York Times bestseller for a record 216 weeks, the book was a "fun read", containing a murder mystery and a menagerie of bizarre characters that painted the town of Savannah in a mystical light. When I moved to Savannah in 1997, Clint Eastwood and his crew happened to be shooting the movie adaptation of the book in Forsyth Park about three stories below my apartment. The film by all accounts was horrible, which was too bad because the cast was fantastic. But, even the best laid plans... you know. I enjoyed the book and treated it as a reference for the things that I might want to visit or recreate when I moved into my new town. My roommate, who had lived in Savannah for a number of years couldn't stand it. In fact, I think the copy of the book I have was his at one point; He was all too willing to give it up. His main problem with the novel was the inflated characterizations of the citizens of Savannah. He claimed to know some of them and said that none of them were as flamboyant or interesting as the book portrayed. He was right. Through the years, I met some of the people as well and none of them lived up to the larger than life personas they had been assigned.

But here is where my roommate and I have a difference in opinion. It didn't bother me that these people fell short of their billing because I never really expected them to live up to it in the first place. As a writer, I understand that it is necessary to pad real life people a bit for effect. If you didn't there would be very few interesting books written about actual people. Experiences are enhanced by knowledge of the people involved. A story about your friend is funny to you, but would mean almost nothing out of context when relayed to a perfect stranger. So, if you want to write a book about a fantastical place, about a unique group of people that is intended to be read by millions with no frame of reference, you had better err on the side of the absurd rather than the routine. To my mind it is not a lie or an outright deception, rather an amplification - and that is okay with me. In my opinion, the only time an author ought to be completely accurate when writing about another person is when they are writing their biography or their obituary, and my guess is that Berendt meant to write neither.

Some writers inflate characters, some conjure them out of thin air. But I think most writers succumb to a pleasant amount of what I call selective remembering. I know that I do. Selective remembering isn't fabrication as much as it is reconstruction. It is the combination of character, events, and most importantly, time. Time to forget the mundane and let the sublime marinate. Time for the mind to fill in the gaps and explain the nuances that were not evident as it experienced it. I think that all art is pushed by this phenomenon to some extent. If not, wouldn't we just be reading stories about people as ordinary as our neighbors or looking at paintings that we could not discern from photos?

All of that being said, what follows is a true story, at least in as much as it was relayed to me truthfully, which I believe that it was. While it could be argued that stories have a way of being embellished as they are told and re-told, I know the subject of this tale and I can fully vouch that his life is so fantastically depraved that the only reason I relay this story is because other ones are beyond belief.

The man's name was Jerome. We were employed by the same company for a number of years at or about the turn of the last century in a place called Skidaway Island, Ga. Skidaway Island was and is home to a gated private community called The Landings, which at the time was the largest private golf club in the United States. The Landings consisted of 6 golf courses serviced by four maintenance facilities and over 100 employees working in various horticultural departments in order to keep them pristine. Jerome was one of those people.

The first time I ever heard this story about Jerome, I was at a pizza place called Vinnie Van Go-go's in the city market area of downtown Savannah. I was eating with my boss and several other co-workers when we began to compare notes on the biographies of the crazy people we had worked with in the golf course industry. I had played my hand, telling them about a man named Eddie that I had worked with at a previous job. Eddie was the first illiterate adult I had ever met. A fact that I discovered by accident one day when I asked him to help me interpret a pesticide label. He signed his employee handbooks, insurance forms, and the back of his paychecks with a wild scribble that was rarely the same twice. He was also nearly toothless which relegated him to a diet of rice, some sort of gravy, and meat that had been slow cooked until wilted. Eddie had lived a difficult life, and by all accounts had not been graced with fortune either inherited or earned. It was difficult to see him struggle through each day and it would have been downright heartbreaking if he hadn't been one of the biggest assholes on the planet. In the eight months I had worked with Eddie he had cursed at me on nearly a daily basis, thrown a wrench across the maintenance shop which found its stopping point in the spot on my back between my shoulder blades, and on the day I left that job for a new one, he whipped an empty liter of Jack Daniel's Whiskey at my truck as I exited the parking lot. The panel agreed, Eddie was a character. But, I was told, he was nothing compared to Jerome. As it turns out, they were right.

When I met Jerome he had been living on the porch of his mother's home where he slept in a garish coffin - the result of a series of events that are quite unbelievable to anyone who had not met him, but seemed matter of fact to those who knew him well. The coffin in question had been purchased at an estate sale earlier in the year by Jerome's mother. A sad effort in low-country funeral planning, it was intended for Jerome's stepfather who had been diagnosed with a terminal illness. Jerome had been living in a mobile home with his girlfriend, but had recently been evicted due to non-payment of lot rent. His girlfriend left him, he was unemployed, and he was up to his ears in debt with bills from a local hospital. The medical bills stemmed from an incident that had occurred during the fulfillment of a bet he had made with one of his friends. The bet was that Jerome could shoot himself in the stomach with a .22 pistol and not have to be hospitalized. The wager was for twenty dollars.

To be certain, it was a stupid bet, but Jerome had an angle. He was sure that if he pulled the excess skin from around his middle, pinched it together and shot through it, he would not only fulfill the bet's parameters of shooting himself in the stomach, but also be able to secure the payoff by ably treating a subcutaneous flesh wound that in his mind couldn't be much worse than a large piercing.

As with all tragedies, there were a number of unforeseen circumstances that led to the dismantling of such a great plan. In his case, Jerome's undoing would be partially tied to the fact that he couldn't own a gun, the result of several gun related arrests. So, even with Georgia's liberal gun laws, Jerome would have to shoot himself in the stomach with another man's gun. Not possessing the instrument with which to shoot yourself could be a problem, but with Jerome's friends it would be easily remedied. The man who made the bet with him was more than happy to provide the firearm that he was sure would eventually secure him the twenty dollars. He even joked with Jerome that he wasn't going to charge him for the bullet the nurses in the ER were going to have to pull out of him. The fact that the gun was not his own was not Jerome's main problem, though it was a component. His main problem was physiological. Because although one .22 caliber pistol may not be remarkably different from another, the human response to a gunshot may be decidedly so.

As the story goes, the bet was to be fulfilled at a party on a friday evening at the gun owner's home on the back creek of Whitmarsh Island. By all accounts, there was a crowd of 15 to 20 people drinking and carrying on into the night - word traveled through the party about the bet, and like a sentence passed around a room it would grow more outlandish and grotesque as imagination and alcohol fueled its journey.

When it finally came time to make good on the bet, Jerome was all too happy to reveal his plan. It was late at night, so most of the partygoers had either headed home or moved on to a different affair. So it was that Jerome and two other men found themselves near the back creek with the moonlight bouncing off of the brackish water in the creek which was near high tide. Jerome waved the pistol in a defiant motion at the sky and then grabbing an impressive amount of flesh from the belly of his slender figure proceeded to fire a shot through his rolled skin.

The shot went through clean and if a person could have witnessed the event in super-slow motion they would have put twenty dollars on Jerome, too. But mere nanoseconds after the shot sliced through his bunched up stomach flab, nerve endings carried with great urgency a message to Jerome's brain telling it that he was under attack and that in preparation for another assault it would be for the best if he would collapse his frame to protect his vital organs and tense up every available muscle - including the ones in his right index finger that were wrapped a round the trigger of a .22 caliber pistol.

Although the first shot had performed as planned, the next one, as a consequence of Jerome's body buckling found a more direct route into his abdomen. A point blank shot that shredded its way through his intestines and finally came to rest near his bladder. Jerome was rushed to St. Joseph's hospital on the back of a Harley Davidson Super Glide, an unfortunate conveyance for such an occasion, but for various reasons, Jerome's friends didn't want police showing up at their home.

After an emergency operation and several weeks of recovery Jerome was ready to go back to work, but the construction company that he had been working for had replaced him and the phone calls were coming in requesting payment of his staggering balance to the hospital.

Broke, wounded, and with his reputation in shambles, Jerome drug himself to his mother's home just to be told that his room had been rented out for necessary income and that it was 4 months into a 6 month lease. Having little other option, Jerome decided to sleep for two months in the same vessel his stepfather would eventually sleep in for eternity.

After I finished telling my story about Jerome to Cari and assuring her that this wasn't even the best one, I looked at her face and noticed that it was filled with disgust. "What?" I said. Cari started gathering her things and heading inside, "I am not going to listen to your porch stories anymore," she said.

So there I was alone on the porch, glass of wine in my hand and I started to wonder to myself how much of my story was authentic. I catalogued the main story line and started to revisit the details as well when it struck me once again that I didn't really care if it was true or not. It was a good story.

Lost and Found

2011-02-07T23:34:00.003-06:00

The summer of 1992 was sandwiched between my freshman and sophomore attempts at becoming a college student. Paired with the upcoming fall semester and my full initiation to the Oklahoma State University campus, it would become one of the most formative and confusing times in my brief life. I was an impossibly well mannered and bright kid who was on a mission to tear apart any semblance of my former personal history and strike out new in an effort to recreate myself.

I had taken up residence in an apartment complex not too far from the neighborhood where I had grown up. This was a snap decision made one night at a party where I had run into some old friends from high school and drank way too many beers out of a plastic cup. The buildings in the apartment complex were painted a cappuccino color with dark brown accents and had all the charm of a minimum security prison with only a little less privacy. But the best thing about them was that neither of my parents lived there.

When we first moved in, I had a job washing dishes at a local restaurant. But I quickly figured out that I had saved more than enough money in the previous year to quit that job and spend the summer at my leisure. My father had agreed to provide me with a stipend of $275 per month as long as I was attending school and making good grades; an agreement that I made him regret almost immediately. Since I had decided to share this two-bedroom apartment with three other guys, our rent and bills when split four ways totaled roughly $150 per month. This meant that I had and extra $125 per month to spend on beer, marijuana, and compact discs to round out my growing music collection. It seems crazy now, but $125 was more than enough and I rarely even had to dip into my savings unless I wanted to attend a concert or buy food.

My days were spent employing the apartment complex’s many amenities. Never one to enjoy an indoor gym, I opted instead to split my time between the faux beach volleyball court and the miniature pool that happened to be within earshot of my bedroom. This was a lucky break for the other residents of the complex because I was able to wedge my stereo speakers into my bedroom window and direct them at the pool area. That way we could all enjoy the bootlegged Grateful Dead performances of the last 30 years, 4 hours at a time. “Don’t worry,” I would say to a young mother with her toddler in tow, “after this one is over it will immediately switch to the next tape. We can hear the entire set from the 1978 show at the pyramids before I have to reload.”

On occasion I would visit my father for lunch and the customary pay out of our agreed arrangement. At some point he would inevitably ask, “So, what do you do all day?” I couldn't understand it at the time, but it frustrated him to no end that I had decided not to work through the summer. I have to give him credit for keeping up his end of the deal, and I can't really fault him for rescinding it later on that year in an effort to put his wife through school instead. Although it did sting quite a bit to lose my financial padding to my stepmother, it was a much more sound investment.

Finding something to occupy my time that summer wasn’t really as much a burden for me as my father might have imagined. I would wake up when I was tired of sleeping, eat whatever I could find leftover from the previous night, take a shower, and prepare to start my day promptly at noon or so. By this time someone was usually hanging around looking to drink beer at the pool, smoke a joint and drive to the lake, or maybe just watch some movies. It was a time to ease into the day, make friends with it, and see where it was going to take you. This was also a good time to get some reading done, explore some of my roommate’s cd collections, and gather a mental schedule of which of my buddies would be available to hang out on that particular evening and which ones might have to work.

Also of prime importance was phone answering. In the days before cell phones and absent an answering machine, it was imperative that someone be there to answer the phone in case a person might call with information regarding a party or a trip to the lake involving a borrowed boat. On this front, I was invaluable. I can’t remember how many times I waited with great anticipation for my roommates to wander in so I could tell them what information I had gathered during the day. Mostly I can’t remember, because I smoked too much pot.

And so the days went, the most delightful rut I had ever had the pleasure of being stuck in. I had worked every summer since I was 13, but this summer was mine. It would be the first and last of its kind.

The fall semester at Oklahoma State University brought with it rampant change and confusion. I moved in with some acquaintances from the summer; a group of cowboys that had been kicked out of their fraternity house the previous semester and were now renting a huge 4 bedroom home near campus. The rent was cheap and I probably could have gotten by without working, but as luck would have it, one of my new roommates got me a job at a record store in town.

The excitement of meeting new people at my job and through my new housemates was overwhelming. I looked forward to school and enrolled for the fall semester. Never one to be accused of being a show-off, I signed up for 4 lectures and a lab, totaling 13 hours - one more than the necessary 12 required to be classified as a full-time student, therefore securing my financial aid. I could barely contain myself as I breezed through the first week of classes, until I attended the biology lab on Thursday morning.

I walked into the lab and chose to sit next to a fairly attractive girl whom I had hoped would become my lab partner. After several minutes of awkward chatting, our attention became focused on the figure that had entered and set up camp at the teaching station towards the front of the room. He was a tall, slender man and not having much experience with non-native people, I strained to guess his origin. He announced his name was Manu, and that he was originally from Ethiopia. He told us that he lived with his wife and three children in the married student housing complex on campus. After disclosing a few more facts about his life, he went on to instruct us that we should not call him by the title of professor as was customary, but simply by his first name. The reason for the informality was that he was also a student working on his master’s degree. He spoke of himself in the third person and gave us an example of the protocol we should use in addressing him. “If you see Manu walking on the campus,” he said, “do not say, ‘Hello professor’, but instead you say, ‘Hi Manu, hello to you!’” This he exclaimed with tremendous enthusiasm as if he were putting us all at great ease. “We are the same,” he said, “all students.”

These were some of the last words Manu said that I ever fully understood. And as I left the lab that day thinking of his words, I couldn’t help but think that we were not the same at all. Outside of the fact that we both had bursar accounts, I couldn't think of one thing that we had in common. I was a boy attending college in my own hometown hoping to change myself into the adult I thought I wanted to be. Manu was a man, a husband and father, thousands of miles from home, struggling to grasp the language, to fit in and become a part of our society. In addition, he was tasked with teaching an entry level laboratory class to about twenty kids who had little or no interest in his knowledge. Truth be told, the lab could have been completed by simply following the manual that was purchased for the class. There was no real need for an instructor except to call roll and make sure that we didn’t cheat off of each other on the quizzes, which Manu called “cuses.”

Still, I was sorry when Manu took our failure to learn personally and claimed that our performance on his quizzes, “gave him great pain.” I know that more than one person went to their advisor and complained that Manu’s english was so poor that they could not learn the material, and it made me sad to think of this information ever getting back to him.

Out of pity and middle-class guilt, I decided to remain enrolled in Manu’s lab while others were dropping and adding like flies. My rationale was that I probably wasn’t going to do that well in biology anyway, so why blame it on someone else? Besides, I was an english major, and what more could you want but an interesting person like Manu to write about? I had fantasies of becoming his friend and helping him to navigate the troubled waters of first person speaking. Perhaps he would teach me about life in Ethiopia and enlighten me in the ways of the solid sciences.

In the end, I didn’t get to know Manu that well. The truth is, I made no effort. I didn’t even get an opportunity to casually cross his path and fulfill his dream of shouting, “Hi Manu, hello to you!” I suspect this had more to do with geography than anything else. Manu’s life was towards the west end of the campus, grounded in the earth sciences and their laboratories while mine was towards the east end, near the bars and sandwich shops.

As the semester dragged on, Manu and I struggled through it together but separately. His english never improved much, nor did my understanding of cellular mitosis. And when the time came for our last class, we parted ways more or less as we had met, with our only common bond being enrollment at the same institution. He, presumably moving on and fulfilling his requirements as a master’s student and me, preparing to go home for the holidays and explain to my parents why I had made many new friends, but few passing grades.

New and Improved?

2011-01-31T00:28:00.000-06:00

It has been about three months since I left my career in an effort to improve my life. A drastic measure to be certain, but I am an all or nothing kind of person to the core. I will be clean shaven or have a beard. I can be the life of the party or be quite reserved. And sadly for those that share my life, I can be wildly excitable or completely sullen.

Since 90 days seems to be a good probationary period (you can tell I worked in a corporate setting by that phrase) I thought I would check in on my wish list that I compiled when I was trying to gather the courage to radically alter my life. It is important for me to go back and look at my goals to make sure I give myself credit for achieving them. Too often I accomplish something, give myself no credit, and then wrongly accusing myself of getting nowhere. So let's give them a look...

Time - I want lots of time to think and play and figure things out and create. There is no more precious commodity. Everything I desire hinges on time. Time = Freedom. I certainly have more time than I used to, but most of it is taken up with helping to raise my child. Perhaps it was a bit naive to think that I could quit my job and just wander around the city.
I want to walk around and look at things - study things. Maybe I will draw them, maybe I will paint them, maybe I will simply marvel at them. I have begun to slow down and pay more attention to my surroundings and this makes me very happy.
Money. I want ample amounts of money. Money to live the life of my dreams, money to aid others, money to start foundations and charities, money to help myself and others. This one is funny. When I wrote it, what I really meant was that I wanted to have millions and millions of dollars. But, being afraid of being perceived as greedy, I wrote "ample." Well, I got what I asked for. I have "ample" amounts of money. I would like to restate this wish at this time and become perfectly clear, I want millions of dollars. And I will probably want millions more after that. For the record we have given money to aid others, donated to charities, friends, and strangers. I want millions so that I can do more of that.
I would like to ride my bike to whatever it is I call work. I have worked odd jobs downtown for a friend of a friend and have ridden my bike to get there.
I want to spend more time with my family. Not in a creepy congressional scandal way, but in the real way. I want to be around Cari and Grey throughout the day. Have I gotten to spend more time with my family? Um, try all day every day. I have driven them crazy and on some days they have gladly returned the favor. But, I will never take for granted the opportunity I have had to be with my wife and son over the last three months. I am extremely fortunate to get to be this much a part of their lives.
I want to be a great father. I am a great father. I make tons of mistakes and I get very frustrated and I say and do the wrong things ALL of the time. But I apologize and I keep showing up. I don't know a lot, but I know the secret to being a great parent is to be honest, loving, sincere, and above all, to keep showing up.
I want to be the best husband. I could stand some improvement here. I am insistent, impatient, and sometimes short-tempered. This is a goal that I need to focus on much more intently. I am going to do that starting right now.

I want to create. I want to write children's books with Cari, I want to write essays, novels, and parenting books. I want to receive an honorary degree from a prestigious University. Essays, yes. Haven't quite made it to the novels or the honorary degree just yet. I did however draw a picture of my son's favorite breakfast foods the other day because I wanted to feel extremely clumsy and uncomfortable. Here it is...
I want to sell and market a line of greeting cards that Cari has created, I want to promote other friends and artists that I now know and soon will meet. I want to show people like me that there is a way for them to have a good life and that there is nothing wrong with having a non-traditional career. Good start on these items, but I need to really step it up.
I want to give back. I want to help those who need it and teach those that are yearning to be taught. Don't know if I have taught anybody anything, but I have given back on occasion. You just can't do enough of that kind of thing.
I want to to be on CBS Sunday Morning. Not yet, but I have enjoyed watching it when I have had the time.
I want to be on NPR - preferably Fresh Air with Terry Gross. No calls from the producers of Fresh Air just yet.
I would love to be a good cook - not a great one, just a good one. I am getting better at this. Thank God I have a wife that will gladly try what I cook and tell me that she loves it. I may not be good yet, but I have found that I love to take the time to cook. I find it so relaxing and enjoyable when it is not restricted by deadline. Like all other things, if you start to put time demands on it, I will instantly despise the task.
I would like to travel - Western Europe, the parts of North America that I haven't seen, and then who knows where else... Not unless you count Enid, Oklahoma. However, I am about to help one of my friends out with his business and it requires a good deal of travel, so in the next few months this will change.
I would like to be good at Yoga. Ugh, so disappointed in myself for not giving this more attention. Along with improving my husband skills, this task gets the lowest marks.
I would like to be friends/colleagues of David and Amy Sedaris. Hahaha.... not yet. If you happen to be friends of theirs, feel free to invite us all to dinner some night.
I am strangely interested in beekeeping - maybe that could be a hobby. This one needs to be deleted and replaced with home-brewing. Beekeeping, what was I thinking? Making my own beer makes much more sense. What do I need with honey? I can't finish a jar in a year.
I would like to live my life, write about my life and get paid for it. The world is a strange and wonderful place and I think that there maybe aren't enough people keeping record of that. I would like to volunteer to do that. Duh, I am totally doing that (payment coming soon).
I would like to make/restore furniture. I have no skill that I know of that would lend itself to this, but I would like to give it a whirl, anyway. I have done a little wood working now and I am certain that I would NOT like to do this. I think that I was confused. What I would like to do is appreciate and purchase furniture. Specifically, of the mid-century modern variety.
I would like to be smiling most of the time. It should be said about me, "he is always smiling." I am smiling s lot more now than I used to.

So, how am I doing? Not bad. Change comes slower than I would like it to, but I know that I am becoming myself again. I also must remember that it took quite some time to lose the things that make me happy, so it should be no surprise that it will take some time to re-program myself.

Now, if I could just get off of my ass and do some yoga.

"I am the Way and the Truth and the...

2011-01-18T20:52:00.000-06:00

... Night-Light. No one comes to the bathroom except by me."

To say that I have a complicated relationship with Our Lord and Savior would be a gross oversimplification. For all of those preparing to stop reading, give me a second. It is not that I am a non-believer. I believe in a "God Presence" very strongly. I know, I know, that didn't sound right - don't click away yet. Please let me explain.

Okay, let's go back to the beginning. For those of you devout Christians whom I have already offended by restructuring your sacred scripture in order to provide a juvenile and only mildly amusing punch line, you might be interested to know that the first person to cast doubt of an all powerful Creator in my mind was one of your most talented and dedicated cheerleaders.

Her name was Marcy Hollingsworth and the year was 1984. Marcy and her husband George used to pick me up every Sunday morning at 8:00 am so that we could get to the First Baptist Church in Perry, Oklahoma in time to have a little quality socializing (and some delicious donuts) before starting our Sunday school classes. (Why 8:00? Because bible study started at about 9:00 with the main service beginning at about 10:30 and going however the hell long the preacher wanted it to.) Marcy was a Sunday school teacher as well as a volunteer at the church two days a week. Her husband George was a Deacon. Both of them spent the first hour of every morning in silence at the dining room table reading from, and attempting to gain a better understanding of, The Holy Bible. Every morning. The two of them were the most loving, caring, forgiving, and well, Christ-like people I have ever met. They also happened to be my grandparents.

So, how could it be that such a faithful servant of the Lord helped to turn me away from Him? Tough questions. Questions perhaps that could only be asked out of pure curiosity and without agenda. Questions asked by an eleven year-old.

One day after church I asked my grandmother, "Why do they call Jesus, the King of the Jews?"

She replied, "Because he was. He was an Israelite. That means that he was Jewish."

"Then... why aren't we Jewish?" I asked.

"Well," she said, looking over to her husband for some sort of ecclesiastical life preserver, "it's complicated. Jesus wasn't Jewish in the religious sense, he was of Jewish heritage. You see, Jewish people don't believe in Jesus. At least, not the way we do."

Whoa, wait a minute. Jewish people don't believe in Jesus? This blew my mind. I wasn't even aware that there was a religion on the planet that didn't believe in Jesus. I wasn't sure what the difference was between ours and the other 35 churches in this town of roughly 4,000 people, but never in my wildest dreams did I think that one of the major differences might be that some people didn't believe in the one Divine Being that you absolutely had to believe in to get to Heaven. This sent me down a dangerous and disappointing path of purely scientific theory that would eventually find me a practicing (or non-practicing) agnostic. No one could prove the existence of God, so how could I be a responsible person and still believe in Him?

For a good deal of my life, as far as I was concerned, anyone who spoke of religion of any sort could automatically be discounted, if not completely dismissed. I mean, enough with all of the miracles and the promises of eternal life, and the leap of faith crap - I began to feel sorry for people who pinned their hopes and dreams to the flimsy promise of everlasting life. "Look at the world," I would say, "If there were a benevolent and loving savior, wouldn't I be driving a nicer car?"

These were dark times.

As I grew older, I began to make the distinction between Faith and Religion, and was ecstatic to find that for me, they could be mutually exclusive. Except for a few funerals, a wedding here and there, and some brief Unitarian encounters, I have not been to a proper church service in well over twenty years. I'd like to say that I would be interested in attending a church service. Sometimes my wife and I talk about how nice it would be to go to midnight mass, although to be honest, my excitement for this is probably tied to the remembrance of "midnight movies" I attended while in junior high school.

Sometimes I meet the most wonderful people and as we get to know each other they will mention that they are church-going folk. Inevitably they will ask if I attend. I always feel a little bad by saying I don't, and then I feel a little worse when I explain that I won't. I suppose that there is something from that Baptist upbringing that still makes me feel guilty about not publicly professing my love for God and his Son. For not witnessing to others and bringing them into the flock. I just don't have that in me. I can't lead people down a path that I am not certain exists.

I am however growing more and more comfortable with the path that I am on. My faith is based on trying to be a compassionate person, working on my judgement issues, and believing that there is some kind of sense to our existence. What many people call God, I call the Universe. What Christians call Jesus, I call Jesus too. I don't happen to believe that I must profess my belief in his kinship to God as a means of entry to Heaven, but conveniently for me, I don't really believe in Heaven, either.

What I do believe in is acceptance. It was always the thing that appealed to me most about Jesus. You can keep your walking on water and other assorted miracles, I liked that he took up for whores. Because that is what would make someone different from the rest of us. That is what would be described as an other-worldly characteristic. Anyone who has recently defended a whore, please step forward. No? Me neither.

Whether or not there is an afterlife is of little consequence to me currently. Whether or not a man has to take certain steps to gain access to it is even less intriguing. Being a decent human being though, is a great challenge - and one that I can really get excited about. Taking stock of this intelligent design that we are a part of and treating other people with respect is all the challenge I can handle at this point in my life. And since God will never give me more than I can handle, I'll just keep working on what I've got in front of me.

It's Tough All Over.

2011-01-10T23:23:00.002-06:00

Some people will tell you that the first million is the hardest to make, but as far as I am concerned, the fourteenth million was no Shakespeare in the Park. While all around me I heard the cries of "recession," "layoffs," and the ubiquitous, "in this economy," I was struggling to find new ways to make money to support my irresponsibly arrogant lifestyle.

This year was rough to say the least, but its briny, water-tight seal left me with some real pearls of wisdom as well. So, I thought that I might share these life lessons with you. That was, until my agent informed me that I could publish and sell them for profit.

What I have been allowed to do is create a "teaser" of sorts to entice you to buy my forthcoming self-help book based on personal finance and absentee parenting strategy loosely titled, "Staying Rich: Good Luck."

Yes, Dear Reader, I learned a lot in this year of global economic meltdown, and now you can, too (roughly 12-18 months too late).

Among my many realizations:

It costs a lot to be rich. From the house staff that make my bed in the morning to the woman who applies my eye cream before I go to sleep at night, it seems like they all wanted even more of my income this year. As I watched my investments in reality television programming and social networking sites soar through the roof this year, so too, did I see a marked increase on the invoices from yacht polishers, tiger feeders, saltwater tank divers, and watch winders. I couldn't swing a rare Lichtenstein around without smacking it into someone asking me for a check.

Here are just a few of the ways the Universe conspired against me this year in an effort to keep me from making my fourteenth million:

Weird Science
As you were Keeping Up With the Kardashians and following with clinical precision the status updates from every person you ever made out with in high school, I hired a team of scientists who worked feverishly to synthesize a monkey pheromone that mimics the ones human give off to attract mates. Ultimately this project failed and is now being sold as something called, Axe Body Spray.

Global Warming
Funny how polluting the air at insane levels for a mere 100 years or so can change the weather patterns of our planet. Funny... and costly. From a lackluster grape harvest in my Sonoma vineyards to the snow storm that claimed the bulk of my Ft. Lauderdale resort reservations, I have had it with the weather this past year. Not to mention the fact that wildfires more than likely caused by lightning (thanks again, weather) threatened several of my California properties and forced me to continually have my car detailed due to a pesky layering of ash.

Gulf Oil Spill
Much to everyone's surprise, BP's disaster in the Gulf yielded what seems to be very little permanent damage. Let's hope the same can be said for my 2500 shares of stock in their company.

There are few people who will be more happy than myself to put 2010 in their rearview mirror, although the name "Tiger" comes to mind. But that is the beauty of the new year, we can wipe the slate clean, dust off our luxury sedans, and start again.

Possible Scenarios in which I would be in a Band:

2011-01-02T10:11:00.001-06:00

Idea #1

Band Name: The Empire Strikes Back

Premise: A five-piece band including two members dressed as storm troopers that have come to save princess Leia (helmets removed), one band mate dressed as Chewbacca, a dancer dressed as Leia (not the one from "A New Hope" but the one that was Jabba the Hutt's sex slave in Return of the Jedi with the wicked-hot bikini). The remainder of the band is to be rounded out by a "little person" dressed as Yoda who obviously would also be the keyboard player. We would play a virulent mixture of death metal and jazz fusion (hence the organ).

Album/Song Names: Death Star, May the Funk Be With You, Ewok Shuffle, Lando's Theme, etc…

Fan Base: Pimply, overweight young males and nerdy, bustless females.

Pitfalls/Criticisms: Copyright infringement. Constant nagging from "fans" pointing out the inaccuracies in our live show, i.e. the fact that the storm troopers and our version of Princess Leia aren't from the same film.

Poorly thought out costumes that make it nearly impossible to play our heightened form of Jazz Metal (the wookie costume in particular turns out to be too hot for drumming and must be retrofitted with expensive radiator-type bladder system just to keep occupant alive through the show).

Dwarf that plays "Yoda" often forgets essential costume pieces ("For Christ's sake, it's only some fake ears and a robe, Greg!") showing up in "street clothes" with face painted green. This inevitably leads some underachiever to believe that Greg is impersonating a Leprechaun which then almost always ends up with a demand to be taken to a pot o’ gold. In one particularly unsavory incident Greg's refusal to relinquish his "treasure" gets him thrown through a plate-glass window resulting in a number of stitches and several nasty skin grafts. (Note: This behavior is particularly prevalent on or near St. Patrick's Day).

After a show in Northern California the band is summoned to Skywalker Ranch by George Lucas himself. Upon arrival we are outfitted with very realistic looking water pistols and taken to a sound stage that was used in one of the Back to the Future movies – the one where "Doc" and Alex P. Keaton are in the Wild West. At this point we are roundly attacked and thrashed about by a host of "Sand People" with only impressively crafted squirt guns to defend ourselves. We suffer a tremendous beating.

Fans constant referencing to "The Force" wears thin quickly.

Conclusion: Perhaps too big a target to paint on our own backs.

Idea #2

Band Name: Screwdriver Heaven

Premise: Based loosely on a response that my college friend Shelby Thomas uttered when answering the question, "What was it like to working at the toll both on the turnpike this past summer?" Screwdriver Heaven refers to Shelby's particular penchant for buying a half gallon of Five Alive before checking in for his shift on the turnpike and after displacing a measurement of said juice would then proceed to replace the lost liquid with a pint of Smirnoff Vodka, which he would consume throughout the duration of the "third shift" which he was hired to cover. Bear in mind that this shift began somewhat promptly at 11 P.M. meaning it was very likely that Shelby already had consumed enough alcohol to give himself a "mean buzz."

Album/Song Names: Throw 'n' Go, Chuck it and F*ck it, Workin’ at the Toll House

Fan Base: Almost no one. Perhaps some of Shelby's relatives that still live in the area. People that are confused and think that this may be a sale for tools or a one-quarter turn of a flathead into the kingdom of God.

Pitfalls/Criticisms: Probably a little to vague and esoteric for mass public consumption. Even though Shelby grew up in the Greater Tulsa Region, it is hard to believe that he might have left an impression deep enough to draw very many potential fans. This seems like a workable solution at first, but upon further examination, one decides that it just simply does not flesh out. Perhaps it is the antithesis of the "Star Wars" scenario. After all, who can blame us for being gun shy after that fiasco?

Conclusion: Poor marketing roots and worse musicianship make this premise a loser!

Idea #3

Band Name: The Husbands

Premise: Although no one in the band is actually married, some of them have been married before and some of them think that they would like to be in the future. The look of the band is decidedly conservative including but not limited to ill-fitting sweater vests, boat shoes, and lots of Dockers-style pants (with pleats, of course).

Albums/Song Names: Town and Country (the minivan song), Tee-Time, Play Date

Fan Base: Buddies from work, group is surprisingly attractive to gay men.

Pitfalls/Criticism: First and foremost, the band is horrible and we look like dorks. Several members of the band have very demanding girlfriends who impose strict curfews, severely limiting the number of songs that we can perform in our third set.

Fans often chant: "The Husbands are Pussy-Whipped."

Conclusion: Going for an element of so dorky, its cool – we ended up with just dorky.

Idea #4

Band Name: Sexual Predators

Premise: An attempt to ride the coattails of the wildly successful NBC news magazine series Dateline: to Catch a Predator. All members of the band in addition to being accomplished musicians must also achieve "free" marketing and advertising by making appearance as a "perp" on program.

Albums/Song Names: Stop Tazing Me, Just Came Over to Talk, Old Milwaukee and Lube

Fan Base: Old, bald guys wearing "coaching" shorts, gym teachers, select members of the priesthood, confused Schwarzenegger fans who truly only wanted to find out more about the "Predator."

Pitfalls/Criticisms: Really? Where do we start? Besides being morally bankrupt and setting an example that even modern-day pop stars could be offended by, there is the constant and real threat of incarceration. Parental humiliation/family disownment.

Conclusion: This is a really bad idea.

Idea #5

Band Name: Stolen Dan

Premise: A funk/rap/hip-hop group that employs in every song beats, hooks, or lyrics solely lifted from the super-duo Steely Dan.

Albums/Song Names: Pretzel Logik, FM, My Old Skool, Reelin' in the Years (Bitch)

Fan Base: Beautiful, enlightened, sexually tuned women – most which have advanced degrees. Guys with tweed jackets and beards – annoying, but harmless. College professors, record store managers, the latte-set, liberal intelligencia wannabes, softies, greenies, lefties, doves, crybabies, preppies, and breast-feeders.

Pitfalls/Criticisms: Almost none. What could be better than dropping some actual knowledge over some tasty Steely Dan beats? Plus, the fans are educated, courteous, and reciprocating. Is there such a thing as too much intelli-girl sex? Okay, one criticism – Steely Dan could get upset and attempt to exact some form of vengeance, but have you ever seen Donald Fagen and Walter Brecker – I am not scared.

Conclusion: Winner!!!

From the Mouths of Babes

2010-12-30T16:01:00.001-06:00

You have to know Grey's granddad to understand this story, so here goes:

He is a man that would lose his keys every single day of his life if he didn't put them in the same place every time he took them out of his pocket. So, he puts them in the same place every single day and has never once lost them. He is the kind of person who you are not allowed to speak to until 20-30 minutes after he has come home because he rushes immediately to his office to jot down a reminder on a legal pad or make a note of something he has heard on the radio or read in the paper that he doesn't want to forget. He then proceeds to write thank you notes or letters of encouragement to friends and return every single phone call that he has said he would return. Then, and only then, will he exit his office and proceed with your typical welcome home type stuff.

At this point you have less than five minutes to hold his attention on any pressing matter as all he can think about is briskly walking through the kitchen, sliding past the living room, and into his bedroom to change into his running gear. If anyone is standing adjacent to his path, he will ask them how their day went, or maybe how their job was going, or he may even ask them for their opinion on some new restaurant downtown. If you use more than three words in your description you are wasting your breath. He is already gone - if not physically, certainly mentally. If you say anything negative, you have lost him - this is a man who claims that he has never been ill, nor has he ever had a bad day at work, and he has zero interest in hearing about yours. He didn't really want to talk to you at all, but he considers himself too much of a gentleman to walk through a room and not acknowledge your very existence.

Next, he is going running. It does not matter what the weather, it does not matter what plans you have, or that you might need five seconds of his time (my mother has literally unloaded furniture by herself as he ran by saying, "That's a nice looking wingback chair."), you are not getting it. The trail is. He has run almost every single day of his life for the last 30 years and you are not important enough to keep that from happening on this or any other day. If you think that you are, or you think that today is special, you are about to get your feelings hurt because it is not happening.

When he gets back from his love affair with the River Parks and his beloved trail, he is going to take a shower without waiting for one second to do it. There will be no replacement of burnt out light bulbs, there will be no hanging of my mother's many holiday flags, there will be no prolonged chit-chatting with the neighbors on the front lawn or otherwise. There will be a shower and it will be now.

After the shower there are a few minutes in which he may engage with you while he eats, most often while standing, in the kitchen. At this point you may feel like you can really have a conversation with him and sometimes you are right. Other times you will find yourself answering a question to the refrigerator because he has exited without whatever information you were asked to convey to him. My mother starts to answer a question and then proceeds to sprint down the hall toward his office, her volume increasing as if she is having a conversation with someone that is standing on an elevator whose doors are closing. Either that or she prattles on and on about something and just as she starts to enjoy the sound of her own voice, she hears his office door shut and realizes she has been holding an audience with thin air for minutes.

Throughout the rest of the evening, my son's granddad will exit his office intermittently for food, something to drink, or perhaps to let you know that there is something more interesting on television than what you have chosen to watch. The way he lets you know this is by entering the room and changing the channel on the television that you are watching. And rest assured, if there is an HD version of the channel he wishes for you to enjoy, the television will not be on it. He claims to not see any difference, so he hasn't bothered to memorize the channel numbers.

But despite all of this, there are the sweet things, too. He loves my wife and is proud to share an inside joke with her about their common astrological sign, Scorpio, and how that totally lets him off the hook for being a recluse. He thinks that my mother is the most beautiful woman in the world and never fails to mention it. He is the most protective and proud of my little brother, and in ancient times he would have been designated the Patron Saint of House Cats for the love, care, and rescue of some of God's most wonderful creatures. He cares deeply about the treatment of minorities and the disenfranchised and starts guerrilla campaigns with the followers of his radio program to strip the city of misplaced election signs during voting season. Memorial Day will find him in a graveyard placing small flags next to the plaques of the men and women who have died for their country and our freedom. And about the only thing that is allowed to get in the way of his daily run is an opportunity to stop, pet, and ask the name of a dog that he meets along the path.

And then there is Grey, his grandson. He is absolutely over the moon about his grandson. At ten months old, my son is the proud owner of batting gloves, a radio flyer wagon, just about every children's book that can be purchased, a trailer that can be pulled by my bicycle, and slightly more of his granddad's attention than any of the rest of us have been able to hold. Having never had any siblings or children of his own, I would say that granddad has done very well with Grey. He is a natural at holding and playing, if not the best at consoling. He is constantly amazed with Grey's development and is thinking of him on an hourly basis. He even mentioned him on his radio program the other day, which is more than I can say for the rest of us.

A few days ago my son strung together his first multi-syllabic word. To non-parents this will mean very little, but to anyone who has raised a child from infancy, it is understood that this is a milestone. One that denotes complex speaking patterns and advancing brain development. And when you have a child, you get very excited when these words come out of their mouth as they tend to become some sort of bizarre affirmation that you have not yet screwed him or her up completely. Are you ready for the word? The one whose utterance simultaneously fills me with pride and laughter? Here it is: "bubo." (pronunciation: buh-bo)

Okay, so technically it is not a word, but it is two syllables strung together. And not accidentally, either. He says it all the time. What he means by it we have no fucking idea, but that's not the point really. It is the first word he says in the morning and the last one he says at night. A few evenings ago, he was totally asleep and then he pulled away from my wife's breast, opened his eyes, and said, "bubo," in a raspy voice and then proceeded to go back to sleep.

Cari and I talked about what we thought Grey might mean by the word "bubo" for awhile and then we joked about how granddad constantly repeated the word back to him in what we had determined was either an effort to communicate, or what was more than likely a desperate attempt to say something relevant to a ten month-old boy. Often, when we go over to his house, granddad will have forgotten the most recent thing that we have been saying that makes Grey laugh, or he incorrectly mimics Grey's speech and I will admit, there have been times when I have thought less of him for not being more involved and staying engaged. Is it too much to ask for a person to just stay in a room and pay attention to his grandson and possibly even his children or maybe his wife?

Later that evening I got a text from my mother that read: "I just went in granddad's office to feed the cats and I looked at the legal pad on his desk. Look at the entry at the bottom of the page."

You're off the hook, Granddad...

Interview with the Artist

2010-12-26T22:41:00.002-06:00

The following is a pretend interview with a very real artist - it was originally initiated in early December of 2010. Following a string of life altering events I sat down with Beau Matthew Adams as he tried to make sense of it all. By "trying to make sense of it all", I mean to say that he was noticeably distracted.

So, I have been following your blog for a number of months and I have some questions about it. Why the name, Kickball?
Good question, you know, you are the first person who has ever asked me that. Two reasons, really. One, because I wanted to convey how much fun writing is for me, and when I thought back to my childhood, I realized that one of the things that I enjoyed the most was playing kickball on the playground at recess during grade school.

And...
And what?

You said that there were two reasons that you named your blog Kickball. What was the other one?
No, that was it. Did I say that there were two reasons? No, just the one reason. That's it - just had fun playing Kickball when I was a kid.

Ooookaaayyy... Well, let's talk about your childhood then. You moved around a lot as a small child, how did-
Oh yeah, I remember the other reason now. That's right - there were two reasons - I was right the first time. The other reason was because nobody ever fucking reads this thing anyway, so who gives a shit?

I see. So your early childhood, was it problematic to move so often? Did it leave you with a sense of insecurity?
Yeah, there was a certain amount of "gypsy" to my family's existence, but I don't think that you understand that until you get older, you know? I mean, I guess I figured that everyone moved around a lot until I met some people who told me that they had never moved at all. I guess that is when I really started to realize that some families move around a lot, but some families pretty much stay put.

Interesting (sigh)... So, do you think that has had a profound effect on who you are today? On your writing style? Or on how you approach your craft?
Well, perhaps... If we could go back to the first question for a minute, I would like to say that the more I think about it, the more I realize that I really love those balls that we used to play kickball with on the playground. You know, those big red bouncy ones?

Yes, I am aware of the balls you are speaking of, quite a lot of fun, indeed. What were you like as a teenager?
I was a pretty normal teenager, I think. I was full of self- doubt. I always wanted to be someone else, that sort of thing. I was quiet.

Were you a good student?
Not really. I got pretty good grades for awhile, but then they kind of slipped and when I was no longer at the top of my class, I quit caring. I wouldn't do any homework - I refused to spend my time at home working on school work, so I would work feverishly in each class during the day doing the homework that had been assigned in the previous class. In the end, there was always some homework that didn't get done and I would try to finish that work on the day it was due during the actual class. I would either whip right through it, or if I was too far behind, I would just copy someone else's work. Inevitably, it was a horrible plan.

Did you enjoy college?
Parts of it. I liked the coffee, doing crossword puzzles, and going to parties. And I always enjoyed enrollment...ahh, the possibilities.

You were an English Major at Oklahoma State University. Were you a good writer then?
No, but luckily for me, I thought I was.

Do you think that you are a good writer now?
No, I am not really a writer. I just kind of live my life and try to transcribe it into the written language. I am more like an inept stenographer than a good writer.

I know that you are also interested in yoga and music. Are you particularly proficient at either of these pursuits?
I enjoy them, but I don't think that I am very good at them. I'm the kind of person that is a little bit good at a lot of things, rather than very good at a few things.

How has that worked out for you?
Not that well. It seems to be of more value to be really good at one thing than fairly average at a bunch of things. There is not much interest in comprehensive mediocrity.

How will you make it work for you?
I am not sure - that's what I have been trying to figure out for my entire life. I think that might be my life's purpose.

Why don't you just try to work on one thing and try to be really good at that thing?
I don't know, it's just not in me. I don't enjoy just working on one thing. I would be much happier working on a variety of things.

What if that doesn't exist? What if that opportunity never presents itself?
First of all, let me say that I believe it will. I guess that until it does, I'll just keep looking for it. I'll just keep trying to find a way. Maybe I can find a way and that will be an inspiration to others, to show them that there is a way. I have a terrible feeling that there are a lot of people that feel the way I do, but would never even admit it to themselves. I think that we toil in work because we invested time and money to earn a degree or master a craft, and proclaim to our families and the world that "this" is what we're going to do for the rest of our lives and we become petrified with fear when we get in the middle of it and discover that it is no longer enjoyable, or it has changed in a way that we cannot repair. At that point, you can choose to leave it all behind, knowing that your efforts weren't wasted and that your knowledge will not be stripped from you, or you can continue to live in the fear of how the rest of the world will view you and put your head down, maintain your path, and ultimately come to some kind of peace while always working to quiet the "what-ifs" that tug at you. It makes me sad that most people choose the latter.

So, you think that people who go to school, get a degree, and then pursue that profession throughout their adult lives are unhappy?
Not necessarily. Some people just seem to know exactly what they want to be, and for them none of that is a waste of time. However, I think that it is somewhat ludicrous to believe that the majority of 19 year-olds know exactly what they want to do every day for the rest of their lives. I think what is more likely is that as a young person, you make the best choice you can based on the information that you have and then try to make it work for you as you go along.

You recently quit your high-paying corporate job to help your wife start her own business. Is that the answer?
It's part of it. It's not the whole answer, but it's part of it. I was able to help her and get her set up on a path that gives her an outlet for her creativity. That is of some value.

But that isn't enough?
No. It was one of my goals, and certainly my immediate one, but I also need to find something that I enjoy doing creatively. I also need my own enterprise or else I will just end up in the same spot of working to fulfill other's dreams.

Was it irresponsible to quit your job?
No. It was not irresponsible, it was perhaps, irrational. I have this quote that I like to try and remember, "To the rationally minded the mental processes of the intuitive appear to work backwards." To me, it would have been much more irresponsible to stay in a position that I had become so unhappy to be a part of.

So, you have it figured out then?
No, not at all. I am figuring it out as I go. I have had to come to terms with that, but to think that anyone else is doing it any differently would be absurd. Even the most self assured people are just figuring it out as they go along. You have to become comfortable with that axiom.

What will you do next?
I am going to do all of the things I always claimed that I couldn't do because of my job. I have to change things up. It wouldn't do much good to claim that my job had held me back from accomplishing certain things just to quit my job and then not try to accomplish them.

What will you do for income?
Money will come. It always does. My only hope is to get closer to finding a way to marry my love of writing with my love of massive amounts of income and quality health insurance.

Are you scared?
Yes, I am. Sometimes I am petrified and other times I am completely calm. Ultimately, I am just banking on the calmness winning out...

My two best friends...

2010-12-06T22:45:00.002-06:00

I am so proud of my best friend, Jason Coates. He was recently let go from a job that he hated desperately, but very much thought that he needed to survive. After what I know were some trying weeks full of indecision, he has picked up some work through an aquaintance and is making more money and having more fun than before. Hopefully, this new job will continue to adapt and become the job he had always wanted, but didn't ever know how to get.

And my wife, Cari, my other best friend. She has started her own company, Care More Art, and in addition to raising our child, has worked tirelessly and has taken every free moment to create. Her talent, determination, and work ethic are amazing. I truly hope that she will soon realize the profits from all of her hard work and sacrifice. My wife is a brave and skilled individual. She has pushed forward with no guarantee of success, and yet, she has already accomplished what so many people can never even imagine doing: Attempting to Live the Life of Her Dreams.

I am so proud of both of my friends and am fortunate to have them around to inspire me...

Yesterday...

2010-12-04T07:27:00.000-06:00

...was easily one of the best days of my life. As I sit here now at 7:00 AM (because our son decided to wake up at 3:30 and is now taking what we believe to be his morning nap) I have a little time to reflect. Here is what I did:

Woke up at 5:30 with Grey and read some books (Hippos go Berserk!).
Morning Yoga with Grey (mostly he just climbed on me and laughed).
Topeca Coffee - best in the world.
Made appointments, checked with vendors, balanced Care More Art spreadsheets, etc...
Rode my bike to Dwelling Spaces to check on Care More Art display/stock. Rode bike to mail cards.
Played with my son when I got home.
Ate leftovers from the previous night - spaghetti with meat sauce and mushrooms.
After Grey's afternoon nap, we went to Hobby Lobby to get some materials for our artist in residence, Grey refers to her as "mammamma".
Prepared one of my favorite dinners, "Baked Potato Bar".
Gave Grey a bath and got him ready for bed.
Watched Manhattan on television.
Read an interesting article about having too many things - http://almostfearless.com/2008/06/02/the-10-unexpected-costs-of-owning-things/
Sat next to my wife on the couch/massaged her legs.
Went to bed.

It may seem like a very simple day, and it was, but that is the point. All things in balance. Some work, some play, some exercise, and a few good meals. I didn't waste anything, I didn't buy anything that I didn't need. Things were accomplished, but at a reasonable pace with little or no stress. Every member of my family was happy and well.

This is what my life is supposed to be like... These are the goals I have set...

I love my life and I am thankful for it.

Holiday Tour 2010!!!

2010-11-15T23:58:00.006-06:00

Production Rider for Adams Family Thanksgiving Visit / Holiday Tour 2010

Please read and understand that the following items should be strictly adhered to during the Adams Family Visit(s) during the 2010 Holiday Tour. It is in the best interests of the VENUE (various hosts of Holiday parties/meals) that these demands be followed if VENUE wishes for a return visit from TALENT (Mother/Father) and HEADLINER (Adorable Infant) in the year 2011 and beyond. Furthermore, there shall be no amendment to this contract without express consent of TALENT.

LOAD IN:

VENUE should be aware that TALENT may arrive as much as 3 hours before/after scheduled event start time due to TALENT’s complete reliance upon HEADLINER’s unscheduled nap times. There should be no derogatory remarks made in reference to the TALENT’s time of arrival as TALENT is completely out of control of this situation and can be rather sensitive at times, particularly around the holidays. VENUE shall considered itself forewarned.

Upon arrival, SPECIAL GUESTS (invitees to VENUE), should make sure to give TALENT a wide berth and steer clear of asking too many questions of TALENT. TALENT does not have the mental acuity it once had and will likely have been sequestered in TOUR BUS (compact SUV) with irritable HEADLINER for a number of minutes/some hours prior to arrival. Upon greeting TALENT, it is best to simply hand TALENT an ADULT BEVERAGE (import beer/red wine/festive holiday cocktail) and offer to take HEADLINER for a few minutes - possibly performing a diaper change. It is important to note that during these first 15-30 minutes, TALENT may not be able to speak coherently or operate small appliances/corkscrews/bottle openers/swizzle sticks.

TALENT will be responsible for preparing SIDE DISH (twice baked sweet potatoes). However, TALENT will not necessarily be responsible for delivering SIDE DISH as recently TALENT cannot even remember what day of the week it is and may indeed leave SIDE DISH in their oven/near front door /on roof of TOUR BUS. SPECIAL GUESTS/VENUE should make no mention of missing SIDE DISH, as this will make TALENT feel terribly insecure and lead to possible overeating/binge drinking. SPECIAL GUESTS/VENUE should keep in mind the spirit of the season and cut TALENT some slack.

SPECIAL GUESTS/VENUE should make no comment as to the appearance of TALENT upon arrival. TALENT has very little time to shower or perform even the most basic of grooming tasks. When TALENT is not working for HEADLINER, TALENT often stares blankly at the wall across the room from themselves wondering how long it will be until HEADLINER will wake and resume his relentless assault on inertia.

DINNER PERFORMANCE:

TALENT is aware that SPECIAL GUESTS will be sharing the bill during the dinner portion of the show and TALENT will be obliged to interact. The following are some topics that are considered off limits for discussion with TALENT:

TALENT’s recent unorthodox employment choices.
TALENT’s inability to dress themselves in a fashionable sense/adequately remove pet hair from clothing.
TALENT’s parenting skills/lack of parenting skills.
SPECIAL GUESTS should be careful not to tell stories about being “bored” or allude to having “too much time on their hands,” as this will infuriate TALENT and send TALENT into a blind rage.
It will be best to avoid any topic that is particularly cutting edge or deemed underground/hip. TALENT has very little time to stay abreast of these cultural developments and will feel terrible having to feign interest in/lie about the knowledge of such things.

Options for discussion with TALENT:

The desire to place individual/corporate orders with TALENT’s new business.
The feature film, Babies - TALENT was very impressed with this movie and has some interesting things to say about it.

LOAD OUT:

TALENT will require ample portions of each dinner item in reusable/recyclable containers - TALENT has very strong feelings about waste of any kind, especially waste of food.

TALENT is interested in recent back issues of magazines belonging to VENUE that TALENT hopes it will someday find the time to read.

TALENT will gladly accept open/unopened bottles of red wine for personal use during the weekly celebration of “Wine Wednesday” back at TALENT’s residence (SPECIAL GUESTS/HEADLINER not invited).

Thanks for being a part of the Adams Family Thanksgiving/Holiday Tour 2010. We anticipate that this year will be the best ever!!!

Gun Control

2010-10-10T21:28:00.002-05:00

The last time that I shot at an animal was also the only time. I was either five or six years old, I can't remember which, but it had to be somewhere in those years because I remember the house where it happened. It was a crummy little rent house on Bennett Street in Stillwater, OK. The lessees of the house were my father, his best friend, and his girlfriend at the time who would eventually become my stepmother. I had been left alone to shoot empty Coors beer cans in the backyard with the BB gun that my father had bought for me on an occasion for which I am not certain. For most boys growing up in Oklahoma, the procurement of their first gun is a monumental event, but I can't recall ever even asking for one, though I may have, it is hard to say.

My father, being recently divorced from my mother had been going through a number of identity crises, and recently had settled on outdoorsman. It was a good enough fit, he had grown a mustache and tended to look good in jeans and cowboy boots, plaid shirts, and goose down vests. He had met someone through his girlfriend who was an actual hunter and probably decided that he should give it a go as well. His metamorphosis from small-town optometrist to weekend game hunter was somewhat comical and a little sad at times. Sure he owned a jeep, but to see him hoist a shotgun up to his shoulder and take aim was about as believable as watching a stage actor or a model on a photo shoot attempt the same motion. It was not without its grace, but there was nothing about it that felt particularly lethal.

My father, the hunter was preceded by my father, the bohemian folksinger and followed by my father, the sailor. Later incarnations would include the windsurfer, the tennis pro, the angler, the country-clubber, the woodworker, and so on. Each of these hobbies requiring the purchasing of thousands of dollars worth of "gear" that he would devote the better part of my visiting weekends scouting out. Sailing was my favorite because I actually got to go sailing which was mostly peaceful and of terrible interest to me. But right now, he was a hunter. And being the son of a self-interested father meant that I was, too.

Game hunting required a lot of equipment. In particular, since no one in our family had ever hunted anything more than a great place to buy home furnishings, my father was starting from scratch. We had to purchase various guns and ammunition, clothes for hunting when it was cold and clothes for hunting when it was wet. We bought decoys that looked like mallard ducks and small wooden whistle-like devices that when correctly manipulated, mimicked their calls. The shopping for these items seemed never ending and in the outdoors store I would wander off to the section with the camping equipment and marvel at the freeze dried food selections, browsing their bags as though I were preparing to order my dinner. Although I remember spending a lot of time with my father shopping for hunting gear, I only remember going hunting with him once.

We had planned on being up very early in the morning, before sunrise. Presumably so we could catch the birds unaware before they got their breakfasts and shuffled off to work. But we overslept. I remember my father hurrying around our house gathering up all of the necessary instruments that we would need to hunt down and kill... doves, I think it was. We bundled ourselves in thick, puffy jackets and jumped in the jeep heading towards a ranch that one of my father's friends owned. When we got there it was nearly 8:00 AM and even though I knew nothing about hunting, I could tell by the expression that my father was wearing that we were too late. We walked the ranch covering acre after acre not seeing whatever it was we were supposed to be there to kill and I could tell my father was frustrated. Every once in a while, I would ask him a question and he would remind me that I had to be quiet.

"The birds can scare just by hearing the dry grass under our feet," he explained. So talking was out of the question.

After what seemed like several hours, we stopped at a little pond to drink some water from our canteens and eat some summer sausage and cheese that we had prepared the night before. The sun was beating down on me and I could feel sweat rolling down various parts of my body underneath all of my clothes. We sat quietly and ate, and I wondered if it might be alright to talk but then decided not to risk it.

It was my father who broke the silence. "I think maybe we should start heading back. Not many birds out here today."

I nodded my head not knowing if I was allowed to speak.

"Grab your things, let's go," he said, and he picked up his shotgun and I picked up the little pack with the food and threw it over my shoulder.

Just then, I saw my father spring into action and before I could turn around, I heard the explosion that was the discharge of his gun. I turned to look at what he was shooting and saw a bird falling from the sky. It was funny, though - like it was not falling the right way. It was falling slower than I had expected and was much larger as well.

"Is that a dove?" I asked.

"I don't think so," my father said.

A visible tightness drew across his face as we went to see what he had shot. When we got there we saw a large, brown-feathered bird struggling on the red clay soil. It had not died yet and I wondered what he might be thinking. Flying along one minute and struck to the ground, mortally wounded the next. I started to cry and turned away from the whole scene when I was surprised by the sound of another blast from the shotgun. I turned toward my father and I must have had a look on my face that demanded an explanation because he immediately told me, "I had to put it out of its misery."

I turned away again and searched the ground for something else to focus on, hoping that I would see something that would take my mind off of the way I felt in that moment. I felt terrible for the bird and I was terrified to know what plans my father had for it now that it was dead. I resolved not to look back in the direction of the massacre but soon broke my own promise as curiosity got the best of me. When I scanned the ground where I had last seen our prey, I noticed only small mound of earth - no blood, no feathers. My father had buried the bird. Once again the look on my face must have warranted a response because my father said, "I wasn't supposed to shoot that bird. It was a golden eagle. Don't tell anybody that we shot it, I think it might be a federal offense."

I am not sure how much time passed between that day and the day that I stood aiming at a squirrel running the wire in the back yard at my father's rent house. But even as I took aim and proceeded to squeeze the trigger of my BB gun, I knew what I was doing was wrong. I may have nicked the squirrel or I may have missed him completely, but I am fairly certain that it was not a fatal shot because he scampered away down the wire and into a neighboring pecan tree fairly quickly and without much effort. When I looked around to see if anyone had been watching, I saw my father. The look on his face was one of disappointment and I knew without speaking that I had no good excuse. He came and took the gun from my hands and I offered no struggle.

"You are only supposed to shoot at the cans," he said and he left me there in the backyard as he escorted the gun to the house.

I picked up a basketball that was lying in the yard and sizing up the hoop through my tears, I began to shoot. I was crying because I had let my father down, I was crying because I was thinking about the bird, and I was crying because I wanted someone to make sense of it all for me.

I never shot another gun and I am pretty sure that my father hasn't either. Our attempts at being wildlife hunters was a colossal disaster, at best. I have never been able to understand how some fathers and sons get such a great bonding experience out of hunting down and killing animals. But, there are a lot of things I don't understand.

One thing that I learned about my father and myself was the fact that if you give either of us a gun and enough time, we will eventually shoot at something that we shouldn't.