Every Night I go Wandering

The second U2 album I ever purchased was Zooropa. I loved The Joshua Tree. With or Without You was a favorite song with I was 10. Which is probably some weird sort of foreshadowing for my romantic life but I digress. Zooropa. Overall the album isn't a favorite. Numb is ok. Sticks with you. But it doesn't have the power or haunting lyricism of The Joshua Tree. Zooropa was the beginning of my odd love/hate with U2.

Anyway. The very last track of the record is The Wanderer which features Johnny Cash. In the mid 1990s, I had very little familiarity with Cash. In fact I believe I only knew him for A Boy Named Sue. However, this strange soulful voice over early 90s techno beats has always stuck with me. It's easily the most played track on the CD and honestly is probably the only reason I even remember the album. Bono wrote the song with Cash in mind as the vocalist and it couldn't have been sung by anyone else.

Each night, I wander into dreams. Sometimes I wander into wonderful possibilities and hopes. Often I wander into a dark and terrifying nightmare that startles me out of my slumber. I've gotten quite good at knowing when the dark is coming, when I should wake myself up. It's an odd feeling. Like pulling myself out of water.

Many nights my dreams have a searching or looking theme. Something I have to find. Someone to discover. Something to fix. And many of those nights I can't find it. I discover failure. I can't fix.

So I awake. In a cold sweat. The dream still clinging to me. And sometimes part of me gets stuck back there, on the other side and I feel oddly incomplete. Tonight I awoke and that clammy awful feeling was there. But so was Johnny. And his wandering.

The haunting melody. The painful yet hopeful voice repeating in my head. A song I haven't heard in years. Spontaneously in my head. As comfort.

Yeah, I left with nothing. Nothing but the thought of you. I went wandering.

Thanks music. You're ok.

The long drop. - Depression

It happened in a moment. As it has happened every time since. A single revelation, moment of self righteous clarity. I can't.

It was a different I can't than the others. Not I can't believe this has happened. Not I can't believe that I lost my job. Not I can't believe this is my life. Not I cant belive im all alone. Not even I can't do this anymore.

Those thoughts had filled my brain for months. During the loneliness. During the unemployment. As the bills began to over flow the mailbox that I refused to open. As the texts and calls and emails went unanswered. They came even when I tried to drown them. Even when I thought I'd cried them all out. Even when the medicine was supposed to make them go away. Those I can't were always there.

They sang like a chorus of horrid angels chanting my failures in my mind. In my sleep. Suffocating my dreams and aborting my hope.

They sang as I drove in the pitch dark. Radio silenced. They were the one sound I could hear as I parked the car. Their rhythm and cadence mirrored my steps along the sidewalk and on to the bridge.

I moved to the beat of that hypnotic self hate. The echo's of every fear, doubt, failure and mistake I'd could pull from memory. All the pain I had internalize for years gave it strength as my fingers curled around the cold hard railing. Tears streamed down my face as I closed my eyes. The sound of liquid hate swallowing me up as I opened my eyes and stared into the black.

 Into the the long drop that would end my pain. Would finally silence that damned chorus of hate. My eyes burned, my muscles clenched. Every nerve raw and ready, longing for the dark bath that would wash it all away. The chorus of dark twisting and building until almost reaching an ugly and final crescendo...

"Jump asshole!!!!"

I spun on my heel to see the tail lights of some ugly and busted Chevrolet Impala head across the bridge and heard the haunting cackle of car load of jackass young men.

Rage exploded out of me as I unleashed the largest amount of ineloquent bile I could. Which at that moment amounted to a mumbled, "fuck you."

How could they!? How could they step on my moment, this grim ending, this sacrifice that would purge my pain and give me glorious freedom from this sysphisian life!!! Outrage!!

Didn't they care about my pain!? My need? How selfish. People don't think about anyone else. What completely self absorbed jerks.

I sat. On the concrete bridge and wallowed in the macabe humor that I had even failed at this. I even laughed. A sad selfish laugh.

The chorus, broken by the flash of rage and the hint of light from a tiny laugh, was gone. My mind was silent. And it came out as a whisper, almost as a prayer.

I can't be this selfish.

I can't do this to them.

I can't.

So I didn't. And that moment is there every time the chorus starts a new refrain. It is there each time I hear that whisper again.

My pain is mine. Its my chemical imbalance. Its my dark chorus to hear.

I can't give it to them.

I won't.

Engagement Story.

Often I do things I don't plan on doing. Tonight was no exception. In the middle of watching a cooking show, a benign cooking show. A show that shouldn't have any impact on daily lives on history, on stories that my kids should know, something happened.

A man proposed to his girl friend. A proposal.

At that moment. I realized that my children didn't know how I proposed to their mother. So I decided to tell them.

This shouldn't be a big deal I guess. But it is. Because we're divorced. We don't live together. We don't love each other like we did in that moment. It's not the happy ending.

Tonight, all I could think about was the fact that they needed to know the story. To hear what I felt. To hear my nervousness, my panic, my clumsy non-proposal that was more honest than a simple "will you marry me" and more indicative of the need, fear and passion that I felt at that moment.

I told them the story. I told them of my fear, of my nerves, of my shock. I saw their mother walk off the plan. Ring in my hand. Hidden in an Eddie Bauer hoodie. Hands gripping it as hard as I could. Words. Usually something I had no shortage of, seeing vacant and absent. I told them how I saw her walk to me and brought out the ring.

I didn't ask her to marry me.

I told her this meant she couldn't leave me again. Which was because of the long distance relationship we were in. And because I didn't know how to ask.

I even showed them the ring. Yes I have the ring. It was given back. That often happens in divorce. But I've kept it. Because despite the chaos. Despite some vitriol. Despite the rough and horrid times. It's an heirloom. Heirloom is history. The ring. Even though things didn't end as planned, is their history. They deserve to know.

I told the whole story. I showed them the ring. I told them how nervous, how scared, how petrified about life I was. I put on a hoodie and showed them how I looked when their mother walked off the plane. Scared. A child. But convinced I was ready.

It doesn't matter that I wasn't. It doesn't matter that things didn't end as their mother and I expected. It doesn't matter that we are divorced.

It matters that they know the story. That they know the love in my heart when I proposed, the love and fear and ecstasy that encompassed it all.

It matters they see the ring. It matters that they know how I proposed. It matters that even though our current lives don't fit the prescribed status quo, they were born of love.

I was madly in love when I proposed. It matters that my children know that.

The Four Fliesman of their Own Apocalypse.

Safe. Humble home.
Drowsy future. A restless tome.
Silent beat of the night.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. 

A Maverick toward the tower.
Four imposers to the power
Silent must be the fight.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Little light. Little view.
Weapons of choice are few.
Douglas Adams would be proud.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Flee to the feel of air.
A place to die is there.
Two almost makes a crowd.
Buzz. Buzz.

Water kills as well as cotton.
Your choice of refuge ill gotten.
 Sleep in the Irish Spring.
Buzz.

Stalked to the door of freedom
So ends the bloodly scrum.
The sounds of silence ring.
.....

Win passive or Lose with Action?

Last night was my daughters first ever softball game. She's only had two practices. Both in a gym because of rainy weather. The practices had focused on the basics, fielding, hitting, positions. All the good stuff. my daughter was nervous but we had put in extra practice on our own and she was enjoying practice.

What we hadn't practiced for and what I rather embarrassingly hadn't prepared her for, was the drug that is win. It's siren song, it's taste which even quenches. What people will do to win. And do so completely within the rules.

The other team of under 10 year old girls had been told something so simple, so obvious and so well thought out that they were nigh unbeatable. Don't swing.

For many of the girls this is the first year that they have played kid pitch. Not unrelated, most of the kids have little to no experience pitching. 3 balls is a walk. 2 a strike out. If you want to win, bet on walks. And the other team did.

What made me most proud were two things; 1. My daughter identified the tactic early and tried to convince the rest of her team to follow suit. Good for the goose, good for the other goose in this case. The only drawback is that her team, in their gigantic two hours of practice time, hadn't really learned much about the strike zone. So it backfired. Poor girls would wait. Thinking a ball was coming, receive a strike and then swing like angry Amazon warriors at the following pitch.

I can't blame them. I'd have done the same. They had practiced and been taught to try and hit the ball. To make an effort. Now here was an adversary, who was winning by not trying to hit the ball. By not swinging at all. By just standing there and passively aggressively getting ten run inning after ten run inning. To be fair. It sucked.

Yet what the other team was doing wasn't cheating. It wasn't against the rules. In fact it simply showed they knew the rules better. And as I watched the frustration on my little girls face, not about the runs or the score or the losing but about the fact that she didn't have the chance to do anything, that the other team could win just by doing nothing, I began to wonder.

Yes. They won. But they never swung the bat. They barely did anything. It's not against the rules but it is against the spirit of the game? I honestly couldn't decide.

My daughter was very frustrated, angry and dejected after the game. She didn't understand how people could be rewarded for doing nothing. Even if it was the rules. They didn't try. They won by doing nothing. It didn't seem fair.

We talked and I'll admit I didn't immediately have a good answer. Because yes, I too felt there was some injustice in that they wanted to walk and not swing. But we worked through it, we let our anger and frustration out and we came to a conclusion.

The reason the other team won is because they decided not trying was more beneficial than trying. (Trying in this case meaning swinging) The only remedy was to make not swinging more painful than swinging. If the pitcher throws two strikes, the batter is out. (remember is U10 softball). So in an unexpected moment of fatherly joy my daughter made the most logical choice she could come too.

"I will become the pitcher. And I will strike them all out if they won't swing."

Problem solving. Crisis management. Ownership of a problem. Straight out guts.

I don't care if she wins or loses or ever becomes a pitcher. That moment of clarity. To see the problem and choose to be the one who fixes it, that. That is what sports can teach her.

I can't ask for anything more than that.



And I'll try not to get too loud when she strikes the kids out.

Minneapolis Comic Con 2014

I attended my first nerd convention when I was in grade school. A small underwhelming Star Trek convention in St Paul with my father. My second convention took at least another 20 years.

When I first heard of the Wizard World Comic Con coming to Minnesota, I was thrilled. Then there was the fact that William Shatner would be there. I was over the moon. Eventually, logic set in. The cost was too much. I couldn't justify the money for a picture, an autograph. Just material things I really don't need more of. That Bobby Labonte signed hat hasn't really changed my life....

But a good friend and I had talked about going, and she asked if I was going to go. So I decided to do one day. A day pass, try it out, see how it went. No huge expenditure. Just putting my toes in the water.

I totally regret not doing VIP. Nathan Fillion was there. Shatner was there. That might never happen again. Shatner/Kirk has always been a strange force in my life. Shatner reminds me of my father. But like the bizarro world version. My father is a very good man. But I've never seen him punch an alien. He's entirely too logical to sleep with a green alien. Let alone many.

Yet, Kirk was always like an uncle. A crazy uncle who was cool but not really always trustworthy or functional. I love my father. As a kid Kirk was the cool version of my dad. As I grew I realized that the logic, double talk, charm of Kirk was more my father than I had seen. I didn't really know my father as a person until I had him as a teacher. He was my dad. He wasn't a person. I saw him teach and in that classroom, in front of those students, talking about what he cared about. He was Kirk. That's another blog entirely. But long story short. Shatner holds a place in my heart.

I did get to see some great question and answer sessions. Sean Astin, James Marsters, Shatner himself. I loved every minute of it. Shatner answered four questions. He told amazing stories. I got goosebumps twice. I laughed hard. I saw other audience members frustrated by his circular story telling. It all worked. I loved it all. I wish I could have met him myself. Talked to him. I might have hugged him. So it's probably better this way.

But I do know that I will go again next year if there is another con. If there is someone I want to meet, someone like Fillion or Shatner, I will make the expenditure to do so.

Awkward Fundraising

I don't go to a lot of fundraisers. It's really not my world. I don't have the disposable income or the shoes to be out at auctions and luncheons etc. But once a year, I attend a fundraiser for the kids school parent teacher organization.

The event has been held in several different places over the past few years and I always enjoy checking out new venues. This year's event was held in the upstairs room of Sweeneys in St Paul. I didn't even know there was an upstairs.

Two separate bar areas and a dance floor. The silent auction items, always difficult to organize were set up along the wall, directly across from the buffet line that wrapped around the stair case. It was a neat layout that the stair case enters into the center of the space. So immediately you are immersed in the room.

There was a string quartet playing covers of popular songs like Gaga's Poker Face and Coldplay. Something I have had an affinity for since I first experienced Metallica and the San Franciso Symphony and Apocalyptica. The food was better than standard buffet fare, the meatballs were especially delicious. I still regret not going back for more.

Too many people in a small space, no presentation from the interns as they have had in the past, it was very functional. I purchased two activities for the kids, art for P, Tae Kwon Do and ice cream for K. (Kids doing martial arts while on a sugar high could probably have it's own youtube channel.) All in all it was fun night. Even if my father did spend too much in the silent auction on the art pieces each of my kid's classes created. But it was for, you know, kids.

One more thing I must point out as I try to do a better job of celebrating, acknowledging the good in my days. I am lucky that I have reached a point in my life where myself, my parents and my ex-wife can all carpool to an event, laugh, bait me into dancing with my son's kindergarten teacher, guard silent auctions bids like secret service agents, and in general eat, drink and be merry. Not a lot of divorcees have that type of relationship. So I've got that going for me.

Five for Friday

As I try to do a better job of writing, I'm going to try and start a weekly list of five things. Statements. Recommendations. Thoughts. Fears. Nonsense.

 1. Mikael Granland is pretty outstanding. I'm totally fan crushing.

2. I've listened to way more Paramore than most 33 year old males in the past three days.

3. The stress my 9 year old daughter feels about MCA tests that have no impact on her future makes me sick, someone even dropped the "permanent record" BS  on her.

4. I have serious doubts that I will find the right partner. Maybe that's OK.

5. Looking at all the old pictures for #tbt makes me realize how much I've let creative outlets escape from my life. I need to try that again. Not just write. Photoshop. Theater. Even Legos

Whimpy Wedesdays

I struggle with depression. Have for a long time. Sometimes it wins. Winter is especially rough. This year it was the late spring/fake summer/contestant cold that really drove me down. The past four weeks haveben ugly. Hermit tendencies. Lack of motivation to do the little things, like eat, clean, shower. But I fought through. But I did a lot of thinking. And not just the dark and dreary type that usually comes with the depression.

I've always been pretty good at the big moments. The crisis. The romantic gesture. The  grand play. The lead role. All the stuff I learned from media. I know Ferris's day off. Never learned how to do all the days on.

Not every day can be epic. Not every moment can give you goose bumps. Not every kiss can stop time.  And I have a hard time accepting that.

I love movies. But movies don't show the regular stuff. Laundry, cleaning, punching the clock. I watched PCU the night before I moved to college.I saw Office Space Three times the weekend it came out when I was 18. My perceptions, biases set me up for a fall.

I wanted to be Ferris, Parker Lewis, Dobey Gillis. i wanted to rebel against the man. Take that printer out into a field and go off. I, a suburban white kid, really wanted to rebel against something.

But I am off track. Whimpy wednesdays. The regular stuff. Life is made up of the regular stuff. Not every day can be epic. I can't always fight the man, call in fake sick, borrow the hot car, kiss the pretty girl. Some days you have to do the laundry. Clean. Go to bed early. be lame.

The biggest challenge for me is to accept that. Find the joy in whimpy Wednesdays.