Winter. Discontent. Content.

The winter of our discontent

Richard:
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this son of York;
And all the clouds that low'r'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Richard The Third Act 1, scene 1, 1–4

My good friend, William said it first, but every person who has dealt with winter has echoed his refrain. Winter sucks.

Some more that most. Only because the winter we are in the middle of, always seems worse that the ones we remember. Unless it's about school closings or snowfall. Then history has no clue of our pain and suffering.

I have a genetic predisposition to depression. I am also human. Too often those walk step by step. The winter with it's cold, frost, lack of sun and general ability to do anything without feeling like air itself is trying to kill you, is an excellent accomplice to depression. The Starscream to it's Megatron, the Harley Quinn to it's Joker, the Bud Light to it's Bud. In short. It's all bad.

I think mid February is the worst. Christmas cheer is dead. Signs of spring are sparse. This year the tortured midwest doesn't even get to brag about snow fall as the North East has taken that on like Miley Cyrus adopting ratchet as a label.

It's February 19th. And today I realized just how much this winter has taken from me. Hope. Energy. Faith. Excitement. Contentment.

Winter and it's forces bring me discontent.

Let me brag a little. I've paid off a stupid (yes my own past) amount of debt in the past few years and I have almost made it to a plateau, financially at least. I have jobs for good reasons, either flexibility for being a father or for a company I love or a field I am fascinated about. I have to really amazing children who have dealt with all my failings in the past (divorce) and present (not speaking french) that make me less afraid about the future (middle school). I have loving family and friends and some day a really kick ass dog who can eat treats out of my mouth and be there when the night terrors hit. i have a really functional and productive relationship with my ex wife. Which media has told me will never happen. I own a photo with a personal autograph from Mr. T.

That is some cool shit.

 But winter still kicks my ass. I hate the cold. I hate the snow. Shoveling is a bitch. Skiing seems like oddly scheduled suicide. My feet don't work with blades or broomball boots. I was not made for this.

Today. Today was good. It hurt at first. Being reminded of my selfish flaws. My tendency to act a child and only think of myself. It's a defense mechanism and it's hard to ignore. But someone I respect and love called me on it. It was needed. It hurt. But it was true. Once again I had started to let the seasonal depression win. Annoyingly. Yet repeatedly.

The comment shook me. It made me focus. On the job immediate at hand. At the job of fixing my easy to accept depression nature. It was good. It made me laugh with friends at work. It made me value those interactions.

After work, I went to relax. Same pattern as I have had for years. The comfortable place with the good people. As always it was what I needed. Laughs aplenty. Smiles. Jokes. Comrades. It made the stress melt away. I laughed. I played dice games. I never for one moment gave a thought to winter and depression or any of that.

William is never far from my heart. And I realized that Winter does suck. It does bring discontent.

But it is made glorious by the Sons (Daughters) of York.

Those friends, colleagues, something mores, that can't be denied. 

Thank you for being my sons and daughters of York that make this discontented winter better with a glorious sun. 

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.