I'm on pace to crank out a few of these in February, so thanks again to those of you that have joined me in this series. As I work my way through the 700s and into page 100, I'm trying to keep in mind how monotonous some of these might sound, and in doing so I find myself trying to figure out for whom I should feel sorry for the most: me the person for having such an apparent lack of diversity in my life or you the reader who keeps coming back to read about my lameness.
It's a tossup, I tell ya'.
Anyway: six down; 34 to go.
Seriously, though: Thank you for reading.
Eight Hundred
Seventy-Five: Miami
South
Florida may have many mysteries. It may. I’ll include Miami in that mix.
I suppose
things always feel that way away from home, though. Navigating streets,
participating in public transportation, clutching maps, punching in GPS
locations, arrivals and departures. I also suppose that the size of a city
either magnifies or shrinks the sensation, and Miami -- the Shaquille O’Neal of
cities -- looms over Kansas City, more of a Steven Nash or a Chris Paul.
Like ants
in a sugar bag, we our way to and from, anxious one second, content the next.
Uncle Peter told us that 80 percent of the population speaks Spanish, which
appeared accurate. The monorail boasts signs in Creole; the 2:30 a.m. traffic suggests
many live the late-night life, at least on New Year’s Eve.
I haven’t
visited Miami in 25 years. I struggled to recall my experiences as a 15-year-old,
and I know that the kid I was then never once imagined what life would be like
at age 40. I’m glad we went, though. Opportunities to see other parts of the
country come seldom, now, with two little people at home. I felt blessed to
step out of the shoebox we rattle around in every day, every week, every year,
so I’m thankful for Miami. I’m thankful for what it taught us in our short stay, and I’m eager to
see more of it some other time.
Eight Hundred
Seventy-Four: leaving the kids
If you, as
a parent, aren’t learning something new about emotions and feelings at least
once a day, it might be time to reevaluate your approach. Our latest lesson
came in the form of being away from our little people.
Having shared
the outlined details for child care with all of our people, we scrambled to get
out the door, but not until our plane’s wheels lifted from the runway did we
feel the immediate impact of missing our children.
In the
weeks leading up to our trip we worried about how things would go with our kids
at home. We felt anxious about the logistics of travel. We concerned ourselves
with finances, but the toll of distance between us and our children went
unnoticed. The pain we felt being apart from them caused temporary debate to
bail early from our trip and head home four days early. We perused photos new
and old, re-hashed stories of our daughter’s preferences and tendencies, our
son’s cuteness and needs. We -- for lack of better phraseology -- questioned
our merits as parents.
Everything,
of course, turned out fine. We faced the difficulty and withstood it. Upon our
return home we kissed them as they slept in their beds.
Eight Hundred
Seventy-Three: culture in Miami
I’m
thankful for our time in Florida. I’m grateful for Aunt Marcia and Uncle Peter
putting us up. I’m thrilled that we welcomed 2015 with four nights of Phish at
the American Airlines Arena. I’m pleased that we enjoyed a week of warm January
weather. I felt privileged to see the sights and log some quality time with my
wife.
More than
anything, I felt blessed to have had my mind opened that week. Strolling in the
Everglades, climbing the lighthouse tower at Bill Baggs Cape Florida State
Park, dinner at La Esquina de la Fama in Little Havana, and people watching on
South Beach provided cultural exposure to a Midwestern mind that needed it. I
don’t imply that Kansas City lacks culture, but Miami has a ton more, namely in
its people. Hearing spoken Spanish as often as we did -- along with German,
Austrian, French, and more than one Asian dialect -- refreshed.
The escape
from routine, the trends and tendencies of home awakened me just as being
around so many different kinds of people did. Above all, splicing each of those
cultural afternoons with the Phish scene at night provided a fascinating dichotomy.
Eight Hundred
Seventy-Two: the ocean
I graduated
with a B.A. in psychology and I’m married to a therapist, so I should probably
have the answer for this, and if I think about it, it’s probably nestled in my
subconscious. Either way, the ocean scares the shit out of me.
Go ahead
and laugh. I don’t mind.
It made me
the butt of a joke or two during our stay, and regarding this topic, I’m used
to that.
I’ve always
chalked it up to sharks, but I think it’s more complex.
I think
it’s the darkness, the vastness, the mystery, but I’m not sure.
Something
that massive just makes me think of death, which means a) I’ve got a lot of
work to do until I get to a spot where I’m happy with everything I’ve
accomplished, and b) I’ve got some fear-related stuff to address. Swimming in
the ocean, though, leaves me leery. Walking in the sand can never be that
simple. Driving over huge bridges makes me anxious, and the idea of a boat --
at its basest -- petrifies me (even though they astonish).
The
simplicity of the ocean, its intricacies, layers, life forms, and food chains.
The joys it has delivered, the sorrows it clutches, the glory of existence it
resembles. I’m stunned trying to imagine a similar paradox of pure complexity.
All the
while I’m grateful for its presence. Whether you view it as parceled oceans
or one massive body, it’s an icon of fury, the epitome of majestic, the
ultimate reminder that life is in fact fragile.
Eight Hundred
Seventy-One: a firm mattress
I’m not
sure if 20 years of working atop the cold, unforgiving floors of restaurant
kitchens did it to me. Perhaps the culprit comes in the form of countless
cheap-shoe selections. Genetics, old age, occupational shifts from
standing/hustling/pivoting to that of driving, and -- heck, even my old friend
-- LSD all line up as suspects, too. Maybe some form of combination did it.
It’s possible my lack of exercise did. And maybe I’m just plain getting old.
Whatever
the case (or cause) may be, I’m left with only one certainty: A shitty mattress
will wreck you.
And believe
me: I’ve slept on them all.
For years
as a kid I nestled in to my twin mattress, knees and elbows positioned between
protruding springs. For most of college, I counted sheep on some form of
frameless, cobbled box-spring/mattress combo that I schlepped around (or
abandoned) as I moved from home to home. And for a spell in the early ‘00s, I
collected shuteye on the hand-me-down queen of the parents of a short-time
girlfriend whose folks needed the 20-year-old pieces out of their house once
they’d purchased a new set. When you stood above the sheetless relic, their
imprints glowed beneath my bedroom light, negative-space chalk outlines of
murder victims who spent two decades on their backs.
Over that
span, occasional back weirdness grew to routine discomfort, which gave way to
difficulty getting in and out of bed, and finally, morning paralysis.
I had to
splurge.
I worked
extra. I severed my spending, and I saved until I could shop and purchase.
It took my
spine six months to get used to sleeping on firmness again and I’m convinced I
can never go back.
I know
this, because I used to be able to log 10, 12, 14 hours on any old horizontal
surface. Now, if I flop on a squishy guest-room mattress that gives in the
center, I struggle to fall asleep, and am up every two or three hours, aware of
the strangeness going on inside my spinal cord.
Mattresses
have an alleged shelf life of eight years. I bought mine 10 years ago, so I
reckon I’ll be laying down in public again soon, eager to recharge my sleep
support system. Like I said, though: I’m not sure how I got to the point of
having a quote/unquote bad back, but I feel like a ton of circumstance
contributed. In hindsight it feels like I might have been better off sleeping
on the actual floor for some of those years. Who knows, though. All I can say
now is that I’m thankful to know what I need in a mattress and that I’m now
capable of procuring one.
Eight Hundred
Seventy: cat pictures on Facebook
Thinking,
feeling, and expressing gratitude should happen without judgment and cynicism.
It should. Let’s face it, though: Writing about 1,000 of them sans contempt
just ain’t happenin’.
Lemme get
real for a minute, then.
We have a
cat. My wife likes to tell people I hate our cat, which reeks of inaccuracy. I
like our cat. To some inconceivable degree, I love our cat. As a member of our family and the loved one of a
deceased friend, a level of commitment and responsibility binds me to the Maine
Coon that lives in our home. Where she gets tripped up comes from observations
she makes of my behavior in response to our cat’s habits, which -- via no fault
of his own -- are feline in nature.
What I
don’t like:
1) being
howled at at 7:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m., every day of every week, of every month,
for eight years…to be fed…while meals at both times of the day are underway for
a) at least one other animal, and b) one, then two, then three, now four humans
Shut your fucking hole, cat. Not
only are you not going to starve, you have never missed a single meal.
2) the
extra hair
3) engaging
with intent in specific activities you know I don’t want you to engage in --
getting on the kitchen counter, knocking my blanket off of the back of the
couch, drinking the dog’s water, just to name a few -- because you want to and
because you want to see if you can get away with it/them
4) constant
cleansing (which I know you must do) that results in your puking -- two piles
of liquid, followed by your turd-looking hairball -- on the floor
5) the
litter box, and when you get out of it, spraying granules in every direction,
with the occasional piece of crap that stuck -- in brevity -- to your fur
Regardless of all that, I love the
guy. He’s sweet. He seeks affection (on his own time, of course) and he enjoys
his life.
You people, though. You people
think that the cuteness of your cat, be it in a fleeting moment that only you
see, or in an instant you’re able to capture with a camera, resembles the
beginning and the end of what cats are. The truth of it is that they’re
disgusting animals that were never meant for domestication. You could make the
same argument for any pet, but none come close to reaching the level of
grotesque exhibited by the average household feline.
Cats are gross, plain and simple.
I’m glad that they can be cute and can be affectionate and can
be sweet, but don’t think that posting one picture a day (or three) of the cute
position in which your cat reaches for something, or looks at you, or sleeps
dissuades anyone as to the true nature of cats: disgusting. I’m thankful that
they’re a source of happiness for you, because sometimes, I wonder if that
isn’t all that you have.
Eight Hundred
Sixty-Nine: Bernie Federko’s wardrobe
I don’t
make it to St. Louis as often as I like, so tuning in to my Blues hockey games
on Fox Sports Midwest tends to be the week’s excitement acme, and I enjoy the Blues Live coverage afterwards as well.
They’ve got great interviews, analysis, and personalities, and I mean it when I
say that I don’t have a favorite, but it’s hard not to notice the threads on one
Bernard Allan Federko.
I realize
that all of the sports talking heads rock a suit and tie and perhaps Federko’s
stand out because I see him (and the FSM crew) on the tube more often than any
other, but the dude’s always looking dapper. I’m not sure how I started
noticing, but I know that in the 2012-13 season I began to take note of the
man’s attire. His analysis reeks of honesty and his mug cannot go unnoticed.
Why, then, it would occur to me to always note the evening’s suit could only be
for one reason: that the handsome items that hang in his closet each bear
uniqueness. I’ve never dreamed of wearing a suit often enough that I’d need as
many as a sports broadcaster, but in the event that I one day find myself
employed in such a requisite fashion, I will attempt to model the man’s
collection.
Eight Hundred
Sixty-Eight: the Oxford comma
I’m into
punctuation. I’m not perfect at it and never will be. I imagine a few of my
former professors might scoff at my writing style, but probably only if I asked
them to; my guess would be they’d be pleased I write at all. It’s not necessary
to plead my case in support of this necessary delight, because if you disagree
then you can just continue to kick around the clutter in your leaky tent at
Camp Incorrect.
In short:
Avoid confusion; eliminate ambiguity; let your content direct your readers.
The Oxford
comma. It’s like water. You don’t have to use it, but you ain’t makin’ it too
far without it. Don’t stay thirsty, my friends.
Eight Hundred
Sixty-Seven: the service industry
Because I
spent 20 of my 40 years within its walls, I cannot imagine my life without the
service industry. No better gig to teach multi-tasking and problem solving
exists. Not many factions of the working world can better illustrate how
teamwork can lead to both failure and success. The service industry reveals the
malleability of human beings; it can build character in an individual with a
level of intensity that can just as easily destroy a soul.
Staffs
create and deliver food and drink -- the business lifeline -- to guests that
fall somewhere on the personality spectrum between laid back and finicky. Their
compensation packages range from odd wages to sometimes non-existent tips;
perks may include bonuses or discounted product. These workers develop
camaraderie with both their coworkers and their industry counterparts in their
same towns and cities, and even in other places where they may or may not know
someone doing a similar gig at a similar joint.
Some stay
in the game for years. They become professionals, masters of their trade, never
seeking new lines of work. Others, however, identify with an industry shelf
life, recognizing that the innumerable hours began to resemble the very
products they peddle, the months and years eating their lives, the habits they
employ gulping down their dreams.
These gigs
can’t be for everyone forever, but they should be -- at some point -- an
experience everyone has. I’m thankful for the time I logged. I met tons of
amazing people, learned a bundle from a select few, and discovered myself in
the process.
Eight Hundred
Sixty-Six: Phishheads
I just
closed out my 21st year of seeing Phish and if things go as I hope
they might, 2015 will not be my final year attending their shows. I’ve caught
Phish with dozens of friends, two of my sisters, exes, my wife, and my
children. I’ve made friends out of strangers, helped people out, and people
have helped me, too. We’ve shared the road, the air, the floor, the seats, the
campgrounds, the show-town stores and restaurants, the waiting, and so much
more. It’s impossible to attend a Phish show without a few of the young, the
rude, and the over-served getting under your skin, but the good ones always
outnumber the bad. I’m so thankful for all of those with whom I’ve shared, the
ones I’ve met, and the ones I’ve yet to meet.
Eight Hundred
Sixty-Five: unnamed friend #10
I spent
about five years living in the same town as this dude. We attended school
together, we worked together, we partied together. I’ve seen him a few times in
recent years and we never seem to miss a beat. This dude has always managed his
emotions well. He’s grounded, intelligent, motivated, and happy. He’s got a
good head on his shoulders, a sense of humor similar to mine, and he’s just
plain good people. No idea when I’ll see him next or with what frequency our
paths will cross in the future, but I’m so happy to have met him, worked with
him, and laughed with him. I’m certain the people in his current circle feel
the same way.
Eight Hundred
Sixty-Four: Amtrak
The family
and I try to get down to St. Louis for a weekend at least once a year. We try
to schedule a couple of fun things to do while we’re there, but really -- we’re
there for Blues hockey. We don’t always take in a victory at Scottrade Center,
but we always have a good time. We enjoy eating out, using the light rail, and
exploring the city. What makes it all worth the while, though, has everything
to do with leaving our car at home. Taking the train rocks. No bathroom stops.
No refueling. No cramped-up feeling, and of course, the freedom to drink while
you travel. Boarding an Amtrak means leisure, productivity. It means
stress-free travel, and good people watching. I’m grateful that trains still
operate in 2015, and I’m thankful that Amtrak runs where it does.
Eight Hundred
Sixty-Three: Jack Kerouac
I don’t
hold the beatnik star on quite the platform I once did, but I reflect upon my
Kerouac phase with great fondness. I’m pretty sure I didn’t knock out all 14 of
his novels (or however many there are) but I came close. I knew -- whether I knew it or not -- at a young age that I
wanted to write, but it wasn’t until I read Kerouac that I the adult realization aspect took hold. The
man-I-love-this-and-want-to-do-it feeling resonated with, of course, On the Road, and even more so with The Dharma Bums. He had a few other
decent books, too. None of them topped The
Dharma Bums for me, but the fact that he was able to crank ‘em out for as
long as he did really grabbed me. I’m glad I discovered him when I did. I’m
thankful for what the beats did for writing, even if I realize now that it
wasn’t as big as I once thought it was.
Eight Hundred
Sixty-Two: skydiving
A little
over 20 years ago I jumped out of a plane from 9,000 feet. Getting to that
point almost topped the actual act on a level of ridiculousness. I had a gig
serving tables at a place called The Dark Horse Inn in Estes Park, Colorado.
The place had a few problems, and ownership (or lack thereof) was one of them.
Around the time I started patrolling the dining room attached to Chef Rich’s
kitchen, these two dudes bought the service piece of the operation from the
owners. One oversaw the bar; the other managed the restaurant. The bar guy
hired me for a few drink-pouring shifts when I wasn’t fumbling over tableside
wine service in the other guy’s dining room.
The bar guy
found the dining-room dude a joke, which proved an accurate assessment. The bar
guy, I discovered, wanted to buy out the dining-room dude, and one day wrote me
a check for $200 to not show up for a later-in-the-week dining-room shift. I
had no idea how to feel about that, so I sat on the check for a minute. Less
than 24 hours later, I found out that a group of friends were driving to
Loveland to skydive and their fourth had backed out of the package deal.
After an ethical
internal debate that lasted all of an afternoon, I cashed the check and agreed
to take the spot.
When we
arrived, the scheduled plane still had not. Once they got the bird there, we
were missing one other element: a pilot. He showed and we were airborne a
little later. As we climbed, we practiced the official position: arms and legs bent
at 90-degree angles. At about 6,000 feet, I sat in front of my tandem
professional as he fastened the four carabineers, one at each shoulder, one at
each hip. At the predetermined altitude, my tandem guy scooted to the edge of
the plane’s rollup black-tarp door. This positioning left me dangling outside
of the plane. As he hollered reminders of the position into my ear, I felt one
certainty: death.
When he
launched himself out of the craft, we went hurling through the air. I remember
seeing the ground, the plane, the ground, the plane, and then I wanted to do
one thing and one thing only: scream.
Except I
couldn’t. I struggled for most of our entire free fall to get enough air into
my lungs, and once I did, my tandem professional -- I think his name was Bill
-- yelled into my ear.
Bill: “Pull!”
<me,
silent, flabbergasted at the sudden inability to draw air into my lungs>
Bill: “Pull!”
<me finally
screaming>
Bill: “Pull
the cord!”
<me,
still screaming>
Bill: “You
have to pull the cord now!”
<more of
me screaming>
Bill,
finding his instructions moot, pulled his own cord, and that’s when the joy of
the thing hit me. Regardless of the seven-second clown show he’d just endured
with me, Bill guided me through a flawless lesson of how to clutch the steering
harnesses and maneuver us through the air. As we neared our landing area, his
instructions grew terser, but we touched down right in the center of it, and as
it turned out, were the only twosome to stay on our feet through the landing.
Lots of
people do lots of crazy shit while they’re alive on this planet, and skydiving
may or may not be high up on the list. For my money, it doesn’t get much
crazier, and I’m glad I did it in my youth, ‘cause there ain’t no chance you’re
even getting me in the car at this age. Insane experience. So thankful to have
had it.
Eight Hundred
Sixty-One: hitchhiking
While we’re
still in the chapter of my crazy early 20s, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention
the time I hitchhiked from Ashland, Oregon to Rifle, Colorado. It never
occurred to me to look it up before just now, but those were 1,062 of the nuttiest
miles I’ve ever logged as a United States traveler. In short: a crackhead took
my dog and I to Sacramento; a lady with a tree in her back seat drove us as far
as Reno, and we spent a couple of days holed up in the back of this couple’s
Blazer before getting back to The Centennial State. It’s amazing that it only
involved three vehicles, and the second two were fine; that first one fucked my
shit up, though. My parents kept telling me (before I embarked (without telling
them I was actually going to do it)) that this wasn’t the 1950s anymore, that
it wasn’t safe in this country to pull off such a stunt. And I’ll say this
about that: It was dangerous and dumb and I’m glad I had the experience. I’m
especially glad I lived to tell about it. That was 1995. Two thousand fifteen
is a whole other animal.
Don’t even
think about it, kids. There’s a boatload of crazies out there, and they’re not
just smokin’ rock. They’re killin’ people and dumpin’ ‘em in lakes an’ shit.
Jesus, that
was nuts.
Eight Hundred Sixty:
McConnell the Irish German Shepherd
My boy
entered the world on the sixth of October, 1994 and logged 14 and-a-half
magnificent years with me and there wasn’t a damn thing Irish about him, but I
once had a landlord include him as a tenant on a lease with that very verbiage,
so why the hell not.
McConnell
christened me into the world of pet ownership and took the both of us on a wild
ride. He snuggled as an infant, whined as a puppy, ran (when he could) for most
of his life, overcame carsickness, killed a couple of chickens, got hit by a
truck, swallowed some nearly fatal carpet, and once barked at Bela Fleck in
Telluride. He stole pizza from a stranger’s hands, loathed thunderstorms and
the fourth of July. He loved my wife, took our puppy under his wing at an
elderly state, accompanied me on most of my hair-brained adventures around the
country, and never asked for more than two squares and a little bit of
affection.
I’m only on
my second dog, but I’ll be damned if they get much better than ol’ McGrupp. He
was the bees’ knees. I’m stupid lucky that my path crossed his when it did. He
taught me to appreciate life. He taught me about fear and loyalty. He taught me
how to care for someone, even as I still learned to care for myself. Beyond
giving thanks for him, I hope that in doggie heaven his every last worry
subsided, the green pastures are vast, and the pizza is plentiful.
We miss
you, buddy.
Eight Hundred
Fifty-Nine: Louis C.K.
Whether he
hates Kansas City or not, I love Louis C.K. I’ve been watching stand-up comedy
for over 25 years, and as a kid, Jeff Dunham was pretty good. Not Eddie Murphy
good, but good. I’ve watched a lot of greats since those days, and I didn’t
think anyone would ever top Chris Rock. Then Jim Gaffigan did and I didn’t
think anyone would ever best him, but Louis C.K.’s stuff had already been
there, simmering, until his shit boiled right out of the pot and onto the
floor. Now I don’t think anyone will ever top him. The honesty in his material, the precision with which he
describes human awkwardness, his filthiness as a man and a dude and a guy…I
think this time might be the time where no one does surpass.
His
perpetual writing style produces always-fresh bits. His show -- Louie on FX -- might be the best program
on television. The control-it-all approach he took to producing all of his work
just to keep it more affordable for his fans commands respect. That’s it,
really. He’s just the best. He’s the brightest, the funniest, the boldest, and
the best, and I’m thankful for the opportunity to have absorbed a good bit of
his acts over the past few years.
Eight Hundred
Fifty-Eight: random moment #1
A few
months ago I drove south on Prospect Avenue. I’d just left my last customer;
the day’s final errand of retrieving the children from their schools meant my
windshield time would soon conclude. I park in front of this last customer, my
vehicle facing north. To leave I u-turn. The final driver to whom I had to
yield before executing swerved from left to right, drawing stacked number
eights with the tires of his light blue motorcycle. The handsome bike had a
hearty rumble to it, but not that obnoxious kind whose open throttle makes you
wince. As this bike approached, I double took then looked again, still
uncertain.
As he
approached, LeVert’s “Cassanova” played, growing louder by the second. When the
motorcyclist passed, the song’s volume almost made me flinch, but because I
didn’t I caught of glimpse of the guy’s rig: Instead of saddlebags behind his
seat, the guy had small platforms sticking out around mid-wheel height. Atop
each sat a 30” speaker; both bore some form of housing around them for
protection from the elements.
The
motorcyclist and I shared the same stretch of rush-hour road for most of 20
minutes. He swerved back and forth, carving his circle eights in the pavement,
getting glances, nods, smiles, gestures, and waves from every pedestrian and
motorist he passed. For every acknowledgment he received, his grin grew. I’m
not certain he had a destination beyond these interactions. I like to think he
didn’t. He rolled south on Prospect in front of me, “Cassanova” on repeat, with
volume so loud I had to call somebody back later so that we could hear one
another.
That’s the
whole story. Dude got on his light-blue bike with built-in house speakers and
cruised the ‘Spect, exchanging good energy with whoever would have it. By my
tally, that included everyone within a 12-block radius. So, thanks, dude. You
subtracted a track from the list of obnoxious ‘80s songs that got overplayed.
I’ll never again think the same of “Cassanova.”
Eight Hundred Fifty-Seven: my
father-in-law
Besides
trying to figure out life and wade through the week’s challenges, the only
difficulties of not having my dad around that still weigh on me come in the
form of the three faces that live under my same roof. Everything else in life I
feel like I either can or one day will navigate. That I never got to watch my
wife and my dad interact, that I never got to see him gush while he squeezed
one of his grandchildren creates a piercing sensation behind the left side of
my breast bone every time I think of it.
As often as
that hurts, the pain deflates when I think of the silver lining: my kids’
grandpa doesn’t have to share the spotlight.
I dig Joe
Saviano. He figured out life long before I met him. Like anybody else, he has
his tendencies, his preferences, his beliefs, joys, and frustrations. When I
think of good people, Joe’s near the top of the list.
From time
to time, I feel for him, though. It’s not that he doesn’t have a good life. He
does. He’s married to a beautiful, wonderful woman that loves him. Together
they have raised two incredible girls. Joe and his wife have jobs and a nice
home. They both travel and engage in activities they enjoy. They have a lot for
which they should be -- and are -- thankful.
He does,
however, come from a pack of nine children, all of which have needs and
opinions, and he spent most of the last 30 years being one man in a house of
women, meaning his voice probably got heard last for about 20 of those years.
I’m not clear on the accuracy of that claim, but I have often -- in the last 12 years -- felt compelled to stick up
for him, as his women can tend to let their criticisms of him suffocate any
praises of the man that they might have.
Hence, the
silver lining: I know Joe Saviano loves my kids and I know my kids love him. He
gets to be grandpa. He gets to be the only grandpa. He doesn’t have to share
the title -- or any variation of it -- with anyone. I’m not saying that’s my
first choice, but given that that’s the way things turned out, I’m glad that he
gets that all to himself. I look forward to watching my children’s
relationships with their grandfather strengthen and develop.
I dig Joe
Saviano for many more reasons than just how my kids see him. He treats me like
a friend, like one of his own kids. I’d guess that he doesn’t get parts of me,
but he doesn’t judge me for them, not to my face anyway. He helps out our
household in more ways than I can count. He’s an honest man who takes care of
his family and manages to enjoy himself, too. As far as I can tell, I did
pretty well in the father-in-law sweepstakes. I’m thankful for the one I got; I
wouldn’t trade him for anyone else.
Eight Hundred Fifty-Six:
household balance
My wife
handles a lot of business in our home. It’s impossible to think about all that
she has on her plate and not wonder if the responsibility distribution
resembles fairness. In fact, it’s impossible to think about all that she does and
not think about what that distribution looks like in other homes. I know that our
home and what happens in it should be the only scale I evaluate, but it’s not.
Truth be told, we both do plenty, and we do a good job of making up for one
another’s shortcomings. We can also display flexibility and change things if
need be. Granted, that hasn’t happened much, but we’ve at least discussed it.
Anyway, I think our responsibilities represent our strengths and needs, and I’m
thankful for the fact that -- to date -- it’s been as easy as it has.
Eight Hundred
Fifty-Five: my boss
I could’ve
done worse and I’m thankful I did not. And in the words of Forrest Gump,
“That’s all I’ve got to say about that.”
Eight Hundred
Fifty-Four: how my kids get along in the morning
Without
implication that my children don’t get along in the afternoon and evening, I
give thanks for how they get along when they clear those a.m. cobwebs. Elihu
arises first; his still-dark rustles, rattles, and coos jostling the household
silence. Depending on the day, his mother retrieves him so that his sister and
father may enjoy extra slumber. Some mornings, though, we -- and by “we” I mean
my wife -- leave him be. He creates enough of a ruckus to wake even the soundest
sleeper, so his sibling in the bed adjacent his stands no chance.
On these
mornings where we allow his goings-on to stir her, she will sit, work her
plodding way out of bed, and engage in a precious repetition of entertaining
her brother and allowing him to amuse her. Depending on the combustion level of
her morning’s octane, she will either a) bring him things for him to throw, b)
distribute books to the both of them to peruse, or c) climb into his crib with
him and engage in an assortment of shenanigans.
From either
the dining room or our bed, I hear two things: 1) her constant referral to him
as “buddy” and 2) incessant laughter.
Their
relationship consists of more than rainbows and unicorns, though. At other
times of the day, she will rip things from his clutches, he will smack her in
the face, and with high frequency, she reveals a sort of envy from any direct
play or laughter shared by her brother and either one of her parents. That
morning stuff, though, delights me, and I try to take mental snapshots of those
moments, so that I may revisit them later when my patience with them resembles a
lightning bug’s flicker.
Eight Hundred
Fifty-Three: The String Cheese Incident
I haven’t
seen these guys live or bought an album of theirs in seven or eight years, but
they took up a huge portion of my late 1990s wheelhouse. Before they got big,
an old roommate and I used to catch them front and center in tiny Durango,
Colorado venues. I played all my favorites -- probably more often than
listenership desired -- on the college-radio-station show I hosted. For some
time they anchored the number-one spot on the list of bands that could one day
usurp Phish as my favorite. Things happen, though, and for a number of
unimportant reasons, Phish still holds the undisputed heavyweight championship
belt. I had a great run as a Cheesehead, (Note:
Sorry, Packers fans.) though. I still dig the band a lot. I recognize their
talent, their longevity, their contribution to the bluegrass, newgrass, and jam-band
scenes. I wouldn’t trade my experiences with that band and its music for
anything. That I have enjoyed them for as long as I have, I give thanks.
Eight Hundred
Fifty-Two: unnamed friend #11
Unnamed
friend number 11 holds the distinct pleasure of having shared a roof with the
quote-unquote adult me for a longer stretch than anyone but my wife. I’m not
sure if I owe him an apology for that or not, but I should take this
opportunity to thank him for tolerating my immaturity, stubbornness, and lack of
financial responsibility for a long stretch of months. This guy’s got smarts in
his brain folds that I always envied. His level of creative talent always
garnered my admiration, and the energy associated with his opinions and
emotions almost always jived with my own.
I don’t
harbor sorrow for where I live, but the moments in which I long for the days of
my previous locale occur often enough to prompt a search of the soul. The place
possesses a gorgeous backdrop and a long list of fine institutions, but the
people I met and knew made it real and invaluable. Unnamed friend number 11
batted cleanup in my lineup of incredible friends, and that I earned the
opportunity to call him a crony warrants an offering of gratitude.
Eight Hundred
Fifty-One: turning 40
I hit the
big four-oh since starting this project, and the amount of thought I gave the
alleged milestone resembled a summer horizon’s gnat. The other day, however, I
filled a pint glass from the kitchen sink, and had a fleeting thought: on my
next significant birthday I turn 50. That shit froze me for a moment, had me
staring out the window with a sense of -- for lack of having a clue -- fear.
I don’t
know if people that have no fear of dying exist. I think we’re led to believe
that they do, but you can only know how you
feel. I’m not ready to die now, and the thought of turning 50 years old cannot
be called anything shy of a total freaking trip. Stay in the thought too long
and it all just gets too heady. So, for now, I’m thankful I’m 40. If only for
the reason that it isn’t 50, 40 fucking rocks.
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