For my man, D, . . .

. . . because I know he's reading and because he's a fan of pro ball. While I admire his conviction that the NBA is every bit as good as college ball, I respectively disagree. Still, knowing that I missed a great marathon like this one, pains me. I'm down with good action as much as anyone, and it sounds like this was as good of action as you can get in the regular season.

I like the direction the NBA is taking. It's definitely on the upswing. Unlike my boy, Randy, I don't remember the Jordan years so fondly (I don't even like the guy). I'm old enough to remember the real resurgance of The League--the Larry and Magic days. I was college-aged then, so I'm not just throwing that statement out there. I watched both play in college, and I watched both transend the game. Jordan transended his pocketbook, and then he took the game into the dunk-heavy plague it's just getting out of now. Dickie V says this year's freshman crop of college ballers in the best in decades and one of the best ever. That bodes well for coming years. My man, D, should be set for years to come.

Always have hated November.

Damn month means that October is over. Means it gets nothing but colder from here on out. Means the trees are dying. My garden is empty. The grass is hard with frost. My windows need to be scrapped clean every morning. My car seat is cold. My plants' leaves are crispy. My wife is cold. My toes are cold. My nose is cold. My head is cold. My fingertips are fragile. My ears are red-hot. Children are in the park at night with no coats. No coats. In the park. At night.

Guitar, Dylan & Stuff

Saw Dylan on Wednesday night. The seats could not have been better. Six rows from the stage, dead center. I've seen Dylan numerous times, and I'm about as loyal to him as I am anyone. I feel that way about people sometimes, and I tend to overlook their less savory traits in the process. Take Elvis, for example. I know everything he did, and who he did it with. I've read all the stories, but still, I'm willing to look past it. Same with Dylan. He's got scars and flaws miles deep. I don't suspect for a second that he always treate people with the greatest kindness. I don't believe that he didn't use, abuse, and choose to treat probably more than his fair share of people poorly. But I'm willing to overlook it. I'll overlook Jerry Lee seemingly being half-crazed. Hank Williams drinking. Neil Young being flaky.--That's why it pained me so much that I didn't like the show. It was just flat and boring and too uneven for me to sink me teeth into. And I really wanted to. I had been looking forward to that show as about as much as any. I scouted the tix out way in advance. The Kings of Leon was awesome opening up (much more full of spirit and intensity than Dylan's hired hands; brother tend to play that way together). So it was a major downer that it didn't move me more. Others I know who went had different takes, so it could just be me.

I love my guitars, but I'm thinking about buying a new acoustic. I feel like I'm cheating on a wife or something about when I play me other one. It's my first, and it's the one I taught myself to play on.

Just when you think your down

your not. I was reading some blog entries of a friend of mine who went through a tradegy more than a year ago. Much pain. Much confusion. Much anger. I wish there were actions to carry out to comfort those who have been torn apart. But there aren't. Actions mean everything, but they mean nothing. Some pain doesn't go away. It can't. My thoughts are with him, but there also with me. You can learn much if you stop and recognize what's in front of you--if you dont' walk around it, step over it. Just look. Really look. And then recognize. Always recognize.

On getting old . . .

It's not getting older that I have uncertain feelings about; it's watching those around me get older. I've been to two funerals recently, both for men named Bob, and both were outstanding men for different reasons. And sitting through those funerals was pretty moving on both occasions for different reasons. But both times I took a good look around at the people gathered, and it was impossible not to notice how they had aged. I don't see these people regularly any longer, so the gradual ebbs and flows we are all going through show up more intensely in them. Some faces never change, but everything else does. Some faces sink or expand. Some faces are still about the eyes or the smile or the nose. Some of these people I never knew very well. Some of them I knew very well but don't any longer. So of them I'll know well my entire life. Regardless, I've come away both times feeling sadder about these changes. I don't know why. It's not the age that they are reaching. That's always a secondary thought for me. It's the changes in my perception. These aren't the same people as when I knew them best.

It's amazing, though, how what some of these people represent to me never changes. The first Bob to pass was a family man. Loved his family. They loved him. Had three sons and a long-time wife. Best friends. The entire family made each other laugh. The latest Bob was my junior high teacher and neighbor. I never really appreciated all that he was teaching me, though, until much later. He set an example of how a man or woman should live life seemingly every day, by enjoying the minute for what it was, not for what it wasn't or could have been. He greeted every one with a smile and a question. The question was never anything to do with himself. Salt of the earth. Proud. Tolerate. Strict when he had to be. Teachers who touch the lives of hundreds of kids positively over many years are some of the best people. Men who love their families without question or care for them are the best fathers.

You can't help but to make an accessment of your life while at a funeral. You wonder if how your life will be celebrated and mourned, and by whom. You wonder are you living the minutes each day properly, taking notice of how to enjoy them. You wonder what wisdom you can obtain from those who have passed, what examples they've given you. You wonder how you can use their gifts. I'm not sure where I stand next to such men. Seems far away right now. But maybe it should feel that way, and maybe funerals are the best time for moving forward purposely.

A-rod, Buck O'Neil, and The Tigers

This article says it all about the Yankees v. Tigers series. It stills hurts to the touch, but I'm glad Leyland is the guy that got it done. Man, look around baseball and it seems fairly apparent how you have to build a ball club these days if you want to win: Get a young, energetic manager (Ozzie, Willie, Giradi) who has learned the ballgame from vets (LaRussa, Torre), or go back to the guys who have lived their entire lives in the game (Leyland, etc.). Then you get young guys who'll give you the team mentality (Granderson, etc.), plus a few vets who teach throughout the season (Zito, Rogers, Mags). Those young guys don't know any better than not to show emotion. I like that. When Bonderman pumped his fist after big outs . . . that was cool. So was when, I think it was Swisher, ran off the field in the A's game the other night with his arms stuck in the safe position after sliding home safely.

Anyway, it's time for A-rod to move on. Jeter’s not interested in protecting or going to bat for him, and he has no other friend in that organization now. He’ll bring back several pitchers in return, and somebody will probably want him, even at that payroll. He may even be willing to take a cut after this year, but I think the Yankees will eat some of it, as well. He'll be a great, great player again in two years. He'll go back to short next season for some team that will wins more than it loses. He’ll get his mind right, and he’ll make a huge comeback in two years. You heard it here first. I don’t think Torre will be around next year to shelter him, either. Besides, he'll never get a shot in NY again, and he shouldn't get one. He had three years to earn the $25 mil per. He knew there were going to be some expectations when all that money fell into his lap. And when the expectations came, he wasn’t ready to deliver.

I never met Buck O'Neil, but I have a friend I work with who did. Buck took quite a few photos with him, and my friend still talks about it with the same enthusiasm each time. That's pretty telling about who the guy was. I've heard him in radio interviews several times, and he was very sharp. His stories were amazing. I wonder how many books he could have spawned. I have another friend at work who is a Mets fan. She and her husband watch Ken Burns "Baseball" every year during spring training, which I think is a pretty good idea. She also met Buck O’Neil, and she’s sent along many stories over the months about baseball’s less known history.

The game has changed a lot over the years, but it hasn’t changed at all in others.

Colorado in the fall.

A lot of people never make it to the state until the winter, but for my money, the summer and the fall are the best times of year to head to Colorado. Last weekend's weather was about perfect, the people were incredibly nice, and the food was . . . well, it wasn't great, but that was my fault. The hikes were inspiring, and I can't wait to go back.

One song I can play

on the guitar but don't really know why is "Leaving On A Jet Plane." This guy I knew, Roger, played that song on the piano in bars years ago, and he made it believable. Sincere. Otherwise, it has the cheesy John Denver factor to it, but that isn't fair, either, because John Denver was OK. Anyway, I was reminded of that song because I'm leaving to Colorado today. Can't wait to see the mountains again. Wish I was taking my guitar.

Labor Day Weekend

Weird, fun, sleepless, flames, hog, a SouthPark character, fishing, boating, walking, and more.

• 
  

• 
  

Summers Pass By Too Quickly

• 

Judy Garland is the female Frank Sinatra

Last night I caught the tail end of an incredible documentary on Judy Garland on PBS. For whatever reason, this coincided with me recently finishing reading the wonderful "Wicked: The Life and Times of The Wicked Witch of The West." I don't know if the two are related, but I'm grateful for allowing myself the time to sink into both. Both were amazing engaging, and both the documentary and book again made me reconsider making judgments about anything until I have all the facts. This was especially true of "Wicked," both in the sense of judging the witch herself based on "The Wizard of Oz," and in the sense of the book, which I thought I had figured out after the first opening sequence. No, I didn't. I should have known better. Same with Garland. I had her pegged for something and someone she wasn't. Again, I should have known better. Not giving her talent the consideration and respect it deserves is shameful. But better late than never. I plan to enjoy it much more in the years to come.

Bob Dylan's "Modern Times": Simply masterful. I can't say anymore, other than sixth row center Oct. 25, baby!!! Sixth row center.

My dog's leg hurts.

My main man Slim is down and out these days with a bum wheel. Not sure how it happened, but the poor chap pulled a doggy groin, and now he has a limp in his gimp. Too bad, too, because the fella likes to get up and go and go and go and go. So it's six weeks of rest and relaxation, according to the sage vet. He doesn't know our boy, Slim, very well, though. Trying to contain big boy for six weeks might as well be six years. Impossible. But pain is pain, so I suppose Slim will get the idea soner than later. So here's to your recovery Slimmidy Dim.

Football, leaves, and ... it's still summer

Yesterday, still being Aug. 11, I saw Halloween candy displayed at Walgreens. The NFL preseason kicks off this weekend, and actually, there were games played last weekend, as well. Four nights ago while swimming with my daughter, we could hear the local high school's marching band practicing. And if you haven't noticed, school supplies were being put on the shelves before the smoke from the Fourth of July had vanished.

What' the obsession with getting rid of summer so quickly? What's the obsession in general for people to move from the current minute to the next one so quickly? Motion. Constant. True enough, but motion also represents meaning, and if you're always anticipating the next motion, you can't possibly be picking up on the meaning of the last one. Slow the hell down people.

Rain.

Like most of the country, where I live is parched. Beyond parched. I don't water my grass (although I have watered my plants and vegetables all summer), and it's sad how decayed it is. Dry. Crackling. Ugly. Our dogs have no mercy on it, either. The paths they create. The patches they destroy one at a time. It's ugly. Last night it rained on those bare patches. I'm thankful. My garden needed the life, and a water ban has been put into place for the city (although some of my neighbors don't seem to care). It's not nearly enough to make a dent, but watching the lightening late into last night was a relief on the soul.

Fish Are Strange

We have fish and a frog and snails. Enough snails to start a revolution. They just keep coming. I've learned more about snails in the last year than I ever cared to. I don't like them.

We've had fish for years, with luck that borders on being absurd. They don't seem to stick around long, and I wonder why. They must be bored silly. There's only so many to swim in a square box. They only live for food, and then they go beserk. What a life. 

Getting Out Of Line

Some days you have to take a step to the left or right to get a different view. If you don't, all you'll ever see if the back of the head of the dude in front of you. Boring. His head isn't all that interesting, and there's more to look at in life than what the people around you look like. Much more. I have no idea why it takes so long to realize that sometimes. Why it takes so long to take a baby step to the left to see what's ahead. To take one to the right and feel the wind on my face from a different direction. You have to move away from the line, and if possible, stay away for as long as possible. 

Summer Where I Live

Brutal. 107 or some insane temp like that yesterday. Crazy heat. Mad heat. The kind of heat where it's OK to say, "Not fit for man or beast." (Only if there's a blizzard is it OK to say that otherwise.)

My eight-year-old girls' softball team rocked last night despite the heat. They spat in heat's eye. They turned a doubleplay in the bottom of the third (flyball to pitcher, force out at first) and then picked up the last out on a force to third. It was a great moment, as I and the guy helping coach the girls have stressed all season getting outsAnd they've really improved. They're about to turn the corner. If they played one more game a week . . . they' d probably be bored ugly.

I could give a flip who wins these games, but sometimes I find myself having to throttle down feelings of wanting to thump somebody. -- It's the way we played games when I was a kid. All or nothing. You didn't whine or cry. That just wasn't OK. I didn't take that stuff too seriously, though. I just wanted to play. -- Last night we thumped someone, and while the girls on the other team certainly didn't deserve the thumping we gave them (ha, we won by a run), the other team's very loud coach and very obnoxious did deserve it. Actually, I don't think he was even the coach. More like the lacky assistant who doesn't want to commit to handling the whole enchilada, but he'll offer up his head coach-quality advice every game and every practice he can make it to until you eventually learn to block him out and he gets the point. If you want to help, cool. Ask me what you can do. Don't tell me what to do. Hell, he was yelling at what I hope was his own kid (although I feel for her) because she was late to the game. She was every-so-slowly trotting along in the 107-degree heat because she was 1) hot, 2) hot, and 3) about to get hotter. "Hustle!! I don't care! Hustle. Come on. You're up next!!!!" Ugh. So then the HEAD coach says (although too softly to my liking), "It's alright," trying to let this guy know in a polite manner that he looks like a fool and everyone knows it. But the ASSISTANT coach doesn't listen. He just bellows on to let everyone know how integral he is to the whole machine.

So anyway, the Royals rocked the field last night. My own child, hovering second base diligently like a hawk out for blood, got whacked in the back of the head on a perfect relay throw from the left fielder. Evidently, there was a better game going on the field over. My pride and joy barely blinked, though, which makes me wonder if she's just tough or has a screw loose and doesn't feel pain. I'm leaning to the latter for now. (By the way, only those who have done it know how difficult it is to explain to an eight-year-old the importance of keeping the force on at second by making the correct throw from the outfield? My girl strung that baby on a rope. Thing of beauty.)

On Writing

So, I'm moving away from the editing job I've had for almost five years and going back to writing full time. I'm a bit nervous about it, as I think it's going to be a real challenge, at least initially. My job is entirely focused on technology, and writing about it is not the easiest thing to do. Writing about technology so that others can understand it is even more difficult. But I'm looking forward to the challenge. Seems like I haven't had enough of them lately, and I can tell. Rut, rut, rut. Once you're in one, it's difficult to get out, so I'm thankful I'm at least getting the chance to. I'm going to miss working on CPU, though. I've been working on the mag since it's first issue more than three years ago, and it's been a joy watching it grow and prosper. But it's time to move on. All the originals I started with on that mag are one, and it's been different without them. When things come together and everyone is on the same page and you're working to a like-minded goal, even if just briefly, it's wonderful. When pieces of that machine begin falling off one by one, the reward aren't as collective, and they don't feel the same. I love writing. I've loved doing it professionally, and it's been long enough since I've done it full time that I'm going to have to work my arse off just to keep up. I'm hoping I'm up to it.

Church

I love my church. I love just about everything about it. The people are entirely good. Entirely giving and entirely humble. There's really not much to not like. Acceptance is about the greatest gift someone can give you in life, and every time I go to my church, that's what I receive.

I presided over communion and the scripture reading today for the second time, and again it was a great experience. It's enlightening to bare you soul to like-minded people and have them confirm what you feel yourself. And it's an honor to lead them in something sacred and important, as well.

I came to church and faith and belief and God in an unconventional way, and I wouldn't change a thing about that.

Can fireworks bring world peace?

Ha. Probably not. But they do have a pacifying effect you can't deny--if you really, really pay attention.

Ever notice on the Fourth that no matter where people have gathered in an attempt to blow things apart (my mailbox) or have gathered to observe fireworks (every damn driveway in every damn Midwestern town) or congregate to purchase fireworks (every damn grocery store parking lot in my fair city), it's a united crowd? A crowd with a single purpose. A slack-jawed crowd with flashes of exploding lights twinkling in their eyes. These people have no outwardly noticeable conflicts. Why? Beer, of course. Well, that and because they love explosions. They live for destruction. It's in their blood. It fuels them. Beer and demolition. The Fourth is the one day of the year your crazy uncle or nitwit third cousin twice removed or your neice's chain-smoking, peach-fuzzed boyfriend are the most popular people in the family because they've blown half of their (or their parents') income for the year on gun powder. Beautiful.

Least you think I'm above explosion-loving, I'll come clean by admitting to willingly and willfully attending our city's annual fireworks display last night with my family at a city lake. Ever seen fireworks reflecting off water? Nothing like it. And as we sat in lawn chairs and on blankets along with thousands of others watching the great Lincoln Symphony Orchestra perform both before and while the sky was being lit up, I couldn't help but notice the true disparity of people gathered. Whites, blacks, native Americans, Asians, Hispanics, etc. Old. Young. Handicapped. Wealthy. Poor. English-speaking and not. The music and fireworks were equally fantastic, but seeing the diversity of people in one place outside under the stars without malice or aggitation or paranoia or distrust was by far the best part of the night, and really the whole point of the Fourth in the first place, right?

Later, we did our part for the explosion effort by blowing stuff up in our own driveway, while the drunken neighbors and friends did more than their part--and, in fact, got an early start on next year by exploding stuff well into July 5.

But it always seems like a few idiots have to go and spoil things involving fire and explosions and destruction for the rest of us. This morning I read that a few over-eager pyros in one of my old neighborhoods went above and beyond the call of duty by burning a house to the ground. Nice. I love this quote from the local newspaper from a guy living in the area: "It was incredible to see people from all over our neighborhood come and watch this as it happened. They treated it like a concert.....it was a very festive atmosphere. Somone's life was taking a tragic turn, and just about every single person on the block came out to watch the 'spectacle.' It was really sickening. People continued to shoot off fireworks 50 feet from the burning home. It was another disturbing remind of just how pathetic this neighborhood is."

Thanks for bumming out my fireworks trip.

These Days

Ever hear the song Greg Allman sings that Jackson Brown wrote called "These Days"? That song was written for GA, and he nails it. The song details how life has just become about sitting back, reflect on what you've done in the days prior, and how you're going to move forward into the days of the future. No hurry. No worries. Just accepting time as it comes. I like those two words together: these and days. It's the perfect invitation for conversation. "What've been up to these days." "These days I just try to keep my head above water." On and on. These days are hot. These days are filled with family. These days are bright. Slow. These days are filled and exciting and constant and flowing. These days are playing. These days are sun. These days are water. Hoops. Music. These days are gardens, weeds, and dying grass.

Kids

This weekend I bought a basketball hoop after years of threatening to do just that. In my life there's been very few periods of time where I didn't have a hoop of my own or at least have one within walking distance. And, in fact, we do have a park less than a block away with a hoop, but I'm tired of sharing it with the general public. They have no respect for the court. And they have no respect for therapy that is shooting hoops. The solitude and quiet and freedom to escape even for just a little while--that's what hoops has always been for me.

After a complete day of putting that damn thing together, we finally wheeled it out of the garage last night and onto the street so all the kids in our circle could play. Before long we got a game of PIG going, but we had to truncate it to PI because it was supper time.

Ah, supper time in the summer when you're playing ball. I hadn't had that feeling of not wanting to go inside for supper in a long, long time. As my wife scolded us to come in now, that feeling was just reinforced.

It reminded me of the little boys who live behind us. They play baseball almost every day, and I've often heard them squeel in protest plenty of times when their moms call them in. And damn if those kids aren't good, too. I should say boys and girls, because I see a little sister or two making plays. That reminds me of my sister and other girls in my neighborhood growing up who could play just as well and better than the boys, and they were tougher.

It does me so much good to see those kids outside playing together, and not just playing, but playing sports, riding bikes, making cities in sandboxes, hiding and seeking. It makes me appreciate even more the small town I grew up in and the friends I had and the endless games we played and invented and taught other kids how to play. It also makes me appreciate the period of time I grew up in in which parents could let us run free, knowing that someone was always looking after us. I, unfortunately, don't have the same luxury for my kids. So, seeing a bit of innocence live on, even if only in the form of kids playing baseball behind my backyard, is heartening. It's those kinds of things that I hold on to to keep my hope breathing.

By the way, I won that game of PI, narrowly turning back the 11-year-old, smack-running kid across the circle. Like the cat in "White Men Can't Jump" said, "You talk a whole lot of ying for not having any yang." Something like that, anyway. Well, this kid is full of ying, but his body hasn't grown into his yang. If and when it does, I have no doubt he'll let us all know. In the meantime, like someone told me once, it's good to be humbled once in awhile. Ha!

I'd Like To Make A Movie

". . . and find characters for them to
play. "

Actually, I'd like write, shoot, direct, and make a movie. I'm not talking anything huge; just a little thing that I could ask people to do and find characters for them to play. I've been talking my ideas over with my right-hand
man on all creative matters--my 11-year-old resident genius in the house--and I think we're on to something here. And I promise you, if the movie ever materializes, the story will be familiar, but with a twist I suspect you've never seen before. I'm optimistic. I could even record a little music, write a few songs, bring in the talents of my many talented friends, and shoot the thing. Hmm. I'm inspired.

Nightime is the right time.

I defy you to name me three things that are better than a warm summer night slowly fading into being. OK, without using chocolate, a hot bath, coffee, baseball, or sex. Go ahead. Told you so.

Come Out Swinging

Ever been backed so far into the corner by so many people at once that you had no choice but to come out swinging? No choice but to take a little ground back? Fight them off? Beat them back? Keep what's yours? Defend what they're trying to take? Trying to plunder? Trying to extinguish? Yeah, me, too. Yesterday in fact. And although I won't go so far as to say the deal went down exactly like I would have wanted, I can say it felt good not backing up anymore than I already had. And it felt giving a little while taking it. And when the dust cleared, no one was dead, no one was wounded, no one was left laying. That's why it's so good to have a home to retreat to until you have to battle again.