Vogue

Passing waiting-room minutes

in the pages of Vogue,

I invest myself elsewhere,

waking in NYC,

owning Paris,

tainting London,

breaking souls in Rome--

anywhere escaped of Nebraska soil.

I’m stepping out,

smelling fine,

entirely dashing,

completely sublime.

I’m a poet haunted,

painter revered,

actor possessed,

songwriter gone gold.

I’m self-made,

self-aware,

self-contained,

self-assure.  

My model accessory,

she's so skinny good,

fit to be tanned,

a sophisticated drunk,

a bedroom treasure.

My cigarettes burn sweet.

My liquor fuels favors.

My cocaine lights fires.

Another daybreak ignored.

My apartment bears witness,

pitches no black,

divulges no cracks,  

entices the elite.

Only the elite.

Only the elite.

Only the elite.

Only in the pages of Vogue.

BAF

Geeks Are People, Too

I’ve worked in technology for close to 15 years, writing about seemingly every aspect of it--from hardware to software to data centers to virtualization to quad-cores to VoIP to fiber optics to backhauls to overclocking to ink toner to USB 3.0 to DNS to malware to vaporware to partitions to defrags. I watched the Internet boom and then bust. I tested the first consumer digital cameras. I've held all iPod iterations in my hands. I’ve seen Bill Gates speak numerous times. I’ve spoken with inventors, developers, designers, visionaries, pioneers, trailblazers, thieves, pirates, innovators, explorers, and masterminds. I’ve watched my kids become part of a world I never imagined possible in my own youth. But by far the best aspect of working in technology all these years is the utter and endless appreciation, respect, and admiration I’ve grown to hold for “geeks.” Geek was a dirty word when I was walking the playground. It was a sign of weakness. It tainted you. It was a scar you couldn’t hide. Once you were labeled, it was your cross to bear through graduation. Turns out the morons, the weaklings, the scorned were the non-geeks, the ones without vision, without foresight, without a sense of bigger possibilities. I wasn't smart enough to be a geek. I’m smart enough to call many my friends now, however. I love their passion. I love their enthusiasm. I love their work ethic. I love their determination to break down walls. Wish I was half the geek. 

Problem vs. Inconvenience

I think I'm pretty good about realizing when a problem is really a problem and when it should probably just be recast as an "inconvenience." Take, for example, the water pipe situated between my home's upstairs and the recently renovated downstairs that days ago cracked and proceeded to spew what I'm guessing was dozens of gallons of water before being noticed. Naturally, a steady stream of water dripping down basement walls, as well as an obvious pool of water collecting above the ceiling, was a cause for concern. Some people on the scene cried. I chose not to. More interesting was that I really wasn't all that upset and what had transpired. And for several days, I was more bothered about why I wasn't all that bothered about the wreckage. Sure, all the hours I had spent the prior few weeks ripping up carpet, dry walling holes, and painting walls seemed a bit pointless facing what was a sagging ceiling and carpet so saturated we'd ultimately be able to pull gallon after gallon out of it. Still, we were talking about drywall and carpet--not the two most terribly important materials in the world. And we were talking about a basement that realistically amounts to nothing more but extra space in which we can come to be entertained, educated, enlightened, or amused--not a mandatory living area where we sleep, eat, and escape. This wasn't an entire home being pummeled or swept away by a tsunami or earthquake. There was nothing of great value lost. No one was injured. Hell, barely anyone outside those living in the house even knew or cared. Why would they? What really was there to be mad about? Lost time and money? Maybe? But neither are worth my tears or anger in this case. I think the older I become, the more I realize there's always a choice as to who or what we hand over our anger and disappointment. I'm learning that there is almost always at least a minute or two to contemplate truly what has taken place and then pass an accurate judgment concerning its severity. At the least, it feels a hell of lot better feeling unlucky than feeling bitter. 

Swoon, midnight moon.

I’ll follow you home tonight.  

I’ll praise your height,

your light,

your might,

your insistence to attack the night,

to decimate pretensions,

decipher suggestions,

ease tensions threatening demise.

Swoon, midnight moon.

I’ll be your baby alright. 

BAF

The End Sum

My kids say crap all the time that embarrasses me, that makes me wonder, "how in dark hell did that notion ever enter his/her skull?" In the same light, they do crap all the time that makes me bow my head and want to pretend I don't know them; that's makes me want to walk ever so briskly, yet inconspicuously, in the opposite direction before anyone can make the connection that we're somehow linked together. That said, those feelings are temporary, in the sense that they have their own brains working feverishly inside their noggins', and it's not my responsibility to tinker and toy with them. It's my responsibility to teach them how to use them, teach them how to put them into gear and come to their on conclusions. I'm not afraid of mistakes, and they shouldn't be either. I'd rather them take a wrong step, say the wrong thing, and open the wrong door than blindly sit back and never see the damn scenery in the first place. They ruffle feathers, including my own, but they participate. They engage. Most importantly, they think. So what if what their thinking doesn't jibe with what my mind conjures up and centers on? What I believe we have in common is an ability to form opinions and stand by them. So, yes, they do and say crap constantly that I'd just as soon pretend I'd never witnessed, but that's the beauty. They force me to pay attention. They force me to respond. They force me to react, to remain diligent in my own truth. I love them for that and for being individuals, as embarrassing as their words and actions can be. I'm sure they feel the same about mine. 

On Running In March Snow

This misplaced March snow

smells of high school afternoons

begrudgingly spent running

to the railroad tracks and back,

through flaking walls plastered wet,

deep into maddening madness—

a sentence declared by a track coach gone bored,

perpetually unimaginative,

hopelessly uninformed.

Taunting March snow

reeks of steps stomped angrily

with fellow suckers for pain,

long distance colleagues for miles,

brothers in running shoes

sucking air wicked,

churning consistent complaints,

dripping noses red.

Another hour spent sideways

glamorizing girls never dated,

prophesizing jobs never possible,

visiting streets never walked,

spending money never possessed,

battling reality’s demands

to accept snow-burned cheeks,

sweatshirts soaked fat,

shoes squishing surrender,

socks sagging dead,

spirits breaking cold.

Why couldn't I be a sprinter?

Why couldn't I jump higher?

Why couldn't I put a shot?

Why couldn't I vault a pole?

Why was I always escaping snow?

BAF

Lion Guardians

Ran across the Lion Guardians effort from the Defenders of Wildlife this morning. It's extremely sad and disturbing to contemplate my daughter's children will most likely grow up in a world in which many of the grandest animals ever to walk the planet will no longer be walking it, including lions. I'm not certain of what indirect role I've played in their demise, but I'm sure I have, and it saddens me. What saddens (and infuriates) me more is those who would hunt something so magnificent merely to add a stuff carcass to a trophy case. Moronic. But I think that adjective sums up human beings more often than not. I've been thinking a lot lately about what kind of a world my grandchildren (if indeed I have any) will live in, and I'm not thrilled with the prospects. I believe I'm living in a great transitional period (although all time is transitional, I suppose) in which we're moving to an existence that will rely on technology for most things, leaving behind that which can't tie into the grid. I'm thankful for having lived during this transition and experiencing what's possible, but I can't say I'll be sorry to be gone before that final transformation comes. I believe it's going to be a far less beautiful, joyful, engaging, and accommodating place.

Lion Guardians

Always Be Closing, Loser.

A=always, B=be, C=closing. Always be closing. Always be closing. I'm tired of living and working in this environment. Atmosphere. Surroundings. Influence. It’s omnipresent. I hear and see it all day. I feel it crawling all over me like a skanky dirt bath. I’m starting to worry I’ll never be able to clean it off. What the hell are you closing anyway? Another car sold? Another tube of toothpaste passed on to the white-tooth-wannabe consumer? Another Big Mac stuffed down another kid’s gullet? Another shoe wrapped around a fat foot that won't put it to use anyway? Congrats. Congrats on “closing.” Way to go. Way to hit the mark. Way to make the grade. Way to make that pie graph turn in your favor. You’re a closer. A winner. A success. A leader. A man among men. Your what we should all inspire to. You’re also a loser. You lose because when you were closing, you should have exploring. I say, “always be exploring.” Exploring the current moment, and the one after that, and so on. Exploring your real meaning. Exploring your real purpose. Explore what your gung ho energy could really accomplish. Could really create, construct, and maintain. Always be exploring. Otherwise, all you’re really doing is wasting time. Minutes. Hours. Days. Opportunities. Chances. Emotions. Your life. You’re wasting your life, closer. And unless I’m really wrong about this, you only get one. So going ahead and spend your time schmoozing, lying, manipulating, drifting, combing your pretty hair, shining your shoes, and making the rub. Do you what you must do, and for hell’s sake, always be closing. But know this, you’re a loser, even if you’re too busy closing to realize it.

Going to miss you, ole' girl.

Answers

I'd give about anything some days to never have to answer to another soul again. I don't want to answer to myself. My maker. My end. I don't want supply answers to the man. To the woman. To the superior. To the inferior. I don't want to spend time pondering my answers, devising them, constructing or reconstructing them. I don't want to pick them apart. Defend them. Analyze them. Craft them. Shape them. Search for them. I don't even want to consider the questions I'm seeking answers to. Answers, beat it. Now.