Summer Days, Summer Nights

Welcome these days. They won't last forever. Soon enough the laughs of our children will be back indoors, confined to walls. Soon enough the trees will be empty and the birds will be gone and the grass will be brown and dormat. Soon enough the sidewalks will be lonely and unused. Soon enough the dogs will snore with boredom. Soon enough the water will run still and children will stop whispering and days will stretch shorter and shorter. Soon enough will watch the stars fully clothed and midnight sits on the steps will be memories and breezes will be chilly and bugs won't be so difficult to ignore. Soon enough the flowers will droop and bikes will cease motion and baseballs won't fly and pools won't hold laughter. Soon enough. Welcome these days. Embrace them. Use them. Listen to them. Soon enough the heat will devour us and the swings will sit idle.

Boo!

Age creeped up on me at some point. When exactly, I'm not sure. But it did, and there's no slowing it down. It doesn't scare me, really. I knew it was coming. I knew I couldn't stop it. I'm not sure I even want to. It's just less fun. The older you get, the less spontaneous life is. It has to be if you're at all responsible for those around you. Too many committments. Too many meetings. Too many calendars and appointments and coming and going. Too many this and thats. I don't mind aging. I do mind aging without newness. It seems I worked most of my life to get to a point so I could do the things that I couldn't when I was young. Things I was told I was too young to try. Things I was told I couldn't handle yet. Things I was told I wasn't mature enough for. Places I couldn't go or see. People I couldn't hear or view. Experiences I couldn't taste. Now that I'm old enough to do anything I want, I'm just as unable but for so many other reasons. And that's a big saddening. Whether that's ironic or not, I don't know. I do know it leaves me a bit resentful. And hardened. And bitter. And bitter doesn't taste good ever.

All's Quiet On The Lake

Last weekend we went camping at a nearby lake, and it didn't take me long to notice that something was missing. Figuring out exactly what that something was took a bit longer, however. Soon enough it hit me right between the eyes: silence. Yeah, silence. Growing up, camping was pretty much a peaceful experience. Even last year when I took my daughters camping, there were maybe five other families on the entire lake, and but you would have never known it if you hadn't of seen them. But this past weekend, we drifted to a different lake, and immediately upon coming over the hill and seeing the dozens of boats and jetskis and skiers, I should have known I was in for something different. The environment was more typical of a speedway, and the sounds coming off the lake were more like a racetrack than a gift from God. It wasn't until well past nightfall that silence began creeping in oh so slowly, and it wasn't until then that I really felt that I was actually camping. Despite all that, I felt a little guilty at how much fun all the noise was. Perhaps times have changed, and I'm slow to accept them. Perhaps I'm holding onto something that's long gone. I still think there's a place for peace and nature to co-exist. In fact, I'm sure of it. But I'm more concerned about myself and my willingness to enjoy that which my heart tells me not to, including noise, crowds, and disturbance. At any rate, camping is still a great time for families to get together on the cheap (no thanks to you Mr. Game Warden wanting more money to pitch a tent), have actual conversations over a fire, and not feel the need to get off to someplace to do something to feel something artificial. On that note, many thanks to Barb for the excellent bacon Sunday morning, to my daughter for riding out the rainstorm with me all of Saturday night in the tent, and to the tent for keeping me dry. Can't wait to do it all again.

I'm So Unsatisfied

The first time I heard The Replacements I was about 16. My sister scored a mixed tape somewhere, and my head about exploded with glee when "Bastards of Young" came scrawling out of our old, crappy tape deck. It was like God looked down on me and thought I needed a pick-me-up, so he reached down, grabbed that tape Himself, stuck it the box, and said upon to thee: "Blare that bad boy, kid, we need some angst around this place." And so there was angst.

The Mats were like me: from the Midwest (Minneapolis) and young. Where they were different was that they didn't give a flip about what you or I thought. I wasn't that brave. What they did better than any band I had heard up to then was combine just the right touch of the music I wanted to hear with lyrics that weren't juvenile or corny. Paul Westerberg's words were religion to me then, and they've remained the same as I've grown, and as he has, also. It probably sounds stupid to some, but his music and the music from the like-minded got me through a good deal of my teenage years. I used to think that was a melodramatic notion on my part, but I live with a 13-year-old boy in my house everyday who shows me it wasn't and isn't. Seeing up close how much music means to a kid each and every day in 2006 tells me I was right all along.

That's why I'm all over this when it comes out, and I'll probably review it for a magazine I write reviews for. I'm entirely biased on the subject, but that's OK. I've owned every song but the two news ones on this set for years and years anyway, and hearing them all over again in one setting isn't going to change that. I know the world will probably pass The Replacements over the way it did the first time around, but that's OK, too. I've found that the best things (at least to me) are the things that the general populace doesn't appreciate or know about. Too bad for them; good for me.

I've tackled The Replacements before in writing, and it wasn't easy. They mean a great deal to me. If you've ever had a favorite band, you know what I'm talking about. The same if you've ever had a favorite author, artist, filmmaker, poet, teacher, preacher, or creature. If you don't know of which I speak, I hope you find it someday.

One of my fondest memories is of a Friday afternoon one spring day many years ago when I was in my girlfriend's dorm room waiting for her to come back from class. The window was open, the day was perfect, and the night was waiting to creep in. The opening chords from "Alex Chilton" came floating into the room just as I was drifting off, and I distinctly remember thinking, "Cool. There's at least one other guy in the world whose taste in music doesn't suck." Pompous, elitist, and snobbish. Yep. But life gets no better than when everything falls into place even for one fleeting second. That was such a second. And they've come few and far between since.

What are you looking at?

I wonder about people who don't like animals. I understand why (I guess), but I don't know how those people become those people. What's not to like, other than the poop, fur, noise, chewed up shoes, vet bills, and their impending deaths. Ah, the impending deaths. That's the kicker.

When our dog recently died, the first question a lot of people asked was, "So, are you going to get a new dog now?" What the hell's up with that. "Um, are you going to get a new mother?" "Are you going to get a new uncle?" Yeah, I'm probably going to get a pet soon, and I understand that all people aren't comfortable with the whole death thing, but come on, man.

Seriously, I'm not a pet freak, and in fact, they get on my nerves as much as any person does time and again, but they also have been more loyal, faithful, trustworthy, and sympathetic than just about any human I've known. Maybe I haven't known the right people, or maybe animals are just better than us. They haven't seemed to have forgotten the concept of integrity and truth. Man, even when a pet is deceitful, they don't go to great lengths to cover it up. They just run away or tuck their head between their legs and accept your disapproval. Guess what happens then? They move on. Seems like a good way to live life.

Lunch

I never eat lunch in the breakroom. I never eat lunch at my desk either if I can help it. It's not that I don't like the company. I just can't stand the thought of not being able to leave that "work" mode for even an hour during the day. My mind already spends too much time there the way it is. I have to get it and my body away or I go insane. I don't dislike what I do, but there has to be a balance. If I'm not eating lunch with my wife or friends or kids, I usually spend the time alone, which is just as important. Time alone heals.

Mostly I spend my lunches in parks or by the lake. It's peaceful without being completely solitary. I like to watch the ducks swim, and the ground squirrels begging for food is pretty hard to resist. I find they like French fries above most other things, although I try to throw some lettuce once in awhile to keep things evened out. Most days I try to walk around the lake if there's time. Eases the guilt of kicking back all those cheeseburgers.

I read some writing once from a Zen teacher concerning the importance of meals, and even more so, what the actual meals represent. Each bite is building something new, transferring you into something different. Be thankful of where the food comes from. Take knowledge in all those who helped bring it to its final product. I try to look at the parks and lakes in the same way, primarily in what they offer me and my well-being. Most days I succeed. Other days there's plenty of reminders present to keep me in line. When I being to neglect the importance of space and time and thought and reason, I'm usually able to recognize it, but it takes some help to turn the neglect into something less difficult to contain.

The King, Movie Trailers, and God

The other day I was watching movie trailers at Quicktime. I ended up watching a trailer for a film called "The King," and I'm glad that I did. It was pretty riveting, and it definitely did the job of making me want to see more. If a movie's promo ad looks interesting, I'll check it out just for that reason. This promo shot was pretty cool, and the actual preview got me back to thinking about an article I read not long ago about the people who direct and edit the actual trailers for major motion pictures.

Evidently, the director and his team are usually busy editing the actual film and putting the final touches on it right up to opening day. The article I read centered around a woman who worked from home putting trailers together. It was pretty interesting. She described the job as being able to still have an artistic life without all the pressure or time committments of directing the actual flick. Every couple of months, the studio sent her a script and select pieces of a film. She read the script, put the story together in her head, and then used the pieces of film to create the trailer. From there, the studio picked and pulled at it, until it got to what we see in the theater.

The trailer for the "The King" was so good, I'll make a point to see it when it's released. It 's not a film that will stick around for long where I live, if it makes it here at all. But I'll rent it or track it down. The trailer was that compelling. And I'm a fan of nearly anything William Hurt does, and he looks very different in this film. Cowboy meets preacher meets hippie meets zealout. Very moralistic, very strict, and very demanding of his family's faith. But apparently, he has some secrets in the closet, including a son (yes, his name is Elvis) who is getting out of the Navy with the intention of finding the father that left him when he was young. When the two finally meet, it doesn't go according to the son's best hopes. In fact, William Hurt's character, David, wants nothing to do with him and tells him to split. The son has other ideas, some of which include David's family, although not involving violence from what I can tell. Oh yeah, did I mention the son's name is Elvis?

I happened upon a good article about the film, plus the other religiously focused films out now ("The Da Vinci Code," "The Omen") from the NY Times.

I won't spoil the plot twist of "The King," but I will say it reminded me of a Korean movie I saw about a year ago called "Oldboy." Check out the promo for this one. Tell me that doesn't suck you in. Anyway, the movie had the greatest twist at the end that I've seen in a film, and I've seen lots of films. It isn't for the squeamish, but if you like things left of the dial, and you like great, great turns, this one is for you. Take a guess at what really got me to see the flick? That's right, I saw the trailer first.

In case you're wondering, here's the lowdown on "Oldboy", as from IMDB.com:

On the day of his daughter's birthday, Ho Dae-su (Min-sik Choi) gets completely drunk and is arrested. His best friend No Joo-hwan (Dae-han Ji) releases him from the police station, and while calling home from a phone booth, Dae-su vanishes. Indeed he has been abducted and imprisoned in a room for fifteen years. One day, he is suddenly released, receives clothes, money and a cellular. He meets a Japanese chef Mido (Hye-jeong Kang), and they feel a great attraction for each other. However, Dae-su seeks for his captor and the reason of his long imprisonment. While looking for revenge, Dae-su discloses deep secrets from the past.

My backyard.

I've never been a person who spends much time in the front yard. I'd much rather be in the back. I'm not sure if that's a statement on my life in general, but I feel more comfortable there. My favoritism doesn't even stem from my dislike that the front yard has seemingly come to signify making an impression to anyone passing by, because I probably fall prey to that mentality more than I'd care to admit--as much as any other suburban monkey I suppose. But the backyard is where the serenity, peace, and privacy lives. It's the oasis and paradise and eden. If you build it right, the backyard is a haven.

Mind you, I find certain aspects of a front yard so appealling. I love an old-school front porch that wraps around both corners of a house and carries on to the back. It makes me wonder who sits there at night and what she's thinks or sees or believes. I love those same porches more when the rails are lined with plants and sculptures and expressions of personalities. I love big, wide picture windows when they're open and inviting and when they reflect the life that's living outside back to the outside. I love fat, wooden porch swings that look sturdy but feel free. I love them more when they're tall enough to dangle your feet from and when they're big enough to fit two adults on each side and a child in the middle. I love long, winding sidewalks that slink slowly up to the front steps, which are lined with lights and plants and rocks and bushes. I love aged trees that hang over a house, hovering and protecting it like a parent. I love a front yard that ever-so-patiently slopes down from the house's edge to where the street takes over; it's as if the yard stretches forever because the people living there have no where to go because they don't want to. I love those yards more when plush, dark-green grass spreads from side to side--like a plantation but without all the guilt. I love ivy and moss and stones and boulders and subtle signs that pets are on the premises. I love front yards that lead to pastures and paths to the barn and walkways down to the pond. I love a screen door that swings open and shuts gently, and not one that crashes to a close. I love roofs that overhang and drip rain and store icicles and that give the impression of being superior to all that would seek to do harm. And I love driveways that circle around, giving you the option to stay or go without having to move in reverse. I love walking sticks kept at the ready. Muddy shoes left outside. Bird nests hidden but heard. I love sidewalk chalk and above-ground sprinklers and bikes left laying, the kickstand never bothered with. I love a front yard at night that glows from the street light and that dances in shadows when the wind blows the trees.

Maybe I like the front yard more than I thought.

I'm the guy who can't finish a story.

Not spoken stories. I have no trouble boring people with the words I speak aloud. It's the written ones I can't finish (although the boring factor certainly carries over here, as well.) There's probably three dozen or so half-written, half-thought-out, half-conceived, half-believed, half-assed attempts at literature (as it were) laying around in drawers, notebooks, glove departments, book shelves, compost piles, etc. I'm not a finisher. I'm the guy who gets you up to the finish line but breaks your heart. If my stories were leftovers, the fridge would never be empty. And I hate leftovers. They're cold, they're lifeless, and they've seen their better days. So it's time to get to steppin'. Delila Dunko deserves to know how her life is going to finish. So does that boy rhino that my daughter and I started to write about. Hell, we gave that kid a girl's name but never bothered to tell anyone why. So does the dog named Spike that I left hanging on for dear life in a tree branch so long ago. Dude's been in that tree going on 20 years now. That mysterious guy with no name that drives an old Jaguar and always seems to end up in front of my house for some reason, he, too, needs some closure. Bob Dylan helped save my goldfish in one story, but damned if I know why or how. Didn't bother thinking that far ahead. And therein lies the problem. Thinking ahead. Is it better to begin something and not finish it or to never begin it in the first place as to not disappoint anyone, including yourself?

Thanks goodness for guys like Rod. He's odd. He's round. He's green. But he's a frickin' survivor and a damn fine poet.

Happy Birthday, Bob

65. Retirement age for sure. And Bob's earned the rest. But I don't think he wants it. Musicians don't retire. Neither do poets or writers. Neither do ideas or passion or melodies or addictions.

If I was a younger man without constraints, I'd get to Hibbing tomorrow, put on a party hat, blow a silly whistle or two, and eat some birthday cake. It's been a while since I've been to a good birthday party, and Hibbing looks like it's doing it up sweet. Maybe exploiting Bob for its own good, but who cares? I'm sure Bob understands.

And if that garage door isn't the coolest damn thing ever . . . I'd like to meet the cat who lives there.

On Music

Ever get that feeling when you meet someone that you're really going to like him or her, but there's also something just a little threatening there that you don't like? Like for me, I like music an abnormal amount. I used to take pride in knowing more about it than others, but I finally figured out I loved thinking I knew more about music than I was actually loving the music. I've since changed my priorities, and now it's all about the music. That said, I still get a little jazzed about knowing more than the next guy. But as I get older and meet more people, I find more people know just as much and often a hell of lot more than I do.

For example, have a friend now who knows more than me, and I think he does because he loves music more than I do. And he lives the life more than I do now. And it's probably more important to him than it is to me right now. And that's saying something. But having kids makes you rearrange and retract when you used to plow ahead and expand. So, anyway, I don't like that feeling of being the backup guy. But it's good to be humbled, and it's good to be in awe, and it's good to know you have smart friends.

My dog is a pup.

This dog, Slim, he follows me around all day like I'm his dad or something. I tell him I have three kids to keep my eyes on already, but he sees my bluff. He's a smart dog, being just a pup. I bet if he was a boy, he'd be a ladies man. He's smooth and good looking with these steely blue eyes, and he's cocky-sure. I like his style most days, but he's relentless. One-track mind dog. Dogs are pretty cool, though. Good teachers, too. Slim's teaching me about confidence. Pure-breed little bastard.




Long live Miles The Great, the king of all dogs and his snoring, big tail-exploring, problem-ignoring big bad heart. Not a day . . . Miley. Not a single day . . .