Broken Filter

Broken Filter -- Signing Off

2009-12-29T21:23:00.005-06:00

It’s been said that all great television series last one season longer than they should have. Perhaps the same can be said of blogs. When I began Broken Filter a few years ago, it was just a hobby – a means by which to vet my writing skills against public exposure, and hopefully mature and grow as a writer. Quickly, blogging became a passion and came along at a time in my life when it was likely filling other voids. It made me happy.

Time, however, has a funny way of taking those things that bring us the most joy and placing them stubbornly just beyond our reach. After a year of blogging, I found my passion for it had withered, my material was weakening, and the ambition was quickly fading. I couldn’t even get through a few posts on my trip to Greece without falling off the proverbial wagon and procrastinating beyond the point when it didn’t make sense anymore.

Writing, for me, is a double edged sword. I love it, and to an extent, I believe I am good at it. But it’s funny how quickly we become beholden to that which we love most. Somewhere along the way, I simply ran out of things to say, and I lost my edge for finding catchy ways to say them.

So, with this final post, I am retiring Broken Filter, to slip away into the depths of the World Wide Web and be stumbled across by random Googling or online picture thieving.

For everyone who has followed Broken Filter for the last two years – trekked with me across all 50 states, watched my skills as a writer wobble and mature, tolerated my attempts at humor, and smiled at my sometimes-offensive liberalism – thank you! I hope our paths will cross again.

All the best,

Brian

An open letter to Rep. Jason Chaffetz, R-Utah

2009-12-17T00:33:00.004-06:00

Rep. Jason Chaffetz
1032 Longworth HOB
Washington, D.C. 20515

December 17, 2009

Dear Rep. Chaffetz:

Although I do not live in your district and am not among those voters who elected you, I am a former resident of Utah and I share a common religious heritage with you and the majority of your state’s citizens. It stands to reason, therefore, that I feel a sense of obligation to discuss with you the concerns I have over your publicly stated intention to lead an attempted overturn of same-sex marriage in the District of Columbia.

To be sure, I am keenly aware that Article I Section 8 of the Constitution vests in the Congress authority to exercise exclusive legislation over the District of Columbia, and that all regulation passed by District residents and elected officials is subject to Congressional review. I also trust that you understand the difference between public policy and the law. While the law provides you the option of District governance, good public policy indicates that Congressional authority to override should not be used except in extreme cases.

Less than a year into your first term as a legislator, I can understand the temptation to make a name for yourself by taking a firm stand on a publicly divisive issue that speaks to the conservative base of those who elected you. I also recognize that the “House Subcommittee on the District of Columbia” is not likely the most prestigious committee on which to serve, and as a freshman representative, the temptation to make a name for yourself must be great. I would, however, appeal to your sense of humanity that you are inflicting the views of an electorate that is literally 2000 miles removed from the citizens your legislation threatens to impact.

I am well aware that you are a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, as are most of the people who voted for you. Therefore, having a strong knowledge of my own LDS roots, I’d like to share with you some facts from the annals of Church history which you may find particularly relevant in relation to the District’s predicament. History, after all, is the lens through which all legislative activity should be viewed.

The Mormons, a minority in all places except Utah, first began to experience discrimination at the hands of the majority in June of 1830 when their prophet, Joseph Smith, was arrested in Palmyra, New York, and charged with “being a disorderly person” simply because he was preaching non-traditional Christian views. Although Smith was acquitted of the charges, the persecution continued and eventually prompted Smith to leave New York and settle in Kirtland, Ohio where his small band of followers began to grow.

But the non-Mormon residents of Kirtland (the vast majority) also saw ill in Smith’s teachings. They believed that what he and his followers were doing in the privacy of their own homes was immoral, unnatural, and an abomination. In 1832 a resentful mob of “God-fearing” locals tarred and feathered Smith in front of his own home.

And so the Mormons left Ohio, just as they had left New York. They migrated first to Missouri, and then to Illinois in search of a place where their neighbors would understand that they were good and decent citizens, who worked hard, cared for their families, and simply wanted rights equivalent to those in the community who saw them as “different.” In both Missouri and Illinois, the non-Mormon majorities in town won out. Rights and privileges were withheld from the Mormons because of who they were. Pressure was brought to bear against their organization, and their leaders were imprisoned on multiple occasions. Joseph Smith would be assassinated at the hands of an angry mob – cut down in the prime of his life, and leaving several widows – all because he lived his life a little differently than his neighbors.

In March of 1839 Smith was imprisoned on false charges at Liberty, Missouri. It is worth noting that during this and other episodes behind bars, Smith and his brethren were subjected to the dangerous consequence of large-scale group-think, state-approved human rights violations, and a gross misuse of the legislative system to persecute and withhold rights from the minority that Smith represented. Hence, Smith had good reason to pray and to write. Much of his writing from this period in his life can be found throughout Mormon scripture, including the passage which would later become the 121st Section of the Mormon Doctrine & Covenants: "We have learned by sad experience that it is the nature and disposition of almost all men, as soon as they get a little authority, as they suppose, they will immediately begin to exercise unrighteous dominion" (D&C 121:39).

On behalf of the voters of Utah, and the residents of the District of Columbia, I ask you to deeply consider the consequences of unrighteous dominion as you prepare to take on same-sex marriage in Washington.

I also ask that as you enjoy the Christmas and New Year’s holidays your wife, Julie, that you prayerfully consider other families in Utah, Minnesota, the District of Columbia, and across the nation. Families who are different than yours, whose background and values stand apart from those who wish their rights to be put before a public vote. And as you prayerfully consider the plight of these families – and yes, Mr. Chaffetz, gay Americans do have families – I ask that you consider the consequences of placing one minority’s legislated rights before the public vote of the non-minority. Show the good people of our nation’s capital a sense of compassion that was not offered to our ancestors (both yours and mine).

The legislation you are proposing, while it may fall within the guidelines of your subcommittee’s constitutional privilege, cannot be justified in good conscience. While your plan may not be illegal it is unethical, and immoral. Based on the history of your own people, and an understanding of how badly a minority can be persecuted as a consequence of unrighteous dominion, I trust you will reconsider.

Kind Regards,

Brian Harper

john_q_public@gullible.com

2009-11-23T00:55:00.005-06:00

It’s one of those unfortunate consequences of the information age: politically charged email. I had hoped it would reach its ugly peak during last year’s presidential election but lately I find no signs of it stopping.

You know the kind of emails I’m talking about. They hit your inbox with titles like “FW: EVERY AMERICAN MUST READ THIS!!!!” Open up an email with a title like that and you can expect to find about as much intelligence as you would in a teenager’s text message that starts with “OMG.” You’ll usually find them written in point-size 85 in one of those fonts that no respectable person uses. The most shocking lines of the email will be in an even bigger font, double-underlined, and likely in red. Assuming you can get past the aesthetics, you’ll probably be greeted by a first line which begs the reader to forward this to absolutely every human that they know and a few they don’t.

On the occasions where I actually take the time to read through one of these emails (rare), I’m always surprised by the tone, the structure (or lack thereof), and the general insensitivity that they tend to espouse. It’s as though they were written to shock or scare people into believing the agenda that they promote. More importantly, I tend to doubt that the arguments made in the email are ones that the sender wouldn’t likely discuss in my living room because frankly, the sender is much more polite than that.

The big question lurking in my mind is: When did email become the political tool of idiots?

I’m not attacking a specific political party because they’re both guilty of it. Being an extremely left-wing liberal, I tend to find the majority of these emails coming from my extremely right-wing family and friends – probably because my liberal friends already understand and agree with my politics and don’t see the need to attempt to persuade me otherwise. Even when I agree with the arguments in these emails I don’t pass them on because I don’t want everyone in my address book thinking that I am so gullible as to get my political views from random junk email.

I’d be willing to place money on the fact that no American voter has ever had their political mind changed or their ideologies altered by an email blast in its 49th degree of “forward.” To be quite honest, I don’t think most Americans are that ignorant, regardless of political affiliation. Imagine if I were so inspired by one of these political email forwards that I actually chose to take action. I might write a letter to my elected official that goes something like this:

Dear Senator Franken:

I’m sure you have lots to do these days up on Capitol Hill, but I just got an email from a Republican in North Dakota which informed me that President Obama is both a Muslim and an atheist. Then I found a group on facebook which says he wasn’t born in the US, but on some island somewhere… Owyhee I think? This clearly makes him anti-American and means that every single thing that comes out of his mouth is a big fat lie. Because of this, his health care motives must be completely unworthy and voting for them would be just plain stupid. Would you please be so kind as to oppose absolutely everything he does over the next four years? I know you have the whole “fellow-Democrat” thing going on with him, but how ‘bout taking one for the team, huh? I know my sources can’t be wrong on this one because all things on the internet are honest.

Kind regards,

Brian

PS - Sorry for the whole “recount” thing – hope you’re not bitter!

Worse yet, this emailing of political rhetoric is just the tip of the iceberg. There’s a bigger problem here. As mass communication has gotten easier, we as a citizenry have become more persuadable, far too amicable, and we’ve developed an ugly sense of “groupthink.” Why develop your own ideals when you have a facebook following to garner your opinions from? Frankly, it’s a treacherous road which breeds ignorance and fires ill-informed passion over untested facts. There are few things in this world as dangerous as an idiot with a cause.

And then of course there’s the whole idea that we have to agree on everything, and that each of us must always come away smiling. We give trophies to every kid on the team regardless of effort, because we don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. We teach that politics and religion can never be spoken of, because we might disagree on something, and that would just be wrong. Is it any wonder that we have a country full of people who email baseless political stories as a scare tactic? We’ll join a facebook group of like-minded thinkers, but we’ll never review a dissenting opinion in the New York Times.

If you have something to say on the political front, do it in a venue that fosters respect, understanding, and informed deliberation. Write a book, teach a class, get a degree, caucus, campaign, volunteer, knock on a door or two, or have intelligent discussions with friends on both sides of the aisle – you might just learn something. Have the courage to speak your own convictions, tempered with the skill to make a point and back it up with fact. Read things that matter, and find reputable role models from which to develop your arguments.

And whatever you do, STOP pressing the forward button every time you find someone with thinking similar to yours. When it comes to political emails, the action speaks louder than the voice.

"Other than that Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?"

2009-10-30T00:38:00.004-05:00

Optimism haunts me. So do the people who thrive on it.

Frankly, my glass is not half full. It is always at least half empty and often it’s emptier than that. And you know what? I don’t feel bad about that in the least! Humans are not programmed for optimism and those who attempt it come across as fake and annoying, and leave me with the false sense that I too must put on my happy face and ignore reality.

You know the type I’m talking about. It’s the old lady from the church down the road (which you never attend) who shows up on your doorstep when you’re sick or someone has died, and shoves a casserole at you, as though her random act of kindness will somehow advance her a step in the higher order of things. It’s a nice sentiment, but the reality is that you probably didn’t feel like company, her casserole gave you diarrhea, and in the end you have to clean her serving dish and then hunt her down to give it back. Of course you won’t actually expend the effort to give it back, and now you’re cursed with it. You can never use it because someone might see it and know you’re a thief. After a while, the dish has been in your possession so long that you could never return it because it would simply bring to light the obvious: you stole it! So, the damn thing just it sits in your cabinet mocking you each time you open the cupboard and reminding you that you are indeed going to hell. Gladys should have kept her casserole at home!!

I don’t mean for it to sound like I’m a life-hating naysayer who thrives on opportunities to destroy hope. Quite the contrary. But no one can be happy all the time, and sometimes it feels good to feel bad. When something bad happens (especially if it’s my fault) I don’t want to be happy. I want to go home alone and feel sorry for myself, listen to music that will make me even sadder, and create in my mind the absolute worst-case scenario. A few hours later when I surface (or sober up) I’m over it. I’ve chewed on the “badness” for as long as I needed to and swallowed… Case closed… On to the next screw-up! It’s an important pattern in human behavior that gets unnaturally altered when we try to see the world through rose-colored glasses.

And there’s a deeper issue here that I think needs to be dug into here. The fact is that it’s very much within everyone’s nature to be mean and nasty. We don’t intend to be, but we can’t help ourselves. It’s that nasty streak which makes us do things like stick our gum under the table, or pass gas in crowded areas where someone else is sure to be blamed. And then of course there’s schadenfreude – the act of taking pleasure in other peoples’ misery. We watch NASCAR to see the wrecks, and we laugh at home videos where someone takes a nose dive into concrete. Think about figure skating for a moment. When the boy-in-tights with granite-like abs comes out of a triple-axel, you know the entire world (except maybe his mother) secretly wants him to fall flat on his ass. With all that negative energy flowing about, it’s a wonder the skaters can even stand upright.

Optimists invented terms like “you’re half-right,” “those were planned losses,” or “she’s just big-boned.” There’s something to be said for telling it like it is: You’re as wrong as you can be; you lost a bundle of money thanks to your own stupidity; and she’s never met a Twinkie she didn’t like.

Bad things happen to good people, just like good things happen to bad people (which is even more annoying). You can’t appreciate a good day unless you’ve had a few that were down-right shitty. In some karmic way it all balances out in the end and a little regret to carry through life never hurt anyone.

Somewhere along the line we’ve been programmed to believe that regret is inherently bad, but I disagree. Holding onto it a little of it helps clear the path toward the future. There are many things in life I regret: I wish George W. Bush had never been president. I wish my grandmother could have seen me grow up. I wish my parents hadn’t divorced. I wish I would never have said hello to the dark haired boy with adorable brown eyes who would eventually lie to me and drain my bank accounts. But all of these things did happen, and living with a wall up against the hurt they might have inflicted doesn’t undo it. I’m a realist, and sometimes reality sucks.

I find no peace in letting go, but I don’t let holding on slow me down. I can deal with the bad while appreciating the good, and when the smoke clears, I’ll see the humor, wisdom, and humanity in both.

Jackie Was Here (Part 3)

2009-10-02T00:04:00.006-05:00

Setting sail out of Athens on the Aegean Sea, the first thing one can’t help but notice is the unbelievable shade of the water. The ancient Greeks called the Aegean the “wine-dark sea” for good reason, and in some places the color is such a deep and penetrating shade of blue that it almost appears purple in the sunlight.

Prior to Greece, I’d only traveled by ferry one other time for a grand total of about 20 minutes, so I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. I was pleasantly surprised. The ferry ride out to sea was made better by a perfect day without a cloud in the sky and looking out toward the hazy, far-off horizons, it was difficult to tell where the blue sea ended and the blue sky began.

The ferries cruise along at a comfortable speed of about 35 knots. I honestly have no concept of how fast a knot is, but it kept a warm breeze ruffling my hair when standing on the deck, and made the journey very enjoyable.

Our first stop in the Aegean was the island of Mykonos where we spent the better part of three days. Mykonos is known today for its beaches and its nightlife and it’s a popular tourist destination for mainland Europeans. Apparently the Greek Islands are like the Caribbean of Europe, and Mykonos, as the epicenter, is highly crowded! Still, the magic of the Aegean, and the beauty of its beaches are unmistakable on Mykonos, and despite the inordinate number of tourists it’s still easy to have a good time.

At least half of the island’s beaches are “clothing optional” and of those another several are “exclusively nude.” I didn’t actually make it to any of the later variety but I saw enough of the former to develop a theory about public nudity on European beaches: The only people who take their clothes off are those who shouldn’t! While the repeated sightings of saggy bare breasts did little to boost my excitement for nude beaches, they did reassure my confidence in my own sexuality. I’m not sure if being gay came from my environment, my genetics, my mother, or from God, but whoever did it to me – THANK YOU!!!

The center of all activity on Mykonos (aside from the beaches) is the chora. All islands have a chora, which is the main city, or urban hub, but Mykonos’s is unique. It’s laid out in a complete mesh of white stucco buildings built literally right on top of one another with narrow alleyways passing in between (far too small for even the littlest vehicles). These urban pedestrian trails weave in and out of the buildings with absolutely no rhyme or reason and it doesn’t take much time at all to become lost and confused, not mention frustrated! Oddly enough, a little alcohol seemed to almost help the navigating abilities. Apparently the chora was built like that centuries ago, in a preventative attempt to thwart pirate raids, which were frequent in the Greek Islands.

Mykonos also has the distinction of being a favorite vacation spot of Jackie Onassis during the years that she lived in Greece. This seemed to really fit with the island’s mystique and for me personally, made it much more appealing! You see, Jackie serves as something of an icon for the homo-world at large. No, she wasn’t one herself, and she didn’t go around actively supporting the gay rights movement. But she was a liberal (we love all liberals by default), and her sense of fashion, her style, her charisma and charm, and her untouchable class have made her sort of the queen mother of gay men around the world… Cher may be our mascot, but Jackie was our monarch!

Appropriately the premier gay bar on Mykonos is called Jackie O, and it draws enormous crowds after hours when the beaches close. For gay men, a drunken night at Jackie O seemed to be like a Greek right-of-passage, and so that’s where we ended up.

I should point out here that my travel companion is NOT gay, but he puts up with us rather well… in fact I sometimes tease him that he’s an “honorary homo.” At any rate, I managed to convince him to come with me to Jackie O and after we actually found the place (this required the assistance of four locals, two stops at internet cafés, and a misguided walk around half the damn island) we had a pretty good time.

Day two on Mykonos had the best agenda you can have when you’re on an island 6,000 miles from home: Laying on the beach drinking pina coladas (to the tune of about 10 Euros each!). This was the ONLY thing we did on that particular day and I came to the conclusion that no matter how hectic a vacation ever becomes, a day to do nothing except sunbathe and drink is absolutely essential to the rejuvenation of the soul!

Our final day on Mykonos involved a quick trip to the ruins at Delos (more on that in the next post) before setting sail for the next island, Ios. Overall, I have to give Mykonos a thumbs-up. While it was by far the most crowded, touristy place we visited in Greece, it was a beautiful island and a lot of fun. Jackie knew a good thing when she saw it!
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Sailing on the Aegean Sea.

Mykonos

Paradise Beach. This was one of the "mostly" clothed beaches

The gay bar appropriately named "Jackie O." When I took this picture the morning after being there I was a little stunned at how close it is to the sea, and how rough the sea is. Maybe not a good mix when drinking, huh?
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The streets of the Mykonos chora. VERY narrow!
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This pelican is something of a local legend and there's competing stories about how he got to Mykonos. Pelicans are not native to this part of the world but this one stays and the tourists love him.

. The view from our room

Athens: Where History & Hookers Collide (Part 2)

2009-09-19T15:16:00.010-05:00

In some naive way, I think I had pictured Athens to be like something out of my high school Western Civ textbook. Of course I knew it was a modern city too, but I imagined that life in Athens would exemplify the important role the city played in world history, and that the birthplace of democracy and Western thought would really celebrate those badges in a way that couldn’t be mistaken or misunderstood. This wasn’t exactly what I found.

For a Greek-novice like me, the broader history of all Greece can be easily confused with the history of Athens. In country we call Greece was full of small, autonomous colonies called city-states, of which Athens was the largest and most prominent. These city-states were often known to go to war against each other, and it wasn’t until much more modern times that the concept of Greece as a one nation came into existence. Much of what I thought was Greek history is really just Athens history.

After landing at Athens International Airport and making our way through customs (easier than I expected), we caught a bus to the city center, which is about 30 minutes away. Riding through Athens on a bus, the thing I couldn’t help but notice was just how packed the place is and how big. The city’s shapeless dilapidated building and choppy overcrowded streets seem to weave randomly across the topography from the Aegean Sean on the south, as far as you can see in every other direction. There’s little rhyme or reason to the town’s layout, and I was very happy to be using public transportation.

The streets are dirty, the air is heavy, and for some reason there are stray dogs and cats everywhere. Apparently the concept of a Pound isn’t popular in Greece and strays are seen almost as “community property” and live quite contently on the streets of Athens. Not surprisingly, the strays have figured out that the average American tourist comes from the land of fat dogs and they tend to congregate heavily in the tourist areas where handouts are plentiful. Give one of these creatures a little food or attention and you’ve suddenly found yourself a companion who is likely going to tag along pretty much everywhere you go. Don’t be surprised when one follows you onto a restaurant patio and parks itself next to your table.

When the 2004 Summer Olympics were held in Athens these stray animals were being rounded up by the truckload and euthanized. The deal was that any dog/cat without a collar was deemed to be ownerless and would be put down, so PETA showed up and began sneaking around the city fastening collars to every animal they could catch, some of which still carry them today.

The tourist section of Athens, known as the “Plaka,” is where you’ll find most everything of historical significance. It’s slightly cleaner and feels safer than the rest of the city in general and everything is in English there. I found myself very appreciative of being from the country where our native language is the universal language of tourism. The Plaka is a somewhat circular area that’s runs uphill from the outside in, and at the center is the Acropolis, the small mountain on top of which sits the world-famous Parthenon – by far, the most well known symbol of Classical Greece.

To be sure, Athens (to say nothing of Greece as a whole) is proud of its history, and that’s apparent not only by the care that’s taken in the efforts toward preservation, but also in the fees charged to go trudging up mountains to see these ancient sites – 24 Euro (about $35 US dollars) to hike to the Parthenon.

I suppose I was expecting to see ruins in their natural state of decay, but I discovered that most of these ancient sites, including the Parthenon, have been extensively renovated in an ongoing effort to keep them upright. While I can appreciate the fact that this has helped them survive the centuries for me to see, something about it felt tainted, almost as if the permanent scaffolding which surrounds the ancient structure deters from the historic significance of seeing it in its raw form, no matter the state of decay.

The Parthenon was built as a temple dedicated to Athena, the goddess of War, for whom the city was also named. The Athenians built it around 480 BC to thank Athena for her assistance in helping the city ward off a Persian invasion. That particular skirmish – or rather, its outcome – helped define ancient Athens as a force to be reckoned with throughout the Mediterranean. Inside of the Parthenon was a 40-foot tall gold statue of Athena, which has since come up missing (how in the hell do you lose a 40-foot statue, no matter what it’s made of?!).

The Parthenon is certainly the highlight of any Athens trip, but there are other things to be seen at the Plaka as well. The Agora sits just downhill from the Parthenon and was an informal public gathering place for the ancient Athenians. This is where the assemblies met to vote, where merchants brought their goods from around the Mediterranean to trade, and where some of the earliest Greek philosophers (Socrates, Aristotle, Plato) were preaching, recruiting like-minded thinkers, and sometimes (as in Socrates’ case) getting themselves executed. It’s an interesting place to hang out today, and I appreciated the fact that at least one of the market buildings has been completely rebuilt in the fashion believed to be very close to it’s original state. That particular venture took place about 60 years ago thanks to a personal donation from Mr. John D. Rockefeller. The thought of American-style capitalism restoring the hinges of history and democracy seemed almost poetic, I glowed with a sense of nationalist pride, instilled in me two decades ago by a narrow minded public school system… I couldn’t help myself.

Leaving the Plaka that afternoon, we tried and failed to catch a bus to the Temple of Poseidon, learning that outside the tourist areas, English is rarely spoken or written, and translating an Athenian bus schedule can be a little daunting (just how does one pronounce Ώ, Ψ, or β ?) My travel companion belongs to a college fraternity and he knew the basics of reading Greek, but that didn’t help us understand it much. Between us, the only word we knew was kalimera (good morning) which proves somewhat useless when trying to explain yourself to a shop owner or taxi-cab driver. My favorite was the cab driver who tried in vein to understand where we wanted to go before finally stretching his English enough to order me out of his cab.

After failing in our hunt for Poseidon, we wandered back to the English-speaking Plaka, and got ourselves some authentic Greek food. The primary meat in Greece always seemed to be lamb, which I love, and you’ll also see a lot of pastas and breads. The drink of choice is ouzo, an alcoholic beverage that’s mixed with water (½ and ½) and served over ice. Ouzo tastes a lot like black licorice and it’s meant to be sipped throughout a meal. I had a couple glasses the first few days in Greece, but eventually switched back to my standard spirits of vodka or rum.

Being in Greece primarily to see the islands, we just spent one night on the mainland in Athens before heading out to sea the next morning. This required catching a 6:00 a.m. train to the port and as we walked from our hotel to the train station, I was shocked to see how many prostitutes were on the street at that hour. (If you’re still looking for clients at 6:00 a.m. does that make you a really BAD hooker?). I know that sort of thing happens in America too, but it surprised me how blatantly it is propagated in Athens, and how no one really seems to care.

In an odd way, I came to not care either. No, I didn’t rent a hooker (ewwww!) but I did reach something of an understanding about how classical times, historic pride, and modern urban decay all seem to collide in one of Europe’s largest cities. If you want to see Athens and enrich yourself in Greece’s classical history and deeply important culture, you get to deal with hookers and stray dogs. It’s another one of those things that doesn’t need to be understood or interpreted… It just “is.” To judge Athens’ state of modern affairs, or define Athenian morality from the viewpoint of my intensely American logic seems monumentally unfair.

Again, I come back to the reasons we travel in the first place: to see the world, experience culture, and expand our minds. It goes without saying that sometimes your mind is expanded in ways that defy traditional thinking from an otherwise narrow perspective, but I believe that’s the point. Athens, for me – historic but dirty, significant though seedy – was a great lesson in humanity. I would go back..

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Taken from a neighboring peak, this is the Parthenon, sitting atop the Acropolis. Anyone who has spent time in Washingto DC can't help but notice the effect of Greek architecture and style on the cultural icons of American history.
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Surviving statues built into the Parthenon.

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From our restaurant at the Plaka.
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The Acropolis at night, with the Parthenon lit up
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Stray dog

The Theatre of Dionysus, where the earliest Greek Tragedies were performed.

My Journey to Greece: How People Never Really Change (Part 1)

2009-09-12T11:06:00.009-05:00

The Cyclades Islands of Greece dot the middle of the Aegean Sea and for practical purposes constitute the far eastern border of the Mediterranean. From a global standpoint, they are directly south of mainland Greece and Bulgaria – sort of sandwiched in the corner between the old-block communist countries of Eastern Europe, and the edges of the Middle East at Turkey. According to Google Earth, the Cyclades lie 5,429 nautical miles from where I was born and like most exotic destinations it was high on the list of places I never expected to see. But when a good friend wanted to go there this summer and was looking for a travel companion, the adventure sounded like fun so I signed on.

While my travels within the United States have been fairly extensive, international trekking was new for me. Aside from Canada and Mexico (which were basically just day trips across the border), the only travel I’d been exposed to outside the US was a Spring Break trip to Japan, back when I was a sophomore in high school.. I was 15 years old then – half-my-life ago – and almost certainly, I lacked the maturity to view the experience from a standpoint of personal growth. Though I’ve always appreciated the idea of seeing the world, the international travel bug had never really taken hold of me.

Of Greece specifically, I knew almost nothing. Like most people, I took Western Civilization in high school and college, and I understood the basics of the nation’s history: cradle of democracy, different gods for everything under the sun, the first Olympics, and something about a really big wooden horse. I had no idea what Greece was like in the 21st century, and on a larger scale, I did not realize how much ancient Greece continued to influence modern culture, not only there, but across the western world.

My journey around the globe to Greece was a uniquely personal experience and was likely rooted in a deeper need to see things from a metaphorical standpoint – to interpret, and to search. Frankly, one doesn’t just lay down a couple of grand and rush off to far corners of the globe to stand in the shadow of dilapidated temples unless there’s significance to it, or a level of self-awareness that comes as a result of it. It had to mean something. And in form typical to my nature that “something” needed to be examined under the scope of my own reality, and then shared within the confines of my very simple life back in Minnesota.

In the posts that follow I plan to rehash my trip, share some photos and fun memories, while digging for the heart of what Greece meant to me, and what the experience did for my own level of self-actualization. To be honest, I’m not sure what I’m trying to accomplish here, or what I have left to learn. Then again, it could be argued that writing is a completely selfish undertaking – the purging and renewing of one’s soul, if you will.

To understand what Greece meant to my life at large, I suppose a brief unraveling of the events that led up to it is necessary. This past summer, my efforts at blogging and writing in general have faded off to practically nothing so maybe an explanation of that is the first step.

Just shy of six months ago, my grandfather passed away. Although the event was not entirely unexpected, it sent something of shockwave through my life and, to an extent, altered the essence of my own identity. He and I were close. I spent the last part of my teenage years, and my early 20’s working for the man, helping him on the ranch, and learning his trade. I’ve always believed that the frame of time between ages 18 and 23-ish is critical in a person’s life, or at least it was in mine. The decisions I was making and the life I was leading seemed to point me in the direction of my future. Looking back with the unfair advantage of hindsight, it feels as though my time with my grandfather represented a great precipice that would define the decade which followed, and ultimately bring my life to where it is today.

That’s not to say I’ve been living the life my grandfather lived or that I’ve been harboring my own meager existence within his shadow; quite the contrary, in fact. He was a cowboy and a rancher, and though I’ve dabbled in that life, it isn’t where I ended up, nor is it where my future will take me. Strangely though, the experience of living that existence provided lessons that I still carry with me and in more ways that I ever realized at the time, those lessons have dictated the course of my life.

With Grandpa suddenly gone, I felt a bit lost. It wasn’t that I was sad (though I did grieve as would be expected). It was almost as though my own identity was left with a big damn hole in it and it took a long time to get my mind around that. Sort of like the building blocks of my life had all fallen down and I knew there was no way they could ever be stacked up in quite the same order again. The personal journey that followed was neither planned nor expected, and it can’t exactly be documented blow-by-blow because… well… I guess I don’t fully understand it myself. What I do understand is that my priorities began to change quickly after Grandpa died, and at 30 years old, I was examining my life and its direction with a sense of freshness I hadn’t experienced in years.

The spring and summer that followed were somewhat monumental just by measure of how distorted my life became in relation to what it had previously been, and I don’t mean that in a negative way. I stopped writing altogether, which seemed completely against my nature, but was oddly refreshing. I read more than I ever had before – much more in fact – and I branched out significantly in the level of what I was reading and the amount of thinking I did during and after. I joined a gym and hired a trainer. I went out more, got drunk more, and felt less guilty about it; in fact I didn’t feel guilty at all. My approach to education changed too, and through the course of summer school, I found myself really appreciating my Humanities classes, and not worrying about the fact that I might half-ass an assignment in Principles of Management. From an ethical perspective, out-right cheating in calculus was only a stone’s throw away and I didn’t care. I still don’t.

When it came to people, I felt like I had become very settled in who I associated with and the things that we did. Something about that felt restrained and over the last few months I’ve invested a lot more energy into the people with whom my connection was based on the future, rather than the past. I let a few friendships drift away and I put perhaps more effort and time into cultivating those that seemed to feel the most comfortable.

My family gained an almost unspoken sense of importance in my life and somewhat unexpectedly, I simply stopped caring about the past. Thanks to some strategic business trips, I was able to spend over a month of the summer in my hometown and I felt a sense of comfort with my family that I don’t believe I’ve known in many years. I realized that the kinship we all share doesn’t have to change just because our lives do. This led me to a firm belief that people don’t ever really change. Our priorities, our circumstances, our levels of healthiness, and even divisiveness, the facts that make up our current lives, and the masks we wear to deal with those facts – all of those things change, but the essence of who we are does not. With the right amount of clear-headedness that’s easy to see, and in my new-found realization I felt comfort and in many ways, I healed.

In ways that I can’t fully explain I just stopped caring about things I can’t change and the I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude bled over into decisions about life, money, and people – risky perhaps, but fun and fresh. I learned to be more carefree without being stupid. This somehow helped me to stop asking pointless and unanswerable questions of myself that had haunted me for years. Questions about life, meaning, religion – things that will simply happen the way they happen regardless of what I do about it, or how much I care about it – all went away. For the first time in my adult life I stopped praying altogether, and I realize now that I lost my faith in God many years ago. That doesn’t hurt or scare me anymore. And philosophical waxing about the events that led up to that mindset… well, it’s just not worth the energy. With that consciousness comes a freedom that I can’t explain but it feels good… very good!

And so, somewhere in the middle of all this movement within my own life and mind, a random trip around the globe to visit the crucible of civilization seemed to fit almost poetically as a curtain to one of the best summers of my life. So with a fresh perspective, I set out this summer to learn about Greece, and in the process I learned a lot about myself and about society. The Greeks had a fundamental impact on western civilization – that goes without saying. But perhaps more importantly, the study of them, at least for me, seems to ring with truisms from my own life and modern society, again fostering the belief that people as individuals and as a group never really change, even across the barriers of millennia.

If you study the ancient Greeks as an adult, outside the confines of a G-rated high school textbook, there’s one glaring fact that will literally jump out of the pages of history and smack to you in the face: the Greeks were kinky! Almost everything in their culture revolved around sex – every kind of sex you can imagine, and a few you probably can’t. I’m almost shocked at how our modern education system has managed to whitewash that fact right out of western history. I suppose I can see the reason for it, but it distorts the reality… drastically. Perhaps if my teacher had included it way back then, I might have paid more attention.

To be Greek 2,500 years ago was to live one of two ways: as the agitator, or as the subservient peon, and this probably changed back and forth throughout one’s existence. No matter what your station in life, there wasn’t much in between. In a class system where slave-owning was not only accepted but expected, and the city down the road might just come wipe yours off the map at any given time, I suspect that people saw themselves, their families, their communities, even their cultures as being either on top or bottom. So the sex-connection seems relevant. To be quite literal about it, you were either a fucker or a fuckee, but either way, there was a lot of “fucking” going on. Spend a little time in Greece today and you can’t help but realize how much the ancients viewed sex as a metaphor for everything else in life. Are we really that much different 2000 years later? Truthfully, the impact of sex on society was probably about the same in ancient Greece as it is today in 21st century pop culture. The only difference is that the Greeks didn’t feel guilty about it.

Still, an education on Greek history is much more than a crash course in Freudian theory, and its history notwithstanding, there’s something to be said for modern Greece as well.

So with the backdrop of my own personal growth, or whatever it is that I’ve gone through this summer, my study of Greece and my eleven short days there and in the Islands seem to have culminated an event in my life that I can’t quite define. I feel the meaning in it, but I don’t understand it yet. So, in reaching for something that I’m not sure what is (see how people never really change?) I’m going to continue the story of my journey in the weeks ahead. I’m not sure how long it will last, and I may not be able to explain it when I’m done, but I suppose I’ll know when I get there.

Santa, McCall, and the F-Word

2009-08-26T00:13:00.011-05:00

A decade had come and gone since I’d last set foot in McCall, and almost two had slipped by since the days when the sleepy little lakeside town was my family’s weekend getaway. Yet there I was, unexpectedly, when an extended business trip kept me in Idaho for the weekend and I was offered the chance to tag along with my sister and her family on a McCall excursion.

McCall is a rustic little town deep in the mountains of Central Idaho. Its roots as a logging town are still visible in the culture there, though today it tends to find most of its revenue from tourists seeking lakeside recreation or winter sports venues. More importantly though, it was my home away from when I was a kid, and for that reason I was excited to go back for the weekend.

Driving up on Friday evening, the two hour road trip up Highway 55 was familiar and I remembered how much I enjoy driving in the mountains. The plummeting grades and cliffside hairpin turns are just made for those few of us left on earth who love a 5-speed transmission.

McCall was exactly as I remembered it, and no less exciting. My sister and I spent part of Saturday wandering around town. We window shopped, stopped at a Farmer’s Market, and enjoyed chai lattes in a little coffee shop downtown. On the shores of the very lake that had defined our childhood we talked about life, love, politics, and how many calories might be in the blueberry scone we just inhaled. We laughed as we talked about the days when we knew that Santa was real, but we didn’t know that the f-word could be an adjective, a noun, and a verb.

Life in McCall radiates a simplicity that is almost tangible and somehow I couldn’t stop thinking about how easy life was before I traded in pine trees for skyscrapers and crickets for sirens. But while those moments bring me peace and solace and a tasty hint of memory, I don’t suppose I’d want to go back. My sister has children of her own now and I loved seeing them building their own memories of this place. Life has been good to me, and I appreciate that I can look back and not be sad.

Our last night in McCall, the adults all got to enjoy cocktails by the fireplace in a lakeside condo which would have been unimaginable to those ragamuffin kids who used to catch frogs at the KOA and didn’t seems to mind that the only campsite left was right next to the port-a-crapper. Childhood memories are wonderful, especially when they’re good. It’s easy to get stuck on them, in fact. But a slight liquor buzz brought me back to reality as I remembered that being a grown-up is kind of cool too.

This is me and my sister sometime in the late 80's, on a rock in Payette Lake, taken on a family trip to McCall.

Twenty-something years later, same lake, same rock, same kids... Look Mom, we're all grown up! :)

Just My Luck!

2009-08-01T14:16:00.004-05:00

Have you ever had one of those days where nothing goes right, and everything goes wrong? A day in which it seems as thought the planets have aligned in perfect order and all forces in the universe have joined hands solely for the purpose of screwing you. Yesterday was just such a day for me, and by the end of it I found myself realizing that either God has a seriously warped sense of humor, or I have an enourmous amount of bad karma to burn off!

I was sitting at an airport in Boise, Idaho when I heard everyone around me begin to whisper. I looked up to see none other than Larry Craig walk into the terminal and sit down. The now-retired bathroom foot-tapping senator from Idaho was about to be on our flight. So, like everyone else in the terminal, I immediately whipped out my blackberry and began texting my friends only to discover that no one believed me. How insulting! No matter, I could prove it! I mean, God didn’t give us camera phones for nothing, right?! So, I sort of meandered casually to within striking distance of the former senator, pretended to be texting or sending an email on my blackberry, and “click”……

Damn, that automatic flash!!

Of course everyone immediately knew what I had done (including the senator) and as I was looking for a hole to crawl into, I heard the airline announce that they were overbooked and needed volunteers to give up their seats. I almost ran to the counter!

What a deal! Not only was I escaping the humiliation of my stupid mistake, but the airline offered me another ticket just an hour later. There was a quick connection in Salt Lake, but I‘d be flying first class all the way, and I’d only arrive in Minneapolis two hours later than planned. Plus, they offered me a meal voucher, and a $300 credit toward a future flight. How could I get so lucky?

Content, I headed to the airport bar to kill an hour over a cocktail, which turned into a few cocktails. When they brought me the bill and I handed over my meal voucher, they informed me that it was only good for food, not alcohol. Irritating, but nothing I couldn’t get over, especially considering the first class flight I was about to take.

When I got to Salt Lake things really took a turn for the worst. My connecting flight had been cancelled. This was not part of the deal! I protested in vein as my first class boarding pass became nothing more than a bookmarker and I was moved to the 8 o’clock flight on a much smaller plane in seat 37-B… 37-B??? Are you freaking kidding me? That’s where the luggage rides!

Arriving in Minneapolis at nearly midnight, I was in no mood to do anything except go home and go to bed, but the longer I stood at the baggage carousel watching everyone’s-bag-but-mine come tumbling out, the more I suspected that this night just wasn’t over yet. Praying for some sort of divine intervention I actually stood there like a lost puppy, staring down the baggage chute for a good five minutes after it stopped moving. Then I drug myself to the Baggage Service counter and waited in line for over an hour before meeting Bill, a grossly overpaid baggage handler whose personality has all the warmth and affection of a pit bull shitting tacks. In hind-sight, sharing that sentiment with him probably did little to remedy the problem or to locate my missing luggage, but it did make me feel better. Another hour, and two lines later, I found my bag sitting at a different carousel in another part of the airport. I was too tired to be mad.

I took the shuttle to the Park-and-Ride and drug myself to my vehicle, wondering if I would survive the 30 minute drive to my house. But there was one more crisis to be dealt with: The damn thing wouldn’t start. So there I was in an off-site parking lot, in the middle of the night, with the hood up, staring into an abyss of twisty black things as though I knew what I was doing. I may have even cried just a little. Fortunately, a fellow traveler noticed the open hood and came over. He assisted me in determining the real problem which wasn’t under the hood, it was in the gas tank... or rather, it wasn’t in the gas tank… as in: the gas tank was empty. I still think someone siphoned my gas because I don’t remember the low fuel light being on when I parked it, but at that point it was irrelevant. My new-found automotive expert was kind enough to drive me to the nearest gas station.

I finally arrived home at 3 a.m., 13 hours after my original non-stop flight was supposed to depart. I’m never traveling again!

Look Mom, No Morals!

2009-07-14T00:04:00.011-05:00

Calculus…

They said I had to take it.
I argued.
They threatened not to let me graduate.
I folded.

So here I am, in the middle of a college level calculus class paying the consequences of a lifetime spent shunning math with a level of avoidance usually only reserved for things like ex-spouses, audits, and herpes.

For extreme right-brained losers like myself (who couldn’t pass the math portion of the college entrance exam), there was a pre-requisite course, “Business Mathematics” which wasn’t overly taxing – percentages, compound interest, cost of goods, even some basic algebra – and I got an A. So with new-found mathematical courage I ran headlong into calculus, only to stare blankly at things like this:

God hates me, doesn’t he?

By the end of my first day in calculus, I found myself espousing a strong desire to curl up on the floor in the fetal position and suck my thumb.

To be fair, I’ve known about my mathematical deficiencies for some time, but I’m not quite sure just how I achieved such a spectacular level of “stupid” in the numbers department. It might have been the fact that my freshman year I was caught chewing gum in Algebra once too often, and was forced to write 500 times, “Mr. Welch does not accept my feeble attempt to apologize for chewing gum in his class.” Isn’t it funny… I don’t remember a thing about quadratic equations, but I can still rattle off every damn syllable of that sentence.

Or perhaps it was my sophomore year, when my one-step-away-from-retirement geometry teacher wasn’t quite as interesting as, say… the triceps of the football player sitting in front of me.

In any event, a solid “D” average in high school math sabotaged what would have otherwise been a beautiful 4.0 GPA, and managed to put me just outside of the “acceptable” range for most anyone who was shelling out scholarships or grants. I suppose it’s safe to say that math was really the only reason I didn’t go to college when everyone else did. In the years since, I’ve learned that I’m quite capable at doing everyday math involved in business.

So on about the second night of calculus, as I was deeply resenting not only the content but the eight hundred and some-odd dollars that I forked out for the privilege of taking the class, I came to three realizations which culminated in one amazing moment of epiphany:

Realization #1: There is ABSOLUTELY NOTHING about calculus that will ever help me in my life or my career.

Realization #2: There are lots of people in the world who are good at this crap and might just need a few extra bucks.

Realization #3: I'm not poor.

Throw in the fact that when desperate I relieve myself of all morals, and you have one great epiphany:

CHEAT!!!! Yes, that’s right! The oldest trick in the book isn’t just for bad marriages anymore!

It took almost no time to find a good natured doormat on craigslist.com, and for a nominal fee I am getting all of my homework done first rate (he’s even getting a few wrong just for good measure). Now I am just savvy enough at “basic” math to have figured out how the ending grade will work. A on the homework + F on the final = PASS!!!!

(Pause here to visualize the Hallelujah Chorus chiming in)

Shady as this might be, I’m reminded that the ultimate goal of higher education is not to commit coursework to memory (can any college grads still do calculus??) but to teach one the skill of learning and exercising his or her brain in the direction of a resolution. In that regard, my flirtation with deception has done much to further my business degree. After all, I’ve assessed the problem, identified a solution, advertised, negotiated, and established a working relationship at a mutually acceptable rate. All this education in business and I still can’t do a quadratic equation… imagine that!

Forty Years After Stonewall

2009-06-29T22:23:00.010-05:00

In the early morning hours of June 28, 1969 the New York City police department executed a planned raid on a small inn in Greenwich Village which was known to be a hang-out for local homosexuals. In the red hot political landscape of the late 1960’s (racial tensions, anti-war protests, etc.) the propensity of law enforcement to crack down on what they saw as “morally objectionable” behavior was not unusual. What made Stonewall memorable is that there in that little inn, the gay community fought back in a way that gained national attention for their cause.

Within hours of the raid, gay and lesbian youth from around the city were organizing, demonstrating, rioting, and making their demands for non-discrimination heard. The emotion behind what would be called the Stonewall Riots spread around the country like a wildfire and within days, gay marches were happening all over the continent. For perhaps the first time in recorded history, homosexuals had banded together as a community to fight for equality. They had grabbed national attention, and they had achieved results.

As tempers calmed and cooler heads prevailed in the months after Stonewall, the gay movement began to take on a life of its own. In the decades that followed, a yearly celebration on the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots would become known as Gay Pride, and would be celebrated not with riots, but with parties, parades, carnivals, and festivals all over the Unites States and around the world.

Forty years to the day after the Stonewall Riots, I found myself in downtown Minneapolis, participating in the Twin Cities Pride celebration as a volunteer for the non-profit organization that puts on the festival. While the historical significance and reverence to the occasion was certainly not lost at Twin Cities Pride this year, we did manage to have fun! The weekend was exhausting but amazing and it left me feeling excited, energized, celebrated, and yes… PROUD to be gay:

My friend Brian and I have a Pride tradition of getting matching tattoos (no, they aren't real). Because we have the same first name, we tend to call each other by our middle names: Michael & Eugene.

He told me there was coffee in that mug... He lied!... Regardless, I enjoyed the contents so much that I couldn't even bring myself to look up for the picture. :)

And whats a festival without a little dissent here and there?? These evangelicals were spreading a few hateful thoughts behind the shield of their "Holy Bible." Why does religion always have to do that -- can't we all just get along? The highlight of my entire weekend was watching them get arrested!

.Day one of the festival ended with a beautiful fireworks display over the water in Loring Park. Those are un-exploded fireworks back there, which I had never seen before. That's my friend Jeremy on the dock with the pyro-technician who facilitated the blasts. I don't have to point out which one is the pyro, do I?

The parade on Sunday morning drew half a million people out onto the streets of Minneapolis. It was standing-room only down Hennepin Avenue.

Have you ever noticed how gay men have an obsession with making an entrance? Nothing says Pride like dancing homos on a semi...

And never to be outdone, the dancing lesbians on a semi followed close behind!

This lady's name is Cleo and her nephew there beside her is David. David's parents have not been supportive at all since he came out a few months ago, but he has a friend in his Aunt Cleo, who was perhaps one of the loudest cheerers at the parade. The plight of gay youth is disturbing and the suicide rate is staggering. Frankly, we need more people in world like Cleo -- lots more!

With the parade over and the festival winding down, everyone seemed to converge on The Saloon for the Pride Block Party. The parts I remember were great... That's all I have to say about that. My poor liver!

Looking for the Answer

2009-06-26T00:07:00.004-05:00

The television glowed this evening with images of the way we want to remember him… young, hip, charismatic, larger-than-life. It’s hard to imagine anyone whose name was so renowned around the globe, and it seems surreal to think that he’s gone.

I was about half-a-generation behind Michael Jackson, so I don’t remember the days of the Jackson Five, or the impact that young Michael had on Motown, or the popularity of the Harlem culture. In fact, before his racial identity ever became a headline, I don’t even remember thinking about him as a black man – he was just Michael Jackson, and in the Thriller days of the early 1980’s he clearly defined pop culture in a way that no one else could. In that regard, Michael’s legacy did wonders for race relations in this country.

Looking back, I can recall a brief fascination with breakdancing and I remember practicing the moonwalk alone in my bedroom late at night. He was just so cool.

His music is and will remain timeless. Whether you like that kind of music or not, there is simply no denying the intensity behind Michael’s style, and he approached his craft in a way that may never be paralleled. Who doesn’t remember Billie Jean, Beat It, and Man In The Mirror?

I will always believe too, that Michael was a good person – in fact an amazing person. Remember We Are The World in 1985? I was seven years old then and cared much more about the music than the cause, but I knew it was powerful, needed, and good. He did it again in 2001 when he hosted United We Stand after 9/11.

Like most celebrities, he had his oddities, and like most people I was part of the collective wince that occurred as his life delved deeper into weirdness and even tragedy. It made us uncomfortable and in fact it hurt. Still, one has to wonder: If Michael could be considered “normal” (is that a definable word?) would his talent have been less. Or did a lonely and gifted boy’s inability to come to grips with his missed childhood somehow help create the music that gave us goose bumps?

And then there was Farrah Fawcett, another 80’s icon who gave birth to a decade’s-worth of hair style. She too had her controversies and tragedies but her Charlie’s Angels attitude never really seemed to leave her. So what if she posed for Playboy at age 50? Good for you, girl – you only live once! Sadly, her legacy will always be overshadowed now by the man whose date she shares. I can almost picture a defiant Jill Munroe standing at the gates of heaven and saying to Michael, “You stole my thunder!”

Michael and Farrah – two symbols of my childhood who may have never found peace in this life. I hope it finds them in the next.

The Man Behind the Camera

2009-06-21T00:59:00.007-05:00

Looking back through a pile of memories at my grandparents’ old photo album tonight, I notice a trend that most parents are probably guilty of: When they were first-time parents in their early 20’s, they took enough kid pictures to fill a chest. Then, the subsequent children got a few less pictures each as the camera fascination wore off. By the time my dad came along, when they were in their mid-forties, it appears as though the camera hardly made it out of the closet at all.

It’s a trend that has seemed to follow my dad throughout life. As I was thinking about Father’s Day this evening and searching for pictures of him, I find almost none… even from the days when I was a kid. There were certainly pictures being taken back then, but as I thought about it, and rummaged through old boxes of photos and sorted through data disks, I realized the reason why... He was always the one taking them.

In a strange way, his role in photos seems to represent the kind of example he has been and the father that he still is: Always there, holding up the camera, creating memories, keeping things together without taking center-stage, and metaphorically reminding me of who I am. I suppose it’s one of those fatherly lessons that I don’t take time to appreciate as often as I should.

I have a great deal in common with my dad. There are the physical similarities like eyes and chin, hair color, a general sense of posture, and a few other traits we share. But there’s also the underlying pieces of personality that seem to have transcended the generational barrier, and I find more and more of this as I get older. Like him, I always want to see new places and will often go on long drives just to kill a little time. We share a common shortness of patience when things aren’t going the way they’re expected to. And my general sense of pessimistic humor, or my ability to drop insults masked as compliments?? Some people might call those things passive-aggressive, but I just call them genetic!

There are other similarities too. Things like honesty, tenacity, empathy, punctuality, a sense of obligation, and being able to admit mistakes – these are strong tendencies I see in myself, and I don’t have to look far to know where they came from.

We do have our differences, both in style and personality, which some people might pick out faster than our similarities. While Dad is the picture-taker in life, I’m the guy who is handing off the camera to a stranger because I want to be in the shot, dammit! He appreciates the back-stage role, and holds a measure of pride in his ability to make things happen while avoiding the lime light. That quiet sense of astuteness is something I could never imitate because it’s just not me (though sometimes the skill would come in handy).

These days, I don’t see my dad nearly as often as I’d like, and neither of us is as good about calling as we should be. We appreciate each other’s company when it’s available, but we understand each other without having to reiterate emotion on a regular basis. I suppose it’s a guy thing. Still, I continue to see examples of his many lessons in my daily life, and the older I get the more I find myself relying on the simple wisdom of the man behind the camera.
.

My dad at age three.

His Senior year of high school. If Bob Newhart ties ever come back, I'm going on strike!

My parents' wedding in 1977. Those are my dad's folks on either end, and my mother's aunt standing next to her. Dad is always the tallest guy in any picture, a characteristic I did not inherit.

Mom & Dad in 2005, not long before they divorced. It's funny how time changes things... I'm forever grateful that they're still friends.

Footprints

2009-06-13T00:41:00.007-05:00

He was the father of my grandfather’s grandfather, which I believe makes him my great-great-great grandfather. I know almost nothing about the man, and have little chance of ever finding much out – the reality is that it doesn’t particularly matter. But today, standing in a rustic old graveyard behind a historic Quaker chapel in rural Pennsylvania, I found myself deeply pondering the kind of man my ancestor might have been.

Jesse Harper was born the year before our country even became a country. He was the grandson of a Belfast immigrant of whom even less is known, though it can be assumed that he was of Scotch-Irish descent. Jesse’s son would go on to become a wheelwright, and in a time when trades were passed down, I’m going to assume that was probably Jesse’s craft as well, though I can’t be sure of it.

He would have been a small child during the war for independence, and I have to wonder if he grew up singing the patriotic songs, dreaming of being a soldier, or perhaps clutching a pillow late a night, curled in his bed while the cannons bore down on nearby Philadelphia.

He married at thirty, the same age I am now, and fathered three boys, who were all still children when he died. His only written history is simply the documentation of his birth and death, his marriage, and the births of his sons, so any insight into the soul of the man has long since succumbed to the ages.

The Harper family of Pennsylvania finds no mention in most history books, and they were simple people. Knowing enough of his descendants, I can assume that Jesse was a dark featured man of average height and girth, with kind eyes and a pure heart, but who was often misunderstood. Like his descendants he probably loved music, and likely didn’t waste many words, preferring instead to reflect on things rather than speak about them. I believe him to have been a spiritual man, because his descendants were, albeit of a different religion.

The boys who grew up without a father were of the generation that went west, and two of the three struck out early in life, one going to Iowa, another to Utah. The son who would become my ancestor was a leader in his community, and a patriarch of a large family, so I’m going to guess that Jesse was probably a man of similar caliber, because I believe that some of those innate qualities are as much a part of our breeding as they are our environment.

Still, for all my guessing and nailing down of puzzle-pieces, I have to wonder what made him tick. Who was this man whose stone I found on a muggy afternoon two centuries after he was buried there? What was important to him, and what did think about, pray after, or cry over? If I could meet him, would I see myself in him, or perhaps my father? How could it be that someone so far removed from me and having left no visible mark on the world to tell us who he was, could so captivate my imagination?

I came to this cemetery to waste some time on a rather boring afternoon during a business trip. There was history here – my history, so it was interesting. Now there was a reality, a cold weathered stone to attach itself to the name in a record book that would otherwise have no meaning. Yet for all my searching, and all my pondering, I left with more questions than answers, more blank spaces in a puzzle that no one remembers.

.
Time is a thief in this place that drips with masked memories, and the telling breeze through the nearby oak grove offers curious sentiment, but no clues. I find history behind a vale in this tepid place of quiet beauty. Emotion here lacks heart and form has no reason. Still, without question, there is truth.

Picture and a Quote

2009-06-09T22:50:00.005-05:00

"The only real valuable thing is intuition."

Albert Einstein

The Oldest Profession On Earth

2009-06-08T19:12:00.003-05:00

I could tell from the grammar and spelling in her letter that she was not an educated woman, and I was especially tickled by the line, “I ought to just sue you people for emotional distortance.”

Emotional dis—what???

Part of me wanted to just shred it and get on with my day, but something convinced me to reach out to this poor lady who had bounced a check at one of my company’s rural Nevada stores and was upset about how it had been handled. So I dialed the number from her letter expecting to reach a helpless elderly lady on a fixed income. I figured that when she got a call from “someone at corporate” willing to listen to her concerns, her anger would subside and I could win back a customer. The conversation went something like this:

HER (with a voice that sounded as though she had been smoking cigarettes since she was a fetus): Ya?

ME: Hi, is this Bertha Mayleen?

HER: Who wants to know?!

ME: Hi Bertha Mayleen, my name is Brian and I work for [name of company] and I’ve received your letter dated May the—

HER: You ignorant [edited]!!!

ME: Uh….

HER: Now you listen here. I write checks every day at the local motel here, cuz it’s part of my job, see. Since all this [edited] started with your [edited] [edited] [edited] store, the motel here in town won’t take my check no more.

ME: Well ma’am, it’s likely that the business in question subscribes to a check verification network that probably has—

HER: Well [edited] em’. I work for a living, and I rent motels every day for my clients, truckers mostly, and I don’t give a [edited] about what they verifying. I gots to write checks in this town so’s I can earn me a [edited] livin’.

ME: Uh….

HER: Further more, the check-cashin’ joint kin’ to the liquor store over on 8th street won’t cash my state checks no more cuz they’ze saying my credit ain’t [edited].

ME: Well, I understand your situation ma’am and I’m happy to help. If you can just pay the balance on the check, I’ll wave all the service fees for you. Would that help your situation?

HER: Why [edited], brother, that’d be real [edited] decent of ya. Serve you right too, eat them fees for pickin on a poor workin girl like me.

ME: Alright then, I’ll make the arrangements and send you out a confirmation. Have a lovely afternoon, ma’am.

Did I just make a deal with a hooker???

"Won't You Be My Neighbor?"

2009-06-07T23:32:00.012-05:00

This afternoon, as I was scurrying to get a little yard work done between rainstorms, I found my neighbor Bruce doing the same thing (his name isn’t really Bruce, but I’m being nice and protecting the innocent). We waved and hollered a few times good-naturedly and eventually found ourselves chatting leisurely about nothing in particular as we leaned on the fence from opposite sides.

These over-the-chain-link chats seem to happen about every two or three months and they usually involve comparing tips on lawn care. Bruce is a likable guy, who seems genuinely good natured. His kids are quiet, he has no pets, he never makes any noise, and he keeps a decent yard. Last year he even came over and trimmed my apple tree for me (because Lord knows I could never do something as butch as operate a chainsaw). The perfect neighbor, really.

But today, for reasons that only he understands, Bruce wanted to talk politics, and he seemed to want this quite badly. I mostly just stared at the grass while he rambled on about the ills of modern government, and explained everything that President Obama is doing wrong (Is Bruce from Idaho??). I mentioned early that I thought politics was a good topic to avoid among neighbors, but he didn’t seem to take the hint.

About the time he was delving into that favorite redneck theory of Democrats being first cousins to Communists, I bluntly tried to move the conversation back to horticulture. Still he persisted. When he finally broached the topic of gay marriage and how he just can’t understand “those people” I decided I’d had enough. I really should have just excused myself or pretended that my phone was buzzing or something to end the conversation civilly – but that’s just never been my style. Part of me really really wanted to make him squirm a little bit, so when he paused long enough to take a breath, I said matter-of-factly, “Now Bruce, you know I’m gay, right?” Then I stared straight into his eyes, holding a half-grin, without blinking, waiting for a response, while I pictured Mr. Rogers singing, "I have always wanted to have a neighbor just. like. YOU... and live in a neighborhood with YOUUUUUUUU..."

Poor Bruce immediately turned about 17 shades of purple and I could almost see the little hamster wheel spinning in his head as he melted into a puddle of spineless human goo. Finally I broke the ice by smiling cordially and saying, “Don’t worry, it’s not contagious… But, by default, it means I have to be a liberal, so I’m re-stating my initial position about neighbors not mixing politics.” He agreed whole-heartedly, excused himself, and sort of slinked black inside the house. I just hate when I do things like that… and I hate it even more that I enjoy it so much!

So in honor of poor Bruce and his conservative pals, here’s a little tribute to “Traditional Marriage”…

The Red Brick House

2009-06-03T23:20:00.002-05:00

It was abandoned and falling apart before I ever moved to this neighborhood – the red brick house down the block that sits in the shadow of the cathedral’s bell tower. Each time I passed it, and looked on the sad naked windows and the dropping front porch, I wondered if it would ever find an owner.

Then, a few months ago, a sign showed up on the front lawn: “Free House – Must Be Moved.” How curious.

After a few more months of driving by every day and wondering just how on earth someone moves a house that old and that big, I nosily called the city and pretended to be interested so I could get the scoop on the seemingly disposable home.

Apparently it was condemned three years ago and went into foreclosure not long after. Eventually the property sold at auction for a little-bit-of-nothing and the proud new owner plans to build a parking lot there. But there’s just one catch – it happens to be about the oldest standing structure in town; thus, the last-ditch effort to give it away and move it, rather than tear it down. Now I was fascinated and I started to ask some questions around town. There was much more to be learned.

This striking red brick home was built in the 1870’s and clearly indicates that the builder was a man of prominence in the community. The hand carved eaves and the twelve foot ceilings inside were a mark of luxury and financial independence. I have to wonder what kind of manual effort it took to build a home this solid that long ago, but the fact that it’s still standing today speaks volumes for the craftsmanship.

Around the turn of the century it became the town’s funeral home and served in that capacity until the 1950’s. Apparently in those days, undertaking was typically done at a private residence, and three generations of craftsman passed on their trade, their livelihood, and their memories here.

At the end of its stint as a mortuary, someone had the bright idea to turn the old house into several apartments, and it went from a highly respected establishment to a slum. The old-time cops in town know the place well, and remember its seedier days.

In the 70’s, as it passed the century mark, the home changed hands again to a local parishioner who thought it shocking that such a marvelous old structure sitting so close to a place of worship had become a magnet for ill repute. He bought the home and remodeled it to as the near the original condition as he could remember, even painting a heavy red lacquer over the faded bricks to restore the vibrancy of their earlier color.

But now, thirty more years have passed, and the home has reached the twilight of its existence here on Fourth Avenue East. The cost of stabilizing the crumbling structure and then transporting it would be many times more than the home is worth, and unless someone comes along with a truckload of money, the majestic home beneath the old bell tower is coming down.

I suppose it’s just the cycle of life, which apparently rings true for red-brick houses, just like it does for us people. When the house is gone it will live on in the memories of the generations of people who called this street home, and though I’ve never been inside the house, somehow its history has moved me. I’ll be quite sad to see it go.

Picture and a Quote

2009-06-02T22:27:00.003-05:00

"It is better to have one's ememies inside the tent pissing out, than outside pissing in."

Lyndon B. Johnson

Finding My Voice

2009-06-01T01:06:00.008-05:00

I went home last week and something changed.

I can’t explain it, not do I wish to analyze it.

I spent time with family, and I saw old friends.

I drove past my high school late at night, sat in the parking lot and stared at the empty halls. I remembered the person I was back then, and searched for signs of him in who I am today.

I thought about how simple, mindless, and split-second decisions can alter our lives. I was reminded of these when I drove past the place where my truck rolled off the interstate 14 years ago.

I wondered again, as I often do, if there are guardian angels.

I went to church and deeply pondered the sermon for the first time in years, and maybe ever.

I placed an American flag on the grave of my grandfather, on this, the first Memorial Day since his passing, and I mourned a loss that still doesn’t seem real.

I took a long drive in the country with an old friend, the way we did when we were 16 and saw the world through unblemished eyes. When the edge of town seemed like a long ways away, our youthful inhibitions found solace and wonder beyond the horizon. Why can’t I find that same emotion when I cross the line from the other side?

I spent a day on the ranch and rode a horse, got a sunburn, a saddle sore, and was reminded that the art of irrigating is truly that of making water run uphill.

I went to a bar and danced with a drag queen. I kept my sister out until 2 am, and she proceeded to remind me of it for the following three days.

I found an old bicycle that had once been my mother’s and I remembered how she used to prop me up on the handle bars and take me for a ride. That seems like such a long time ago, and so much has changed since then. It’s one of those moments that I wish I could bottle and put away, somewhere deep in the recesses of my soul where the memory would be safe from the forces of time and circumstance that altered the characters and changed the reality. But then, such could be said of every memory.

I had lunch with an old co-worker and shared coffee with a former boss.

I held the hand of man who is nearly a century old, and has changed my life in more ways that I can count, yet he doesn’t know me as well as he thinks the does. That’s the way it has to be, and that makes me sad. Still I love him.

I took time to ponder the town where I grew up, the life I’ve lived, and the person I’ve become.

I longed for the innocence that I didn’t know I had when I had it, and never new I’d miss it until after it was gone.

I basked in the blessings and marveled at the misfortune.

I shed tears of joy, sorrow, loss, anger, and wonder – all in the same day.

I went home last week, and I found my voice

Color of Passion

2009-05-03T18:14:00.003-05:00

There's just nothing prettier than a cherry-red car waxed to a high-mirror shine! This is how I spent my Sunday afternoon. I have to make a payment on it tomorrow, and somehow that always hurts less when I'm feeling good about the car...

The Heart and Soul of Chopsticks

2009-05-02T23:20:00.003-05:00

Every kid who took piano lessons in the 1980’s (and probably long before and after) learned to play two songs right off the bat: “Heart & Soul” and “Chopsticks.”

Both songs are more of a social event than anything else, because to do them correctly requires two people sitting at the piano. Also, they’re fairly easy to play since they’re made up primarily of chords with a fairly simple melody. While these two songs are easy to learn and fun to play, they also actually tend to sound like authentic music; and to a beginning piano student, the ability to play something that actually sounds good is really cool!

I remember whenever I used to practice piano (which wasn’t nearly as much as I should have – hence, the reason I do not play today), I would inevitably get confused and frustrated. Being hot tempered behind an instrument does nothing for one’s ability to make music, so whenever I got flustered or upset I would inevitably digress into simply playing "Heart & Soul" and/or "Chopsticks" until I grew weary of them and that was the end of practicing. To this day, I believe every member of my family cringes when they hear either song. When I would tell my piano teacher how good I was at those two songs she would roll her eyes and remind me that those songs didn’t constitute “real music.”

For almost twenty years now I’ve been wondering why my two favorite playing songs aren’t “real music.” So last night, thanks to the magic of the internet, I finally got the answer! They ARE in fact REAL songs – both of them!

"Heart & Soul" was written in 1938 by Hoagy Carmichael, and it actually has lyrics. It’s been performed by a number of artists over the decades and has been a top-ten hit on three seperate occasions, including when Ella Fitzgerald recorded it in 1960.

“Chopsticks” is an even older piece of music, and it really isn’t called “Chopsticks” at all – that’s just the name pop culture has dubbed on it. The song is called “The Celebrated Chop Waltz” and it was composed as a piano duet in 1877 by Euphemia Allen a sixteen-year-old British girl who never wrote another piece of music before or after. A purist might disagree with calling the song a waltz at all. Waltzes are supposed to happen in 3/4 time, but this one is in 6/8 time.

Chopsticks was releatively unknown for almost 70 years after it was written until 1946 when it was featured in the film The Best Years of Our Lives. In the movie, a WWII vet who has lost both his arms learns to play Chopsticks with prostetic limbs. The song became a American sensation overnight.

I’m sorry to break it to you Mrs. Zillner (old piano teacher), but as you can see, my two favorite piano songs are in fact “real music!”

In both examples below, this is a little more advanced than I ever knew how to play them... but you get the idea

An Artist Is Born!

2009-05-01T23:59:00.008-05:00

I have no real background in art, but I truly love it. When I go to art museums I feel cultured and refined. For a moment I can almost forget that I came from Idaho (where the only thing redder than the state is the necks of its residents).

Well, okay… perhaps I’m being a bit hard on my home state. In reality, no one in my immediate family owns a moo-moo or buys fried chicken by the bucket, but somehow, art was just never a part of my growing up years.

Still I’ve grown to love it, and last night I was really excited for my weekly Humanities class which was taking us on a field trip to the Walker Art Museum in Minneapolis. The Walker is famous for its Contemporary Art, which I probably would have called “Modern Art.” I have had almost no exposure to this particular genre so I was excited to see what it was all about.

The first exhibit I saw was a piece of typing paper inside a frame, and on it was written “This space represents the blank spot in my mind that will someday become art.”

Come again…?

A little confused, I moved on to the next room and found an average appliance plug blown up to be the size of an orca. There was a bicycle tire frozen in a block of ice; a chunk of wax on a chair; a piece of scotch tape on a plastic fork; a stuffed dead puppy; and my personal favorite – a grown man laying on the floor in the fetal position… this was the artist himself, “being” the art.

Everywhere I looked there were people (usually in pairs) wearing dorky outfits and looking at this “art” while rubbing their chins, cocking their heads and quietly consulting one another in low undecipherable tones that were obviously intended to convey a deep stoic nature. I felt like the little Puerto Rican girl in The Chorus Line who stares blankly at the audience for a moment or two before she begins to sing “And I felt… NOTHING.”

This crap is really art?? Are you kidding me?? Where I come from, “fine art” might be a plastic commemorative plate of Dale Earnhardt kissing his momma. I like to think I’ve experienced some cultural growth since then but honestly, there wasn’t a single thing at The Walker that impressed me even a little bit.

Then it suddenly struck me. I CAN DO THIS!! I’ve got a whole house full of crap that I can take down to The Walker and call “art.” If I wear a funny hat and don’t bathe for a day or two, they’ll probably believe it’s authentic. I was so excited about my idea that I just had to put it to the test. So… in less than 30 seconds I ran downstairs to the kitchen and grabbed the first five things I saw:

1. Cereal bowl
2. Lemon
3. Mechanical pencil
4. Keys to my Honda
5. Hand sanitizer

Then I quickly threw them all together, snapped a photograph and presto! Art!

Now all I need is a little interpretation… Hmmm… Cold Cereal is about the only kind of food I ever eat at home; the lemon is to make the garbage disposal smell pretty; of course the pencil represents my passion for writing; the Honda is red; and the hand sanitizer has been on my mind more since we all learned we’re going to die from swine flu. Thinking….. thinking….. thinking…. (wait for it – you can’t rush art, you know!)

(GASP) I’VE GOT IT!

It represents the soul of angry children everywhere who were beaten by their parents and likely weren’t breastfed. Any artist can see that, right??

Walker, here I come!

Death By Workout

2009-04-21T22:42:00.004-05:00

A short time ago, I decided that I was going to take a stand against my typical laziness and actually do something about the physical state of my body which I have never been happy with. So I dutifully marched into my local gym last week, handed over my credit card and behold… a shiny new gym membership, complete with tanning privileges and grunting at no extra charge. Now it’s not that I actually wanted a gym membership. In fact there are many things I would have rather had instead, including mountains of debt, a black eye, and herpes. But nonetheless, I was committed to getting in shape. Nothing worth doing ever comes easy, right?

I was left with just one question: What in the hell is that your average jock-type straight man does at the gym in order to become, you know… buff. I did make a few attempts at the weights and machines but they all seemed very complicated and somewhat dangerous. Furthermore, other people use them too, and they sweat on them – Eeeeewwwww. God, why I can’t just bulk up by going shoe shopping or getting a pedicure? Life can be so unfair for the culturally refined!

It was clear to me that I was going to make no progress without the help of someone who a) knew what they were doing, and b) had enough patience to teach a 90 pound weakling how to work out. Enter my very own “Personal Trainer!” This too required a swipe of the credit card, albeit a much more prolonged and painful one. But for the going rate of just $1,700 (no, it doesn’t come with sexual favors, but for that price it ought to) I get personalized inspiration and a spotter for one hour, twice a week for the next four months. Two other times a week, I’m supposed to go to the gym and ~~go tanning~~ work out all by myself without the trainer.

It all sounded rather daunting, but once I got past the initial reservations about the cost (twitch… twitch), I actually found myself somewhat excited. Yesterday I had my first session with Trainer TJ, a friendly young man, about 25 or so, who looks like a cross between Brad Pitt and God! (I swear, I didn’t ask for the pretty one, they just gave him to me!).

We started with a few stretches and some basics push-up sit-up stuff which all seemed easy enough. Then came the machines, which I now believe to be calculated devices of medieval torture. It was sort of like wedging my body between a Mac truck and the Rock of Gibraltar, and just when I achieved new levels of discombobulated strangulation that put my head in places where one’s head should never be, I hear TJ say cheerfully “Okay buddy, push!” I nearly gave birth.

After the machines, we moved on to the free weights, which offered even less satisfaction, and more pain. Aside from lacking the physical strength to lift very much weight, I also apparently have issues with balance, which became painfully obvious when TJ told me to stand on one leg while doing numerous repetitions of evenly proportioned lifts. I accomplished this with about as much grace as a seagull flying squarely into the side of a barn. Before long, I was shaking, sweating, and all my muscles felt like wet noodles that were hanging limply from my battered torso.

By the time we finished the free weights I was a complete mess and wanted nothing more than to go back to the locker room and die. I tried to maintain my composure and dignity by telling TJ that it was a great workout and I was really excited for next time. “Oh we’re not done,” he said with a smile. “That was just one round. No we start again with the machines and do the whole process twice more.” Had I not lacked the ability to lift my arms, I might have slapped that cheeky grin right off the little bastard’s face.

When I was finally released, I dragged myself back to the house, took a hot bath and went to sleep. Friday is round two, if I’m still alive then.

TJ informed me yesterday that the shoes I was wearing were simply not going to cut it at a gym – something about arch support I think he said. Utility over fashion is a completely new concept for me, but what I heard him say was that I had an excuse to go shopping! Maybe that will make me feel better.

You Go, Girl!

2009-04-18T00:18:00.007-05:00

Blame it on the times – in this, an economic recession that seems to have left the whole world gobsmacked – that a frumpy, unemployed, 47-year old spinster from Scotland could suddenly become such a truly amazing singing sensation.

But check out the number… With just over 22 Million Youtube hits, Susan Boyle in definitely enjoying her 15 minutes of fame.

There’s something wonderfully delightful about seeing an underdog come out on top, especially at a time when so many of us feel as though we ourselves have been kicked in the gut, so to speak.

I don’t know how long Susan’s career will last, or if the newness of it all will wear off in a week, or a month, or a year. But for now, I share the rest of the world’s sentiment in taking a deeply personal sense of pride in this unlikely success story. Something about watching this video, and seeing the cynic in all of us melt away just makes me feel happy. And the song she sang, "I Dreamed a Dream"... It’s couldn’t have been more perfect. The beauty in art is truly the unexpected.

Unfortunately Youtube isn't letting anyone embed the video anymore, so if you haven't seen it yet by chance, go here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=luRmM1J1sfg

Tolerating Iowa

2009-04-05T14:14:00.009-05:00

As a general rule of thumb, I like to avoid politics in my bogging. Well, okay, I don’t entirely avoid the subject, because it clearly bleeds through in my writing, but today I’m irritated and I have something to say. Fell free to skip over it if you like, but I think spouting off a bit will make me feel better:

All day long I’ve been reading celebratory blogs and posts about the Iowa Supreme Court’s unanimous decision to legalize gay marriage. While I whole-heartedly agree with the decision, and I’m happy to see it in a traditionally RED state, I worry about spending too much time celebrating victory in a fight that is far from over.

I make no apologies for any of my convictions, including my political stances, or my thoughts on gay rights. To be honest, I think it’s completely absurd that the gay issue in general has found its way into politics. It makes me angry to think that lobbyists have to work tirelessly in states all over the country to try to gain rights for me that the rest of Americans already have. By that measure, even the gay marriage victory in Iowa seems pale in comparison to the fact that a straight person can get married during a tribal ceremony in Ethiopia, and still have their marriage recognized in all 50 US states. But I’m digressing here, so back on track.

I’ve heard the word “tolerance” thrown out there a lot in relation to the gay marriage debate, but I refuse to use it myself. You’ll tolerate me? As though I’ve forgotten to bathe for the last week and a half, but you’re too polite to say anything? Tolerate indeed! There is no tolerating in the equality process. Absolute “intolerance” isn’t an issue unless you happen to live in a country being led by a rouge military regime. People like James Dobson, Jerry Fallwell, and Fred Phelps preach intolerance and they don’t scare me in the least, because no one takes that kind of crap seriously. They feed on shock and are only given authority by conjuring up images of Biblical damnation that would probably be seen as comical to the people who actually wrote the metaphors in our Bible. Their ignorance speaks for itself, and conservatives put up with them, but tend to be embarrassed by them... Kind of like Jocelyn Elders was to us liberals: She’s a whack-job, but she's OUR whack-job, so we sheepishly let her in and try to keep her quiet.

While I’m on the topic of annoying euphemisms, let’s talk about “celebrating differences.” I don’t believe that differences involving bigotry should be celebrated. I believe they should be fixed, and when necessary, legislated! To that end, Friday’s victory in Iowa was a step in the right direction, but only a small one, and a far cry from what I would call a “win.” To be sure, it did much to repel the disastrous precedent that was set last November in California, when it was decided that by public vote a set of existing rights could be stripped from a group of individuals who were already enjoying them (Hail, Hitler!). Worse yet, that crime was proliferated by churches across America and it cut me to the core to see organizations that are supposed to carry the very threads of our freedom and humanity actually sabotaging it. Somehow, groups like Focus On The Family had the entire nation collectively “drinking the Kool-aide.” Iowa has undoubtedly helped us in that regard.

Like most people I have my beliefs, which I know not everyone agrees with, though I still try hard to uphold the values behind them. When stung, I’m known to lash out a bit, or fight for what I believe to be right. I don’t go searching for trouble, but when it finds me, I’m not afraid of it, or the people who propagate it. I’m not ashamed of the ACLU card in my wallet, and I sometimes speak almost too boastingly about the time I was arrested on the campus of Brigham Young University for protesting anti-gay policies. But an overactive zeal and bit of a hot temper where passion is involved haven’t always gotten me the best results. More to the point, I’ve mellowed as I’ve gotten older, and there’s more competition for my time. These days, my liberalism is expressed financially more than anything else. I can’t be fighting battles in Washington, or San Francisco, or Des Monies all the time, so I try to help out those who can.

Being a player in an uphill battle and trying to turn the tide on a movement with several millennia of inertia behind it is daunting and sometimes I have to recognize that it can’t be done overnight, or in a year, or maybe even in my lifetime. I think when you look at the big picture we have come a long ways. But that doesn’t change the fact there is still a VERY long way to go. Gay rights activists fight a battle against people who use the word of "God" to enforce hate, and that act, in my estimation, is the gravest of all sins against humanity. It’s no different than the Catholic Church’s selling of posthumous forgiveness in the time of Martin Luther, or the Ku Klux Klan standing behind their “Protestant God” while they lynched innocent people and preached hate and segregation. "Tolerance" doesn't do enough in my opinion to expose evil. It's like saying someone "passed away" when in reality they flung themselves deliberately over the side of Hoover Dam and bounced violently to a bitter bloody death.

The people who scare me most in all of this are those who see themselves as “tolerant.” They’ll go out for drinks with the lesbian from the office, or they’ll turn to their gay cousin for advice on picking out curtains or matching a pair of shoes with a belt. But ask them to get out and vote for their friends’ equality and you’ve got a problem. Gay marriage is outside the realm of what they understand and (to quote an overused phrase) 'stepping outside the box' is just too uncomfortable. These “tolerant” folks are intelligent enough to know that no one “chooses” to be gay (an argument that doesn’t even have much credibility in conservative circles anymore), but their actions and their votes demonstrate clearly that there is a Grand Canyon-sized gap between tolerance and equality. So while I might give a nod to the legal success this week in the heartland, I’m not happy yet. But for now, I will “tolerate” the small win in Iowa.

Humanities: The Swedish American Institute

2009-04-05T10:20:00.004-05:00

Since going back to college a year ago, I’ve been looking for fast and easy ways to rack up credits as fast as I can and get my degree out of the way once and for all. One such opportunity came along this semester with a program for studying the Humanities in the community at large. Over the course of the next two months, the class meets six times to explore art and culture at different venues around the Twin Cities, and since that kind of stuff is right up my alley, it almost seems unfair that I’m getting college credit for it. Oh wait, I have to pay for it… Yeah, scratch that last remark.

For the first class yesterday, we toured the American Swedish Institute, which is a Swedish culture center and museum in a century-old mansion near downtown Minneapolis. From the street, the place looks exactly like a castle and throughout the tour it struck me as amazing that someone actually once lived there!

The American Swedish Institute is the only organization of its kind in the United States, and people of Swedish descent travel from all over the country to see it. It was built between 1904 and 1908 as the home Swan J. Turnblad of Minneapolis. Swan (pronounced like the bird), was actually Sven Ustuffsven in Sweeden, and updated his name once he came to the States in the 1880’s.

About that time, the government had a problem on its hands. People had been flocking across the continent for twenty years at that point to take advantage of The Homestead Act, which contracted free land to anyone who would improve it, farm it, and build a house on it. There was one big problem with this though… Building homes and successful businesses on raw land was a wee bit challenging when you lived 1,000 miles from civilization, especially in a place like Minnesota where the growing season sucks – all five weeks of it – and snow falls thirteen months a year. So, consequently, when improvements were never made and successful farms were never built, the government started re-claiming land, LOTS of it. And what did they do with all this useless free land they got back? Sold it to enterprising young men like Swan Turnblad for the bargain rate of 25¢ an acre. A few years later when the value went up, Swan made billions!!

Swan’s mansion in downtown Minneapolis is without question one of the most luxurious buildings I have ever stepped into. Amazing architecture and hand crafted wood line every room and leave you speechless. All I can say is WOW! The only thing that Swan ever wanted that he didn’t get was an Italian marble fireplace. In April, 1912, he order a 12-foot chunk of marble from a European broker, which left a Liverpool shipyard as cargo on the R.M.S Titanic… marble doesn’t float very well. A few years later he made his fireplace out of Indiana limestone.

When Swan and his wife retired in 1930, they donated the mansion to the Swedish people of America along with enough funding to keep the place running as a non-profit organization, and eighty years later, the seem to be getting along just fine on his money. I can’t even imagine!

Today the American Swedish Institute houses galleries of Swedish blown glass, and hand carved dolls, as well as the displaying numerous pieces of furniture that were original to the home, and to the Turnblads.

At one point on the tour, the guide asked if anyone in the audience was Swedish. When no one spoke up, I finally said that my great-great Grandpa was half Swedish… He didn’t seem impressed. I never knew Grandpa Nielson, but my mother did, and she speaks highly of him. His father was a Swedish immigrant who grew up in the slums of New York City, but his mother came from a wealthy plantation in South Carolina and was southern right to the core! A Swedish Yankee and a Southern Bell seems like an odd mix to me, but that’s the beauty of America; the melting pot, right? Anyway, I liked that I was able to have a personal connection with the place, even if it is only 1/32 of my heritage.

Photography is not allowed inside the Institute, and I only found one public picture of the interior on the internet. I did get a few shots of the outside.

FIRST thing's FIRST

2009-03-31T23:57:00.003-05:00

1. Who was your FIRST prom date?
I never went to the prom. I didn’t have the guts to ask out a boy, and girls scared me. Funny how things haven’t changed much in 15 years!

2. Do you still talk to your FIRST love?
He died.

3. What was your FIRST alcoholic drink?
Irish whiskey, supplied to me by my grandfather.

4. What was your FIRST job?
Washing dishes at a nursing home for about four bucks an hour.

5. What was your FIRST car?
A red 1985 Dodge Ram pickup, which was also supplied to me by my grandfather. Fortunately, it was not supplied at the same time as the Irish whiskey.

6. Who was the FIRST person to text you today?
Jordan

7. Who is the FIRST person you thought of this morning?
My grandpa. Not the Irish whiskey/red pickup grandpa, the other one. The grandpa in question also supplied me with a bit of liquor in my teenage years, but the difference is that he did not know he was supplying it. Lesson to parents and grandparents: Lock your liquor cabinets!

8. Who was your FIRST grade teacher?
Mrs. Elredge. It took me longer than most of the other kids to learn my letters and such, so Mrs. Elredge decided I must be “special” and that I needed to be put into a “special” class, for “special” kids. When you’re six years old the “special” label comes with a forehead tattoo that says “Throw the dodgeball at my head!” Eventually, my mother’s lion-ish obstinacy prevailed and I was removed from the “special” class. Occasionally I like to theorize about how I’m probably making more money now than Mrs. Elredge ever did as a public school teacher… Special indeed!!

9. Where did you go on your FIRST ride on an airplane?
From Twin Falls, Idaho to Boise – a whole 130 miles which took about 20 minutes.

10. Who was your FIRST best friend & do you still talk?
Travis. He lived next door to Irish Whiskey grandpa. When we were nine years old he moved to Salt Lake. Years later, when we were adults, I also moved to Salt Lake. I looked him up, and we hung out a couple of times, but we really didn’t have much to talk about after all those years. So that was that… I haven’t heard from him since.

11. Where was your FIRST sleep over?
Don’t remember specifically, but it was probably Jeremy, the kid next door. He and his younger sister were roughly the same age and me and my younger sister, so we did sleepovers a lot when we were little kids.

12. Who was the FIRST person you talked to today?
Kathy, my boss.

13. Whose wedding were you in the FIRST time?
My sister’s. Her husband had been my roommate, which is how they met. They thought it would be a good idea for me to be the best man. I cried.

14. What was the FIRST thing you did this morning?
Ran downstairs to look at my newly redecorated guest bedroom which I am DAMN proud of… Stay tuned for a post about it!

15. What was the FIRST concert you ever went to?
Wynonna Judd. This was her first tour on her own, after "The Judds" became "The Judd." My Aunt Teresa took me and my sister. I think I was in sixth grade.

16. FIRST tattoo?
A zebra on my left bicep. It’s the first and only, but lately I’ve been thinking about getting another one.

17. FIRST piercing?
I don’t have one! If God wanted another hole in me, he would have put it there himself… just like he put a zebra on my left bicep.

18. FIRST foreign country you visited?
Canada. When I was very small, we lived in Northern Idaho, not far from the border.

19. FIRST movie you remember seeing?
101 Dalmations. My mom and my Aunt Sunda took me. If you knew "the rest of the story" between those two, the thought of them doing anything together would make you laugh hysterically!

20. When was your FIRST detention?
I don’t think I ever had it. Not that I was all that good, but when I was bad, I was pretty good at not getting caught.

21. What was the FIRST state you lived in?
Idaho. Shhhh… Don’t tell anyone! I’ve been trying for seven years now to peel off the hick label and I’ve almost got it!

22. Who was your FIRST roommate?
There were two. Brian (have I mentioned that every male child born in the 70’s was named Brian?), and Richard, who later became my brother-in-law.

23. If you had one wish. What would it be?
“World Peace,” she said, with shoulders back, knockers up, and an expression of total innocence, as though she hadn’t been making heelmarks on the dressing room ceiling a few minutes before.

24. What is something you regret?
Putting off college until after I was too old to live in a frat house.

25. Who do you think will be the next person to post this?
I have no clue. But it was a fun way to kill 15 minutes, so I recommend it to other bloggers --Sassy, that means YOU! :)

Walking in St. Paul

2009-03-29T15:20:00.014-05:00

Athough the weather was a little chilly this morning, the sun was shining brilliantly without a cloud in the sky, which left me anxious to get out of the house. So I grabbed my camera, an extra sweater, the GPS (lest I should get myself lost), and fired up the Honda. When I left the house I had no idea where I was headed, but it didn’t matter – I just wanted to go exploring! Forty minutes later, I found myself in downtown St. Paul.

St. Paul, if you’ve never been there, is sort of like the “other” twin – the one who didn’t grow up to be valedictorian, or president of the United States. People know which two places you mean when you say “The Twin Cities,” but Minneapolis is by far the biggest and gets a lot more attention than its quieter neighbor to the east. Still, St. Paul has its charm. The streets are quainter and quieter, the buildings are older with more unique architecture, and it lacks the everyday bustle of its sister city. Minneapolis is trendy; St. Paul is classy.

I parked my car at the State Capitol Building and set out for a little stroll up Wabasha Hill and past the Cathedral to Summit Avenue before turning around and walking back. I covered a few miles by the time I was done, and tried to capture the cityscape in a hodgepodge of photos. Here are some highlights:
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In the 22 months that I’ve lived in Minnesota, this was my first visit to the capitol building, and although I couldn’t go inside (closed on Sundays), I was still impressed with the architecture and the grounds. It’s a dome-based structure, like most capitols, but it looked bigger than others I’ve seen – specifically, it’s a lot bigger than the capitol’s of either Idaho or Utah, both of which I am fairly familiar with. This building opened 1905, and it took nearly 12 years to build it at a cost of $4 million. Can you imagine, only $4 million bucks!! That wouldn’t get the paperwork filed today!
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The gold statue midway to the top is two men wearing ~~dresses~~ togas, standing in the middle of four horses that are pulling a chariot. It’s called “Progress of the State”… Yeah, I don’t get it either.
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Around the grounds of the building are memorials to Minnesota’s veterans of various wars: The Civil War, WWI & WWII, Korea, Vietnam, and the Gulf. Of particular interest was the Korean Memorial where I stopped to do a little reflecting. My grandfather, who recently passed away, was a Korean War Vet.
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There’s so much humanity in this statue. The expression is raw and revealing. It made me think of the many war stories that grandpa used to tell. While I was looking at the names of Korean War dead, the strangest thing happened: My camera was at my side, and completely by accident I hit the shudder button and took this picture of my own reflection in the marble.
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Moving along Ireland Blvd., I came to the Minnesota History Center, which I’ve wanted to visit lately, but it’s also closed on Sundays.

.This banner was on the gate outside the History Center. I couldn’t agree with the sentiment more! .

On the other end of Ireland Blvd., is the aptly named Cathedral of Saint Paul. Now THIS is a church! It sits on a hilltop and you can see it from almost any place in the city. The carvings and representations are just so intricate and full of detail!

I attended Midnight Mass here on Christmas Eve last year with a good friend who is Catholic. That was the first and only time I’ve attended Catholic service, and I was moved not only by the architecture, but by the beauty and metaphor in the ceremony. Sadly, I struggle with religion in general, and especially Christianity. It’s beautiful, inspirational, and moving, but for all I’ve tried, I can’t internalize it, or make it personal; I envy those who can. If ever asked, I usually tell people I’m Mormon, but that represents my ethnic heritage, not my philosophical point of view. Though I don’t technically claim any denomination, I find Catholicism to be perhaps the most fascinating, and I can’t deny the beauty in its architecture.

Just past the cathedral is Summit Avenue. The houses on this street are some of the most famous in the state, and a number of them are on the National Register of Historic Buildings. Many have been turned into interpretive centers or museums which are open for public tour (except on Sundays…UGH!), but some are still private residences. Someday when I win the lottery, I’m going to buy one of these places to use as my summer home. Once I’m rich, I’ll be at least a hemisphere away in the winter time!
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I really enjoyed the morning stroll in my state’s capitol city, and I may do it again soon. I like Minneapolis, but all things considered, I have to say that I actually prefer St. Paul. If it wasn’t so far away from my office, I would probably live there. It’s just a cool, charming place, with plenty of history and culture to explore. Here are a few additional shots of the city:
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The Little Spinnet Desk

2009-03-25T20:09:00.009-05:00

Over the weekend, I was so inspired by the pleasant weather (which, by the way is now gone… snow again today) that I took a little drive through suburbia and ended up at the town of Anoka, Minnesota.

I always think of the metro area in two parts, the Minneapolis side on the west, and the St. Paul side on the east. Of course the sea of suburbia sprawls out in all directions around both towns, but generally speaking, Anoka is the north-est (is that a word?) town on the Minneapolis side, and Shakopee (where I live) is the south-est (the little red line is telling me it’s not a word but I don’t care – I like it anyway!) town on the Minneapolis side. So, anyway, you have your bearings.

This was my first trip to Anoka and I was really struck by its quaint beauty and hometown appeal. The Rum River (named after a good friend of mine) meets the Mississippi at Anoka and apparently the town was founded by fur traders. The little place is clearly proud of its heritage and the rustic charm is apparent in all of the old buildings.
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This old two story colonial style home sits right in the middle of town. It was built in 1904 and was once the residence of the town’s doctor, but today it’s a nifty little antique shop called "The Artique." I’m somewhat of an antique buff, but this place has to be one of the best shops I have ever been in. The prices were reasonable, and the merchandise was very high quality, and the best part was that the proprietor seemed to know at least a little history about the majority of the pieces in her shop.

Well, I’ve been wanting to get an old writing desk for a while now, and as soon as I walked through the front door, I found one “calling” to me. I kept trying to convince myself to be frugal, save my money, shop around, but the more I wandered through the old house looking at the antiques, the more that desk kept watching me, like it was staring me down, already knowing what the outcome would be. I had “almost” convinced myself not to buy it when a young couple strolled into the same room. Looking at the desk, the lady said to herhusband, “Honey, wouldn’t this look great in the den?” to which I interrupted with, “I’m sorry, I just bought it!”

So that was that. Me and the desk (and a few other items) went back to Shakopee where I faced the challenge of how it was that I was going to unload a heavy wooden desk. I needed help. The construction worker who lives next door to me wasn’t home, and neither were the lesbians across the street. Hmmmmm… What to do?? I couldn’t exactly ask the retired couple on the other side of me, and most of my friends live in the City, 20 minutes away. Even if I could have convinced one of them to come help me, I didn’t want to wait that long. So there I was, single handedly lugging the thing into my house. Not only did I get it there, but I did it without a single scratch! (We won’t talk about how my back is feeling).

The front porch of my house is fully enclosed, and I’ve been toying for a while now with the idea of making it my place to write and be inspired. The desk made an absolute perfect addition to the room! This style of desk, which was popular from about 1910-1925, is called a Spinnet Desk because it folds up like an old sewing machine. See….
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Then when you need to use it, it almost “spins”…
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The only thing I know about it’s history is that the antique shop owner bought it at an auction in Duluth (remind me to write a post on Duluth sometime – very neat place!), which is about 3 hours north of the Twin Cities on the shore of Lake Superior. As I was cleaning the desk out and polishing it up, I was shocked when I found a small postcard behind one of the drawers. The postmark across the 1¢ stamp reads “Redwood City, Calif. Feb. 12, 1946 @ 7:30 p.m.” Since when did the time of day matter on a postmark? And what was a government operation doing open after 5 o’clock at night?

The postcard is addressed to “E.D. Jensen” of Duluth, Minnesota, and it’s a handwritten card thanking Miss/Mrs./Mr. Jensen (I don’t think “Ms.” was popular in 1946) for the purchase of flower bulbs from “The Catalog.” (Can you image getting a handwritten thank you note after you buy something out of a catalog??) I almost threw it away, but something told me not to, so I came up with a better idea. I framed it. The little postcard spent 60 years buried inside that desk, and now it gets to live on top of it as décor… Something about that just tickles me!

So after a fascinating little day trip, and the making of some fun memories, I give you… (drum roll, please)… My new Writing Room!
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Hope!

2009-03-21T21:08:00.007-05:00

Something amazing has happened here in the Twin Cities. Somehow, while I was busy complaining about winter, it suddenly started to become spring.

It’s not entirely through being winter yet, even though Friday was the first day of spring. Snow can and does fall throughout the month of March, and there are no promises for April. Last year it was May before there was any really good weather, and even then I think the last snow was around May 4th.

Still, despite all of this, the temperature this weekend was into the 50’s for about the first time so far this year, and when I walked out of my house this morning, I nearly fell over when I saw these:

Yes, greenery!! Some sort of plant-like something or other is starting to grow right out there in my garden! I nearly wept with joy. It was like that moment in a movie when you just know the hero is dead but then suddenly, he struts boldly out of the inferno, carrying the pretty girl, and the orchestra goes wild with a triumphant song of victory! Okay, so this wasn't quite like that, but it's still pretty damn neat!!

In fact, I was so inspired by my new-found plants, and the sun, and the slowly melting piles of snow all around me, that I decided to take a little walk down the riverbank a few blocks from my house. And (this is the best part), I WALKED to the river. Today marks the first time since last October that I have gone anywhere further than my garage on foot. Glory be!!

Just when I thought the day couldn’t possibly get any better, I saw a cardinal sitting on a neighbor’s bird feeder. Cardinals are very common in Minnesota, so seeing one is no big deal, but they're pretty scare in the winter. Furthermore, for a good year and a half now I’ve been trying to get a picture of one, but that's not an easy task. They tend to be very leery of people, and when you do see one, he’s usually gone long before you can get your camera lined up. Today was different. I was able to get within a just few feet of him, and snapped some photos.

He was clearly not happy about me being there, and chastised me profusely. But he must have been hungry because he took an almost defensive stand on the bird feeder, and stared me down, as if to say “Come on… try to get this birdseed from me… I dare ya!”

When I got over my photographic high, I moved on to the river and noticed with glee, that much of the ice has melted, and out there in the middle, there's water running freely!

All in all the experiences of my day gave me hope for the spring that I know is coming. And at the end of a long and bitter winter, a little hope can be an amazingly vibrant thing!

Drinking Whiskey Like it's Vodka!

2009-03-15T02:02:00.005-05:00

I’m beginning with a disclaimer: The following post is not G-rated. If you’re expecting a G-rated post, kindly close this window and try back tomorrow.

Assuming you’re still with me, I am writing tonight’s post as something of a rant. Earlier today, someone in my close circle of life had the audacity to suggest that perhaps I had developed a little drinking problem. Since I don’t regularly spill when trying to consume liquids, I can only assume the suggestion to mean that this person believes me to be deep in the throws of alcoholism. I fear my post about The Saloon may have contributed to this theory.

So, for the record, let me be clear: I am not an alcohol. Alcoholics go to meetings. I do not go to meeting, I go to bars. Therefore I am not an alcoholic. See how simple that logic is?

Ah, the sweet nectar of the gods, which has been helping ugly people have sex for generations! I’ll be honest, I do drink, and at times, I probably drink more than is wise, or at least more than I should. But that’s a far cry from the assumption that I could down a bottle of Scope or suck the alcohol out of a deodorant stick. I don't live on alcohol and I tend to approach the stuff recreationally, and even then it's not something I get carried away with.

I got my first taste of liquor from my grandfather at age thirteen – Irish Whiskey. It wasn’t much more than a thimbleful and it came with clear instructions: DO NOT tell your mother! The first time I was intoxicated happened on a school trip to Japan. I was fifteen then, and with a group of teenagers in a country where there was no drinking age… It didn’t take an Oracle to see that one coming, but when the chaperones caught us, they reacted as though we had slaughtered the Pope and laid his entrails out right there in the hotel lobby. Contrary to their predictions at the time, we all managed to graduate and get jobs.

I did a little more drinking through high school (most of it the night I graduated), but that was about it. For the most part I never drank much until I was OLD ENOUGH to – shocking, I know!

Throughout this long and difficult road toward drunken sluttiness, that I’ve supposedly been traveling, I have still never developed any kind of tolerance for alcohol. Even after all these years, I’m still a very cheap date! So, consequently, I’ve learned to pace myself and I know exactly what each type of booze will do to my low-tolerance personality. Wine, for example, puts me in a happy place like a giggly little school-girl. Vodka tends to make me fearless and somewhat cocky, like feeding a nice big plate of cocaine to my ego. Gin makes me remember everything that’s wrong with my life, and when I drink it, I tend to end up in a corner somewhere curled up in the fetal position and crying about the pet rat that died when I was nine. Tequila is the one drink I avoid AT ALL COST because it strips me of any dignity and leaves me wandering the dance floor with the morals of a bitch-dog in heat – not good in your average gay bar!

So now that I’ve given all these lovely visual examples, let me go back to making the case that I am not a drunk! Being in my 30's, I now approach drinking with a little more refinement and a little less binge than I did a decade ago. I can afford the good stuff these days – the kind of liquor that you buy because it tastes good. Cheap booze gets you drunker fasterer but makes the hangover a whole lot worsererer. Nowadays, I’ll have an “adult” beverage with a meal maybe once or twice a week, or occasionally I might mix up a late-night cocktail to sip on over a movie or a good book. A couple times a month, I still head downtown with the full intention of getting drunk, but I’m smart about it. I go with good friends whom I trust, and I make sure before I start that I have a safe place to crash at the end of the night. I also never attempt to drive.

Furthermore, I don’t sit around and crave alcohol, nor do I use it as an excuse to make me happy, or keep me from being sad. I’ve learned that emotions, both good ones and bad ones, are part of the cost on the ride of life, and if you drink those emotions into or out of your life, you’ll enjoy the ride a whole lot less because your ability to feel is impaired. I look at liquor like Tabasco sauce: A little bit here and there can spice up your life. But through trial and error, I’ve learned never to add too much.

FAMILY TRADITION: At a recent gathering of my cousins, the question was asked, "Who here used to sneak Southern Comfort from Grandpa's stash?"

Soapy and Duke

2009-03-14T03:09:00.009-05:00

For someone who spent several years on a farm, it’s an odd truth that I’ve never had a pet. That’s not to say that I’ve never owned an animal; I have – lots of them, in fact. But I tend to believe that people don’t pick their pets, the pets pick their people. The animals I had as a kid were always “family pets” and they usually liked someone else a lot more than they liked me. My little sister, on the other hand, can walk by about any given animal on the planet, and in less than two seconds it has attached itself to her soul, wrapped its body around her torso, and is probably peeing down her leg in sheer domesticated delight (it’s really funny when this happens with cattle).

I envy people who can connect with animals on such a personal level. From the time that I was very small child – as far back as I can remember, the concept of having a “pet” always held itself against the visual images of Soapy and Duke. The two animals were unrelated and they lived at different times and in different places, but they share commonality in that their stories and their collective memory became a part of my life at a very early age. Oddly enough, I never knew either of them – I just heard their stories.

Soapy was a chestnut-colored Shetland pony with a flaxen (blonde) mane and tail. He belonged to my mother when she was a little girl and he got his name because in the moments after he was born, my mom (who was about five years old) leaned over to look at him and told her dad that he looked all “soapy.” She trained Soapy herself when they both got a little older, and he was her personal horse and best friend throughout her childhood.

As it turned out, my mother was not the horse trainer that her father and some of her siblings were – not that she couldn’t have been, she just had other interests. But the bedtime stories she used to tell me and my sister about Soapy probably contributed immensely to the affection that I would have for horses, and the years of my life that I would spend breeding and training them.

Duke was a boxer that my grandparents owned back in the fifties and sixties. I think she was actually a family dog, but to hear to my father talk about her, it seems clear who Duke believed her owner was. There’s something very Huck Finn-like about “a boy and his dog” which I understood clearly when my dad used to talk about Duke.

When I was younger, my family spent a lot of time out on the high deserts of Southern Idaho, camping and hiking, or just bumming around for a day. I remember on these excursions my dad would always tell me about Duke and how much he used to love being outdoors with his dog. Our family had our own dog at the time that we usually took camping with us (a nasty, bitter, yippie little thing who always hated me), but in my mind I pictured Duke (a man’s dog) walking alongside me and Dad on those treasured occasions. It’s funny… you never appreciate those memories as much at the time, but they get better looking back.

Soapy and Duke endeared themselves to me in a way that no living animal ever could (or at least never has). I appreciate the parts that their stories played in making up the collective pieces of my childhood. Animals have a way of understanding us people better than we understand them. They look at our soul instead of our face, and they believe in us even when we don’t believe in ourselves. They know we’re good for a little affection and some food, and there’s a beautiful simplicity in that, which we humans can’t help but over-complicate. Somehow, in a way that I don’t fully comprehend – and really don’t need to – Soapy and Duke helped me understand my parents.

Several weeks ago I took on the difficult task of writing my grandfather’s eulogy. I leaned on my mom to help me get some of the stories right about her dad’s early life, and she talked about a little bay horse named Lightning that he bought when he was seven years old. My mom grew up hearing stories about Lightning. She was able to relate those stories to me, and I got to write about them 70 years after they happened. Somewhere in the foggy continuum of time and space and degrees of separation, that all seems really nifty to me.

One of the sad truths in not having children is that I don’t have anyone to talk to about Soapy and Duke, or the wealth of other stories that I’ve either heard about or experienced. There’s a sense melancholy that comes from knowing that without progeny, one’s memories might simply slip away to the ages. Perhaps that’s why I write. Still, I’m comforted when my six-year-old niece and eight-year-old nephew recite for me the stories that my sister has told them about our growing-up years. Some of the stories aren’t exactly as I remember them, but it makes me happy to know that my sister is passing on the art and tradition of storytelling to her children. I hope she tells them about Soapy and Duke.
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My mom and Soapy at the Idaho State Fair in 1967.

This is my dad and Duke, sometime in the late 50's. I just can't help but grin when I look at this picture! And those boots!!!!

People-Watching at The Saloon

2009-03-08T01:28:00.005-06:00

I absolutely love to people-watch, and can often invest literally hours into the sport. Now, I promise, I’m not one of those creepy people who wear hoodies and stand emotionless behind chain link fences staring at people in parks or playgrounds. I’ve never stalked anyone (well, okay there was that one incident during Cher’s Farewell Tour, but we won’t go there), and I generally play well with others. But have you ever stepped back in a social situation and just spent some time looking at the people around you? Ever wondered what their story is, what’s on their mind, or perhaps even pondered the age old question, “what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

In Minneapolis, there is no better place for some grade-A people watching than The Saloon. As the number one gay club in the Twin Cities, The Saloon has a good following and tends to fill up on most any given Saturday night. It’s a fun place that seems to endear itself to the gay men who hang out there (for some reason the lesbians always go to St. Paul), and I think all of us have a soft spot in our hearts for the little bar.

Don’t kid yourself – this is not the kind of place you take your mother for a cocktail. The Saloon is neither classy, nor sophisticated. To be honest, it’s something of a dive, but if you sit at the bar or peruse the dance floors and pool areas, you’re going to be entertained by the variety of men you will find. At some point or another, you’re going to see something that makes you say “Ewwwwwww,” and by the end of the night you will have a completely new understanding (if not an appreciation) for the gay community in our fair city.

The first group you might notice on a night of people watching at The Saloon is the JT21’s (Just Turned 21). These kids are fresh out of the closet, and still wet behind the ears. They’ve got a chip on their shoulder as though the gay community of Minneapolis is somehow beholden to them for gracing us with their young presence, and their personality has about as much depth as a butter dish. They'll usually enter the bar with flip-phone in hand, their chin up, and shoulders back, staring disdainfully from behind Jackie Onassis sunglasses (indoors at night), and wearing designer jeans that likely required a week’s salary from their job at… ohhhh… let’s guess Starbucks or Express. If you watch them, or talk to them (assuming they deem you worthy), you’ll understand in about 2.8 seconds that each JT21 believes himself to be the Mother Teresa of gay men!

Next you have the group who live by the creed, “I’m not 30 and you can’t prove I am and NO you can’t see my ID!” I call them The Deniers. Refusing to admit that they might just have a wrinkle or two, these are the boys that keep Mary Kay in business! They’re usually either flirting with a JT21 or mingling amongst themselves while they debate the life and career of Brittney Spears. Chances are they’ll be the drunkest in the crowd by the end of the night because they can afford to tip a little better, and therefore they get stronger drinks. A good friend of mine told me (at the end of my 29th year), “You’re never really old until you lie about your age,” which pretty sums up my opinion of The Deniers.

The Businessmen are probably the next most interesting group to watch. They’re the professionals who have an education and a good day job. While mingling, they spend a lot of time checking their Blackberries, and you’ll find them a good distance away from the dance floor, talking about the stock market or their 401(k). The Businessmen were probably JT21’s a decade-or-two ago, but they’ve grown up to have a little more sense and better judgment and you’re probably not going see any of them hoisted into a cab horizontally at the evening’s conclusion. They tend to frown a bit at their old friends who turned into Deniers.

Lastly, you have the RODEA crowd (Really Old Depressed Ex Activists). RODEA’s cluster together in pairs usually, and they try to stand within earshot of the younger crowd, hoping to savor what that life must be like. Though sometimes scary, they usually have a story or two to tell. They were part of the generation that gave birth to the ultra-left-wing, and they like to tell stories about the Democratic Convention of ’68, or talk about the sense of security they lost at the beginning of the AIDS crisis. Truthfully, I tend to feel bad for the RODEA’s because they never got to be part of the JT21s, or The Deniers, or The Businessmen. They grew up in a time when they were shamed and shunned for their lifestyle. The world isn’t a perfectly balanced place just yet, but things are sure a lot better today than they used to be in that regard. RODEA’s shouldn’t be forgotten because they are our memory.

Speaking strictly for myself, the thing that I appreciate most about The Saloon (and the reason I keep going back) is that the environment is completely without prejudice. It’s not that we don’t pass judgment (hey, we’re homos – it’s what we do), but the boys at this joint are only going to mock you over your sense of fashion, or your choice of beverage, or the FREAK that you went out with last October who’s currently dancing on the bar in his underwear. But even amidst those quips, you’re still among friends. Everybody’s welcome in our bar, and at the end of the night (or maybe the next morning when our heads clear) there’s a sense of comfort and kinship that always sets in. In this seedy little bar, you might see where you’ve been, where you’re going, or where you never want to be. But in any case, you’re in a place where it’s always okay to just be you.

I Need More Time

2009-03-02T23:38:00.006-06:00

My hours spill together and they churn into days. Days become weeks and the weeks plop violently out of my reach, and just become jumbled messes, like overcooked cream of wheat lopped out of the pan onto the kitchen floor. It begins on Monday, and it just gets worse. The primary problem? I need more time.

I serve on two non-profit boards. “Pride” meets on Monday from after work until we get done. Late. I come away sometimes feeling like I’ve put in a lot of time, but haven’t done much. Maybe I should be doing more. At least it’s only once a month. I need more time.

I have school on Tuesdays. Every Tuesday. I go there from the office, when it’s already dark and I stay until 10 p.m. My dinner comes from the downstairs vending machine because I don’t have time to stop somewhere after work. I leave school with beautiful intentions of the week ahead and how caught up I’ll be. But catching up takes time. I hammer study sessions and group discussions into the Blackberry that holds my life. I always make it happen, but it never feels complete. I need more time.

Wednesday I have a date. His name is Roger and he’s an architect. This is date number three and we’ve known each over a month. Is that a good pace, or is it dragging my feet? I’ve wanted to go out again, but it just never fits. I need more time.

I spend untold hours cleaning, scrubbing my house from top to bottom like a person whose nuts. Am I a perfectionist? Maybe… at least on the outside. Don’t look in my cabinets or cupboards or drawers. No one sees there so it’s not worth the effort. I used to hire someone to do it, but then the economy went to hell. Times are lean and I should be saving, right? I need to sort that all out, maybe plan a budget, but that take precious hours that I just don’t have. I need more time.

I try to stay in touch with culture, the arts, things that feed my mind and stimulate my soul. That too requires time, and often money. In fact, I’ve given quite a lot to causes I deemed "worthy," but not so much lately. This damned economy again. Maybe we’re just a nation riding on intention but lacking the time. Could the problem be that simple? We need more time.

I want to write a book. I want this perhaps more than anything I’ve ever wanted, but I don’t know where to start, or how to plan, or when to do it. It’s in there, inside of me, wanting to explode sometimes, but it needs a vehicle that I haven’t found yet. Over the weekend I read To Kill a Mockingbird, my favorite book, which never fails to give me inspiration. The author’s first name is the same as my last name. Maybe that means something. Maybe I’m crazy. But I need more time.

On Behalf of a Grateful Nation...

2009-02-28T12:05:00.006-06:00

For Sheila's Photo Contest, the theme for the month is "Humanity" and I'm getting my entry in at the last possible minute. It was taken last week at the funeral services for my grandfather, who was a veteran of the Korean War.

If you've never been to an American funeral with military honors, it is simply breathtaking to observe. Bitter as we might all be at the current economy and state of government, you can't help but feel a bit of patriotism when the 21-gun salute echos across the cemetery. Then, while a bugler plays Taps, the American flag is lifted from the casket, folded, and given to the next of kin with the following speech:

"On behalf of a grateful nation, this flag is presented to you as a token of appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service."

I've been to many funerals, and I'll probably attend many more, but in all my life, the thread of humanity never ran so deep as when I watched that ceremony and listened to that soldier speak those words, while he saluted my grandmother.

I Need Some Advice, Please

2009-02-28T11:16:00.003-06:00

I always remember believing that once you made it to the first of March, you had survived the worst part of winter, and signs of spring were beginning to pop up everywhere. Once I moved to Minnesota my views on winter changed a bit – It’s colder, but it’s longer – and try as I might, I just can’t seem to put a silver lining on that.

March for Minnesotans means lots more snow, continued subzero temperatures, and likely another six weeks before any signs of spring begin to appear.

If you’ve followed many of my posts through this winter, then you’ve heard me bitch, and bitch, and bitch, and bitch about the weather. But somehow, at the end of February I find that my natural inclination toward bitching has ceased, and now I’m just, well… depressed.

Call it cabin fever after being in Idaho last week, where, in typical fashion, late February was yielding temperatures in the 50’s (Fahrenheit), people were wearing light jackets, and a few hints of greenery were beginning to squeeze themselves out of the waking earth. A few days after I arrived home in Minneapolis, a blizzard came through and dumped nine inches of snow in a little under two hours. Instead of being angry or annoyed like I would have been a few months ago, I was simply heart-broken.

The thing I want to do more than anything in the world is GO OUTSIDE, breathe fresh air, feel the sun, see the birds, take a leisurely walk. Since I haven’t done any of those things in almost five months now, mid-April seems like an eternity from here. SIGH………………..

Anyway, my main point in communicating all of this is to ask for some advice. The weather and my general mood have culminated to strip me of absolutely any creative ability whatsoever… I can’t write. I’m staring at blank screens and lightly tapping keys waiting for something to come to me, but nothing seems to. I’ve read books, and blogs, articles, and journals all week, amazed at the creativity in the world around me, while I sit here within my frozen prison, waiting for a spring that never seems to come, and words that have positioned themselves just beyond my reach.

Even photography (which I’ve never claimed as a talent but have lately come to enjoy) seems to have failed me. My eye for scoping out a shot seems altogether dead. I’m worried that all my blogging friends are about to pack up and leave me!

When you find yourself depressed, distracted, lacking creativity, or otherwise suffering from EXTREME writer’s block, what do you do?? Any advice is appreciated.

Thanks!

Bad Coffee With a Teaspoon of Life

2009-02-23T23:39:00.003-06:00

Well, I’ve finally returned from Idaho and to be honest, I’m not feeling overly creative. I invested a lot of time and effort this past week into organizing my grandfather’s funeral. Not that I’m complaining, mind you – I deal best with grief by putting myself in charge of pretty much everything.

It’s funny how when you first lose someone, little things can trigger a flood of memories and even emotions. Today, on my first day back at the office, it was the morning cup of coffee that took me back.

My grandpa was an avid coffee drinker, and it was he who introduced me to the drink years ago. In spite of the man’s ability to take in six or seven cups a day, he really wasn’t a caffeine junkie and seemed almost numb to the effects of it. At grandpa’s house, coffee was a ritual. It was how you started your day and likely how you ended it. It helped wash down breakfast and later lunch, and it was what you did for an hour in the middle of the afternoon when you were done working horses, but before the evening chores.

For years, my grandma (who is not a coffee drinker) brewed pot after pot of the stuff until a decade-or-so ago, she finally put her foot down and decided she had steeped her last cup! After that it was all instant coffee for grandpa, which made sense because he could do it one cup at a time, and it was easy to make on the go, or in a hurry.

He took his coffee somewhat weak with one heaping teaspoon of sugar, but never any cream. When he drank it, he smoked an unfiltered cigarette, and somehow the combined smell of cheap coffee and Camel studs has attached itself to my memory in a way that will always remind me of those days on the ranch.

Coffee, for my grandfather, was a one of life’s great mediums; an indifferent equalizer that created the settings in which he lived his life, and shared his craft. It was best drank among company, and nearly every person who pulled through the ranch gates always stayed for a cup or two (strangely, even the Mormons). To the average visitor, or perhaps to a 12-year-old boy who loved horses and idolized his grandpa, that cheap coffee symbolized precious hours that built character, and made memories which helped steer the course of lives.

I grew up to be something of a coffee connoisseur, and I tend to keep a few exotic varieties in the house almost all the time. I’m also a champion of the $8 cup-of-coffee, and on one of the last visits I made to his ranch, I took grandpa a double-shot-nonfat-hazelnut-latte’ from Starbucks. He looked at me like I was high when I told him what I had paid for it, and I think he took a sip or two only as a courtesy. For some reason, I completely understood. I brewed us up two cups of instant, and as I poured about sixteen dollars worth of Starbucks down the drain, I realized that it wasn’t grandpa’s coffee people liked, it was the irreplaceable memories that the coffee came to represent. And tonight, I find myself wishing quite badly for cheap instant coffee and some homespun advice.

Grandpa

2009-02-14T16:11:00.010-06:00

I learned this morning that my grandfather has passed away; so I won't be blogging for a few days as I head home to Idaho to attend the funeral.

This afternoon, with my mind racing, feeling at once numb, sad, overwhelmed, and even relieved, I am reminded of a poem that brought me comfort on a day like this many years ago...
.

I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge,

That myth is more potent than history,

I believe that dreams are more powerful than facts,

That hope always triumphs over experience,

That laughter is the only cure for grief,

And I believe that love is stronger than death.

.Robert Fulghum

...I'll miss you, Grandpa. You were one of a kind!

Caution: Sucker Ahead!

2009-02-09T22:30:00.007-06:00

Earlier tonight, I had the disturbing experience of having to get an oil change. Just for the record, oil changes are one of those things in life that I absolutely despise. On my standard list of “things to avoid,” oil changes rank right up there with root canals and herpes. Accordingly, I usually put them off until the little wrenchy thing in the dashboard goes from blinking to solid, and then to red, which can only mean “Get your ass to the dealership before you invalidate your warranty!”

Despite the fact that I’ve recently learned to pump my own gas, changing oil is simply outside of my mental grasp. When I was about 16 years old, my father – desperately searching for some small hint of manhood in his only son – attempted to teach me the do-it-yourself method of oil changing. It was a noble effort, with the best of intentions, but it lasted about as long as a papal visit to Salt Lake City.

Of course, that’s not why I hate the task so badly. No, I think the real reason is that any trip to a service station or dealership involves the opportunity for me to get screwed. It usually goes something like this:

SERVICE PERSON: Oh yeah (or “yaaa” here in Minnesota), your carburetor is alternating, and it’s way overdue a standard rotor adjustment.

I THINK: This is going to get expensive.
BUT I SAY: Oh really?

SERVICE PERSON: Yup, and if you don’t get that taken care of right away, you’re at risk for throwing a rod or pistoning a gasket.

I THINK: God, I need a good lesbian in my life
BUT I SAY: Oh really?

SERVICE PERSON: You know, I had a lady in here just yesterday that didn’t get this done and she ended up with her drive shaft all the way to her manifold.

I THINK: I hate it when that happens.
BUT I SAY: How much is this going to cost me?

SERVICE PERSON: Well, if you’d done it before your valve went out it would be easier, but now I’m gonna have to lube the tranny.

I THINK: (something about a “lube job” that doesn’t bear repeating)
BUT I SAY: If I give you my credit card now, will you stop talking?

Feeling completely defeated with my head hanging, I make my way to the crowded waiting room and find the only available seat. To my right is a large grumpy looking man who is clearly on a deodorant strike. To my left is a woman with two small screaming children, both of whom appear to be infectious hosts of viral plague (when did parents stop reminding their children to cover their mouths when they cough??)

And just like that, I’ve shelled out a small fortune into a nearly new car, contracted god-knows what kind of diseases, and wasted a perfectly good evening of my life that I will never get back.

But when I left tonight, all the dashboard lights were back to their original state, my poor charge card was safely back in my wallet, and I was secure in the knowledge that I won’t have to face such humiliation or anxiety for at least another three months or 3,000 miles.

Monday: Picture and a Quote

2009-02-09T22:27:00.002-06:00

"The best thing about the future is that it comes only one day at a time."

Abraham Lincoln

The Rule of Six

2009-02-06T06:08:00.007-06:00

I’m stealing this idea from Cabe at The Daily Focal Point, and I wasn’t actually tagged for it, but I think it’s a fun idea, so I’ll challenge those of you whom I stock (you know who you are!) to try the same thing.

1. Go to your documents/pictures.
2. Go to your sixth file.
3. Go to your sixth picture
4. Blog about it

Here’s mine:

This picture is not a keeper, because as you can see, the shudder did not fully open. I suppose I could edit it, but I don't really want to. The asymmetry of the art seems to speak to the nature of the content.

This is the Interstate 35W Bridge over the Mississippi River, which collapsed suddenly on August 1, 2007. About a week after it fell, I took this shot walking across the nearby 10th Avenue Bridge.

The event was significant to me for a few reasons. In the first place, it occurred on my birthday, so for as long as I live here, I will always have to share that day with the collective memory of Twin Cities.

Second, it happened only a week after I moved to Minnesota. For a guy from Utah, seeing a city this big (okay, Minneapolis is not huge, but it’s a whole heck of a lot bigger than Salt Lake) pull together like that was really amazing and made me feel good about my new community.

Third, I had been across that bridge exactly 24 hours before it fell. What if the whims of nature had brought it down during the Tuesday rush hour, instead of the Wednesday? I might have been there.

For the 13 people who died that day (a remarkable number when you think about how many went down with the bridge), and the dozens more injured, I have to wonder what odd twist of fate put them (instead of me) on that bridge at the exact moment in time when the 40-year-old structure gave way without warning. A last lingering moment with a loved one? A missed yellow light? A call on the cell phone? Fate is sometimes inescapable.

In the twelve months that followed the bridge collapse, Minneapolis traffic was horrible (more than usual) because 35W is the primary north-south artery through the city. I live about 25 minutes from the bridge so I wasn’t too affected, but nevertheless, the whole community shared the moment of pride a last fall when the new bridge, beaming in white, opened up on the same ground. This one is not my sixth picture, but I thought it completed the story.
.

Run

2009-02-05T21:17:00.002-06:00

Have you ever been on a horse’s back at a dead run?

Spinning around a barrel or buzzing an impeccably groomed track doesn’t quite hit the emotion that I’m taking about. I mean a run… out in the open, ears pinned, driven by pure guts and adrenalin, pounding the earth as though their soul was angry, and hell bent for something, anything, that they understand.

Nothing else in the world feels like that – absolute panic at the height of exhilaration. There’s freedom in that moment. And today, for a variety of reasons that don’t much matter, I longed for that feeling.

The truest virtue of humanity is our ability to feel; to attach our soul and our memories to the ubiquitous forces conditioned in our psyche to get us through life. When we’re afraid, we search… for, security, validation, relief… time. And when that time has slipped away – when our hope against hope runs out; in that acute and blinding moment when we feel the world spin beneath us; when our memories can no longer play out to the same old song – then, in that moment, we are creatures of faith.

And in those last few moments, clutching to what used to be, fearing what’s about to be, too consumed in pure instinct and raw emotion to see the odds of faith in the face of doubt, there’s really only one thing we want to do…

Run.

Useless Trivial Knowledge

2009-02-04T17:47:00.011-06:00

For lack of any better writing ideas for today, here are a few trivial facts that you might not know. More than a few of them surprised me:

If you yelled for 8 years, 7 months, and 6 days you would have produced enough sound energy to heat one cup of coffee.
(Hardly seems worth it.)

The human heart creates enough pressure when it pumps to squirt blood 30 feet.
(Awesome! Remind me never to puncture an artery.)

Scientists believe that a pig's orgasm lasts up to 30 minutes.
(In my next life, I’m going to be a pig.)

After being decapitated, a cockroach will live nine days without its head before it starves to death.
(Creepy… I'm still not over the pig.)

Banging your head against a wall uses 150 calories an hour.
(Don't try this at home. Maybe at work)

The male praying mantis cannot copulate while its head is attached to its body. The female initiates reproduction by ripping the male's head off.
("Honey, I'm home. What the...?!")

The flea can jump 350 times its body length. That's like a human jumping the length of a football field.
(30 minutes, huh? Can you imagine? Lucky damn pig!)

The catfish has over 27,000 taste buds.
(What could be so tasty on the bottom of a pond?)

Some lions mate over 50 times a day.
(I'd still rather be a pig... quality over quantity.)

Butterflies taste with their feet.
(Something I always wanted to know.)

The strongest muscle in the body is the tongue.
(Hmmmmmm.....)

Right-handed people live, on average, nine years longer than left-handed people.
(If you're ambidextrous, do you split the difference?)

Elephants are the only land mammals that cannot jump.
(As it should be!)

A cat's urine glows under a black light.
(I wonder who was paid to figure that out.)

An ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain.
(Much like a few people I’ve know.)

Starfish have no brain at all.
(I know some people like that, too.)

Polar bears are left-handed.
(If they switch, they'll live a lot longer)

Humans and dolphins are the only species known to practice mating for pleasure.

(You mean the pig doesn’t? What a waste!)

Lost Dreams

2009-02-03T19:48:00.013-06:00

Perhaps we all have one… That stack of broken promises, unrecognized dreams, and blissful aspirations lost to the whims of apathy and indecision. By the time I reached adulthood, my “stack” was filled with a number of projects or budding ambitions that I had become disillusioned with and laid aside over time. Among the list was a college education, boy scouts, piano lessons, church, gymnastics, baseball, basketball, seminary, girls (sorry I couldn’t resist), various pets, debate team, and the viola. That last one is probably the most significant because it represents the earliest of my youthful ambitions, and was probably the one for which I had the most potential.

In about 1987 or so, my school district made a bold move in deciding that every kid in the fourth grade was going to learn a musical instrument. We were all given a choice: violin or viola. They must have got a good deal on a truckload of used violins, any of which could be re-strung as a viola in about 10 minutes.

On the day we chose instruments, I didn’t know what the difference was (except that I’d never heard of a viola), but the violin line was too crowded, so I struck out on my own, and became the lone violist in sea of fiddlers.

My family has a lot of musical background – My father and grandfather both quit the trumpet, and my mother quit the French horn. But enough harmonious ambition rubbed off on me that I found a natural inclination toward music. By the end of a semester, I had advanced to the fifth grade class, and by the time I reached sixth grade, I was playing viola at a high school level. I’ll never forget how my grandmother, herself a violin student and an accomplished pianist, would beam when she came to my recitals.

All of this came easy to me; far too easy, in fact. I could (and still can) “hear” music, so once I knew the tune in my head, my fingers just made it come out of the instrument… I couldn’t explain it… but it was virtually effortless. And since all the grown ups were elated, I thought I was doing everything right. But I was hiding a very deep secret: I couldn’t read music. I never learned because I didn’t have to. If I heard the accompaniment once, I could simply play the song. The names of the notes, or their position on that cleft-thingy just seemed complicated and irrelevant.

I fooled everyone for a long time, until the day that my instructor realized that as a third year viola student, I had no idea what the "#" sign meant on that page of notes, and she mocked me in front of the entire jr. high orchestra. That was it for me. On that day the viola got pitched into the back of the linen closet and it never came out again. By the time I graduated high school, it had a lot of company… Can you picture me trying to get a piano in there?

Well, over this past weekend, as I was rummaging through the attic, I ran across my old viola, and for the first time in two decades, I opened the case. It still looks just like it did the last time I saw it, although it seems to have gotten oddly smaller. I know, I know... you’re wondering, “Can he still play?”

Sadly, I don’t know. A sting has broken, probably years ago. So, instead of playing my viola, I decided to take a picture of the instrument, as I see it. My poor broken viola, bearing the scars of being once owned by a 10-year-old, still seems complex and unreachable to me. The history of this little instrument towers over me, larger than life almost, and makes me think back with a bit of regret, a slight tinge of anger, and some unanswered questions.

If I had mastered the viola – if I had overcome my fear of getting past what was easy, and learned to do something hard – would it have changed me? Maybe I would have stayed with the piano (which I also quit because I couldn’t read the music). I might have been an eagle scout, or a gymnast… a published author, perhaps.

Of course all of these are ambiguous questions that don’t bear much relevance so many years after the fact. I’ve known my share of successes in life, as well as failures, and each has helped me to grow.

After taking its picture and holding it for a moment or two, I put my viola away, busted string and all, a little deeper in the attic this time. I’ll never sell it, but I may never look at it again either. Some things are best remembered for what they were, and not what they came to represent.

The peak of a short-lived career. Me and my viola in 1989.

E-bay, Here I Come

2009-01-31T02:31:00.007-06:00

My grandmother has a unique method of organizing things in her home. With the exception of her seven children, everything that has ever come into her house is still there, piled away in a cabinet or a box somewhere or crammed into some god-awful filing system that begs for a fire to put it out of its misery. I love the woman dearly, but I don’t try to organize in quite this manner.

If you come visit my house on most any given day, you’ll walk in and find it to be clean, sanitary, and well organized, etc. – a direct result of the fact that I have no children and far too much time on my hands. I’d like to think I’m one of those Type A personalities who believes that there is a place for everything and everything should be in its proper place. But that’s my just house on the surface.

Tonight I had to go up to the attic to look for something and I found this:

Okay, time out!!! When did I become my grandmother? Suddenly it all seems painfully clear. The Type A personality that I exude is only a façade… I’m really just a disorganized slob with an inferiority complex who relentlessly scrubs every visible surface (that might be seen by a guest) while cramming continually more and more crap into the unseen nooks and crannies of my home. How could I have gone 30 years without realizing this?

This disturbing mess is made all the more painful by the realization that I de-cluttered my life less than two years ago. When I moved to Minnesota, I either threw out or gave away pretty much everything that had achieved “crap”’ status up to that point – and it equaled several truckloads! Now look at me. There’s no hope! I’m a slovenly pack-rate and a walking fire-hazard. And there’s only one of me living in this house. Can you imagine how bad it would be if I wasn’t single? (Note to self: DO NOT show guys your attic on the first date!)

In the interest of continuing to propagate my own self-image as a perfectionist, it's time for a new beginning. I’m putting my attic on e-bay. I don’t yet have any idea how to do it, or if it has any chance of being profitable. But I’ve decided to dedicate my weekend to staying indoors (that part was an easy choice… brrrr!) and working my way through this mountain of crap.

Night of the Living Dead

2009-01-29T22:12:00.004-06:00

The future of our society and the integrity of humanity seemed bleak tonight as I watched the evening news. The Illinois governor went down in flames and President Obama lashed out at banking exec's for lining their own pockets with $30 Billion in bailout money. If you watch too much of that crap (the news) you find yourself starting to look at life and the future in increasingly dismal ways.

So for tonight, I think everyone should watch this 30 second news clip and hopefully have a bit of a chuckle. I certainly don't advocate delinquency, but I do believe that sometimes we take ourselves and the world around us far too seriously. Enjoy...

To Touch the Face of God

2009-01-28T21:31:00.003-06:00

A very good friend of mine bought me a calendar for Christmas that tells a little story about every day in US History. It’s one of those old fashioned types that require the user to rip off a page each day, and somehow I can just never seem to keep up with the thing. When I looked at it on my office desk at about 11 o’clock this morning, I saw that it still said January 14th, so I ripped off a handful of pages and was suddenly dumb struck by what I was looking at for “This Day In History – January 28th.”

Could it really have been 23 years since the loss of the Space Shuttle Challenger in 1986? That number makes it seem like such a long time ago, and yet I remember the day so vividly.

Christa McCullough, the teacher from New England, was to be the first civilian in space, and I, like about every school-kid on the continent, was subjected to weeks of anticipation propagated by the public school system which beamed universally at having one of their own in space. At McKinley Elementary, where I was a second grader in Mrs. Fullerton’s class, every student was watching on live national television as those seven people died. And the first breathless moments – those perilous seconds as white smoke billowed in every direction, and no one, not me, not my teacher, not the cameraman, not the announcer, not even the president knew what to do – those moments live in my memory as if they happened an hour ago.

That night, I sat on the living room floor and watched with my family as President Reagan addressed the nation. I specifically remember my father insisting that we all watch the speech. It was important to him and he wanted it to be important to his children. It was. Of all the presidential speeches I’ve heard in my life, those four minutes of history will always ring in my ears. “…and slipped the surly bonds of earth, to touch the face of God.” The man could well have been God to me.

Though I’ve since come to believe that God is not a Republican, I’ve always remembered The Gipper for that speech. Yes, it was canned and polished, and likely not written by the president, who appeared to be a week or two behind on his ritual application of Just For Men. But for a seven year old boy from Boise, he did what none of the other grown-ups on that day had been able to do… He made me feel better.

The Impeached Governors Club

2009-01-28T01:20:00.014-06:00

Am I the only person who is completely fascinated by the ongoing drama with the governor of Illinois? Only in America would a sitting governor abandon his own legal proceedings to appear on Larry King Live, and inform the news media that he wanted Oprah for a senator! I’m on the edge of my seat waiting to see what he does next. Maybe he’ll try to pardon himself, or sue the state senate, or better yet barricade himself inside the governor’s mansion with an AK-47 strapped to his chest. The possibilities are endless!!!

I suppose that my fellow Democrats and I have earned the black eye that this jack-ass has given us – bad karma, no doubt, for taking so much enjoyment in Republican misfortune over Larry Craig's airport bathroom incident.

Blagojevich (or as Jay Leno calls him, Blag-sonuvabitch), is about to join a small group of men in the annals of history. When the Illinois senate dismisses him later this week (yes, we have to wait for due process to play out, but is there really any doubt?) he will become only the eighth sitting governor in the nation’s history to be removed from office. Being the naturally inquisitive person that I am, I decided to do a little research on the men with whom he will share this unique platform.

The first gubernatorial career to succumb to the legislature was that of William Holden of North Carolina in 1871. Holden didn’t like the strangle-hold that the Ku Klux Klan was putting on his state in the years following the Civil War. When the Klan tried to reallocate the African Americans from two North Carolina counties, Holden declared martial law, a power not expressly granted to him in his state’s constitution. While Northerners sang the governor’s praises, his southern brothers were not amused and the legislature removed him from office. Seen as a traitor to the South, Holden fled north to a hero’s welcome in Washington, where President Grant appointed him U.S. Postmaster General, a position he held for the next decade.

Two governors have gone down over money scandals. David Butler of Nebraska (1871) and William Sulzer of New York (1913) both got caught with their hands in the proverbial cookie jar and were removed from office. Nebraska later reconsidered its verdict and expunged Gov. Butler’s record in 1877, but didn’t offer him his job back.

Governor James Ferguson of Texas was removed in a 1921 scandal that would have made Blag-sonuvabitch proud! When the University of Texas refused to dismiss a professor he didn’t care for, Ferguson took away their funding. Accordingly, the state legislature took away Ferguson’s job and barred him from ever holding elected office again. But Ferguson was popular with the people of Texas, and two years later, they elected his wife, Miriam as the state’s first female governor. “Ma Ferguson,” as she was called, averaged over 100 pardons a month while in office – a record never broken by any governor in US history – and many people believed that Mister Ferguson was really calling the shots during his wife’s tenure.

The most recent governor to be removed from office was Evan Meacham of Arizona in 1988. Meacham officially lost his job over a tax evasion scandal, but his real problem was that he just couldn’t stop pissing people off. His first act as governor was to take away state workers’ holiday pay on MLK Day. Then he publicly referred to African American children as “pickaninnys,” and when he was challenged on making all-white appointments to state office, he quipped “I appointed the best person for the cotton-pickin’ job!” (oops). The NAACP had a field day!

Then when Meacham made national headlines by telling a newspaper that America was “a Christian nation to a Jewish audience,” even his own party stopped defending him, and an old charge of tax evasion was quickly brought to light. It wasn’t a rock solid case, but it was enough, and the legislature removed Meacham from office. Incidentally he was later acquitted of tax evasion in a criminal trial.

As the numbers go, Oklahoma is the most dangerous place to be a state governor – two men to hold the seat have lost their jobs to impeachment. In 1923, a Grand Jury convened to hear charges against Gov. Jack Walton who had been dealing with racial tension in “less than democratic” ways. Irritated, Walton ordered National Guard troops into the courthouse to physically stop the proceedings. When the House met a few days later to hear impeachment articles, Walton called a joint session of the legislature and forbade them from trying him. But, they went ahead and had their trial anyway and Walton was removed from office.

Six years later, in 1929, Walton’s successor, Gov. Henry S. Johnston, tried to make the same plan work. When he was brought up on impeachment charges for siphoning money from a “Crippled Children’s Fund,” Johnston ordered the National Guard to surround the statehouse and prevent the legislature from meeting. His plan worked, to a certain extent. The legislature never tried him for his money crimes, but they must have thought he was pretty stupid for doing the same thing that cost the last governor his job. When they finally held their trial, they convicted Johnston of “general incompetence” and ousted him.

When you look at the company that he’ll be keeping on the short list of impeached governors, it appears as though Mr. Blagojevich will fit right in for the most part! With any luck he’ll be founding a new chapter within his elite group… the only impeached governor ever to do time in a federal prison.

The Impeached Governors Club

Top row left to right: William Holden, North Carolina; David Butler, Nebraska; William Sulzer, New York; James Ferguson, Texas.

Bottom row: Jack Walton, Oklahoma; Henry Johnston, Okahoma; Evan Meacham, Arizona; and Rod Blagojevich, Illinois

Monday: Picture and a Quote

2009-01-26T22:44:00.001-06:00

“I define nothing. Not beauty, not patriotism. I take each thing as it is, without prior rules about what it should be.”

Bob Dylan

Never Go Back

2009-01-26T00:36:00.008-06:00

It’s funny the attachments we have to the places in our lives where our futures were born and our memories still reside. Though it’s something of a national pastime to complain about one’s childhood (and for many people there is good reason to complain), I never do. I had a wonderful childhood growing up in this little house on Kirkwood street in Boise, Idaho.

It was a decent place, nothing spectacular or fancy, but a good home sitting squarely in the middle of the middle class, which is where my parents were when they paid $50,000 for it in 1982. The neighborhood back then was full of young families, mostly blue collars folks, who worked hard for the things they had, and were proud of them.

That front window on the right hand side was my bedroom, and I spent more hours than I could ever count climbing that old tree in the front yard. Of couse, in the blissful ignorance of youth, I didn’t realize the deep affection I would come to have for this house and the memories that go along with it.

After I left home, my parents eventually sold the place to my sister and her husband who lived there until their own family finally outgrew it two years ago, and it was sold again – to a stranger.
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Last weekend, when I was in Boise, I drove down Kirkwood street for the first time since the house left our family. I stopped to have a look at our humble little home, and I was completely mortified!

The new owners apparently caught the last wave of home loans given to those who should never have had them in the first place, and today, the house has been abandoned, condemned, and is deep in foreclosure proceedings. As you might expect, they left in a hurry without much regard for the home I grew up in. Doors are missing, windows are broken, the unkempt lawn is covered with trash, and inside they left overturned furniture, holes in the walls, and piles of empty beer cans and cigarette butts. There was even a bong in the front yard! All of these are images that I just can’t get out of my head.

These people (or rather their lender) paid my sister for the house, and they are in no way accountable to my family for their actions. Still, I can’t stop myself from feeling hurt by seeing something so important to me turned to trash…. It’s as thought they’ve deliberately besmirched my integrity and shit upon my memories. I shouldn’t take it so personally but I just can’t help feeling really, really angry.

Lacking a good shock-therapy treatment, I’m probably always going to remember that house the way I saw it last week, which is certainly not worthy of the history that lives there. By being curious, and going back to look, I let some ignorant stranger alter all of my childhood memories.

The tangible places we cherish most should be remembered for what they meant, and not what they became. The moral of my story is… never go back.

Two Things Challenge: Local / International

2009-01-25T10:38:00.006-06:00

Traveling south from Phoenix last week, I found this adorable little pottery shop, just a couple of miles from the Mexican border.

The merchandise was all hand crafted in Mexico or South America and was set up in this century-old building that operated almost as something of a street vendor. It was by far the neatest place I visited in the small town of Tubac, which is the oldest European settlement in Arizona.

The local relevance of this little shop, dealing in international goods, seemed like a good idea for this week's Two Things Challenge.

Top of the Pile

2009-01-24T05:26:00.010-06:00

For Sheila’s Photo Challenge: New Beginnings

I remember as a small child, every time I would learn about something of historical significance in school, I would always go home, dial up my grandpa on the telephone and do a quick fact-check with the version of the story my teacher had told me. Sure, it took a few tries before I had the timelines down just right (“Really Grandpa, you weren't alive during the War of 1812?”), but over the years I came to appreciate how much more poignant history can be when you experience it through primary sources. In my own way, I desired to hold onto as many primary sources as possible from the history that I got to see first hand.

So began my little tradition of collecting newspapers. On those days when something big happens and you just know that the headlines, screamed in all caps size 85 font, will resonate into the history books, I always buy a paper. I don’t read it, or even open it up, preferring to get my news from the internet. Instead, I stash away my little pieces of history in a chest, hoping that one day my own memories and mementoes will be as powerful to someone else, as my grandfather’s were to me.

The inauguration of Barack Obama constituted one of these paper-stashing days, and as I was filing away my inaugural copy of USA Today last night, I took a moment to reflect back on the news events of the past decade that have altered or impacted my life in one way or another. Without question, the induction of our nation’s 44th president deserved a spot among these annals of history.

I'm curious... what things to do you remember from the days when some of these papers rolled off the presses?

I'm Not Going Back There, and You Can't Make Me!!!!

2009-01-23T11:53:00.002-06:00

After a full week of relaxation and soaking up as much Arizona sun as I possibly could, I am (under protest) dragging myself to the airport in half an hour to catch a plane back to ~~the god forsaken Arctic pit where I live~~ Minneapolis. My newly acquired tan is sure to make me popular back home among friends whose skin hasn’t seen the light of day since last September.

While I wish I could take the heat back with me, I also want to take this little beauty as well:

Do you think it will fit in the overhead compartment?

I made a commitment to myself years ago to always rent fun cars while on vacation. It really isn’t that much more, and it just gives you another experience you would never have back home.

On my last day full day in Arizona, my aunt and I visited the Casa Grande` ruins south of Phoenix. These things are incredible! They were ancient ruins when the Spaniards first came through here 400 years ago, and today we only know a little about the people who built them and later abandoned them.

It’s made of caliche` which is a cement-like desert mud, but it is slowly eroding, so a roof has been erected to protect it. I was completely fascinated by the history lesson here, and left in awe that a people we consider to be “primitive” could build such an amazing structure.

After Casa Grande` we drove up some canyon (good thing I had a local tour guide, because I was lost) to the little tiny-tiny-tiny town of Tortilla Flats, which really isn’t much more than a bar. My aunt had an especially interesting experience there!

And that was it… This morning I wrapped up my nick-knacks, loaded the bags in the front seat of the convertible (there is no trunk) and now, I’m off to Minneapolis… and this:
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Pray for me!

Sometimes No Words Are Necessary

2009-01-22T22:16:00.002-06:00

Southwest Tongue Twisters

2009-01-22T11:43:00.010-06:00

San Xavier del Bac, Tubac, and Tumacácori

Say that five times really fast.....
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Yesterday we headed south of Phoenix about 100 miles down I-10 and past Old Tucson to check out some of the old Spanish settlements and Jesuit Missions, which are all a very big part of Arizona’s history and left a large footprint on the culture here.
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This is Mission San Xavier del Bac, which was built by Jesuit Missionaries in 1699. It’s still in use today as a Catholic place of worship. The chapel is just so fascinating and the artwork incredible, especially considering the age. I believe the building has been renovated a few times to preserve it and make it look as it would have during the Jesuits' days.
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Next to the Mission is large rocky hill, which was kind of interesting as well. A large lion statue guards the path up the hillside, and at the top there is a big white cross. Having gone over a month now without a cigarette (yay!), I found the wind to make it up to the top. It wasn’t easy, but the view was worth it! .

Down the road a few miles, the town of Tubac is the oldest settlement in Arizona. Native Americans established a village here hundreds of years ago, and in 1752, Spanish traders built a fort on the same ground, called a “presidio” which served as the geographic center of numerous Southwest missions for decades. Although the fort is now gone (with the exception of part of one wall), many of the historic buildings have been preserved, and it was really a neat little place to walk through. We ate lunch at a little café in Tubac and wandered through some shops selling pottery and other original southwestern décor.
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Tumacácori was the last stop of the day. Apparently it’s pronounced too-mah-kah-KO-ri, but I kept saying it tuma-KACK-eri… (I tend to put my own personal spin on English, and other languages I pretty much butcher altogether!). Tumacácori was also a Jesuit mission but it’s distinctly different from San Xavier del Bac, because it is standing today exactly as it stood when the Jesuits left it a couple hundred years ago. The chapel and surrounding buildings are incredible, and there’s an old burial ground in the courtyard.
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The neatest thing at Tumacácori was an elderly Hispanic lady serving hand made tortillas.
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It was so interested to watch her knead the dough, and when I say “knead,” I actually mean she was beating the hell out of it! She spoke no English but her gestures made it pretty clear that she thought I was too skinny and I needed to eat. So she kept handing me tortillas (which were delicious) in the hope of fattening me up. If I could speak Spanish, I would have shared with her my new years resolutions!

As History Unfolds

2009-01-20T22:50:00.007-06:00

On the day that will always be remembered as historic among the ages, I was wandering around Mesa, Arizona tracking down a little history of my own.

Today Mesa is a suburb of Phoenix, but the history of the two towns is very separate. Mesa was settled by a few families of Mormon emigrants back in the 1880s, including my great-great grandfather who built this house.
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It’s one of the oldest houses in town and is now listed on the state historic registry. I was itching to see the inside, and if I had seen any signs of life, I might have asked for a closer look. But, there are signs everywhere that say “No Trespassing,” so I got the idea that the present owners didn’t want company very badly.

Other activities for the day included a visit to a park where ancient Indian canals can still be seen. That’s me down inside one of them:
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Aside from that it was a VERY lazy vacation day, mostly spent soaking up some sun, working on a tan, and watching Barack Obama become our nation’s 44th president. Part of me really wanted to be there today, to bask in the political landscape and watch history be made. However, the 80 degree temperatures made DC look a little less appealing.

I found it interesting that exactly one century ago, William Howard Taft was sworn in on those same steps and made a speech to the same country in which is he said, “It’s time we recognized that Negroes are, in fact, Americans.”

When I think about my great-great grandfather building his house in the Arizona heat, 100 years seems like forever ago. But strangely, when I think about how far we I’ve come since President Taft’s time, and his point of view, a century doesn’t seem like that long at all.
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Like many American's I recognize that achievement and recovery can't come overnight. We hope that the results of the Bush administration vs. the Obama administration are like day and night (no pun intended). But overall, the events of today gave me hope… Hope that we can always remember our past; hope that we can use the examples of the present to make our tomorrows better than our todays; and most importantly, hope that we, as a people and a generation, can the leave the world a better place than we found it.

Saguaros - A Lesson in Patience

2009-01-19T23:17:00.007-06:00

On day one of the trip that I’m calling “Thaw Out 2009,” I met up with my aunt (who is also a fellow-blogger) in Mesa, Arizona. She’s lived in the area for years and took me sightseeing today on the deserts outside of Phoenix where it was 80 degrees today!
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There is no place in the world like this, no scenery so stunning, and no skies quite so blue. Though rugged and unforgiving on its surface, the deserts of Arizona seem to live in a delicate balance that makes its beauty quite intoxicating.

I found this sign to be quite fascinating, like the Hollywood sign in California. In 1920, when only about 10,000 people lived in this remote desert outpost, a landmark was installed to help mail planes find the small town. Today, with about 4.2 million people, I imagine the mail planes don’t have as much trouble – but I think it’s kind of neat that the sign has always remained.

The dominating features of the Sonora desert around Phoenix are the saguaro cactuses (actually I think the plural is cacti but I just don’t like saying that word, and since the spell-checker-thingy is letting get away with cactuses I’m sticking with it). You can find cactuses about any place on earth, but the giant saguaros (pronounced suh-WAHR-o) are found exclusively in Southern Arizona – this is the only place on the planet that they will grow.

They start out as tiny little things that squeeze through the desert floor and begin an excruciatingly slooooooow vertical climb. When they’re about 75 years old, they sprout their first arm.
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Then, with a little luck, they’ll grow more arms and continue to gain height, sometimes getting as tall as 40 feet. Most will live 150 years or more.

At the end of their life cycle, they turn brown and decay, revealing a bony interior skeleton.
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Eventually, the effect of the elements combined with the loss of its root system do in the centuries-old structure, and it falls.
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I have to wonder what was happening in the world when this old cactus was born, likely in revolutionary times or before.
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The number of saguaros on the Sonora is mind-boggling. They seem to live in massive colonies that roll across the desert and disappear into the panoramic mountains, silhouetted against the desert sky. The cactuses look like little green toothpicks on the horizon.

Because they’re so rare, saguaros are protected by law, and even homebuilders must gain permits from the state in order to relocate or destroy one. Accordingly, many of the newer developments that are creeping out onto the Sonora tend to just leave them alone and build around them. In the middle of one of these neighborhoods, I saw the remnant of an old saguaro that made me laugh. He’s huge, 30+ feet tall probably, and he tells a story. Near the end of his life, he witnessed his desert home become a subdivision. It was apparently more than he wanted to stick around for, and he died. Over time, his once great arms (five of them) began to weaken and they fell to the earth, all but one – the middle one – which stayed upright, ominously positioned as if to send a final dying message to the world that stole his home.
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Monday: Picture and a Quote

2009-01-19T23:09:00.005-06:00

"You aspire to great things? Begin with little ones."

Saint Augustine

A Rural January

2009-01-18T21:29:00.008-06:00

I was in Idaho over the weekend and took the opportunity to visit my good friend Donna, who owns a horse ranch west of Boise. A horse ranch in January is kind of a quiet place, and there isn't much going on. A few months from now, there will be foaling, breeding, training, competing, etc., but for now the place is sort of sleeping. The sense of inactivity, but with a whole array of life just around the corner, made it seem like a good idea for Sheila's Photo Challenge Theme of New Beginnings.

Ranches are just amazing places to take photographs. Every soft corner and each shimmer of light has a story to tell. Life just seems delightfully simple here.

Lonely hay fork.

The big man on campus. A stallion's life is pretty cushy in January.
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Very curious!
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If you've ever lived on a farm, you know that bailing twine is about like duct-tape -- you can literally do ANYTHING with it!!
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This little lady's name is Ace Of Spades. I'm a little partial to her because I used to own her mother.

Sharing the Chill

2009-01-14T23:24:00.004-06:00

In an effort to convince myself that there MUST be someplace on earth colder than Minneapolis, I set out on a quest tonight. In little more than an hour, I circumnavigated the globe checking in on a few spots that I thought might just be a touch colder than our low temperature of -19° F. For each of the places below, I’ve included today’s low temperature (in Fahrenheit) and a few interesting facts. Just for the record, I have never been to any of these places, and I did not take these photos.
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Reykjavik, Iceland, 37° F
A popular tourist destination for people in desert climates, Iceland’s capital has surprisingly mild winters and cool, rainy summers. Eight months out of the year, a local travel organization sponsors a three day trip to Minneapolis to visit the Mall of America. The trip gets scrapped in the winter months though – Minnesota is just too cold for them!

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Godthab, Greenland, 9° F
On most maps, you’ll find the capital of Greenland listed under the Danish name which means “Good Hope.” But the locals often call their town Nuuk, which means “sunny side of the island” in the Greenlandic language. Thanks to warm air spinning off the Gulf Stream, Godthab has milder winters than might be expected considering its location inside the Arctic Circle. But don’t let the milder-than-Minnesota winters fool you. Snow falls in every month of the year at Godthab, and summer temperatures rarely get above 40° F.

Svalbard Islands 6° F
This group of islands sits in the middle of the Arctic Ocean, about half way between Northern Europe and the North Pole. Only 2,300 people live on the islands, which have been a possession of Norway since 1925. The fjords in this place are some of the most pronounced in the world, sporting vertical drops of 1000 feet in places. Summers are short and cool in Svalbard, and winters are colder than most places on the globe.

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Barrow, Alaska; -2° F
As the northernmost city in the United States, as well as the North American mainland, Barrow knows what it’s like to be cold. On average there are only 41 days per year in which the temperature stays above freezing, and the highest temperature ever recorded is 79 degrees. It’s also the only inhabited place in the nation where the sun never rises in the days surrounding the winter solstice… Not just very short days, but 100% night! And still, Barrow was 17 degrees warmer than Minneapolis today.

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Anadyr`, Siberia, -31° F
As one of the furthest government outposts from Moscow, the city had some significance during the Cold War, but lately there’s not much to do in a place where winter temperatures regularly exceed -30 below. During the four warmest weeks of the year, in July, a cruise leaves Anadyr` for a summer tour of the Arctic, eventually ending up in the Canadian province of Nunavut. I take some level of comfort, amid the sadistic guilt, in knowing that somebody somewhere is colder than I am.

Minnesota Cold

2009-01-13T20:46:00.015-06:00

Remember the scene in Dr. Zhivago when Omar Sharif escapes the forced servitude of the Bolsheviks and comes stumbling home through miles of Siberian winter? When he finds that his family has packed up and left, he goes to the apartment of the girl he was ~~doing~~ seeing on the side, and arrives completely frozen, maddened, sniveling, and with ice hanging off of every corner on his body. Well, that’s about what I looked like this morning, and all I did was walk from the house to the car and then from the car to the office door.

The temperature in Minneapolis at sunrise today was -24 degrees below zero, but tonight it’s warmed up to a balmy -13 below. And at some point during the day, I came to a difficult and painful realization… I’m going to die!

Life as I know it simply cannot function at these temperatures! In the first place, nothing works. My car moaned its discontent this morning when I asked it to turn the engine over. Then, the first time I went to shift, the clutch engaged and wouldn’t let go… the spring was frozen. Last night, lying in bed, I was listening to my house make low pitched crackling noises as the joints flexed against the extreme cold. Then tonight, when I tried to get my back door open, I almost had to throw myself against it. Every decent pair of shoes I own is now covered with salt debris and there isn’t enough long underwear in the state to block out the wind. And I can do some more bitching too…

Did you happen to catch this post last fall? It was composed on one of those warm and brilliantly colored fall days when everything seemed so harmonious that I was compelled to expound on just how much I enjoy living in Minnesota. I must have been drunk.

Having completely rescinded any and all pleasantries about this state, I now stand strictly on principle in asking the question: What, in the name of all-that-is-holy, compelled the pioneers to say to each other, “Hey, let’s stop here and build a great big city!”?

Then, to make matters worse, future generations exacerbated the problem by breeding and filling the state with millions of people who founded corporations which drew more people. Somewhere along the line, some dirt-bag started making beer and cheese in the state next door, and even MORE people came. Now, we’re all stuck here… and we’re going to die.

Forget our undecided senate race!! The people of Minnesota don’t need another US Senator – we need some freakin’ heat. Can anyone help us… please?

Monday: Picture and a Quote

2009-01-12T23:29:00.005-06:00

“I can scarcely permit myself to rebuke those who would shelter their lives in expectation and conformity. But oh, the boundless wisdom! the unmolested courage of he who rises upon empty shores and stands alone to spit against the wind.”

Unknown...

in referrence to Gen. Andrew Jackson

New Beginnings... or Shooting the Wounded

2009-01-11T13:51:00.006-06:00

The theme for Sheila’s Photo Challenge this month is New Beginnings, which reminded me of my good friend AJ who has recently gotten wrapped up in a new beginning of his own.

Isn’t it great when your friends fall head over heels for someone and suddenly it’s as if you don’t exist anymore? Oh sure, there’s the ceremonious meeting of the new person over dinner, coffee, or a stroll through an art gallery, after which your friend dutifully wants your “honest opinion.” This really means that he just expects you to reassure him of his good judgment on a decision that has already been made. Afterwards, there might be a movie or board game night, with Chinese take-out, and a collective group of both parties’ friends. But once those formalities are out of the way, old friendships just sort of drift away, or at least get put on hold.

AJ met Christopher early in the holiday season, and since then, I haven’t really heard much from him. Granted, that’s only a little over a month, but gay years work kind of like dog years – seven to one, or something like that – so these two are well past the honeymoon stage. If they make it a year, it will be considered a long-term relationship; five years would be significantly against all odds; and if they survive twenty years together, I’m sure there is some organization somewhere that will give them a plaque and name a drink after them.

I once heard a quote that a cynic is someone who comes onto the battlefield after the fighting is over and shoots the wounded. By that measure I suppose I’m being overly negative about my friend’s good fortune. But then, that’s the great thing about having really good friends: They can be happy for you, but if that “Knight in Shining Armor” turns out to be a “Hooker in Shiny Boots,” you’ve always got a friend to fall back on.

Two Things Challenge: Whole / Partial

2009-01-11T11:53:00.007-06:00

I had many great ideas for this weeks Two Things Challenge, but they all required leaving the house, and it's too cold and miserable for that! But, I'm going a little stir-crazy here in my urban den, so I finally just started walking around the house with my camera and looking for something that jumped out at me. This is the first thing that did, although admittedly it's more of a "hole" than a "whole."

I assume the shaft was installed for ventilation between the upper and lower floors in my home. This vent is usually covered with a screen which I removed to peer down at the partial view of my dining room from above the twelve foot ceiling. As you can see, I'm not as proficient at removing cobwebs as I should be, but I thought they gave the piano and dining room table an almost sinister look... A little creepy, but kind of neat. Living in an old house definitely has its perks (he said, as he coughed up $400 for this month's heating bill).

Footnote: After taking this photograph, I began to feel like a slob, so I dutifully cleaned out the cobwebs from this and a few other "holes" in the house.

Rubber Money

2009-01-10T02:04:00.007-06:00

I work at the corporate offices of a large grocery chain, and a big part of my job has to do with checks... Yes, remember checks? They were those little paper tear-out things that you'd write at the grocery store in lieu of cash.
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I haven't actually written one in about five years now, but my job reminds me that there are still people out there that use them each and every day. To be precise, 13% of people still use them when buying groceries.
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Checks are horrible. They cost money to process, they are slow to clear, and they often bounce. Worst of all, I am the supermarket shopper in line behind the 172-year-old person who proceeds to spend the better part of an afternoon slowly writing out their check to the cashier. If you are one of that 13%, kindly find the person nearest you and demand that they slap you right now. .

I'll wait while you go do that................
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Okay, now then, head down to the bank and ask your teller to introduce you to the wonderful world of debit cards. Don't you feel enlightened already?

I came to work one day recently to find a letter on my desk that was addressed in long-hand to the "Bownced Chek Dipartmunt." There was no return address, but the postmark said New Orleans.

Hmmmm.... A bomb perhaps? No, it's too small. Besides, the mailroom opens all incoming mail, reads it, screens it, sniffs it, tries-it-on, etc., then re-seals it and delivers it to the intended recipient in the building. This irritating little rule frequently inspires me to mail birthday cards to co-workers filled with as much confetti as you can possibly shove into a standard greeting-card-sized envelope.

Anyway, when I opened the letter I found a short, sweet, and anonymous hand-written note that said:
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"I rote bad cheks at your store due to my wife left me and I cudn't make the paymint on the trayler so I went back to drinking. I know it must of hurt you caus I lyed and said I had mony in my bank acount and I didnt. I am shur it made you mad at me and I am sorry I rote bad cheks at your store."

Apparently this gentleman's formative years were well before "No child left behind." I'm certainly glad he has made amends, but I fear that his troubles won't end with his heart felt come-to-Jesus letter. When he gets out of AA, he'll need to sign up for Hooked On Phonics. And since his credit is likely so bad that he has to show ID when paying with cash, he may need a session or two with Consumer Credit Counseling.

The only winner in all this... his wife!

I hope the mailroom enjoyed this letter as much as I did.
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The Gentlemen's Club

2009-01-08T00:41:00.005-06:00

Despite my deeply honest efforts not to get political in this venue, I couldn’t help but reflect on the historic moment that occurred today in the Oval Office.

There they stood: Jimmy Carter, George H.W. Bush, Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, and Barack Obama. All gathered at the White House for a luncheon of the world’s most elite gentlemen’s club. Regardless of your political persuasions or your personal feelings about the forthcoming administration, such a gathering offered a little something for everyone. Oh, to be a fly on the wall during that lunch!

They’re getting older now, as everyone (with the possible exception of Cher) seems to do. But the moment held monumental importance, and perhaps a bit of temperance for a nation rocked by hard times. These men have walked those very halls in the some of the darkest times of our nation, when perhaps they wondered, as every president must, “what if it all goes to hell on my watch?” There was just something comforting in their being there, troubles and political nightmares behind them, smiling, remembering the good times and the bad, and offering their non-partisan support to a rookie in the club. It's good to see them on the other side -- kind of like running into an old teacher or coach.

One has to wonder how the man who holds that job looks to the image and memory of those before. Do they all see themselves as the Lincoln of their day? In the last scene of Oliver Stone’s historical drama, Nixon, just before Richard Nixon walks into the East Room to resign to a bitter nation, he looks up at a painting of JFK and says to his deceased former rival, “When they look at you they see what they want to be. When they look at me they see what they are.”

On November 4th, I believe that the American people, in the scariest of times, voted for “hope” because that’s what we were on that day – a nation riding on hope. And I pray that today, standing amid all his living predecessors, Barack Obama found a little wisdom to help prop up our hope.

Monday: Picture and a Quote

2009-01-05T22:48:00.003-06:00

"You are your own window, through which you must see the world."

Lady Bird Johnson

Sub-Zero Sunrise

2009-01-04T15:07:00.012-06:00

The National Weather Service said the "official" temperature in Shakopee was four below when I woke up this morning, with a wind chill of -18. Yet the day was crisp and clear in a way that made the sunlight appear as almost a tangible thing, which stained itself painfully upon the horizon, showering of light, but eclipsed of heat.
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Perfectly blue, cloudless days are rare in the Twin Cities, especially in the winter, so I wanted to capture this one. After putting on about three layers of clothes and the thickest gloves I could find, I warmed up the car and headed over the Minnesota River and into the woods across the Chanhassen Bridge, to watch from a distance as the sun came up over my sleepy little town.
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One of the things I love about living in Shakopee is the collision of two worlds that seems to happen here. Being just 30 minutes from downtown Minneapolis, the town has a wanna-be-urban feel. But, as suburbs go, Shakopee constitutes the extreme corner of the Twin Cities metro area; the flank, if you will. Beyond us is just farms and woodlands. I often joke that it's the place where Mary Tyler Moore meets Garrison Keeler.
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This is called Rice Lake, but it's really not much of a lake at all. About 15 miles east of here, the Minnesota river finds the mighty Mississippi, and in warmer seasons, the confluence slows the water enough that it pools out into little eddies and swamps for several miles upstream. In the summer time the water here is rank and pungent and surrounded by bogs that make these cattails inaccessible. In the winter however, you can walk right out onto the swamp.

The pictures might look colder if the trees were wrapped in frost, but you almost never see frost in Minnesota -- I kind of miss it. To get frost, you need air that is warm enough to hold moisture content, and ours is not.
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The funny thing about taking pictures when it's this cold (and windy) outside, is that you have to take your gloves off to hit the shutter-button on the camera. After only a few seconds your fingers go completely numb and it takes a few minutes back in the glove before you gain dexterity back. During one of those particularly useless moments, a deer walked casually into view. In my fruitless attempts to make my fingers work I dropped my camera in the snow and by the time I found it again he was gone...
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We had a light dusting of snow last night, which you can see clearly here. Nothing major -- an inch perhaps.
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At the end of my little walk through the woods and the swamp, I sat in my car for about 15 minutes before my frozen feet were capable of operating the pedals and my fingers were nimble enough to shift and steer.

Heading back into town, I thought the railroad tracks had a very ominous look. The early Union Pacific line comes through here at about 3AM, so it must have still been snowing after that, since the tracks are covered.

This is a fountain in the local park. I'm not sure why they leave it running in the winter, but they always do. The ice forms that it generates with the constant barrage of water can be really intriguing.
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St. Marks Cathedral looms above the plow-line on the main highway and greets the Sunday sunrise. Even at -18 below, there are little moments of joy to be found in this place.

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My Friend... Lollipop

2009-01-04T00:44:00.014-06:00

Standing beside her in the corral for what I knew would be the last time, my mind raced back through the years… so many memories. I really didn’t try to hold back the tears that I knew would come, and staring deep into the eyes of a life-long companion, I found myself at a loss for words. “Why can’t we just live forever, old girl?” I whispered as I stroked her soft coat.

Her life and career had been nothing short of a legacy in the horse world, but she was now past the age of thirty and I had known for a long time that this day would come. The unyielding hands of time had brought forth a touching twilight to the amazing life of a little sorrel mare named “Lollipop.”

She was born in 1970 on my grandfather’s horse ranch in southern Idaho. As a baby, Lollipop was sold to a family with small children who never rode her and severely overfed her. She was foundered and near death in 1976 when my grandfather bought her back, hoping to rehabilitate her. Most foundered horses never make a full recovery, and he hoped at the time that maybe his youngest daughter could eventually ride her a little.

After a year of difficult rehabilitation her training began and everyone was surprised to see the incredible bursts of speed that the little mare possessed of over short distances. It is simply within the laws of physics that small horses will outrun big ones for short sprints, but Lollipop seemed to have a fire in her that told my grandfather she could be more than just a kid-pony. Intrigued, he personally used her in a rodeo one Sunday afternoon and was shocked when he took home first prize.

So began her competition career at the age of seven; a late start for a horse with any hope of fame in the arena. But her speed and natural ability, coupled with skilled training, made her stiff competition. She was a small horse. With a good thick set of shoes on, she might have stood 14 hands high… maybe. A grown man looked a little funny straddling her, but no one ever laughed when Lollipop started to run. Her stride measured 25 feet – equal to that of Secretariat, who stood over 17 hands high.

A running horse is a beautiful thing – like poetry in motion…usually. This was not the case with our little mare. When Lollipop ran, it was more of an all-out, sprawling, teeth-clenching, fire-breathing, desperate hurdle to the finish line. Observers would say that when she started to run, it was almost as if she unfurled an extra three feet of leg. And what she lacked in style she more than made up for in heart and pure damn grit. It may not have been a thing of beauty, but she always won!

By 1979 Lollipop was competing at rodeos on the national circuit, and that same year broke a rodeo barrel record by 1.26 seconds.

Lollipop was several years older than me, so I really don’t remember her glory days in the arena, although I grew up marveling at her wall of trophies. But I vividly remember as a child feeding her oats and handfuls of grass through the fence, and those treasured occasions when grandpa would saddle her up and let us ride around the front lawn.

Being raised mostly in the city, it was always my joy to be able to visit my grandparents’ horse ranch, and Lollipop, to me, was sacred. I can remember introducing her, from across the fence, to the grown-ups as “my friend… Lollipop,” personifying her in the way that children do. I’m certain she was the first horse I ever rode, and although I’ve been on many since, I never climb into a saddle without thinking about the old girl.

Although she was a highly skilled athlete with speed and quickness to unseat even the most hardened rider, she had a knack for being a good babysitter, never overdoing it with us kids. I think I was about five or six the time she dumped me. I was riding her up and down the driveway on a summer afternoon, a short distance from another mare that was tied beside the barn. “Don’t get too close to old Nugget,” Grandpa had warned. “She’ll kick Lollipop!” But being young, fearless, and far too naïve about horses, I rode in for a closer look at Nugget as soon as the adults were on the other side of the house. Well, sure enough, she kicked. Lollipop jumped just in time to avoid contact, but did it quickly enough that we parted company and I landed flat on my back in the gravel. Of course I started to scream and Grandpa came running. He got me to my feet, dusted me off, and scolded me profusely before teaching that valuable lesson: Always get back on!

Since she competed throughout her youth, Lollipop didn’t have her first foal until she was 18 years old. Cookie, as the baby would later be named, was by all means a sight! Born prematurely, she was unable to nurse, or even stand without human intervention. Her coat wasn’t fully grown in yet, and covered her body in patchy, uneven tufts. Her ears hung down like a hound dog and she had a wiry excuse for a tail never really did grow in. “So damn ugly, she’s almost cute,” we would tease. But Lollipop was a proud mother and raised Cookie to be a fine mare; the first of six foals she would bare during her brood career.

When she was 31 years old, and I was 22, Lollipop left our ranch for the last time to live out her remaining days on a smaller farm with the time and facilities to care for an elderly horse. That was almost a decade ago. I never learned her final fate and part of me doesn’t want to know. It’s as though I keep her in a place where she and my memories will be safe from time and age.

I’ll never forget the last time I fed her grain from my hand, and brushed the dust from her graying coat. ... Her gentle nudge and knicker that told me, “I know where we’re going and I understand.” To an unfamiliar observer, she was just a small sorrel horse; more of a pony, really. To anyone who knew her in the arena, she was a legacy of performance and skill – a vehicle to the jackpot, or a feared competitor, but either way, respected. But to me, she will remain the stoic companion who grew old as I grew up. Wise beyond human understanding, reverent in a way that can only be seen through the eyes of a child, she was, and always be, in my heart, just “my friend… Lollipop.”

This picture, and the one above are the only two I have of Lollipop. That's my father riding her, which is a bit odd. My mom was the rider in the family, and it was her dad that owned Lollipop. Based on the age of my dad in these photos, I'm assuming they were taken about the time my parents married - 1977.

Re-Decorator's Block

2009-01-03T17:54:00.004-06:00

When “the boys” and their dog moved out of my house a few days before Christmas, everything seemed odd around here. There is no more Siberian Husky bounding into my room at 5:30 every morning; there is no longer anyone around to coordinate meals with, or barter cleaning duties against. And most strangely, when I get home from work in the evening the house looks just exactly as it did when I left that morning – that’s probably the hardest thing to get used to.

I’ve spent the last two weeks grappling with what do now that they’re gone and I have another spare bedroom: Rent-it, or Don’t Rent-it. I was completely torn for a while, first leaning one way, then the other.

On the pro-rent-it side, I’m a highly social person who thrives on constant interaction with other people (okay, let’s just call it what it is – I’m needy!!). Also, the rent money helps with the mortgage payment. And of course, since I travel a lot, it’s nice to know that someone I trust is always here.

But on the anti-rent-it side, there’s the hunt for a roommate that just seems grueling. In the past my roommates have been good friends, but if I did it now, I’d probably have to run an ad, do interviews, check rental histories… blah! It seems like a lot of work. Then there’s the worry about personalities. I’m the type of person who tends to be the decision maker most of the time, and I don’t really deal well at all with other strong-willed people (any question as to why I’m still single??). While the rent money is nice, it isn’t mandatory for my survival. And when I’m not home, I have wonderful neighbors who would be happy to check in on the place.

So, I made my decision: No more roommates!

With that controversy out of the way, I now have to decide what to do with the spare bedroom, and I’m completely clueless. I have absolutely no knack for this sort of thing, so I’m petitioning my blog-friends for some advice. What in the world should I do with this space?:

I’m thinking I will keep it a bedroom, (since I have no place else to put the extra bed, or that giant dresser which wont make it up this narrow staircase to the master bedroom:
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Trust me, I’ve tried. Well, let me rephrase that… the movers tried while I supervised. It ain’t going up!

But the curtains are old and drab, the colors are not all that exciting, the bed has no headboard (tacky!) and there’s just generally no sense of anything exciting happening in this room. Guest rooms are where you’re supposed to show off your taste and your style. I think I used up all my artistic flare on my other guest bedroom.

So far the only decision I’ve made is to go buy a real bed frame but again I’m torn. Should I go with an antique brass rail look? What about a cool wooden bed with big posts? Does it have to match the dresser? And then there’s the walls… BOOOOOORING! I can live with white of course (it works with the hundred-year-old house) but it needs pictures, or paintings, and some sort of theme, plus it all has to tie in somehow to the rest of the home. I’m lost… truly. Here's a little insight to the other rooms in the house. Any advice is appreciated! :)

New Years Un-Resolutions

2009-01-01T14:48:00.002-06:00

It seems as though every year on or about this day, I determine that it’s high time to change this, that, or the other, about me or my life and set in stone a series of goals that are helplessly marred from their very onset.

This year, I’m doing things differently. A few weeks ago I began to think of the goals that I was going to set for myself, and it suddenly occurred to me… Why? I already know that apathy and indecision will get the best of me. So rather than feel slovenly and inept about three months from now, I’m simply choosing to not set any goals, and kill any chance of self-improvement right in its infancy.

While this might sound condescendingly as though my glass is “half-empty,” I’d like to present some evidence, from past years, which has led me to the difficult decision of doing absolutely nothing this year:

Drink less alcohol, and more water.
This one makes a great resolution about nine hours into the New Year when you wake up on the floor in the fetal position with your face gnashed against a crumpled party hat. First you struggle to remember what happened the night before, and once you do, you'll probably struggle to forget it as you begin the slow search for your dignity. The accompanying resolve to better one's self in this regard makes a gallant effort all the way up to the next Friday night!

Gain some weight
Yup, it’s been tried faithfully and failed repeatedly! My mother always told me that as soon as I hit thirty I would probably fill out and not be quite so scrawny. That clock has struck, mom… I’m still waiting! The real problem is a metabolism that likes to operate at the speed of jackrabbits humping, and thus far seems indifferent to age, diet, or willpower.

Join a gym and tone up a bit
This is closely tied to the last goal. I have joined gyms before, several times in fact, but weighing in at around a buck forty (soaking wet), I’m lucky if I can bench-press the bar, which makes me look a little stupid. I’ve even hired personal trainers in the past. Somehow though, getting instruction from a Greek God half my age who could compress my body weight with his knuckle, also does nothing for my ambition, and just makes me feel worse about myself. So yeah, scratch the gym!

Give money to causes I believe in
Last year, when it appeared that the right to live in marital bliss might be adorned upon my brothers (okay, “sisters”) out in California, I wrote several large checks in support of the cause. A lot of good that did!… But then again, maybe it’s all for the best. Gay people have the easiest divorces on earth under the status quo -- why give that up? If I donate any money this year, I think it will be to charitable, non-political causes. Maybe I could donate to Toys For Tots, and help a little California boy get his first Barbie doll.

Take on the landscaping project in the back yard that I’ve been putting off for two years now.
Here again comes the apathy and indecision, which I suppose are just fancier terms for the underlying levels of monumental laziness that prevented any kind of past action. Seriously, I couldn’t even make myself call the tree-trimmer this fall, or take the mower in for an oil change. I’m sure I’ll find the ambition somewhere to take on an all-summer-long yard work project. Let me get right on that!

Fifty States Tour

2008-12-31T22:14:00.013-06:00

Between the fall of 2002 and the summer of 2008 I visited every state in the USA. At the conclusion of my journey, I began the slow process of sharing my experiences from each of them on my blog, Broken Filter.

During the six months it took me to complete a posting about every state I made some wonderful friends, learned a lot of information, and gained some perceptive feedback from my readership. If you’ve missed any of the states across my journey, below is a link to each of them. They all reflect not only my own experiences, but also some history, humor, trivial facts, and to some extent, the mood of the writer on the day they were composed. I can be brutally forward in my writing, and at times blunt. So if you happen to live in or love one of the states that I didn’t care for, please don’t take it personally.

Feel free to peruse my adventures as you plan your own. Since you certainly won't read about all of them now, consider saving this post-link as a favorite, or sharing it with a friend. Bonus points to anyone who advertises it on their blog! :) ....shameless plug, I know.

I always appreciate reader comments, even on old posts, so don’t be shy!

Introduction

Alabama

Alaska

Arizona
Arkansas
California
Colorado
Connecticut
Delaware
District of Columbia
Florida
Georgia
Hawaii
Idaho
Illinois
Indiana
Iowa
Kansas
Kentucky
Louisiana
Maine
Maryland
Massachusetts
Michigan
Minnesota
Mississippi
Missouri
Montana
Nebraska
Nevada
New Hampshire
New Jersey
New Mexico
New York
North Carolina
North Dakota
Ohio
Oklahoma
Oregon
Pennsylvania
Rhode Island
South Carolina
South Dakota

Tennessee

Texas
Utah
Vermont
Virginia
Washington
West Virginia
Wisconsin
Wyoming

Conclusion

Make your own map of the states you've visited.

Discovery

2008-12-31T21:30:00.007-06:00

"Travel far enough away my friend, and you will see something of great beauty… your self." That was printed on the program when I saw Cirque du Soleil, at The Bellagio about five years ago. I was seeing Las Vegas for the first time on that particular trip and those words held deep meaning for me. I never forgot them.

Each time I’ve crossed a state border this past half-decade, I’ve thought about that quote, and I wondered, if when I got to the end – when I had crossed all the borders there were to cross – would I be different? Would I feel smarter or more rounded? What things might I gain in my travels across America that I could share, and more importantly, how would I share them?

The thing that I’ve come to realize through various adventures is that travel, like life, doesn’t necessarily warrant interpretation. The benefits I’ve achieved from it are uniquely my own, as can be said of everyone. When I stood where Pocahontas stood, I found promise there. When I bowed at the tombs of our founding fathers, I felt wisdom. And when I looked upon the slums of the cities at people whose means are far less than my own, but whose dreams stand equal, I was humbled.

Sometimes I found and even felt things which surprised me. When I’ve visited places that taught me something, I found myself looking inward to my own understanding with a sense of ambiguity. Once, when expressing to a friend how much I enjoyed traveling in the south she said to me matter-of-factly, “That’s because you’re white.” But wait, I thought, I’ve visited Birmingham, and the King Center in Atlanta. Doesn’t that make up for the perceptions of being a white middle-class male? Or does my reflection on sad facts that I can’t undo simply make me a piece of the establishment?

I’m a lover of history and a person who spends much time and travel reflecting on what has been. But I believe part of that is because it helps me to see ahead. To that end, I guess I have my answer about traveling, or at least a piece of it. There’s nothing I regret, or would do differently, and for the time and expense, I’ve enjoyed my sprint across our great nation, both in the traveling and in the telling.

To be fair about this long endeavor across the country, I must give out a little credit. First, to my employer for providing me plenty of vacation time, as well as a few strategic business trips that helped cross off some out-of-the way states. Also, I'm appreciative to Honda for making the best darn road-trip car on the market – my little red car and I have developed quite a relationship over the many miles of Americana. And of course, for the all places I didn't drive to, I'm greatful for Frequent Flyer Miles (I just love those things!). I have to also thank the peolpe who've read these posts off and on, and the few who have followed me state by state.

At the end of this journey I recognize that the desire to chase rainbows is certainly not unique to me, nor will it end with the completion of having stood in all fifty states. I believe that Mark Twain summed it up better than I ever could…

“Years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bow lines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

Wyoming

2008-12-30T21:53:00.015-06:00

Wyoming
# of times visited: too many
Most recent visit: June, 2007
Favorite place: Jackson Hole
Favorite person: Rhea
Could I live there: I would sooner go hunting with Dick Cheney, than live in Wyoming!
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It’s the only place in the Unites States where it can be said that cattle outnumber people almost four to one, and although it has beautiful places and scenic vacation venues, sadly, my memories of Wyoming will always be tainted!

When I lived in Salt Lake City, I made a work trip to Rock Springs, Wyoming about once a month, and it was a trip I came to dread. Southern Wyoming is a horrible and inhospitable place. Nothing grows there; it’s cold every month of the year, and the wind blows night and day. There’s nothing about the countryside that’s worth looking at, and I have a theory that all topographical ugliness on earth radiates from southern Wyoming.

Rock Springs, or “The Rock” as I prefer to call it, is the largest city in the south central part of the state, and I’m not sure how to describe it. I don’t think anyone there reads my blog (they struggle with computers) so I’ll just go ahead and speak freely:

In the first place, there are no homes in Rock Springs… only trailer houses and most of those don’t sit in trailer parks – they’re just sort of scattered about with no particular rhyme or reason. They’re always accompanied by an above-ground septic tank (the ground is too hard to dig holes) and most are surrounded by various automotive remnants. There’s often a burn barrel beside the front door where garbage is disposed of and dinner is cooked (likely simultaneously). There’s also no dentist in town. I know this because the average number of teeth retained by most adults could be counted on one hand with fingers to spare.

On Friday nights in Rock Springs (yes, I’ve spent one or two there) the teenagers gather in the parking lot of the local Walmart to see whose muffler-less 4x4 can make the most noise. Then, after consuming a significant amount of alcohol, and leaving the beer cans behind, they unfurl their mullets, take out their guns, and head across the desert in search of any remaining road signs which have yet to be shot.

If you ever find yourself driving across the United States on I-80, save yourself the trouble and make a detour at the Wyoming state line!

Now, all that being said, there are a few good things in the state once you get up north. The mountains are beautiful, the streams and lakes run crystal clear, and the air is some of the cleanest around. Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks are in this part of the state. So is Jackson Hole, a wealthy posh playground city sitting high up in the clouds.

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Still, for all the good things that might be found in Wyoming, I can’t shake my memories of “The Rock.” Whenever I think about Wyoming, and the many times I’ve been there, I am simply reminded of why the state is last… Last in population, last alphabetically, the last in my blog-series, and without any question whatsoever, the very last of the 50 states that I would ever consider living in.

Rock Springs, Wyoming... Quite possibly my least favorite place on earth.
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Wild horses on the the Wyoming prairie. Thank goodness for zoom lenses. These guys don't let you get anywhere near them!
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The majestic peaks of the Grand Teton mountains. I have a close tie to these mountains. My mother was born in their eastern shadow... my father in their western.

Wyoming's most famous tourist spot, Yellowstone National Park.

Monday: Picture and a Quote

2008-12-29T23:40:00.003-06:00

"Knowledge is soon changed, then lost in the mist, an echo half-heard."

Sophocles

To Err is Human, but "Stupid" Takes Talent!

2008-12-29T22:00:00.010-06:00

I have been operating motor vehicles with some degree of frequency (and I like to believe efficiency) since the age of fifteen. That constitutes exactly 50% of my life, during which time there have been only a very few vehicular mishaps in which no one died, and which I still don’t think were my fault, regardless of what the officer said! More to the point, I consider myself to be a good, safe, and savvy driver.

Somehow though, after all these years of automotive bliss, the cards came to be stacked against me, and today was not my day!

When I arrived at work this morning, I was greeted by a charming automatically-generated email from the Travel Department, reminding me to please complete an expense report for my recent $100 purchase at Budget Rental Car. Come Again?!?! I’ve not been out of the state in months and certainly haven’t rented a car anytime lately with the company card. Initially I panicked – Could someone have stolen the corporate expense card that I am trusted with? No, it was still in my wallet.

Irritated, I called Budget to find out why I had given them a $100 Christmas present. After navigating my way through 1,156 voice prompts and then waiting miserably on hold through nine verses of The Twelve Days of Christmas (it’s the 29th -- how dare they!), a cheerful young lady explained pleasantly that when I last rented from Budget six months ago, I received a red light camera citation in the District of Columbia… Are you FrEiKiNg kidding me?!?!

Yes, I do vaguely remember seeing a camera flash when I just barely missed a yellow light on the east side of RFK stadium, where I had managed to get myself lost. I had read about those damn lights that mail you a ticket if you run them and I had my suspicions when I saw the flash. But I was a thousand miles from home, traveling on business, and in a rental car. They couldn’t really be serious! What a dirty little trick to play on an innocent tourist like me, especially at the mother-seat of our government... not to mention six months after the fact!

The grossest injustice in the whole ordeal is that I have no choice but to pay it! The DC Department of Transportation fined Budget who in turn, charged my card. Then my employer paid the bill, and now they would like their money back! It’s come too far to work backwards at this point, even if I were to fight it and win.

If you’ve never noticed, the license plates for the District of Columbia say across the bottom “Taxation Without Representation.” It’s a little jab they’ve come up with using on an old Revolutionary adage because the residents of DC pay all the same taxes as everyone else, yet have no votes in either house of Congress. I used to chuckle when I saw it, because it’s a very “in your face” thing to do. But after today, I no longer sympathize. The license plate isn’t funny – it’s just! Tax the hell out of the little bastards!!

As if this wasn’t enough to ruin a perfectly good day, on the way home I needed gas. Now, lemme think the math through on this one… I buy gas an average of once a week… times 52 weeks in a year… times 15 years… That’s 780 fill-ups that until today all went flawlessly. I have a little habit when I get back in the car and get ready to drive off, of looking back in the side mirror, just to make double sure that my car is no longer affixed to the fuel pump. I’ve always wondered what would happen if a person drove off with the hose still in the tank. I now know.

Blame it on my predisposed irritation at our nation’s capital that I was distracted. I had gone inside the station while the car was filling, and when I came back out I sort of forgot that it was filling and just got in and drove away. I didn’t get far. In the ensuing tug-of-war, brief as it was, the constitution of my Honda proved greater than that of the pump which is where the hose gave way. I quickly had the uncanny sensation that I was dragging something through the parking lot. At this point I suddenly had the presence of mind to check the side mirror…. Shit!!!

I thought about just flooring it and getting out of there before anyone could associate a face with such an act of ignorance, but better judgment prevailed. As I pulled the now-dead gas hose out of my tank and wondered what in the hell to do with it, the clerk came walking (stomping) up to me. What do you say in a moment like that?? I think I made some stupid joke about my own intelligence and his silence showed his agreement. He took the hose from me and stared at the large pool of gas in front of the rupture.

ME: Can I offer to pay for that?

CLERK: No, don’t worry about it.

ME: Okay, well, can I help you clean up?

CLERK: Just go away please.

I’m seriously contemplating the idea of surrendering my driver’s license and hitchhiking around town from this point forward!