Has my muse gone missing? Maybe.
More likely, I buried her whilst succumbing to the sirens’ call.
Singing. Watching. Sitting.
TV. Movies. Generally sitting and getting fat.
The longer I went without writing the harder it is to will myself away from the distractions.
That is… until now. Sitting in bed sick. Tired of TV. Tired of sitting.
Miserable.
It’s a small start. Pathetic.
Like me.
Silencing the silence sometimes takes sickness.
Thursday, February 21. Me and the boys headed downtown (to be read in the context of, sup dog… we goin’ dowwn towwn). Destination Toby Mac, Jeremy Camp, and Matthew West.
I won the trip by playing my most pathetic, “Ungh. I’be gobt a colbd,” routine, and by needing some time with my boys. In the mean time, my wife enjoyed what one critic boldly labeled, “boring,” a night of elementary school choir and recorder music.
After downing a quick round of Mickey-D’s, we said good-bye the rest of the family and piled into the car. Within minutes we were racing East-South-East toward Denver. Our ears popped to the sounds of songs to come until a voice from the back seat rose above the din to scold me.
“Dad, don’t waste the music. I don’t want to waste the concert.”
Without missing a beat, I flipped the iPod to the first Sarah Mclaughlin tune I could find.
“Dad!” The complaining started again. I flipped to the radio.
“Just kidding,” I said.
A few more minutes, and we were pressed against a wall of cars. More cars were piling on behind us.
“How much longer?” the voices from the back seat asked.
“We’re close,” I said. 30 minutes and 2 miles to go. Plenty of time. At least, that’s what I thought, but 20 minutes quickly passed by. We’d moved maybe 1 mile. The question, “How much longer?” had long since become “When does the concert start?” and then, “We’re NOT going to make it on time!”
Darn, Downtown Denver.
But we did eventually park. The Boys ran the 1/4 mile to the theater, with me dragging along behind sniffling and sneezing. Soon, we were inside and the dismay at being late was quickly replaced by the dismay at my refusal to buy hot dogs and coke.
“We’re at a concert, not a baseball game,” I said.
We followed the ticket taker’s directions to our section. The big hall turned into a long, winding hallway. Another 1/4 mile and we were standing in front of a very poorly conceived sign - nothing more than an overgrown seating chart, really. And no ushers to be found. My head was now thick with mucus and I struggled to make a guess at where to go next. Each of my arms was being pulled back into the hallway.
I quickly counted the number of doors from the “you are here” sticker to what looked like the closest door to our seats. Just in time, too. The boys were now racing on.
“In here!” I said, in a yelled whisper.
We ducked through the door just in time for the lights to go out. Toby Mac was on stage introducing Jeremy Camp.
“See, we missed it.” Sam said.
“No, just the first artist.” I started to say, but was interrupted by the usher.
“Can I see your tickets?” I handed her the stubs from my hand. She squinted at the tiny numbers with a dim flashlight and whispered, “Over there.” The rest was drowned out by the sudden, pressing presence of concert bass.
I looked up and found our row. A couple sat near the aisle. “What seats are you?” I asked.
“670.”
I quickly counted back to 364, our seats. There were three open spots. The boys had already spotted them and had darted into the aisle to take them. Something didn’t seem quite right but I didn’t have voice at that point to call the boys back. I quickly joined them and sat down.
Jeremy Camp was awesome, at least as far as I could tell. I was distracted by the constant questions, “Is that Toby Mac?” and “When are we going to eat?” I also couldn’t help but notice the puzzled looks cast toward me from other late arrivers, squinting at their tickets then at me and the boys as they searched for their seats. One family finally gave up after several minutes staring into the dark. They decided to stand just in front of our section’s first aisle.
Intermission came. I was fending off another round of questions from the boys — about food and where was Toby Mac? Did we miss him?
Another voice came to me through the crowd. “Can I see your tickets?” It was the usher I’d spoken to earlier, when we’d come rushing into the dark auditorium.
I handed her the tickets.
“Um, OK. You’re down there.” she said and pointed at the aisle. “Just a minute.”
She walked over to seat 670. After a brief exchange, I could hear her say, “Your six rows up.” Then she waved me over. “You’re here.”
I grabbed the boys. We gathered our coats and quickly shifted to our new “correct” seats. The usher directed another 3 groups of people to their right seats. As she passed, I touched her arm.
“Great piece of detective work.” I said.
She shook her head and smiled, “What a mess. I wasn’t made for this.”
Now everything was settled I just wanted to lean my head back and close my eyes. My nose was running again and my muscles were aching. 15 minute intermission, just enough time to catch a second wind.
“Can we have something to eat?” the voice pierced my peaceful bubble. I opened my eyes to see Sammyball’s puppy eyes.
“No. But I’ll get drinks for everyone.” I knew if I didn’t get them now I’d never hear the end of it.
We got out of our seats and headed out the door, smiling at the usher again. I noticed the crowd drifting down the hall opposite the way we first came in. I tugged the boys along behind me and headed the same direction as everyone else. Wouldn’t you know it? The entrance (where we’d first come in) jumped around the corner to mock us. It had been a mere 100 yards away the entire time.
We pushed along with the crowd and joined a line at the concession stand. A few minutes later, drinks in hand, we settled into our seats. Pretty soon, the lights dimmed. The air jumped with electricity. Toby Mac took the stage. Both boys jumped to their feet. Dance time!
A couple final notes…
If you have a cold, go to a rock concert. The bass will literally rattle the congestion right out of your lungs (yeah it’s more expensive than Mucsinex, but it’s a lot more fun). On the other hand, sinus congestion builds a nice cushion against distortion (so you can avoid looking like a geezer wearing your ear plugs. Also, since your ears are probably ringing anyway, you won’t have to worry about it after the concert. You’ll already be used to it.
Oh, and it possible to fall asleep at a rock concert. I have the picture to prove it.
*with my deepest apologies to Judith Viorst
It started bitter cold. Monday. I did not want to get out of bed, but I did. The drive to work was dark and cold coffee, fighting back the rush of chilly air against the windshield. Work was pushing sludge, sick staff and meetings on meetings about meetings. The sun slid slowly and sadly across the sky. Dark to dark, there wasn’t much in between except the hope of home and happy children.
Not to be.
Freezing feet fight to get to the truck. Start the engine - oh man, I gotta get gas. Out of the parking lot, around the corner, to the street. Turn and stutter - almost there (am I outta gas already?). Turn again and clunk. Nothing.
Yards away. I can’t push uphill. Gotta go back. Slow, slick, silent. Cold.
Try to start. Clunk…
Call home, crying come get me please. I’m going to Wal-Mart to get warm. What!? No wallet! Wouldn’t have made it anyway. Now I gotta wait…
Hind-sight doesn’t need contacts to see. Something told me it wasn’t alright, but I held to the hope. No more. Got the truck towed. Got the call…
Your truck be RIP.
I want to move to Australia.
This is the first in what could easily, and even possibly, be a long line of related posts where I outline desperately needed inventions for the 21st Century.
Technology got us this far, but it left out some of the essentials along the way. Overlooked are the simple things that would really make our lives easier. We have the microprocessor and the MRI, but I fear we’re not going to get the flying car (a concept first promised “just around the corner” in the 1950’s) unless we get our heads around the things we really need first. Like the self hanging towel.
A self hanging towel is needed to address the problem whereby the kitchen, bath, or hand towel refused to stay put in its proper place. This problem results in a huge spike in frustration among dads who are constantly looking for a piece of cloth to dry the dishes, or their hands, or their very wet, cold, just got out of the shower and who the heck took my… You get the idea.
If it were just me, this problem wouldn’t be a… problem. I am just as happy as the next guy to wipe my hands on my jeans, or to let the dishes dry themselves (or better yet use paper plates so doing the dishes is only necessary when my mom is around). However, I have a pack of wild boys to which I have to teach the finer points of grace and cleanliness. It falls to me, therefore, to be their example. Unfortunately, that example currently consists mostly of me wandering around yelling, “where in the gosh darn world is the stinkin’ towel*?” A fine example indeed.
You see then how extremely important this invention is to my general sanity and to the general peace and quiet of my house. It’s a simple concept. Please, someone rescue my family from this horrible repeating nightmare before things get worse - or I throw in the towel (so to speak) and revert back to my natural pack habits.
*Not an actual quote. This quote was modified to keep the blog relatively clean.
I feel like I’m starting over, learning all my tricks from scratch again. The canvas is similar - familiar as if from a dream walked through several years past. This is not far from the truth. I once walked these streets, briefly, in another life. So much has changed. Enough is familiar.
I try to map the images in my mind with the canvas in front of me. Slowly, I recognize the old standards, and then I can turn down streets untraveled. I quickly turn back when my bearings start to fade, but the map is growing. I am finding my way.
Now I’ve settled in Macville, Windows seems like a strange, odd universe.
And may God bless you!
Shortly after I woke up this morning he came rushing into my bedroom.
“I’m six today, Dad!” he said. His voice, more than a whisper was filled with electricity. His eyes twinkled with an mischievous, elfish expression.
“Are you going to have fun today?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” he said. He pressed his lips into a devilish smirk and ran off.
Later, my wife pulls me from the chaos of getting ready for Tommy’s birthday lunch. “Have you heard what Tommy is telling everyone?” she asked. “He keeps telling them he is king for the day.”
No sooner does she say this than I hear Tommy’s voice from the other room, “I get to decide. I’m king of the day.” Normally, there would be a din of complaining and arguing. The silent response tells me he’s won his place.
I’m working on a new way to experience the post Thanksgiving, pre-Christmas non-holiday holiday period. I’m not sure what to call it yet, but I know the, uh… experience starts the week after Thanksgiving. Observance is dictated by navigating extremely quirky twists of fate which result in the eventual discarding of money which was originally meant for Christmas gifts.
Last year I actually started before Thanksgiving and dove head first into the experience. It literally came at me out of the dark as a shocking surprise. (For those of you not familiar with my experience read Oh Deer!) That was just the beginning… Two weeks later I found myself swerving to miss a car who’s driver decided to run an extremely red light. The light was so red it would have made Rudolph retire in disgust. But that didn’t stop the driver, who seemed determined to plow right through the cross traffic trying to make its way, white-knuckled, through the poorly plowed intersection. Of course, I swerved to miss - and I almost got clean through except for the curb waiting at the other end of the intersection to reach up to trip me.
Despite the new window and the new left front-end, my poor truck has never been the same. In fact, the kids still talk about the bruise daddy’s truck carries on the left side of the bed where the deer hit it. And they still sometimes ask if the deer is ok…
Although I’m still getting the hang of all this, I believe the festivities started on time this year — thanks to my daughter. Just after Thanksgiving, my wife called me at work to tell me our computer was acting “strange.”
“What do you mean by strange?” I asked, gritting my teeth.
“Well, I try to start it up and it just sits on the same screen.” she says. Her voice is part frustration and part desperation, which tells me it’s not likely a quick fix over the phone kind of thing.
“Just turn it off and I’ll look at it when I get home,” I tell her.
At home, that evening, my casual investigation quickly turns into scattered electronic parts and hours of research on the web. Is it a bad power supply or the motherboard. Nearing midnight, and tired with frustration, I shove everything back together and slump off to bed.
The next morning I somehow manage to gather new determination despite the fitful night’s sleep. Poking and prodding and testing and searching. I think I’ve tried everything, but I finally manage to find the motherboard manufacturer’s page online. I ask for help and they give me one more test to try.
“If that’s not it,” they write, “call us to get a new motherboard.”
“Great,” I mutter to the clutter in front of me. I know the warranty has expired.
Well, the one more test quickly degrades into sure failure. I swap parts around and flip on the switch… ZAP! An arch of electricity sends a fried part zipping past my head. The smell of burnt electronics quickly travels the house to grab my wife’s super-smelling nose.
“What was that?” she asks.
“Oh nothing,” I reply casually. “Just a sure sign our computer is now completely dead.”
Although I doubt it is on many bloggers’ minds (most of you don’t have time for television, do you?) I’ve given some thought to how I’ll survive the current television writer’s strike. Now, I wouldn’t say I’m a fan of television, but I do like good stories. And while I am, for the most part, content to get my entertainment reading or playing video games, there are some shows out there I’m going to miss.
The first casualty on my list was Heroes, which had its season finale Monday despite being only 11 episodes along. (It should have been the mid-season finale, darn it!). Ironically, during one of the Heroes breaks I my first viewing of a scab show ad for the resurrected “American Gladiators.” While I understand the networks’ need to come up with non-scripted programming to fill their line-up, I just can’t see watching that Frankenstein’s monster.
Network Exec: We need some programming ASAP!
Programming Exec: Hehe. When I was in college, we used to get wasted and watch American Gladiators.
Network Exec: Book it!
Programming Exec: What? I was just kidding. That show has been dead 10 years. It’s going to stink worse than my teenage son’s used sock pile.
Network Exec: Put a new brain in it and light it up. Next…
Since, I can’t bring myself to replace the hole in my viewing list with the resurrected “American Gladiators.” Here’s what I’ll be doing the next several, several months:
I’m sure my wife will let me do one of these things once she realizes the number of foot rubs she’s getting (a direct proportion to the amount of time spent watching TV) has dramatically decreased.
It’s not like a post is needed to draw attention to the obvious changes here. Of course, this is old news if you visit my wife’s blog. (I can’t believe she scooped me on my own site redesign). The paint is mostly dry, but I still have a few things left to do, like the trim - not to mention the clean-up (ugh!).
I’ve had it on my mind for some time to brighten things up, and rethink my approach to writing. So, here’s the result. A sort of re-birth for rblogger…