Category Archives: Personal

A Modern Hymn

Alternate words written for  one of the few people who reaches even heathens like me. The words are written to replace the hit song, “Sister Christian” by Night Ranger:  “Sister Christian” by Night Ranger   –Link

(If you would rather hear the instrumental version, click here:  “Sister Christian” Instrumental –Link

The greatest folly for anyone is to believe he or she along possesses the answer for all others sharing this planet. It is the certainty of thought that leads to the certainty of action. Each of us distrusts that hidden thing in others which draws them into a narrowing path of lesser acceptance, especially in matters of faith. Even among believers, there is no consensus for all matters which affect our shared world.

Instead of shouting the answer: be the answer. Be the example which requires no explanation. If you are the beacon, people will see your joy, your love, and the example of your life and come to you, asking what divine secret powers your life. That moment is the truest means to open your way of life to them and share it.

People are capable of viciousness regardless of race, religion, color or creed. I use ‘vicious Christian’ as a metaphor, rather than an accusation. Regardless of our specific beliefs, few people would deny that the example of Jesus exemplifies the best qualities we are capable of practicing: ‘do unto others’ and compassion in word and deed. What you believe is a whisper compared to the shout of your daily interaction with others, especially towards those who don’t share your views. We can’t know what resides in your heart, but we can easily measure the content of what emanates from your life.

vicious Christian
oh the time has come
to pretend you’re not the only one
with a say, okay?
why you arguing
and shouting so much
you know this world
don’t want to fight no more
with you, it’s true

it’s dangerous
what’s the price to fight
if we lose what’s in sight
no one can claim the right

soon enough
it might be you outcast
but we’ll protect you
down to the last
ok, let’s pray
vicious Christian
we all love our lives
don’t forget that it’s over soon
it’s true

it’s true…. yeah

dangerous
we don’t need to fight
let’s be each others light
so we’ll finally unite

A New Greeting

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Moments are sometimes simultaneous trains, each with its own schedule. We climb aboard the one we decide is for us, taking interest in the moments and destinations we believe are to be memorable. As we stare fixedly out the window at the passing landscape, we anticipate the upcoming gorge filled with verdant greens and racing rivers. As we focus on the idea of the river, we fail to hear the words spoken at our shoulder, even earnest ones or those magical syllables whispered in excited yet muted voices. Countless views sweep past. And as swiftly as the gorge approaches – it eclipses us.

…And because the best lives are those which suffer the incessant staccato interruption of mirth and breathless peals of laughter, I close with a quote, one which gently taps the cymbal of absurd accuracy:

For a new year, barely commenced, and an old friend:

“Sit by the window and play the piano with attentive melody, the keys softly tinkling. And when a bird poops on the window, laugh devilishly, and think of me.” – X

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Moment of Mirth at Market

This is a small story of an unusual moment. I’m not proud of the resolution but each of us has a moment of clarity which belies our better natures.

Today, I went shopping and stopped at a local market. As I attempted to check out, I realized I needed the Alcohol Lane, because I was buying a 50-gallon drum of spirits for my wife. I’m just kidding – I exaggerated to get her attention. My wife drinks hard liquor, which the grocery store doesn’t sell. Still kidding, but I did have alcohol to purchase.

As I walked up, an older white woman came up, muttering to herself, looking for an open lane that was quick, or perhaps even a brick to throw through a plate glass window. She had a terrible case of R.B.F., with the exception of her face not being at rest. A short, older Hispanic lady had arrived at the register first. Although the cashier wasn’t Latina, she spoke Spanish to her. (My part of town has a lot of Latinos and Marshallese, so it’s normal to hear several languages at the grocery store, which I love.) This seemed to incense Mrs. White, (so named because she was an older white woman) who mumbled that Americans speak English. I addressed the older Latina lady in line in Spanish, to let her know I’d throw a belt spacer between our orders. I looked toward Mrs. White and said, “Good afternoon, ma’am” to her and made eye contact as I smiled, to avoid a potential concealed carry situation and to let her know she was dealing with human beings who weren’t interested in being rude to her or one another.

Inexplicably, Mrs. White pushed her way between the first lady in line and me, still mumbling in barely suppressed anger. Her voice sounded like Gollum just a tad. I let her through, smiling. I could clearly hear her saying unpleasant things, implying I was a Mexican. I toyed with the idea of being clever, but decided that perhaps she was having a bad moment. As I almost always do, I let it go.

A cashier approached me and waved, indicating, “Come up and I’ll ring you up.” He said it to me because everyone else was trapped in their spot. Mrs. White seemed to spew steam from her ears in anger, so I invited her nicely to go ahead as I backed up and moved over. She seemed to be waiting for the older Latina lady to move up, which was impossible. “Go ahead, ma’am” I told her again.

“But I’m going up there,” she hissed, oblivious to the fact that she was opting for climbing Mt. Everest instead of just stepping around me and going to the open register. As she maneuvered with all the dexterity of a wounded rhino, she spewed an impressive stream of derogatory epithets. She had a fairly rounded arsenal, honed for everyday use, it seemed to me at the time.

As she stomped away, I apologized to the cashier and lady in line. I did so in Spanish, because I knew that they both spoke Spanish but not necessarily English. Mrs. White’s head swiveled back toward me like the girl in the Exorcist. And for a moment, I awaited a stream of green pea soup vomit to come hurtling at me. Instead, she turned her wrath onto the poor gentleman who opened a new register. He had no choice but to attempt to ignore her wrath as she continued her tirade. I felt sorry for her, both for her anger and for her apparent love of racist commentary. (But I would’ve given her at least a 9 for consistency, if I had only possessed a large white rectangular card to indicate my evaluation of her ability.)

In my defense, you’ll note that I behaved myself and avoided any rudeness.

As I left, I noticed she was stuck at the register still, as she was trying to use some unusual coupon. Miraculously, she was silent at that point. But murder was written large across her face. All that was missing was a hat emblazoned with “Redrum.”

As I walked to the car, I took my time, waiting for the race cars to speed past the crosswalk with the intent of breaking the land speed record. I loaded my stuff into the backseat and as I plopped down into the driver’s seat, I looked up.

To my right was the cart corral, with the cart entry to the far end. I could see Mrs. White approaching, once again angry about something.

And while I’m not proud of the moment, as Mrs. White angrily pushed her cart into the opposite end of the cart corral, an invisible and irresistible force overtook me, one guided by the spirit of chaos and pure evil. As she gave the cart that last angry push, I hit the car horn for a solid two seconds, just a mere few feet from her. My car horn has never bleated as loudly as it did in that moment. It was as if the clouds had parted, emitting a thunderous echo.

It seemed as if Mrs. White’s hair stood on end, pointing toward the sky. She shrieked and then her gaze pivoted directly to me with a fiendish intensity.

She raised her right hand and gave me the biggest middle finger I’ve ever seen. It seemed to pulsate in righteous mean-spiritedness. Flame should have shot out of her upraised middle finger.

Shockingly, I laughed and waved at her, as if I hadn’t just attempted to give her a massive coronary.

I know as she drove home, she was cursing that foul Mexican man at the grocery store. If her windows were rolled down, I bet a satellite could’ve detected a black cloud slowly rolling behind her.

 

(I was surprised by how far this story reached on social media.)

A Dollar Afternoon

Friday afternoon, I reluctantly pulled in to the Dollar General, as it is mostly an excuse to expand into outright hoarding. I complained about the necessity of stopping there. Not that my wife had a gun to my head, of course, but I could smell the gunpowder from the last time I defied her.

When we pulled in to the lot, a small gaggle of motley individuals was standing unsafely in the entrance of the parking lot. It would have been easy to accidentally run them over, especially considering that every road construction worker in the state seemingly was working on the road in that area of Springdale.

My wife expressed a little uncertainty as she looked around and said, “That guy is huge. He could tear you in half,” to which I replied, not joking, “Anyone half his size could just as easily tear me in half, honey.” We laughed, acknowledging the truth of it.

I’m fearless around some situations, mostly because it doesn’t occur to me that anyone would want what I have – and they certainly don’t need to use force. I would gladly hand my entire wallet to anyone desperate enough to believe they needed to threaten me to get it. Running away isn’t an option for me unless there’s a good pizza place in the direction I need to run. But, if a good story emerges from a fracas, I’m in favor of it.

As we got out of the car, the group blocking the parking lot entrance dissipated and one of the older men ambled haphazardly behind my car. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I recognized an old familiar face.

Out of the recesses of my mind came his name. “Steve!” I yelled, and he turned, gladdened by the sound of his name. He quickly made his way toward me.

“Am I in trouble?” he asked, half-smiling, shifting back and forth on his feet. He smiled, but with an edge of nervousness.

“No, you’re not in trouble, at least not that I know of. Are you ready to admit your crimes?” I thought I was being witty.

After a few seconds, I could tell that life had beaten him repeatedly, probably long after he had begged for a reprieve. I was sure he now suffered worse with some form of mental impairment. Many of his teeth were missing and what remained was painful to see.

I offered my hand and after an initial hesitation, he shook my outstretched hand as if I had given him a free beer. “Steve, I worked with you. My name is X.” It took him a few tries to admit he remembered my face but not my name. Usually, my name sticks out like a stubbed toe – and usually with the same contorted face that accompanies stubbing one’s toes in the dark of the night.

I motioned for my wife to go ahead of me into the palace of Dollar General / Hoarder’s Emporium, then turned back to Steve and told him that he and I used to poke incredible fun at one another back in the day. I didn’t remind him that a few of our co-workers bullied him; I remembered getting pissed more than once at the mean-spirited things several of the workers did to him. Steve had been a very hard worker but he couldn’t grasp nuance in conversation. It cost him dearly with people who thought they were superior to him.

A memory caught up with him and he laughed. “Yes!” The laugh and smile took me back across the span of intervening years, momentarily washing away the sullen recollection of people misbehaving. “X! Lord yes, you were half crazy,” he told me.

I asked him if he still lived nearby and he told me that yes, he lived in housing toward the airport. After I asked him how he was doing, he paused, not wanting to say anything troublesome. I pulled out my wallet and gave him the $20 I had. I told him if he needed anything from the store, I would buy it for him to celebrate the new year. He hugged me and we laughed for old time’s sake.

Despite the cliché of it all, I teared up as I so often do.

I no longer felt irritated for being forced to stop at Dollar General. For a second, it seemed as if I was supposed to stop and intervene for a moment in Steve’s life. Or, more likely, he in mine.

It’s also true that within 90 seconds of being inside Dollar General, I was cursing my fate and ready to dive out a window to escape that place. Life lessons fade quickly, it seems.

Questionable Ideas

“Anyone can grow up to be president” now has the opposite motivational meaning.

 

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In a startling response to the age-old cliche, our nation will finally get an answer Jan 20th to the question, “What’s the worst that could happen?”

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More important than the discovery of fire, evoking more majesty than elastic underwear: Tab. Until it arrived once again as a gift from Dawn, I thought I was immune to the allure and deliciousness of this beverage. It won’t cure shin warts, but it will let you forget that life is full of disappointments. Tab: because life is good.

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Festivus 2016 went mostly well. Dawn took the ‘Airing of Grievances’ a little too far, though. I escaped with only one black eye, which is better than the torn rotator cuff she gave me last year. Dec 23rd is increasingly tough on me. We skipped ‘Feats of Strength’ and went directly to ‘Sitting on Couch.’

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Due to unforeseen circumstances, Dawn’s birthday celebration has been delayed until June. It’s true it was being held in an ultra-secret location anyway, away from the prying paparazzi. The truth is that she didn’t have the patience to wait on me to light 48 distinct birthday candles – and she’s also too nervous to allow me access to fire for such a prolonged period. (I used a flamethrower to light the candles in 2010 and I would still like to apologize to the fire department for getting them out on Xmas Eve that night – and how was I to know that the table cloth was flammable?) Additionally, this picture is of Dawn a few years ago; her smile was frozen, waiting on me to get that many candles lit simultaneously.

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“Freedom” was on my mind when I changed my name decades ago. I wanted to burn down the person hidden beneath the name I once was, because I was never really that person. And George Michael changed his name, too, to become who he was supposed to be; an imperfect person with stupendous talent. This song of his, above all others, resonated for me.

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Mark, in the interest of helping your new FB page, I think this throwback picture from your cover-shoot would be much better as a profile picture. And not just because it literally is of your profile, but also because it shows your love of beer and your strength against the force of that brick wall. (Edit – and because of those shorts, which I presume you wore that day because you lost a bet. Happy new year!)

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trump-grinch

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Aunt Barbara

 

She was always her voice, a timeless southern drawl that caught your attention, rarely raised in anger but often seeped in laughter or surprise. I should have more easily forgotten that she witnessed the part of my life I consider to be the most base. It was a perplexing part of my life to know someone so kind in all the ways people should be good could be capable of looking sideways; only as an older person did I even begin to see how foolish much of my insistence toward oversimplification stripped her of her own individuality. She, like me, lived her life with the gifts she had available; unlike me, she did it with more openness.

It is without rancor that I say that she mounted an offensive for family, always being the cohesion against the twin foils of her siblings who provided either raucous debauchery or aloof superciliousness. When I changed my name almost 3 decades ago, it was she who demonstrated one of the deepest wounds, though she of all people knew in her compassion-filled heart that my motivation was one of self-preservation.

She lived a great life, even when tempered by my strangely fluid definitions. Laughter, family, and even tragedies came and went; and yet, her sense of humor tempered every peak and valley. She stayed in the small hometown that both defined her and amplified her. Such a small place of diminishing returns certainly will be less bright without her.

If this world were to have more of her, there would be more happiness and more hands on shoulders, and even more glasses of iced tea in the summer. (Because while iced tea wouldn’t cure your ills, it would always give you something to enjoy in life, if someone were there to accompany you as you drank it.)

The video was taken in her yard on a July day some 21 years ago, out on the edge of Monroe County, in a place almost everyone speeds through to get from one place to another.

Not her.

She was always where she needed to be, just as she is now.

Her voice lingers on the edge of highway 49, though, evoking the gentlest reminder that so many great moments can be found where you are.

I can hear her voice now, drawling out a slow and welcome ‘hey, y’all.’ .

In the Land of Coram Deo

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2-3 months ago, I wrote a short piece and uploaded a draft version of my digital picture “Coram Deo.” (Meaning: “…in the presence of god…) I will put a link in the comments if you want to read past the superficial intention of this picture.

I had another brushed aluminum 16 X 20 painting made with the version I decided to qualify as finished. I can close my eyes and picture the muse that inspires me to make awkward attempts to capture whatever it is in my head that struggles to get out. In my finished version, you can imagine Aslan the lion growling for us to come forward, to pass through the infinite doors that are literally all around us; those same doors we ignore or fail to see. “The Narnia Chronicles” beguiled me as a youngster and although I do not follow the path the allegory asks of me, I do infrequently follow the creativity that it spawned.

Despite being a simple minimalist at heart, I’d rather walk around in a world resembling a landscape of spilled paint cans, each conveying the million words that careen around in our minds but for whatever reason, seldom escape it. ‘Normal’ has its demands, as does the tempest of hurried time, each second allotted to things that we would never choose for ourselves even in two lifetimes.

Here is what I wrote a couple of months ago as I worked on the picture:

The Land Of Coram Deo
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One day soon, we will discover another world, one inhabited by beings who resemble us in appearance, but who treasure the invisible as reverently as we pay homage to the things that suffocate our daily lives. If we don’t find them, perhaps we can move along a path to become them. Our kingdom lies within, no matter how frequently we search outwardly.
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They will draw inspiration from infinite colors, ideas, and creativity. Every aspect of life will serve the dual masters of helping everyone live better lives & finding their better selves. Work, education, and leisure will merge seamlessly into a continuum without alpha or omega.
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In Coram Deo, it is impossible to ask “Are you hungry?” as each person’s needs are addressed by others without prompt or consideration. A neighbor, no matter how different or far, is simply a family member resting under a separate roof.
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PS: “Coram Deo” literally means “in the presence of god.” Each of us has our own idea of life’s purpose and how best to spend the million moments granted to us. We distract ourselves by focusing on that which differs instead of that which binds.
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“You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one…”
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I made this picture of Coram Deo, layer by layer. In it, I hope you find something to consider.

Things to Consider For Friday

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Just as you shouldn’t use a fork to adjust a toaster, it is inadvisable to attempt to relax and meditate using music from the “Rocky” training montages as background music.
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It occurred to me yesterday that weather forecasts could be immensely improved if they were delivered in poetic prose – and especially so if viewers could call in an read it that way. The weather, unlike the news, doesn’t really need explanation or editorialized: let’s stop being so unimaginative with it.
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It’s still surprising that when your mind is bent or troubled, you see things in plain sight you’ve never noticed. I had that out-of-body visual sensation this morning, driving down Butterfield Coach Road and saw an interesting tree house. It’s always been there, year after year, waiting for me to see it, much less admire it. Today, though, it clicked and my first thought was that I was hallucinating it.
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As devoted you might be to reason and logic, trust me; there is always an idiot behind you making rabbit-ear fingers or a face that could best be characterized as “Steve Buscemi.”
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Among the reasons that the accusation of prejudice stings is that it is subjective to the viewer – and definitely to the accused. It’s a hat no one willingly sees themselves wearing.
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One of the most delicious sensations in life is that feeling you get when you shout a warning repeatedly, only to be ignored – and then the stuff hits the fan and everyone is running around in pandemonium asking, “Why didn’t we see this coming?” And you, of course, think, “Why didn’t you listen to me when I told you it was coming?”
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When someone tells you have no common sense, the real message is that they alone possess it.
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A friend of mine, Jorge, was going through some battles with anxiety. He swallowed his pride and signed up for emergency counseling, only to find out when he called that it would be a minimum of 2-3 weeks before he could see anyone. He then went to his doctor’s office and explained his situation. They told him, “Oh, you can’t see any doctor for anxiety, stress, or depression, you have to wait for a regular appointment with YOUR doctor.” Jorge, without hesitation replied, “It’s a good thing I’m not at the literal end of my rope or in danger or anything.” True story, too.
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Many secularists aren’t necessarily nervous about just a blurred line between church and state, it is just that they wish they could put it to a vote as to which religion gets to the be the one calling the shots. There’s a huge difference in being Catholic and the belief systems which enjoy handling live snakes and living without electricity. Everyone is convinced their religion, denomination or faithview is the singular answer for everyone, if they would only just listen. It is precisely the breadth and wealth of differing views that makes overlap of society and faith almost impossible.
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I think every phone system should have a “Bingo” option. When you press # for “Bingo,” all the possible extensions get randomized and your calls goes to literally anyone at the company, even the startled janitor who didn’t even know he had a phone in the broom closet. On the other hand, I think that there should be an option to send a shock directly to the CEO’s ear if the phone system is difficult to use.
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Of the 100 + ancestry family trees I’ve done, few of those requesting investigation had American Indian ancestors I could verify. Investigating the tendency to believe one has Indian heritage uncovered an entire sociological backdrop which many have written about. I’ve had several people insist they have such ancestry and I feel bad for them because usually, I know that before I even start researching that the road will probably dead-end. To be clear, it is not necessarily because their family stories might not be true, but because it is nigh on impossible to prove, even with DNA, if you don’t already have a decent trail to prove it.
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PS: for those who have trusted me to do their family trees, I have learned much and been greatly rewarded in so many unexpected ways as I discovered a vast interconnection between all of us. It’s been an honor to find hidden family members, write stories that literally define our cultural history, and connect people to forgotten pieces in their pasts. For most of us, we are much closer than we know, even down to our chromosomes.
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I think the world can be generally categorized based on the likelihood of whether you agree or disagree with this statement: “My instruction manual for life is always subject to change, based on complicated yet logical criteria.” -x
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If ever elected to be President, on my first day I will make good on my pledge to hire a cadre of people smarter than me – and then listen to them. While social issues will always take precedence, the best ideas will always get the most attention. Politics comes last. And we will have a great lunch, because people feel more human when they are sitting around a table or couch, eating, laughing, and thinking. In fact, that’s what we need: a national lunch hour.
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I wish I had a billion dollars, because you can be certain that I would do the craziest, most fun things to the people I know. A friend of mine mentioned she had twice entered the wrong vehicle and that all red vans were subject to her inadvertently entering them. If I had crazy money, I would secretly place about 50 vehicles similar to hers at her work and film her reaction as she exited. Likewise, I’d wait until she was driving somewhere and upon my signal, 50 of them would surround her and follow her everywhere she went.
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As an aging middle-aged white man, I can’t tell you how ecstatic it makes me feel to know that I have not followed the worn steps of my contemporaries by rejecting new and different music. Thinking that music declined at a certain point is the surest indicator that life is shrinking away from you.
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I knew that the civilization was bad because they didn’t provide A-1 Sauce when they burned people at the stake. Get some class, people.
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The weird thing I’ve learned again: if I write something that amuses me, it is going to be amusing to a certain % of other people, too. Unlike normal people, I don’t ever get writer’s block, either, which may or may not be a good thing. You can’t trust either the criticism or the applause, not in a pure motivational sense – and you should never underestimate how many are watchers, never joining the conversation.
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(The rest is one observational chain of thought…)
People tend to say that you can’t step into the same river twice. Each step I take, each forward motion reinforces this idea of the indefatigable progress of ‘me.’ But I do sometimes look into this river and realize that currents have pulled me backwards, away from whoever I think I am.

I believe one powerful draw of great literature, television or cinema is that it can create a new universe in our heads. The imaginary people inhabiting those worlds effortlessly teach us new things and hold an infinite variety of mirrors for us. When those characters rejoice or suffer, we feel their pain. We can’t help but to relate to them as though they are people we might meet if we open the door suddenly, finding them on our doorsteps. We hope we find them there. It’s not only a testament to the skill and creativity of the people who’ve created those worlds, but also to the gift of our own imaginations.

As we see them behave stupidly or with malice, we call them hypocrites. It is only later that it occurs to us that we might be recognizing our own ignorance in their actions.

As I age, I of course succumb to the temptation to read a cherished book again or to watch television or movies with an older eye. At times, the surprise I feel steals my breath, and with such unexpected vigor that I can only shake my head. That surprise when revisiting old characters is proof that I have also changed, one imperceptible bit at a time, relentlessly. The characters seem deeper and more connected to me because I have also underwent deviations, hopefully due to a rich, full life.

Recognizing The Past In My Mirror

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When some of us were younger, we watched a TV commercial hawking Time-Life books. In the ad, it would say, “John Wesley Hardin, so mean he once shot a man for snoring.” In my context, I want you to renew your memory of that ad and consider it a consummate and fair assessment of what could have easily been said about my mother. In any comparison involving her, the other person would be just a novice in the game of unexpected words of reprimand. If my mom’s words could have been loaded into a pistol, Monroe County would have looked like a Wild West shootout. She didn’t need a concealed carry permit because the proclivity to give verbal lashes negated the want or necessity of a firearm.
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A smart man once said that part of getting old consists of recognizing the influence of your parents that drove you bonkers coming to roost in your own mirror. My mom of course would have told that man to “Sit down and shut up with your highfalutin nonsense,” but I think it’s true that some of our legacy is to be startled by the overlap between the essential “me” in the mirror and our parents.
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Today would have been my mom’s 70th birthday. As hard as she lived, all of us are still in collective and mutual wonder that she survived as long as she did. I’m not one to revel in these milestone dates. I fight the tendency to succumb to some of her personality proclivities often – and often fail. But I should have channeled her more fully today because one thing she unabashedly did without reflection was to tell a SOB that he was an SOB – even if said SOB was standing on the pulpit for Sunday service. If she was in the mood, she might even throw her beer at him, after using a hurled cigarette to gauge wind trajectory. (Because wasting beer was one of the few Southern sins that everyone joked about – but seemed to be very serious when they repeated it.)
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My mom had flaws. Looking back, I now romanticize some of those moments where she witnessed an SOB in action and without warning served him a walloping dose of universal surprised justice. It made for great comedy and/or horrific drama at the time, and it served as a safety valve for the rest of us as we both laughed and recoiled, all the while promising to NEVER do or say the things she did. Bearing witness to her creative use of shocking reprisal allowed us to forego the weakness in our own lives. We might fantasize about it, but giving those loony ideas life would usually be unimaginable. I have an arsenal of stories about her ferocity.
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The majesty of the past so often develops more fully as we age because we can forget the intense immediate pain that once joined with memories. It is almost a beckoning call, soothing.
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The events of recent weeks have exposed my mortal flaw to want to dish out a heaping pile of burning crow with greater frequency. Usually, I might note ahead or behind her birthday that it is approaching or receding from me for another year. In this year of apparent great tribulation, each day that I laugh and remember my mom’s example, it allows me to walk away without flicking a cigarette, followed by a beer, into the tumultuous melee of unmitigated plates of crow, faces unwillingly smashed into large avian chunks of unwanted deliciousness. If I am not diligent and careful, I will be the old man on the porch with a satchel of small rocks ready to be hurled at uncooperative and misfit kids in my yard.
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Were mom alive, she would roll her eyes and say “Use shorter words, you ain’t impressing anyone.” She might cuss at me a bit, but in time, she would laugh and repeat the very things she had previously sworn weren’t true.
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PS: I am not sure there is a moral to this story. But it certainly gets supplanted by the admission of my shortcoming.

Juan Gabriel Sings Goodbye

We’ve all seen “Shawshank Redemption.” Andy Defresne locks himself in the warden’s office with a lone record player and plays a song so intensely majestic than even a confined world like the prison he’s trapped in must stop and listen as homage. This is the same feeling I’ve sometime experienced when listening to Juan Gabriel singing one of his iterations of “Querida,” especially versions with Juanes or Raul di Blasio.

As a fan of music regardless of language, learning Spanish opened a new world to me. Several artists taught me that others languages could convey sublime reminders of life rather than just dull ways to say ‘chair.’ While not a huge fan of all the genres in Spanish, I’ve never failed to find artists or songs who strike me deeply. Juan Gabriel was one of those artists who would come from left field and sing over my shoulder. He sang in multiple genres successfully; even when I wasn’t thrilled with a particular song, I knew he would follow up soon enough with something spectacular.

He became the first living artist to have all 3 #1 Latin album spots on the charts simultaneously at the beginning of this year. His career was long and ended on a brilliant high note. Most English-speaking people probably are unfamiliar with Juan Gabriel, his musical legacy, or the immense sea of fans he left behind.

He died yesterday in Santa Monica.

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(While I was writing this, I looked on CNN Español to discover that Gene Wilder, a comedy genius in his own right, has died. These kinds of coincidences always throw me a curve ball. It is surreal to be writing one eulogy and read in another language that another icon has left the stage.)