For the Aspiring Performer

My oldest son has a plan for his future. Which is good because he’s sixteen and finishing his sophomore year of high school. Two more years stand between now and graduation. Adulthood is creeping up on him quicker than the ghosts lurking over the shoulders of unsuspecting characters in one of the Conjuring movies. A plan is a great thing for a kid his age to possess.

Christian will be taking some construction arts classes next year and intends to focus on electrical engineering after completing high school. He knows electricians make good money and the career is fairly recession proof so he plans on doing his apprenticeship, working as a journeyman, then becoming a master electrician. If reality was a D&D game, electricians are wizards and he aims to max out his character’s stats.

image courtesy of vforvegard

However, if he was a D&D character in real life, there’s a bit of a bard deep inside his spirit, waiting for its time to shine. Last fall, Christian participated in competitive drama. He and his partner won second place in their district and fourth place in the state of Idaho. Much like I did when I was his age, he’s found freedom in the theatrical world. He feels he can most be himself by pretending to be someone else. In addition to his dreams of working as a master electrician, he also want to continue acting after he graduates high school. He added a new item on his bucket list - he wants a role in a major studio movie, even if it is as an extra.

Electrical work to make money. Theatrical work to bring him joy. If you ask me, it sounds like a good plan.

On a recent trip to Seattle, Christian and I had a couple hours to break away from the rest of the family and spend some time together, just the two of us. Our schedule wouldn’t allow us to drive up to Marysville for a tour of my hometown so I thought the next best thing would be an introduction to a former classmate of mine. As an added bonus, this old friend has been active in the Seattle theater scene for most of the past quarter century. I messaged Dan and asked if I could buy him a cup of coffee and let my son pick his brain. He enthusiastically agreed.

Dan is a great guy. I knew my son could learn a lot for him and I hoped to share a few laughs reminiscing about the times we shared in the MPHS drama club. What I got (and didn’t expect) was to hear him dispense advice for me as well as my son. We had a great conversation that lasted longer than I thought it would. While my 42 year old brain can’t remember everything we discussed, there are a few key bits of guidance Dan contributed which I found helpful, if not inspiring.

Much of what he shared came from the perspective of an experienced actor. However, his counsel is applicable in any artistic or performance industry. From musicians to photographers to writers, he provided personal anecdotes and recommendations worth consideration.

If you or your kids are performers - either as an amateur or a professional, take some time to absorb these highlights from the time Christian and I spent with Dan.

1. Don’t stop learning. Christian mentioned interest in studying karate and asked if it would be helpful. Dan said absolutely. He participated in competitive fencing and his experience there led to roles he might not have gotten without learning how to fence. He also talked about how being bilingual opens up opportunities nonexistent for English only speakers. Dan informed Christian any specialty skills gained make you more valuable to people who want to hire you.

2. Fail in a safe place. Everyone makes mistakes - especially when starting out as a performer. Find ways to hone your craft in a small space before going big. Join student or small community productions, film videos for YouTube or TikTok, livestream on Twitch, attend open mike nights, book shows at dive bars where the dozen in attendance are probably drunk and don’t care if you are terrible. Those places offer low stakes with minimal consequence for failure and give you the freedom to screw up and keep going. Successes in these small spaces build confidence you need to be great when greatness matters.

3. Get involved. As a student, Christian has plenty of chances to be involved with theater and arts programs through his school. Yet for those of us older than a teenager, there are still ways we can participate in our chosen crafts. For those wanting to act, Dan suggested community theaters are a great place to start. Writers have blogs, singers have YouTube. Involvement in civic organizations help you learn how things function behind the scenes, the etiquette, the traditions, all the things unseen by the audience. You don’t even need to be performing to be involved. Dan told Christian he should volunteer as a way to get his foot in the door.

4. Find a mentor. Mentors could be a teacher; Dan and I both had a phenomenal mentor in Mr K when we were at MPHS. Outside of school, there are coaches and trainers available to hire. If you’re involved in community organizations, it’s possible to find someone there who is older and wiser willing to usher you to bigger and better things.

5. Do the scary stuff. “As an actor,” Dan said, “if there’s something that scares me, it’s a good sign I should probably do it.” He wasn’t talking about the dangerous or potentially harmful king of scary - rather he was speaking of the roles and challenges that seem intimidating. He gave us the example of taking on comical parts after spending years considering himself as nothing more than dramatic actor. Doing things that seem daunting helps you grow and creates greater opportunities in the future.

6. Watch for red flags. Dan has learned to watch for troubling signs about producers and directors to avoid taking roles or participating in shows potentially problematic. For example, if they’re disorganized during an audition, the rehearsals and production will probably be disorganized too. If multiple friends and colleagues are warning you to not work with a particular person, there’s probably a valid reason for their words of caution. If people make too-good-to-be-true promises, it probably is too good to be true.

7. Learn when to say no. This was Dan’s answer when I asked him if there’s anything he would do differently. He talked about how not every opportunity is a good one. As a young or beginning creative worker, it’s easy to say yes to everything. You’re hungry for a gig and eager to prove yourself. Inevitably, everyone ends up working on projects they shouldn’t have accepted. Learning to say no helps reduce the number of times you look back in hindsight and regret doing this job or that gig.

8. Remember your power. In creative industries, there are people who think they possess all of the power as if they’re little demigods in the world of arts and entertainment. Agents, publishers, directors, producers. They act big and tough, presenting an image of unquestionable authority giving artists the only option to shut up and take whatever is offered. While it is true they have power, they don’t have it all. You have power too. They will research you before they offer you anything, you have the power to research them too. Study them, ask around for others who have worked with them to see what their experience was like. Look into the quality or other work they’ve done. Everyone has power and no one is more powerful than anyone else. If a director or a publisher uses their power in a way that is abusive or manipulative, you have the ultimate power to say no and decline working for or with them.

If you know Dan and have the chance to spend some time with him, I’d encourage you to do so. He’s filled with wit and wisdom. You will probably walk away from the conversation encouraged or motivated. Possibly both.

If you’re in the Seattle area, Dan will be a part of the cast for GreenStage’s return to live in-person performances with Shakespeare in the Park this summer. Please go see one of their shows and enjoy some of the culture the city has to offer.

Finally, regardless of where you live, please support your local arts community. Starving artists everywhere do what we do for people like you. After a year like 2020, your patronage is more important than ever.

What It’s Like to Be Me: Begin Again Pt 2, Contemplation

If divorce was the lowest point in my life, everything that followed would be an uphill climb. The emphasis here is with the word climb. While my health and happiness improved, it wasn’t an instant or easy transition. It involved a lot of contemplation and introspection. For a while, the only prayer I could manage to pray was “help this all make sense.” So I prayed it over and over until things started making sense.

Before I could become who I am now, I had to rediscover who I was. There was deconstruction and reconstruction. I argued with myself. I argued with God. If I were to build a better me, I had to uproot my flaws and admit my failures. These songs helped me find ways to express my weakest parts.

Wideawake: “Greener”
Scott Leger opens this song with a common adage: “They say the grass is greener on the other side.” We all fight against comparison to some extent, and Scott described his battle in the second verse. “I struggle to make progress, it's a never ending fight.” He also says he has “doubts to fill the sky” and “an ocean full of failure.” I can relate.

Showbread: “Age of Insects”
Walking back into church as a recent divorcee and newly minted single dad forced me to confront the weight of my mistakes. I often felt small, like a bug walking around “on insect legs beneath an unforgiving sun.” Thankfully, I was surrounded by a community filled with grace. They gave me the freedom to rediscover God and overcome my insecurities. This song brought me full circle, beginning with my circumstance at the time. “Thought you wouldn't recognize me in the black of soot and ash, Don't turn deaf unto my voice, there's one thing I want you to know: I have always loved you, though my life has never said so.” Then it returned me to my first love. It closes with a chorus we sang at church when I was a kid, “I love you Lord and I lift my voice to worship you, oh my soul rejoice, Take joy my King in what you hear, may it be a sweet sweet song in your ear.”

Heath McNease: “'Til We Have Faces”
Disclaimer. I don’t like Heath McNease. Because of things I know about him, I don’t want to promote him or his work. I’ve unfollowed all of his social media outlets and deleted any music I’d previously purchased of his. All except this one song. I can’t escape it. Even though I struggle to separate who his is with the art he creates, there’s something about these words that haunted me. “Dead and buried, no respects, and no one cares, none there accept me. I haven't done enough for love, How could love accept me?” Before I could rebuild myself, I had to recognize the self loathing I allowed to take over my identity and embrace the loneliness of divorce as a gift that brought me closer to God. “It's cold and snowy nights that slowly fade from lonely days, but it's worth these frozen veins to see a perfect face. So dig the words right out of us 'til this cage of fragile ribs protecting us is shattered, gladly ground it back to dust.”

Listener: “Wooden Heart (Sea of Mist Called Skaidan)”
The person who introduced me to this song described it as a song about grace – something I was in desperate need of at the time. This raw need for grace is laid bare in some of the most beautiful prose I’ve ever heard, “I am the barely-living son of a woman and man who barely made it, but we’re making it taped together on borrowed crutches and new starts, we all have the same holes in our hearts.” This is a song I keep coming back to every time I feel like I’m not good enough. It has made such a huge impact on my life especially the line, “This war-ship is sinking, and I still believe in anchors. Pulling fist fulls of rotten wood from my heart, I still believe in saviors.” Those words will be my next tattoo, with an anchor on one side and a cross on the other.

Demon Hunter: “I Will Fail You”
My affinity for this song can be traced back to my brother who was the first to share it with me. As I sought to rebuild a new and better me, this song was my rock bottom looking up. It was on my mind as I forged new friendships. It echoed in my mind every time I made a mistake at work or didn’t live up to my kids’ expectations. I was even humming it to myself as I drove to my first date with Annie. “I will fail you of that I’m sure.” Perhaps I realized the knowledge of eminent failure would push me to do better. Knowing I would fail could have made successes sweeter. Or maybe my mindset took away the burden of trying to be perfect so I wouldn’t beat myself up for failing to attain perfection.

How to Insult a DJ in Three Easy Steps

Do you want to insult a DJ so badly they laugh at you? Do three things:

1. Offer them a job 

2. Burden them with a majority of the overhead cost 

3. Keep most of their earnings for yourself

Yay capitalism.

I am speaking from the perspective of a former professional DJ and an audiophile who has friends currently working as DJs. Over the last few years, I’ve also had the opportunity to return to the profession supporting one of my best friends as he’s launching his own entertainment company.

Music has always been therapeutic for me. Being able to share it is like a drug - simultaneously calms me and makes me feel high. The DJ environment is a safe place for me. If there is a way I could make a little extra money on the side, I would welcome the opportunity to return to the world of wedding receptions, school dances, and house parties. Secretly speaking (after writing) my dream job would be working as an in house DJ for a stadium or arena playing the music during baseball or hockey games.

With these ambitions in mind, I created a job alert for “disc jockey” on Indeed. If I could find a way to maintain my current employment and supplement my income through music entertainment, how could I ever turn it down?

This last week, I discovered how I could turn it down. For the first time since I created the job alert, I got a notification of an available disc jockey job. Let’s call this a hard pass.

Image courtesy of Indeed

On the surface, this sounds like a great opportunity. Yet it falls apart under closer examination. Let’s dig deeper.

When I DJ’d for a similar company in 2002/2003, my starting wage was $70 a night with a raise to $80 after my introductory period. They also paid an extra $50 bonus if a client requested me when booking their event. In comparison, $150-$500 per gig appears to be better than what I was paid nearly two decades ago. For people who hire their entertainment through branded companies, this pay rate might be surprising. Parents of the bride routinely handed me $750 dollar checks incorrectly assuming most of that money would go to me. Johnny B’s is probably the same - whatever they pay their DJ’s is probably a small fraction of the total bill.

The job posting’s description of benefits and schedules are contradictory ideas. When you’re a DJ, you work weekends. This is a fact of the industry. No one gets married on a Tuesday at noon. School dances are not held on school nights. Company gatherings and holiday events are strategically scheduled to allow employees to get drunk at the party and spend the rest of weekend sleeping off the hangover before returning to work the following Monday morning. I’m curious how they can promise a flexible schedule when you're guaranteed to work Friday and Saturday nights and only those nights. Furthermore, there is no flexibility in your start and stop times. Your gig starts when your client demands. There’s no wiggle room or space for bargaining. You don’t get to tell a bride or CEO, “that time doesn’t work well for me.” If any flexibility exists, it’s either you work or you don’t.

These are not conditions I object to as it’s the nature of the beast. I understand companies who contract DJs have to pay for advertising and office space, so it makes sense to me how a majority of what clients pay goes to the company and not the DJ. I realize events hiring a DJ are only booked on weekends. Such scheduling would make it easy to maintain my regular job while making a little extra money entertaining strangers. I also posses the skills they require. I have DJ’d for corporate events, weddings, and private parties. When in front of an audience, I have the attitude and personality to keep a party bouncing.

Within this want ad, there is one line transforming it from an interesting possibility to a laughably insulting proposition. Five words: “Must have your own equipment.”

This single phrase disqualifies me from applying. I satisfy all of the other qualifications. A driver’s license, reliable transportation, over a year of actual disc jockey experience. However, I don’t own my own equipment. Therefore, I’m not a viable candidate.

Here’s the true insult: if I did own my own equipment, I wouldn’t want to apply for this job. Why would I want to work for another company and only get a small portion of the money paid for my services if I could do the same work and keep 100% of the profits for myself? Why would I bear the brunt of the overhead costs so someone else can make money off my labor?

Annie and I have discussed saving up money to buy equipment for myself and starting my own company. I did the research and math. It would take roughly $3000 dollars to build a basic yet functional set up to do my own gigs. If I charged $700 per night, I’d need to book five clients before I’d recover the start up cost. If I made the same investment and went to work for another company making $150 per gig, I’d have to work twenty events to pay it off. The choice is logical.

There is one small benefit to working as a contracted DJ for companies like these. They promote you for you. You don’t have to engage in any shameless self promotion. People hire the company, they assign the gig to you, client gets to know you by luck of the schedule, then hopefully they tell their friends about you. You become known by sheer force of contract. Unfortunately, companies like these ask their DJ to sign non-compete disclosures legally prohibiting them from working for another company or for themselves should their employment ever be terminated.

Establishing yourself as a disc jockey is a lot of hard work. Building your brand is time consuming and exhausting. Regardless of your talent or personality, customers can’t hire you if they don’t know you exist. Working for a company to help you build name recognition is an easy shortcut, but personally I’d rather put in the effort to do it myself.

So it looks like I won’t be working as a DJ on my own any time soon. However, if you need a DJ in the Spokane/Cd’A area, I know a guy. He’s a phenomenal DJ.

Through the lense of a former 90s youth group kid.

If you're a long time reader you probably know I grew up in a conservative evangelical church. I was also a teenager in the Seattle suburbs during the grunge era. Those years were the Wild West of youth ministry. Youth pastors today want to be relatable and relevant. Youth leaders back then wanted to know how much crazy shit they could get teens to do before the kids revolted. If youth pastors were mad scientists, we were the guinea pigs.

One of the most predominant highlights of any church youth event during the 90s is what I’ve lovingly (and regrettably) described as pudding through the nose games. They didn’t actually consist of slurping pudding through your nose, but the nasal consumption of a Snack Pack was always a possibility. These games were designed to induce a gag factor, inspire PG-13 levels of comedic violence, or encourage what modern youth leaders call “purple.” No idea what I’m talking about? Allow me to provide some examples.

The Toothpick Lifesaver relay. Teams lined up boy/girl/boy/girl with toothpicks in our mouths. Without using our hands, a package of Lifesavers had to be passed toothpick to toothpick from one end of the line to the other. And we had to start over if the candied fruit flavored ring was dropped. First team to pass along all 14 candies through every member wins.

image courtesy of Sterling College

Or The Chip Race. In this game, a boy and girl held a potato chip between their lips while trying to reach the finish line before the other couples. If the chip broke or was dropped, the pair had to start over.

Or Wink’em Blink’em. Everyone of one gender stood in a circle while kids of the other gender sat in front of them with one empty seat. The person behind the empty chair winked at someone who tried to escape the grasp of the person standing behind them to sit in the empty seat. Originally, the rules stated the fleeing player would be stopped with a tap on the shoulder but my generation never liked rules. When we played this game (it was a favorite at Marysville Naz) we played it like a full contact sport. The standing player could use any means necessary to stop the runner. Nights with Wink’em Blink’em on the itinerary usually ended with pulled hair, scratches down the back, torn t-shirts, and rug burns on the knees and elbows. Ironically, the popular kids were more likely to be tackled or dragged than the uncool kids like me.

Or the Caterpillar Relay. Teams laid face down and shoulder to shoulder on the beach to form a human caterpillar. (Note: I said caterpillar, not centipede. That's something wildly different.) The person at the end of the end of their team's line rolled over all of their teammates to the front of the line where they resumed the face down position as other players rolled over the top of them. New competitors began rolling as soon as they were the last in line. First team to get their whole caterpillar across the finish line won.

Or Eat That Food. This was played like Name That Tune but with food. Teen versus adult volunteer took turns claiming they could eat a food item in a certain number of bites, each challenge lower than the previous. If that number reached a point where one player couldn't eat the food in fewer bites than the other, they dared the other player to "Eat it." If a player scarfed the item within the promised number of bites, they won. They would lose by failing to complete the challenge or throwing up. I saw people eat a whole can of spam in one chipmunk-cheeked bite, pour an entire tin of Altoids into their open maw, chomp a foot long raw carrot with a diameter of their in three bites, cram a king size Snickers in their mouth while drinking a can of Pepsi, and chug a large jar of applesauce in a single gulp. There was always a garbage bin on stage for vomit.

And Shaving Cream Wars. A section of the football field was cordoned off to separate spectators and warriors. Teenaged campers and adult leaders purchased hundreds of cans of shaving cream to battle each other in a one vs all battle royale. Combatants ran around with aerosol cans of shaving cream, filling their hands with foam, and smearing it into the faces and onto the bodies of other willing participants. Extreme players Duct taped their shaving cream cans into their hands with fingers hovering above the spray triggers.

image courtesy of Baltimore Sun

Between the inappropriate entertainment, the purity culture teachings, and attempts to dictate what kinds of movies we could watch or music we could listen to, my generation was subjected to an ongoing clash of contradictions and double standards. It is no surprise why so many of my peers have left the church in the decades since then.

Youth group was weird enough bit summer camps is where it got really awkward. Teen camp had a different theme every year and games were tailored to match the theme. One year our theme was “The Doctor is In.” Bed pans (if you couldn’t already tell where this was going) were used in a majority of the games that year. One of those bedpan games was a root beer relay. Teams lined up 20 yards away from a bedpan filled with root beer. Everyone was given a straw to hold with their mouth. First person in their team’s line ran to the bedpan, laid face down with hands behind their back, and drank through their straw. As soon as they sucked up as much root beer as they could, they ran back to their team and the next person sprinted to lie down and chug through their straw, then repeat until their team drank all of the root beer. First team to finish a half dozen 2 liters won.

If you’re thinking it would have been funnier for the camp organizers to use Mountain Dew, I agree. However, despite the shades of violence and confusing sexual boundaries, there were still lines that Nazarenes were not brave enough to cross.

I thought this game would be easy. I could guzzle a can of Dr Pepper in one shot - proved it a couple times before. Drinking soda should be easier with a straw, right? Wrong, so very wrong.

When my turn came, I ran the 20 yards as fast as my scrawny teenaged legs would carry me. I laid down in the prone position, hands clasped behind my back, dunked my straw into the warm brown liquid, and began to sip. Then I discovered something: I couldn’t drink. I could barely breathe. Gravity pulled my body weight down onto my lungs and I lacked any alternative to support that weight because my hands were clasped behind my back. The position of my hands also stretched out my chest cavity and tightened my pectoral muscles making it difficult to expand my rib cage. My ability to draw a breath was smothered.

Instinctively, my brain knew breathing was more important than drinking soda. My desire to live outweighed my hopes to win a pudding through the nose game. I couldn't drink even if I wanted to. I got up, ran back to my line, and hoped everyone else on my team had better luck than me.

To be clear, while I was scrawny weakling, I was also healthy. I kept fit by spending summers hiking all over the Northern Cascades and walking/biking everywhere during the school year. I didn’t have asthma, didn’t smoke, didn’t suffer any underlying health issues. I was a normal (even if socially awkward) teenager, spry and energetic. Yet despite everything in my respiratory favor, I still struggled to breath when laying prone with my hands behind my back. I can’t imagine doing the same thing with a police officer kneeling on my neck.

I have frequently pondered this story from my youth while watching the Derek Chauvin trial over the last couple weeks. It’s been heavy on my mind. Watching the videos, listening to testimony and cross examination, I keep imagining myself in George Floyd’s place.

image courtesy of Dazed & Confused Magazine

Laying prone with your hands behind your back isn’t like getting a back massage as Chauvin’s lawyer claimed during closing arguments. If it was difficult for me to breathe in that position as a healthy teenager with no weight on my neck, logic leads me to believe it would impossible for George Floyd to do the same under the weight of Derek Chauvin.

That is a conclusion any reasonable person should be able to understand. Thankfully, the jury agreed.

Coffee & Road Trips

Dad’s stories used to be one of my kids favorite things but they make the request less frequently these days. Listening to me reminisce about my wonder years isn’t as interesting to teenagers. I’ve also reached the age or reruns. “I’ve heard this one before, Dad.” Still, when they request me to entertain them with tales of my youth, I oblige. I won’t be able to do this for much longer.

Last weekend, they wanted crazy driving stories. Most of tales I have to tell about diving wild involve my brother, Aaron. I told them about the time he picked me up from school and we scared a student driver by head banging to some metal music turned up to full volume while heading down the long driveway from the MPHS campus. Story time ended with an anecdote from a road trip we took to Cheyenne in the summer of 96.

It was an ill fated trip. The original plan was a non-stop drive straight through from Seattle to Cheyenne, but it was nearly midnight when we reached Billings and Aaron was too tired to continue. He got us a hotel room and we slept hard. In the morning, we discovered I had accidentally locked his keys in the car and we had to wait for a police officer to pick the lock for us. On the way back home, we spent the night with one of our dad’s college friends in Meridian. After they woke us up for breakfast, news broke about the bombing at the Atlanta Olympics. Then Aaron’s car broke down on the freeway after we passed Caldwell. He took the next exit and his Ford Lemon sputtered to a stop on front of a gas pump in Sand Hollow. There was a mechanic there who took a look at the car. He didn’t have the parts to fix it and it would take a week to get it if he placed an order. Instead, he duct taped some hoses together so it would hold long enough to get to a fancier mechanic in Ontario. After the car was fully repaired, we got lost trying to get out of Ontario. Attempting to make up time, Aaron got caught speeding by a flying radar trap somewhere north of Umatilla. The ticket was for driving 15 mph over the limit.

I didn’t tell the kids about any of that though. Instead I focused on our arrival in Cheyenne.

Aaron and I agreed it would be funny if we were blasting west coast rap while driving through the city of cowboys. I selected our entrance music as we rolled into town: Gospel Gangstaz. Windows down, volume up. The bass bumped and thumped the whole way to Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

There was one necessity visibly absent during our hip-hop ride: coffee shops. Growing up in the Seattle suburbs, America’s coffee Mecca, we were accustomed to seeing drive-thru coffee stands in parking lots at every major intersection. It felt weird driving through Wyoming’s biggest city and not seeing a coffee shop. Or any big city without seeing a single latte stand.

Granted, this was 1996. The concept of espressos were still an American novelty abundant on the urban coasts but foreign in the heartlands. Small town USA had yet to discover the joys of breves and americanos. In mid-90s Cheyenne, if you wanted coffee, you brewed it at home with the ground Folgers you purchased at the grocery store, or you bought a cup with unlimited refills at 24 hour diners like Sheri’s.

Still, Aaron was a coffee addict and I was coffee curious. We wanted to get some real good caffeinated brew, The first question we asked when we arrived at The Budd house: where can we find a coffee stand? Of the many aunts and uncles gathered, only one knew where we could seek our treasure. There was only one drive-thru shop and it was located on the other side of town. Aaron got the directions and we jumped back into his car for the cross town drive in hopes to find the glorious java.

It was there. As promised. No other vehicles were in line when we arrived so we drove up to the window without a wait. My order was simple, a single shot mint latte. Aaron placed an order for his usual: a quad shot mocha mint. Unfortunately, what was a normal drink in the Seattle suburbs was unusual in Cheyenne. How unusual? Well, they had never heard of it.

“What’s that?” The barista asked.

Aaron asked if she knew how to make a mocha. She did. Then if she knew what a double shot was. She did. By this time, he had the attention of both baristas.

“Well,” he said, “if it takes two shots to make a double shot, then it would take four shots to make a quad shot.”

“Four shots?” said one barista. “Can you do that?” asked the other.

Aaron nodded and instructed the ladies at Cheyenne’s only drive through coffee shop how to assemble his quad shot mocha mint.

Today, there are at least seven Starbucks in Cheyenne (more if you include those located inside of grocery stores) and a couple dozen other cafes, drive-thru stands, and boutique shops offering a variety of fancy espressos. If you’re ever in Chy-Town, I’d recommend stopping by Rail Yard Coffee Haus.

It’s a new age where coffee is holy water and every caffeine craving American has their favorite spot to get their fix. 25 years ago was a different time, we were not quite so obsessed. The plentiful options available now were once nonexistent.

I’ve told this story dozens of times. My Seattle friends don’t believe it ever happened because coffee shops have been a fixture of our culture since the grunge era. Younger kids don’t believe me because they can’t remember anything before the ubiquitous latte stand. As I relayed this tale one more time with my kids, I had a revelation.

The first quad shot mocha ever made in the city of Cheyenne was made for my brother. This as an indisputable fact.

The baristas working at the coffee stand we visited had never made a quad shot before. They didn’t even know it was possible which means such a strong coffee had never been brewed in their shop. Since that lone latte stand was the only coffee shop in Cheyenne, there was nowhere anyone else could have previously ordered such a monstrosity. Therefore, it is only logical to deduct my brother’s order was the first time a quad shot had been made in the entire city of Cheyenne.

In previous iterations of this story, I never considered the monumental implications of what my brother accomplished the sunny July day in the summer of 96. To be the first patron to order a quad shot mocha in the entire city makes him a legend.

There should be an award for such feats.

Four years after our trip, Aaron and his wife became residents of Cheyenne. They’ve made the city their home. And it’s become easier for Aaron to find espressos with more than two shots.

Not your typical Easter post

Elvis died a couple weeks ago. Not the Blue Suede Shoes Elvis, he left the building a long time ago. Elvis was a fluffy black feathered bird, a silkie with a pompadour, the first rooster to live at Heartsong Meadow. He was everyone’s favorite chicken, practically our farm’s mascot. The girls loved him most and together we grieved. Then the next day, one of our mama goats gave birth to quadruplets. From mourning fatality one day to celebrating life the next. It’s like we were living God’s promise to make all things new.

Inspired by events on our farm, I posted the following on facebook.

Seemed fitting as we entered the Easter season to experience death and birth in quick succession, as if we could explain the crucifixion and resurrection through barnyard animals.

I had a plan, much like I do around major holidays, to compose a blog post in honor of Easter. I had great ideas to speak of the jaded cynicism living in a world where everyone is quick to shout “crucify him” at the littlest provocation, while confronted with the relentless optimism of Palm Sunday. I thought about the devastation of Good Friday and the hope of resurrection and how I could tie it all together through the cycle of human emotions we all experience. Joy, sorrow, expectation, disappointment, surprise, and relief.

To be honest though, I just don’t have it in me this year. Instead, you’re getting an unedited, first draft, random stream of consciousness, screaming into the universe at 4am jumble of raw emotional pain spewed out in the form of words on a screen.

Of the four baby goats, the kids found one cold and motionless but barely hanging on to life. We spent a week tube and bottle feeding the kid, trying to nurse her back to health. Unfortunately, she failed to thrive. At the same time, we had to grieve the loss of one of Annie’s childhood friends and two extended family members. Then yesterday, we had to put down our buck (and my second favorite goat) after he was attacked by an animal, and my parents left for a two day drive to Oklahoma City to visit my Grandma who was rushed to the hospital on Thursday. Barring any miracles, this will probably be the last time my dad will get to see and talk to his mom.

Sure, I could try to be eloquent and compose something inspiring. Just not today. Not tomorrow either. While Christians will be filling church pews tomorrow (or watching online because COVID), I’ll join them. We’ll partake in the traditions and rituals of Easter – the holiday to remember the death and resurrection of Jesus. Over the past few weeks, my family has seen enough death. It’s too much. We need a little more life, resurrection, hope, and second chances.

What It’s Like to Be Me: Begin Again Pt 1, Solace

These days, when I talk to friends about divorce, I try to take a balanced approach. I still encourage people to fight for their marriages. I still believe there is something beautiful into two people whose commitment, companionship, and intimacy binds them together through the darkest of times. I still believe divorce sucks. However, in hindsight, divorce was the best gift Bekah ever gave me. It allowed me to become a better man. I discovered health and happiness greater post separation than anytime during our marriage.

It wasn’t easy though. The aftermath of divorce was a season of loss. Personally, financially, and emotionally, it took a toll. However, it was also a time of physical and spiritual renewal. I started eating healthier and exercising, found my way back into church, connected with a group of new friends who supported me where I was while pushing me to grow, and began helping in ministry. As a member of the worship arts team, I found healing and solace in music, much like I once did as a teenager trying to survive the perils of high school.

Matt Redman: “10,000 Reasons (Bless the Lord)” 

Shortly after Bekah and I separated, my grandmother passed away. My cousin Kat, friend Tim, and their kids picked me up on their way to Cheyenne and the five of us road tripped through the night to get there for Grandma’s funeral. During her memorial service, we sang this song and I couldn’t get through it without choking up. “And on that day when my strength is failing, The end draws near and my time has come, Still my soul will sing Your praise unending, Ten thousand years and then forevermore.” Seven years later, I still get a little teary when I hear this song.

All Sons & Daughters: “Reason to Sing” 

When Pastor Gary introduced me to this song, it hit me at a deep emotional level. Opening with words like “When the pieces seem too shattered to gather off the floor,” it seemed to speak where my life was at the moment. I felt the lyrics “When I'm overcome by fear and I hate everything I know,” because that was my daily reality. This song became my prayer, “Will there be a victory? Will You sing it over me now?”

Jimmy Needham: “The Only One” 

It’s easy to focus on things that do not matter. Jimmy called them lovers and lower case gods in this song, “all of my lovers are found in my billfold, they rest on my mantel,” and “all of my gods they have @ signs and hash tags.” I found myself praying along with this song as I knew my tendency to stress over money and social media. “If you're the bread then fill me up. If you're the water fill my cup, 'Til lesser loves are washed out to sea. Why can't I see, you're the only one who satisfies me?” After the losses I endured, I needed my cup filled more than ever.

Sixpence None The Richer: “Amazing Grace (Give It Back)” 

Evangelical culture had always played a central role in my life. It seemed like weekly church attendance would always be my constant. Yet, when my marriage started falling apart my Sunday routine revolved around whether or not I could get my wife out of bed. My dedication started to waiver. Not because I had lost faith, but because I didn’t want to take the kids to church by myself. The opening lyrics of this song remind me what it felt like walking back into my church after the divorce and months of absence. “I knew a song that played in me. It seems I’ve lost the melody. So please, lord, give it back to me.” At the same time, I had to rediscover who I was as a newly minted single father and the religious implications of being a divorcee. I found solace hearing Leigh Nash singing, “You’re everywhere at every time and yet You’re so damn hard to find.” It felt like I wasn’t so alone.

Sanctus Real: “Sanctuary” 

In the long dark night of the soul, we tend to ask the existential questions. This song asked them too. “Why can it be so hard to find peace for my soul, rest in this life, a moment where all seems right?” I returned to Lake City Church in the middle of a season feeling (much like this song suggests) weary, weak, and burdened. I needed sanctuary and I found it. Weekend after weekend, entering through the backstage door, listening to the band rehearse, hanging out in the greenroom with some of the most talented musicians I’ve ever known, listening to the wisdom of the pastoral staff, and engaging in deep reaffirming conversations. Occasionally, I’d find myself on stage, arranging microphone cables or blowing out candles. I’d stand there for a few extra moments, staring into the empty auditorium, and just breathe. Slowly, thanks to the relationships I discovered there, I found healing. I found peace for my soul.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Composing a Soundtrack

I had a plan for 2020 but it went awry. This is a true statement for practically every human in America. However, my plan was for writing - nothing to be affected by quarantines or social distancing. Yet, I was still derailed.

It was a good plan, 100% plotted out in an Excel spreadsheet because I’m not just a writer, I’m also a nerd and a data analyst. I introduced the project through a blog post early in the year then had a schedule to follow: two posts a month to begin, then three posts a month through the summer, retuning to two a month through the fall, ending with a final epilogue on New Years Eve. I hoped to spend the year blogging my way through the soundtrack of my life.

The first few months went according to plan. I kept the pace through March, despite a hospital stay at the beginning of the month. There was a little hiccup in April but I thought I could get back on track only to falter, completely fail my schedule, and miss my self-imposed deadlines.

But why?

While most everything going haywire in 2020 can be blamed on COVID-19, my blundering inability to complete a blog series is not a victim of the pandemic. A global viral outbreak didn’t break me but health issues were my first complication. A year ago, I landed in the hospital. My diagnosis was diverticulitis with a rupture. Rest, antibiotics, and a change in diet wasn’t enough to heal on my own. I returned to the ER a month later and was scheduled for a pair of emergency surgeries and a weeklong stay at Kootenai Health.

My first hospitalization wasn’t my downfall. I kept pace and refused to be discouraged. I continued writing and even published a blog post inspired by a visit from my kids and commercials aired on the TV in my hospital room. My second stay was different. It was longer, more painful, lonely, and exhausting. By then, new rules had been instituted due to the pandemic and visitors were no longer allowed.

After all the medical crises were done, I made some attempts to get caught back up until I got bogged down in content of the posts. The true reason I didn’t complete my project according to plan is the mental fatigue of reliving my past.

As a series, What It’s Like to Be Me was (is) divided into four sections. First, In the Beginning reviewed the songs I relate to my childhood, teen years, and young adulthood. The Family Man covered those songs reminding me of starting a family and raising kids. The third chapter was All Falls Apart, these songs put my divorce into perspective. The final chapter will be called Begin Again, a collection of songs reflecting who I am now, from being a single father to a second chance at love and blending two families into one.

All Falls Apart is where my plans fell apart. This is the darkest phase of my life. Retelling those stories wasn’t easy and there were more recalled but never shared. When I created my blogging schedule, I underestimated the emotional turmoil I would feel dredging up those unpleasant memories. Who wants to relive the ugliness of their past? I didn’t. The more I wrote, the less I wanted to write.

Lesson learned.

There is good news though. The most unpleasant time of my life was followed by the happiest. I finished the worst chapter of my soundtrack at the end of the worst year in modern history. With the new year, I get to tell new stories about the new me. Instead of cramming the songs that have carried me through the last seven years into three months, I’m going to spend the rest of 2021 year sharing tales from my favorite years of my life. Chapter four, Begin Again begins soon.

A Writer’s Justice

In June of 1999, prolific author Stephen King was out for his daily four mile walk when he was struck by a drunk driver. The horrific impact flung King fourteen feet through the air and deposited King’s bloody glasses in the front passenger seat of the drunk guy’s vehicle. King spent three weeks in the hospital with a gashed head, punctured lungs, and breaks or fractures in his ribs, pelvis, hip, and thigh. He endured multiple operations then attended physical therapy that lasted longer than the hospitalization. Considering the circumstances, King is lucky to be alive.

The driver pleaded to a lesser charge allowing him to walk away with a figurative slap on the wrist, despite a lengthy rap sheet of eleven prior convictions for driving under the influence. No jail time. A suspended, but not revoked driver’s license.

Most of us would be furious if we were in King’s position. Hit and nearly killed by a habitual drunk who should not have been driving, unable to work and do the thing you love for several weeks, only to watch the cause of your pain and agony let off easy. King was mad, but most of his ire was reserved for the prosecutors who allowed this miscarriage of justice to happen. As for the man who almost took his life, King was mostly cordial. In a Dateline interview five months after the accident, King said “There isn't really anything that he's got that I want except his license.” A year later the driver passed away from a painkiller overdose. Even then, King’s kindness continued. King called his death untimely and said “Our lives came together in a strange way. I'm grateful I didn't die. I'm sorry he's gone.”

Stephen King is a master of the English language. On this earthly realm, he is possibly more gracious and considerate than I would be if such a tragedy had happened to me. The fictional world is a different story; there King is absolutely savage.

image courtesy of Get Literary

King began writing the Dark Tower series early in his career. The first book was published in 1982 and the most recent release came out in 2012. Not only did King create a continuous story spanning multiple books, he also weaved in characters and settings from several of his other works, forming a shared universe connecting all of King’s fictional bibliography. In the final chronological book in the Dark Tower series, King added a new character, a hapless servant of the Crimson King – the main antagonist through all of the books. King named him Bryan after the man who pulverized him five years earlier. The fictional version of the real life Bryan was more reckless and portrayed to be dimwitted. The character Bryan is distracted by a dog while driving and kills one of the story’s protagonists, just like the real Bryan was distracted by a dog when he ran into Stephen King.

However, The Dark Tower isn’t the only fictional depiction of Bryan Smith. In 2004, Steven King created a TV series called Kingdom Hospital. The main character of the story is hit by a van driven by a person distracted by their dog. However, King made this character mirror the real life inspiration even more. The driver is seen later in the series taking pills from an unmarked bottle, referencing the real Bryan’s overdose death.

This is justice for a writer. There is a general rule with writers: don’t make them mad. If you get on their wrong side, they will turn you into a villain in their next book, or give a character based on you a gruesome death.

found on Pinterest

This is the way our brain works. Instead of allowing our grievances to become a memory between the two of us, the harm you caused becomes immortalized on paper to be published, republished, and read by our fans. Instead of your wrongs fading into obscurity, it becomes entertainment for millions. It might be vindictive, yet it is also poetic. For many writers, this literary form of revenge is cathartic. It allows us to process our grief and anger without lashing out. When justice isn’t carried out in court, our words might be the only justice served.

There’s another kind of justice, a reverse vendetta. I don’t know if there’s an actual term for it so I’ll just call it redneck justice. In redneck justice, the wrongdoer seeks vengeance against bystanders when caught committing heinous acts. They harass the person or people who reported their crime in hopes to intimidate them. Redneck justice is used get away with their misdeeds by bullying those who impede their ways, silence their accusers, and continue their nefarious life free from the penalty of consequence or accountability. Redneck justice is a violent avoidance of true justice.

Recent events reminded me of this story from the life of Stephen King. I pondered writers’ habits of basing villainous characters on their real-world abusers and make readers vicariously experience the pain we endured so they might root for our heroes and heroines. As I find myself on the brunt end of redneck justice, I feel more empowered than ever because I’m a writer. The timing of unfortunate happenings is convenient as I am working on my first fantasy novel and my book needed a second villain. While the details of the perpetrator of redneck justice will (for now) remain private, my book now has a secondary antagonist. Even if the courts fail, I will have my writer’s justice.

In a Rush?

Floating in Heaven or roasting in Hell? I don’t know and the actual answer doesn’t matter to me. All I know is deciding a person’s eternal destination is above my pay grade. I’m not the judge of humankind, which is probably a good thing because if I was, Hell would be forced to hang up a “no vacancy” sign. Honestly, I tend to be far more judgmental than I have any right to be. It’s a character flaw.

As critical as I can be for the living, I aim to be more generous of the recently departed. Not everyone shares my strategy. When RBG passed away last fall, Cd’A area pastor Paul Van Noy made a public statement claiming she’s wicked and should not be celebrated as a national hero. This week, I saw similar sentiments from the opposite end of the political spectrum in response to the death of Rush Limbaugh. It seems the people who were fans of one reviled the other.

This is where the cynical jerk who typically holds a tight grip on the steering wheel in my brain eases off the gas pedal and consults the atlas to navigate these scenarios. When half my twitter feed claims heaven gained a new angel, and the other half partied like a grim reaper welcoming Hell’s newest resident, my centrist nature ran a cost-benefit analysis between being a saint and an asshole. I found myself straddling the fence.

I don’t know what Rush truly thought about God, but I know what I believe God thought about Rush. I believe God loved him like God loves every other person on Earth. I also know Rush professed to share my religious faith. Yet, when I listened to him I did not hear the same Christian morals which guide my values. Did Rush satisfy the biblical principle affording salvation to anyone who believes in their heart and professes with their mouth? I can’t answer that. I heard his words but I couldn’t see his heart. Again, such power is above my pay grade.

All I’m left with are mixed biblical commands and wise secular advice. My religion says to avoid stuff like bitterness, wrath, anger, and malice. My bible also instructs me not to speak evil and show perfect courtesy. Social norms tell us to not speak ill of the dead. Edmund Burke once advised, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”

How do we balance it all? Rush was a professional provocateur who earned millions pissing off others – either pissed at him or pissed at the people he didn’t like. He normalized misogyny, bigotry, and homophobia. He turned spite into a righteous cause. He revolutionized the American political landscape from the comforts of a radio production booth. As much as he was beloved by conservatives, he was also perceived as evil by liberals.

What am I to do as someone who believes that we should let go of anger when speaking of someone who taught us it’s OK to be angry? How do we recognize someone’s death might end the abuse of others? Is not speaking ill of an evil dead allowing evil to thrive by doing nothing? Should we criticize or honor, celebrate or mourn?

Neither.

I refuse to speak ill of the dead, but I don’t have to revel in their death either. If the dead is an individual who harmed society, I believe there is a better option than saying nothing and doing nothing at all.

Which leads us back to Limbaugh.

Are you mad about Rush’s treatment of women? Did it bother you when he said feminism was created to give ugly women a chance, or claimed things started going downhill after women were granted the right to vote? Were you creeped out when he sexualized the way women walk or when he called a 12 year old girl a dog? Do you believe he contributed to rape culture by claiming consent was a tool of liberals, tried to explain how women really mean yes when they say no, or said women protesting sexual harassment actually wished they had been harassed? Did you cringe every time he called a woman a slut or a ho? Did you roll your eyes when he said women have easier lives than men?

Then donate clothes, food, or funds to a women’s shelter. Support the National Women’s Law Center. Volunteer with organizations that help women escaping domestic violence, human trafficking, prostitution, and pornography. Respect the women in your lives and treat them with dignity.

Are you offended by his treatment of the LGBT community? Were you annoyed by his sexual jokes mocking gay people? Are you mad about his slippery slope argument that legalizing gay marriage would lead to pedophilia? Did you think it was bad taste for him to ridicule AIDS victims while circus music played in the background during his AIDS Update segment?

Then locate and support a local Gay Straight Alliance club. Donate to charities and support groups like The Trevor Project or It Gets Better Project. Spend time with your queer friends and listen to their coming out stories; if you don’t have any LGBT friends, make some.

Did his views on race anger you? Were you dumbfounded when he said all police sketches of criminal suspects look like Jesse Jackson? When he played a song called “Barak the Magic Negro” on his radio show, were you enraged? Did you argue with his claim there are more Native Americans alive today than any time in history or that Columbus saved us from the Natives? Do you think he was wrong to say “who the hell cares” about black voters because they’re a minority of the voting populace? Were you mad when he said the NBA should change their name to the Thug Basketball Association and sport teams should be called gangs?

Then shop at black owned businesses. Attend events organized by your local chapter of the NAACP. Listen to and learn from black voices. Support criminal justice reform measures and other legislation that aims to end racial inequity. Donate to charities dedicated to improving African American communities like the Thurgood Marshall College Fund, Black Girls CODE, or Campaign Zero.

Were you enraged by his treatment of disabilities, drugs, and health? Did you want to defend Michael J Fox when Rush claimed he was exaggerating the symptoms of Parkinson’s disease? Did you yell at your radio when he said nicotine wasn’t addictive and smoking doesn’t cause lung cancer? Were you puzzled when he claimed fitness enthusiasts were taxing our health care system?

Then join a gym, exercise more, and eat a healthier diet. If you’re a smoker, quit smoking. If you’re struggling with addiction, seek help. Support, volunteer, and donate to organizations like The Michael J Fox Foundation, St Jude, American Cancer Society, American Heart Association, Truth, or To Write Love on Her Arms.

I will not celebrate Rush’s death, nor will I speak ill of the dead. However, I will celebrate the people the dead spoke ill of while he was still alive.

Like Orion on a Cloudy Night

It was a stressful day. Which is weird because it should not have been so burdened by stress. The morning started like any other Sunday: Joylyn and Annie helped me complete barn chores before we all went out to breakfast as a family at our favorite little greasy dive in Rathrum. Later in the day, Annie went out for a horseback ride with one of her friends while I relaxed and played video games. I spent some time cleaning in the kitchen while Annie prepped the dining room table for a crafting project. Then we went on some errands to get wood stain and groceries. The day ended after a walk with our Mastiff at the dog park, more housework, and bedtime barn chores.

No dire emergencies. No kids arguing. No mishaps. No perceivable cause for frustration. Still, while we were on the freeway between home and Winco my brain declared battle against itself, like there was a civil war waging between my prefrontal cortex and my amygdala. From the coattails of a relaxing Sunday, I was suddenly and inexplicably overwhelmed by anxiety. My shoulders tightened, my chest was constricted, and my breathing grew shallow. Thoughts of impending dread and inevitable failure flooded over me.

There was no logical reason for me to feel the way I felt. Even in the moment I knew there was no validity behind my anxiety. It was what it was. I knew my emotional paralysis was devoid of substance yet I was powerless to avoid it. I felt better the next morning, ready to tackle a new work week and carry on as if I hadn’t been plagued by self sabotage less than 24 hours prior. But Sunday night, for causes beyond my capability to describe or understand, was rough. Sometimes it’s hard to get out of my own head.

After we returned home, and when the worst of the anxiety faded, I walked out of the house to retrieve groceries from the trunk. I briefly looked up and noticed a small break in the clouds perfectly framing the constellation Orion. The belt was shining bright. A few years of living on the farm has made those three stars the easiest for me to identify among the abundance of distant suns populating our night sky. I stood still for a moment and traced the outline of Orion up to the club and shield then down to the hem of his garment. I marveled at the unique position of my geographical location. The constellation was perfectly framed by cloud cover - grey masses above and below it, and to both sides. The overcast sky obscured all other constellations visible in early February.

I removed a few grocery bags from the trunk, closed it and looked up once more before going inside. In the time it took me to gather our purchases, the clouds shifted, blown by currents of wind. The only stars still visible were Zeta, Epsilon, and Delta – Orion’s Belt. A few seconds later and those stars also disappeared behind the overcast weather.

A couple hours later, I ventured outside once more to feed our animals and refill their water troughs. At the barn, my eyes wandered toward space again and the clouds populating the inland northwest earlier in the day had dissipated, pushed further east by the jet stream, revealing the clear and beautiful expanse of endless galaxies above us. Orion the hunter still stood proud above me, joined by his neighbors Cassiopeia and Pisces.

Orion is there somewhere

In a short span of time, Orion was the only constellation to be seen, vanished, then reappeared joined by dozens of visible constellations. Time and meteorological changes in the atmosphere alter the way we see the stars. Yet the shifts and adjustments in astronomy move slower. Night after night, Orion is still Orion. Mars and Jupiter move into and out of our night sky in long lethargic arcs. The moon cycles through its phases from full to new and back again every 29 and a half days, the subtle change barely perceptible from one night to the next.

As I pondered these quick adjustments in weather and its effect on our perception of the longer lasting existence of astronomical phenomena, I realized my struggles with depression and anxiety were much the same. My emotional state is often like the clouds, moved by circumstance and unseen forces. My melancholic disposition sways between bitter and sweet, often lingering where the two are blended. There are times my anxiety completely blurs my grandeur, other times it breaks long enough to observe glimmers of greatness. Then there are days where depression breaks and I feel as if I can shine. Regardless of how I feel from one moment to the next, I’m still me. I possess the same hopes and fears while overcome with anxiety as I do when serotonin and dopamine levels in my brain are stable. Moods come and go like the weather but my goals and beliefs remain, only to be changed through slow progression.

When I am feeling down, I know that feelings are only temporary. Anxiety comes, but it also goes. Happiness exists on the other side of these temporal adjustments. This concept isn’t an easy one to explain to someone who doesn’t struggle with depression and anxiety. If you want to better understand what it’s like to be me, just watch the stars on a partially cloudy night. Perhaps you could learn something from Orion.

The Idea

It started with an idea.

My oldest son’s favorite game is D&D, both as a player and a creator. He is often asking to DM a campaign for the whole family. He listens to podcasts and watches videos filled with tips and lore. His world rotates around school, homework, chores, and D&D. I sometimes wonder if thoughts of gaming occupy his mind at school and while he’s supposed to be completing assignments or folding laundry.

While we were all quarantined for Covid in December, he demanded a moment to talk about an idea he had for D&D. Normally, these requests involve his plans for upcoming campaigns or a world he’s designing. This time was different.

“Dad,” he said, “I want to make a D&D character who has autism. I know autism didn’t exist in the dark ages, but I want to explore what it would be like for a person on the spectrum in a medieval fantasy world.” We discussed the possibilities of what could happen, how such a character would react to the sights and sounds of a pre-industrialized feudal society. As we spoke, he grew more excited – feeling as if this was a real thing, giving bones and flesh to a figment of his imagination.

Then I had a revelation.

“You know,” I said, “This would make a good story.”
“I know, that’s why I want to use this character in a campaign.”
“No, no, no. Not a good D&D story. I mean, it’s that too but not what I’m talking about. When I say it would be a good story, I mean like an actual novel kind of story. Words on paper, printed and reprinted, sold in bookstores kind of story.”
“Oh, that.”

Then he changed the topic, reverting back to his plans of D&D campaigns but I wasn’t listening. The creative gears inside my brain where spinning like they got a fresh coat of WD-40. While Christian’s voice filled the room with all of the things he wants to do in a game, my mind was occupied with thoughts of what could happen in a book. I fell asleep pondering extra characters, sidekicks, and villains. I gave my thoughts freedom to wander through the geography of where such characters would live, queried what conflict would drive the characters to do what they do.

By the time I went to bed the next night, I had a rough idea of a plot from start to finish. I had a bare description of the main character, the party that will accompany him on his quest, and the enemy he hopes to defeat. The day after that, I pulled Christian aside while throwing hay and told him everything I had been thinking about. The inspiration for the book came from him so I wanted his blessing, permission to use his sliver of a plan to create something bigger.

His response: “Dude, you need to write this book.”

So I am. What, but what? Am I not already writing a book? Yes, it can wait though. I have several ideas for books, all non-fiction inspirational/motivational type stuff. I intend to complete them eventually. Why switch to something new? Because this is different.

I’ve previously balked at the idea of writing fiction. There were a variety of excuses preventing me from even trying. I convinced myself I couldn’t do it because I wasn’t good at it. I believed it would be better to stick within the safety of what I knew I could do well – essays about faith, parenting, politics, and geekery. Writing novels was something for others people, more talented writers. I believed these lies until Christian approached me with the idea of an autistic person in a medieval realm filled with fantasy and magic.

This is now a story I can’t not write. The other book I was working on can wait because it’s only something I wanted to do. This work of fiction is something I need to do. There is a difference. I’m now more motivated and determined to write a book than I ever have before.

Christian and Annie frequently ask me if I’ve worked on the book, helping to keep me on track. It’s a slow process considering I still have a full time job and live on a farm filled with animals who need fed twice a day. But I keep going. First was a world map in the tradition of Narnia from CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien’s Middle Earth. Then research. Then the preparation employing Evernote to keep track of random ideas, Word to complete character profiles, and (because I’m a nerd) drafting the plot outline in Excel.

Last night I found myself doing something I haven’t done in years: sitting in a coffee shop with my laptop. Writing. And it all started with an idea.

A Few of My Favorite Things

Almost a month into 2021. Are we ready to remember last year? I know it sucked for almost everyone on earth but it can’t be all bad. While I pity the future history teachers who will have to explain the events of 2020 to kids not yet born, we need to remember the treasures in what was demonstrably a dumpster fire of the year. To do so, my first post of the new year is looking back at what I believe to be the best of the worst year I’ve ever experienced.

found on Reddit

Starting with my Top 10 movies from 2020. Since moving to the farm, I haven’t been able to get to the theaters as much as I used to. In 2020, theaters closed and everyone felt the same unrequited yearning for the true movie experience. However, being home all the time gave me more time to watch one of my favorite mediums. There’s a lot of 2020 movies I’ve not yet had the chance to see, but these were (in no particular order) my favorite films from the year.

Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga
Hamilton
Enola Holmes
Guns Akimbo
Soul
My Spy
The Platform
Onward
Project Power
Coffee & Kareem

Not a lot of new music came out last year. Or at least, not a lot wowed me in any way. Some big name artists even pushed back planned releases because of Covid. However, even in the dearth of musical debuts and massive singles, there were songs that still worked their way into my consciousness and remained there. These are my five favorite songs of 2020, also in no particular order.

Pigeon John - The Greatest
Twenty One Pilots - Level of Concern
Blue October - Oh My My
Eels - Are We Alright Again
LANY - If This is the Last Time

Being home all the time gave me more time to watch movies. But it also gave me more time to read. However, much of what I read were older books. So here are my top four books from 2020 plus one from 2019 that I read this last year. Two fiction, three non-fiction.

Mike McHargue - You’re a Miracle and a Pain in the Ass
Carlos Whitaker - Enter Wild
Max Brooks - Devolution
Stephen King - If It Bleeds
Ibram X. Kendi - How to Be Antiracist

Enough about what kept me entertained. What about what kept you entertained. Here are my five most frequently read blog posts of 2020, and these are in order with the most popular first.

Bragging Rights 
Tortured 
Pay Up 
The Spring of Babies 
Tour de Bux 

However, not all of my favorite posts are particularly popular. Sometimes, I write things I’m eager to share then no one seems to notice when I do. Regardless of total views, I am most proud of these five posts.

Protect Ya Neck: Sanity in the Age of Social Media 
Geeks Will Save the World 
Rise of the Sidekicks 
All Other Ground 
What Does Love Require 

Our farm’s population is always in flux. The population of our chickens and duck ebb and flow with hatchlings and death. Geese and turkeys come and go. We breed the goats in the fall and sell their kids in the spring. We find stray kittens in the barn and re-home them after getting them spayed or neutered. We are ground zero for the circle of life. We also bring in animals who become permanent residents of our circus. Three of them have become my favorite animals on our property. A with apologies to all our our pre-existing furry and feathered friends, these are the three best additions to our farm.

Edgar the Mastiff

Wasabi the Emu

Hank the Donkey

Now for the absolute best thing about 2020? We had one more addition to the family in 2020. She was a surprise we didn’t think was possible. Violet has made our world even brighter than it was before and she seems to bring out the best in her older siblings.

Annie and I inadvertently scheduled our annual camping trip for the same weekend we originally planned on getting married. Our venue canceled because of insurance issues. Then we found out Annie was pregnant. Then Covid happened and the world got put on hold. Wedding plans got delayed until further notice. Instead of getting married on the beach, we went hiking on the beach. Instead of a bed-and-breakfast, we slept in a tent. It was the best option we could come up with for a socially distanced family vacation. Instead of a destination wedding with about 50 friends and family members, we Took our family of seven camping 50 miles north of our previous plans. While there, we went hiking in the Hoh Rain Forest. This is where I experienced my most surreal moment of 2020. Along the Hall of Mosses Trail, I took some snapshots of the kids. Looking at those pictures now, I am confronted with the reality of 2020 and the weirdness of being surrounded by unparalleled natural beauty in the midst of a pandemic. Our existence on earth is a clash between the ancient and the modern, a truth most evident in photos like these.

Finally, a few of your favorite things. On New Years Eve, I asked my Facebook friends to share their favorite part of 2020. Here is a summary of the most inspiring responses.

While Annie and I (along with countless other couples) canceled their 2020 nuptials, love endured and some people found a way to get married in the midst of a pandemic. I know because my friend Syafiq DJ’d for a couple fun receptions. My friend Nate officiated what he called a beautiful wedding. And my friend Heather married the love of her life.
My cousin Allen reconnected with his dad (who travels a lot) in Miami to watch the Super Bowl. He grew up in Kansas City so the Chiefs are his favorite team. Spending time with his dad and watching his favorite team is a memory worth holding dear.
And he wasn’t the only one to reconnect with family. My Aunt Kim made a trip to Portland to spend time with her kids, my friend Julie’s son came home, and a distant cousin of mine reached out to her extended family (which included me).
Other friends focused on their home, like Natasha who remodeled her kitchen and Tiffany and her husband who put a down payment on their first home.
My best friend from high school graduated with her BSW, an old family friend watched her granddaughter graduate high school, and my cousins decided to permanently home school their kids.
Then there is my friend Jennifer who got her first tattoo. The story behind it is beautiful but it’s her story to tell, not mine.

courtesy Jennifer Nixon