Wanderlust and the Source

Bedtime is sacred in our house. Not because it’s the routine shutting off all the lights and closing our eyes to sleep. Annie and I value it because these are the precious few minutes we can chat and connect free of interruptions from kids who don’t appreciate their bedtime as much as we do.

In these final waking hours of our day we share the best and worst parts of everything happening before we got home. We air the stresses we cannot share with anyone else. We comfort each other as lovers and encourage each other as teammates. We create to-do lists and bucket lists. We set reminders on our phones so we might recall those things our ADHD is prone to forget. We mutually doom scroll social media side by side, occasionally holding our phone to the side with instructions, “Hey check this out.” We ponder the benefits and challenges of various ideas. We talk religion, sex, and politics. We discuss plans for both the immediate and distant future. And, most importantly, we dream together.

This is the key ingredient for the magic binding us together. When we think of what life will be like five years ahead or fifty years from now, we envision our hypothetical future lives as a cohesive unit. These are shared aspirations, not individual exploits. We have had this ingrained in our relationship as long as we’ve known each other. On our second date, we talked about places we’ve always longed to visit. She said she wanted to go to Scotland to see her ancestral homelands. Two of my bucket list destinations (Paisley Abbey and Loch Ness) happen to be in Scotland. We laughed and smiled at the idea of going there together and fulfilling our dreams at the same time.

Annie and I both have an insatiable wanderlust. We feel the tug of the journey on our hearts. Places exotic to historic, from pristine wilderness to ancient ruins, waterfalls and temples, castles and farmers markets. We want nothing more for our lives to go, and see, and do. We yearn to wander foreign lands and disappear for a while.

Real, actual, legitimate picture of us.

Earlier this week, I told my therapist how I believe the best education we can receive is found outside our own culture. As much as I would enjoy a trip to Disneyland to hang out at Galaxy’s Edge, I would rather visit the original Tatooine Star Wars set in Tunisia. Given the choice between a week at Universal Studios or traveling to India during Holi, I would choose the later. Annie would do the same. The selection of culture over capitalism is an easy one.

Unfortunately, Annie and I grew up believing travel was for other people. Both our families were poor and the expense of overseas excursions was too daunting - an unobtainable wish left to wither on the vines of our dying hopes. This wanderlust ached in our bones and called our spirits yet we felt confined to weekend roadtrips and local attractions. We wanted to see the world but doubted we would ever be globetrotters.

All it takes is one little break to shatter the exoskeleton of false beliefs. Two and a half years ago, a new job sent me to Tampa Bay for three weeks of training. Annie and our two youngest girls flew out to visit a weekend while I was there so we could partake in a family Florida adventure. It was the nudge we needed to shed the idea we weren’t meant to travel. How could we hold on to such a concept while doing the thing we thought we’d never be able to do. A few months later we went to Waikiki to celebrate birthdays of mine and Steven’s. Then a month later we were on a cruise boat to Alaska for our belated honeymoon. Since then we’ve made a return trip to Hawaii along with little jaunts to Cheyenne, Boise, Portland, Cranbrook BC, and multiple trips to Tacoma/Seattle/Everett.

We’re not ready to quit. Between now and the end of the year, our feet will tread ground in Mexico, Costa Rica, and Columbia adding three stamps to our passports. Not long after, I’ll be headed to Phoenix with one of my best friends for a DJ gig. Next year, Annie and I have plans to take the family yurt camping for a week and we’ve already booked a vacation to the Bahamas.

Over the last few years, we’ve suddenly began living a live we never imagined would be possible for either of us. We’re finally able to sate that insatiable wanderlust. Our journey begun, we’re only getting started.

After explaining all of this to my therapist, he shared with me a quote from Carl Jung:

According to my therapist, this is what I’m experiencing. After turning forty, I began to truly discover who I was and define my priorities. Now forty-five, I’m finally able to be the person God created me to be. Everything before this was just research. He thinks it’s awesome to watch me discover myself, to see joy unfold in real time. He’s had a front row seat to witness anxiety and depression melt away as I become the real me.

So here we are, Annie and I are world travelers, dreaming of distant shores. But I think I’ve always been one even before I was one. My wanderlust had to come from somewhere.

I was never a good student. I was lucky to get a B in anything. Through most of my academic career, I barely held on with a C average. In sixth and seventh grade, my report cards were filled with Cs and Ds. I got my first A in eighth grade - not just a basic A - but perfect scores throughout. I ended this class with 100%, an A+.

Annie and I chilled last night, enjoying our bedtime routine. I brought this up with her: my discussion at therapy, how excited we are about upcoming travel plans, and other places we want to go (side note: she’s been looking at cheap airline rates to various European locales). Then I posed the question about my school days. After a string of barely passing grades, in which class did I get my first A? She responded without hesitation.

“Geography.”

Correct answer. I struggled in traditional education until the geography class mandated for all junior high students of my generation in the Marysville school district. For the first time in my life I didn’t just succeed, I thrived.

Perhaps I missed my calling as a tour guide or a travel agent. Maybe that is my life in an alternate universe. In this dimension though, I had to wait until my 40s to figure out I was always meant to be this person. Looking back though, I should have known all along. I should have realized this fact about my personality when I was a teenager. I grokked geography because deep down my soul hungered to be there. Every map, every capital city, every monument we studied was a potential destination. I was meant to fly, or drive, or float to anywhere other than here. Or teleport if such technology ever becomes viable.

A swing and a ...

It is baseball season. Which means my brother is probably recording for his First Pitch Strike podcast. And if he’s not working on the podcast, he’s probably watching baseball. I know for a fact he was in Denver yesterday to watch the Mariners annihilate the Rockies in their home stadium.

Baseball runs in my family. My dad was a pitcher in high school. Growing up, the Mariners were broadcasted somewhere in our home, either on TV or the radio - sometimes both. The voice of Dave Niehaus is the sound of my childhood. Even though I didn’t play baseball, there was nothing more special than a trip to the Kingdome to watch the boys of summer play, fireworks ignited every time one of the M’s hit a home run. During my nephew’s high school days in Cheyenne, he was a star pitcher and he’s now returned to join his old team’s coaching staff. So far, two of my five kids have entered the world of America’s past time. Last summer, my eleven year old’s softball team took first place in their league.

Peewee baseball/softball is a bizarre creature. I’d call it organized chaos but there is very little organization present. I’ve observed this curiosity twice now and it wouldn’t surprise me if our youngest follows her older siblings’ footsteps.

First there’s t-ball: everybody swings and everybody runs. Sometimes they run even when they don’t get a hit. This phase is pure comedy. There are kids who don’t know what to do when they hit the ball so they stand at home plate until one of the adults drags them to first base. Other kids run the wrong direction after the hit. Inevitably, the helmets are far too big for some players, permanently obscuring their vision. Once on base, nearly every kid will keep on running until they reach home.

Years later they have it figured out. Uniforms fit and teams are sponsored by local businesses. There are strike outs and line drives. Fielders dive for balls and runners slide into bases. Kids stop swinging at every pitch, they make fewer errors, and teams become more competitive. Wins and losses suddenly matter.

Between these two stages there is another form of the game, one where the rules don’t matter and the goal is giving players experience. This is the transition time, the first year without a batting T. Coaches pitch for their own team and batters are up until they get a hit. Strike one? Cool. Keep going. Strike 13? It’ll happen eventually. Keep trying. Batters at this age are given infinite strikes. The moment their bat makes contact, everyone cheers - even if it’s a foul ball.

In the creation of a novel, there are phases. First is the raw work: plotting and planning, researching, drafting, editing, rewriting, beta readers, and more editing. Eventually you figure it out. There’s a contract signed with a publisher - perhaps with one of the big five or a small regional press or you decide to self publish. Then one day, an author walks into their favorite book store and finds their novel under new releases, debut authors, or local writers. There are no real wrong paths here. Publishing a book is a gargantuan task.

But somewhere between those two stages is something different and a million times more chaotic. Publishers don’t accept submissions from authors but they will accept them from agents. If an author hopes to get traditionally published, they need to find an agent who will sell the book to a publishing house. To secure an agent, authors submit queries to various agents. It is time consuming because every agent wants something different. If you’re not prepared for rejection, it can also be a little soul crushing.

Writers on social media jokingly call this period the query trenches as if we’re dug in for battle and we must be careful not to lift our head above ground at the wrong time.

But for me, it feels a little like peewee baseball - that first year after the batting T is removed. I get infinite pitches. I send agents information about me and my book. That’s the pitch. I’m swinging every time. I’m aiming for the fences. If your query isn’t a good fit for an agent, or they’re just not interested, they send you a rejection letter - usually a form email. That’s a strike. However, don’t despair - just like little leagues, there are no strikeouts. I get another pitch. I get another chance to swing. If it’s another strike, I’m still up to bat.

The writing community is a lot like those little league teams. As soon as an author gets a hit - an agent request for a full or partial copy of their book, or makes an offer of representation, everyone cheers. We don’t care if that author is a friend or a stranger or a competitor. A success for them means we have a chance when it’s our turn to bat. That’s what we do in the trenches. We root for other writers while we swing at pitch after pitch after pitch. From the first rejection to the fiftieth, the only way we can strike out is if we quit playing. As long as our heart is in the game, there’s always another agent.

I’m not a big baseball person. Not like my dad, brother, and nephew. I’ll attend an occasional Spokane Indians game and make it to as many of my kids’ little league games as possible. The only time I’ll watch baseball on TV is if the Mariners are playing. Being an M’s fan is a labor of love. It is truly a practice of long suffering. Perhaps being a fan of the best team to never win the World Series prepared me for the query trenches. At the end of every season, Mariners fans confidently declare “next year will be our year.” In a similar fashion, after every rejection, I tell myself “here’s to the next one.” I step back into the batter’s box ready to take another swing.

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: In the Beginning Pt 7, Jeff & The Tommymonsters

Often, the friendships we form in our late teens and early twenties are some of the most influential relationships we’ll ever forge in our lifetimes. When I look back at my small circle of friends during this phase of my life, there are two voices who played a huge part in making me me.

The first was Jeff, a dude I met in junior high who would become my best friend over the next few years and remain a constant in my life through my mid-twenties. The second group of voices came from the guys in the Tommymonsters – my roommate’s band while I was living in Boise. For better or worse, I am the man I am today because of the experiences I had with them. In both instances, these friendships revolved around music. With the former we talked about it, in the latter we made it. As life has moved on over the years since, I’ve never abandoned my love for music or the memories I shared with these guys.

Counting Crows: “Mr. Jones”
No other song could thoroughly encapsulate the relationship between Jeff and me like “Mr. Jones.” This is a story I’ve written about before in a two part post. The first half has a hopeful start; unfortunately, his story doesn’t have a happy ending. Grey is still my favorite color, “felt so symbolic.” Someday, I’ll buy myself a grey guitar and play it in remembrance of Jeff.

Guardian: “What Does It Take?”
Throughout our friendship, I was deeply mired in evangelical culture. And Jeff hated church. As much as he was angry at God, he never criticized my faith. He accepted it as a part of who I was. When most people talked about God around him, he’d tell them to shut up – often with colorful expletives. Yet when I talked about God, he’d allow it. Beyond permitting me to talk about religious stuff, he’d respond and participate in the conversation. I often wondered what it would take for him to abandon all of his anger and hatred. It truly would have been an act of God. I prayed for him a lot. This song described much if how I felt. “If you could hear me pray tonight, would you be angry or surprised to hear your name announced.” I know that beginning a genuine relationship with God isn’t a magical solution to make all of your problems go away. Still, I can’t help but wonder how Jeff’s life could have followed a different path if he had a religious conversion.

Daughtry: “Long Live Rock & Roll”
Chris Daughtry is the same age as me, so when he opened this song singing, “I was born the year that disco died, and U2 was in high school thank the Lord that they survived,” I could immediately relate. So many if the references Daughtry makes in this song are mirror images of conversations between Jeff and me. “We still wonder if Kurt really wrote the song she sang in Hole.” Yeah, we talked about that. “We still argue about who's better: Motley Crew or G&R.” That argument actually escalated into a fist fight that I had to break up. “We still can't believe Van Halen turned into Van Hagar.” We lamented that one too. Daughtry is a member of my generation, stuck between Gen X and Millennials, sharing traits with both but not belonging to either. So it makes sense that we share many if the same musical influences and he would talk to his friends about the same bands like Jeff and I did.

Puller: “#1 Fan”
It started as a jam session with Thomas, Steve, and Nate. The next day, Thomas was beyond excited and wouldn’t stop talking about it. “You wouldn’t believe how good Steve sounded. Man, you gotta come with us the next time we do this.” So I did. I was there the next time they jammed. And the time after that. By then they officially joined as a band and named themselves The Tommymosnters. They recruited me to be their audio technician and I controlled the mixer for them at all of their rehearsals. I ran sound for them at their concerts. Accompanied them on adventures to a garage band festival in McCall Idaho, an independent musicians conference in Seattle, and a road trip to Eugene Oregon. I took a lot of pictures, promoted them, helped book shows, and hung out in the studio when they recorded their three song demo. The called me their manager, but I was really an over-glorified roadie. After all was said and done, I was their number one fan.

Poor Old Lu: “Chance for the Chancers”
The Tommymonsters frequently covered this song in their concerts. Everyone in our house knew how to play it so it was a favored song in our group sing-a-longs. Thomas even taught me how to play it. One night, we had five people on acoustic guitars, a couple tambourines, and a dozen people singing “Chance for the Chancers.” It was a beautiful experience. However, there is one memorable moment where this song played a significant role – not just in my life, but also in the life of another person who needed to hear it. You can read that story here.

Hip-Hop & Me Part 2: I Love Rap Music

As a 19 year old kid working in a record store, I selected a Master P album from our display racks and started reading out loud through the track listings. After each title, my friend Jeff and I would take turns making a joke about the song. When I got to the song 'I Miss My Homies,' Jeff shouted across the store, "Then you shouldn’t have shot him!" We thought of it as light hearted humor at the expense of our homophobic coworker who also happened to be Master P's biggest fan. We mocked an entire genre for cheap laughs without understanding anything about the music or culture.

I quit the record store job early in 1999 and by June I was contemplating if Seattle had any purpose in my future. In August, I moved away from my folks and relocated to the Boise area. I got a job stocking merchandise for Old Navy, unloading the delivery trucks and folding stacks of clothing to be displayed for customers to peruse in the morning. After the store was closed, we would turn the radio up for the graveyard crew - most frequently tuned to an urban music station. Jay-Z, Ludacris, and Outkast were huge at the time - their songs played often while we stacked jeans and t-shirts into neat piles to be toppled and torn asunder by the time we returned for our next shift.

But it wasn't their music that helped me fully celebrate rap music. Instead, it was a sextet of albums which turned me into a real rap fan - four of them released from the same label. Common's Like Water for Chocolate, Mars Ill's Raw Material, Tunnel Rats' Tunnel Vision, MG The Visionary's Transparemcee, Sup The Chemist's Dust, and Dilated Peoples’ Expansion Team. These six records challenged the way I thought about rap songs, hip-hop culture, music composition, racial reconciliation, and the disparities between urban black communities and the world in which I was raised.

As I got older, I related more and more to hip-hop. The circumstances of my life exposed me to tragedies and people and environments I had never seen while growing up in Marysville, Washington. I saw the effects of poverty, drug abuse, broken homes, and racism. Gradually, rap made more and more sense. When they talked about struggle, I knew what it was like. When they talked about justice, I looked from their perspective. All those elements of hip-hop I previously despised took on new meanings.

Finally, I understood all of it. For many rap artists, their talk of violence and criminal activity was an explanation of their situation and not a justification of their actions. They were telling listeners about the challenges they faced. They were not glorifying their flaws, they were looking for a way out. They were describing the world around them. The objectionable lyrics focused on the lives they had, not the lives they wanted.

I could relate. Even white boys from the suburbs can comprehend when life doesn't turn out the way you dreamed.

These days, my youngest son wants to be a rapper when he grows up. Either that or a professional athlete. Maybe a police officer if his first two options don't work out. I carefully filter his musical options; I’d rather steer JJ away from destructive voices and curate instead a collection of superior aptitudes, attitudes, and messages. There are some awful rappers out there and always will be, yet there are many more talented artists out there trying to change the culture. JJ and I will geek-out over some of his favorites: Lecrae, Social Club Misfits, Canon, KB, Derek Minor, Tedashii, and NF. Today, I'm more encouraged by the state of hip-hop than ever before.

If you see me bobbin my head, there’s a good chance I’m listening to Propaganda. Or Chance the Rapper. Maybe Sho Baraka, Talib Kweli, Pigeon John, or Kendrick Lamar. I’m not just listening to their music, I’m hearing their perspectives. And I’m learning. Because of these artists, I can return to the hook of the very first rap song that got me hooked. I love rap music. I always have and I always will. Come listen with me. Maybe you’ll love it too.

I believed them

My brother and I always wanted a younger sister but our parents didn't want a third child.

the Casey boys

Since a biologically related sister wasn't an option, Aaron and I had to find our own through bonds formed by choice rather than blood. I met my little sister during my junior year of high school. She had just moved to the area and we formed an easy friendship. By the time I graduated high school, she was one of my best friends. We never developed a romantic interest and we were able to confide in each other as if we were siblings. Even today, I still occasionally call her sis.

hello, 1997

in the spring of 1996, she told me about a guy from school who kept calling her phone; if she answered, he'd say something creepy or leave annoying messages if she didn’t answer. He followed her on campus; she often caught him leering at her. While he had not touched her, she always felt unsafe if he was present. A couple weeks later, she joined me and two other guys to post promotional posters for the drama club's production of Neil Simon's Rumors. Mike ran inside the library while she and I sat in the cab of his truck, and Damien sat in the back. We were in the middle of conversation when she froze.

"Oh, my god, it's him."
"Who?" I asked.
"Remember me telling you about that guy who was stalking me? That's him."

The kid was walking toward us along the sidewalk. I started hollering to get his attention. "Hey, hey!"

He walked toward the open passenger window of Mike's truck. "You talking to me?"

I pointed to next to me and asked him if he recognized my friend. He denied it. "Are you sure?" I asked. "I don't believe you." His expression changed from oblivion to annoyance. I continued with instruction. I told him he was to leave her alone, stop calling her, not to speak to her, not to look at her. If I ever heard he was not following those guidelines, he would regret it.

By the time I stopped talking, his bothered look gave way to pure anger. "What are you going to do about it?" he asked.

Honestly, nothing. He was bigger and tougher. I wouldn't be able to hurt him if I tried. Thankfully, Damien was still in the back of the truck. Despite a teddy bear personality, Damien could be intimidating. Damien stood in the bed of the truck, crossed his arms, and said, "Or you'll have to deal with me." The kid's face changed once again, from anger to fear. He took a couple steps backward, confirmed he understood my demands, then turned and walked away as fast as he could. My friend never complained about him again.

During the fall of my senior year, I had a huge crush on a girl named Alexis. She was in an engineering class the same time I was studying architecture. The two classes were taught by the same teacher in a shared classroom. The kid who previously harassed my best friend was enrolled engineering with Alexis. She often came by my desk to talk when there was downtime. I was one of the few guys that was nice to her, most of the others shunned her on the belief that girls didn't belong in in tech classes. One day, while she was at my desk, the kid walked by. He didn't say anything, but Alexis cringed. I asked her what was wrong and she explained how that boy was a creep. He wouldn't leave her alone, frequently made lewd or demeaning comments, failed attempts to flirt with her, and often followed her to her next class. I let her know I would take care of it.

After class, the kid walked out the door next to Alexis and tried talking to her. Before he could follow her further, I ran beside of him, placed my arm around his shoulder, and steered him a different direction. I told him I really liked that girl and gave him the same instruction as before: leave her alone, don't call her, don't talk to her, don't look at her. He took me seriously and the next day in class, he avoided both of us. A week later, Alexis told me she doesn't know what I did but she was grateful.

Months, he showed up at a youth group event, invited by Kay, one of the girls I'd known since kindergarten. It was at church, so I took a softer approach. I let him know I was glad he was there and hoped he would stick around. I said I'd known Kay for a very long time and that I cared about her. I told him it was OK if the two of them dated with one big caveat: "Don't even think about hurting her." That was the last I saw him for a long time.

Two years after high school, I moved to Boise and completely forgot about the kid who made my friends feel violated. In the summer of 2001, I took a road trip with some friends to see the Poor Old Lu reunion concert in Seattle. While back in my home town for a couple days, we stopped by Safeway to pick up snacks. In the chips isle, a stranger walked around the corner. It took me a second before I recognized him. It was that jerk, the creeper, four years older than the last time I had seen him. As soon as he recognized me, he panicked. I saw his bottom lip quiver for a second before he turned around and ran away. He dropped his shopping basket as he left, abandoning whatever he was shopping for.

It was the first time I could remember anyone fearing me. At the time, I wasn't anyone to be afraid of - a short skinny wimp whose friends were all cooler and tougher than me. But this kid was genuinely terrified. Perhaps it wasn't me that frightened him - instead it was what I represented that scared him. I think he was a sketchy dude who knew the way he treated women was wrong and he was petrified I would hold him accountable for his actions. See, guys like him, abusers and assaulters, they don't want to answer for their deeds. Today, in a world where more women are speaking up and speaking out against people who hurt them, these are the men who believe "it's a scary time for young men in America." They believe it because they have reason to be afraid.

I'm glad my little sister spoke up when she did and that Alexis felt safe enough around me to say something. Sure, they disclosed the facts of their assailant to me, but I know they never involved the police or school administration. I have no idea if they ever told their parents about the creepy kid at school who was stalking and harassing them. But they did tell me, and I believed them. If that kid (now in his 30s) ever ran for political office, I'm sure multiple girls from his past would oppose him. They would shine a spotlight on the traumas they experienced because of him. They would do everything they could to prevent him from holding any position to govern others. Unfortunately, I don't think anyone currently leading our nation would believe them.

That makes me sad.

The Struggle

By the time I joined the MPHS drama club, casting for Cheaper by the Dozen was complete. It was my sophomore year and I felt like should be playing a sport; instead of auditioning for the fall play, I joined the tennis team. I eventually walked into the auditorium hoping to be a part of whatever happened in there. Mr K, the director and theater teacher told me he didn't believe in understudies so there wasn't a role available for me. However, he allowed me to become the stage manager, a position I held through every drama club production for the rest of my high school career.

Cheaper by the Dozen is a based on a 1948 novel about a family with twelve kids and their father's unorthodox parenting strategy. During one of the dress rehearsals, Mr K stood next to me and pointed to one of the guys on stage whose character was an elementary-aged kid. He said, "It's a shame you didn't audition. If you had, I would have given you his part."

Mr K was pointing to a lanky kid named Daniel. He taller than most, over-sized for his character’s age. On appearance alone, I would have been a better fit. I was short, barely weighed 100 pounds, and looked younger than Daniel.

It's a good thing tennis practice kept me away from the casting call. Daniel was a damn good actor, and he used this role to prove his skill. He was given the lead role in almost every production after that. Harold Hill in The Music Man, Charlie Gordon in Flowers for Algernon, Cyrano in Cyrano de Bergerac. Even in smaller roles, Daniel shined. His father helped build many of our sets including the elaborate stairway and second story balcony for Neil Simon's Rumors.

During our senior year, I began eating lunch in the auditorium, joined by Daniel and a few other students. Drama class immediately followed lunch as we prepared for our spring production of Into the Woods. We had great discussions while we ate, youthful debates on politics and religion.

Observing Daniel for three years on stage, I was impressed. If any of us had the potential to become famous, it was him. Through our interactions as peers and in those lunchtime conversations, I saw him as one of those kids who had it all together. It seemed like the fates were in his favor. The world was his for the taking.

After graduation, we lost contact. Social media didn't exist in 1997 and I only made efforts to keep track of my closest friends. In '99, I moved to Boise and my classmates became strangers and memories. For years, I knew nothing of what happened to Daniel or any of the other kids from Marysville-Pilchuck. Until Facebook.

High school wasn't the happiest era of my history. When I started connecting with former classmates through Facebook, I was (and still am) highly selective. While I do assign great nostalgic value to the music and movies of the 90's, I have zero interest in reliving my teenage years. There is no former glory to go back to, the best years of my life are happening now. The former classmates I've "friended" on Facebook are those who I am genuinely interested in knowing what's happening in their lives today. Daniel is one of those individuals.

When we first reconnected online, I was unsurprised by the kind of man he became. Married, lives in the Seattle area, embraces and celebrates geek culture, works in marketing, and looks like the kid I remembered from years past. Except he's bald now. I was also happy to see he's still acting. Daniel regularly performs in Shakespeare productions, is active in the local theater community, and has received several praising reviews. More than any of our classmates, he appears to be living out his childhood dreams. Over the past few years, I've found greater admiration and respect for him than I ever did when we were kids. Hopefully, someday soon, I can make a trek back to the west side of the state, see one of his shows, and meet him at some hipster bar for drinks to catch up on the lives we've lived for the past 20 years.

Even in Daniel’s charmed existence, despite those things he posts which fits within my preconceived notions of his personality, he occasionally surprises me. Last week, he posted the following message:

"I suffer from depression and anxiety. I've carried around a persistent sadness since as far back as I can remember. I'm not suicidal but these thoughts run through my brain on a near daily basis."

Daniel included a video of notes written by people who have suicidal thoughts while they're not suicidal. Statements like:

"It's having this numbing ache inside you don't know how to mute."
"They're fleeting but frequent thoughts that attack you even when you feel completely fine."
"It's like being trapped in a brain you're unfamiliar with."
"It's not really the thought, 'I want to kill myself,' but more, 'I don't care if I die.'"

image courtesy of The Mighty

At my lowest point, I had similar thoughts crashing inside my mind. I never felt suicidal. I never wanted to end my life. I carried too much Wesleyan guilt and shame to commit any form of self-harm. Yet I felt as if it would be OK if I perished in a tragic accident or as the victim of a random act of violence. The video Daniel shared echoed voices that used to haunt me. I knew I wasn't alone in my thoughts, thousands of Americans struggle with some form of depression. Yet I was surprised to see Daniel admit he was one of us.

I should know better. Artists like us are often prone to melancholy. Our talents are frequently borne from pain, from the darkest recesses of our psyches. Singers, musicians, painters, writers, actors, and other creative types. We all seek to exorcise our demons through our chosen craft. I also know that depression doesn't discriminate against age, race, gender, religion, or financial status. Success doesn't make you immune. Popularity and accolades do not inoculate your mental health. Achieving your dreams cannot protect you from suffering. Anyone could be struggling with anxiety or depression - even those of us who appear to be happy or have it all. Humans are complex creatures and there is more going on inside us than we ever display.

Daniel and I share a goal. It is the reason he posted the video and why I am writing this post. We both want to inspire someone in need of hope. We both believe mental health issues need better representation. We want to end the stigma against mental illness and create productive conversations about it. In my experience, the negative impact of depression lessened the more I talked about it.

When it was worst for me, I got help through counselling and medication. Daniel is in the process of doing the same. Our journeys look very different, yet we share the same message.

You are not alone.

You are valued.

You are important.

You are needed.

You are loved.

You are strong.

You are courageous.

Even if you don't feel like it, those seven statements are still true. Daniel and I stand as proof that there is light in the middle of darkness. Whether it is through a crisis hotline, a professional therapist, or a friendly face like mine or Daniel's, help is available.

If you need someone to talk to, please send me a message on Facebook or Twitter. You can also call the National Suicide prevention hotline at 1-800-273-8255 or text “HOME” to 741-741.

The New Disasters

Mount St. Helens erupted the day after my first birthday. Every year, throughout my childhood, the local news stations replayed the video of the volcanic blast every May 18th. I held a special connection to the mountain and KIRO's annual coverage of St. Helens' anniversary always felt like a belated birthday present from them to me.

courtesy of KPBS

Growing up during the 80s in the Seattle suburbs, we were bombarded with the possibilities of nature's wrath. St. Helens was one of many volcanoes in the region. Baker, Rainier, Adams, Hood, and Glacier all posed real and possible dangers to the Pacific Northwest. We had an abundance of rain and seasonal threats of flooding. There were chances of fires and blackouts caused by electrical storms. We didn't get much snow, but when we did the ice would paralyze the region, making roads anything from hazardous to navigationally impassible. My high school was next door to a dairy farm, and on warm days, if the breeze drifted from the right (wrong?) direction, the odor could be unbearable. We were given the nickname "Cow Pie High." If possible, we risked death by dairy air.

There was also the wind. When I was in sixth grade, I watched live news coverage as a windstorm blew waves over the surface of the floating bridge to Mercer Island, eventually causing the roadway to collapse and sink into Lake Washington. In January of '93, another storm blew in on the day Bill Clinton was inaugurated as president. We were sheltered in place in my eight-grade art class with Mr. Wilson when the power went out. Mr. Wilson was also the yearbook instructor, so his room was windowless and we sat in darkness for the remainder of the day. No one was allowed to leave campus until a parent came to pick us up. Later that night, as the storm raged on, my dad and I went for a walk. We watched power-lines fall and transformers ignite from the force of wind. At one point, I leaned backwards like a trust-fall and the gusts were strong enough to hold me upright.

courtesy of the Oso Darrington Daily

Seismologists constantly warned we were overdue for the “big one,” predicting a massive earthquake would reduce our region to rubble. So, we practiced regular earthquake drills in school. Two of the three quakes I experienced happened during school events. The first in January of ‘95 while the wrestling team stopped for dinner after a tournament, I was on the bus and we were parked near the epicenter. The second happened a little more than a year later in May of '96, our drama club was in the middle of our final dress rehearsal for Neil Simon's Rumors and I was hanging out back stage with one of the girls in the tech crew. After evacuating the auditorium, our parking lot was filled with scared and panicked students filled with the relief of living to retell our stories of survival.

Every generation fears the end is inevitable. During the 1960s, my parents' generation participated in duck & cover practice, fearing a nuclear attack from the USSR. I remember regular fire and earthquake drills throughout my school years and we were sure if our end was coming, the disaster would be a natural one. My kids' generation is different. Sure, they still do fire drills, but they don't fear the planet the same way we did when I was younger. They are aware their lives could end in disaster. However, instead of fearing death from a foreign enemy or the vengeance of natural forces, they believe the most likely scenario to bring their world to a bloody halt is an angry classmate. They're subjected to active shooter drills and bombarded with headlines of school violence. After the mass shooting in Santa Fe, one of the students expressed this resignation in a TV interview when she said, "I've always felt it would eventually happen here too."

English has been my oldest son's favorite subjects this year. The class is led by his favorite teacher who has been a constant source of encouragement. Since September, Christian has enjoyed conversations with this teacher about literature and life. They frequently discussed Christian's favorite novel, The Giver, and with the teacher's support, Christian entered his first speech competition and turned into a talented and creative writer. As the school year closes, his English class was assigned one final project: they were instructed to compose a fictional story about surviving disaster. Christian was excited about this work and he composed a tale in first person perspective, a narrative where the protagonist began a normal day with annoying younger siblings, middle school crushes, educational propaganda, ambitious teachers, and conversations between best friends. He portrayed what it's like to be a junior high student whose life is interrupted in the middle of math class. The disaster he chose was an active shooter. He described the sound of fireworks nearby, witnessing an investigating teacher meeting their fate, students hiding behind desks, the fight or flight response to terror, and grief over the loss of a friend.

image courtesy of TIME

This is the modern reality students face every day. They leave their house each morning wondering if it was the last time they'll tell their parents goodbye. They spend their day pondering which of their peers will snap. They study their classrooms and hallways to determine the best places to hide if someone starts shooting. Every gym, every cafeteria, every portable. Any campus could be the next headline. Our students believe a sentiment like the girl in Santa Fe: It will eventually happen here too.

Over the last twenty years, our societal fears have devolved. Acts of God now pale in comparison to acts of man, and I mourn for America. This is what we've become. How do we fix it? More guns? Less guns? I don't have an answer. All I know is our priorities are messed up. We celebrate violence and have deified the second amendment. We've placed more value in our weapons than we have in human lives. Until we change our culture, alter the way we think about firearms and the sanctity of life, I'm not sure any solution will be adequate.

Yesterday, Christian's English teacher praised his ability to craft a story after reading the rough draft. Today, Christian turned in his final project to be graded and we're both expecting a high score. Tomorrow is his last day of school. This weekend, I'm going to hug my kids, thank God they have survived another year, and pray their fears will never come to fruition.

Uptown/Country Girl

Have you heard Billy Joel's Uptown Girl recently? It is possibly the most pure form of pop music ever recorded: three minutes and twenty seconds of irresistible fun with an infectious melody sticking with you long after the song fades out. Either that or it is an atrocity, an embarrassing stain in the catalog of an otherwise talented musician, an annoying ear-worm with no purpose other than making the listener cringe in shame and horror. I'm not sure which, and I am open to the possibility Uptown Girl is simultaneously the best and worst song in history.

I don't hear it often, and when I do it is usually over the in-house speakers of a restaurant, grocery story, or some sort of retailer. The frequency in which I encounter the song is so rare that it is over before I have a chance to roll my eyes in disgust.

Billy Joel wrote the song while hanging out with a trio of beautiful women, Elle Macpherson (his girlfriend at the time), Christie Brinkley (his future wife and star of the Uptown Girl music video), and Whitney Houston. The subject could have been any of the three ladies, each came from privileged upbringing. Meanwhile, Billy was a kid from the Bronx who grew up poor, dropped out of high school, and hustled his craft playing piano in seedy bars and dimly lit clubs to help support his single mother. The song wasn't autobiographical, yet it highlighted the differences between Billy and the high class women in his life. They were raised on different sides of the proverbial tracks. The song's narrator and the object of his affection were the unlikely couple who made it work. An uptown girl and a downtown man.

Out in a public setting this morning, the song began to play in the background. As I waited to be served, I thought of the story behind the song. I found myself empathizing with the singer. I thought of the relationship between me and my girlfriend. We don't exactly mirror the relationship between Billy Joel and Elle/Christie. Without overstating the obvious, neither of us are famous. Furthermore, neither of us are uptown or downtown. Yet, like the couple from the song, there is a difference between where we come from.

If I were the one to pen the lyrics to Uptown Girl, she would be a country girl and I'd be a suburban dude.

We are not opposites attracted to each other as the adage implies. Politically and theologically speaking, my girlfriend and I are quite alike. We share similar philosophies on parenting and communication. We enjoy many of the same hobbies. We both crave good Chinese food and neither of us like eating fish. For all our similarities, the geographic backgrounds which shaped our personalities and worldviews are as different as those between Billy's downtown man and his uptown love.

I grew up on the west side of the mountains and my girlfriend was raised on the east side. My hometown is what I always thought of as a small town. The last sign of population driving north from Seattle before the scenery devolved into dairy and produce farms. However, my girlfriend comes from a smaller small town, one which in comparison would make Marysville look like a metropolis. I was weened on grunge and punk rock, she was surrounded by country western music. The fashion of my youth were baggy pants and Doc Martens, hers were bootcut jeans pulled over a pair of well worn cowboy boots. I fell asleep to the sounds of traffic while crickets lulled her to slumber.

As I moved away from the Puget Sound area, I always stayed in or near a big (ish) city. Boise. Sioux Falls. And now Cd'A/Spokane. She left her everyone-knows-everybody town for the bigger city life of Spokane. And here is where she and I became we.

I've noticed a funny thing about those who grew up in a rural setting compared to those who did not. Take a country girl (or boy) out of the country and she (or he) is still a country girl (or boy). They will feel comfortable in almost any setting, be it a concrete jungle, bedroom community, a resort town, alpine village, or post-apocalyptic wasteland. The country life follows you and remains inside you. For people like me, the burbs are home. Cookie cutter neighborhoods, fancy parks, manicured lawns, garage sales mobile food trucks, and coffee stands on every corner are security items. We find solace in the sounds of sirens from police cruisers, firetrucks, and ambulances wailing in the distance. Take us a way from the house parties and the crowds and the Taco Bells, and we are out of our element. We feel a little weird. We begin to long for streetlights and honking horns of road-raging drivers.

I'm from the suburbs and she's a country girl. Wherever we go, it seems she's more at home than I am. I'm learning though. She's got me riding horses and watching the sunset in places removed from high rises and office lights. I've invested in bug spray and bought my first pair of cowboy boots. More and more I am longing for something I've never had: a country lifestyle. As long as I have wi-fi, it doesn't really matter to me, I can write from anywhere. Sooner or later, I'll be a suburban guy in the country. It might be awkward for a while but I'll make it work. And this thing with the country girl? It's love.

photo credit: Annie, she also takes better pictures than me

A New Dream

I've always been a dreamer to one extent or another. As a ten year old, after watching Back to the Future Part II, I dreamed of one day riding an actual hoverboard. In high school, I had dreams of becoming a songwriter or a radio DJ with my own morning show.

Now, the grown up me dreams of being a good dad and seeing my kids make world-changing contributions to society when they grow up. I dream of having a book published. I dream of losing weight. My insatiable and unrequited wanderlust dreams of travels to see destinations from New Zealand's Hobbiton to the remaining Tatooine sets in Tunisia. I long to climb to the Christ the Redeemer statue in Rio de Janeiro and attend a church service at Paisley Abbey in Scotland - with a small detour to see Loch Ness. My inner dork wants to own a Mini Cooper and a Cadillac Escalade XL, and have those two vehicles parked side-by-side in my driveway.

It's good to dream. Of course, we should set goals and work towards achievements. But there is something special about having dreams, especially when you have someone with whom you can share those dreams. Even if it is an unachievable vision or silly daydream, imagining the possibilities of where your life could go builds feelings of hope and optimism. Looking at the state of the world today, we could all use a little more hope and optimism.

These days, I'm starting to see a new dream. One that is shared. One that the more I think about it the more it sounds appealing.

Life on a farm or ranch.

I know what you're thinking. You want to know what logic I have dreaming a rural lifestyle. Me, the person who has spent his entire life in the suburbs. Me, the kid who grew up in the shadow of Seattle, shunning country music for the grunge and punk rock that hit peak popularity as I came of age. Me, the geek, video gamer, and cinephile; the urbanite who finds comfort in the sound of traffic, the feel of large crowds, and the sight of city skylines lit up at night.

And you might be right. Despite attending a high school nicknamed Cow-Pie High, I am the last person you'd expect to enjoy the day to day life with livestock and acreage. My exposure to ranches is limited to guided horseback trail rides at summer camp. My experience with farms is nothing more than the smell of bovine manure wafting over the fence during football home games in the MPHS stadium. I enjoy my five minute commute to work. I appreciate having a Subway, a Jack-In-The-Box, and a MOD Pizza within walking distance of my apartment.

Yet I have a new dream. Weekend before last, my girlfriend invited me out to see her horses. They're boarded with a friend of hers who has a barn and large pastures and the space to train horses. We hung out with her and a few others that also have horses staying there. Porch lights shone instead of streetlights. Traffic noises were replaced with chirping crickets, honking geese, and clucking chickens. I watched the sun set with nothing but trees lining the horizon. I rode a horse in an open pasture late into the night. While there, a thought crossed my mind: I could get used to this.

I pictured the kids playing in the fields - chasing grasshoppers in summer and snowball fights in winter. I envisioned warm nights sipping on a mojito and lounging in a hammock next to a campfire without worry of neighbors interrupting my chillaxation. I could see myself saddling up on a horse for recreation on a regular basis.

This isn't a random hypothetical thought experiment born after a single night socializing in a rural environment and spending a couple hours on horseback. I wouldn't be having these thoughts if it were not for several conversations I have had with my girlfriend over the last year. Then my oldest son admitted that he doesn't want neighbors.

Some background: my girlfriend wants to find property in the middle of nowhere that is big enough for her family and her horses. She wants goats and chickens. She wants fruit trees and a garden. She will ask me random questions out of the blue like "If I got a pig, would you help raise it?" Or "Could you eat the meat of an animal that you helped raise?" When she asked me if I would enjoy living out in the middle of the woods, I told her I could live anywhere as long as I have wifi.

If things work out between us, the chance of me following my girlfriend into the country isn’t just a possibility, but an inevitability. I don't find this proposition intimidating, but alluring.

This is where my new dream begins. In this vision, I would contribute to the chores of feeding and caring for animals. My breakfast would be made with fresh picked cherries and recently laid eggs. While the kids are at their mom's house, I could work a part time job or volunteer somewhere. And days when the kids are staying with me, I could drive into town, drop them off at school, then take my laptop to Starbucks to spend the day working on my next book until school is out and we all return home.

Obviously, we can't do this right now. This is a dream about how the future could look. If I want it to be a reality, I need to get a publishing contract. If I want to get a contract, I need to have a book. Which means I need to finish my manuscript. Which means I need to hustle. Because when it comes to a ranch life, I could get used to it.

Knowing

Knowledge is infinite. The more I learn, the more I find is yet to be learned. I know what I know but I don't know what I don't know. I will never know everything, but I know a lot. As I reflect on my birthday, here are a few of those things I do know.

I know there is value in sarcasm because it is when most people are truly being honest. This is why Malcolm Gladwell said, "Comedians have become our truth-tellers."

I know there is a link between suffering and creativity, but that doesn't mean an artist must suffer to create their art. I know that an abstract painting or the perfect song can mend a broken heart.

I know the two most healing words in the English language are “Me too.”

I know the word necessary is unnecessarily difficult to spell.

I know anything is possible with quantum mechanics. And because of quantum mechanics, I also know that everything I know could be wrong.

I know everyone has biases and there is no such thing as an unbiased news source. Therefore, a biased news story is not the same thing as a fake news story. Possessing bias does not make someone a liar, it makes them human.

I know people are far more shallow, insecure, and self-centered than any of us would care to admit. All of us are selfish and struggle with our self-image, so let's just admit it.

I know there is a healthy balance between optimism and pessimism, between introversion and extroversion, between megalomania and self-deprecation, between the silly and the serious. I'm trying to find that balance.

I know white privilege is real and I am a benefactor. I also know what it is like to struggle. Therefore, I am willing to sacrifice my privilege to speak on behalf of those who don't have privilege and give them hope to see an end to their struggle.

I know that rainy days make me happy, sunny days give me hope, thunderstorms make me feel alive, and foggy mornings remind me of home. Yet there is nothing more calming than waking up to find the world has been covered in a fresh blanket of snow.

I know I’m Team Cap in the comic books but Team Iron Man in the movies. And I know that not everyone will agree with me.

I know I am far nerdier than the typical North Idaho male. My natural habitat is inside a library or movie theater, yet I feel most at peace while hiking a trail through the woods.

I know being nerdy is fashionable these days. And I know that geeks and nerds were bullied when I was a kid. I was a geek when I was growing up. I also got beat up a lot. Times change. At least I can say I was a nerd before being a nerd was cool. I know that last statement might be the most hipster thing I’ve ever said. I also liked dad-jokes before they were popular.

I know I am not mechanically inclined and I would be helpless without how-to videos on YouTube.

I know I am both a skeptic and a believer. I doubt and question everything. I know I have an analytical personality; I crave evidence and data. I have difficulty coping when I do not understand all of the details. There is no logical reason I should believe in God, yet I do. I know my faith is different than the God of Sunday School bible stories, sanitized for elementary-aged audiences and romanticized for American tastes, but I still believe.

I know there are two types of family: the kind you’re born into and the kind you chose. I love both my biological family and the friends who have become a second family. I would not be where I am today without either of them.

I know I am short and the shape I'm in is round. I can't do anything about the former but I am working to fix the latter.

I know caffeine is a drug; I'm addicted to Mt Dew and white chocolate crème de menthe breves. I know this contributes to my round shape.

I know I am a night owl by nature and an early riser by nurture. I know I have learned to cope with minimal sleep.

I know that I will be still be tired enough to go back to sleep after drinking coffee at 6am. But if I drink coffee at 6pm, I’ll be up all night.

I know my favorite word in the German language is schadenfreude. I know schadenfreude in action brings me more joy than it should. I also laugh at inappropriate jokes far more than what is socially acceptable.

I know live music almost always sounds better than studio recordings. I know there are exceptions.

I know hip-hop makes more sense to me now as a grown adult than it ever did in my youth. Yet, my heart will always belong to my 90's grunge and Seattle suburb roots.

I know that I am a single dad in the upper half of my 30s. This is not always an easy or comfortable place to be.

I know that my three kids are some of the most awesome humans on this planet. One of my favorite activities is trying to convince people to see my kids’ awesomeness.

I know this list could continue ad absurdum and if you’re still reading you deserve a medal. Or a gold star. However, the most important thing I know is that I am not done learning. There is still too much that I don’t know.

The Left and Leaving

Over the last week, I've listened to Counting Crows more than is probably healthy, and definitely more than anyone has done since 1999. Once in a while, I experience a pervasive mood which can only be sated by Adam Duritz's rambling vocals, his band's jangly folk rock, and nostalgia of a better era of pop music.

In the summer of 1998, Counting Crows released a double live album called Across a Wire. The first set was recorded during their Storytellers performance for VH1. It was mostly stripped down acoustic versions of songs from their first two records, a few with alternate lyrics only recorded at that show. I bought Across a Wire when it first came out; the following winter, I listened to the Storytellers half more than any other album. There was a morose quality to it that seemed to match the way I felt during that season of my life.

This week, I returned to the songs from the Storytellers show. Call it musical therapy. Not only Across a Wire, I've been playing other tracks from Counting Crows career. Other than podcasts, I haven't listened to much else.

As I’ve listened, I have discovered a theme I had not noticed before. Many of Counting Crows’ songs speak from the perspective of someone who has been left or is leaving. Thematically, that would explain why I was drawn to Across a Wire in the winter of 98/99. We had moved from Marysville to Everett. I had changed jobs from a record store to a manufacturing company. I was between girlfriends. It was the last winter that I would spend in the Seattle area before moving to Boise.

Thanks to that winter, I now have a sentimental attachment to the album that demands occasional replay. Especially when I've been left. Or am leaving one thing for another. Counting Crows is the soundtrack for the abandoned or the abandoning. The proof is in their lyrics.


For those who have been left.

From Round Here:
"Round here, she's slipping through my hands"
"She looks up at the building and says she's thinking of jumping, she says she's tired of life, she must be tired of something" (the Storytellers version says "Well, everybody is tired of something")

From Anna Begins:
"It's chasing me away, she disappears, and oh, Lord, I'm not ready for this sort of thing"

From Ghost Train:
"She buys a ticket 'cause it's cold were she comes from, she climbs aboard because she's scared of getting older in the snow"

From Catapult:
"All of a sudden she disappears, just yesterday she was here"
"Someone should be with me here 'cause I don't want to be alone"

From Angels of the Silences:
"Well I guess you left me with some feathers in my hand, did it make it any easier to leave me where I stand"
"Why'd you leave me 'til I'm only good for waiting for you"

From Good Night, Elisabeth:
"I woke up in pieces and Elisabeth had disappeared again"

From Mercury:
"She is a victim of her own responses, shackled to a heart that wants to settle and then runs away"
"She is leaving on a walkaway, she is leaving me in disarray, in the absence of a place to be she stands there looking back at me, hesitates, and then turns away"

From Long December:
"I can't remember the last thing that you said as you were leaving"

From All My Friends:
"All my friends and lovers will leave me behind"


For those who are leaving.

From Round Here:
"Step out the front door like a ghost into the fog where no one notices the contrast of white on white"
(Storytellers version) "Would you catch me if I was falling? Would you kiss me if I was leaving? Would you hold me 'cause I'm lonely without you?"

From Rain King:
"I've been here before and I deserve a little more"

From Raining in Baltimore:
"There's things I remember and things I forget, I miss you, I guess I should, three thousand five hundred miles away."

From Catapult:
"I wanna be scattered from here in this catapult"

From Angels of the Silences:
"I'm gone, I'm gone, I'll leave today I'm gone."

From Daylight Fading:
"It's getting cold in California, I guess I'll be leaving soon"
"When we see the early signs of daylight fading we leave just before it's gone"
"I want to say goodbye to you, goodbye to all my friends, goodbye to everyone I know"

From I'm Not Sleeping:
"I've got news for everyone 'cause I'm going out that door"

From Have You Seen Me Lately:
"Get away from me, this isn't gonna be easy, but I don't need you"
"I don't need anyone and these days I feel like I'm fading away"
"I thought that someone would notice, I thought somebody would say something if I was missing"

From Walkaways:
Just the same old walkaways, someday I'm going to stay but not today"

From Hanginaround:
"You know I gotta get out but I'm stuck so tight, weighed by the chains that keep me hanging around"
"I've been bumming around this old town for way too long"

From Speedway:
"Thinking about taking some time, thinking about leaving soon"
"I'm thinking about leaving tomorrow, I'm thinking about being on my own"


There's the theme. Leaving and being left. Perhaps that's why Counting Crows resonates with me. A divorcee and single dad with a melancholy disposition about to leave one ministry for another. Things change. Seasons come and go. When it happens, it's nice to have some music to remind you you're not alone.

Driving in a Winter Wonderland Part 1

In the closing scene of It's a Wonderful Life, George Bailey receives a Christmas card from his guardian angel Clarence. His daughter Zuzu hears a Christmassy sound and explains its significance. "Look, Daddy. Teacher says, every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings." This winter, someone had the brilliant idea to place a seasonally relevant spin on the sweet sentiment, turning it into a meme. Instead of referencing bells and angels, Zuzu warned us "Every time a snowflake flies, an idiot forgets how to drive." For the Inland Northwest, that statement is comical because it is true. Street crews in and around Spokane are frequently unprepared for the first major snow accumulation of the season. Drivers around the region undercompensate by driving slower than needed causing traffic hazards or they overcompensate driving faster than they should as if streets were clear and dry. The first winter storm often causes more accidents, spinouts, and cars sliding off the side of the road.

By any measure of logic, I should be one of those idiots who forgets how to drive after that initial snowfall. After all, I grew up in the Seattle suburbs. The whole Puget Sound region is known more for rain than as a winter wonderland. It does snow there. Occasionally. But "White Christmas" is not in their vocabulary. Municipal budgets do not plan for snowplows or sanding trucks. Seattleites tend to flock to grocery stores at the first forecast of snow to stock up on bottled water and canned goods in preparation for hibernation. They're worried that their infrastructure will collapse the moment snow hits the ground and no one wants to be stuck without food – forced to make the dangerous trek to KFC for dinner. Schools close with mere fractions of an inch accumulated because the steep hills are too hazardous for busses. Or traffic. Or anything other than sleds. Winter driving is not a native skill for those who come of age in the greater Seattle metropolitan area.

It was even worse in my home town. Marysville is in a warm meteorological shadow created by Camano and Whidbey Islands. There were many storms that blew through town dumping snow in Everett to the south, Arlington to the north, and Granite Falls to the east while those of us in Marysville were stuck with a cold drizzle of rain. My childhood was peppered with disappointment when the Marysville School District remained in session while every other district in Snohomish County shut down for a snow day. When it did snow in Marysville, it was like a Christmas miracle. Just not on Christmas Day.

The teenaged version of me rarely received the opportunity to drive in snow. But one winter, the impossible happened. When I woke up there was more than enough snow to cancel school. It was deep enough to paralyze the region. Overnight, several inches fell from our Pacific Northwest skies and I rejoiced. I ventured out into a whitewashed world of silence. It gave me a deep understanding of the carol's lyrics "All is calm, all is bright."

I waded out into the nearly knee-deep snow with intentions to build a snow fort and a snowman and spend my day playing in the fluffy white powder. But my dad had other plans.

He followed me out the door, handed me his keys, motioned for me to brush off the car and climb into the driver’s seat. I thought he wanted to drive down to the donut shop for breakfast or make a quick trip to get groceries. Both assumptions were incorrect. Instead, he directed me turn for turn on a scenic tour of the neighborhood.

We lived on a corner lot of a busy intersection. Both roads received plenty of through traffic, even in inclement weather conditions. By the time Dad and I went out for a drive, enough tires had compacted the snow down into ivory colored pavement. It was slick but not much of a challenge. Dad said he wanted me to learn how to drive in the snow, but after a few blocks I was convinced there was nothing to worry about. How hard could it be?

Then dad found what he was looking for. He directed me to turn onto a road that was still covered in virgin snow - untouched by Goodyear treads. The short street was only four blocks in length terminating in a T intersection at both ends. The only reason anyone would have to use that stretch of road is if they lived in one of the homes in between point A and point B. I was excited. How often does a teenager in the Seattle area get the privilege of being the first to drive through pure and undisturbed snow?

"Floor it. Get it up to 35 MPH," were my dad's instruction.
"But," I objected, "The speed limit is 25."
"Look around. Do you see any other traffic? Do you see a cop car setting up a speed trap?"
"No."
"Then speed up."

I pressed down on the accelerator and reached speeds that would earn me a ticket in drier conditions. Dad leaned over my shoulder to watch the speedometer rise. As soon as I reached the instructed speed, he gave me the next step in my lesson.

"Slam on the brakes." He said.
"WHAT?!?"

I was sure my dad had lost his marbles. I even expressed my concern for his sanity but he insisted. "Slam on the brakes." I complied. I thought I was going to die.

When the car finally came to a complete stop, pointing askew in a direction that I don't think it should have been facing, my dad smiled with glee.

"Remember that feeling?" he asked. After I nodded, he continued, "Don't ever forget it and do everything you can to avoid feeling it again."

His words sounded like the advice of a mad scientist after sending you into a lightning storm with a metal rod in your hands. However, it worked. In the last 20 years, I have never caused or even been in a snow related accident. Only once have I slid off the road and into a ditch. Only once did I attempt to perform a right-hand turn while my car continued to go straight. Both of those incidents were in the same winter, 16 years ago in Boise. Now with more than a dozen years in North Idaho where it snows aplenty, I consider myself a veteran winter driver.