David Bowie, Glenn Frey, and Me

The past month has been a rough one for us music fans, with the deaths of some major musical figures.  R & B singer Natalie Cole, hard rocker Lemmy Kilmeister, singer David Bowie and, most recently, Glenn Frey, founder of the legendary rock group the Eagles are the biggest names among those who have recently passed away, but there have also been a number of deaths among lesser known members of popular bands, studio musicians, producers and other industry notables.  Music has been an integral part of my life since I was very young, so when artists who have been on my radar screen for a long time suddenly pass away, it is la kind of loss, like that of an old friend or acquaintance, depending on who it is. 

I can’t honestly account for myself as a true fan of either Natalie Cole or Lemmy Kilmeister’s band Motorhead.  While I respect their work, Cole’s soulful crooning and Kilmeister’s aggressive, grinding hard rock fell just beyond the furthest ends of my musical taste spectrum.  Nevertheless, when I heard of their deaths, it felt like someone had snipped away pieces from a beautiful but increasingly tattered tapestry, one that has always been a part of my life and that I too often take for granted.  I didn’t listen to Natalie Cole or Motorhead very often, but I liked the idea that they were out there making music that people enjoyed and was sadden to hear that they were now silenced.  With the deaths of David Bowie and Glenn Frey however, it wasn’t just pieces of the tapestry snipped away.  Some new large holes were added, alongside those created for me by the deaths of Elvis Presley, John Lennon, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Freddy Mercury, Kurt Cobain, George Harrison, and Michael Jackson, among others.  They had put forth great music that had been a tangible part of my life, and they were still active in their careers when they died.  They weren’t done yet.  There was still more to come from them that we will now never get to hear.  I felt real loss.

There was a lot of coverage of the deaths of both David Bowie and Glenn Frey in the media, and an outpouring of reactions in social media.  The men were alike in some ways and very different in others.  Both of them came onto the music scene in the early 70s, both did some acting work in addition to music, and both gradually faded from regular public attention by the coming of the 21^st century.  And at the end of their careers, both men were still actively making music.  Yet Bowie was mostly considered an eclectic musical artist who had experienced occasional mainstream acceptance. His focus had always been on the art of music.  Frey, on the other hand, was very much a straightforward rock musician and businessman, who only stepped out of the mainstream to explore new ground on rare occasions.  The artistic side of music was not unimportant to Frey, but he was always very candid in admitting that it had to pay the bills too.  Regardless of the driving forces behind each of them, the end products that each gave us, their music, was truly great.  It was fascinating and touching following the reactions to both of their deaths, and it taught me some things about the part music plays in our lives.

Before the release of 1983’s Let’s Dance album, I wasn’t very familiar with David Bowie’s work at all.  I’d seen some of his albums at the store, but out of context they didn’t make much of an impact on me.  MTV hadn’t come to rural Maine yet at that point, and the only radio stations that played pop and/or rock in my conservative corner of the world kept their playlists firmly grounded in the most widely-acceptable hits.  Other than the rare “Young Americans” or “Heroes”, David Bowie wasn’t on the radio much in northern Maine in the early 80s.  That was about to change in 1983.  Let’s Dance was Bowie’s headlong dive into the new wave pop that was dominating the international airwaves at that time, and the album was a gigantic commercial success, due in large part to new fans like me who now had access to Bowie on mainstream radio.  

I remember hearing the title track to Let’s Dance for the first time late on a hot July night in 1983.  It was the night before my family was to go away on our annual two-week summer vacation to the Maine coast, and I was as excited as I would have been the night before Christmas.  Add to that the fact that it was a swelteringly hot night and it was a recipe for insomnia.  Sometime after midnight, I gave up tossing and turning, and sat on my bedroom windowsill in hopes of getting some cool air. I plugged my earpiece into my little FM radio (so as not to disturb my blissfully sleeping brother with whom I shared a room) and tuned in the local rock station.  The soundtrack of a small town Friday night’s squealing tires and chirping crickets played in one ear and the tinny sounds of rock and roll from a transistor radio in the other while I stared out at the moon over the houses of my neighborhood.  Before long, the DJ came on and introduced a new song by British singer David Bowie.  British acts were flooding the American music scene in 1983, and I was getting into a lot of it, so my interest was piqued.  The song was “Let’s Dance”, and it really hooked me on the first play.  Bowie’s vocals were mesmerizing, and the heavy drums and bluesy guitar solo captured my heart.  “Let’s Dance” became one of my favorite songs of that summer, and I ended up buying the album not long after that. Over time, I came to appreciate the full scope of David Bowie’s career, but to this day, Let’s Dance is my favorite Bowie album, though it is also the one at which many of the biggest Bowie fans turn their noses up.  Among many Bowie ‘purists’, Let’s Dance was just tolerable at best, and a sell-out at the very worst.  To me, it was, and is, terrific.  I was into his next two mid-80s albums too, Tonight and Never Let Me Down before Bowie’s new releases stopped gaining my attention.

Glenn Frey and the Eagles go back even further with me, literally to my earliest music memories.  My parents always had the radio on around my house when I was young, so I was exposed to a lot of music, albeit mostly just the biggest hits that made it onto the local radio scene.  The Eagles were very popular on the stations they listened to, likely because the band had a country-edge to them that gave them some crossover appeal, especially in my part of the state where country music was king.  I knew all the words to “Hotel California” before I was ten years old, and songs like “Take It Easy”, “One of These Nights” and “Already Gone” feel like they are encoded in my DNA.  The Eagles have always been there in the background of my life for as long as I could remember.  Not only was the band popular in my home, but my closest peers liked them too.  One of my favorite teenage memories is of riding around town with my buddies in my friend Jared’s battered red Volkswagen Beetle, all the windows down and the Eagles’ “Already Gone” blasting from the stereo.  Over time, I literally wore out my vinyl copies of both Eagles greatest hits albums, as well as my cassettes of Hotel California and Eagles Live.  I’ve never done that with any other records or cassettes, and I have owned a lot of them. 

I was an avid follower of the solo careers of the Eagles members through the 80s after the band broke up, especially Glenn Frey and Don Henley, and have carried my love of all things Eagles well into adulthood.  Needless to say, I was overjoyed when “Hell froze over” (as the band members had said it would have to) and the band reunited in the mid-1990s, and one of my regrets is that I never got to see them perform live.  My tastes have shifted over time, and my favorite Eagles songs don’t tend to be the biggest hits anymore.  I am more intrigued by the relatively-obscure album cuts that didn’t often get my attention in the past.  My current favorites are “After The Thrill Is Gone”, a Frey/Henley duet from the One Of These Nights album and “Waiting in the Weeds” from 2007’s Long Road Out Of Eden.  All those great songs, including those amazing and unmistakable Eagles harmonies that have been running through my head since I was a preschooler, would not have come to be without Glenn Frey.

My favorite part of the David Bowie catalogue, the Let’s Dance/Tonight/Never Let Me Down period of the mid-80s is one about which few others I’ve interacted with on the subject wax nostalgic. I got a lot of “Oh yeah, but what about the Ziggy Stardust era?”  I don’t dislike his earlier or later work, it’s just that the mid-80s were an especially memorable time in my life: first girlfriend, first real job, getting my driver’s license.  Music, then as now, was a major part of my life, and I am particularly fond of the songs that formed my own soundtrack to those times, which in turn gives a huge boost in my heart to that particular stretch of David Bowie’s career.  I first go to know David Bowie in the mid-80s.  That’s the David Bowie that means the most to me.

The Eagles, on the other hand, seem to be a band that people either love or hate.  They gotten massive amounts of airplay over the years, and their songs may have worn thin with some people.  They also developed a reputation for being arrogant, for being somewhat derivative at times, and for being too focused on profit, all of which has worked against them with some listeners.  Jeff Bridges’ character “The Dude” famously gave voice to this in the 1998 film The Big Lebowski when he is stuck in a taxi while “Peaceful, Easy Feeling” is playing on the radio.  “I hate the f—in' Eagles man,” he said to the cab driver, just before he was thrown out of the car.  Personally, I would have thrown him out of the car too.  I love the Eagles.  Their music has always been there, either in the background or foreground of my life, ever since I can remember.  The fact that people important to me like my parents and my high school buddies were also Eagles fans cemented their place for me.  Of course they weren’t a perfect band, but for me they are almost like family, and how many of us have a full set of perfect relatives?  The positive associations I have made with their music for over forty years far outweighs the negatives.  When Glenn Frey’s voice comes out of my speakers singing “Heartache Tonight”, I’m back to being 11 years old, waiting for that song to come on the radio so I can catch it on my tape recorder. You can’t put a price on something like that.

The passings of David Bowie and Glenn Frey have underscored for me the idea that, like most art forms, there really isn’t much about music that is absolutely “right” or “wrong”.  You might say that there are no bad songs, just missed connections.  I’ve come to believe that a lot has to do with the associations we have with music and the people who perform it.  If there is a connection between some music and something positive for you, then there is a greater likelihood you are going to have positive feelings about that music, regardless if it is something widely considered “a classic”.  If the first dance you had with the love of your life was to “Purple People Eater”, then I think there’s a good chance that even that song could one of your favorites.  And as far as today’s music being “crap”, as many in my generation and older like to say, well, maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t.  Around the time I turned 30, most new music just wasn’t reaching my heart anymore.  But if kids today are making their own lifelong memories to a soundtrack of today’s popular songs the way I did to the music of David Bowie and the Eagles, among many others, then who am I to say their music isn’t just as good?

Goals

I always look to the New Year as a time to set new goals for myself.  I try not to view them in the tunnel vision many use to view “resolutions”, where they are black and white things that are tossed aside once they are broken.  You know what I mean: resolve to stop drinking soda, break down and have a Mountain Dew on January 3^rd, and tell yourself “oh well, maybe next year”.  It’s too easy to weasel your way out of them if you take that attitude.  I try not to even call them resolutions.

How one phrases goals is key to success or failure, I’ve found.  For example, I’d like to lose some weight this year, but “lose weight” is a pretty broad (pardon the pun) goal that can be tricky to approach with any kind of effectiveness. Where do you even begin?  So instead, this year I want to exercise more than I did in 2014 and eat less sugar than in that year, which are more specific and for me at least, more achievable.  They aren’t specific enough to set me up for disappointment, however.  Cutting sugar out of my diet entirely would do that, as would a goal such as going for a run five days a week.  Less sugar and more exercise can be as little or as much as my circumstances allow at any given time.  As long as I am ahead of where I was with those things last year, I am meeting with success. Hopefully, by exercising more and eating less sugar, the weight loss will come as a side benefit.

I do have one specific item related to that more exercise goal however.  Last July, I ran my first 5K and came in at just over 42 minutes.  Not bad for someone who really didn’t take training and preparation all that seriously, I think.  This year, I want to come in under 40 minutes in that event.  Whether it’s by a lot or a little, time will tell.

Another goal I have for 2015 is to get back into playing my guitar on a regular basis.  Not join a heavy metal band or play Carnegie Hall, just get pick it up and play more often.  I’ve played the guitar off and on since I was a teenager, with some lengthy gaps in between.  The last time, in the mid 00’s, I made some major strides in my skills and almost reached the point where I was confident enough to play in front of other people.  Then I started a new job in a new field, went back to school and started doing a lot more writing, and so back into the carrying case the guitar went.  

But now the guitar is back out, dusted off and fitted with a brand new set of strings.  I’ve discovered that GarageBand, one of the programs that came loaded on my MacBook Pro has all kinds of toys and tricks to help me hone my guitar skills and extend my interests, and since my guitar is electric, I can plug directly into it.  Playing scales and learning chords is a lot more fun when you can give your guitar the same sound as those of Eddie Van Halen or Randy Rhodes.

I can almost guarantee that you’ll be reading more posts about my latest journey with the guitar in the weeks and months to come.

This blog is part of another goal I have for 2015: write more than in 2014.  I let my writing slip to some extent last year, and posts on this blog are a public and quantifiable way for see that I am indeed writing more.  That’s not to say that all my writing has been and will be on this blog.  I am knee-deep in revision and editing the first draft of a novel I wrote in partnership with another writer.  That project is where a lot of my writing time went in 2014 and where quite a bit will no doubt go this year.  I hadn’t been producing much by way of new content though, and that’s where I really want to step things up.

Now to come up with fresh and engaging post topics, which has been my biggest stumbling block in my writing in general lately, and this blog in particular.  Your suggestions are very welcome, of course.  I’d also welcome your input on my other goals, especially improving my time on the 5K and jacking up my guitar skills, even if it’s just sending me a tweet or an e-mail asking how it’s going.

Twitter: @countofbluecars

E-mail: chriscolter@icloud.com

On Poverty

I’ve been thinking a lot about poverty lately.  If you check out the news on your TV or computer these days, you cannot help but hear about the so-called “income gap”, and it seems like we also are seeing more and more cuts being made to programs and services that benefit the less fortunate. There’s almost a demonization of the poor in some quarters. The emphasis that Pope Francis has placed on helping the poor and disenfranchised has also done a great deal to bring issues related to poverty to the forefront for me. On a personal level, I’ve been reading a biography of Robert F. Kennedy who, despite his privileged background, had strong empathy for those living in poverty, and that has also stirred my consciousness of the poor, a consciousness which put down roots many years ago. 

When I was in first grade at St. Mary’s School back in the 1970s, there was an international organization called The Holy Childhood Association that provided parochial school teachers with many educational resources.  It still exists today, though it is now known as the Missionary Childhood Association.  Founded in 1843 and supported by the Vatican, its mission in a nutshell is to help Catholic kids in first world countries to learn about and reach out to the less fortunate.  The classrooms and hallways in our school were filled with Holy Childhood Association posters and bulletin boards showing the challenges that children our age in less-developed countries were facing.  As a school and in our individual classes we undertook many lessons and activities which impressed upon us the obligation of our Catholic faith for caring for one another and especially for those who were less fortunate than us.  We learned about what poverty was, where it was occurring, and how we could help.

One of the Holy Childhood Association’s poverty-awareness activities made a particular impression on me: our support as a class of  “the pagan babies”. 

The way it worked was pretty clever really.  Our first grade class was encouraged by our teacher, Sister Eunice, to voluntarily bring in loose change from home, with parental permission of course, and put it in a canister on her desk to help children who didn’t have enough food or shelter.  The goal was to get to $10, at which point the class would “adopt” a poor baby.  As we started collecting coins toward each new $10 goal, Sister Eunice would announce the gender and nationality of the prospective adoptee, show us a photo sent by the Holy Childhood Association, and tell us a little about where and under what circumstances the child lived.  Next, she would choose two students who would be responsible for giving the baby a name once we reached the $10 mark.  Now of course no child in a far off country had their actual given name changed by a couple of first graders from the USA, but the symbolic naming of the baby made it a very personal thing for us as kids. 

It wasn’t unusual for namers to want to use some version of his or her own name, which was okay.  However, the hard and fast rule was that at least one of the two names had to be that of a saint.  It was a Catholic school, after all. 

My naming partner and I gave a boy from Chad the name “Louis Christopher”.  Louis was the name of my female partner’s French-Canadian grandfather, and we were instructed by her that it was to be pronounced “Loo-Wee”, and NOT “Loo-Iss”.  For some reason, many of my first grade buddies and I found this new-to-us pronunciation quite funny.  And I suppose you can guess where the name Christopher came from.

Donating, while popular, was strictly voluntary, with no minimum amount.  As we were settling in each morning, a few kids would always drop a few pennies and nickels from home into the metal canister as they walked by.  Thanks to the blessed innocence of our being so young, we didn’t pay much attention to who was giving and how much it was.  The rattle of change in that canister was just part of the soundtrack of our day.  The teacher kept a daily tally of how much we had raised posted on the chalkboard.

The drive was limited to coins only.  I remember sometimes finding dimes, nickels and pennies lying around the house at that time and asking my parents if I could take it in to school for the Holy Childhood. My grandparents were aware of the campaign as well and when I went to visit them on Sundays they often gave me some pennies and nickels to take in to school the next day for what they still called “the pagan babies” which was kind of politically incorrect even back then in 1976.

By the end of the school year, our classroom list contained several dozen names.  In hindsight it was a pretty powerful way to get the message through to a bunch of young kids that there were poor people in our world, that they needed our help, that it was our obligation to help, and that we really could help, even if we were only six and seven years old.

Flash forward to today.

I recently made a trip from Aroostook County to southern Maine, stopping in several cities on the way down and back.  These cities would be considered small by most standards, yet in each I saw at least a few men or women standing in traffic medians, holding signs asking for help.  It tugged at my conscience.  I wanted to help them directly, but couldn’t be sure if I was feeding a mouth or an addiction.  (I did donate to a local service organization in their honor, however.)  The plight of these people with their signs really made me think.  What depths would one have to reach in order to spend a frigid January day, standing in city traffic, begging?  Could that happen to someone I know?  Could that happen to me?

The proliferation of panhandlers sharpened my eyes to see other signs of poverty around me: the run-down apartment houses that did not look entirely safe for occupancy, the people in tattered clothing trying to stay warm in the winter cold, the sheer number of food pantries and homeless shelters in a relatively small state like Maine. If the problem is this serious here, what can it possibly be like in New York, Rio de Janeiro or Bombay?

And the biggest question bouncing around my brain: What can I really do as just one person?

I wish there was an easy answer to that question, but there isn’t.  At this point, the only answer I have come up with is DO SOMETHING!  It may not change the scope of global poverty, but every little bit each of us does, whether it’s a contribution to a charity or service organization, a donation to a food pantry or thrift shop, volunteering at a soup kitchen, or even just working to shift stereotypical thinking about the poor as somehow lesser people, adds another bright new fiber to the sometimes-tattered tapestry of what’s right with us as human beings. 

Post Script--This editorial by Robyn Merrill, recently published in the Bangor Daily News, makes many good points about poverty as it impacts Maine: Beyond the attacks, ideology: What poverty looks like in Maine

Slogging: A Post for Writerly Types

I consider myself an actual writer, for whatever that is worth.  It’s not my career, and I am not published at this point, but nonetheless I identify with those who have put pen to paper, or fingers to keys, throughout the ages.  Writing is something that I have loved to do ever since I was very young, and also something upon which I have gotten a great deal of feedback, mostly positive, since those early days.  Various and disparate sources have told me that I have a knack for writing, which has been both a blessing and a curse.  It’s been a blessing in that such input has spurred me on to keep up with my writing over the years and to cultivate it.  At the same time, as the great philosopher Spiderman once said, “with great power comes great responsibility”.  My writing ability is hardly what I would consider a “great power”, but it is something I possess which not everyone does and, I feel, should be used for some greater good.  So when I don’t write much, or at all, it seems like squandering, and I’ve been doing a lot of squandering lately.

Although I’ve been aware of it for a while (witness my post: Writing About Having Nothing To Write About, from last April), my lack of writing production really jumped out at me recently when I was examining the layout of this blog, “Wicked Awesomology”.  I noticed that I had tallied 47 blog posts in the year 2012, and yet only 27 for 2013.  Now I think we all realize that more is not necessarily better and I would be better off posting nothing than tossing something on here that is not very good.  Still, being down 20 posts on the year is more of a drop-off than I would like to see, especially considering that my readership numbers, in terms of visitors to the blog, have steadily risen.  In addition to the blog, I have two writing works in progress, one of which is a collaborative effort that is moving at a slow crawl at best, and the other is a novel that is still in the outlining phase, where it has been for a couple of months now.  A third work in progress, a Maine-based murder-mystery, is no longer in progress by any definition of the word, since I have completely lost my way on it.  It isn’t abandoned per say, but it is resting.

The writing slowdown has also become evident in the nature of my Twitter account, which I originally started several years ago to connect with other writers and foster my own writing.  When I first began on Twitter (@countofbluecars, by the way), the vast majority of followers and people I followed were writers, and the dominant theme of my tweets was writing.  My account has evolved over time to be broader based, and I have attracted, and been attracted to, Twitter accounts from other aspects of life, like politics, sports, humor, animal issues, the media, fellow Mainers, and so on.  I’d say only about a third of my followers are writing-related people, and the percentage of those I follow who are writers or connected to the field is less than that.  My actual tweets on writing have become rare.  I enjoy my Twitter account as it is now, so it is not a bad thing, however the demographics of it seem to indicate that the place writing occupies in my life has shrunk.

So why am I not writing more?  Hard to say, really.  Yes, I have been busy with other things in my life, but no more so than in the past when my writing production was much higher.  It’s possible that I’ve been more choosey about my topics.  A lot of the things that pop into my head as possible topics for blog posts, short stories or novels seem like they have already been done by me, overdone by someone else, or just not feasible.  For instance, I am writing this on New Year’s Day. Why not write about my New Year’s resolutions, you might ask? Already did that a couple of years ago and it did not go well at all.  (Let’s just say putting them out for public display made not keeping them even harder.)  A predictions post?  It seems like every other blog out there has one of those up on it.  Why not post some personal “Best of 2013” offerings?  Also heavily represented in the blogosphere, and plus, who cares?

It’s that “who cares” attitude that could be at least partly holding me back.  There is a popular stereotype that bloggers are self-indulgent people who post merely as a means of inflating their sense of personal worth.  It’s about the writer, not the audience, and that’s not how I roll.  I’ve tried very hard to keep my readers at the forefront.  Before I start any post, I always ask myself:  Is the topic something that those reading will actually be interested in?  If the answer is no, then I either try to change it so that it is, or else I dump it.  And then, if I do choose to stick with it, I ask myself, does it fit “the brand” I have built?  Is it the kind of post that people have to come expect from reading Wicked Awesomology in the past?  Anecdotal light humor is the general theme.  Will writing something outside that realm be well-received on this particular blog?  Would it be better suited for another venue?

A case in point:  Recently, a young relative of mine was murdered in a domestic violence situation.  It struck me very deeply, and made me want to put something out there in writing to somehow deal with it and to raise awareness.  But what, and where, and how?  That’s a pretty heavy topic for Wicked Awesomology, and would probably be longer than a standard blog post.  Would my typical readers accept such a thing, or should I look elsewhere to get it out there?  And then, could I write it in such a way that is inspiring, not maudlin and pitying?

And so on and so forth.  I could make a longer list of writing excuses, but fail to see the benefit of that.

I tend to be a solution-oriented kind of guy, so all this leads me to wonder what I’m going to actually do about this lack of writing production, aside from whine about it.  A few things come to mind, actually.  One is to broaden the scope of the Wicked Awesomology blog in 2014, so that I will have the freedom to write about a wider range of topics and ideas.  The core of the blog will remain the same, but the tone will likely vary more as I take more risks with what I write.  It would probably be wise to cut myself some slack on the volume of writing I produce also.  As I mentioned earlier, more is not better, especially if the content produced is substandard.  Not all actual writing involves putting words down.  Research and planning are no small parts of the actual process, so setting a goal related to actual volume produced daily or weekly does not seem like a good idea.  I am however setting a production goal for at least one of my works-in-progress.  Since the collaborative project is, well, collaborative, I’ll get with my writing partner soon enough to set a goal on that, but as far as my adventure novel goes, I’d like to have the rough draft written and be in the midst of the revision stages by the first day of 2015.

Another thing that I want to do more of as a writer in 2014 is connect in a concrete way with my readers and with fellow writers, in hopes that the increased feedback will drive me further.  I have a couple of ideas on how I might go about doing this both in person and online, one of these ideas involves you.  I want to open up my e-mail to you for topic suggestions, critiques on posts, and general conversation about writing and/or the topics in my posts.  One thing I have heard from other bloggers is that only a fraction of your readers will respond in the “comments” section below a posting, due to its very public nature. Someone said it’s akin to those who make comments or ask questions at a public meeting.  Only those comfortable in front of a group tend to speak up.  I want to encourage you to share your thoughts on writing, mine or yours, with me via e-mail.  My address for the purposes of writing is chriscolter@icloud.com.  

I hope to hear from many of you soon. Now let’s get writing!  Or at least thinking about it.

What A Drag It Is Getting Old

According to legend, I was born in 1970, so a little arithmetic will tell you that I am 43 years old.  And lately, the “old” part of being 43 years old has been particularly evident.  As I write this, I am propped up in bed with an ice pack strapped to my swollen right knee, dealing with a bad case of bursitis.  Yes, bursitis!  Bursitis, if you don't know, is a painful inflammation of the cushion between one’s joints, and something up to now I always considered as a condition for people who are, for lack of a better word, OLD.  I've never had it before, don’t know why I have it now, and hope to high heavens that I don’t have it again anytime soon. 

I am only 43, I tell myself.  I am not supposed to have things like bursitis.  My grandmother is.  She’s 88.  That makes more sense.  Not that I am wishing ill upon her by any means.  It's just that I am too young for this!  After all, I know who Imagine Dragons are and wear cargo shorts on a regular basis!  I’m not old!

And a booming voice comes out of the clouds above: “Wrong, Grandpa!”

Okay, I am pretty young at heart, but my body...well, maybe not so much anymore.

Source

I've always joked about aging and the passage of time at milestone birthdays, like my 18^th, 21^st, and 30^th, but truth be told, those came and went and not much really changed.  My 40^th, on the other hand, was like passing through some kind of gate into a new land.  That was when I really started to notice that, physically at least, I wasn't as young as I used to be. 

First, there is the noticeable change in stamina.  My health has been pretty consistent over the years.  I am overweight for my height by about 20 pounds, but otherwise suffer from no chronic problems like high blood pressure or diabetes.  In my forties, however, I've found that things are different.  I've been placed into the body of an old guy.  

A case in point was when I climbed Mt. Megunticook on the coast of Maine recently.  It was the sole physical activity of the day for me.  It took me the better part of the afternoon and several bottles of water to hike up the 1,385 foot elevation and then down again.  When I reached my camp at the bottom, I had to take some aspirin and a long nap, and was terribly sore for three days.  And don’t even get me going on the blistered feet.  The climb took all the wind out of my sails, and then some.  I actually checked my cell phone’s reception to make sure I’d be able to dial 911 if necessary.

Back in my mid-20s, several other teachers and I climbed that very same mountain with a group of nearly 80 third and fourth grade students.  The weather was iffy, so I didn’t even dress for the trip, thinking it would be cancelled.  Nonetheless, I climbed that same mountain in a shirt and tie, in half the time, with no blisters, barely breaking a sweat, and without any water.  I then went back to school with the students, taught all afternoon, attended a long committee meeting after school, ran some errands in town and then mowed my lawn after dinner that evening.  If I had aches and soreness afterward, I don’t remember them.

Next, I've found that piddly little things are causing me pain.  All of a sudden, the motion of raking the lawn for an hour or so causes my shoulder to ache for the next day or two.  Getting down on the floor with a sick animal at work can easily tweak my back if I am not careful about how I do it, and once about two years ago, I literally threw out my back while bending over the bathroom sink to spit out toothpaste.  Seriously.  If I was in an old-time covered wagon heading out west, my companions would be completely justified in leaving me alongside the trail for the coyotes.  And if that same party became stranded and had to resort to cannibalism, there is no doubt who they'd eat first, despite the fact that I would probably be quite stringy and gristly.

Of course its not a discussion of male aging without a mention of hair.  I am fortunate to still have lots of it, on my head and elsewhere, just as I always have, and the vast majority of it is still the original color (brown).  Based on the photos I saw of my 25^th high school class reunion, many of my male peers are not so lucky.  It still blows my mind when someone my age or younger has male pattern baldness.  Luckily, that is one thing I don't have to get uptight about.  It's nowhere to be found in my family tree.  Gray hair is a different story.  I found my first gray hair when I was 24, just after I closed on the mortgage for my first house.  I figured I earned that one.  Since then, the gray has been oddly slow in coming.  Very, very gradually it is becoming noticeable in my temples, especially just after I get it cut, but I am still below average in the gray hair department compared to most men my age.  Thankfully, the same lack of grayness applies to the hair that is not on my head, of which I have more than my fair share.  I truly think that having the hair on my chest or arms go gray will bother me much more than the gray on my head.  Once in a blue moon a stray gray will make an appearance there, but I swiftly vanquish the interloper.

Interesting side note: people sometimes ask why I do not grow facial hair or allow more than a day’s growth of stubble.  The fact of the matter is, all the gray hairs I have seem to have come in on my face.  If I go more than two days without shaving, it becomes very clear that my mustache and beard would be heavily streaked with gray.  That’s not a look I could pull off gracefully especially with a shock of thick brown hair upstairs.  Maybe someday I’ll grow some facial hair when what I have on my head matches, but until then, no thanks.

For me though, the worst parts of getting physically older are the surprises.  You know, like the food or drink you've enjoyed regularly over the course of your entire life that suddenly gives you screaming heartburn.  (I’m talking to you, hot tea!)  Or the sudden back spasms that literally knock you off your feet at work and cause your coworkers to think for a moment that you've been struck from behind by a pygmy dart.  Or the nights when you may as well sleep in the bathroom, because you are making so many trips there to empty your apparently pea-sized bladder.  Oh, and waking up one morning with painful bursitis in the right knee, for no known reason. Those are the kinds of surprises I mean.

It bothered me when Red Sox pitcher Tim Wakefield retired from baseball in 2011, because he was the last player on my favorite team that was my age.  As of last season, there were no major league baseball players my age or older.  That was a milestone I didn't care for at all.  It still bothers me when I read an obituary in the paper of someone my age or younger dying of some health malady.  And I don’t think I will ever get used to the idea of people I went to school with being grandparents now, but a couple of them are.

I know what they say: “You are only as old as you feel, ” and I have no doubt that age is relative.  To my nieces and nephews, I probably am seen as old.  To my parents and their generation, I am seen as pretty young.  To my grandmother’s generation, I am still practically a kid.  There are people old enough to be my parents running marathons and swimming from Cuba to Florida (not on the same day, mind you), so I guess I just need to keep setting my sights high.

I could go on and on about this topic of getting old, but I had better stop here.  It’s 4:00 in the afternoon, and the early-bird dinner special is starting at the diner downtown.  Plus, I need to restock my bowl of hard ribbon candy.

A video for Mother's Little Helper by the Rolling Stones, from YouTube.

Post-script: There’s no small amount of irony that the title of this post is borrowed from the first line of an early Rolling Stones song, “Mother’s Little Helper”.  The Rolling Stones are now quite old, no matter how you slice it, and yet their most recent songs and footage from their live concerts this past summer prove that they have still got it going on.

Writing About Having Nothing To Write About

Lately, I've been going through a dry spell with my writing, which is not uncommon to many writers.  “Writer’s block” is the most often-used term, and I've got it bad.  My two works-in-progress are not inspiring me, and I am struggling to come up with posts to put on this blog.  Then, this morning, it came to me.  Why not write about having nothing to write about?

Contrary to what it may appear, I don’t just dash off whatever is in my head and post it to Wicked Awesomology.  Some bloggers treat their blogs almost like a web-based diary that the public is invited to read.  Not me though.  I treat mine like a regular column that I would contribute to a newspaper or magazine.  As such, I have to strike a balance in my posts between things I want to write about and things viewers will want to read.

That awareness of audience tends to be what stymies me the most.  Back when I was teaching, I constantly stressed to my student the importance of keeping your audience at the forefront when you compose a piece of writing.  I've seen 10 year-old-boys put together ten page stories about Pokemon characters that make complete and perfect sense to them, but without background information would make virtually no sense to most other people, not to mention be of limited interest to anyone but themselves.  When choosing a topic about which to write for this blog, there are certain things I try to avoid.

Complaining:  Writing can be cathartic, and there is a great temptation to sit down and rip something a new one just to get it off my chest.  And while it may feel good to put together a piece like that, I believe that readers will only put up with it from time to time.  After all, with all the whiners in the world as it is, who wants to sit down and read more whining for entertainment?

Repetition: There is such a thing as taking a good idea and beating it to death.  I've seen the statistics on viewership of my various blog posts, and noted what type of articles has garnered the most viewers.  In general, it has been my nostalgia pieces about my childhood and teenage years.  Those posts are fun to write, and serve a personal purpose for me in preserving my memories, but are not the kind of thing I would want to write and readers would want to read every single week.  The same applies to posts about my cats and my hillbilly neighbors.  While they provide ample fodder, you can have too much of a good thing in this format.

Sports: I am a huge sports fan, but only post about them on rare occasion.  Wicked Awesomology is not a sports blog, and many of my readers are not that into sports.  Those who are may not be into the particular teams, events, or athletes that I am.  As such, there is a risk of a sports post being a complete wash for a sizable segment of my readership.  That doesn't mean I won’t write about sports.  It merely means that I am choosy about the topic.   For those readers who do not care for the Boston Red Sox, be thankful for this.

Controversy: Some people write to be provocative.  I am not one of those people.  The purpose of this blog is to entertain and also to give me a forum for flexing my writing muscles.  I stick to that focus for a simple reason: In order to attract and maintain regular readers, I need to be providing a somewhat consistent product.  Going from a gently humorous reflection on an adventure I had with my grandparents as a child in one week’s posting to a screed on the gun control debate in the next is too wild of a swing for most readers, I feel.  Of course I have plenty of personal opinions about politics and current events, and sometimes share them in person and on my Twitter account.  Only rarely will I post about politics or controversial current events on this blog, and then I will choose my words carefully so as to state my case clearly while remaining respectful of those who do not agree.  That, of course, is a lot like work, so I usually avoid those topics.

Forced humor: One thread that runs through almost every post here is humor.  I don’t set out to be humorous when I write here, but my sense of humor permeates almost every interaction I have, so it comes through.  My posts are not too different from my personal conversations in that regard.  That said, there are some times and topics that just do not lend themselves to laugh out loud comments, so I either avoid writing about the subject altogether, or give it a straight treatment.  Trying to be funny when something just isn't a funny concept is a recipe for disaster.  A related issue is sarcasm.  I’ll be the first to admit to being a sarcastic wiseass, but that rarely comes across as I would like in my writing, so I have to put the brakes on sarcasm much of the time.

These self-imposed restrictions sometimes get in the way of finding a topic for a blog post, but they help maintain the quality of my posts, so they are not a bad thing.  I’d rather post nothing than post garbage.  I've had some ideas for posts lately, to be sure, but they've often fallen into the “complaining”, “controversy” or “repetition” categories, so I've nixed putting them on here.  

So there you have it: an entire post wherein I wrote about not knowing about what to write.  I've dealt with writer’s block before, and it never lasts, for me or for anyone.   The idea fairy will come for a visit soon enough and Wicked Awesomology will get back to my version of normal.  If she doesn't come soon though, I may have to resort to a slew of crazy cat stories.

Sunday Services, By The Numbers

I make an effort to go to Mass at my local Catholic Church every week.  For me, it’s two parts faith, one part belonging to a (more or less) like-minded group, and one part habit.  I've gone almost every weekend for my entire life, so it’s pretty ingrained   Oh sure, I am more on board with some tenets of the faith than others, and you can call me a “Cafeteria Catholic” if you want, but I suspect everyone in those pews is the same way to one extent or another.  That’s a topic for another day.

Source

Try as I might, I cannot help my mind from wandering during Mass most Sundays.  It’s always been that way for me.  Serving as an altar boy for five years in my youth was helpful, as it kept me occupied (and under scrutiny being up in front of the congregation the whole time).  A short attention span is a cross I've borne for as long as I can remember.

This particular week, I thought I would share some of the highlights I observed during this week’s Mass, by the numbers.

5—The number of hymns sung during the course of the service.

2—The number of hymns I recognized.

12—The number of times the chorus to the Van Halen song “Jamie’s Crying” drifted through my head for no apparent reason whatsoever.

7—The number of cough drops the sniffling lady sitting behind me consumed within the space of the hour.

5—The number of minutes it took for my heart to start beating again after the PA system unexpectedly screeched.

1—The number of teenage girls wearing pants with the word “pink” bedazzled across the backside.

3—The number of mistakes the lector made during the course of a 300 word scripture reading.

9—The number of children who had to make a trip to the bathroom during Mass, despite the fact that any of them could probably sit through an all-day Spongebob Squarepants marathon without leaving the room.

15—The number of minutes that the sermon lasted.

200—The number of minutes it seemed like the sermon lasted.

2—The number of used, rumpled  tissues I found stuffed behind the hymnal when I pulled it out.

10—The rating, on a 1 to 10 scale, of how disgusted I was by the prior statistic.

1—The number of crossword puzzle clues I worked out in my head during the service. (#38 Down- 1968 offensive, three letters)

14—The number of times the toddler in front of me dropped something on the floor for his mother to pick up.

4—The number of times my stomach growled during the Mass.

4—The number of times I regretted skipping breakfast before Mass.

3—The number of cellphones that went off before or during the course of the service.

1—Number of blog posts I got out of going to Mass today (so far).

I Need My Space

I’m the kind of guy who likes to stretch out.  At a full six feet tall and just shy of 200 pounds, I need some room just to be, much less to move.  I don’t think claustrophobia is the best term to accurately describe this need I have for some real estate around me, but whatever I am feeling would definitely be in the same ballpark. 

The veterinary clinic where I am employed is a small building with several people of varying sizes and personalities, and a lot of “stuff”. We are always bumping into each other and tripping over things.   As much as I enjoy my work and the people with whom I do it, there are some days when I am vaguely irritated for seemingly no reason.  It never manifests itself outwardly or affects my work in any way, but it is just enough to tip my attitude from viewing the glass as half-full to one of seeing it as half-empty.  The other day, it occurred to me that there might be a connection between this hard-to-pin-down occasional irritation of mine and the times when things at work are particularly crowded or cluttered.  Hence the inspiration for this post.

Life feels a lot like this sometimes. (Source)

Like many things, it probably has roots in my childhood.  Growing up as I did in a small town, everyone seemed to know everyone else, and it was hard to avoid anyone, even if you tried.  I was raised in a small house by my parents, with three siblings and one busy bathroom.  I attended a small parochial school, but was part of an unusually large class, so we were packed tightly in the classroom from first through eighth grade.  It was much the same in high school, where no class since has had the numbers of my graduating class.  My first job was at a radio station that was in a facility the size of a shoe box.  Room to maneuver always seemed to be a tough thing to come by in my youth.

Then, as now, I always sought out some wiggle room.  I used to love to spend days at my grandparents’ place in the country as a child, and often visited my other grandmother in town since she lived alone in a large house.  Sure, I genuinely enjoyed their company, but I also liked to be able to stretch out a little.  My best friends as a child were usually kindred spirits who also liked to roam.  The gang of kids I ran with back then was not made up of the types who would hole up reading comic books or watching TV in the living room all day.  We liked to get out there and explore the world in which we had been placed just as much as we reasonably could.  There were paths to follow, streams to wade, rocks to climb, and roads to take.  I had numerous bicycles shot out from under me due to heavy use in those days.  My first car as a teenager was one of the largest on the road, a 1972 Chevy Caprice with lots of leg room for the $575 I paid for it.  Of course it cost over $25 to fill the tank, and that was when gas was well under a dollar a gallon, so it was not all good.  Plus it inexplicably smelt of cherries.  But I digress.

To this day, I still enjoy getting out for walks in the woods or going for rides on my bike or in my car on back roads.  Backwoods camping is one of my favorite warm weather hobbies.  I’ll freely admit that I have been out walking in an open field on a summer day with no one around and just flopped down on the grass, spreading out my arms and legs and just taking in the vastness of it all.  Then ants would start crawling on me, and the reverie would end very abruptly.  I have also done this while out snowshoeing in the winter too, but never for very long, since I don’t know exactly how I would explain the frostbite on my rear end to the emergency room staff. 

As much as I love sports and music, the idea of going to a crowded concert or stadium or hanging out in a packed club does not at all appeal to me.  I will do it, but it had better be a musical act or sports team that I am extremely fond of if I am going to subject myself to such close quarters.  We’re talking on the level of a reunion of the Beatles or the 1992 USA Basketball Dream Team here.  I attend a church that has lots of room, though purely through coincidence and not by choice, and it suits me very well.  Not so much on Christmas Eve though, when it is shoulder-to-shoulder in the church and I am usually ready to turn myself inside-out by the time the service is over.

Get-togethers with my family can be a wonderful thing, but if we are all packed inside someone’s house because of inclement weather, I can only take so much.  I’ll always be the first person to volunteer to run to the store for supplies if they are needed in such a situation, though I may not be back for hours.  I find that I am closest to relatives who are smokers, even though I don’t smoke myself, since I am often outside to get some air at the same time they are outside polluting it.

Carpooling is a challenge too.  While I am all in favor of saving on gas and helping the environment, it just makes me uncomfortable to be in a crowded vehicle for more than 15 minutes or so, even if I know all the occupants very well.  I’d be happier strapped to the roof.  I would probably use buses or subways if I lived in a large city though.  For brief periods, about the length of time between stops, I can tolerate close quarters, especially if it means I don’t have to look for an empty parking place or shell out money for a parking garage.

Please don’t think that it is an antisocial thing on my part, because I really do love people.  Some of my best friends are people.  However, too many too close to me for too long, no matter whom they are, make me edgy. 

Now, would you mind taking a few steps over there?  Thanks.

Contents of My Head: Erranding Edition

Monday, being my day off from work each week, is the day I get stuff done.  You know: errands, appointments, and that sort of thing.  This past Monday, I made a trip to the city of Bangor to accomplish some items on my to-do list, including a routine doctor’s appointment and getting a haircut, among other things.  As is my nature, my mind kept up with a running list of questions during the day.  Here are some:

• What if people with obscene bumper stickers got caught in traffic in front of the president’s limousine or a motor coach full of nuns? Would they feel awkward?

• What good does it do you to wear a surgical mask over your mouth in the doctor’s waiting room, but not over your nose?

• Could this nurse who is squeezing this blood pressure cuff so damn tight actually beat me up if she wanted to?

• Why is the office staff so shocked when I volunteer to pay my insurance co-pay before my appointment?

• What awful things can be done to people who park in such a way as to take up two spaces?

• At what age does one stop receiving a reward sticker after having behaved well while getting one’s blood drawn?

• Do they secretly keep all the hair swept up off the floor at the hair cutting place and use it to make yarn or something?

• How gross would that be?

• How awful must it be to have a job where you are poking around strange people’s heads all day?

• When, exactly, was the “oversized t-shirt and stretch pants look” a powerful fashion statement?

• Does this lady cutting my hair appreciate that I chewed on an entire roll of wintergreen Certs just prior to my haircut, since I did eat a cheeseburger with onions for lunch?

• Is the hair-cutting lady trying to come up with a tactful way to recommend “Just for Men” hair dye to me?

• Why aren’t these kids in school?

• How brave does a guy have to be to let a stranger shave his face with a razor?

• Why is it that do they not let you see the menu items at the drive-thru until you are right in front of the speaker?

• How come the one thing I am looking for at the electronics store is seemingly the one thing that they do not happen to have in stock?

• Can I get this cheaper online?

• Why are those Christmas decorations still up?

• How come there are always several people standing directly in front of an item that I need to get?

• Why are some people apparently opposed to the use of soap?

• Or deodorant?

• Seriously, why aren’t these kids in school?

• Shouldn’t there be a law about people wearing shorts when the temperature is below freezing?

• How am I supposed to know in which lane to drive if the paint is worn off the road and there is no sign?

• Why do I never, ever, ever have the correct change on hand?

• If the cellphone in my pocket rings while I am pumping gas into my car, will there be an explosion?

• How long can germs live on a gas pump handle?

• What is the proper etiquette when standing beside someone at a urinal and one’s cellphone rings “midstream”?

• Does it do any good to use a hand sanitizer dispenser when you then have to touch the germy doorknob in order to get out of the room where it is located?

• Will I ever get used to people who seem to be talking to themselves but actually are carrying on a phone conversation through an earpiece?

• WHY AREN’T THESE DAMN KIDS IN SCHOOL?

"Phased" Out: A Post of Music and Me

I am a pretty consistent person in most aspects of my life.  Routine and structure are comforting to me.  On work days, I always wake up at 6:00, while on non-work days, it’s 7:30.  I have cold cereal for breakfast every day of the week except Sunday mornings, when I get all crazy and make French toast or waffles.  Every morning, it’s two cups of coffee for me, no more, no less.  Whenever I log onto the Internet, the first thing I do is check my e-mail, just like clockwork.  My days for serious writing are Saturday through Wednesday.  I fuel my car at the same service station in town, usually at the same pump, and often on the same day of the week.  Before falling asleep at night, I have to read something, at least for a few minutes, no matter how tired.  I've awakened more than once with drool on my Kindle.

None of these routines are set in stone, of course.  This is not obsessive-compulsive disorder.  I won’t sit behind the wheel and wait for pump #5 at the Shell station to come open if another one is available, for example.  (Well, I won’t wait for long.)  And if I am on a serious roll because the idea fairy has bludgeoned me over the head with inspiration, I will write on a Thursday or Friday.  But still, I have my preferences and try to stick to them.

One area of my life where routine and structure do not apply is in my musical taste.  With music, I go through phases, especially over the past couple of years.

I have been a huge fan of music ever since I can remember.  While I have always gravitated most strongly toward rock and pop, I've dabbled in country, jazz, and even classical to an extent.  Over the years, I've amassed quite a bit of musical knowledge and a decent-sized music collection as well.  Some people I know lament the absence of a physical product in today’s MP3 music files, but if I had to have a CD in the house for all the music I have these days, I’d be forced to live in my car and producers of that Hoarders reality TV show would be knocking at my door.  I collect music in the same way that other people collect Elvis memorabilia or paintings of kittens with big sad eyes, only less creepy. Much less creepy.

Source where you can buy this if you are so inclined. I'd have to cover it at night or whenever I ate if it were in my house.

Having so much music from which to choose and ridiculously easy access to it, I find that I have evolved into a tendency to go through phases, much like young kids often do with superheroes, dinosaurs or TV characters.  You parents who had to endure their toddler’s “Barney phase” know what I am talking about.  Some of you still have that nervous twitch you developed during that period.

The phases are kind of interesting.  I’m sure a psychologist could write a heck of a paper on them after a bit of analysis.  They began about five years ago.  Some might say I went over to the dark side then, when I got into modern country music for much of 2008-2009.  Kenny Chesney and Keith Urban were particular favorites.  Maybe it was a country with a “K” phase?  However, much like Darth Vader at the end of Return of the Jedi, I came back to the good side of the Force (rock music), and spent much of 2010 alternating between Stone Temple Pilots and the Eagles.  2011 was when I went through phases with the Foo Fighters, George Harrison, The Cars, and anything “unplugged” (a.k.a.-acoustic). 

At this time last year, I was musically reliving my twenties with lots of 1990s alternative and grunge, which narrowed itself to almost nothing other than Pearl Jam by spring.  In early summer, I had moved on to Nirvana, and that was followed by a kick for 1980s rock and pop, which is the stuff I listened to the most in my teens and is the bedrock of my music collection.  Fall brought on a mini-obsession with ZZ Top, followed by the Rolling Stones, and right now I cannot get enough of Led Zeppelin.  I wouldn’t be surprised if another Beatles jag was looming on my musical horizon too, since I often develop an intense interest in some aspect of their work every year or two around this time.

Looking at it now, the current trend seems to be one of going back further and further in time.  If the pattern continues, I’ll likely be rocking out to Thomas Edison’s wax cylinder recording of “Mary Had A Little Lamb” by the middle of 2014.

Even after a phase passes, I do not throw the artist on the trash heap.  I still listen to them, just not as intensely.  While Pearl Jam was last spring’s phase, I still click on Vitalogy or Ten from time to time.  Neither do I listen to the object of my current obsession exclusively during a phase, though they do tend to dominate.  In spite of my current Led Zeppelin phase, I just finished listening to an album by Fitz & the Tantrums, a current band specializing in retro-Philly soul style stuff.  (They are really good, by the way.  The link is to their album on Amazon. Highly recommended!)

I've discussed this tendency toward phases in my musical taste with some fellow music lovers of my generation, and they've noticed much the same in themselves.  In our conversations, we've all reached the same general conclusion: Since most of today’s music isn't really directed toward our demographic, we are mining the music of the past in hopes of unearthing some new nuggets that will set us on fire like music did when we were younger and “in the mainstream”.  It is one thing to listen to the Rolling Stones’ greatest hits over the years, but quite another to explore the contents of an entire album from earlier in their career that you've never heard, as I did with Let It Bleed last month.

On a wider scale, it gives those of us who are moving into middle age the hope that, while maybe there is nothing (or precious little) that is new under the sun these days, there are plenty of things, in music and in life, that have been around a while but that we just haven’t discovered yet.

The Thanksgiving Post

Image from doyouremember.com

Thanksgiving is coming up later this week in the United States.  It’s a holiday I really like, not only because of my fondness for food and football, but also for the sentiment behind it: giving thanks.  Most of us in western society live in a world that our ancestors of less than 100 years ago would be astounded to see.  When I was young, my grandparents often told me of the awe they felt upon getting electricity in their homes for the first time, and the thrills of their first car, telephone, and television.  The jobs people had when they were young were harder and a lot more dangerous than most today, and things we do now in the spur of the moment, like a trip to get groceries, was a weekly event that was carefully planned for and highly anticipated.  When you stop and think, we really do have a lot for which to be thankful.

For many bloggers, there is great temptation at this time of year to write the stereotypical “what I am thankful for” post, sort of the grownup version of those essays we used to have to write in grade school.  I’m going to do that, kind of, but instead of highlighting that for which I am obviously thankful (freedom, family, friends, faith, employment, health), I am going to turn my attention to some less-heralded things that make my life just a bit nicer.

I am grateful for all-wheel drive vehicles.  Although I have driven in Maine winters for 27 years, I am only in my second winter with all-wheel drive.  I never knew what I was missing.  How great is it not to get stuck in a four-inch pile of slush at the end of the driveway?  Last winter was a cold one here in northern Maine, but not especially snowy.  We had a number of small storms of a few inches, but no blockbusters, and frankly, I was a little disappointed. I never really got a good chance to give my all-wheel drive a real test in deep snow on the ski slope I call a driveway.  It was during a storm the winter before last, when it took me 17 tries to get my two-wheel drive car up the driveway, that I decided it was finally time to upgrade to something more snow-worthy than an Oldsmobile.

Everyone who lives with even a little bit of snow should have all-wheel drive.  I bet I could park on my garage roof with my all-wheel drive if I wanted to, though it would probably be best if I didn’t try to actually do that.  Upon mentioning this notion, some of my friends have suggested that I may have been a tank driver in a previous life.  Or dropped on my head as a baby.  Or both.

I am thankful for Christmas lights that do not cause the entire set to go out just because one stinking bulb does.  The inventor of those instruments of torture should be charged with crimes against humanity.

Typically, I light up a spruce tree in my yard each December.  The trouble is, it’s tall and on a steep slope, which makes it about as easy to string lights on as Mount Everest, only pricklier and stickier. In the past, I have spent hours risking life, limb and stickiness draping “net-style” lights over it, and no matter how many times I check, there are always a few that end up burning out after placement, leaving a gaping black hole in the middle. I just can’t leave it like that, and thus the battle begins, and continues through the rest of December.

In addition to going completely dark at random, the net lights also require the patience of Job to untangle, and are impossibly complicated to put up while stretched out, balanced on one foot on the top rung of a ladder in the back of a pickup on the side of a hill.

None of that this year!

Those crappy net lights are history!  They’ve been replaced by LED lights on a reel, which will go up more easily and stay lit even if tornadoes carry the tree into the next county.  Well, maybe not, but they are really sturdy lights.  My wallet is lighter, but so too is my heart. 

2012 was the year I stepped up to high-definition television, and sports will never be the same.  For this I am thankful.  One complaint I always used to have about TV sports is that it can be hard to clearly see who is who and where the ball/puck/shuttlecock/golden snitch/whatever is at any given time.  In the past, for example, a play in a football game can be over before I can even figure out where the ball is.  And hockey?  I gave up watching a long time ago, since the puck is so hard to see.  One network did try an experiment with an electronic puck that left a virtual “tail” on the TV screen during the game, but apparently I was the only person on Earth who liked it.  Now that I have hi-def TV, it has all changed.  I can see everything clearly at just a glance.  The London Olympics were especially impressive in hi-def.

It’s not all great, mind you.  The downside of hi-def sports is that you can also see whatever bodily fluids are oozing out of the participants, whether it is sweat, slobber, or blood, in nauseating crystal-clarity.  And it is  also rather sobering to see every gray hair, wrinkle, and pot-belly on retired athlete-commentators. I hate to say it, but many of them might be better suited for radio than hi-def TV these days.  Of course, so would I, truth be told.

I am thankful for great new music from great old artists.  This year has seen a number of AARP-eligible musical acts with new albums. (Is the term “albums” even a thing these days?)  Coming as they do in the face of so many musical acts that are nothing more than corporate inventions enhanced by recording studio technology, it is nice that these old war horses are not only still putting out music, but putting out really good music that is selling pretty well.

I’ll toss a few examples out for you: ZZ Top’s La Futura is one of the best overall rock albums I’ve heard in a long time, and their best in years.  Bonnie Raitt released Slipstream, a new collection of her signature blues rock that sounds as fresh as anything she’s ever done.  Bruce Springsteen hasn’t lost a step with his Wrecking Ball album, full of socially-conscious and catchy rock tinged with folk.  And Rick Springfield, yes the “Jessie’s Girl” guy, has just released Songs for the End of the World, a terrific, solid rock album that sounds like it was influenced by some work Rick recently did with the Foo Fighters.  Paul McCartney, Heart, Rush and Van Halen also had attention-getting new releases in 2012 that are worth your attention.

All of the acts I’ve mentioned are well into their 50s and 60s, and they still sound great.  I can only hope that I am as on top of my game at that age.

And finally, I am thankful for the online writing community of which I have become a part.  There are not a lot of like-minded writers near where I live.  Heck, there’s not a lot of anything near where I live, except maybe trees.  And moose.  I know a few, but connecting regularly in person is a challenge with schedules and distance being what they are.  Fortunately, Twitter, Goodreads, Writers Digest and this silly blog have helped me make connections with hundreds of talented writers from all over the world.  Some are old enough to be my parents, some are young enough to be my kids.  Some are published, some are trying to be, and some just write for themselves.  Some are famous, while others have never shared their writing with another soul.  For some it’s a career, for others a hobby, and for others, therapy.  They range from poets to naturalists, and from horror masters to technical writers specializing in physics.  It is gratifying to hear that my writing struggles and theirs are so alike, in spite of our diversity.  And it is great to be able to give and get support for our various writing projects.  Regardless of specific content, the writing process is mostly the same for a lot of us.  We also share our successes and our predicaments, we laugh and sometimes shed a tear together, and generally help keep each other inspired.  It’s been great, and I look forward to “meeting” even more of you.

Enjoy your family and your turkey (though not in the same way!).  Enjoy your football games and your holiday parades.  Enjoy your Black Friday shopping (yuck!) and your pumpkin pie.  If you are outside of the United States, well, enjoy your Thursday.  Whether it is officially Thanksgiving where you are living right now, take some time to step back and look at all the things, both big and little, that you can be thankful for right now. No matter who you are, I think you will find that are an awful lot if you take the time to ponder them.

The Rutabaga Dispensing Machine

Indulge me for a few moments.

As I walk out through the lobby of my apartment building one Wednesday morning, I catch something out of the corner of my eye.  In a once-empty corner, with tasteful potted plants on either side, is a newly-installed vending machine.  It’s a Rutabaga Dispensing Machine.

Now I do not eat rutabagas myself.  In my formative years, my family did not grow or eat rutabagas, so they are not really in my culinary repertoire and never have been.  I don’t care for the taste of them, and they give me gas.  So, most likely, I will not be ironing out dollar bills to slide into the slot for rutabagas any time soon.  Several other people in my building whom I consider friends DO like rutabagas however.  They are vegetarians.  Surely, this machine will be a boon for them and their cooking habits.

As for me, the Rutabaga Dispensing Machine is just there.  It is not in my way.  It is not gaudy or ugly.  It does not replace the lobby’s French Fry Dispensing Machine, of which I am quite fond.  And I am by no means forced to use either one.

This little story is intended to illustrate where I’ve landed on the issue of legalizing gay marriage in Maine, which I came to support in this election cycle and which was approved by a majority of voters in the state this week.  For me, legalizing gay marriage is analogous to installing a Rutabaga Dispensing Machine in my apartment building.  As long as I am not forced to use it and it doesn’t replace my French Fry Dispensing Machine, then I am fine with it.  It just adds to the freedoms available to Americans who choose to exercise them, without taking freedoms away from anyone else.

I suppose the analogy could be extended to other freedoms we have the option to exercise in this country if we choose: the freedom to choose our leaders, to bear arms, to voice our opinions, to listen to Carpenters albums, etc.  We are not required to do any of those things (most thankfully in the lattermost case), but we are not restricted from them either.

Freedom is just a part of what’s cool about this country of ours.  Never take it for granted.

Hillbillies, Cats, and a Ruined Breakfast

My hillbilly neighbors are responsible for ruining my breakfast and starting my day in exactly the wrong way.   I have indisputable proof.

Earlier this year, the house next door to mine was rented by a family of hillbillies.

Because they are the kind of hillbilly who pays little to no attention to the condition of their home and grounds, …well, they pay little to no attention to the condition of their home and grounds .

Because they pay little or no attention to the condition of their home and grounds, they have not mowed their lawn, which is just outside my kitchen window, since July.

Because they have not mowed their lawn since July, the grass and weeds are at least two feet high.

Because the grass and weeds are at least two feet high, a number of rodents such as mice and squirrels have found it a pleasant place to hang out.

Because a number of rodents such as mice and squirrels have found it a pleasant place to hang out, the neighborhood stray cats have found it a pleasant place to hunt.

Because the neighborhood stray cats have found it a pleasant place to hunt, my three cats, all of whom are exclusively inside pets, are constantly irritated by the strays so close to their house.

Because my three cats, all of whom are exclusively inside pets, are constantly irritated by the strays so close to their house, they jump up on the windowsills, like the one next to the kitchen table, in order to monitor and threaten the nearby intruders.

Because they jump up on the windowsills, like the one next to the kitchen table, in order to monitor and threaten the nearby intruders, they eventually have to jump down in order to resume other annoying activities around the house.

Because they eventually have to jump down in order to resume other annoying activities around the house, they sometimes use the kitchen table as a step toward the floor.

And because they sometimes use the kitchen table as a step toward the floor, they can land with two of their four feet right in my just-poured bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats with skim milk, thus making a mess of epic proportions, ruining my breakfast, soaking my newspaper, and generally starting my day in exactly the wrong way.

Damn hillbillies.

Damn cats.

Somebody find me a mop.

After such an exhausting undertaking, a nap in a basket of clean laundry waiting to be folded was subsequently taken.