Writing is like exercise. The more you do it, the easier it gets. It's a habit, and like all habits (good ones, anyways) if you get off your regular schedule, it gets tougher and tougher to start up again. I'd love to say that I had just been too busy to post over the last couple of weeks, but that isn't true. The truth is, I have been suffering from a big, nasty, scary case of writer's block.
I let it go the first week, thinking something would come to me. Nothing did. When week 2 came around and I was still worried about a decent topic I would be willing to self-immolate over, I still had nothing. All week long I have been sweating it because I still had nothing, and the WORST thing I could do is not have a post this week.
Stay in the habit, Kelly.
Pretty much everything I do has to be the hard way, though. So the more I searched for a good topic, the worse my block got. I was really stretching for something. Every day this week I have spent at least 20 minutes typing and erasing drafts. The auto-save feature captured some of them for me, and they are...Bad. Really bad. Like "stick a needle in my eye" bad. And you all know that I am probably the only person you are acquainted with who is qualified to make that statement with truth and accuracy.
Suddenly I was thinking about self-immolation and sticking needles into eyes, and other painful experiences, and I was inspired! Bolt-of-lightning-straight-from-heaven inspired.
I haven't explained my fascination with the Chicago Cubs.
(I'll pause for laughter...I'm waiting....)
I am not one of these Kris Bryant adoring, Kyle Schwarber worshiping Johnny-Come-Latelys. I am a long term, emotionally train wrecked Die Hard of the first order. I have paid my dues.
Check my Facebook. Ask my old friends. I have been a Cubs fan all my life.
When I was still in elementary school, my parents signed us up for this incredible invention called "cable TV". It had a bazillion channels, and the best part was, it came with a remote control so my days of getting up to change the station between NFL games on Sunday was over. One of the networks was called MTV, which stood for Music TV and they showed nothing but music videos. Weird, I know. Mom wisely put a block on that one. One of them had only sports programs 24 hours a day and it was called the Celestial Kingd...er...ESPN. But of all those channels, the one that got tuned into the most was WGN in Chicago.
When we were home from school during the summer, the first thing that came on in the morning was the Bozo the Clown show on WGN. Despite what my younger readers may think, this was NOT a predecessor to CNN coverage of politics. This was back in the day when clowns were neither politicians, nor scary.
I know it is tough to believe, but Bozo the Clown was HILARIOUS. He had his buddy Cookie the Clown and he hit him in the face with pies, and told awesome terrible jokes, drove tiny cars.. it was great. The best part was at the end of every show when they played Bozo's "Grand. Prize. Game." (You had to pause between each word when you said it to let the awesomeness sink in).
The gist of it was they would pick one kid from the studio audience to come down and toss pingpong balls into buckets that got progressively farther away. The further the bucket, the better the prize. It escalated from a coupon for free ice cream all the way up to ....wait for it....A BICYCLE!!!! A 10 speed bike, no less.
There was none of this, "every kid is a winner" BS either. If the klutzy kid they called down missed the first bucket, he went home with a case of mortified embarrassment and not one damn thing else.
As kids, we would get irritated with the contestants that couldn't get to at least the third bucket. What kind of dweeb couldnt drop a pingpong ball three feet away? We would take a golf ball and my mom's mop bucket out to the driveway and practice in the hopes that one day, we might happen to be in the neighborhood of Chicago and get a shot at Bozo's Grand. Prize. Game.
Now none of us kids had the faintest idea of just how far away Chicago was. We never considered the fact we had as much chance of going to the moon as we did the Bozo show. But if it happened you could be sure none of the Kelly kids would shame their heritage with naught but a two bucket win.
Bicycle or bust, baby.
But even if we had known that we would never be in Chicago, there was still hope! You see, before the start of every Grand. Prize. Game. Cookie the clown would go over to a big drum full of names and pull out the name of a kid watching somewhere in the U.S. on TV. That kid won whatever the kid playing the game won. Every day, we kids would watch; hoping, praying, that Cookie the clown would pull our names. It seems hilarious now, but we were all sure our chances were getting better and better every time someone else's name came out of the drum.
I swear to you by all that is holy, not one time, not for one single second did it occur to me that none of us had bothered to send our names in to WGN to get put in the drum. I mean, hell. Bozo knew we were watching, right? Surely he had dropped us into the drum as a reward for our loyal viewership.
I miss being a kid. Honestly. ALMOST as much as I miss the Bozo show.
Anyway, once Bozo got done handing out shaving cream pies to the face and bicycles to the kids, we had an hour or two to kill before Harry Caray and Steve Stone came on from Wrigley field to broadcast the beloved Cubbies.
To be fair, TBS in Atlanta broadcast the Braves every day, too. But they were owned by Ted Turner and as my Dad accurately told us, "Ted Turner is a jerk."
Even BYU hero and league MVP Dale Murphy was not enough to swing us to the Braves.
Cubs or nothing. Always was, always will be.
We would watch until the 7th inning stretch, when Harry led us in a rousing, off key, out of tune rendition of "take me out to the ballgame" where we would "root, root, root for the cuuuubbbbies"
On the frequent occasions we were behind,at the finish of the song, we would all shout in unison with Harry for the team to "go get some runs!"
It was then my job to call my Dad at work, (his office was less than a mile from our house) and tell him it was time to come home for lunch. He would come watch the last 2 innings with us before going back to work. I spent nearly every summer day watching the Cubs, win or lose, rain or shine with my brothers, sisters, my Mom and Dad and good old Harry who was too drunk to drive, but not to broadcast.
It might be, it could be, it is! Holy Cow! and Cubs win, Cubs win, Cubs win!
Will Ferrell is funny, but he'll never do it justice.
Wrigley and it's bleachers are sacred ground. And no matter what Nena says, there's a reason my youngest is named Ivy.
Ryne Sandburg, Mark Grace (traitor!!!), Shawn Dunston, Jody Davis, Rick Sutcliff, Greg Maddox, Keith Moreland, and my personal favorite Andre the Hawk Dawson. We watched all of em. We even put up with long past-their-prime-retreads like Ron Cey and Goose Gossage.
You all remember Bill Buckner? I remember when he was a Cub. And 2 full years before he busted Boston, I watched Leon Durham out Buckner Bill Buckner. Game 5, up by one, grounder goes right through the old Five Hole, and it was so long, 1984 World Series. Tony Gwyn, Gary Templeton, Alan Wiggins...you and the Padres still suck.
I remember walking home from school as a freshman, listening to the Cubs play the Giants in the 1989 NLCS. Will Clark turns into Clark freaking Kent, and once again, we were sucking eggs. Giants...you suck, too.
I still can't talk about Steroid Sosa and that whole crummy era. I mean we had a juiced up slugger, Mark Prior AND Kerry Wood and still can't win. How come? Steve Bleeping Bartman, that's why. Never forget, never forgive. Jerk.
71 years since our last World Series. Nearly one and a quarter centuries since our last title. You'll pardon me if I show something of a cynical streak when it comes to my team. All that is left of my soul is scar tissue.
My brother in law (who is an ok dude, even if he is a Damn Dodger fan) says that every Cub fan has 5 little words they must memorize and recite. Say it 5 times with a different emphasis on each word, and it has five slightly different meanings. It's a Cubbies Catechism, if you will.
THEY will break your heart.
They WILL break your heart.
They will BREAK your heart.
They will break YOUR heart.
They will break your HEART!!!
As for me, the Cubs are why I believe in a diety. There is a God. He does care about sports. And He HATES the Chicago Cubs. There is no other explanation.
On the day that each of my sons were born, I waited until their mother fell asleep. I picked them up, snuggled them to my shoulder, and whispered an apology. "I'm sorry, my son", I said. "I have brought you in to this world and intend to turn you into a Cubs fan. This means that you will likely never see them win anything in your whole lifetime, and no child should come into this world with that kind of bad Juju hanging over them. But bear with me, my boy. Because if they ever overcome the ghost of Leon Durham, Will Clark, the goat, the dirt birds in St. Louis, Bleeping Bartman and Heaven everlasting itself; and we should win... we will be able to say we were there from the get go."
So should we reach the promised land this year, then Glory, Hallelujah! The Cubs finally got their names pulled by Cookie the clown, and are playing the Grand. Prize. Game. and I am playing along at home.
Don't be that dweeb who only gets to the second bucket, Chicago. Bicycle or bust, baby! At least we have a better chance than I ever did of getting on the Bozo show.
But should you blow it, just know that I will still be watching next year and wondering when you are going to start slinging pies.
Hey! Holy Cow! Looks like I'm over my writer's block! One more reason to say, Go, Cubs, go!
Thursday, October 27, 2016
Friday, October 7, 2016
I'm Your Little Ebola Monkey, or Why the Cubs aren't the Only Things Making Me Sick
Well, this ought to get interesting. It's been a long week and today, instead of spending the day at work and then cranking out a post at my desk, I have been working the phones from home for reasons that will become aparent shortly. So I am trying to see if it is feasible to put out a post from my tablet. It takes a little getting used to, but I think it may work. I'm guessing I will have to edit sharply to avoid auto correct entertainment.
Since it is October, how about a horror story?
Last week, I mentioned that toddlers are the most destructive creatures in the universe. This week, I have proof. Maggie, my eldest daughter, has recently been employed at a day care facility. She didn't realize how much on the job training her mother and I had given her in preparation for this new gig. Being the oldest in a big family teaches you more than everything you ever wanted to know about the care and upkeep of small children.
Dirty diapers...meh. Screaming babies...been there, done that. Maggie is a natural, and dang good at her job, She is also thrilled she has found someone that will actually pay her to do what Nena and I have expected of her since she was about 12.
How is that a horror story? I hear you ask. We are getting there.
You may rightly assume that finding a job that pays you to do what you have always done is a dream. But as the fortune cookie oft notes, "be careful what you wish for". And the unintended "benefit" of working with so many runts is that you become little more than a carrier monkey. My daughter shall henceforth be known as Typhoid Maggie.
My new nickname for the daycare is the CDC. As in the "Connection for Disease and Contagion". Everything those destroying angels come down with winds up coming home with Typhoid Maggie. Colds, flu, Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, shingles, dengue fever, Malaria, whooping cough, measles, mumps AND rubella....pretty much everything this side of mad cow disease. And on Saturday, Maggie brought them all home at once to share.
Saturday, she started saying she wasn't feeling well and by Sunday afternoon, she was a veritable expert in the fine art of the technicolor yawn. Naturally, I felt horrible for her. But it was football.....err...conference sunday, and I felt fine. BYU won, the Broncos won, and the Cubbies had not yet revealed how they are going to break my heart THIS year. Oh, and I did get a spiritual boost from LDS general conference.
By Monday, It. Was. On.
Maren got all barfy and passed the morning acting like she had spent the night before on the corner seat at the wooden leg saloon. She said her head hurt, and her stomach hurt and bluphhhrrghh... off she ran to the bathroom, hands over her mouth and her cheeks puffing out like a squirrel in September. She was feverish and miserable, but I went to work. She stayed home from school, and by the time I got home Monday night, she was turning fitfully in her room.
See, the nice thing about when bigger kids get sick is that they generally have a good idea of when it is time to bow down at the foot of the porcelain idol, and for the most part, should they miss, they clean up after themselves. Maggie and Moe could be as sick as they wanted, Not. My. Problem.
Tuesday morning, she managed to exit the crypt and got to school in time to compete with the band out at Bingham high. I admit, passing over those haunted, hated environs was enough to make ME want to puke. (All West Jordan wrestlers have an instinctive hatred of Bingham.)
Maren still looked a little pale and ghostly, but she mumbled something about "If I can get to act 2 the King will stab me to death and it will all be over..." and she went out and performed like a champ. Greater flu game than Michael Jordan. I'm telling you, the kid has skill.
Wednesday, She was fine. Looked like a 48 hour bug and we were all in the clear, right?
C'mon guys. You know me better than that. That wouldn't be much of a horror story at all.
Tuesday night, wee little Will came down to my bedroom with a creaky, simpering voice and mumbled "I don't feel well."
Tough nuggies, says Dad.
"Climb up here and snuggle with me", says mom.
See, Nena has one weak point, one soft spot in her mom armor. She is a sucker for sad little boys.
"If he caught Maggie's cholera/tuberculosis superbug, he is nothing but a teddy bear full of rabies" I said. "Have you even watched 'Outbreak'?"
"I'm his mom", Nena said, "and he is sad and needs to be snuggled."
"Do what you want", I said. "I'm going to sleep in the bathtub."
That turned out to be a really bad idea, as within minutes, Will was a foot and a half from my head, tossing his cookies. And dinner. And breakfast from the day before. And something that may or may not have been a cowboy boot.
"Huh. Don't remember eating that." I heard him mumble as he washed his mouth out with listerine and went back to steal my spot in the bed.
I reached up and turned on the hot water full blast without bothering to get out of my pajamas.
It didn't work.
By 6 in the a.m. on Wednesday, I was on the highway to Hell. My eyes were red, swollen and scratchy. For me, this is a bad thing. Ever since my cornea transplant, I have had an early warning indicator for when I am about to get sick.
You see, when my immune system starts ramping up to fight whatever nasty parasites Typhoid Maggie has brought home from the CDC, the first thing it does is attack my transplant; kind of like an undercard bout on the fight card. Every time my eyes start acting up, I know I am in for a crummy couple of days.
By 6:15 on Thursday I was suffering nausea, headache, coughing, watery eyes, and what they call in Chinese, "hot stomach". It was awful. To my suprise, Maggie, Maren and Will were unmoved.
"Get up, Old man. You gotta go to work." said Maggie. I downed a bottle of pink liquid and wondered if tigers got sick after they ate their young.
I went to work and got a few things done before my merciful coworkers banished me. Guess they weren't interested in sharing the fun. I came home and tried to sleep it off. I was up every 20 minutes, writhing in pain and trying to keep my pancreas from escaping through my mouth.
It is funny how much more sympathy my sweet, sad little Ivy was able to elicit from me when she came down last night and barfed all over my bed without saying a word.
"Cmon, tiny", I said gently, carrying her pasty, limp body to the tub for a nice warm bath before shoving the soiled bedclothes in the wash. Frankly, barfing seemed like a really good idea to me, too.
"What happened to 'carrier monkeys full of famine and pestilence'?" Nena asked me.
"That was different", I said. "Now I'm the one that wants to be snuggled."
"Uh-huh." Nena stated flatly. And then she added with a note of sarcasm, "Do what you want. Go sleep in the tub."
Apparently her sympathy for pathetic boys has some limits after all. And I deserved the sarcasm.
So anyway, to recap, five sick kids in five days and enough projectile barfing to turn my house into a scene out of
"The Exorcist."
And as I type, Sean just started looking pale and making gurgling noises. Looks like we are gonna keep our 100% after all. Jeez, can't we all just get sick at once and get it over with?
Enough for now. I gotta go because the Cubs playoff game is starting in a few. And if that doesn't make me wanna be sick, nothing will.
Talk about a horror story. Ugh.
See you all next week.
Since it is October, how about a horror story?
Last week, I mentioned that toddlers are the most destructive creatures in the universe. This week, I have proof. Maggie, my eldest daughter, has recently been employed at a day care facility. She didn't realize how much on the job training her mother and I had given her in preparation for this new gig. Being the oldest in a big family teaches you more than everything you ever wanted to know about the care and upkeep of small children.
Dirty diapers...meh. Screaming babies...been there, done that. Maggie is a natural, and dang good at her job, She is also thrilled she has found someone that will actually pay her to do what Nena and I have expected of her since she was about 12.
How is that a horror story? I hear you ask. We are getting there.
You may rightly assume that finding a job that pays you to do what you have always done is a dream. But as the fortune cookie oft notes, "be careful what you wish for". And the unintended "benefit" of working with so many runts is that you become little more than a carrier monkey. My daughter shall henceforth be known as Typhoid Maggie.
My new nickname for the daycare is the CDC. As in the "Connection for Disease and Contagion". Everything those destroying angels come down with winds up coming home with Typhoid Maggie. Colds, flu, Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, shingles, dengue fever, Malaria, whooping cough, measles, mumps AND rubella....pretty much everything this side of mad cow disease. And on Saturday, Maggie brought them all home at once to share.
Saturday, she started saying she wasn't feeling well and by Sunday afternoon, she was a veritable expert in the fine art of the technicolor yawn. Naturally, I felt horrible for her. But it was football.....err...conference sunday, and I felt fine. BYU won, the Broncos won, and the Cubbies had not yet revealed how they are going to break my heart THIS year. Oh, and I did get a spiritual boost from LDS general conference.
By Monday, It. Was. On.
Maren got all barfy and passed the morning acting like she had spent the night before on the corner seat at the wooden leg saloon. She said her head hurt, and her stomach hurt and bluphhhrrghh... off she ran to the bathroom, hands over her mouth and her cheeks puffing out like a squirrel in September. She was feverish and miserable, but I went to work. She stayed home from school, and by the time I got home Monday night, she was turning fitfully in her room.
See, the nice thing about when bigger kids get sick is that they generally have a good idea of when it is time to bow down at the foot of the porcelain idol, and for the most part, should they miss, they clean up after themselves. Maggie and Moe could be as sick as they wanted, Not. My. Problem.
Tuesday morning, she managed to exit the crypt and got to school in time to compete with the band out at Bingham high. I admit, passing over those haunted, hated environs was enough to make ME want to puke. (All West Jordan wrestlers have an instinctive hatred of Bingham.)
Maren still looked a little pale and ghostly, but she mumbled something about "If I can get to act 2 the King will stab me to death and it will all be over..." and she went out and performed like a champ. Greater flu game than Michael Jordan. I'm telling you, the kid has skill.
Wednesday, She was fine. Looked like a 48 hour bug and we were all in the clear, right?
C'mon guys. You know me better than that. That wouldn't be much of a horror story at all.
Tuesday night, wee little Will came down to my bedroom with a creaky, simpering voice and mumbled "I don't feel well."
Tough nuggies, says Dad.
"Climb up here and snuggle with me", says mom.
See, Nena has one weak point, one soft spot in her mom armor. She is a sucker for sad little boys.
"If he caught Maggie's cholera/tuberculosis superbug, he is nothing but a teddy bear full of rabies" I said. "Have you even watched 'Outbreak'?"
"I'm his mom", Nena said, "and he is sad and needs to be snuggled."
"Do what you want", I said. "I'm going to sleep in the bathtub."
That turned out to be a really bad idea, as within minutes, Will was a foot and a half from my head, tossing his cookies. And dinner. And breakfast from the day before. And something that may or may not have been a cowboy boot.
"Huh. Don't remember eating that." I heard him mumble as he washed his mouth out with listerine and went back to steal my spot in the bed.
I reached up and turned on the hot water full blast without bothering to get out of my pajamas.
It didn't work.
By 6 in the a.m. on Wednesday, I was on the highway to Hell. My eyes were red, swollen and scratchy. For me, this is a bad thing. Ever since my cornea transplant, I have had an early warning indicator for when I am about to get sick.
You see, when my immune system starts ramping up to fight whatever nasty parasites Typhoid Maggie has brought home from the CDC, the first thing it does is attack my transplant; kind of like an undercard bout on the fight card. Every time my eyes start acting up, I know I am in for a crummy couple of days.
By 6:15 on Thursday I was suffering nausea, headache, coughing, watery eyes, and what they call in Chinese, "hot stomach". It was awful. To my suprise, Maggie, Maren and Will were unmoved.
"Get up, Old man. You gotta go to work." said Maggie. I downed a bottle of pink liquid and wondered if tigers got sick after they ate their young.
I went to work and got a few things done before my merciful coworkers banished me. Guess they weren't interested in sharing the fun. I came home and tried to sleep it off. I was up every 20 minutes, writhing in pain and trying to keep my pancreas from escaping through my mouth.
It is funny how much more sympathy my sweet, sad little Ivy was able to elicit from me when she came down last night and barfed all over my bed without saying a word.
"Cmon, tiny", I said gently, carrying her pasty, limp body to the tub for a nice warm bath before shoving the soiled bedclothes in the wash. Frankly, barfing seemed like a really good idea to me, too.
"What happened to 'carrier monkeys full of famine and pestilence'?" Nena asked me.
"That was different", I said. "Now I'm the one that wants to be snuggled."
"Uh-huh." Nena stated flatly. And then she added with a note of sarcasm, "Do what you want. Go sleep in the tub."
Apparently her sympathy for pathetic boys has some limits after all. And I deserved the sarcasm.
So anyway, to recap, five sick kids in five days and enough projectile barfing to turn my house into a scene out of
"The Exorcist."
And as I type, Sean just started looking pale and making gurgling noises. Looks like we are gonna keep our 100% after all. Jeez, can't we all just get sick at once and get it over with?
Enough for now. I gotta go because the Cubs playoff game is starting in a few. And if that doesn't make me wanna be sick, nothing will.
Talk about a horror story. Ugh.
See you all next week.
Friday, September 30, 2016
Disaster Clean Up, Or Irony is Only Funny If It Isn't Your Life.
I love to tell stories. It's the reason I spent 4 years and a dump truck full of money to get a degree in English. And ever since then I have told everyone I know that said degree is "as useful on a resume as a felony conviction". In spite of the fiscal awareness it required me to repress, I always wanted to teach, study literature, or write.
Instead I went blind. Most of you know the story. Five years of being a disabled, stay at home Dad created some pretty good stories, and those can be found at my old blog, Dad's Destroying Angels. The name of that blog came from my theory (which I still subscribe to) that when God destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, he sent a hand full of 3 year old kids. There is no more destructive force in all of nature. Fight me on it. You won't win, because I still have a 4 year old and I will send her to your house to prove it.
At the time, I was spending my days listening to inane cartoons, brawling with toddlers and then typing the play by play on a laptop that had the screen magnified so large that there was only one word visible on the screen at a time. It was time consuming and a cast-iron "bleep" to edit and proof read; but spare time, I had. It WAS funny. Mostly, anyways. And I just went with it because we were such a train wreck that it was either laugh or start saving time by cooking my morning pop tarts in the shower (C'mon. That was funny. think about it and start laughing, dammit. I'll wait).
It was a trying time for our family, and neither Nena nor I have any idea to this day of how we survived it. There were lasting repercussions from those days that still bounce off the walls like echos and smack us in the face. Things got worse and worse. I had to find something to make some money or we were going to lose our house, our sanity, and what was left of our ragged nerves.
In what might only be seen as Divine Irony, I found a job with a small family owned company that specialized in (I'm not kidding) cleaning up disasters. Yeah, I know. Live with literary devices, die by literary devices.
Having had some conversations on the matter in the ensuing near-decade, I now know that when I walked into the office on my first day, no one thought my stay would be a long one. Cleaning up disasters is, to put it mildly, damn hard work. Most of the folks there figured I wasn't going to last the afternoon. All anyone could see was a blind fat guy wheezing and sweating and going red in the face while trying to use a roller to paint a wall he couldn't even see.
I don't blame 'em. I'm not sure even I thought I'd last. But the Swanson brothers stuck with me because another thing no one could see was my desperate determination and eventually I worked my self into shape. I had begged the Lord to help me pay my bills, and I had found a way to do it. Drying houses and cleaning up fires wasn't what I went to college for but it kept me from going off the deep end. Over time I got my sight back, I learned a thing or two about how to fix water damage, mold, and fire; and a career was born.
The only downfall was that I got as busy as a no-legged man in a butt kicking contest (Just laying on the ground getting my butt kicked). I had half a decade of lost income to recoup, debts to pay, and I had gone all in to help build a business. All that my life was missing was time to write. I was ok with that because I'd rather put food in my kid's mouths than tell funny stories. And since funny stories wasn't paying very well (or at all), my blog got taken off the back burner and set in the sink to soak.
It's kinda too bad because I promise you that VERY few of you would believe some of the crazy things I have seen. I often spend my days in other people's homes watching THEM deal with the stress of unexpected misfortune. I have been in houses that the "Hoarders" show wouldn't enter. I have dealt with people that make our current presidential candidates look rational, and oddly enough, that is where I finally found a use for my English degree. I have to do some pretty fast talking sometimes to get people to calm down, get out of my way, and let me help them. The right words can do that. And I always have empathy for people who are having a bad day. I've had a lot of them. Who knew that my useless degree would get a work out after all?
These days, I don't spend so much time kicking in sheet rock and splashing in soggy carpet. I have some younger, stronger muscle guys that take care of that while I spend the bulk of my time calming people down and facilitating communication between insurance adjusters and homeowners. I still like what I do and every day at work is a good day.
But I still love to tell stories. So when I finally got some spare time, I could no longer ignore the little voice(s) in my head telling my to start writing again. I had set the bar for clever blog names pretty high with "Dad's". I thought about it for a week or two, tested a few ideas on people, but in the end, I knew what I was going to call this blog the second I thought of it. There was waaaaaay too much irony in "Flirting with Disaster" for me NOT to use it.
I know. I have BECOME a giant, ironic allegory; the man who fixed the metaphorical disaster of his life by cleaning up actual disasters.
After three posts, I'm still not sure what direction we are going to be heading in with this blog, but I do know this.
I'm not likely to run out of stories anytime soon. Not with this career.
Have a good week guys. See you in a week.
PS- Congratulations to my good friend Chad Starks, who has now successfully swam both the English and Catalina channels. Just a quick lap around Manhattan Island to go.
Instead I went blind. Most of you know the story. Five years of being a disabled, stay at home Dad created some pretty good stories, and those can be found at my old blog, Dad's Destroying Angels. The name of that blog came from my theory (which I still subscribe to) that when God destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, he sent a hand full of 3 year old kids. There is no more destructive force in all of nature. Fight me on it. You won't win, because I still have a 4 year old and I will send her to your house to prove it.
At the time, I was spending my days listening to inane cartoons, brawling with toddlers and then typing the play by play on a laptop that had the screen magnified so large that there was only one word visible on the screen at a time. It was time consuming and a cast-iron "bleep" to edit and proof read; but spare time, I had. It WAS funny. Mostly, anyways. And I just went with it because we were such a train wreck that it was either laugh or start saving time by cooking my morning pop tarts in the shower (C'mon. That was funny. think about it and start laughing, dammit. I'll wait).
It was a trying time for our family, and neither Nena nor I have any idea to this day of how we survived it. There were lasting repercussions from those days that still bounce off the walls like echos and smack us in the face. Things got worse and worse. I had to find something to make some money or we were going to lose our house, our sanity, and what was left of our ragged nerves.
In what might only be seen as Divine Irony, I found a job with a small family owned company that specialized in (I'm not kidding) cleaning up disasters. Yeah, I know. Live with literary devices, die by literary devices.
Having had some conversations on the matter in the ensuing near-decade, I now know that when I walked into the office on my first day, no one thought my stay would be a long one. Cleaning up disasters is, to put it mildly, damn hard work. Most of the folks there figured I wasn't going to last the afternoon. All anyone could see was a blind fat guy wheezing and sweating and going red in the face while trying to use a roller to paint a wall he couldn't even see.
I don't blame 'em. I'm not sure even I thought I'd last. But the Swanson brothers stuck with me because another thing no one could see was my desperate determination and eventually I worked my self into shape. I had begged the Lord to help me pay my bills, and I had found a way to do it. Drying houses and cleaning up fires wasn't what I went to college for but it kept me from going off the deep end. Over time I got my sight back, I learned a thing or two about how to fix water damage, mold, and fire; and a career was born.
The only downfall was that I got as busy as a no-legged man in a butt kicking contest (Just laying on the ground getting my butt kicked). I had half a decade of lost income to recoup, debts to pay, and I had gone all in to help build a business. All that my life was missing was time to write. I was ok with that because I'd rather put food in my kid's mouths than tell funny stories. And since funny stories wasn't paying very well (or at all), my blog got taken off the back burner and set in the sink to soak.
It's kinda too bad because I promise you that VERY few of you would believe some of the crazy things I have seen. I often spend my days in other people's homes watching THEM deal with the stress of unexpected misfortune. I have been in houses that the "Hoarders" show wouldn't enter. I have dealt with people that make our current presidential candidates look rational, and oddly enough, that is where I finally found a use for my English degree. I have to do some pretty fast talking sometimes to get people to calm down, get out of my way, and let me help them. The right words can do that. And I always have empathy for people who are having a bad day. I've had a lot of them. Who knew that my useless degree would get a work out after all?
These days, I don't spend so much time kicking in sheet rock and splashing in soggy carpet. I have some younger, stronger muscle guys that take care of that while I spend the bulk of my time calming people down and facilitating communication between insurance adjusters and homeowners. I still like what I do and every day at work is a good day.
But I still love to tell stories. So when I finally got some spare time, I could no longer ignore the little voice(s) in my head telling my to start writing again. I had set the bar for clever blog names pretty high with "Dad's". I thought about it for a week or two, tested a few ideas on people, but in the end, I knew what I was going to call this blog the second I thought of it. There was waaaaaay too much irony in "Flirting with Disaster" for me NOT to use it.
I know. I have BECOME a giant, ironic allegory; the man who fixed the metaphorical disaster of his life by cleaning up actual disasters.
After three posts, I'm still not sure what direction we are going to be heading in with this blog, but I do know this.
I'm not likely to run out of stories anytime soon. Not with this career.
Have a good week guys. See you in a week.
PS- Congratulations to my good friend Chad Starks, who has now successfully swam both the English and Catalina channels. Just a quick lap around Manhattan Island to go.
Friday, September 23, 2016
Swimmers, Strummers, and Other Things That Blow my Mind
I'm...kind of a big deal.
OK, that wasn't exactly what I meant. What I was trying to say is, I know some people who are absolutely a big deal.
Maybe that doesn't sound much better. Eh...my blog, my ego. It's a package deal.
I thought that since last week was about trying not to waste any talent that I may have, I'd look around and see what my friends are doing with theirs. Holy cow, was I amazed. A quick glimpse at face book showed me that while MY life might be heavy on ordinary right now, my friends sure aren't.
For example:
1)My best friend from high school is SWIMMING from Catalina Island to Long Beach this weekend.
Not a typo. I will pause and let that sink (***not an appropriate word choice***) in for a moment.
SWIMMING FROM CATALINA TO LONG BEACH!!!!
Do you realize that my wife and I paid good money last May to take a freaking cruise ship from Long Beach to Catalina Island??!! A FREAKING CRUISE SHIP!!!
My buddy Chad said, "What the hell. I'll just swim it."
And in case any of you have doubts as to how realistic this is, keep in mind that Chad swims Bear Lake as a warm up. The long way. Last fall he became the 2nd or 3rd Utahn EVER to swim the English Bleeping Channel. No dry suit, no scuba gear; not even one of those little plastic donuts full of air. Just Chad, 30 miles of open sea, a nasty school of jellyfish and one of the most insane tests of physical endurance this side of Everest.
Am I impressed? Uh...yeah. So Saturday night about midnight, think about Chad, ask Poseidon to keep the sharks from getting eaten if they get in his way, and be amazed at one insanely gifted guy. You can keep track of his progress here:
http://share.findmespot.com/shared/faces/viewspots.jsp?glId=0MYsGXvq0km2aFPgbqkdO4hQ3CnOLsYxg
(I think. I forgot how to add links and stuff to my blog. Gimme a break, I just figured out opposable thumbs)
2)My friends Brian, Dave, and their band just played another awesome show on Monday night here in Salt Lake. They are pretty amazing. None of that coverband, knock-off garage crap for these guys. All original music, All the time, and it does not suck. They aren't on the radio yet, but they ought to be. They are called "Go Suburban" and they are great. You can even let your mom listen. There's no swearing; even though I tell Brian all the time that swearing shows you know MORE words than other people and they demonstrate loquaciousness. But even without swearing, you should give them a try. Look them up on youtube, or follow the link below.
Again, am I impressed? Damn right I am.
https://youtu.be/x8Ye9NScl2g
And while those are the two biggies that stand out, there are more.
My cousin took photos for my sister's wedding and did an amazing job. She managed to make my brother-in-law presentable and that is something Mandy has been trying to do for nearly a decade. And while we are on the subject of the wedding, there were the flowers my Aunt did (she could give Dionysus a run for his flower-growing money), The cake my sister decorated, and a thousand little touches by many friends and family that made it an amazing evening.
I have another cousin and her husband who are foster parents. As I saw her posting on Facebook regarding her 3 millionth or so foster child, I was suddenly amazed and awestruck at their capacity to love on sight and without condition. If that isn't talent, I don't know what is.
I have friends who are working in law enforcement. They go out every day and face down evil that I don't want to think about. And thanks to them, I usually don't have to. Probably feels like a fairly thankless job these days, but I get it. And don't bother asking how working law enforcement is a talent. If you have the stomach to see what those guys see, face what they face, and still come home every night and not despise the universe for the evil they find in it; then you have talent, my friend. And my respect.
Anyway. The point of this post isn't to brag on how fortunate these great people are to be my friends (Did I mention my talent is braggadocio?). It's not even to stir up some very minor publicity for people who deserve much, much more than I can give them. It is about the fact that even though it often seems the world is going to hell in a Fed Ex envelope, there is plenty of good and plenty of amazing going on all around you. Just look for it.
Look up.
Look for the person nearest you RIGHT THIS SECOND and I bet you can think of something amazing about them. When it comes to you what the amazing talent they have is, tell them about it. It will make both of your days and make the world a little brighter place.
So, Go Chad. Swim like you stole something.
Go Suburban. You guys Rock!
And Go all the Rest of you. Go figure out why your friends are amazing; it's worth it.
OK, that wasn't exactly what I meant. What I was trying to say is, I know some people who are absolutely a big deal.
Maybe that doesn't sound much better. Eh...my blog, my ego. It's a package deal.
I thought that since last week was about trying not to waste any talent that I may have, I'd look around and see what my friends are doing with theirs. Holy cow, was I amazed. A quick glimpse at face book showed me that while MY life might be heavy on ordinary right now, my friends sure aren't.
For example:
1)My best friend from high school is SWIMMING from Catalina Island to Long Beach this weekend.
Not a typo. I will pause and let that sink (***not an appropriate word choice***) in for a moment.
SWIMMING FROM CATALINA TO LONG BEACH!!!!
Do you realize that my wife and I paid good money last May to take a freaking cruise ship from Long Beach to Catalina Island??!! A FREAKING CRUISE SHIP!!!
My buddy Chad said, "What the hell. I'll just swim it."
And in case any of you have doubts as to how realistic this is, keep in mind that Chad swims Bear Lake as a warm up. The long way. Last fall he became the 2nd or 3rd Utahn EVER to swim the English Bleeping Channel. No dry suit, no scuba gear; not even one of those little plastic donuts full of air. Just Chad, 30 miles of open sea, a nasty school of jellyfish and one of the most insane tests of physical endurance this side of Everest.
Am I impressed? Uh...yeah. So Saturday night about midnight, think about Chad, ask Poseidon to keep the sharks from getting eaten if they get in his way, and be amazed at one insanely gifted guy. You can keep track of his progress here:
http://share.findmespot.com/shared/faces/viewspots.jsp?glId=0MYsGXvq0km2aFPgbqkdO4hQ3CnOLsYxg
(I think. I forgot how to add links and stuff to my blog. Gimme a break, I just figured out opposable thumbs)
2)My friends Brian, Dave, and their band just played another awesome show on Monday night here in Salt Lake. They are pretty amazing. None of that coverband, knock-off garage crap for these guys. All original music, All the time, and it does not suck. They aren't on the radio yet, but they ought to be. They are called "Go Suburban" and they are great. You can even let your mom listen. There's no swearing; even though I tell Brian all the time that swearing shows you know MORE words than other people and they demonstrate loquaciousness. But even without swearing, you should give them a try. Look them up on youtube, or follow the link below.
Again, am I impressed? Damn right I am.
https://youtu.be/x8Ye9NScl2g
And while those are the two biggies that stand out, there are more.
My cousin took photos for my sister's wedding and did an amazing job. She managed to make my brother-in-law presentable and that is something Mandy has been trying to do for nearly a decade. And while we are on the subject of the wedding, there were the flowers my Aunt did (she could give Dionysus a run for his flower-growing money), The cake my sister decorated, and a thousand little touches by many friends and family that made it an amazing evening.
I have another cousin and her husband who are foster parents. As I saw her posting on Facebook regarding her 3 millionth or so foster child, I was suddenly amazed and awestruck at their capacity to love on sight and without condition. If that isn't talent, I don't know what is.
I have friends who are working in law enforcement. They go out every day and face down evil that I don't want to think about. And thanks to them, I usually don't have to. Probably feels like a fairly thankless job these days, but I get it. And don't bother asking how working law enforcement is a talent. If you have the stomach to see what those guys see, face what they face, and still come home every night and not despise the universe for the evil they find in it; then you have talent, my friend. And my respect.
Anyway. The point of this post isn't to brag on how fortunate these great people are to be my friends (Did I mention my talent is braggadocio?). It's not even to stir up some very minor publicity for people who deserve much, much more than I can give them. It is about the fact that even though it often seems the world is going to hell in a Fed Ex envelope, there is plenty of good and plenty of amazing going on all around you. Just look for it.
Look up.
Look for the person nearest you RIGHT THIS SECOND and I bet you can think of something amazing about them. When it comes to you what the amazing talent they have is, tell them about it. It will make both of your days and make the world a little brighter place.
So, Go Chad. Swim like you stole something.
Go Suburban. You guys Rock!
And Go all the Rest of you. Go figure out why your friends are amazing; it's worth it.
Friday, September 16, 2016
Better Eve Than Hamlet, or Why I'm Back
To be, or not to be. That IS the question.
Might be the most famous question this side of "Hey Eve, How'd you like some apple sauce with your pork chops tonight?"
Funny enough, the more I think about it, the more I realize that the Melancholy Dane and the Mother of all Creation are facing a very familiar challenge.
What is my potential, and how do I reach it?
For both Eve and Hamlet, the choices are unclear and frightening. With eternal consequences.
Eve was a princess, ordained and chosen to be a queen. She knew that the only way to reach her goals was to partake of the fruit. But doing so betrayed a specific commandment. Now she had agency... she COULD rightfully and properly choose to obey that law only and not partake; but the consequence left her stuck in a purgatory... a place where all her possibilities would remain Potential and never Kinetic. It would be the safe choice- to stay in the Garden; but was it the right one? In her mind (and a good thing for us) Eve knew it could not be. She was a being of Glory and if she wanted to obtain all that she was promised as such, she had to make the hard choice and ACT. Thus, she did. She took arms against the sea of troubles that she knew would come, and opposed them. None of us would be here otherwise.
Hamlet faces an identical quandary. He is a prince, born and reared. Had circumstances been slightly more in his favor, he would gain the throne, the girl, and all the earthly glory that he is RIGHTFULLY heir to. Yet Hamlet's murdered father appears to him (awfully serpent like if you ask me...) and asks him to be an instrument of revenge-to kill the usurper, Hamlet's uncle/stepfather. Revenge pays off quickly and the prince knows it- all that he lost would be restored to him in a single stroke with added praise and adoration from the earthly father he had loved and revered. Furthermore, it is fairly easy to argue that killing Claudius might even be just.
But on the other hand, cold blooded revenge and calculated, premeditated murder...even in a good cause, goes against all that Hamlet knows and believes. What does it profit him to gain the world but lose his soul? The long play is to suffer the slings and arrows of his truly outrageous fortune. The swift strike is to kill Claudius and be a king, although of a lesser cloth than he might have otherwise been. Sadly, he realizes "the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought", and he loses the "name of action".
In other words, he spent so much time worrying about the problems that might arise from either choice that he fails to do anything and others make his choice for him. Remember what we were saying about Kinetic versus Potential possibilities? Without action, it was "Not To Be"
Both Eve and Hamlet have been picked apart for the better part of time for the choices they made (or in Hamlet's case, refused to make), and everyone is entitled to their own opinion. But to me, the object lesson they provide is pretty stark.
Eve ACTED.
She chose, and she did, and she stood up and took the consequences so that she could gain the blessings she desired. Hamlet, by comparison, seems unwilling to bear those same consequences: He asks who would "bear the whips and scorns of time" for a chance to live their dreams?, and ultimately concludes his soliloquy with a thought that might not be as famous as his opening question, but certainly rings just as true. "Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all." He won't face the music and he loses all that he might have been.
Now, at this point, you may be asking yourself, "I read Patrick's old blog and this is nothing like 'Dad has 2 heart attacks' at all. What the hell does Hamlet and Eve have to do with anything??"
Stay with me.
I have been talking about writing again almost since I stopped writing "Dad's". Every time I told a story at a family gathering, or posted an extra long rant on facebook, I'd get a little itch and think "you know, a little tweaking and that would make a great blog post." Then work would call, or one of the kids would need to go somewhere or a ball game would come on or....you get the point. It's damn hard to chase your dreams. Life gets in the way of love.
Conscience does make cowards of us all. OFTEN.
But I've been thinking about how literature applies to my life a lot lately. Maybe I'm just early for a midlife crisis, but turning 43 taught me that Douglas Adams was full of crap (Now THAT would be a great blog title, huh?); 42 was NOT the answer to life, the universe and everything. It probably wasn't even the answer to "What is 41+1?" So like Eve, and my other talented friends who display their talents with grace and beauty that I'll never possess... it is time for me to be. Or not be.
Write, Kelly; or get off the keyboard. Conscience may no longer make a coward of me, and who knows what dreams may come.
It is not my intention to turn this into a blog of LitCrit, even if that would be fun as hell and a couple of you might even be entertained by it. But it also isn't going to be "Dad's Destroying Angels" either. I'm a far different man now than that smart ass was back then. I have less hair and patience.
If I do it right, it will still be funny, it will still be interesting, and hopefully, it will help you guys learn that it's OK to be a little off the beaten path. You can always hang out with me and we will be lost together. Whaddya say? Wanna see where you can end up with a blind guide?
I figure it will probably take a few posts before I start to find my voice again, but its time to stop talking and start writing. A post a week or somewhere in the ballpark. Because I'd rather be Eve than Hamlet.
Oh, get your minds out of the gutter... sheesh. I should have remembered what kind of readers I have....
Might be the most famous question this side of "Hey Eve, How'd you like some apple sauce with your pork chops tonight?"
Funny enough, the more I think about it, the more I realize that the Melancholy Dane and the Mother of all Creation are facing a very familiar challenge.
What is my potential, and how do I reach it?
For both Eve and Hamlet, the choices are unclear and frightening. With eternal consequences.
Eve was a princess, ordained and chosen to be a queen. She knew that the only way to reach her goals was to partake of the fruit. But doing so betrayed a specific commandment. Now she had agency... she COULD rightfully and properly choose to obey that law only and not partake; but the consequence left her stuck in a purgatory... a place where all her possibilities would remain Potential and never Kinetic. It would be the safe choice- to stay in the Garden; but was it the right one? In her mind (and a good thing for us) Eve knew it could not be. She was a being of Glory and if she wanted to obtain all that she was promised as such, she had to make the hard choice and ACT. Thus, she did. She took arms against the sea of troubles that she knew would come, and opposed them. None of us would be here otherwise.
Hamlet faces an identical quandary. He is a prince, born and reared. Had circumstances been slightly more in his favor, he would gain the throne, the girl, and all the earthly glory that he is RIGHTFULLY heir to. Yet Hamlet's murdered father appears to him (awfully serpent like if you ask me...) and asks him to be an instrument of revenge-to kill the usurper, Hamlet's uncle/stepfather. Revenge pays off quickly and the prince knows it- all that he lost would be restored to him in a single stroke with added praise and adoration from the earthly father he had loved and revered. Furthermore, it is fairly easy to argue that killing Claudius might even be just.
But on the other hand, cold blooded revenge and calculated, premeditated murder...even in a good cause, goes against all that Hamlet knows and believes. What does it profit him to gain the world but lose his soul? The long play is to suffer the slings and arrows of his truly outrageous fortune. The swift strike is to kill Claudius and be a king, although of a lesser cloth than he might have otherwise been. Sadly, he realizes "the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought", and he loses the "name of action".
In other words, he spent so much time worrying about the problems that might arise from either choice that he fails to do anything and others make his choice for him. Remember what we were saying about Kinetic versus Potential possibilities? Without action, it was "Not To Be"
Both Eve and Hamlet have been picked apart for the better part of time for the choices they made (or in Hamlet's case, refused to make), and everyone is entitled to their own opinion. But to me, the object lesson they provide is pretty stark.
Eve ACTED.
She chose, and she did, and she stood up and took the consequences so that she could gain the blessings she desired. Hamlet, by comparison, seems unwilling to bear those same consequences: He asks who would "bear the whips and scorns of time" for a chance to live their dreams?, and ultimately concludes his soliloquy with a thought that might not be as famous as his opening question, but certainly rings just as true. "Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all." He won't face the music and he loses all that he might have been.
Now, at this point, you may be asking yourself, "I read Patrick's old blog and this is nothing like 'Dad has 2 heart attacks' at all. What the hell does Hamlet and Eve have to do with anything??"
Stay with me.
I have been talking about writing again almost since I stopped writing "Dad's". Every time I told a story at a family gathering, or posted an extra long rant on facebook, I'd get a little itch and think "you know, a little tweaking and that would make a great blog post." Then work would call, or one of the kids would need to go somewhere or a ball game would come on or....you get the point. It's damn hard to chase your dreams. Life gets in the way of love.
Conscience does make cowards of us all. OFTEN.
But I've been thinking about how literature applies to my life a lot lately. Maybe I'm just early for a midlife crisis, but turning 43 taught me that Douglas Adams was full of crap (Now THAT would be a great blog title, huh?); 42 was NOT the answer to life, the universe and everything. It probably wasn't even the answer to "What is 41+1?" So like Eve, and my other talented friends who display their talents with grace and beauty that I'll never possess... it is time for me to be. Or not be.
Write, Kelly; or get off the keyboard. Conscience may no longer make a coward of me, and who knows what dreams may come.
It is not my intention to turn this into a blog of LitCrit, even if that would be fun as hell and a couple of you might even be entertained by it. But it also isn't going to be "Dad's Destroying Angels" either. I'm a far different man now than that smart ass was back then. I have less hair and patience.
If I do it right, it will still be funny, it will still be interesting, and hopefully, it will help you guys learn that it's OK to be a little off the beaten path. You can always hang out with me and we will be lost together. Whaddya say? Wanna see where you can end up with a blind guide?
I figure it will probably take a few posts before I start to find my voice again, but its time to stop talking and start writing. A post a week or somewhere in the ballpark. Because I'd rather be Eve than Hamlet.
Oh, get your minds out of the gutter... sheesh. I should have remembered what kind of readers I have....
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