I Didn't See That Coming

My favorite commercial right now is the one with the very serious group of young people eating wings or something from KFC or somewhere and a thoughtful young woman says, “I didn’t see that coming.” I understand. I mean, how could she? In the dangerous world of Fast Food, anything can happen. What I like is that, despite the intensity with which she is eating, it seems that she is on the lookout for something.

Her words of surprise are a kind of informed surprise that we can all admire. And, emulate. The economy falls. I didn’t see that coming. The war goes on. I didn’t see that coming. The President loses credibility. I didn’t see that coming.

This could be the phrase that defines a moment. The phrase that will stand for a specific time in history, like, This Bud’s for you, Where’s the Beef, and I am not a crook.

She is minding her own business, eating with her friends, and then, the unexpected, the uninvited, the unlooked for. I didn’t see that coming. It conveys the unlikelihood of whatever happened, but implies that she would have been more circumspect or cautious or decisive or prudent or something, if only she had seen it coming.

I kind of feel like that, too. And this could be a defense, or an excuse, or I could have adopted it as a philosophy. I just didn’t see it coming.

Worth The Wait

Do you spend a lot of your time waiting? I sometimes like to think that I am the master of my own fate, but then I hear the words, ‘The doctor will be right with you.’ I don’t know what the statistics are and, probably, any that exist are now out of date, because it seems that the more we have to do, the more we wait around.

I’m waiting in my car. I’m waiting in line. I’m waiting for a call. Or, that email. When I was a kid, I was waiting to get older. Now that I am older than I thought I’d ever be, I’m waiting to and am hoping I can remember what I was just talking about.

This must be why I don’t wear a watch. Actually knowing how much time is spent waiting would be demoralizing. Why they have a clock on the wall at the Post Office is a mystery to me. Going postal isn’t exclusive to employees.

I am thinking that most people are optimists. No one thinks that they’ll have to wait this long. We can’t imagine a reason for it, but reality and the Twilight Zone are getting closer and closer to each other, with each passing day. Some practical people are reading books they have brought for just this kind of occasion. I always thought these guys were a little nerdy or had no imagination, but now I see the wisdom, the incredible foresight they possess. The woman three places ahead of me is writing in a notebook. The guy across the room is on his cell phone. I used to think this was rude, but it’s beginning to appear reasonable.

It doesn’t matter if we’re waiting for the dentist or the movie, waiting is waiting. I begin looking around, to see how everyone is taking it. A minute later, it seems I am developing Restless Leg Syndrome.

It’s a miracle we don’t rush the door. But what’s true is something that gives me both pause and patience. We are, each one of us and, as a group, acting civilized in a most generous way. We are waiting together, waiting our turn. We are exercising consideration and fairness for each other. We are embodying compassion and understanding.

My impatience has turned to admiration and I look around with pride, knowing that we can cooperate and not go crazy. I take deep breath and smile, even as I sneak a look at the clock on the wall and think about cutting in line.

Over There

It must be the accent. Or, some genetic memory or pre-disposition. Or, Cary Grant. It isn’t really the old country or The Birthplace of Civilization. As an American people, we did grow up and become independent, but the ties, if hard to identify or understand, are really there. Being an Anglophile isn’t for everyone, but there are enough of you out there to have a conversation and I’d be happy to talk about it with you, anytime.

I have always thought that my forebears either appeared, out of the English mist, at a time close to the beginning of our nation or, on my father’s side, from some horse thief, who had to take ship for the New World to avoid hanging. Those stately homes and wide swaths of green (I love that word - swath) have always been of interest. There’s a lot to like about these guys. And, though I have many American heroes and even a couple from obscure countries like France, Croatia, and Tibet, many of my heroes are English. Merlin, Arthur, Robin Hood, Shakespeare, Churchill, and the Beatles. No matter where they’re from, these guys are the real thing.

I have an ideal landscape in mind that has more to do with Constable, than Van Gogh. And, oh my God, I’m drinking tea at this very moment! I like Alec Guinness movies and characters like Tom Jones, Winnie the Pooh, and Sherlock Holmes. Cricket is a complete mystery, but the greens of St. Andrews and the grass at Wimbledon are pretty compelling. And, the whole place is an island. One that not only is romantic – ships, a bit of isolation, and pirates, but, being in the water like that, it is connected to every other place on the globe. Okay, to be fair, they, the British, did make the mistake of Empire, but so has everyone else.

As far as intellectual reputation goes, Oxford and Cambridge, no matter how stuffy, still somehow float above Harvard and Yale. Everyone says that the food is nothing to write home about, but what about the invention of the sandwich? Where would we be without that? Or, English Muffins?

There’s always the suspicion that they know something we don’t or, maybe, it’s just that they seem to have bigger vocabularies than we do. Or, maybe they don’t, but, as I said at the beginning, they sound good.

There’s an attraction here. Admit it. Certainly, they have a literary tradition. Shakespeare, Dickens, Conrad (okay, he’s Polish), Gilbert and Sullivan, John le Carre, Douglas Adams. These guys can really write and they’re writing in our language. Or, we’re writing in theirs. Or, something like that. You see, the whole thing is confusing. And, really, too much has been made of it. We admire them and we think they’re crazy, just like we do everyone else.

But, maybe we’re not really that different. Maybe all this nationalism and patriotic distinction is a little overdone and anachronistic. Couldn’t we just put our arm around their shoulders and say, ‘let’s get a beer.’? We could hang out and compare the differences and, I bet, after the second beer, we’d be talking more about our similarities, than anything else. The distinction between Anglophiles and Anglos would become less important as time went on and, before the night was over, we’d be toasting each other and singing the words to songs that we all know, like Penny Lane and Mustang Sally.

Having made this connection, maybe we could begin to see the beauty in, who knows, France? Or, even Greece? It’s this separation that is beginning to be tiresome. There’s geography, but there are also airplanes. And, telephones. And, the Net. It’s a brave new world and we’re all overdue to appreciate the similarities, expand upon them, and then move on to the next frontier. This time, as friends, as admirers, as just glad to be here, as lucky inhabitants of this wonderful world.

Many Wives, Many Masters

Were you really a king in one of your past lives? I mean, of course, you were. You also had one existence where you got to steer the course of what we now know as, the Ottoman Empire. And then, there was that incarnation, when Cleopatra was begging you to stay the night and yet, you had to break her heart. You bad boy. There was never a time when you were a dog or, even worse, a snail, with a manic condition. No servant appearances or bored farmers. No insect interval, but you may not remember those because of the short life spans.

It’s amazing. This stuff happened to everyone. Not one of us is exempt, whether we accept it or not. Some remember, some don’t. That’s what they say. There is an entire literature and industry devoted to this kind of physic exploration. Guys will take your there. Induce memories. Regress you by hypnosis. Or, just look at you and start revealing your past.

I have dreams, but that’s about as psychic as I get. I want all that other stuff to happen – to see the future, be abducted by aliens, and commune with spirits, but it has never happened. I believe it, but I have never had any real experience. Sure, I’ve hallucinated, but that’s different. I want some evidence. Dreaming you are escaping Nazis or Iraqis is not the same thing. There’s so much of that on TV and that’s just the same as dreaming you’re driving a new car.

But every now and then there’s something. Something that happens. Someone you meet. And it’s not just deja-vu, which has some perfectly rational explanation that I am not familiar with. You look at them and they’re looking at you and you both feel something. I know, you think I’m talking about love or romance or something like that. Well, I’m not. Though she is a woman, she is at least 30 years older than I am and the mother of a friend. Not that I am defensive, but I am not that kind of guy. This really happened to me and though I’m not sure I can say that this person and I were related in some way in another life, I do know that we both recognized each other. We had a bond. We had an immediate connection and communication with each other. We were soul buddies. The kind of thing it usually takes years to establish.

Stuff like this doesn’t just happen. By accident or for the heck of it. You can tell when you are experiencing the miraculous. There is a faint stirring of strings off to the left and goose bumps form on your forearms. Lights flicker and the furnace rumbles. One time, I met a guy in a bar. I was working, tending bar. We started talking and, though he was drunk (it was his birthday), this was another one of those special times. We were on a similar wavelength. We recognized each other. He was quoting Whitman and telling me about his job as a ‘nocturnal boring animal’, setting dynamite charges in tunnels, up in the mountains. He said I should quit my job and go with him to learn how to fish, with sticks or something, from the Indians in Oregon. Responsible employee that I am/was, I just couldn’t do that, but I did toss my apron and vest in the corner and help him celebrate. Was this another visit from a previous existence or merely drinking? I think the former.

I do not like the fact that these encounters are so hard to pin down. So impossible to explain. That there’s never time to get down with the other person and try to figure out where you know each other from or what was happening. It’s not that they think you’re crazy. They don’t. They get it. But then it’s last call or you’re leaving town or they are whisked off by someone, to talk about something completely boring. It’s upsetting. We’re talking about something ineffable, ephemeral, almost like a dream, except something that really happens. It’s a profound encounter. I miss these guys. There are plenty of wonderful people in this lifetime, but I hate to lose touch with the people I love. I am always looking people in the eye, searching for that familiar spirit. That connection, that certainty that ours is a meeting that, in this life, at least, we should celebrate, even if we can’t prove it. You don’t run into these guys everyday. I think we are so often alone in this world, or, even if we aren’t, it’s always great to see someone from the old hometown.

The Potato Polka

When we Scandahoovians sit down to eat
We see our favorite mealtime treat
And we shove aside that slab of meat
That’s when we do
The Potato Polka

There is wisdom in those simple wuds
That one must nip things in the buds
But, please sir, spare the spuds
We want to do
The Potato Polka

My girl, it’s true, can eat her share
And can’t fit into her own chair
But, you see, she doesn’t care
Because she’s doing
The Potato Polka

Now some will tell you it’s potato
And some, they say it’s potato
But we don’t care, we want them pronto
We want to do
The Potato Polka

There’s nothing so beautiful as a spud
Though it starts its life beneath the mud
So, let’s toast this Goddess with some suds
While we do
The Potato Polka

Time For The Next Big Adventure!

This is it! A New Year! A new day! Just in time for right now.

I love these years. No matter what I do or don’t do, whether I’m here or in outer space, on the bus or not, in my right mind or otherwise, driving on the right or left, sinking or swimming, here or there, or everywhere, Time does just what it’s supposed to. No temptation to make holidays last all week. No, just for the heck of it, having only weekends during the summer. No switching the months around to see what might happen. Time is something we can count on. It’s a linear progression. You can dance to it.

Each new year, each new day, we are given a chance to get it right. To make things work out. To speak our minds and lead with our hearts. To remember what we don’t want to forget. To take the next step. To keep moving. To kiss and make up. To kiss and make out. To keep on the sunny side. To look for the silver lining. To breathe deeply. To smell the roses. To go where no man has gone before. To Do Wah Diddy.

You’ve got to admit, we are the lucky ducks on this pond. So, no need to hesitate. Simply go ahead on. See what’s around the corner.

Grab a partner. Take it from the top. And, sing out on the chorus.

The Birds!

The birds have taken over the backyard. Hitchcock never prepared me for this. It’s not scary, but it is overwhelming. They are everywhere and there are a lot of them. I’ve read about their general decline, in numbers. A distressing, catastrophic decline.

But, out there, past the porch, it sure doesn’t seem like it. Maybe it’s that I am really appreciating them for the first time. Actually noticing them. They are so wild. And, some of them, are huge. Their wings flap, as if in slow motion. A whop, whop, whopping, as they cross from left to right or, sometimes, right to left. Their calls echo in an eerie manner. They swoop down and speed off with small rodents and dearly beloved pets, clutched in their deadly talons. And, some are so small that, if I’m not careful, they will buzz right up and bore into my skull with their sharp little beaks.

Okay, they’re not just scary, they are amazing. Worthy of study, not just by ornithologists, but by completely untutored guys, like myself. One of the wonderful things that bird watchers do is keep lists. Lists of birds seen, when seen, what was going on, weather conditions, distinctive markings, and whatever else seems pertinent. This gives me an excuse to introduce a small and incomplete, but somehow poetic list, of the ones I’ve seen, right in my own backyard, and put it right here on the page. Here goes: eagles, owls, hawks of all kinds, vultures, crows, ravens, magpies, meadowlarks, starlings, robins, grosbeaks, sparrows, finches, and hummingbirds.

And, when I lived a couple of miles away, next to what Minnesotans would call a pond, but what they designate here as a lake, I saw cormorants, ducks of all kinds, geese (Canadian and otherwise), and, my favorite, White Pelicans, gliding far up, their black feathers contrasting with the immaculate white of the rest of them, on some miraculous breeze, seeing the country on what might be the ultimate road trip. They are beautiful.

Birds. You can’t deny it. They’re wild. They can fly. And, they can sing like crazy.

You have probably guessed that we don’t have the normal kind of backyard. We are lucky, beyond our dreams, to have a big field in back of the house. On one side, it runs up to the foothills of the Rockies and, on the other, slopes down toward Nebraska or, if you get lost, Kansas. It’s big. It’s open. The sky is huge. It used to be the Wild West, but now it’s almost a suburb. We’re trying to live together with the birds, but everybody has their own needs and theirs are a little different than ours. It’s not a simple thing.

That decline I mentioned before is one that, I am afraid, we are responsible for. Big and clumsy as we are, we have encroached on their habitat, squeezing them out and replacing everything with houses that are a bit more than we need or can even figure out how to decorate, and swimming pools and shopping centers and Dairy Queens and a lot of other things that seem absolutely necessary.

And that’s only part of the problem. There are the sad, catastrophic, and fatal results of Global Warming: unnatural weather, drought, heat, fires, floods, tornados, hurricanes, and a general disruption of seasons and status quo. CO2, pesticides, hunting, toxic substances, and an ever-expanding covering of concrete. It’s a dilemma.

We are so outnumbered by birds and insects, that it seems we can’t notice any problems until they become huge, major predicaments, with disastrous overtones. It’s been a gradual thing and, like I said, there are tons of birds, but that’s why it’s hard to get a handle on just how things are changing. These birds are asking for our help. Well, chirping for it and, if we could understand what they were saying, maybe things would be different. We need to make some serious changes. I don’t think birdseed and a few crumbs are going to be enough.

Inhuman Poundage

It’s all about eating, isn’t it? I mean, we need to eat to live. It’s imperative. Whether it’s M & Ms and burgers or salads and tofu, we need to eat to fuel our bodies, to get the energy to do whatever it is we do.

Someone once said, “You are what you eat.” I think that’s taking things a bit too far. I am not a milkshake! I am not a turkey! Speaking of which, Thanksgiving was two days ago and I’m still not hungry. Sure, I’ve eaten. I admit it, even though I said I would never eat again. At least, not in that overblown, though delicious, fashion.

I like to think I have free will. And, I do. But habit carries such a weight (pardon me) that each breakfast, lunch, and dinner seems not only inevitable, but, also, necessary. And, that’s just not true. I can’t remember the last time I was really hungry. And, that’s not because those synapses are faulty. I carry enough on me to supply my needs for weeks. Maybe, I was right. Maybe, I carry enough to last until next Thanksgiving!

The question is, do I really need to eat this much? And, is it really healthy to go from meal to meal with expectations of, not only functional fullness, but also something approaching Food Channel requirements?

Emeril, Mario, Anthony. Rachel and Paula, too. I’m on a first name basis with all these guys and that’s scary. Coming from a modest Minnesota background, peanut butter and jelly, tuna casserole, and meatloaf have always been good enough for me. Now, if I can pronounce every ingredient correctly, I know something’s wrong. Did you know there are different kinds and flavors of Olive Oil?

As things become more global, we’re lucky, but it’s so confusing. Nothing is a comfort anymore. Everything is an adventure.

I don’t know why I’m complaining. This seems to be a problem only for older, lucky, white Americans. When I say thanks, I mean it. On Thanksgiving and on every other day. I just wonder what I did to deserve that extra piece of pie?

The Spam Ultimatum

No longer am I going to be an average guy! I’ve had it. Girls are emailing me all the time. I can get pills that will keep me up, slow me down, make me bigger, smaller, and a bunch of things I’m not going to talk about. I’m going to get a new job. Management. I’m going to be better looking, last longer, save money, and while I’m at it, I’m going to invest in some stocks that are going to blow the roof off of the Dow.

I’ve got the best line on Swiss watches, OEM software, and life-changing herbal pills. It’s amazing how many people are sending me post cards and I went to school with most of them. I’m not kidding, my portfolio is going crazy! There is an unusually huge volume to it, some of my holdings are “Super Novas”, and there is no way I am going to miss out on the next big market.

I don’t want to keep harping on this, but a lot of these emails are concerned about my health and my romantic life. I’m supposed to get ready, right now, because I’m going to get a massive self-confidence boost. Not only that, but I am about to become the man I always have wanted to be. A man who is the ultimate pleasure machine with no negative side-effects, and I will no longer be shy of my manhood, because she will love me more than any other guy.

Is this a great life or what? I was never like this before I got online. Now, everyone is saying Hi, Hey ya, Hello, Tell me more. They are thanking me all over the place and they want me to confirm my winning prize. I’m not worried about bills or spare cash or anything, because there are a lot of guys who want to help me fight out the cash crumbs, even though I’m not sure what that means. They’re going to refinance, restructure and blow away my debts.

I’m getting emails from people I never even knew I knew. I knew I knew? Anyway, I have heard from Elvis Montoya, Tammi Hammer, Novella Candida, Albin Nudge, Kasper Morelli, and, of course, Skyler Buchanan. If I was a writer, I could use some of these names in a novel that throbbed with intrigue and heartbreak. Galen, Eric, Andres, Sammy, Frankie, Benny, Homer, and Josh. Bianca, Ruby, Donna, Lena, and Shantel. And how could I have forgotten Jestine Laschaunda, Roderick Duke, and Donny Rivers, who lived next door to me?

It’s incredible. My life is rich beyond my wildest dreams. It seems everyone is interested in me. People care about me and about what’s going to happen to me. This is really different. I’m getting a little choked up. I’m not sure I know what to say to all these guys. And the real problem is that these are just the ones I received today. And, it’s only 3 pm. I better go.

Here's My Advice

I’m allowing myself one paragraph.

Ignore your baser instincts. Resist the calls of couch, television, and distraction. Fight for what you recognize as best for you. Don’t be tempted by fate (or what passes for it), out-dated responses and beliefs, or the siren songs of situation comedy, celebrity lifestyles, and elusive fashion. Avoid the reruns, pay no attention to the men behind the curtain, stop listening to Rod Stewart, the Eagles, and MTV. Shade your eyes against the glare of fear and imagine that heaven is here, in this moment, and that you have a part to play in making it. Sing the praises of ornithology, a good cheeseburger, and a beer. Celebrate the jokes of your friends, their heartaches, and their hopes for tomorrow. Create a new tune to be carried forth by bees, buddies, and the next email. Declare a holiday. Insist on goodness. Lead a cheer for discovery. Demand honesty. Manifest imagination. Encourage new species. Stimulate excitement. Inspire reality. Rally the down-hearted. Awaken longing and expectation. Revive forgotten dreams. Embrace the moment and each other. Empathize with the flowers. Embody what you want to see. Assemble like-minded amateurs. Harness the energy of willingness. Emphasize the melody. Discontinue guilt, shame, and embarrassment. Defy tradition. Unite all hope. Bring about cooperation. Holler at the headlines. Accommodate the paradox. Revise the paradigm. Present the forgotten and disregarded. Soothe the savage feast. Entreat the blank facades. Shake up the sediment. Juxtapose the isolated. Humor the humorless. Open all doors and windows. Call forth all secrets. Clarify the clutter. Respect the elders. Respect experience. Listen for clues. Hand out ideas and inspirations as if they were candy. Guide the innocent. Disarm the grumpy. Take hold of each other. Greet grief with understanding and patience. Generate passion. Benefit the benevolent. Kick start the kindness. Glean all joy and focus it. Enervate the doodad. Exult the whim-wham. Elevate the knick-knack. Let geegaws flourish.

Magnetic Poetry

Here are a couple of poems written in that fabulous structure provided by Magnetic Poetry. What a process! There you are, looking for the next word and losing your train of thought and finding yourself going down a road you never knew existed before. Then, dropping the little piece of word and digging it out of the cracks in the floor below you. You get stuck, because you can’t find the word you just know is going to make the poem catch fire, but you’re forced, by this necessity, to find another way. This is a great way to stretch your brain and search your heart. Imagine the words below in that stuttered script, each word separate from the next, as if it’s a ransom note. Don’t let that scare you. They only want your attention.

Man
What can I say
Grammar is a light in the language we live
But how can you feel the dance
And
See the sky as a precious orchestra
Without giving it all up
And
Writing from your heart
Always imagining a game with no death
A sweet dream of life and love
Letting our voices shine
A ferocious and matchless gift

. . . .

Having manacled life and beauty
Old monkeys make us their obedient servants
Curse our kind hearts
Devour our places of grace
Crush the wild water
Kill rob sacrifice those who
Desire the better
Long for an end to secrets
And then they laugh as they embrace the dead
And
Throw away the universe

Grow Old with Me

Death. We can only really think of it as a slow progression to a foggy, if not unconscious, end. An end we can’t really believe, because end has always meant the end of one thing and the start of another.

But sometimes this end is unexpected. Sudden. Shocking. Violent. 26 years ago, John Lennon was shot. A young guy, a fan, walked up to him at the front door of his apartment building and shot him. Twice. A suddenly violent end for someone who had always sung about love. Or, peace. Or, imagination. John, too much a part of us all to call Lennon, was with Yoko. They had been inseparable, with the exception of the lost weekend or whatever they call it, for 12 years. Companions, collaborators, man and wife. An island of two in a sea of hype, flashbulbs, and gossip.

They were walking home, returning from recording what would become the songs, Just Like Starting Over and Grow Old With Me. Our life together is so precious together, We have grown, God bless our love. These are just some of the lyrics. The meaning, the emotion was not of a moon in June, but an unadorned feeling of joy, gratitude, and love. Not a story, not just lyrics that rhymed, but a personal statement of something between two real people, artists, who having lived it and made it a part of themselves, wanted to share this with the world.

Starting over, they were looking forward. Grow old with me – this was a hope, a realization of the preciousness of life, an acceptance and appreciation of something real and beautiful. But then death interrupted, violently. Senselessly and yet unbelievably real. A split second unalterably changing the course of many things.

And, for us, it had a different meaning. It was a collective experience, though of a similar sadness. It was a reminder of the delicate hold we have on life. Each step on the Earth a fragile gift, a momentary possibility, a starting over, a deep desire to grow old together, hoping the end will arrive in good time, after we realize we have had it all.