Signs of the Times

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger.

Right about now is as good as it gets for me, at least from a seasonality perspective. Fall is my favorite season, and October my favorite month. Plus, as a lifetime political junkie, when you factor in that it’s an election year, well; that’s just icing on the cake.

Lately, though it seems like something is missing. All the meteorological signs of fall are there. Leaves crunching under feet. The sunlight just so. Even the occasional backyard fire pit smell. Yet when I walk around our neighborhood soaking all of this in, I rarely see any political yard signs. And I genuinely think that’s a shame.

My connection with fall was shaped by my upbringing. Growing up in rural southeastern Connecticut, a region of the country where all types of people pay good money to visit during the season, I internalized this romanticized notion of fall. It’s gotten to the point where, when I think back to my formative years, I half-jokingly wonder if I’m confusing it with a Gilmore Girls episode.

Just as with fall, my passion for politics was shaped by an early age. Chester, Connecticut back in the 1980s was a largely Republican town and my family were liberal Democrats. I remember seeing political signs EVERYWHERE for local, statewide and national candidates. Yet, despite being young, I do recall that people disagreed about politics, often passionately. But nothing like the toxic divisiveness that’s now become the norm.

During the 2000 election cycle, after I’d moved to Minneapolis with my wife Wendy, we’d compare notes about the Gore, Bush and Nader signs we’d see on our way to work or running errands. Wendy and I spent that election night at the condo of one of my oldest friends. This friend and I still recall how Wendy and I left the gathering right after Al Gore conceded to George W. Bush and by the time we’d driven the short distance home, he’d already rescinded the concession.

Back in 2000, we thought we’d seen everything, politically speaking. It turns out we weren’t even close.

In hindsight, after all the recounts and hanging chads, we put it behind us. The next several election cycles generated plenty of yard signs, not to mention endless television ads. Yet the day after the election, regardless of who won or lost, despite any elation or disappointment we may have been feeling, we all got back to our everyday existence. We all embraced a collective understanding that elections come and go, and we accept the results and move on.

Now, of course, we live in a different political climate, one with no seasonality, really, where politicians never appear to stop campaigning. Elections come all right, but they don’t seem to go. And certain politicians don’t always accept the results if they don’t go their way.

Amidst this climate, all of us voters are bombarded with political messaging from every angle. We also have all sorts of ways to express our opinions, especially with people who share our ideology. Funny, though, we’re hesitant about placing a political sign on our yard. Because then, you know; it’s out in the open, and we might make someone mad.

While admittedly an overused expression, I know everything is cyclical and someday soon we’ll emerge from this darkness. I recognize though, that certain elements and norms of how we’d engage with the political process may be lost for good. Hopefully, yard signs won’t be one of them.

Image credit: Michael Carruth

When Words Are Labels in Disguise

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger.

“They’re not FRICKIN’ called cookies!” I shouted inwardly.

“Thanks for bringing those, Manly,” I said outwardly, smiling. “They look yummy.”

My father-in-law Manly had just come over to our house for dinner and brought a container of store-bought brownies, like he does every time. He also insisted on calling them cookies, like he does every time.

This is nothing new with Manly as he does this with a whole host of terms, usually involving food. Any bread product that isn’t actually a slice of bread is a “bun,” regardless of whether it’s a baguette or focaccia. He insists on saying that we’re eating “delicatessen” instead of “deli” like everyone else.  And don’t even get me started on “noodles.”

Yet as I look at the preceding words and understand how shallow they seem, I recognize my frustration with Manly actually comes from a place of jealousy. Because Manly, who will turn 95 next month, truly doesn’t care about using the right term for a specific item. Food is basically fuel to him and he wants to eat. To Manly, words are just words. But to me, in certain instances, they’re labels.

The first time labels became problematic to me, at least according to my memory, was back in the 1980s. My mother bought me a short-sleeved, striped Le TIGRE shirt and man, did I pitch a fit. Because, you see, I had to have an Izod.

I of course realize now what an entitled little brat I was and cringe at the memory. Yet that timeframe set the stage for countless more subtle instances of when I focused way too much on what something was called, or how it was presented. I bet too, that I missed out on quite a bit in the process. Professional opportunities I might have pursued. People who could have become friends. Music genres I might have embraced. The list goes on.

I’ve known Manly for more than 30 years and admired him from the start. But I could never be like him, and that’s OK. No one expects me to start calling pasta “noodles” after all this time (unless we’re actually talking about noodles). I do, though, see plenty of opportunities ahead, where I could focus more on what truly fulfills me and not worry about what to call it.

Image credit: Le TIGRE

When Band and Brand Thrive

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger.

The plan was to meet at Eddie’s Dive Bar before the concert and check out the merch display. That’s what my friend and I agreed to last night when we attended Iron’s Maiden sold-out show at the new Mystic Lake Amphitheater in Shakopee, Minnesota.

Now, I can bet that even if you haven’t listened to a single Iron Maiden song, or don’t believe you’ve even heard of the British metal band, you’re familiar with “Eddie.” He’s a sinewy, intricately drawn monster featured prominently on album covers and especially t-shirts worn, quite literally, all around the world. And Eddie was everywhere last night when my friend and I grabbed a table at Eddie’s Dive Bar (a temporary rebranding of a sports bar inside Mystic Lake Casino). On the can of a Laguintas Trooper West Cost IPA I was drinking. Emblazoned on a $20 coozie you could purchase at the merch stand. And multiple hoodies, t-shirts, and hats in between.

By the time I settled into my seat at the spiffy new stadium, I was thinking of Iron Maiden more as a marketing case study than an actual band. That changed, however, once Iron Maiden took the stage. Lead singer Bruce Dickinson, an insanely fit 68-year-old cancer survivor, tore into the opening number with a ferocity aided by a band that includes multiple original members, including bassist, founder and main songwriter Steve Harris. It truly never let up for the two-hour set.

Beyond the incredible musicality, I believe Iron Maiden’s secret weapon is their classy, cheeky and uniquely British touches. Before the lights go out at the start of every concert, they play UFO’s “Doctor Doctor” over the PA system, which sets the stage for what’s to come. Iron Maiden songs are typically long and almost prog-like, but not necessarily in a Yes or Peter Gabriel-era Genesis sort of way. The lyrics are dark and typically reference war, soldiers, death and destruction.

Yet throughout the entire show, Dickinson will engage the audience in positive, high energy stage banter that somehow comes across as authentic and not cheesy, which is difficult to pull off. He does it sparingly yet effectively, in a way that doesn’t detract from the music. Then, after the encore, when the lights come back on, you hear the Monty Python classic “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.”

There was something uniquely satisfying last night about exiting the arena, along with the predominately male, middle-aged crowd, most of us singing along. It was this shared sense we witnessed something special. And way more than a few had the merch to prove it.

A fan card handed out upon entry at last night’s Iron Maiden concert, complete with a QR code to download and win … wait for it, merch.

Still Picking Owies

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger.

I’ll tell anyone who will listen (and plenty who won’t) that every family member has a role to play. Since our kids were younger, I’ve served as the resident food taster, answering all the “Dad, this looks weird. Can I still eat it?” questions. I’ve also constantly been on what I call “gore detail,” handling various cuts, scrapes, abrasions and the like. The open secret, though, is that I always found it kind of fun.

So did our daughter Sasha. Back in February, 2013, when Sasha was six, I posted an early blog, “Picking Owies.” I detailed how after suffering a minor burn myself, I was reading to Sasha and while she sat on my lap, noticed a slightly painful yet not altogether unpleasant feeling on my arm.   I turned quickly as Sasha’s smile widened around the three fingers in her mouth.  “Sasha, what are you doing?” I asked.  “Keep reading, Daddy.  I’m just picking your owie.”

Part of me knew it was wrong.  But Sasha wasn’t doing any damage and if anything, her tiny fingers felt good against the pink, blistered skin.  “Ok, Sasha.  Just be careful.”

Of course, once you establish a pattern with kids there’s no turning back and at some point after another injury, once the bandage came off, Sasha was there, proactively asking to pick the owie.

Eventually, Sasha and I segued out of our “picking owies” stage but shared our admittedly perverse-but-fun love for gore. Every time Sasha received a minor injury biking, playing soccer or some other activity, she would immediately share it with me. And I would do the same on my end.

Now Sasha and her brother Ethan are off at college and let’s just say my wife Wendy doesn’t share my same fascination with gore. Yesterday, half a dead nail, the result of an injury earlier this summer that came after I fell chasing or dog Chuck, came off. The other half was still connected to my finger. I needed to tear it off and knew Sasha would get such a kick out of seeing me do it.

Sasha, though, was in St. Louis so I performed the task myself, quickly texting Sasha a photo of the raw, bloody result that I’ve since covered with a Band Aid. I told Sasha I wished she was there and I missed her and Ethan. The text thread helped me stay connected to her, as did a FaceTime Wendy and I had with Ethan a few hours later.

I closed the 2013 “Picking Owies” blog post by writing “My hope of course is that Sasha and Ethan’s physical and emotional owies remain minimal.  And that they always let me share in the healing, as well as the pain.”

I realize now, especially as I get older, that it literally and figuratively cuts both ways.

Just a Spoonful of Sugar Helps the Angst Go Down

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger.

Last night My wife Wendy and I attended one of the three sold-out concerts by the 1990s band Sugar, fronted by ex-Hüsker Dü singer and guitarist Bob Mould at Minneapolis’ iconic First Ave nightclub. Prior to leaving the house, we did our age-appropriate pre-show ritual. We made sure the outside lights were turned on and Chuck, the dog, was secure in his kennel. Then, knowing we’d be standing for three hours, we each took two Aleve – Wendy for her plantar fasciitis and me for my herniated disc.

As Wendy and I entered the darkened club, we weren’t at all surprised to see a largely grey, middle-aged and clearly GenX crowd. We found a spot near a wall that we could both lean against. And while we waited for the show to start, Wendy and I wondered how all these people our age could stand for so long.

The irony, though, is that nothing about last night seemed a tad bit nostalgic, which was driven home the second Mould, bassist David Barbe and drummer Malcom Travis took the stage. They rocked hard from the first note and Mould in particular, never stopped moving the entire show. Yet songs like “Helpless,” “A Good Idea,” “The Act We Act” and others, despite their familiarity, sounded fresh, different and dare I say, more adult.

As a singer, I wouldn’t say Bob Mould has a good voice in the way  Michael McDonald has a good voice. But he offers something deeper, more memorable in my book – a voice that instantaneously connotes empathy and emotion; you literally feel as though he is singing directly to you. And my sense, both from hearing Sugar both recorded and now live, is that almost every Sugar song conveys angst.

Last night, though, the angst felt joyous, almost as if there was a tacit acknowledgement between the audience and band. I know this might sound very GenX of me, but we were all there to prove to each other that we made it through and know that there is so much more to come. But we’ll carry on together, celebrating special moments like the one Sugar provided last night, and with the help of Aleve.

Image credit: Tony Nelson

Sugar and Spice and Everything Envy

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger.

If you’re reading this post and are one of those people excited that your preferred coffee shop now carries pumpkin spice-flavored beverages, then I’ve got to be honest with you: I’m more than a little envious. Because I love everything about autumn, my favorite season. Except pumpkin spice flavoring, which I just can’t get into.

My enjoyment of autumn extends beyond the surface elements. It’s based on this belief that I’m going to somehow gain some insight, dig deeper into my psyche or creative and intellectual soul, simply based on the season. Writing those words down makes me realize how unrealistic and pretentious they seem. Yet I can’t help but get caught up in the sense of possibility, of renewal, that autumn offers. Even if nothing ever actually materializes.

You see, I grew up in southeastern Connecticut – a part the country long associated with autumn – changing leaves, hayrides and bonfires; all of it. My hometown, Chester, actually wasn’t that different from Stars Hollow, the fictional town in the CW television series Gilmore Girls. Chester featured a meeting house complete with a gazebo, multiple quaint knickknack stores and plenty of quirky townspeople.

I’d bet, though, that the reality of living in Chester was much different than my romanticized, nostalgia-tinged memories. But why bother with inconvenient realities when you can embrace the idea of something.

Which is why I’m so envious of the pumpkin spice latte I imagine you drinking. And conjuring up images of autumn that are likely so much better than reality.

Image credit: Madeline Liu

Disruption-ruption, what’s your function?

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger.

My wife Wendy and I have been fortunate to celebrate the Labor Day Holiday weekend and, by our standards, sleep in a bit. We were commenting on how it will be hard adjusting to our typical work schedule. Then Wendy mentioned how we’d have to get up early again next Saturday for Rosh Hashanah services. I groaned inwardly. How could I forget?

I was all excited a few months back when I signed Wendy and me up for a 5K walk the morning of Saturday, Sept. 12 to support a nonprofit that holds a special place for us. Then, I realized after the fact that it conflicted with Rosh Hashanah. This incident was far from the first time the Jewish Holidays proved a disruptive force in my life.

I’ll just come out and say it: I think the upcoming Jewish Holidays I celebrate annually are a ginormous inconvenience. Occurring on different days each year, I find them disruptive and disorienting. And for me they illuminate a dark, uncomfortable otherness, an outside-looking-in feeling that I associate with my Jewish identity.

My attitude toward the Jewish High Holidays – Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, has been with me for some time, always simmering just below the surface. I grew up in Southeastern Connecticut and was always either “the” Jewish kid or among a handful. Sitting bored in temple on a beautiful Fall school day during my grade school years, I thought mostly of what I was missing out on.

Then, when I moved up to a brand new Middle School, I vividly recall that one of the Jewish Holidays occurred on the second day of school. My parents made the right decision that I go to temple with them and my younger brother. I still recall sitting there wondering about the locker chitchat and cafeteria seat placements happening without me.

I found the Jewish Holidays even more frustrating when I was in the thick of building my professional career. Sure, I’d send the pro forma email to clients and colleagues about being out the next day, not checking emails, etc. Of course, though, I’d sneak peaks and there was always that one email that I’d mentally chew on over and over again, when my brain should have been elsewhere.

Yet, despite all my selfish woe-is-me angst, every time I’m sitting in temple, I’ll reach this point of acceptance. I realize that everything I’m feeling – the intense pride mixed with shame, the FOMO, all of it, is part of my Jewish identity. I didn’t choose Judaism. It chose me and my Jewish identity will always be part of who I am. And I’m truly, yet begrudgingly thankful, for having the Jewish Holidays to drive that home each year.

Apples and honey, a Rosh Hashanah tradition. Image credit: ReformJudaism.org

Wrist Without a Face; Got No Human Grace

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger.

You know you’ve reached a certain point in the parenting journey when you start getting hand-me-downs from your kids. Our son Ethan had purchased an Apple Watch a few years back but eventually grew bored of it. He gave it to me and frankly, except for counting steps, I never saw much point to the watch.

Eventually, the Apple Watch began showing its age, constantly needing to be charged. I needed something a bit more durable, reliable. Fortunately, I had just the thing – my Casio G-SHOCK, which I purchased back in 2009.

I was quite young in 1983 when G-SHOCK watches were introduced and never had the resources to purchase one on my own. Like I imagine many people, I forgot about the watches until 2008, when Casio initiated a marketing campaign to celebrate the watch’s 25th anniversary. By that point, I was married, had two children, had passed the point of pretending to be what I wasn’t and just fine with who I was. The G-SHOCK represented my inner nerd that I could never fully cover and only eventually learned to embrace.

G-SHOCKs are big, clunky, ugly and not even remotely fashionable. Yet they, along with digital watches in general, speak to me in a unique way.

So, I started wearing my G-SHOCK again and immediately viewed it as a source of comfort akin to a rediscovered a childhood security blanket or stuffed animal. I also enjoyed getting knowing comments about the G-SHOCK from men of certain age – friends, colleagues, even a guy who came to repair our washer and dryer.

Unfortunately, though the S-SHOCK, like the Apple Watch, began showing its age. First, the plastic molding began cracking. Then the screws started loosening. And earlier today, the whole watch fell apart.

I immediately felt off, discombobulated, like something was missing.

“You’re being ridiculous,” I told myself. “Think of all the time you spend on your phone, or in front of your laptop, any given day. The time is constantly in front of you.”

But it’s just not the same as being on my wrist.

At some point in the near future, I’ll purchase another G-SHOCK. It’s certainly a nod to being at an age where I’m set in my ways. And also acknowledging that we never really grow out of needing that sense of security, something familiar that grounds, or like a wristwatch, guides us.

Pealing the Layers of Positivity

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger.

“OK, yesterday morning you needed to use the railing when you walked up the stairs; now you don’t. This morning will be much better.”

“Wow, I haven’t thought about my leg at all during the last 15 minutes. Let’s see if I can make it an hour.”

“I’ve kept to walking only one block with Wendy and Chuck the dog. If I can just do another block, that will be a major milestone.”

These are all samples of my internal dialogue over the past several weeks. In late July, a herniated disc in my back flared up, manifesting itself in my right leg. Since then, a combination of physical therapy, light exercise and stretching, and time itself is helping. I’m honestly still in pain but making progress. And I remind myself of this progress multiple times a day, with an internal dialogue that sounds very much like how I began this post.

Technically, I believe I’m practicing visualization.  Another term comes into my brain as well that’s been floating around in the zeitgeist on and off for some time – The Power of Positive Thinking, the title of a 1952 bestseller by Norman Vincent Peale. And I can’t help connecting it in our current President.

As was his father, who played prominently in his life, Donald Trump supposedly was a disciple of Norman Vincent Peale and The Power of Positive Thinking, even having Mr. Peale officiate at his first wedding. My admittedly limited understanding of Peale’s philosophy is that it largely involves visualizing success, or your ideal future, until you make it happen. Bankruptcies? The Access Hollywood tape? An election loss? Simply obstacles to overcome on the way to visualizing success.

Surely, though, my use of the thinking is different in that I’m using it for a more positive, worthy and less selfish objective. Yet I’m fully aware that President Trump has convinced himself that his own objectives are equally virtuous. At the end of the day, is there really much difference?

Wow, I certainly hope so!

While born and raised Jewish and proud of my heritage, I don’t consider myself a particularly religious or spiritual person. I do, though strongly believe that, especially as we age, we find ourselves in situations where we need to look toward something greater to guide us. This requires us, or in this case, me, to stick with what works for you.

Right now, I’m visualizing getting through an entire day and evening without any pain. Walking steadily without limping or leaning. Moving on to different exercises. I know that requires me staying in my lane, figuratively and, in some cases, literally. And not concerning myself with who else might be embracing the philosophy for their own ends.

Image credit: Amanda Jones

The Right Type of Concert

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger.

My wife Wendy and I had friends over for dinner this past Wednesday. After dinner, we were sitting on our deck discussing the upcoming weekend. Both our daughter Sasha and son Ethan, who just left home last week to head back to college, were coming home to see Australian multi-instrumentalist and singer Tame Impala (Kevin Parker). Sasha is a Tame Impala super-fan, and this would mark the first time they’d seen a concert together.

I was explaining to our friends how I viewed Ethan as more selective about the concerts he attended and shared an especially impactful analogy with me. Ethan is a longtime professional sports fan, especially football and basketball. He mentioned that he enjoyed sporting events more than concerts because of the unpredictability. You don’t know the outcome, how team members will play, if someone gets injured, Ethan explained. Whereas, he continued, when you attend a concert, you typically can locate the setlist in advance and know exactly what to expect.

“Hmm,” one of our friends said quickly after I shared that insight. “He’s probably not seeing the right type of concerts.”

It seems as though, a little more than 48 hours later, Ethan and Sasha had.

In a way, I feel like a hypocrite as I write this post as I’ve always prided myself on not being the type of parent who enjoys living vicariously through your kids. But as a lifelong music lover and concert goer since my teenage years, I took so much joy in watching the excitement both of our kids, especially Sasha, displayed in the buildup to the Tame Impala concert and basking in its aftermath.

Wendy and I picked up Ethan and Sasha last night in downtown Minneapolis after the concert and spent the whole ride home peppering them with questions. Then, when we got home, the four of us stood around our kitchen standing over both kids’ shoulders to watch the videos they’d taken on their phone. I personally put myself in the like-don’t-love category when it comes to Tame Impala but that’s beside the point. It was clear that Ethan and Sasha had experienced something special.

That became even clearer earlier today when our family was driving Sasha to the airport for her return flight to St. Louis. Both kids were noting how the Tame Impala songs they’d heard countless times before sounded different live. And how certain song lyrics resonated deeply in a way they’d never experienced before.

I can actually hear the 2020 Tame Impala song “Is It True” coming from down the hall as I wrap up this post. Ethan’s listening to it in his bedroom. My sense is he’s hearing the song in a way that wasn’t possible a day earlier. If he and Sasha hadn’t been fortunate enough to have seen the right type of concert.

Kevin Parker (aka Tame Impala) at the Target Center, Minneapolis. Image credit: Alex Kormann/The Minnesota Star Tribune.