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.

I’m Back on Insufferable City

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

I’ve never been the type of person to rewatch shows. Now, to qualify, there are episodes of “Modern Family,” “The Office,” and other family favorites that I’ve seen bits and pieces, or most of, multiple times. I’m referring, though, to deliberately re-watching a series.

That’s why it’s been such a pleasant surprise to find re-watching HBO’s “Girls,” which ran from 2012-2017, with my wife Wendy and daughter Sasha, such an enjoyable and dare I say, insightful experience.

Wendy and I actually watched Girls when it first premiered and I do recall the two of us laughing quite a bit. I also recall that we stopped watching after a season or two. My recollection is that we attributed it to two reasons: it seemed like the same episode over and over again and all the featured characters were positively insufferable.

If you’re reading this post and unfamiliar with the show, Girls, created by and starring Lena Dunham, centers around a series of young people in their 20s finding their way personally and professionally in New York City. Girls launched the career of Adam Driver, who plays the on-again-off-again love interest to Dunham’s Hannah. It’s also, based on my recollection, one of the first times that the “Millennial” generation became part of our zeitgeist.

Speaking of zeitgeist, Girls and Lena Dunham had largely fallen off my radar during these intervening years. I had vague recollections of Dunham’s significant health challenges and a series of problematic statements. Then, this past May, our daughter Sasha came home for the summer after her first year at college and suggested we watch it. Wendy and Sasha watched a season or two together and then I joined in, seizing on the quality time opportunity. Then I quickly became hooked.

It’s hard to tell what changed my mindset. All the characters are as insufferable as I remember them – vain, self-absorbed, lazy and often times, just downright horrible people. Yet I find myself somehow able to overlook these aspects and appreciate the show’s artistic elements.

Controversies aside, Lena Dunham, who also wrote and directed many episodes, is a unique talent. The acting is top-notch and the show includes almost countless appearances by emerging and established actors and entertainers spanning Marc Maron, Danny Glover, Matthew Rhys and Tracey Ullman, among so many others. Episodes feature multiple popular culture references and homages to movies like The Shining and Pretty Woman, along with a genre-spanning soundtrack.

Yet beyond its artistic elements, there’s something very endearing about Girls that I didn’t notice all those years back. The reality is that I’ve aged to the point where, on paper, the characters in Girls could be Wendy and my kids (G-d forbid!). But what’s more resonant is that our daughter Sasha and son Ethan are getting closer to the age of the characters in Girls. They’re almost at that point of finding yourself, making plenty of decisions that don’t always go your way and believing you’re so much more mature and worldly than you actually are.

My instinct is that beyond Girls, I won’t do much more re-watching of shows. Yet I do believe I have a newfound appreciation for what entertainment offerings do age well over the years. Lena Dunham, despite all her flaws, created something culturally enduring with Girls that I’ll always associate with this point in our family’s journey.

Lena Dunham as Hannah Horvath in Girls. Image credit: HBO

The Shrinking Distance Between

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

“Seriously???” I thought to myself. “You have to be kidding me.”

Last night, prompted by a relative’s suggestion, our entire family – my wife Wendy, son Ethan and daughter Sasha and I attended Fridy night services at Temple Israel. We were getting ready to enter the sanctuary but were held up by an elderly couple, both using canes. Now, to be clear, we weren’t held up in the sense that they were walking too slowly. But they were standing there talking to the volunteers stationed at the door, blocking the entryway so we couldn’t get in.

Truthfully, though, I was more annoyed than usual because my right leg was throbbing and I couldn’t wait to sit down. Also, I realized, certainly not for the first time during these last couple of weeks, that even though this elderly couple were easily 30-plus years my senior , not much truly separated me from them.

Earlier this year, I was diagnosed with a herniated disc in my lower back, causing me significant pain in my right leg, that after a several month reprieve, came roaring back. I’ve been going to PT, icing, stretching and following all instructions and orders. Progress, though, has been slow going.

I can fortunately can still  do all I need to on any given day, but my mobility is significantly impacted. When I take our new dog, Chuck for a walk, it’s Wendy holding Chuck’s leash and me hobbling along next to her. During grocery store and Costco runs, I admittedly rely on the shopping cart as a quasi-crutch. My energy level gets depleted quickly and for someone blessedly active like me, I’ve had to retrain myself to, as my physical therapist put it yesterday, “help your back calm itself down.”

Of course, pretty much every time I leave my house, I see people dealing with some form of physical ailment. I zero in on what type of assistance they’re using, whether it’s a cane, walker, or scooter. During these encounters, I feel a unique mix of empathy and fear because I realize that the proverbial distance between them and me is small. And shrinking fast.

The reality of course is that these people have always been there. I just never truly stopped and noticed them.

I of course want nothing more than my leg to heal and get back to how things were before. Yet, and I understand this might seem a little woo-woo, “before” doesn’t mean the same thing to me as I did a couple of weeks back. I need to change how I exercise, how I stretch, the amount of time I sit versus stand, until I get to the point where I get into a new routine. And it’s on me to make sure that this new routine includes ongoing and more sincere and contextual empathy.

On Deck

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

When my wife Wendy and I purchased our house some years back, its large deck was a key selling point.  Extending off sliding glass doors from the living/dining room, it covered the entire back of the house.  The deck featured space for a grill, table and chairs and plenty of room for lounging.  It was appropriately sturdy for children who had yet been born.

We moved in with the best intentions for the deck, which we would christen the following spring.  Reading the paper together while enjoying coffee and bagels, becoming engrossed in a good novel or just hanging out with friends or each other were sure to become regular occurrences.  And all of those things happened with some degree of regularity.  They just didn’t happen on the deck.

To this day I’m not exactly sure why.  The deck certainly remained in the same place, as accessible as ever.  Maybe it just never felt right.  Quite possibly, as it so often happens, the idea existed in a parallel universe from reality.

Last night, though, our family had dinner on our deck for the first time all summer and it was something special.  Our son Ethan, who had returned home from Washington, DC earlier that afternoon, where he’d been on a series of Congressional internships since January, was with us, along with our daughter Sasha and two of their camp friends. We ate pizza and had a really enjoyable evening, and I felt guilty for all the times I rolled my eyes when seeing social media posts of recent empty nesters commenting how their “hearts were full” when their children returned home, even for a brief timeframe.

As we were eating, I first thought to myself what a shame it was that we hadn’t appropriately utilized the deck during the summer. Yet the thought immediately dissipated. Because I realized what mattered was this particular evening.

Then I thought back to all the meaningful activity our deck had seen throughout the years. That time in April 2020, at the height of COVID lockdown, when I was complaining about my burgeoning Jewfro and Sasha suggested I shave my head. So, she ran off to grab my electric razor and then we went out the deck, where she proceeded to shear off every follicle. What the heck; it killed time.

I thought about all the neighbors and friends we’d had over on the deck for dinner, drinks or late evening conversations. The as-of-now three family dogs that have graced the deck. Different grills and the meals – some successful, others not, prepared on them.

If you’ve read along this far, my sense is that you can relate to the temporal nature of summer, especially if, like me, you life in Minnesota where, meteorologically speaking, you’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Yet I’ve found the best way to make sense of summer, especially as it nears the end, is to think of it like our deck. Instead of focusing on all that didn’t happen, stop and appreciate all that did.

Getting a Leg Up on My Misunderstandings

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

Late last fall, my lower leg started hurting; a dull ache at first that quickly became worse. An MRI diagnosed a herniated disc in my lower back. A cortisone shot and physical therapy followed and fortunately I had pain-free spring and summer.

Unfortunately, my leg began again hurting late last week and I’ve been experiencing significant pain. My first PT session was yesterday, and I have a cortisone shot scheduled for this afternoon, with more PT to follow. I’m doing what I need to do and trying to be patient, which is far from my strong suit.

For an active, routine-driven, and yes, incredibly stubborn person like me, the last several days have been hard. Walking is often tough, let alone exercising. I can’t take our new dog, Chuck, for walks with my wife Wendy. I’m learning to let Wendy and other family members help me with things and not insist on doing them myself.

Yet thought this whole process, I try, multiple times a day, in fact, to frame my situation within a larger context. Countless people are facing situations immeasurably worse than I could possibly imagine. Plus, judging by the crowd where I had my PT session yesterday, back and leg troubles are exceedingly common. Right off the top of my head, I can think of people I know who’ve even had back surgeries.

Yet all that thinking dissipates the second my leg starts throbbing. I zero in on my own situation. And, as much as I don’t’ want to admit it, I veer into feeling sorry for myself.

One upside of this experience, if you can call it that, is that it’s made me rethink my views on the related terms capacity and threshold. Capacity to me has always been the more ethereal of the two and I have connected it with maturity. I’ll tell myself I have more or less capacity to deal with a certain issue than I did in the past, convincing myself it’s because of age and wisdom.

Threshold, on the other hand, is more visceral and has been very top of mind as I’ve been dealing with my leg. You see, I’ve always prided myself on having a high pain threshold, which increases my frustration level when my leg starts hurting. Because I’ve convinced myself I should be able to handle whatever pain comes my way.

But, of course, now I realize my views on capacity and threshold were utter nonsense. When I was using the word capacity, wasn’t it just a more verbose cop-out – a way of saying I didn’t want to deal with a particular situation? And threshold – hogwash! Who am I to arbitrarily decide I’m some kind of badass with a high pain threshold? What pain have I actually faced?

I of course want nothing more than my leg to get better and my life and routine to go back to what passed for normal. These thoughts and emotions I’m having right now, G-d willing, will more likely than not fade into the background. Which is why I’m taking the time to document them.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop thinking in terms of capacity and threshold; it’s baked in. But I know, and I hope this post reminds you, that whatever we think these terms mean to us will undoubtedly change. I truly believe our lives are defined by experience and circumstance. Everything else is how we choose to make sense of it all.

Strengthening Bonds in The Days Between

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

Yesterday, while running errands, I listened to a fascinating NPR Music podcast episode, “What’s next for the Grateful Dead’s legacy?” that detailed the band’s enduring, multi-generational appeal. And I learned that, for Grateful Dead fans, this period of time from August 1 (Jerry Garcia’s birthday) to August 9 (the anniversary of his death) is known as “The Days Between.”

Later that morning, I sent the podcast link separately to two Deadhead friends; one a Millennial; the other a young Boomer. Both responded quickly. I scheduled a Happy Hour with one friend for later in the month. The other, who I just had coffee with recently, shared photos of a 1973 VW microbus he and a friend were traveling in to Denver over Labor Day weekend to see three Phish shows. I noted how on brand their transportation mode was and wished them safe travels.

The podcast episode, and the text exchanges it inspired, weren’t isolated incidents. While not a Deadhead per se, I truly value how often the Grateful Dead help me establish and maintain, enduring, enriching friendships.

Last June, our family had to say goodbye to our beloved dog Astro. He led a long life and had been struggling with health issues. Nonetheless, losing him was absolutely gut-wrenching, and I still think of him constantly, as does the rest of our family.

The Millennial Deadhead friend I referred to earlier texted me the day Astro left us, sending his condolences. “Dogs have this amazing way of becoming a huge part of our lives despite being with us for a short time,” he texted. Then he went on to quote a lyric from “Box of Rain” – “Such a long, long time to be gone and a short time to be there.”

This friend, who I’ve seen several concerts with, knew “Box of Rain” was my favorite Dead song (I also love “Pride of Cucamonga” and wish Phil Lesh sang lead on more songs). That particular quote summed up exactly how my family and I felt. It comforted us when we needed it.

Then, this past June, a little less than a year after Astro’s passing, the same Deadhead friend texted me and said he and his wife were seeing harpist Mikaela Davis perform the next evening at 7^th St. Entry, the smaller venue adjacent to the iconic First Avenue in downtown Minneapolis. Davis, you see has been widely embraced by the Deadhead community for her cover of the Grateful Dead’s “Morning Dew.” The idea of seeing a concert, by a harpist no less, on summer weeknight, was too good to pass up and I quickly snagged tickets for my wife Wendy, daughter, Sasha and me.

I introduced my friend and his wife to Wendy and Sasha as soon as we entered the club. Then, the five of us settled into an optimal viewing spot for the opening act. As more people started entering the fast-filling club, I noticed a familiar face in the darkness. It was my Boomer Deadhead friend, who had met my Millennial Deadhead friend when the three of us, and two others attended a Ghost concert back in 2022.

Mikaela Davis’s set was truly incredible. Put it this way; take everything you’ve ever thought about the harp as an instrument and toss it aside. Yet, like all live performances, it was the crowd that made it special. Boomers. GenXers. Millennials. Generation Z like our daughter. Forming a community bonded by a love for music. I believe that sense of community is the Grateful Dead’s true legacy. And I have every expectation it’s with us for good.

Image credit: The Grateful Dead

Everybody’s Smoking, And Everyone’s Getting High

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

“Holy cow; there are a lot of smoke shops,” Manly, my wife Wendy’s 94-year-old father said, this past February. Wendy, Manly and I were driving through Alabama on the way to Miami’s South Beach and were on a series of two-lane highways in between interstate stretches. And he was right;  everywhere you looked you saw smoke shops and dispensaries interspersed with the various fast food and hotel chains you typically see on road trips.

There’s something else I’ve noticed during the past year or so. I see it in movies and television shows, on social media and IRL, as the kids say. People, especially those in their late teens and early twenties, smoking real, old school paper cigarettes.

To paraphrase the late, great John Lennon: “Everybody’s smoking, and everyone’s getting high.

And the thing is; I’m not remotely surprised.

When I was growing up during the late 1980’s, scare tactics seemed to be the way to get kids to avoid cigarettes and marijuana. Cigarettes are of course deadly, and marijuana was positioned very much as a “gateway drug” that would turn your life into a Requiem for a Dream-like hell. But did the scare tactics work when were younger?

Not exactly. Because when you’re young, you don’t think about “old people” consequences like all the horrible ailments associated with smoking. And you don’t believe addiction will ever actually affect you or someone you love. Until it does, of course.

For young people today, I imagine this feeling of defiance and indestructibility is juxtaposed against a pervasive existential fear and nihilism. Climate change. AI. Oh, and let’s not even talk about our current political situation.

Having said all that, I’d like to close this post out on a positive note. I truly believe that everything is cyclical and without sounding trite, things truly will get better. Young people, and I say this from the vantage point of a parent to a 19 and 21-year-old, will experiment and be drawn to things they know inherently are bad for them. Most, ideally, will learn by the errors of their ways. They’ll also learn that people are always seeking a way to escape. It’s just on us to find the ones that work best for us without hurting ourselves and others in the process.

Image credit: Pascal Meier

Fright Done Right

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

Few things give me greater satisfaction than a rabbit hole that keeps presenting enjoyable opportunities. This past spring, I read a cheesy but fun Horror novel, The Forbidden Zone, by Whitley Strieber. The book was dedicated to H.P. Lovecraft, a pulp writer from the early 20^th Century who created the “Cosmic Horror” subgenre, full of mysterious texts, tentacled, scaly creatures and ancient legends that never fully recede. Then I read The Fisherman, by John Langan, an excellent 2016 novel that will be adapted into a film. The Fisherman too is heavily indebted to H.P. Lovecraft but is a much more literary novel than The Forbidden Zone, with quite a bit to say about male friendship and how we process grief.

Around this time, our family heard of a new Netflix television series, The Boroughs, created by The Duffer Brothers, the team behind the Lovecraft-influenced and 80’s nostalgic Stranger Things. I frankly considered the handful of Stranger Things episodes I saw as a bit meh but was sold on The Boroughs once I learned it starred the always-great Alfred Molina. Plus, it’s premise of a retirement community residents facing what sounded like a series of cosmic horrors was right up my alley.

Ultimately, my wife Wendy, daughter, Sasha and I made it through two episodes of The Boroughs. The series boasts an impressive cast of always solid performers, including, in addition to Molina, Geena Davis, Ed Begley Jr. and Bill Pullman. But each of their respective characters were cliched to the point of being cartoonish; the plotlines clunky and scary moments presented as downright silly. The Boroughs was cancelled after one season.

Suffice it to say, I was a tad bit trepidatious when Wendy and I sat down to watch Widow’s Bay, a new comedy horror series on Apple TV that also featured supernatural, Lovecraftian elements and wove in nostalgia. But from the very first episode, I was hooked. Like The Boroughs, Widow’s Bay features a strong cast, including Matthew Rhys as the lead, Stephen Root (the stapler guy from Office Space) and Kate O’Flynn, who I believe is the series MVP. But fortunately that’s where the similarities end.

Widow’s Bay is set in a fictional New England town haunted by its troublesome past and troublesome residents. Now, I get on the surface that sounds entirely unoriginal, but Widow’s Bay somehow manages to take well-worn tropes and take them into an entirely new direction. The characters are concurrently outlandish and entirely relatable, and the nostalgic elements have an artful, easter egg quality, including homages to Carrie, Jaws and Psycho.

I’m far from alone in enjoying Widow’s Bay. Apple TV renewed the show for a second season. And just last week, Widow’s Bay received 19 Emmy nominations, including Acting nominations for Rhys, Root, O’Flynn and other cast members.

It’s almost mid-July as I write this post and I, like you, have that second-half-of-summer feeling. It’s time to savior those small things that bring us joy. If you’re looking for a different kind of beach read, check out The Fisherman. And if there was an entertainment category known as a “beach show,” I bet it would look quite a bit like Widow’s Bay.

Kate O’Flynn as Patricia in Widow’s Bay

Then I Saw the Berries; I’m a Believer

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

Let me just get this part out of the way; I’m a snob and have been one most of my life. It’s one of the traits I like least about myself and try to be aware of it. Yet I constantly spend way more emotional energy than I should focusing on how things seem.

Which is why I’ve always looked down my nose at the grocery store chain Aldi. I’ve been an on-and-off Trader Joe’s shopper for years and get it’s pretty much the same company. Yet my perception of Aldi, reinforced by very limited in-store experiences, has always been marked by a sense of ick. The presentation of items in the store appeared scattershot, haphazard. To use a word common among our Gen Z kids, everything seemed jank.

Interesting, though, how age and maturity, combined with the insane price of everyday items, can serve as an antidote to snobbery.

Last weekend, my wife Wendy and I were running a series of errands while listening to an episode of The Daily featuring an interview with comedian Robby Hoffman, who is having a well-deserved moment. Hoffman, who grew up poor, was explaining how the way she perceived the value of money hadn’t changed now that she has much more of it. She used the price of berries as an example, saying there was no way she would spend $9 for a small package, even though she could.

The next day, I was on my weekly Sunday grocery run, where I visit a more upscale chain to pick up fruits and vegetables, plus cold cuts, that I perceive (emphasis) as superior to the store where I do our Saturday shopping for basic items. I began in the free produce section and; wouldn’t you know it; the berries were pretty darned close to $9. “That’s it,” I told myself. After picking up cold cuts and a few other items, I drove, literally next door, to Aldi’s, where the blueberries and blackberries were less than $3 a package.

Now, if you’re reading this post and frequent any type of chain, you know that each one has a completely unique system. Aldi’s of course is no different and I felt a bit self-conscious navigating it. Yet the rush of excitement I gained from saving a decent chunk of money helped me overcome my discomfort.

I picked up a couple more items earlier today, in addition to the berries, when I visited Aldi’s for the second consecutive week. Berry season is a brief one and, come Autumn, Wendy and I will be back to a more apple-centric fruit consumption.  It will be on me to find other opportunities to chisel away at our grocery bill. And my ongoing snobbery.

Image credit: Adobe Stock/Allrecipes