Why I Hate Surprises

I received an e-mail earlier this week that set me off. It was from someone in my sphere who I respect and like. We were in the midst of an exchange and they told me they had some good news but that they would tell me tomorrow. Well tomorrow came and I politely told this person that while they had no way of knowing, I really disliked surprises. If they had something to tell me, then they should tell me.  If they wanted to wait to tell me, fine; just don’t tell me. We shared a good laugh.

I suppose when I was younger I likely viewed surprises as a good thing. If you were fortunate enough, you looked forward to birthday parties, wondering what type of presents you would receive. You counted down the days until relatives you hadn’t seen for quite some time paid you a visit, naturally wondering all the while what they would bring you. And each school year brought new teachers, new classmates; sometimes even an entire new building.

Come to think of it, at least in my life, this feeling of newness extended into my mid-Twenties. I met a woman, who I eventually married, and fell in love. We moved halfway across the country and began a new life together. And maybe as we settled down, began to plan a family, well, then I didn’t see surprises in quite the same way.

As I began taking more responsibility on in my personal and professional life, I actually began loathing surprises. We’ve had a few bad quarters and layoffs loom. Surprise! Your furnace is broken. Surprise!  Plus, all the inevitable personal, financial and health challenges that you either experience personally or via osmosis when they impact someone close to you. When I was growing up, I used to get annoyed when I’d hear adults  say “Nothing surprises me anymore” as I felt it was akin to throwing in the towel. But as I grew older I realized that expression translated into a valid defense mechanism. The dirty truth is that more often than not surprises truly suck. Yet you still have to deal with them once they occur.

As time passed, I found myself craving normalcy and routine. I used to think the word “boring” was a pejorative. Now I embrace it. If boring connotes healthy, well-adjusted, personally and professionally satisfied, well then bring on boring. Truckloads of it.

I also am lucky in that I get to experience surprises vicariously through our children. Ethan and Sasha still embrace newness, as they should. It might be that look in Sasha’s eyes  or the tilt in her head, when she “gets” a book she’s been reading. Or when Ethan performs with the choir and rises above the first night jitters to gain experience and confident. They are in the prime of that time period when surprises, G-d willing, tend to be good. And I hope they savor every one.

And, of course, all is not bleak for us adults; as with anything, there is a notable exception to my “I hate surprises” mantra. We recently learned that people we know are expecting their first child; they will make great parents. Wendy and I asked if they were going to find out the sex of the child. They weren’t, and neither did Wendy and I.

Like many of you who have been through it, I will never forget the experience of seeing a healthy child come into this world. On two separate occasions, I was fortunate to be wonderfully surprised. And those surprises were more than enough to sustain me.

The Hardest Person To Forgive

Our family spent this past Sunday afternoon at a neighborhood pool and had a blast going down the large water slide on inner tubes. After one particular run, Ethan, after a playful exchange with me, smacked me very hard with his inner tube. In a rather unpleasant spot.

I’d say the worst part about it is I wanted that release, to swear and grab him (he didn’t have a shirt on so that might have been hard) and verbally let him have it. But there were people around so I had to contend with leaning into his face and grunt-whispering at him. About how he needs to be more careful and respectful; considerate to others. Ethan stormed off in tears.

After letting Ethan stew for the appropriate amount of time, I located him in another area of the pool, sulking. I made him look me in the eyes and he again started crying. Ethan told me how he knew I was angry and was afraid I wouldn’t forgive him. I explained to him that if one seeks forgiveness, it helps if they express remorse, seek an apology. Hugging his wet, now hunched shoulders, I also used the opportunity to tell Ethan that I would always forgive him, no matter what. “So easy to tell a 10-year-old,” I thought to myself.

We managed to get through the rest of the afternoon and dinner without incident. Prior to bedtime, Ethan and Sasha had a heated dispute over the shower schedule, which infringed upon Full House viewing. Ethan said some things about his sister that he surely didn’t mean.  Trying to maintain an even keel, I provided a little reminder about forgiveness. Mumbled apologies were exchanged and both kids went off to a clearly needed bedtime.

Later that night and the next morning during a particularly dreary run, I considered the concept of forgiveness and realized I neglected to tell Ethan the hardest part: learning how to forgive yourself. About what happens when there is no more apologizing to do, and the incident is forgotten by everyone. Except you.

Just a few days earlier I had written a post about how specific foods, music, television shows and the like conjure up certain events and people we’d rather forget. I still feel the same way about everything I wrote. But I realize, upon further reflection, that this form of avoidance is also taking the easy way out. The truth is there are plenty of times where I’d rather change the channel than think through how I might have been complicit in an unpleasant situation. Or actually take the time to forgive myself.

The reality, of course, is that there will be plenty of other occasions where Ethan will need to seek the forgiveness from, and forgive, others. He also will, before too long, be faced with the prospect of forgiving himself. Maybe he’ll share with me how it goes.

 

 

Listening, But Not Hearing

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

Attempting to provide context for his dark journey into substance abuse, Eric Clapton admitted that he mistakenly used drugs and alcohol to channel his musical heroes. He knew that as a white Brit he would never gain the same life experiences as the Mississippi Delta bluesmen he idolized. But he justified that the pain he was causing himself and those close to him was making the  music he created possible.

I too have found a way to channel my artistic heroes and although much healthier, it’s no less misguided: listening to Classical music.

Since stumbling upon a Washington Post profile on him 20 years ago, I have been a big fan of the James Ellroy, most widely known as the author of LA Confidential. James Ellroy is an eccentric figure who, similar to the singer Morrissey, leaves very little daylight between the person and the persona. He lives without a television or cellphone and writes his densely plotted, multiple character books in pen on white-lined paper. And he listens to classical music.

Throughout the years, while I am reading an Ellroy book or collection of articles, I use it as an excuse to listen to classical music. It might sound dorky but my thought is that by listening to Beethoven, Rachmaninoff or Brahms, as Ellroy does, it will somehow enable me to vicariously experience his creative process. I also hope that the listening will help me understand a music genre that has continued to beguile me.

You see, no matter how much I listen to classical music, I never seem to hear it. I can listen to one of our myriad local stations, hear a song I’ve never heard before and immediately get pulled in (or repelled) by a guitar riff, vocal or chorus. If someone was describing new music to me and said a band had a “garage-ey, early Stones feel” or a certain song featured a “Quincy Jones-esque production style,”  I would have an accurate sense of the song before I even heard it. Yet much of classical music sounds largely similar to me.

The thing is, I want to like, to appreciate classical music. I know from cultural osmosis that it has such a rich, fascinating history.  I also know that the same emotions – joy, love, jealousy, passion – that inspire modern music also drove the creation of symphonies, concertos and other terms that I barely understand. It’s just that I wish I could feel it, in addition to hear it.

But, based on the past once I read the last page of an Ellroy book and turn my attention to other authors, I too will move on to other genres and figuratively put Classical music aside. Until the next time I attempt to crack its proverbial code. Yet recognizing, in some recesses of my brain, that I never will.

 

Image credit: musicgateway.com

Sorry, Iowa and New Hampshire (Actually, I’m Not)

Editorial Note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger

You know, it’s funny; for a President whose term in office is almost universally viewed as unsuccessful, Jimmy Carter’s path to the office sure is emulated quite a bit. Back in 1975, Jimmy Carter had very little name recognition outside of the South and ran his campaign on a shoestring budget. So he spent quite a bit of time in Iowa, getting to know voters. He carried his own bags, stayed in modest hotels and gradually propelled his way to the nomination.

Recent years have seen a diverse cast of characters, from Pat Robertson and Pat Buchanan, to Mike Huckabee and Jerry Brown, try this approach in Iowa and New Hampshire, the first two states to vote in the Presidential primary season. They spend, depending upon the state, quite a bit of time in cornfields, Rotary club luncheons where they are introduced by ruddy cheeked local titans of industry and classrooms, lots of classrooms, not to mention the various fast food stops to show that they’re just like us.

Yet in recent primary seasons I would find myself growing increasingly annoyed at what I perceived to be the outsize influence of Iowa and New Hampshire in the Presidential nominating process.  Why, after all, should a fringe percentage of two states whose demographic makeups are not representative of today’s United States get to have so much power while the rest of us sit back and watch? There had to be a better way to choose a President, I figured.

There is, and we’re starting to see it emerging during the last several months. Given the available social media channels and always plugged-in culture, Presidential candidates have no choice but to run a national campaign.  In the past, candidates would be largely confined to Iowa and New Hampshire, with their every move covered by the local press and national Big Three networks and cable news channels. But this year, much more so than 2012, all the action has happened via the free-for-all debates and subsequent social media chatter.

Now if you’re reading this post and happen to live in Iowa or New Hampshire, please don’t worry. I hope you enjoy your moment in the sun. Media will be in abundance and hotel rooms will be filled. But my sense is that neither state will influence the nominating process in the same way each once did.

Now it seems that what our teachers have been telling us for all these years has finally come to pass: we are in charge; we elect Presidents. The campaign is being played out right in front of our eyes and we just need to click, share, comment, use the right hashtag and when the dust settles, there is a good chance we’ll have the President we want.  It seems as though us citizens, even those of us outside of Iowa and New Hampshire, have finally reclaimed the Presidential nominating process.

As they say, be careful what you wish for.

 

 

The Guava Juice Effect

Wendy and I had the chance to visit Maui together exactly nine years ago this month. Our first morning there we had a buffet breakfast on the patio of the hotel where we were staying.  I tried guava juice for the very first time. Sitting there with the glass in my hand, looking out at the Pacific ocean and swaying palm trees, I savored the sweet nectar. I couldn’t wait to buy guava juice at the grocery store once we returned to Minneapolis.

Of course I never did. In fact, I don’t think I drank guava juice ever again, not even during our remaining time in Hawaii. Because I knew I would never be able to separate guava juice from that particular moment. My surroundings, my state of mind and of course my company influenced my perception. No other tasting of guava juice would ever come close.

I relayed this story to Sasha the other night at dinner, prompted by her telling Wendy and me that she had tasted the most delicious meatloaf earlier that day at camp. I reminded Sasha that we’ve attempted meatloaf several times – first turkey and then ground beef, to limited success. “No, Daddy; this was different,” she tried convincing me.  “It had ketchup cooked inside it.” I tried explaining to Sasha that there was very little variance in meatloaf recipes and, much as the guava juice example, the meatloaf was simply an amalgamation (I used another word) of her experience. Sasha really wasn’t enjoying what I surmised to be a few household ingredients. She instead was associating the meatloaf with the experience of camp – newness, camaraderie; a break in routine.

I wanted to tell Sasha that what I thought of as “the guava juice effect” also has a dark side.  All of you reading this post likely have a song, movie, book, food or other item that you associate with an unpleasant experience. I personally have a whole range of songs from throughout the years that I refuse to listen to, despite regularly coming across them on a car radio or iPod shuffle. They remind me of people, places or situations that I’d rather forget. It’s too bad because in most of these instances I really liked the song at one time. I’m just not convinced I will ever be ever to hear it with a fresh set of ears.

I also wanted to explain to Sasha how quickly places lose their identify and associations, much in the same way a phone can be easily erased. Some day, for example, Sasha will visit parks she played at, schools she attended, houses or apartments in which she lived. But they will just seem like places and she will wonder if the associated memories really did in fact happen.

But I kept all of that to myself.  I figured I was better off letting Sasha find it all out on her own, on her own time. Meanwhile, let her enjoy meatloaf. At least the kind made at camp.

Franklin’s Power

Noted Renaissance Man Benjamin Franklin is largely credited with conducting experiments during the mid-1700’s that led to the discovery of electricity. Needless to say, this discovery still holds tremendous power over our daily lives. And I was reminded of just how much during a 13-hour period this past weekend.

2:00-5:00 a.m. Saturday, July 18
“Daddy, it’s dark and it’s loud!” Sasha exclaimed, breathlessly, after waking me up. We were in the midst of a thunderstorm and I quickly brought her to the couch after shutting our bedroom door. Ethan joined us a few minutes later. I didn’t see the digital clock reading on the microwave and knew exactly what happened. But I decide to hold off on saying anything. My ruse is exposed in under 10 minutes when the first kid tells me they need to use the bathroom.

5:00-9:00 a.m.
I have a huge caffeine headache and feel clammy. Wendy is now awake and sits on the couch, staring forlornly along with the rest of us. The kids read books with their flashlight and come up with reasons to search for things in the house so they can use the light feature on my iPhone. I pretend to read my Kindle to pass the time. Eventually, I scrape coffee grounds out of our grinder and pour hot tap water into a French press. It tastes just like you’d imagine.

9:00-11:00 a.m.
I have Sasha hold a flashlight next to my face as I insert my contact lenses, then after showers in the dark, we head to Caribou and Bruegger’s. Both places are packed with temporarily refugees like ourselves. On the way home in the car, Ethan at first gamely states that experiencing a lack of power is a way to learn what it was like during “olden times.” Then in the next breath adds that back in the day people didn’t know what an iPad was and what streaming meant; the poor saps didn’t know what they were missing. I’m very proud of his sound logic.

We go home and our family fills three huge bags with errant sticks that had fallen throughout the night. Somehow, despite a full stomach and appropriately caffeinated bloodstream, I feel the most miserable and wonder how we’re going to fill what I’m convinced is going to be an electricity-free weekend. I’m pissy with the kids and Wendy. This sucks and it’s not even noon.

11:00 a.m.-3:00 p.m.
After cleanup Wendy and I ask the kids what they want to do and they both request swimming at the Y. I quickly assent and I wonder if the kids realize I would have said “Yes” to just about anything. While the kids splash in the pool, Wendy and I try to get comfortable on a wooden bench. It quickly dawns on us that we managed to pick the hottest indoor space in Minneapolis to while away the hours.

After the Y we drive to get frozen yogurt and I patiently field Ethan’s future activity- and dining-related questions with a flat “It all depends, Buddy” response. On the way home from yogurt, Wendy notices that an heretofore darkened traffic light a mile from our house is now working. We drive the rest of the way on pins and needles.  Then, we hear the sweetest sound of all – the wonderful clanking of machinery kicking into gear – of a garage door opening.

We collectively rush inside and, after letting the dog out, charge all our electronics. Sasha curls up on the couch and Ethan disappears into his room. I naturally start retroactively having “It wasn’t so bad after all” thoughts and chiding myself for being so tethered to my cushy, modern existence. So what if the power was out for another night.  It would give me an opportunity to put Benjamin’s Franklin’s “Early to bed…” adage to the test. But then again, if Mr. Franklin had air conditioning and the last two episodes of “Orange is the New Black,” I bet he’d delay his bedtime as well.

 

 

 

 

Truer Detectives

It wouldn’t be so frustrating if the first season hadn’t been so good.  But each Sunday evening, or the following Friday, if we DVR it, Wendy and I sit down to watch the second season of the HBO series True Detective.  And after each viewing we become more and more confused, not to mention underwhelmed.

What made the first season so good, besides the undeniable chemistry of co-stars Matthew McConaughey and Woody Harrelson, was that despite the multiple plot lines and twists and turns, the story held together right up to the intense end. Further, while the show was undoubtedly dark, it existed just under the surface and then seeped out until it reached a boiling point.

The second season, by comparison, stacks byzantine plots and subplots on top of each other to the point where it’s almost impossible to follow along with the action. Supporting characters are overdone to the point where they’re practically wearing “Sketchy Politician,” “Creepy Villain” and “Don’t Bother Getting to Know Me Because I’ll Get Iced In Next Week’s Episode” placards. And while Colin Farrell turns in an impressive performance and Taylor Kitsch proves he’s more than a pretty face, Vince Vaughn struggles to prove convincing as a bad guy.

But all, as they say, is not lost.  If you’re like me and are a fan of the Detective fiction sub-genre, you have plenty of truer options behind the now-misleadingly named True Detective. Here’s a look.

The LA Quartet, by James Ellroy
James Ellroy has been one of my favorite writers for the past 20 years and I’m currently reading his latest novel, Perfida. His books are dense, complicated, and feature morally corrupt men behaving badly. But his stories always add up and are more than worth the investment.  I would recommend the LA Quartet, composed of The Black Dahlia, The Big Nowhere, LA Confidential and White Jazz.

Early Novels by Joseph Wambaugh
Joseph Wambaugh was a Los Angeles cop in the 1960’s and early 1970’s before becoming a successful novelist. Wambaugh drew on his experience to shed light on police brutality and racial tensions and as a reader you find yourself drawn to his complex but far-from-likable protagonists. I would recommend his earlier books, such as The Blue Knight, The Choirboys or The Black Marble.

The Shield (Television Show Running 2002-2008)
Starring Michael Chiklis, this show features a basic premise. A group of cops in a fictionalized Los Angeles try to catch bad guys and sometimes become bad guys in the process. Right up there with The Wire, The Sopranos and Breaking Bad as some of the finest television acting you will ever see.

If you’re like me, you probably will end up watching the rest of True Detective’s second season because you’ve invested a certain amount of time already. Just know that there are several alternate ways you can enter a figurative world of darkness while in the comfort of your home, cabin, or vacation spot. And they won’t leave you scratching your head.

 

 

 

Nothing Petty About Him

I heard Dave Grohl once claim that in some ways, we’re all trying to be like Tom Petty and this week I was reminded why. Although it already seems like old news, Petty weighed in on the issue of the Confederate flag, admitting to Rolling Stone that he used the flag in the 1980’s during a tour to support his Southern Accents album.  He called the move a “downright stupid thing to do” and said he immediately regretted it.

I’m naturally not sure why Tom Petty decided to come clean. Maybe his conscience was gnawing at him. Or perhaps the story was coming and he wanted to get out in front of it. Either way, Petty handled it deftly. And for those of us, like me, who have been following his career for several decades, we’re hardly surprised.

In my opinion, Tom Petty will always be mastery, personified. Just take one of my favorite lyrics of his, from the song “You Wreck Me”: I’ll be the boy in the corduroy pants; you be the girl at the high school dance.  Like everything else about Tom Petty, it says quite a bit while concurrently saying very little. And “corduroy” is such a great word choice and conjures up  images in my mind that Tom Petty may or may not have intended.  Awkwardness, yearning, tension, desire, joy – it’s all in the eye of the beholder.

The lyric is also very reflective of Petty and his impressive career. Tom Petty has always known what he is good at and produced consistently, but in a way that isn’t derivative.  On the surface his music is and always will be straightforward, Byrds-influenced rock.  He just still manages to make it sound fresh and innovative, no matter how many years have passed.

My sense is that Tom Petty also has never taken himself too seriously.  He could un-self-consciously don a Mad Hatter’s outfit or dance with a dead Kim Bassinger and pull it off. And do it in a way that enhances, rather than detracts from, the music.

Tom Petty always has been considered a musician’s musician but not in an arty Brian Eno sort of way. Nor as he ever displayed a over-reliance on technique while giving emotion short shift.  Tom Petty plays with both his heart and head.

Whether it’s his instantly accessible music or laid-back, slightly burned out persona, Tom Petty always has managed to be not with us but of us. He gives us something to strive for while remaining consistently relatable. Tom Petty reminds us of what it means to endure. And, just like Dave Grohl says, we hope, in the end, that some of it rubs off on us.

Vehicles

One year ago this week I was involved in a fender bender on my way home from work. My car at the time, a 2000 Nissan, received damages that exceeded the admittedly low value of the vehicle. No one was hurt and after the inevitable paperwork and insurance hassles, I became the proud owner of a Volkswagen Jetta wagon. I drive the car daily and love it.

The fender bender occurred right around the time I was experiencing a fair degree of stress and unhappiness. Now I should add that this was very much of the First World variety and I’d venture to guess no different from what any of you who read this blog have experienced. But as we all know, perspective can be a funny thing. Once you’re removed from a particular difficulty, perspective is right there waiting for you. Yet when you’re in the thick of it; well, then perspective is nowhere to be seen.

Upon receiving the Jetta, my stress and unhappiness gradually dissipated. Well, technically, it didn’t go anywhere; it’s just that I began to see a path forward. And maybe I viewed the Jetta as a literal and figurative vehicle that would help me get there.

This being the year anniversary of the fender bender and subsequent Jetta, I couldn’t help but consider the different vehicles in my adult life: mostly a series of Hondas with a Subaru and Mercury thrown in at points along the way. I drove these cars when I was loving life, when I was miserable and every state in between., Any altering of my state of being incurred inside my heart and mind; the vehicles were, just as advertised, nothing more than a mode of transport.  So, in actuality, the Jetta didn’t take me to a better place and neither did the previous cars we owned. I brought myself to these places, after seeking, in many instances, guidance along the way.

I suppose it’s tempting for us to seek meaning in these literal and figurative vehicles from throughout our lives – bestow onto them some sort of power, or, at the very least, a sense of good fortune. If I didn’t go to that party, would I have met my future wife?  If I didn’t take that particular shuttle service from the airport, would I have bumped into my old college roommate? What would life be like if I still drove my old car; if the fender bender never occurred?

My sense is that we embrace vehicles as the easy way out; a means of helping explain that which lacks a proper explanation. It’s better than just accepting the ugly truth; how in many regards, stuff just happens and stress and unhappiness can occur at any time. We like to think we have control but we really don’t; it largely depends on timing and how quickly we can adjust to the inevitable curve balls life sends our way.

And as for those dependable vehicles, upon which we lay so many hopes and fears? Well, in the end, they’re just along for the ride.

 

 

 

Seeing the Forest Through the Weeds

You likely wouldn’t realize it from looking at our yard but this summer I have grown quite fond of weeding.  Ethan is slowly gaining confidence in his lawn-mowing abilities which frees me up to weed in a nearby area while keeping an eye on him.  Something about the mindless yet incredibly meditative activity soothes me. I concurrently think of everything and nothing while I weed. Without realizing it, weeding also has enabled me to gain some perspective on stress management.  Here’s what I mean.  Both weeds and stress:

Have a Way of Appearing From Out of Nowhere
Do  you ever walk through your yard, see a big patch of weeds and swear that the spot looked fine just the day before? No disruption in the soil or signs of anything amiss; just Bam! and some unsightly growth seemingly appears. In my personal experience stress works very much the same way.  Everything is fine until it’s suddenly not.

Quickly Mar the Surface Until That’s All You See
If I asked any one of you reading to describe an abandoned house or lot, I would venture a guess that all would quickly reference weeds. They connote disrepair, ugliness, blight and obfuscate any goodness that might be lurking right under the surface. So too does stress shroud our thoughts and actions with a certain cloying ugliness

Must Be Eradicated At Their Source
I can tell you that we have a large patch of weeds adjacent to our backyard lawn and for several weeks I chose the path of least resistance. After mowing the yard, I would pick up the lawn mower and trim down the weeds so it was a similar length as the yard. From a distance, you couldn’t tell. But naturally the weeds would keep growing back, until I took the time to pull them up by their roots. I certainly have experience taking this approach to managing stress – where I kick the proverbial ball down the road and hope things will improve. But they don’t.  Until I isolate the source of the stress and eradicate it.

Are Temporary, But Only If You Take Action
Sure, no one on the surface claims to want a weedy yard, in the same way most of us don’t want to go around miserable all the time. Yet getting rid of weeds, or stress, is a time-consuming process that often takes multiple attempts to achieve success. Sometimes, whether with weeds or stress, all it takes is a little rationalization to breed inaction.

This past Sunday, I spent quite a bit of time weeding one particular patch. About halfway through the weeding, I realized I didn’t have anything in mind to plant in the spot once I finished. I started doubting the activity, wondering what the point was of just having unadorned dirt. Then I considered the trap I was setting for myself, just as I’ve done with regard to stress. We tell ourselves that clean spaces, of both the literal and figurative variety, must be purposely filled by ourselves or circumstances. But there’s plenty of times when it’s o.k. to embrace a space’s emptiness, and only fill it when you’re good and ready. And ideally, fill it with something of your choosing.