Rabbit Food for the Rabbit Hole

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

I’ve always been a rabbit hole kind of person. Ever since I was a kid I’d lock on to a certain author, musician, or actor and consume their work until I either exhausted the catalog or moved on to someone else.

I’ve also been a runner for most of my life although during the past several years it’s more accurate to refer to myself as a jogger. During the spring and summer, I’ll run outside and then, when kids go back to school, head to the gym where I’ll spend several months running on the “dreadmill.”

Last year my wife Wendy suggested I watch television shows on my phone to break the monotony of staring at a dark parking lot while I plod along. I ran with the idea (sorry, too easy) and after catching up on Cobra Kai and watching the dark-but-mostly-fun Brand New Cherry Flavor, felt another rabbit hole beckoning me. I ended up watching all the Star Wars content available on my Disney+ app, enjoying the sense of accomplishment more than the content itself.

This year’s return to the gym coincided with our son Ethan beginning his freshman year. I miss Ethan deeply and, looking for ways to feel connected to him, started watching the series Money Heist, which he and Wendy enjoyed quite a bit. At first it was fun and of course I thought of Ethan while I watched. Then, after about seven or eight episodes it dawned on me that the series was really lame. So, I stopped watching rather than forcing my way through to the end.

Yesterday I felt listless when I arrived at the gym and found myself avoiding the start of my run while I flicked through my different streaming services apps. Eventually I settled on Somebody Feed Phil, a food-themed travelogue featuring Phil Rosenthal. I remembered hearing good things about the series and pitching my family on it, but no one wanted to watch. Perfect. But within minutes I realized that Somebody Feed Phil was a pretty much a kinder, gentler Parts Unknown. I almost felt like I was tarnishing the late, great Anthony Bourdain’s legacy by watching.

Today it was raining and drizzly when I arrived at the gym. For some reason the weather reminded me that I’d watched the first season of The Witcher, a British Fantasy series. I’d just started reading a Fantasy novel a few days prior. Perhaps this could be my next rabbit hole.

The Witcher isn’t exactly great content. It’s hokey and campy and its episodes play on one tired genre trope after another. But it doesn’t require my full attention. I can zone out for a few minutes and return to the show and not feel like I’m missing anything. It’s enough for now. Until I decide to go looking for something more.

Image credit: Rahim Sofri

Eyes Wide Closed

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

There used to be a great show on NPR called “The Dinner Party Download,” in which the hosts interview celebrities running the gamut from Michael Shannon to Lars Ullrich.  And one  interview I particularly enjoyed was with musician Herb Alpert, who, at 88, just performed a concert last week in the Twin Cities.

After finding success as leader of The Tijuana Brass in the 1960s, trumpeter Alpert scored several instrumental hits in the 70s and 80s.  He’s also the “A” in A&M records and signed such diverse bands as The Police, The Go Gos, Soundgarden and Soul Asylum. Alpert himself acknowledges he didn’t always “get” the music that made his label successful, until he tried a trick he learned from his mentor – soul singer Sam Cooke.  He began listening to music with his eyes closed and, as Alpert puts it, started to loosen up.

While my own trumpet career ended after 6th grade and I have no immediate plans to become a record label executive, I can relate to Alpert’s efforts to help shape his perceptions.  One recent Sunday morning, I decided to live life on the edge and alter the direction in which I go around Lake Harriet on my runs.  I turned left instead of right; that was all it took.

Maybe it was because the water was now on my right side instead of my left but I felt realigned – like I’d been to a spiritual chiropractor.  The run literally felt different and I noted landmarks and milestones that obviously were there all along but I never noticed.  And most importantly, what had started to become routine began to feel enjoyable again.

Sometimes you don’t know what you’ll see until you open, or close, your eyes.

Image credit: Jazziz

I’ve Got a Blank Space

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

I had a colonoscopy this past Thursday. There was quite a build-up heading into it, considering I originally scheduled the appointment for December, but to make a long story short, it was moved to May, then rescheduled again for September. Pretty much everything people told me about colonoscopies turned out to be accurate. The prep was the worst part and I’m not actually sure what I do and don’t remember about the procedure. The results, though, were what I wanted and I’m good to go for another 10 years.

I felt like a big weight had been lifted off my shoulders. For starters, the colonoscopy had been hanging over me for months. Yet beyond that, the whole notion of taking a preventive health measure and having it turn out well, as corny as it sounds, made me feel good; like I somehow had, to quote a Taylor Swift ear worm, a blank space.

We (and by “we” I really mean “me”) tend to make subjective connections and I couldn’t help but view my colonoscopy through the lens of what is going on in my life. The past several weeks have been difficult for me. Some I’ve recounted in this blog and some I’ve haven’t. But the gist of it is that I’ve found myself needing to let go of quite a bit of baggage, so to speak, and focus on what’s right for me.

As timing would have it, Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement, begins this evening. I’ll fast, like I do every year. Of course, I won’t like it. That of course, is the point.

I have mixed feelings about the Jewish holidays. Truthfully, I find them to be a pain in the ass. They’re disruptive and boring and almost always occur during a stretch of beautiful fall weather. I find myself stuck in temple thinking of all the other things I could be doing with my time.

But with all that said, it’s the very disruptiveness of the Jewish holidays that makes them special. They’re, for lack of a better world, forcing me to take time away from my daily routine and focus on all that is special and important to me. To realize the special gift of spiritual and in my case, physical, renewal, of that blank space. To pause before I inevitably go charging forward and start filling it.

Image credit: Kelly Sikkema

“Empty Capacity Bin”

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

I often have compared my brain to a hard drive, with the underlying assumption that there is plenty of space to be freed.  Lines to Caddyshack, the vast differences between Dio- and Ozzy-led Black Sabbath incarnations, and what Tony actually instructed Christopher and Paulie to do during the infamous “Pine Barrens” Sopranos episode vie for space with more important matters.  But like any true pack rat, I somehow manage to find space, which often means piling knowledge up three-deep or having it overflow from proverbial temporary storage bins.

While storing knowledge is relatively easy, it’s not the same with emotions; especially hassles.  Car repairs, school challenges, kid challenges – all of the First World variety, mind you, seem to collect in my brain like a pile of dirty laundry.  And instead of using a washer and dryer, I’m left tacking each article of dirty clothing by hand.  Ideally, I would then clean it, dry it and fold it away neatly in the drawer.  But we all know that’s not how it works with emotions.  They just pile on top of each other until they fall on you or you stop noticing them.

I have been aware of this piling in one form or another for quite some time but a recent conversation with a friend really drove the issue home for me.  My friend asked if a particular matter bothered me.  Shaking my head, I replied that I couldn’t let it bother me.  “Why?” my friend asked.  “Because I just don’t have the capacity,” I replied.  My friend nodded, knowingly, and the conversation continued.

Of course, I do have the capacity; reserves and reserves of it.  But right at that moment, in the context, I felt tapped out. My challenges weren’t a bunch of movie quotes I could file away for use when the moment presented itself.  Although relatively small, they were legitimate and needed solutions.  By saying I’m at capacity, I’m really just buying time.

Since the time of this conversation, I have in fact tackled many of the collected challenges. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that many of them quickly dissipated, fortunately not measuring up to the dreaded anticipation.  Some I’m still working through, and will require long-term solutions.  Some won’t ever really go away.

And as I work to find a home for these challenges or send them to the emotional equivalent of a recycling bin, I’m fully aware that more will inevitably take their place. Challenges have a way of regenerating.  Fortunately, so does our capacity for dealing with them.

Image credit: Sigmund

Eggs, Bacon, and Most

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

When it comes to popular culture, I get that everything is cyclical, but it seems like our obsession with the 1980s has lasted quite a while. I see the 1980’s everywhere on television shows and movies and hear it in the music that our two teenage kids listen to. As a child of the 1980’s myself, I can’t get enough of the decade. But I’ve learned that there is a big gap between 1980’s-inspired content and that which was created and distributed during the 1980’s.

A case in point are the signature John Hughes movies. I grew up adoring his movies and watched them multiple times, both in the theatre and on VHS tapes. But when our family has gathered during the past few years to watch a series of the Hughes-directed movies, they don’t always seem to hold up. We watched Sixteen Candles as a family about five years ago and both our son Ethan and daughter Sasha understandably had trouble looking past the cringe factor. Their reaction to Ferris Bueller’s Day Off was much more nuanced. I of course recalled viewing Ferris as the movie’s hero – a cool figure worthy of emulating. But Ethan and Sasha saw him as a mean-spirited, entitled brat and a lousy friend. I didn’t necessarily disagree with them.

Suffice it to say that when friends of ours invited my wife Wendy and me to see The Breakfast Club at The Parkway Theater in Minneapolis, currently showing a series of Hughes’ movies, I was a bit trepidatious. Wendy and I were more than happy for an excuse to go out on a Thursday evening. I just wasn’t sure how I would appreciate The Breakfast Club.

As context, I’ve seen The Breakfast Club countless times and judging from the cheerful audience of GenXers in the packed theater, I was far from the only one. Yet despite thinking I’d memorized all the dialogue; I was very impressed with how fresh and resonant the dialogue seemed. And how prescient.

Take away the clothes, still-incredible music and a few cultural affectations and the topics The Breakfast Club and its cast of misfits tackle – mental health, alienation, peer pressure, to name a few, are more salient than ever. As I sat and watched while munching on popcorn and drinking a good hazy IPA, I couldn’t get past how sad all the characters seemed. I recalled laughing way more when I’d watch the movie repeatedly back in the day. Now, as an adult and parent of a college freshman and high school junior, I saw the fictional characters’ struggles in a much different light. Heck, I considered my own struggles in a much different light.

I’ve always believed the big appeal of nostalgia – regardless of how it’s fostered – movies, television shows, songs, books – is that it brings us back to a particularly happy place. The Breakfast Club does that, but makes us revisit all the unhappy places in between, in a way that’s immensely empathetic and relatable.

Image credit: Universal Pictures

Jacket Powers, Activate

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

I returned earlier today from walking our dog Astro and, as has happened a couple of times already, felt almost uncomfortably cold. Now, I live in Minnesota so when I say “uncomfortably cold” I don’t mean winter cold. I mean holding-on-to-summer-too-long cold. And that’s accurate – I don’t want summer to end.

I’m not a weather person but realize that we, on paper, might have more summer left. But Labor Day has come and gone. School has started. Let’s face it; summer is over.

And like school-age kids fortunate enough to be heading off with new backpacks, I too have a new fall item – a brown lightweight jacket. It replaced a similar jacket I owned since the 1990’s. And, like I do with pretty much every article of clothing I own, I just wore it until it disintegrated and my wife Wendy told me I shouldn’t leave the house wearing it.

As background, I’m not what you would call fashion-forward. I want to look nice and believe I take care in my appearance. It’s just that I selfishly want to put as little effort into it as possible. I truly embrace the whole Barrack Obama/Steve Jobs/David Lynch thing about wearing pretty much the same thing every day.

But something about the ratty tan jacket I owned for all those years resonated with me. Heck, one or two people actually commented on it and no one ever comments about anything I wear. The jacket became my “artifact enhancer.”

I was unfamiliar with the term artifact enhancer until Wendy put it on my radar but had seen several examples of it in practice.  I recalled how AC/DC’s Angus Young claimed he experienced better vision when wearing his schoolboy outfit. Another example, from a different generation and art form, is the late journalist and author Tom Wolfe. He was an amazing writer. But if you go up to random strangers and ask them to name the first thing that comes to mind when they hear “Tom Wolfe,” you can bet they will say “white suit.”

So, shortly after this post goes live I’m going to take my jacket out of the closet, put it on and walk out the door. Most people won’t notice. But I will. And that’s what matters.

Image credit: legendarywhitetails.com (Note: Not my actual jacket but close enough)

Mare of Execution

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

My wife Wendy and I are one of those couples who, outside of some exceptions, watch television shows together and, in the age of streaming services, have come to enjoy limited series. You as a viewer typically get pulled into an engaging plot and characters but given the series only lasts six or eight episodes, don’t need to invest that much time.

Earlier this summer Wendy and I watched The Undoing, a limited series streaming on Max that stars Nicole Kidman and Hugh Grant as a Manhattan couple who have it all until everything goes off the rails. We followed that with the incredible Painkiller, an intense but darkly funny look at the opioid crisis and the role of the Sackler family, directed by the very underrated Peter Berg, which is currently streaming on Netflix. Then, we started watching Mare of Eastown, a Max crime drama series.

I honestly didn’t know much about the show beyond a goofy SNL skit that poked fun at the random rural Pennsylvania accents its characters used. But I recalled people really enjoyed it. So, Wendy and I decided to give the series a shot.

Mare of Easttown features Kate Winslet as the title character – Marianne “Mare” Sheehan, a detective in fictional Pennsylvania town called upon to solve a series of murders and she is outstanding in the role. I don’t make this comparison lightly, but Kate Winslet reminds me of Meryl Streep in the way she completely transforms herself into the character. Kate Winslet is so convincing that I would find myself drawn into her character’s body language and idiosyncrasies – the constant drinking of Rolling Rock beer, snacking and/or vaping, for example. And of course, it helps that Winslet is supported by a great cast with amazing chops, including Jean Smart,  Evan Peters, and Guy Pearce.

It wasn’t until about halfway through the series’ seven episodes that I realized how contrived, almost hokey, Mare of Easttown seemed. If you’ve watched a crime drama television show or movie; read a book from the genre’s many authors or listened to a true crime podcast, you’re already familiar with every plot device featured in Mare of Easttown. But the performances were so good, so authentic, that I was more than willing to overlook these flaws.

Wendy and I finished Mare of Easttown and had some time left in the evening. We wanted something light, so we started watching Daisy Jones & the Six, currently streaming on Prime. Featuring documentary-style footage, Daisy Jones & the Six, based on a 2019 Taylor Jenkins novel of the same name, profiles the rise and fall of an LA-based band in the 1970’s.

I can say that Daisy Jones & the Six features a great soundtrack and holds up well visually. But man, it was hard to look past the show’s many contrivances, which hit you in rapid succession. Shots of beautiful Hippie-like young people swaying to live music. Flashes of the Whiskey a Go Go and Troubadour marquees. Multiple references to “the Canyon.”

Now, I’m somewhat biased because I’m a huge music and popular culture nerd and the 1970s is my favorite era. But Daisy Jones & the Six almost seemed like a show created by ChatGPT, with Almost Famous, The Doors and countless Rolling Stone artist profiles used as source material. And, unfortunately, the show lacked a Kate Winslet, Jean Smart, or frankly any actor with some decent shops, to rise above it.

Perhaps I’d enjoy Daisy Jones & the Six if I didn’t just finish Mare of Easttown. But watching these shows back-to-back gave me great insight into content development. The material matters. But how it’s executed matters so much more.

Kate Winslet as Marianne “Mare” Sheehan in Mare of Easttown Image credit: Max

The Ceremony of Friendships

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

“People are always ruining things for you.”
-J.D. Salinger-

It’s interesting how it works with friendships. We spend so much time, especially in our formative years, trying to build friendships and it seems to require quite a bit of effort. But wow, that’s nothing compared to maintaining them as an adult.

Back when I was a kid, my mother would always tell me “Friends don’t stand on ceremony.” It was typically in response to complaints from me how I believed one of my friends had fallen short. I became frustrated when it seemed as though I was always the one making an effort with my friends. Yet I listened to my mother and would turn the proverbial cheek.

Now I’m starting to think my mother was wrong.

As most of you know if you’ve read my blog, I’ve lived in Minneapolis since the late 1990’s. The area is notoriously hard for transplants, as was the case for my wife Wendy and me. It took us a while to make friends and I never take for granted the area relationships I’ve cultivated.

I’d imagine it’s the same with you, but my adult friends fall into different categories. I have a couple of ride-or-die friends from way back; the type who, no matter how much time passes in between, pick up right where we left off. Then there are friends whose kids were close with Wendy and our own and the adult friendships solidified. Lastly, there are the more recent friends, typically former colleagues, or professional associates, with shared values and interests.

My adult friendships are seemingly random in way I never recall friendships being. What I mean is that they’ll be someone who I’ve known for years who I sense I don’t relate to the same way I once did. Then there are others who’ve only been briefly part of my world who I believe just totally get me, or surprise me with their acts of kindness and thoughtfulness.

Especially lately I’ve come to appreciate the little gestures of friendships. I love getting random texts from friends, about television shows, concerts, or some random cultural artifact. And I love sending these texts. In fact, I’d say texting is the primary way I stay in touch with friends.

But then there are those situations where my texts or voice mails don’t get returned. Now, for some context, I have issues with responsiveness. I respond very quickly; sometimes when a quick response isn’t needed. So, I’ve learned to do two things: pause with my own responses and realize others aren’t as quick as me.

Yet even when I factor this into the equation, I’ve found myself in a situation or two where I feel I’m the one doing all the work in a friendship. Sending texts. Leaving voicemails. Suggesting times to get together. And nothing gets reciprocated. I start asking myself if friendships are worth it.

There’s another expression we hear when it comes to relationships that’s like “standing on ceremony.” It’s called “dumping unceremoniously.” Because that’s the thing about adult friendships. They take a bunch of work to get started. But they typically end quickly.

Image credit: Pixabay

Axing the Attaboys

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

When you get older you accept that you find yourself facing a series of hard truths. Lately a big truth for me has been my fraught relationship with recognition.  Why I find myself both haphazardly seeking and giving it.

Now, I get that recognition in and of itself isn’t a bad thing. On the contrary, recognition can be quite fulfilling. Yet a few years back, as I slowly neared middle age, I saw recognition emerging as a destructive force in my life. I observed all the ways, often without even realizing it, I sought recognition from my wife, children, friends, co-workers; you name it. It should have been enough that my actions pleased me. But it rarely wasn’t.

So, I did what most of us aim to do when we find a deep-rooted bad habit or behavior; we aim to correct it, with the knowledge that we’re all works in progress. I tried to catch myself when I was unnecessarily seeking recognition. Same too when I was giving it. Yes, as random as it sounds, I would find myself in situations where I reflexively was offering others recognition almost by proxy; giving them what I was myself seeking.

For a while I felt like I was making progress. But recently I found myself observing someone whose every action appeared geared toward seeking recognition. It drove me nuts, largely because it shined a light on my own struggles. Compounding my difficulty was the fact that I too was offering this person recognition, actively egging them on, and making myself miserable in the process.

After a while it got better. And then yesterday it flared up again. I found myself offering recognition as what I considered a preemptive measure but was really nothing but a justification. As soon as I offered the recognition to this person, I immediately regretted it. Because it didn’t do the recipient, or me, any favors.

I’m writing this post as a way to hold myself accountable, knowing I need to do better. And yes, I acknowledge the irony of doing it in a forum so closely aligned with recognition. But documenting this hard truth is a way for me to acknowledge it and work toward letting some air in, some context that, while I don’t believe it will solve matters, will help me continue to manage through them in a constructive way. Like I said, we’re all works in progress.

Also, if you’ve read along this far, my hope is that this post made you revisit the role recognition plays in your life. How and why you’re seeking it and from whom. How and why you’re giving it and to whom. And who, if anyone, it’s actually helping.

Image credit: Robert Linder

Metal Health

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

I’ve been short my whole life and truthfully, it’s never been much of a problem. Except for when it comes to indulging my passion for seeing live music, particularly at clubs where I stand on the floor as part of the General Admission audience. Regardless of the artist, once the music starts, I inevitably find myself standing behind the tallest person in the audience and spend the rest of the evening maneuvering for a decent view of the performer.

Earlier this week a couple of friends and I attended a concert by Corey Taylor, widely known as the lead singer for the Metal band Slipknot, at the relatively new Fillmore club in downtown Minneapolis. Sure enough, after a few songs I found myself behind a man who wasn’t just tall; he was absolutely immense. The man standing in front of me was easily over six feet tall with broad shoulders and a long, almost ZZ Top length beard. I instinctively kept my distance – difficult given the audience was packed so tightly together.

A little more than halfway through the set, Taylor grabbed an acoustic guitar, sat at a stool, and performed the haunting 2009 Slipknot ballad “Snuff,” which always has resonated with me. Clearly, I’m not the only one.

I noticed the immense man in front of me wiping his eyes with the back of his hand as Taylor sang “Snuff.” Before long, I saw tears streaming down his cheeks. The man was unabashedly bawling.

Now, I am far from what you’d consider a “maggot” – what Slipknot fondly refers to legions of their loyal fans. But listening to Slipknot and Metal music in general makes me feel a certain way, particularly when I’m feeling angry, sad, or isolated. It’s not so much that the music helps me wallow in these emotions; it’s more as if it allows me to own them, embrace them.

I’ve heard various interviews with Corey Taylor and have always found him quite interesting. He, to put it mildly, had a troubled childhood growing up in Iowa, living in homes that he referred to as looking like they belonged on a Black Sabbath album cover. Taylor speaks openly of his struggles with mental illness yet does it in a way that I believe is very befitting of a fellow GenXer. He acknowledges, empathizes, and moves on, not casting blame or seeking sympathy.

After “Snuff,” the concert returned to a livelier, fists-in-the-air pace, concluding with a great cover of Motorhead’s iconic “Ace of Spades.” We all filed out in the street, and everyone was smiling and laughing. I know I was. Not because I left my troubles behind. But because someone helped me face them.

Image credit: Luuk Wouters