Leonard, Sasha, Hermann, and Me

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

In January 2001 I came upon a profile on Leonard Cohen in Spin magazine which I subscribed to at the time (the original magazine I’d subscribed to went out of business and Spin was under the same publisher), written by Mikal Gilmore. A quote within the profile resonated with me deeply.

Cohen is speaking of what Roshi, his Zen master told him: “He said that the older you get, the lonelier you become, and the deeper the love you need. Which means that this hero that you’re trying to maintain as the central figure in the drama of your life – this hero is not enjoying the life of a hero. You’re exerting a tremendous maintenance to keep this heroic stance available to you, and the hero is suffering defeat after defeat. And they’re not heroic defeats; they’re ignoble defeats. Finally, one day you say, ‘Let him die – I can’t invest any more in this heroic position.’ From there, you just live your life as if it’s real – as if you have to make decisions even though you have absolutely no guarantee of any of the consequences of your decisions.”

I tore the article from the magazine, folded it and put it in a notebook. At least once a year since then, I’ll have a reason to take the article out and go straight to the quote. Each time I read the quote, I’m coming at it from a different perspective, both personally and professionally. And each time it resonates with me deeply.

I hadn’t thought about the Cohen article and quote much of late. But then our daughter Sasha, a high school junior, was assigned the 1922 Hermann Hesse novel Siddartha in English class. I  would watch Sasha hunched over the book, highlighter in hand and Post-it Notes at the ready, and ascertain that the book was connecting with her on some level. And when Sasha indicated I’d enjoy reading it myself, I took her up on it, recommending it to my book club.

As context, I have this subjective, cynical view when it comes to “classic” literature. I feel there are books we read just to say we read them, and those that truly stand the time. To me, Siddartha falls firmly in the later category.

For a short book, Siddartha covers quite a bit of ground.  Class, wisdom, entitlement, and knowledge are key themes. But to me, Siddartha at its core is about self-discovery and ultimately deciding what to do about the hero, or lack thereof, inside ourselves.

I finished Siddartha, by my standards, pretty quickly and then Sasha and I had a Saturday morning coffee date to discuss it. Right after we sat down, I pulled out the Leonard Cohen article and read the quote verbatim. That kicked off a truly memorable discussion where I shared the best I could but made it a point to shut up and listen to the perspective and wisdom of someone much younger.

I’m looking forward to tonight’s book club discussion around Siddartha. Sasha’s English class is now reading Frankenstein and Sasha already said she’ll be passing Mary Shelly’s 1818 novel on to me when she’s done. I’m already looking forward to my next coffee date with her, then book club. To more sharing and even more listening.

Image credit: Nijwam Swargiary

Turning the Page on Genres

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

“Man, I hate Science Fiction and Fantasy!” I thought to myself. I was sitting on our couch, forcing myself through a Fantasy novel that I didn’t really understand. The thing is, I truthfully didn’t understand at least half of the Fantasy or Science Fiction novels I’ve read during the past several years since the genre attracted me and I became immersed in it to the point where I overlooked whether I actually liked the content.

I’d always viewed the Science Fiction and Fantasy genre as something of a challenge. Intricately plotted “doorstopper” Fantasy novels with countless characters, each with names more exceedingly difficult to pronounce. Or, deceptively shorter Science Fiction novels filled with symbolism, or maybe that’s allegory. I saw it as very much a genre of nerds, geeks, and outcasts. And I wanted so badly to be part of the group.

As corny as it might sound, I believe books have a way of finding  you. I began this year reading memoirs by such disparate voices as Jennette McCurdy and Haruki Murakami. Reading these books made me yearn for real people doing real things, even within the fictional universe of a novel. I just couldn’t take the humorless, plodding; sometimes moralizing world of Science Fiction and Fantasy.

I eventually bailed on the novel I referred to at the start of this post and began the memoir Vacationland: True Stories From Painful Beaches by John Hodgman. It’s well written, if not a little too cute by half. But I believe it’s a step in the right direction.

The experience got me thinking of all the other genres we have in our lives – subjective, often illogical categories, which both define and limit us. Maybe there are times when soldering on is the right thing to do. Or, perhaps putting it aside and starting anew is in order.

Image: Phil Hearing

Not as I Say or Do

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

Adam Horovitz of the Beastie Boys once said, “I’d rather be a hypocrite than the same person forever.” He was describing his personal and professional evolution and coming to terms with some of his past antics. The quote resonated with me deeply when I first heard it and I instinctively began evaluating my own words and actions. Then, as often is the case, the expression faded from my mind.

It resurfaced last year when I was in the midst of an argument with someone. The person was calling me out on something I did but specifically, what they saw as a pattern in my behavior. Not a happy discussion, for sure, as the person was pretty worked up. So, I just stood there and took what was coming to me.

I played the argument over countless times in my head, but it wasn’t until weeks later that I gained clarity. Because at that point it dawned on me that the person was admonishing me for the same characteristics they possess; the same actions they’ve taken. It just got under their skin that it was me doing it, and not them.

Now, I want to be clear. Without getting into the details, I’m not saying I was right, and this other person was wrong. But the incident and its aftermath reminded me that hypocrisy is quite a slippery slope.

Gradually, the incident faded from my mind as did the notion of hypocrisy. Then last night, without naming names, a major political figure made a victory speech during which he spent the majority criticizing his opponent. If you listened closely (honestly, even if you just heard snippets) and are familiar with this person’s communications style, you’d spot the blatant hypocrisy. This individual was vociferously criticizing his opponent’s positioning an evident defeat as victory; something he has done countless times before.

As the kids say, if you know you know.

The major political figure I reference above often takes hypocrisy to extreme, almost cartoonish measures and makes a convenient target. But let’s not forget how easy it is to fall victim to hypocrisy’s gravitational pull.

Adam Horovitz was right. It is better to be a hypocrite than the same person forever. The challenge is not being both.

Adam Horovitz Image credit: Sean Prince Williams

Joyous Maximus

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

I believe there’s these expressions we throw around so often that we lose sight of their meanings. Like “living vicariously.”

I never thought much about living vicariously until I became a father 19 years ago. When our son Ethan or daughter Sasha experienced extreme happiness or sadness, I felt it, deeply. And especially when kids aren’t feeling well physically or emotionally, parents want to internalize that pain; be the ones experiencing it instead of them.

Yet, for whatever reason, I hadn’t thought much about living vicariously of late until yesterday, when both Ethan and Sasha attended a Travis Scott concert at  St. Paul’s Xcel Energy Center. Ethan is something of a Travis Scott superfan and had never been to a concert before. Sasha, like me, caught the live music bug and has been fortunate to have attended a handful of arena concerts and one stadium show. Both kids were fired up for the concert.

For the entire day yesterday, all the talk in our house surrounded the Travis Scott concert and I couldn’t get enough of it. I’m not a Travis Scott fan myself, and while I enjoy his music when the kids play it in the car, I wouldn’t seek it out on my own. But I’m a lifelong concertgoer who geeks out on all the little details. Setlists. Where the concert date falls during a national tour. Even wondering where the artist stays when they’re in town and how they pass the time on show day.

Ethan and Sasha sent my wife Wendy and me a couple of photos before the concert started but then we didn’t get any more updates, which was a good sign. Of course, both kids documented the concert with tons of photos and videos. I could vent like a crabby old dude that they should have been watching the show with their eyes, not their phones. But that ship has long sailed. Plus, I was only too happy to view the photos and videos over their shoulders when Ethan and Sasha turned home, hoarse, tired, and amped up.

Despite being tired ourselves, Wendy and I stayed up well past our bedtime as Ethan and Sasha stood in our kitchen and scarfed down leftover pizza while reliving the concert and showing off their insanely overpriced merchandise. Both kids had a blast and the concert appeared to exceed their expectations. I’m still not ready to embrace Travis Scott’s music but there’s no denying he’s a hell of an entertainer.

Ethan headed back to college a few hours ago. Sasha is already focused on homework and her next soccer practice. Wendy and I will segue back into work mode. Yet I believe all of us were impacted by a uniquely shared joy that living vicariously made possible.  

Image credit: AMY HARRIS, ASSOCIATED PRESS

I Hope the Smoking Man’s in This One

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

I’m a routine-driven kind of person and it’s one of those character traits that cuts both ways. I like to believe my natural tendencies toward self-discipline help me more often than not but there are times where I feel limited, and I have no one to blame but myself. Still, like many of you, I’ve gotten to a point in my life where I accept the warts and all aspects of my personality and use them to my advantage. Like when it comes to running on the treadmill.

Except for the 2020-21 pandemic year, I follow the same exercise schedule: run outside from April through Labor Day and then do the remaining months on a treadmill. The hours on the treadmill are pretty brutal and after listening to multiple Spotify playlists, then podcasts, I needed something else to pass the time. My wife Wendy suggested I watch television shows or movies while I run, and it did make a huge difference.

I started with the series Cobra Kai, Brand New Cherry Flavor, and 11.22.63. All were different and varied in quality but were mostly entertaining. Most importantly, though, they kept me occupied instead of staring at a dark parking lot for 40 minutes.

Last winter, leaning into my regimented ways, I set a goal of watching all the available Star Wars content available via Disney Plus. It was fun watching the original movies I grew up with, but I was soon reminded of a dirty secret about the Star Wars franchise I buried deep inside me: that I find the content lame – boring, long, and humorless, with some really bad acting thrown in for good measure. I forced myself through all the movies and shows but threw in the towel by the time I arrived at the animated series.

I began this year with the best intentions. Wendy and our son Ethan loved the Netflix series Money Heist and recommended I watch it. The start of my annual treadmill running occurred right after Ethan left for college and at first, I enjoyed Money Heist because it made me feel close to him. But I soon found the premise hokey and limiting; I bailed after the first season.

Since then, I’ve been all over the place with my treadmill viewing. I enjoyed both seasons of the very underrated Flaked, starring Will Arnett, and was surprised how much I liked the four-part docuseries, Beckham. It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia cracked me up at first, and then grew tiresome. Various documentaries, along with MSNBC’s Morning Joe, filled the gaps.

Then, from out of nowhere, I remembered that Hulu had all episodes of The X-Files available for streaming. A cult classic spanning more than 200 episodes. Now, this was a rabbit hole I needed to travel down.

I’m only on my third episode of The X-Files but man, is it fun. The chemistry between stars David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson is awesome and I get a kick out of seeing actors like Seth Green and Donal Logue pop up as minor characters. The series is now more than 30 years old and while it seems a bit dated visually, there’s something almost earnest about it that I find refreshing.

If I play my cards right, I won’t grow tired of The X-Files until spring. Or, I start making excuses to run indoors for the remainder of the year to I can keep watching it.

Image credit: Everett Collection.

Spreading Rumours

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

Earlier this morning my wife and I were having breakfast and heard a great, familiar song coming from down the hall. Our daughter Sasha, 16, was playing “Gypsy” off the 1982 Fleetwood Mac album Mirage. There are very few bands and musicians who can create songs which don’t sound remotely dated, no matter how many years have passed since their creation. Fleetwood Mac is among an elite category.

This past fall, Sasha, from seemingly out of nowhere, began playing the Fleetwood Mac song “Silver Springs,” originally intended for the band’s 1977 mega-selling album Rumours. I tried tempering my excitement because I didn’t want to be “that” Dad. Also, I wanted to avoid that ironic conundrum with teenagers where knowing their parents enjoy something discourages them from enjoying it themselves.

But there was so much I wanted to tell Sasha. To pull up a live performance of “Silver Springs” on YouTube and watch Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham engage in their inimitable can’t-tell-if-I-wan’t-to-punch-you-in-the-face-or-start-passionately-kissing-you body language. About the extensive catalog beyond “Silver Springs,” which Sasha eventually found on her own. And about my own history with Fleetwood Mac; the band that made me a lifelong Rock music fan.

It was approximately 1978 when I listened to Rumours – one year after it was released. I sat on the floor of my bedroom in Connecticut, staring intently at the cover and intricate black-and-white record sleeve with photos of the band and crew while now-classics like “Gold Dust Woman” and “Dreams” played in the background. Years later of course, I would learn all about the cocaine, infighting, and affairs. But even at that moment I knew I was getting a peek at a fascinating world well beyond me, and the music was just a sample of the band members’ collective experiences.

And there is clearly something about these experiences that Fleetwood Mac chronicled – the passion, heartache, jealousy, and loneliness, that’s stood the test of time and continues to influence our culture. A few years back, “Dreams” was the cornerstone of a TikTok video, resulting in the best week of streaming for the band. The 1987 song “Everywhere” is featured prominently in a commercial for Chevrolet’s EV cars. Daisy Jones & the Six, a series currently streaming on Prime and adapted from a 2019 Taylor Jenkins novel of the same name, profiles the rise and fall of a fictional LA-based band in the 1970’s very clearly modeled after Fleetwood Mac.

As a parent of teenagers, I’m very cognizant of not falling into the trap of believing everything old is inherently great and everything new sucks. But I’ve learned that kids have a way of recognizing greatness on their own. So, it’s best we just stay out of the way and let them enjoy it.

Image credit: Steven Fiche

On Bailing

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

I’ve always been a grind it out kind of guy. Things never came easily for me; if I wanted something, I had to work hard at it. But as I’ve gotten older, I wonder where this positive, get ‘er done, forward-looking mindset ends, and old fashioned bullheadedness begins. Especially when I can’t seem to turn off that grind it out part of my brain.

As I’ve mentioned in past posts, reading for pleasure is one of my favorite activities. I read multiple books a year. Yet some of those books I like having read more than reading them. I just grind it out, page after page, often not stopping to think if I’m really enjoying myself.

Yesterday afternoon, I had a few spare minutes so opened The Left Hand of Darkness, a Science Fiction novel by the late Ursula LeGuin. The Left Hand of Darkness won both the Hugo and Nebula awards in 1970. Its reviews on Goodreads are universally outstanding. But I couldn’t understand a word of it. I would muddle through page after page, hoping for clarity. It never came.

This wasn’t the first time I’d tried reading The Left Hand of Darkness, mind you. I was so excited to find the novel several years back in a neighborhood Little Free Library box and promptly started reading it. Ten minutes later, I told myself I just wasn’t in the mood, and put it back on the shelf.

Well, I guess my mood hadn’t changed much but something else did; my patience, or capacity for grinding it out. I thought of the almost countless books I own, both print and digital, that I haven’t read. So, I picked up a collection of essays by Haruki Murakami. I was enjoying it within minutes, not feeling remotely like I was grinding it out.

Later on, I considered where else I might be applying this grinding it out way of thinking. How else was I occupying my time thinking something would get better, more enjoyable. Convincing myself I just wasn’t in the mood. Then I was reminded how good it felt to bail on The Left Hand of Darkness and move on to something more enjoyable.

Now, I recognize that bailing can be a slippery slope. There are plenty of areas where you need to invest time and effort through thick and thin. My areas might admittedly be different than yours, but I bet they’re equally sacrosanct.

That still leaves quite a bit of room for bailing. So, especially as New Year’s resolutions might still be relevant, I’d encourage you to consider what you’ve convinced yourself you’re doing for fun but might be anything but. Then, pass it on to someone else, return it, or axe it altogether.

Come on. You know you want to.

Image credit: Steve Johnson

Rolling in the Deep

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

I attended a Jewish youth group camp in my teens and came home boasting that, while there, I engaged in some “intellectual discussions.” Mind you that I had no idea back then what an intellectual discussion meant and I’m not sure I do now. But I liked the way it sounded.

My parents must have gotten a kick out of my description because I recall a family friend visiting our house and asking me how I enjoyed my time at the camp. “I hear you had some intellectual discussions,” they said,” voice dripping with sarcasm. To this day, I still remember how chastened I felt. It also made be perennially wary of certain activities and undertakings, lest they too seem too pretentious, chi-chi, or, as the case may be, woo-woo.

So, it came as a surprise when, earlier today, at the conclusion of a coffee outing, the person I was with said to me “You know; I really enjoy deep discussions like this.” I totally agreed; I enjoyed the conversation immensely and was already looking forward to the next one I would have with this person, who I care about deeply. But I’d realized somewhere along the way that I convinced myself that deep conversations were only for special occasions and typically ones I wanted to avoid. Deep conversations were when people said you “needed” to talk  and, as Jerry Seinfeld once said, you never “need”to talk to anyone.

My outing today got me thinking about all the times I engage in an activity and feel the need to label or justify it. How I:

• Listen to Jazz and Classical music only when I’m doing work
• Listen to Metal or hard rock when I’m running
• Read or recommend literary fiction books when I know I’ll be discussing them in my book club
• Read genre fiction books – typically Science Fiction, Fantasy, or Thrillers, when I’m reading for “fun”
• Subconsciously categorize conversations as chit chat, shop talk, music geekery, and the like

Now, I understand nothing in the list is bad and that’s just sometimes how it is. But does it have to be? What if I aimed to not label or categorize my listening, reading, or talking but instead just approached it fresh and waited to see what happened along the way.

It can’t be that easy. But I bet it is.

Image credit: Cristian Palmer

Running, Writing and Reality

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

My brother gave me the novel IQ84 by Haruki Murakami several years back as a birthday gift. It came in three paperback volumes, each with a really cool cover, in a really cool plastic case. And the novel remained on my shelf, taunting me. I had read one other book by Haruki Murakami; the excellent What I Talk About When I Talk About Running: A Memoir, but something held me back from tackling IQ84. Something about it seemed long, convoluted, pretentious. The moment never seemed right. And then inexplicably, it did.

I’m not sure what prompted me to start reading IQ84. At the time I’d been reading a ton of rock biographies and autobiographies and I believe Who I Am, the Pete Townshend autobiography I had just completed, inspired me. Townshend truly was, to paraphrase a great song by The Who, a seeker. He constantly sought creative challenges and inspiration and this restlessness both advanced his career and hurt him in his relationships. Inspired myself, I decided to tackle IQ84. And I am so glad I did.

At a very high level, I view the book as touching upon the themes of subjective reality and our identities; that perhaps we all live in our own parallel universe.  Here is a passage from the novel, which details a key character’s inner dialogue: At some point in time, the world I knew either vanished or withdrew and another world came to take its place. Like the switching of a track. In other words, my mind, here and now, belongs to the world that was, but the world itself has already changed into something else. The character refers to this new world as IQ84, in relation to 1984, when the story takes place.

Now, on the surface, that passage might seem like pretentious hogwash, navel gazing. But a series of recent conversations with our daughter Sasha while I was reading IQ84 gave it tremendous clarity. Partly because of her inquisitive nature, partly because she just likes to talk, Sasha asked me a series of questions of what life used to be like for me before she and her brother came into the picture. These ranged from the kind of games I played when I was a kid, how Wendy and I spent our time when we were childless, how our first dog behaved. I aimed to be patient and offer truthful answers with the appropriate context. But I always found myself struggling.

The truth is that I found myself viewing my life prior to fatherhood as my own type of parallel universe. To reference the passage I noted earlier, the world I had known vanished, and another took its place. And as much as my surroundings have altered, my mind will often wander back to my previous universe. Yet I often found it hard to recall what actually happened, and that I’m either projecting, summarizing, or using recent perceptions to fill in the blanks.

This post will go live on the 12^th of July 2024, in my own parallel universe, IQ24. I have every intention of going back and revisiting this post to pressure test, if you will, my memories and ensure they are accurate. With the full knowledge that accuracy, especially within the context of our own selective imaginations and experiences, is certainly a relative term.

Image credit: Azusa Takada

Removing the “No” from Nostalgia

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

This coming March will be four years since I started working from home after commuting for my entire career. With new routines come new rhythms and it’s all about the little things, like late Monday afternoon when our dog Astro’s barking announced the arrival of a UPS truck. The driver brought me a package from my brother, full of photos and a few books, that I’d been expecting.

When my brother told me he was sending photos, for some reason I pictured a handful – six to eight. But instead, I found a huge pile. I quickly began sorting through them and within seconds, I felt happy; seriously smiling ear to ear.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” I thought.

The pictures in question were family photos spanning the late 1970s and early 1980’s until around 2006 or so, when our son, Ethan, now 19, was a toddler. My family was prominently featured, and several old friends. Plus, a ton of people who I haven’t seen in decades, outside of social media. And I couldn’t get over how much I enjoyed looking at the photos. Because the thing is I can’t stand nostalgia or its related forms – reminiscence and sentimentality. I’d rather keep charging forward than be stuck in the past.

Yet I kept going back to how these pictures made me feel. Older, for starters. But also blessed, grateful, appreciative.

I also felt justified. During the past few years, I’ve become fascinated by the concept of the unreliable narrator. I wonder about the accuracy of the memories I’ve carried with me so long – both the good and bad. Did they really happen or is it that I’m remembering variations on what I believe happened, or want to believe happened?

But now I had proof.

The following day, while reading the Minneapolis Star Tribune, I came upon an article, picked up from The Washington Post, titled “Surrender to nostalgia and strengthen your mental well-being.” The article resonated deeply with me, noting how reminiscing “reinforces our sense of self-continuity, strengthening the narrative we tell about our lives, which is important to our mental well-being.”

Take that, unreliable narrator.

I haven’t looked at any of the photos since Monday and I don’t know if or when I will again. But I know where to find them and how they make me feel. And that’s enough for now.

Image credit: Jon Tyson