Long Distance Viewing

Have you ever lost an afternoon to a TV marathon? For us, it happens like this: we’re on our way out, or we’re getting up late, or we’re just getting home – whatever it is, it ends (or should I say begins?) with one of us turning on the TV and, lo and behold, it’s an episode of such and such reality show or of that one sitcom that we especially love, and – bang! – six hours later, we’re unmoved. We’ve 26.2ed it through more shows than I care to count. We are, as they say, experts.

And tonight is no different.

We’re watching Project Runway and we’re considering adding to the night a round of tequila shots. We don’t have any limes, though, and this lingers as a possible deal breaker.

“I’ll find some limes,” I say.

She laughs. “Where exactly are you going to find limes – in your secret stash of produce?”

I tell her I’ll find them somewhere. I even offer to go to the store. But she tells me it’s not really about the limes.

“I have a headache,” she says. “I just want to watch this and go to bed.”

It’s funny how the bottom can sometimes fall out of a moment. But then again, life’s not a party and sometimes there just aren’t any limes.

She falls asleep first and watching the light from the street ease across our bedroom, I can’t decide whether or not the night was a disappointment. We were together. We laughed. There were no shots, but it was low maintenance and rewarding enough. Plus, it was a Wednesday. Does that matter? I’m not sure that it does, or if it even should, but my conclusion on the matter is this: whether on DVD, bunny ears or cable, watching television shows marathon-style is something we have always done and will continue to do. Indeed, it is our sport. And when I look back at these childless, early-marriage years of our time together, I suspect I’ll remember this habit of ours with fondness. It’s nobody’s time to waste but our own, and as long as we’re doing it together, it’s really not a waste at all.

You can have your evenings out. We’re happy spending ours in.

And for the record, we’re gunning for Christian – the season is his to lose!

Burial, Fire

We buried our grandfather on Wednesday. To be more specific, we buried his ashes. It was cold and windy, and the funeral, though nice, was too long. Graveside, we said a few words, the grandchildren passed the urn, and then we placed him in a frozen hole. After five days of goodbyes and two funerals, this was it, our final sendoff. After a tearful moment of silence, we returned to our cars and drove back as a caravan to the church where lunch was waiting.

Two buffet lines greeted us, each scattered with bowls of various cold salads and fruit Jell-Os. The main course was tater tot casserole. It was, as you can imagine, a choice between mush mush and more mush. It was appropriately Minnesotan. I filled my plate and sat down.

And then I turned on my phone.

While we were singing my grandfather’s favorite hymns, listening to the winded homilies and burying his ashes, Maxwell’s had caught on fire and was now burning down. For those of you who don’t know, Maxwell’s was our watering hole, our Cheers. And it was on its way out. I had voicemails and text messages waiting for me. They varied in their intensity and details, but they all came to the same conclusion – that Maxwell’s was up in flames.

I had said goodbye to my grandfather already, and now I was faced with saying goodbye to my favorite bar. They don’t sound like equivalents, and of course, they’re not. But still, it was a lot to take in.

Maxwell’s was where we spent our Thursday nights. We had been doing so for years. It was a small corner bar with brick walls, battered wood floors, a full bar and great specials – and, of course, the lot of us. We were a random bunch. Some of us have known each other for all our lives, and some we were only getting to know. Either way, there we were, crowded around a tall table or three-deep at the bar. It was a popular place to be sure. And it was historic too. Rumor had it that writers and intellectuals tied to the University of Minnesota hung out there in the ‘60s. I'm not going to look any of this up; I don't want to be the one to discover that it's not true. I like to imagine John Berryman drinking at one of the tall tables with another poet, or alone before his long and final walk home across the Washington Avenue Bridge. I like to imagine that I was part of something larger than myself by going there, by drinking a pint and talking about ideas on these hallowed grounds.

Whatever happens – rebuilt or left alone – I will never forget. You, Maxwell’s, were my first true watering hole and may well be my last.

Every Ugly Side's Got Another Side

I come to you tonight drinking Schell and listening to Bobby Bare’s musical interpretations of Shel Silverstein’s poetry. And if you’re thinking that sounds like a winning combo, you’re thinking right. I could get used to this. What I can’t ever seem to get used to, though, is how everything’s got an ugly side. No matter how reliable a thing is – it’s never perfect, and eventually, it will disappoint. Good books fall apart in the end. A great meal takes extra care (and sometimes extra cash). The greatest ballplayers seldom go better than one for three. And new tires will eventually become flats. Great bands will sometimes put out shit albums. And your favorite pen will inevitably run out of ink. You can wish and pray and click your heels, but you can’t make this truth go away.

You're probably asking yourself why a guy like me (a "The Sun is Shining Somewhere" sort of guy) is going on all fatalistically like this.

Well, for one, I just spent four hours working on a story that’s probably worse off now than it was when I began. And for another, I can’t help but feel incredibly unhelpful about a certain situation in my life. And for a final thing, earlier today I was dwelling on the sobering reality that sometimes, albeit seldom, the only thing left to do is to do nothing at all.

I’ve got two thousand books and as many problems, but at least I’ve got two thousand books.

And that there, that’s my version of an up turn. As much as things can’t be given the benefit of the doubt, they can nearly always be credited with something good. A bad ending leads to a good idea. An evening’s worth of cooking feeds the soul. .300 will assuredly lead to runs. A flat tire will sometimes lead to a much-needed walk. And even a shit album is usually good for a laugh. And who knows, sometimes it takes letting go of something old before you find something new.

Earlier today, while watching Lifetime – yes, Lifetime – an old episode of Frasier came on. This particular episode featured Dr. Frasier Crane going toe-to-toe with a new and uber-fierce boss. This boss gets inside his head and he loses control of some highfalutin thought and starts rambling. His boss watches this, smiles and says simply, “Isn’t it sad when bad things happen to good sentences?”

I think so. But I also think there will always be more sentences!

Goodbye, Grandpa

It’s a quiet Sunday morning, and I'm sitting here in my living room, enjoying a cup of coffee and watching the neighborhood pass by outside. It looks warm out there – vests have replaced jackets and puddles have taken over the streets – but inside, our hearts hang low. Jerome Johnson died yesterday. He was my grandfather. He is survived by his wife and by the three generations that reach out below them. I'd like to take a moment here and pay tribute to him, to say my goodbye…

Grandpa, I think of you and of our time together with great fondness. You took me fishing and for blueberry pie. You taught me how to play golf and how to serve overhand in tennis. You made me your helper when it was time to fix doorknobs and replace sockets. You gave me a toilet paper roll with matches taped around the end and you told me it was a Norwegian flashlight. I didn’t laugh and you gave me my real gift, a complete set of Tops baseball cards. You were patient with me when I decided I didn’t want to hug anymore, and you didn’t give me a hard time when I changed my mind back again. You had long and gentle hands and thin and silver hair, and you looked most at home to me when you were standing up there in front of everyone, singing in your deep and holy voice. You jumped in after me when I fell off the dock. I said with conviction that you had pushed me in. I was embarrassed, I’m sorry. You stood taller than any of us until the day I stood taller than you. You let me borrow your car, a white Lincoln, for my high school dances. You always stood with both your feet on the foundation of the Lord, and though your prayers went on for what seemed like hours, I'm grateful now for your example. Even in the end, you never reflected on your life from a place of regret. You were an example of these things – of a life at peace and of a life in faith.

And then you were gone.

You went into the hospital two weeks ago. You declined quickly from there. You had trouble speaking and you must’ve grown tired of all the goodbyes. The days dragged on and we realized eventually that you were not going to be getting better this time. We started taking turns staying with you through the nights. We tried to make you comfortable and to keep your spirits up. We wanted you to know that we were there for you, by your side. We didn’t know when you were going to leave us, but we knew the day was getting close. On Friday, we came to you with bad news. Grandma was sick and too weak to come and see you. It was your wedding anniversary –your 61st. We could see it in your eyes how hard this was for you. You made it through that day and through a very long night. In the morning, when grandma was feeling better, we brought her to your side. You took her hand and you said her name. And then you died.

You’re going to be cremated, as requested, and there will be two services to honor you – one at the church here in the cities and the other at home in Jackson, MN. But don’t worry yourself with any of that. You are in a better place now and everything here will be fine. We'll take care of grandma, and we'll be there, holding her hand, when time comes for her. So you see - everything's fine. Enjoy your new life and be free.

I love you.

There's a story that Ramblin’ Jack Elliott tells. It's short and poigniant, and it's been on my mind a lot these past few days. It's about an encounter he had with Sweet Pete after a concert. As the story goes, Jack came off the stage and saw Pete standing there.

He said, “Well, Pete, we had some moments."

Pete said, “Let’s just remember the moments.”

I've been listening to Ramblin' Jack Elliott as I write this. To one song on repeat, in fact. It's a cover of a Townes van Zandt song and its words are how I'd like to sign off.

"Rex's Blues"

Ride the blue wind high and free
she'll lead you down through misery
leave you low, come time to go
alone and low as low can be

If I had a nickel I'd find a game
If I won a dollar I'd make it rain
If it rained an ocean I'd drink it dry
and lay me down dissatisfied

Legs to walk and thoughts to fly
eyes to laugh and lips to cry
a restless tongue to classify
all born to grow and grown to die

So tell my baby I said so long
tell my mother I did no wrong
tell my brother to watch his own
and tell my friends to mourn me none

I'm chained upon the face of time
feelin' full of foolish rhyme
there ain't no dark till something shines
I'm bound to leave this dark behind

Ride the blue wind high and free
she'll lead you down through misery
leave you low, come time to go
alone and low as low can be

Goodbye, Grandpa. I'll always remember the moments!

Pilsners and Prine

I bought two John Prine tickets tonight. He’s coming to town, and that’s what I logged-on to get, but that’s not the show I’ll be going to. Nope. I’ve got tickets to something even better. My wife and I will be traveling west this June to see (you guessed it) Mr. John Prine and (get this) Ms. Emmylou Harris play (wait for it...) amidst the beautiful Red Rocks of Colorado.

No way?

Yes way!

And to celebrate, I’ve spent the remainder of the evening playing through Prine’s catalogue and drinking pilsners. I've even started coming up with my dream set list. Here's what I've got so far: “Sabu Visits the Twin Cities Alone,” “Paradise,” “Hello in There,” “Illegal Smile” and “Christmas in Prison."

Even my wife, who’s been asleep on the couch for a while now, voiced a request - “Angel from Montgomery.”

Stay tuned and I’ll let you know. Heck, I’ll probably bring it up before then, but until then, it’ll just be wishful thinking and lots of hoping. And since you asked, here’s my greatest wish of all: Iris DeMent somehow shows up and I can have the chance to hear with my own ears the greatest love song of all time.

Sooner or Later

They say a blog should have a theme. They say a blog without a theme is a blog without an audience. To find a theme, they suggest picking a topic you know a little something about and then driving that topic home. I don’t have an audience, and frankly, I don’t give a damn. But if you know me, you know that this is easier said than done. By default, this blog will probably find a theme for itself. You see, I love music and I enjoy drinking. And when it comes to writing entries for this blog, I'm typically partaking in both.

Tonight is no exception. I’m drinking Miller Lite and listening to Dean Martin. A couple of nights ago, when I wrote my last entry, I was listening to Gordon Lightfoot and drinking Gin ‘n Tonics. Remember? Of course you do. So there it is, a niche! And let’s roll with it, don’t you think?

But listen, not everything I write here will be as neat and simple as what’s spinning and on what I’m sipping. Sometimes, albeit seldom, I might actually have something to say - something of substance and possibly even consequence. And when I do, for your sake and for mine, I want to have your permission to share freely and without boozal or tunal reference points. Until that day comes, though, let’s turn The Best of Dean Martin to its B-side and grab ourselves another beer. That’s amore!

Summer on the Mind

What is it about Gin ’n Tonics and Gordon Lightfoot that makes me think of summer? And why, waste deep in February, am I sitting here, indulging in both? Why do I kid myself? My toes are still cold and the sun went down sometime this afternoon. Winter is just like any other prison—you can close your eyes, but you can’t make it go away.

Here’s the why: I’ve been drinking whiskey since October and I feel like a change. I picked up Lightfoot and I didn’t analyze it.

But that's not really it either, is it?

Here's the real why: I’m practicing my survival skills. It's cheesy and hyperbolic, I know, but it's true. By doing this, I’m retaining my sense of play. I see people lost in their thirty-year mortgages and their nine-to-five jobs and I know I’ll be there myself someday. But I'm not there yet, and I know that before I get there, I need to prepare. And play is just the beginning. There's learning to let go of what you can't change or control, and to accept what you've got as being more than enough, and there's giving yourself permission to fall into fits of laughter--laughter's a big one. There's also simple pleasures. Pleasures like getting knocked-out by the ending of a book (Evelyn Waugh’s "A Handful of Dust") or arrested by the opening riffs of a song (Elmore James’ Dust My Broom), and there's the feeling you get when you don't give up on something important to you (this blog).

But even still, there’s more.

The really real, officially real reason I’m pretending like this, the actual thing that’s keeping me indulged in breezy fantasies, is that I’m supposed to be preparing a story for workshop, and doing this is more fun. Unfortunately, there's a greater truth here. The fact of the matter is, the only thing worse than writing is not writing.

So I'm going to let you get back to what you should be doing while I do the same. But before I go, let me leave you with a few words from Lightfoot himself …

“I’m on my second cup of coffee and I still can’t face the dawn
The radio is playin’ a soft country song
And if I don’t stop this trembling hand from reaching for the phone
I’ll be reachin’ for the bottle, lord, before this day is done”

A Super Week

From Super Bowl Sunday to Super Tuesday (and to the inception of this Super New Blog), this is shaping up to be a super duper week.  And I'm glad.  Last week was comfortable one moment and then below zero the next. And my gramps almost died.  So there's that.  Go Giants! Go Obama!  Go Blog, Go!