Note to gpa

That’s how the entry read on my PDA to-do list today.

It’s short hand for “Send a card to Grandpa.” And it's been on my list for a couple of weeks.

Sadly, the window of time has closed on that action item.

Grandpa died yesterday.

I regret I didn’t send him that note. Was going to include the latest picture of our kids. Maybe have them write a heartfelt, hand-scrawled expression of their love, too.

Woulda. shoulda, coulda. As with most passings, the living are left holding regrets like this. “If only I’d . . ." seems to dominate the ethos of those who grieve.

Remarkably, I can easily extricate myself today from this feeling– usually located somewhere between self-pity and self-loathing. My guilt isn’t as heavy, as it's simply no match for the sense of joy that comes with reflecting on a life so well lived.

We last saw Grandpa in September. He was 98. And he looked dapper in his woven suspenders as he waited for us in the lobby of his nursing home.

“Heyyyyyyy” he exclaimed gravelly as the four of us walked through the open sliding glass door. (This particular greeting was a Grandpa signature.)

My son shook his great-grandfather’s hand. My daughter gave him a gentle hug around his bent legs; he marveled at her strawberry blonde hair. This was the first time he’d met our then four-year-old, Chloe.

We enjoyed dinner with him in the dining hall, then returned to his room to visit. There we sat comfortably, chatting the time away. With some prompting, he’d regale us with stories about the boys (my dad being one of his three) and about life in California back in the 1930s and 40s. All I wanted to do was to listen, to absorb him. I was quite cognizant that this was a moment in time.

Yet moments pass. And as our time on this evening with Grandpa was nearing an end, we snapped some pictures to capture this wonderful, multi-generational occasion.

My favorite is the one posted here. I took it. But I forgot to take the self-timer off. So as I tried to hold the camera and the kids’ poses steady while the 15-second-timer ticked away, both the kids – and Grandpa – began laughing infectiously at my mistake. It was a total smile.

I cherish this image of our kids with their great-grandfather. And while we’ll never forget the time we spent together on this Monday night, we knew that, someday, these images would have to substitute for time spent with this true gentle man, this “radiant soul”.

And so it is that this must substitute for my Note to gpa.

"A Radiant Soul"

While jogging down Grand Avenue in Milwaukee last night, I ran past a historic, beautiful old church. Formerly the Grand Avenue Congregational Church, the building today serves as The Irish Cultural and Heritage Center.

Which would explain the music and hearty applause coming from its halls Thursday. Curious, I dropped in to discover what turned out to be an annual bagpipe and drums festival.

While I stood in the musty, narrow foyer listening to the spirited music, my wandering eyes met a large plaque on the wall. It was a memorial to someone. His name wasn't familiar to me. Looked like he was a minister deeply involved in the establishment and growth of this church decades ago.

As I perfunctorily read the plaque, I was struck by this description of the man:

“He was an inspiring, radiant soul.”

With these few words, I longed to know him.

Even as I walked away from the festival, that profound, poetic description lingered in my mind, overshadowing any onstage performance I'd witnessed.

I wondered what this man did to exhibit a radiant soul. Who did he inspire? How did he and his “radiant soul” impact the people who knew him? I thought of those who were fortunate enough to have been in the presence of his “radiant soul” – and how richer they must have been for it.

What a tremendous legacy to leave.

It’s a legacy that now extends to a middle-aged business traveler/erratic jogger from Dallas. And it will soon reach my children, who will hear of a remarkable, joy-filled way to live and be regarded.

May we all be remembered in such a way.

Why I Am Not A Mason

Yesterday, a co-worker posed the question:
“What would you do if you weren’t in advertising?”

I couldn’t come up with anything positive, so I offered this spin.

“I wouldn’t be a stonemason.”

That answer was based on my most recent “home improvement” effort, pictured here. (To be fair, this project is closer to the alley than the home.)

Based on the comically glacial progress of this deconstruction project, you could also eliminate any profession related to stones, building, demolition, or bricks. While we’re at it, let’s also cross off the list jobs having to do with project management, resource allocation, or multiplication.

A little background on my project. Apparently, back in the halcyon days of non-rolling, metal trash cans, homebuilders were flush with cement, bricks and a utopian vision for well-organized alleys. So they built an aesthetically pleasing place for the homeowner to house his unsightly trash can.

Sure, this square of bricks was fine for the static, late 20th century trash receptacle.

But these myopic homebuilders didn’t foresee the mobile technology that would revolutionize home sanitation services.

Because the arrival of the wheeled trashcan rendered the unramped trash square irrelevant. The thousands of vacant trash squares dotting our fair city bear witness to this trash-edy.

It was one spring day that I gazed upon our own discolored empty trash square with a disdain like never before. Its mere presence mocked me. That yawning, empty space . . . those walls that shielded nothing . . . why, it hasn't played host to a trash can since the '90s. The clarity came swiftly.

Destroy the trash square. Tear down these walls!

A few whacks of the sledgehammer into it and the project was officially underway.

That’s when my wife spotted me. Shrouded in a cloud of dust, striking my signature “Sledgehammer” pose. I was a heroic symbol of spontaneity and industry.

Of course, that’s not exactly how she saw me.

“What are you doing?”

“Knocking this thing down. It has to go."

“What are you planning to do with those bricks?”

[LONG PAUSE]

“Well, I mean, there aren’t that many. I’ll just put ‘em out for big trash.”

“And how are you going to get them out there.”

“Andrew’s wagon. It’s perfect.”

Hearing that, she spun to return from whence she came, leaving me to my destructive folly.

As the sun set, what remained of the trash square resembled London during the Blitz, the center of the square filled with brick shrapnel. For weeks the ruins stood, undoubtedly fueling the head-shaking chagrin of our second-guessing neighbors who viewed the devastation daily as they drove down the alley. Monday morning quarterbacks, all!

How could I possibly know how many bricks were involved in the creation and subsequent destruction of the trash square?

Last Saturday (that is, ahem, two months later), I knocked down the rest of the bricks. There's a pile of them in our pool yard. Big trash is coming this week. And Andrew’s wagon is getting pretty scratched up.

Alas, my vision for the open-spaced, border-free, wheelcan friendly trash zone is nearly complete.

Now that I think of it, I'd probably go into urban planning.

Examining the Relationship between Nitrous Oxide and Classic Rock

I had the distinct pleasure of receiving a crown a few days ago.

Not that kind of crown.

(Yeah, I know. A coronation would have made for a more interesting blog post.)

Alas, the crown was placed in my head. If only the preposition in that sentence were slightly different . . .

In fact, the crown bestowed upon me involved significantly less fanfare, scepters, goblets, turkey legs, and subservience from subjects.

It did, however, rank higher in the category of royally sharp pain.

To manage this pain – ultimately the consequence of lackluster flossing between teeth #14 and #15 – the good dentist suggested some nitrous oxide. That’s an offer that doesn’t need to be extended twice, even if my employee benefits only cover .000000001% of costs related to nitrous and other barbiturates.

So I settled into my reclined chair and, under a comically small nose mask, began my odyssey into traumatic dental work and late 20th-century rock. Classic rock radio station KZPS is the soundtrack for my dentist’s office.

A few deep breaths later, I giggled as the acoustic ceiling tiles began to shape shift and KZPS launched into its well-worn “classic rock lunch hour”.

The conditions wouldn’t exactly appear to be primo for listening. External competition for the music came from whirring drills, ringing phones, and discussions about insurance and area restaurants from the front desk. My overactive internal monologue and the loop of the dentist scene from Marathon Man playing in my head also created listening distractions.

But I not only heard the classic rock, I seemed to feel it at a deeper level. (That along with the intrusive crowning pursuits.)

Ironically, the nitrous served as an agent of clarity. It exposed some of the songs as thin and formulaic. Totally calculated. Joyless. And, in some cases, just plain silly. Like Dirty White Boy by Foreigner and Cherry Pie by Warrant.
Even a deep cut from Kansas Leftoverture and Great White Buffalo from Ted – two of my longtime favorites – came across as bland and uninteresting.

Yet the gas brought out the richness, layered complexity, and brilliance of songs like Houses of the Holy, Tush, and Won’t Get Fooled Again. I was struck by the passion and depth of these songs. Classic rock, indeed.

The nitrous enabled me to better define what makes a classic. Attention program director: The definition of classic should not be limited to a matter of time and popularity. (i.e. 20+ years old + Top 50 on the charts = classic.)

A true classic stands the test of laughing gas.

Of course this is a bit of a moot point, as KZPS changed formats Monday. Now the station is serving up “Lone Star Rock,” some hybrid of country and classic rock.

Assuming my dentist still has his tuner on 92.5 FM, I’ll see how Willie and Waylon stand the nitrous test next time I’m unceremoniously crowned and gassed.

A Welcome Breath of Fresh Air

Exhausted after a long day of work and allergies, while driving home through a torrential rainstorm tonight, I was refreshed and encouraged by an interview I heard on NPR.

Terry Gross -- on her "Fresh Air" show -- was talking with Dr. Francis Collins. I didn't know much about Dr. Collins. Knew he headed up the Human Genome Project. But I had no sense of his faith.

Can I tell you how pleasantly surprised I was to hear him speak about the wonder, the awe, the God he finds in DNA. In the 3.1 billion pieces of code found in every human cell. Frankly, it did my weary faith good.

In a time that finds atheistic scientists like Dr. Richard Dawkins basking in a generous media platform, spouting about the irrationality of God, it was wonderful to hear Dr. Collins speak and enthusiastically reconcile science and faith -- and how the two coexist peacefully in his scientific pursuits. Fresh air, indeed.

Listen to the interview here.

And recall the words of the psalmist from Psalm 139:
"For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body."

The Bracket of Life

What would your life look like if you laid it out in a tournament-style bracket?

Yes, the thought was inspired by March Madness – and The Enlighted Bracketologist. (Brilliant idea.)

But it was truly sparked by a recent breakfast discussion, talking about success. Specifically, financial success. Who is rich? Moreover, why? Did they become millionaires because they are brilliant and shrewd visionaries? Or is it a case of timing and dumb luck? Whatever. They were in the right place at the right time. Said another way, they made a series of decisions that put them in the path of a financial windfall, whether or not they knew that would be the ultimate result of that decision.

Money doesn’t have to the yardstick here. Could be contentment. Happiness. Just happened to be the focus of our discussion.

Which got me to thinking about the decisions we encounter in life.

And that if you were to lay out your life in a linear, chronological format, you’d chronicle thousands, maybe millions of decision nodes.

You’d certainly show the major decisions – like who to marry, who to work for, where to live, what college, church, associations to belong to (or not). To the degree they’ve impacted your life, those minor decisions might also be chronicled: where to have lunch, what movie to see, what book should I read. (Not sure paper or plastic qualifies.)

Regardless, these nodes visually remind me of a tournament bracket.

Of course, the bracket analogy doesn’t totally work, for a few reasons like these:

1. If money is the determining factor, not everybody starts out in life at the same point. You don’t get to choose the socio-economic bracket you're born into.
2. The tournament bracket pits winners against each other while banishing the losers. It's a a zero-sum proposition. Our life is a bit more complex. Here, the winners and losers define who we are.
3. The tournament bracket suggests two choices. Life’s decisions aren’t so black and white, offering multiple options.
4. In life, you have more control over the outcome. The tournament/sports example limits your involvement as a detached spectator. (Unless your name happens to be Pete Rose.)
5. Nobody organizes an office pool around your life.

But as I sit here, disenchanted and discontent with my lot in life on this particular day, I reflect on the choices that landed me in this place. At this time. Somehow I can hear David Byrne wailing, “How did I get here?”

Reviewing my life and its decisions, bracket-style, provides some clarity.

Because as I review this imaginary, massive bracket, I see similarities between those life decisions – both major and minor – and how I picked my unimpressive bracket for this year’s NCAA tournament. Sketchy knowledge. Scant research. Precious little understanding. Didn’t consult the experts. Did a few of the picks just to be different. (If I would’ve picked, say, North Carolina because I thought it would make others happy, that would really have made this analogy sing.)

Guess I’m just glad life’s bracket isn't a single-elimination tournament. For now, you can find me fighting to stay relevant and alive somewhere deep in the NIT-like consolation round.

Pinewood Pressure

My son’s Pinewood Derby car kit sits in my garage.

Frankly, it intimidates me.

Which partially explains why we haven’t started building the car for the big race.

The larger part of the explanation is the big race was three weeks ago.

So what went wrong? I’m still sorting it out. I can trace some of it back to my own unsuccessful Cub Scout career. That unspectacularly brief Scout stint was rooted in a low-hanging fruit approach. You know. Quickly grab all the activity badges for things I’d do anyway. Sports activities. Baseball card collecting. Eating. The occasional bath. Whatever.

In a clear case of the low-hanging fruit not falling far from the tree, my son appears to be adopting the same strategy.

Back to the Pinewood kit on my garage workbench.

(I should note the term workbench is a bit of a misnomer in our garage. Technically, this space is not a bench, nor does it host much work. It’s more of an oversized coaster for drinks, paint, and antifreeze.)

The good news: the kit is in mint condition and could yield top dollar on the open market. Or it could serve as a bittersweet souvenir. One that, in the years to come, could allow my son to recall the carefree days of his youth.

Really carefree. As in “I don’t care about the schedule for the 2007 Pinewood Derby.”

I mean, the whole thing just got away from us.

OK. There’s more to it than that.

Like the fear of woodworking (FLASHBACK: To 6th grade woodshop and the overlacquered, Bunsen-burner seared planter I crafted that my mother dutifully displayed at home). The fear of engineering and physics (FLASHBACK: To that unfortunate egg drop in high school). Heck, even a mild fear of decals, paint and graphite lubricant kept me from diving headlong into this project (FLASHBACK: Some other time. It’s a long and dicey tale.)

Given this checkered past, I wasn’t ready to relive it by building a car. And I wasn't quite ready for my son to feel the shame of the proud pack, who might just expose his dad as a sham. (I don’t think he reads this blog.)

But honestly, I couldn’t even visualize success at this event. The best my mind could conjure was showing up with our entry: a clumsy car resembling a Dutch clog designed by American Motor Cars (AMC), circa 1974. A colorful yet poorly-sanded entry that barely passes muster at inspection, thanks to a parent-unconstitutionally-deputized-as-judge who gladly welcomes a shoddier entry than his son’s into the contest.

My imagination did allow me to see our entry starting the race well, even taking an early lead. At this, I could see the smile spread across my son’s face as our car zipped out of the gate, a good car’s length ahead of the others as it harnessed the glorious momentum of gravity.

But as this played out in my mind, before he could reach me to share in an enthusiastic father-son hug, our car would shudder to a stop on the track halfway to the checkered flag, quite possibly due to three of the car’s tires flying off the axle-nail, the fourth left on the rainbow colored wooden shoe to smoke uncontrollably from the intense friction generated by a heinously calculated wheel to body ratio, which the resulting noxious fumes call unwanted attention to.

As we both watch this in open-armed, slack-jawed horror, the shrieking over-vigilant den mother sweeps our smoldering uni-tired monstrosity from the track and gets four painted pine splinters in her right index finger.

Maybe I’ll just toss the kit . . .

The Good, The Bad, and the Buzzkill

Caught three band last nite at Nokia.

Silversun Pickups
OK Go
Snow Patrol

The good:
--Silversun Pickups. Those guys unleased a massive wall of sound that was absolutely glorious. They were tight and played with ferocity and power. Kind of reminiscent of Smashing Pumpkins and Catherine Wheel "Black Metallic". Next time they come to town, go see them.

Unless they're opening for two lesser bands.

Which was exactly the problem with this multiple act show. The Silversun Pickups were alloted less than 30 minutes and seemingly no props to crank out their genius. Didn't need the props. But a 25-minute set was criminally brief. I had to grab a live set from iTunes this a.m. to get my fix.

The bad:
--Nokia Theater. Another comfy, corporate palace a la American Airlines Center. Ads everywhere. Lots of space and legroom. Ideal for My Little Pony or Thomas the Tank Engine shows. But lousy for intimate and/or energetic shows. (And $15 to park? What the . . .)

The buzzkill:
--The two 20-something girls who must've taken 300 pictures of themselves enjoying the concert. I kid you not. Imagine that photo review session. "Here's us with our faces totally against each other. Here's us with only the top part of our cheeks touching. Here's us with a sassy, rock concert look. Here's how I looked during the encore. OMG!! See how surprised I look!"

--The 50-something woman with old-lady-wiry hair in front of us, shaking her moneymaker to Snow Patrol. Any notion that we were part of some hip scene was decimated then and there.

--Men carrying big, dumb drinks in hurricane glasses. This was a rock concert.

--Air drumming.

--Ballads and love songs. (Maybe this explains the frozen drink thing.)


Summary: Listen to Snow Patrol on CD. Enjoy the novelty of OK Go. And follow Silversun Pickups wherever they go.

Libby Lewis on Lewis Libby

Last nite I heard a news report on NPR. It was regarding the guilty verdict of Lewis Libby.

This report was filed by NPR reporter Libby Lewis.

What the . . . Libby Lewis?!? Lewis Libby?!?!? At first I did a doubletake, audio-style.

Then I realized the genius of it. Of how this clever naming convention increased my recall of the story -- and of the oft-forgotten correspondent.

Believing, then, that this is a trend, I look forward to future reports on newsmakers from the following NPR correspondents:

-W. Bush-George
-Obama Barack
-Cuban Mark
-NicolAnna Smith (job outlook: sketchy)
-Chris Luda
-Reynolds Burtt
-Oliver Erick

The Joy of Re-discovery

This morning, there was a can of Comet on my bathroom sink.

I encountered it shortly after rolling out of bed. Surprisingly, I was lucid enough to not use it as:
1. Talcum powder for my sensitive male skin
2. Coffee sweetener
3. Stuff for a protein shake

But I wasn't quite sure what to do with this Comet. Its presence was totally unexpected and, frankly, out of context for me. So, where should it be, I asked myself in a slow, pre-caffeinated way.

[PROCESSING . . . PROCESSING . . . ]

How . . . about . . . the cabinet under my sink? A superb answer. (Witness the self-affirmation.)

As I contemplated this move, I realized I wasn’t exactly sure what resides under this particular sink.

I mean, in our house, the under bathroom sink space is one of those forgotten storage places. And it's not ideal, what with that U-shaped pipe violating what could be premium space, turning it into a one-off novelty act. If I had to characterize the hierarchy of storage spaces in our home, it would go something like this.

1. Kitchen cabinets (These reign supreme – all other storage space is subservient and bows to this one. Similarly, every piece of stuff in our house aspires to reside in one of these cabinets. The equivalent of beachfront property.)
2. The bedroom closets
3. The hall closets
4. Under the kitchen sink (high toxicity and utility)
5. Bathroom cabinets
6. The kitchen drawers (This loosely configured community is comprised of sundry coupons, primitive and occasionally violent drawings from the Boy, and calendars emblazoned with the toothy grins and “helpful hints” of sellers of real estate)

Now, at the bottom of the list are our home’s versions of treasure chests, grab-bags, wild-cards. Spaces filled with low utility items, probably not touched since our move into the house. The upside to this is we enjoy minor game-show revelatory moments when we get a look at what’s . . .
27. In the attic!
28. Under the beds!
29. And under my bathroom sink!

So this morning, as I held the Comet and my breath with a certain degree of anticipation, I bent slightly at the waist to creak open the under-the-bathroom-sink cabinet door and cram that can of cleaner up against a big, unmarked cardboard box. And would you like to see what’s in the box, contestant? [OPEN THE BOX] You just found valuable baseball cards! (Retail value: Over $300! APPLAUSE!) But that’s not all. Because sitting on top of the box are three long, narrow vinyl cases that contain . . . [UNZIP ONE OF THE CASES . . . THIS IS SO EXCITING!] a variety of cassette tapes from the 70s and 80s!

As I soaked in the imaginary adulation from the studio audience that wasn't there, my eyes were drawn to the handwritten titles on the cassette sleeve. The writing was mine, and usually declared a theme of the tape’s contents. I slid one entitled “Rock and Rhythm” out of the case and set it aside for my morning trip down 75 (and memory lane). Yes, my 20th century "auto" has a "audio-cassette player."

And what a tasty treat of early 80s music it served up.

While listening, I made these quick observations:
1. The tape is more rock than rhythm.
2. Back in the day, treble was king.
3. Music wasn’t as disposable.
4. Songs were eminently singable.
5. Oingo Boingo was underappreciated.
6. Lyrically, the stories were more fun.
7. iTunes doesn’t have a vast catalog of musical selections from Tommy Tutone or Gary Myrick & The Figures

That’s what I learned when I tried to recreate (sans tape hiss) the mix digitally. Regardless, here’s the link to the Mix Tape iMix. It’s a little heavy on the Clash (And the problem is . . . ?)

The whole experience reminded me of how the mix tape was such a labor of love. Finding the music from various LP collections around town. Agonizing, High Fidelity-style, over which song to open with, how to create just the right mood and flow. Applying suspect math skills to ensure not a second of the 90-minute Maxell was wasted with dead air.

Listening to the tape today -- some 25 years after authoring it -- was testimony to what a powerful stimulus music is. Each song seemed to bring to mind sights, experiences, posters, people . . . This tape unlocked portions of my brain I haven’t used since the Reagan Administration.

And as I sang and sailed toward downtown in my SAAB, I smiled at the wonderful surprises found in those dusty, nearly forgotten neural storage spaces.