Don't Mess With The Funnies

On Sunday mornings I often get up before the rest of the house.  I like to spend a little time flipping through the Sunday paper while the rest of the family is just waking up.  Usually, by the time the boys are coming down for breakfast, I'm reading the Sunday comics.  I read at the kitchen counter and often they'll sidle up next to me with a bowl of cereal and we'll read together.

A couple of years ago, one of the car dealers in town started running an ad that was a half page attached to the front of the comics section and then folded back over.  I found it to be very irritating, made even more so by the smiling face of the man who ran the dealerships prominently displayed at the top.  Every Sunday I would grumble about this piece of trash that didn't conform to the geometry of the rest of the paper and, worse yet, blocked half of "For Better Or Worse".  I declared defiantly to anyone who happened to be passing through the kitchen that I would never buy a car from that man just because of this offense.  This was a bold statement as the man ran at least a dozen dealerships in town - not a monopoly, but I was severely restricting my automobile options.

I must confess, I wished misfortune for this man and his company.  I hoped that others would follow my lead and shop elsewhere.  I wanted marketing types everywhere to understand that messing with the comics is a very bad idea.  And then, the economic downturn happened and things got tough for auto dealers.  Soon enough the advertising budgets tightened and my comics section was ad-free.  I had gotten my wish but as the rest of the paper filled with stories of layoffs, I felt little joy or satisfaction.  With my paper now in order, I wished for some stability in the market.  Alas, for this particular dealer, the dominoes of misfortune were only beginning to fall.  Within the year, all of the dealerships would close.  The man with the smiling face is being investigated by both state and federal authorities.  His marriage ended, with his wife suing for alimony.  He declared personal bankruptcy, with debts in excess of 700 million dollars.  The troubles go on and on.

Now, I know that I did not cause all these bad things to happen to this man.  No, I prefer to think that this is some sort of divine retribution for messing with the comics.  Take note, you marketing types out there.

Yeah, sure you did.

As I sat at lunch today, I couldn't help but overhear a conversation happening a couple of booths behind me.  It was between a guy and a girl.  Their voices and the context of the conversation led me to believe that they were probably college-aged, likely students at the nearby university.  I glanced back once and they looked about the right age for college.  He had a rugged outdoorsy look with a scrappy beard, a big fur cap and a coat that looked heavy enough to keep him warm on the coldest of any Minnesota winter night.  She had a classic co-ed look, with a coat designed more for fashion than cold-weather comfort.

For the most part, the guy drove the conversation.  And where he took it was through the many fascinating exploits of his life.  All the while, the girl oohed and ahhed appropriately.  He told of his time sleeping under the stars when he was a boundary waters guide.  When that tidbit elicited particular enthusiasm, he upped the ante by going international and revealing that he had also been a guide in Peru.  She was rightly impressed.  Story after story fell from his lips, each a little more exotic than the last.  Finally, there was a pause and it sounded like they were getting ready to leave.  Then the following conversation ensued:

He: "I feel like doing something outside today, maybe skydiving."
She: "You skydive? I don't think I could do that."
He: "Yeah, I've been jumping for about six years.  You should really try it."
She: "Oh, I've done it a few times.  But the last time, I got so scared.  I don't think I could do it again."
He: "So you skydive?"

After that, she took the wheel.  She began asking questions, trying to find that shared experience that they would both understand.  He answers were vague and un-confirmable, the kind I would give if I had just lied about being a skydiver.  I think after the first few questions, she knew he had stretched the truth a bit about the whole skydiving thing.  I think she asked the next few just to let him know that she knew.  Then, mercifully, she changed topics.  Shortly thereafter, the two left arm in arm, their relationship seemingly undamaged by his attempted deception.  The romantic in me imagines the two of them ten years in the future.  They're married, sitting around with friends, reminiscing about that first date and all the tall tales he told in an attempt to win her affections.

It got me wondering.  If someone lies to you, but their motivation is to impress you, should you be offended or flattered?  Maybe both?

Married Man

I feel like I've been married forever.  Even when I think back to my single days, I do so from the perspective of a married man.  Being married is such an integral part of who I am that I cannot separate it from the rest of my psyche.  To be honest, I don't want to.  I love my wife and I love being married.  For me, it feels like my natural state - the way I should be.  I'm sure anything else would leave me feeling incomplete.  I feel the same way about being a father.  It's just who I am.

Marriage is a pretty wild concept when you think about it.  Before I got married, the longest commitment I had ever entered into was a five year car loan.  Not quite the same as 'til death do us part'.  Throw in how much people change over time and you wonder how anyone stays together.  But, I have to say that I have not found it difficult at all.  My wife and I have both changed and grown over the years but I think it has only made the bond stronger.  Together, we've felt great joy and great pain with each experience shaping and characterizing our life together.  It is uniquely ours.  No one understands me as she does.  No one else can.

So, I feel like I've been married forever but I know that isn't really true.  However, as of today, it has been 18 years.

Looking Back

A couple of thoughts struck me this morning as I prepared for work.  The first was that one should never underestimate the value of experience.  I think it is hard to recognize how much you've learned in your life if you just look at yourself in the present.  It's much more telling to look back at your past and imagine how different things would be if you were reliving it with the benefit of what you know now.  When I do this, I see so many instances where my former self made choices that are clearly idiotic to me now.  I suppose I could take comfort in the fact that I've learned and grown since then.  Still, there's a part of me that wonders if my future self will look back at the current me and still see an idiot.  Based on the pattern established thus far, the odds seem to tilt in that direction.  On the other hand, if the future me looks back and has no new insights, it implies I've ceased to learn anything new.  This happens to people who think they are perfect.  When you think you are perfect there is no need for change since you can't improve perfection.  I find these people to be the biggest fools of all.  I hope my future self doesn't become one of them.  So, my future self will either look back and see the idiot I am today or it will simply be the idiot.

The second thought that hit me this morning is just how strong my sense of smell is tied to specific memories.  I assume this is true for other people as well.  For me, I'm always a little surprised by it because I don't feel like I'm a very scent-focused person.  Still, some of these odors get themselves associated with parts of my life.  Often, it's very subtle.  For instance, I love the smell of freshly brewed coffee.  Usually, all I smell is the coffee, but every once in awhile something about the scent sparks a memory.  Suddenly, I'm transported fifteen years into my past.  I'm with my wife in a small coffee shop on Chestnut Street in the Cow Hollow area of San Francisco.  It's early spring and the air outside is cool.  As we leave the coffee shop, the warmth of the coffee cup feels good against my hand.  We walk the streets and eventually make our way to a marina on the bay.  It's a good memory and I'm grateful whenever it surfaces unexpectedly.

This morning, it was a different odor that got me thinking about scents and memories.  Today is trash day, and one of my trash day morning chores is scooping out the cats' litter box.  When we first switched to scoop-able litter I thought I would find this task far more distasteful than I do.  It's kind of like panning for gold except the "nuggets" have no real value.  Still, there is a certain satisfaction in the hunt itself.  The litter we are using is scented, and there was something about the smell that was all too familiar.  An image flashed in my mind.  I'm in my dorm room in my sophomore year of college.  The cat litter smells just like the Pert shampoo I was fond of using back then.  I shake off the memory and finish the task at hand.

As I drive into work, the college memory keeps trying to resurface.  I tell myself that it is no big deal.  Obviously, the litter company chose that scent because it is pleasant.  Still, I can't help looking back at my former self and seeing an idiot with hair that smells like cat litter.

A Regular

I think I might be a regular.

There's a coffee shop very near my work and I occasionally pop in for a cup.  Well, lately it's been more than occasionally.  I probably stop by three or four times a week.  I usually visit the shop just after lunch and I always order the same drink - a large coffee, to go.  I've been doing this routine for nearly a year now, so I sure feel like a regular.  I think if I saw any of the baristas on the street I would recognize them.  Still, I wonder sometimes if they recognize me.  For all the times I've been in there at the same time of day, ordering the same thing, they still look at me like they have no idea what I'm going to say when I order.  Maybe the true regulars are the college crowd, slumped in overstuffed chairs, seemingly spending their entire day in the shop.  Maybe the "to go" customers can never really be regulars in this place.  Or maybe I'm over-analyzing it and they're just open to the possibility that I might order something new.

A week ago, I was wondering about this as I approached the coffee shop.  Maybe I should mix it up and try something different.  Maybe they've been waiting for me to see the light and finally order a mocha.  I imagine tears of joy running down the cheeks of the barista as she carefully makes my specialty drink, wanting it to be perfect.  No doubt as soon as I leave the shop she'll be texting the others, boasting that it was she who took the order.  I'm still wondering about this as I approach the cash register and it causes me to hesitate.  The smiling barista breaks the silence with a question, "A large coffee, to go?"

I guess I am a regular.

Gross Word

Last night, I was watching N. play with an electronic hangman game.  He had it set on seven letter animal words and was doing a nice job of figuring out the words.  As far as electronic games go, this seems like a decent one for working on spelling.  At one point he had "O _ _ O P U S".  I listened as he talked to himself. "Oh, Oh-Puss," he repeated.  After a couple of more guesses, he zeroed in on the solution, octopus.  Afterwards, he looked up at me.  "I never really thought about it before, but that's kind of a gross word, Dad.  We should draw a picture of an octopus that's been stabbed with white stuff coming out of it.  That would be the octo-puss."

Strum

Judging from the number of guitars I own, one might conclude that I play well.  The truth is, I'm still looking for that magic instrument that makes me sound terrific.  I think my proficiency peaked when I was in college, the last time I played with any regularity.  It really wasn't much of a peak.  If you compared my abilities to guitarists everywhere, I'm sure my peak would look more like a pimple.  Still, for me, it was when I played best, a relative peak as compared to the rest of my life.  I have not played in public in over twenty-five years.  In that time, I occasionally pick up the guitar but I don't really practice, I just play what I know.  When you only play what you know, you don't get better.  If I had even kept this level up more regularly I might have been able to make my peak a plateau.  Sadly, I had some long stretches where I played seldom and my meager abilities diminished.  I do enjoy playing and in recent years I've been trying to put forth a more concerted effort.  It feels good to have calloused fingertips once again.  I hope to one day match my former abilities or even perhaps to look down at that peak from new lofty heights.

For some reason, whenever I try to play a song, it comes out all folksy sounding.  This is great if I stick to "Peter, Paul and Mary" songs, but not so hot for most everything else.  I once tried playing "Smoke On The Water" and you would have sworn I was copying a tune from the nonexistent "John Denver Sings Deep Purple" album.  I've tried using an electric guitar with ample distortion but the result is still folk, just louder.  While I like folk music just fine, I'd like to be able to take a break from it every now and then.

I was recently asked to play guitar as part of a group for special music at church.  Much like having a looming race improves my daily running, this upcoming performance has focused my guitar practice.  Luckily, the song we're doing is sort of folksy (or at least it will be when I'm done with it).