Community

A few months ago, I made a confession to a few friends about how I’d been battling an eating disorder. In my endless efforts to be thin, I’d basically stopped eating. I don’t know that you’d officially call it anorexia, but I was limiting myself to 1,000 calories or less each day. Occasionally, after going days with barely any food, I’d have some ridiculous binge, then get myself in a spiral of hating myself for what I’d done. Then, back to limiting intake. Repeat cycle.

After suffering 3 broken ribs on 3 separate instances over the course of the summer and realizing I might be a bit malnourished, I sort of snapped out of it. Sort of. I began reaching out to friends for support and maybe a little validation that what I was doing was probably not the best idea. What I got in return was a little surprising.

Each time I confided in a gay male friend about what was happening, instead of getting support, or even just a little love back, the response I received was some version of, “You could live on less than 1,000 calories a day!! And function?!! That’s awesome!! I wish I could do that”.

Yes. People both congratulated me and were jealous of my eating disorder. Thankfully, even in that moment, I had enough presence of mind to know that’s messed up.

It’s no real secret that body image issues are prevalent among gay men. So, I know I’m not at all alone in my struggles, even though some days it feels like it. And, it’s a thing that I can go days without thinking about at all, only to have it come screaming back while walking through a mall or seeing an ad. In fact, in an effort to stave off the negative thought spiral, and despite my interest (heightened even more of late) in all things political, I’ve started throwing my issues of The Advocate and Out directly into the recycling bin. I just can’t handle seeing the images that tell me what I’m supposed to look like and knowing I’ll never reach that standard.

It’s that political interest and our current need for making our voices heard that makes me feel especially conflicted about Pride this year. The part of me that is 100% here for #TheResistance is ready to take to the streets. But, I also feel like I’m probably not welcome there.

I’ve never felt especially comfortable in gay spaces. I don’t know that I especially fit into one particular gay “tribe” and I certainly don’t look like that ideal image that’s been pushed on me/us. So, being in the gayest of gay spaces, a Pride event, seems a little masochistic.

And don’t get me wrong, I totally get the easy counterpoint here. Be your own party. If they ain’t payin’ yo’ bills, pay them bitches no mind. I get it. Obviously, it’s easier said than done.

I also know it’s incredibly self-absorbed of me to think that anyone else is paying any attention to me. In reality, I could probably show up to an event and no one is going to look my way. I also know this feeling would be intensified if were a person of color or trans.

But, as much as I want to dismiss it, I also know there’s some traction to this feeling that we, as gay men, are supposed to look a certain way. And, from what we’re pitched, if we don’t meet that standard, then we should probably just crawl back under whatever rock we crawled out of.

So, that’s my conundrum. How do I go into what’s supposed to be my community and find community when I feel like an outcast?

Reconnect

I sat down to write because I needed to. I’ve had a thing bouncing around my head for days and I just need to take a second and work it out. So, here goes:

I think it was a fortune cookie that initially set me off. The nice bartender at the PF Chang gave me an extra to take home with my leftovers. So, while my beef with broccoli was doing its thing in the microwave, I took the opportunity to live like the adult I am and ate the cookie first.

The fortune said something about how I was going to reconnect with a person I’d lost touch with. I honestly don’t remember the exact wording. I read it, thought, “Huh, ok,” then being far more interested in the delightful, vaguely vanilla crunch of the cookie, threw away the fortune.

I went on to engage with various pieces of technology, I am traveling for work after all, while having my lunch, not giving another thought to the fortune. A bit later I was pretty mindlessly packing everything up to move on to my next appointment and it kind of hit me. Reconnect with someone? Huh. Who? Am I supposed to reconnect with someone?

Now, I’m certainly not prone to giving most fortune cookies any credence. But, this just seemed to stick. I usually have a pretty cluttered mind that’s buzzing with Kesha songs, anxieties, and picking apart every way I’ve entered into the world today looking a hot damned mess. But this wouldn’t leave. Reconnect.

I don’t usually disconnect from people. Thanks to social media, even my friends that have moved away still feel close. And the people I’ve grown really close to, I’ve kept around. The people I really liked in middle and high school? Still see ‘em all the time. True college friends? I interact with them on social media a few times a week. Hell, I even still talk to ex boyfriends.

There’s only one person I’ve ever completely unplugged from, only one person who was so toxic and terrible that I made a decision to remove him completely. A person I truly have no fond memories of, no warm and fuzzies, no “but that one time was really great” moments. My dad.

And you guys, he was pretty awful. I won’t turn this into some laundry list of indictments into how and why he was awful. But, I will say that I’ve never regretted the decision to never speak to him again. I’ve gone so far as to warn family and friends to never to give him my contact info, even when they've been the bearer of messages from him asking for it.

I do not feel my life has been anything but enhanced for having made this decision. I’ve been free to live my life without the tumult that speaking to him would certainly involve. I feel nothing but happy with this decision, and only wish I’d done so earlier in my life. (I was 20 when I stopped speaking to him. I’m 35 now).

At this point, he’s in his 70s. I don’t really want to know anything about him, but my mom and sister occasionally hear a thing and pass a tidbit of info on to me. He’s apparently not in great health. He lived hard for a time, so that’s not necessarily surprising.

I don’t have guilt. When I think of him, I don’t have some sense of longing to make the past right. I honestly don’t believe he has the capacity to do any kind of atonement for things he did. Happily, I don’t need him to. I’ve made my peace that he is who he is and I’ve made a better life without him.

I don’t have anger. I did once. But, I learned to let that go. I came to terms with the fact that he was probably doing as best he knew how given his own mental health and what had been modeled for him. That isn’t to excuse him. But, it’s a way to move on without wanting to throttle him.

I don’t have any words I need to hear him say. I don’t need an apology, or some admission of wrong doing. I’ve healed without that. Enough time has elapsed that it wouldn’t mean much anyway.

But there’s this thing that keeps sticking in my head. Reconnect.

I saw a few signs in stores recently that mentioned Father’s Day. That hasn’t really meant much to me in 15 years, so I had to google what day that was. Turns out, it’s coming up. I honestly thought it’d already happened.

And no, I don’t plan on trying to have some Father’s Day reconnection. Honestly, when my mom and sister have tried to reconnect with him, it didn’t go well and they’ve shut him out again. I don’t have any delusion that it would go any differently for me.

Also, my life has enough general chaos in it without inviting in some other brand of crazy. To paraphrase Jack Nicholson in that movie, I’m all stocked up in that sense.

But yeah, there’s no pretty ending to this little diatribe. It’s mainly an effort to remove a thing that’s been bouncing around my head. Maybe I’m hoping it’ll finally put this particular train of thought to rest and I can go back to Kesha and obessing about how this tucked in shirt makes me look fatter than I am.

For now, I’m gonna listen to Rufus sing “Dinner at 8,” then pack up my stuff and move on to my next appointment.

Open Letter to Mayor Gray

Dear Mayor Gray,

Hi. You don’t know me. I get that. I actually live just a few blocks over from you, though. Sorry if it’s creepy that I know that. I was out for a walk once and someone just pointed over and said, “Jimmy lives there”. So, there you are.

We did meet once. There’s no reason you’d remember that. It was at a Christmas party and someone introduced us. We said a quick “Hi” and I scooted on out so it didn’t get awkward.

Nevertheless, I’m writing something you’ll likely never see because the word is that you’re considering running for Senate.

Please. Run.

There’s the obvious issue at hand: Rand Paul is pretty much awful. He’s spent his time in the Senate laying the groundwork to run for President. He’s only bothered to pop by his alleged home state when he’s had to make an appearance to get the election laws changed so he can run for two offices at the same time. He might have raised some cash while he happened to be in town. Other than that, I can’t think of much ol’ Rand has gotten accomplished. I know some thought he was the Next Big Thing, but he’s turned out a bit more like new Coke. Folks in Iowa sure have seen a lot of him, though.

None of this is news to you, I’m sure. So, I digress.

Back to you running for Senate. That’s a thing you should do. And here’s some good news: you kinda already know the other side’s playbook. We’ve all seen a few recent candidates, despite being qualified and well funded that have fizzled. You gotta do this differently.

If nothing else, this is the year for loud, brash, envelope pushing politics. From Bernie to Trump, those are the kinds of candidates who are getting attention and leading polls. These milquetoast candidates who always seem a little too prepared, too guarded, and too calculated don’t play well with voters. See Conway’s various runs for evidence.

So instead, maybe you could run a different kind of campaign. The kind of campaign where you come out swinging.

Coal? Yep, it’s a dying industry that’s brought an economy of boom and bust to Kentucky. And lately, it’s been more bust. It’s time to move on. In their hearts, Kentuckians in Coal Country know this. (I’m from Harlan County, so I can bear witness). They know how messed up it is that people get jealous when someone gets Black Lung benefits because it gets them out of the mines, and provides a steady income. Tell them you want better than that for Kentucky. Because, honestly Kentuckians DO want better than that. They’ve just never had anyone tell them that in those terms. Politicians are always bowing to coal, not challenging it. I promise. This could be big for you.

They’re also gonna tie to you Obama. As you know, Fox News has scared the crap out of some ill informed people who think Obama is some socialist, gun stealing, America hating monster. But rather than run from Obama, I say throw caution to the wind and embrace him. Imagine when the news has to report that you said “Was it the job creation, the healthcare, or the economic prosperity you had a problem with?” Rather than cower to the attack, give it right back to them. And not in some polished way. But in a visceral gut punch that will make people stand up and take notice.

I could go on, but I’ll spare you.

My larger point is this: Run. But, run differently. This same old, same old approach clearly doesn’t work. You can do this. You know the Republican game plan. Don’t fall for it. Be creative. Be spontaneous, even. Embrace what you know to be true and speak your mind. It’s going to take something like that to break through the misinformation and finally give us a Senator we deserve.

Now, go get your name on the ballot and give ‘em hell.

Colorblind

I am colorblind.

I’ll admit that I don’t necessarily understand all of the science about how that works. I just know that stop signs look green. Sometimes, fields of grass are red.

Often, when I tell someone, like a confused clerk in a clothing store who is baffled as to why I ask her what color a shirt is, I then have to explain that no, the world is not black and white. While I think that is an actual condition, your average, garden variety colorblindness just means that green can look red. Pink can look gray, or sometimes khaki. Blue can be purple, yellow can be orange, and teal never makes any sense.

I’ve always been colorblind, so it’s a bit of a non-issue for me. I suppose I pretty quickly learned I can’t always trust my eyes. I learned to ask questions. I learned that what I think I see may not always be how things are.

Things aren’t black in white. There are shades. Tilt my head a little, give something a different light, and it changes color.

Perspective matters.

This morning, I was overwhelmed on social media by people advocating dropping nuclear bombs on entire regions. Others were not able to see a religion followed by a billion people has to be about peace, else they would have already taken over the world. A few more can’t wrap their head around historical context. Fear of the unknown prevents reaching out to lend a helping hand.

To those, things are black and white. Good versus evil. Us versus them. Action without consequence. Action without questions.

I find myself wishing more people were colorblind.

Poem Post

It's been awhile, hasn't it?

I wrote a poem tonight and as usual, I suck at titles, so it doesn't have one at the moment. But, here it is:

I left the vestibule door open
when I ran in
jacked up on generic Kool-Aid
and store bought cookies
and I knew
as sure as I knew that my
new Reeboks were a size 11
that this year I was
gonna sing so loud
they'd hear me across the river
across the tracks
even if the old L&N coal train
went by
blowing it's horn at the
Black Bottom crossing.

I never was good at the craft part
of Vacation Bible School
I couldn't, still can't, paint
or work with my hands.
But Jesus loves the little children
red and yellow, black and white
I could sing it
over the clicking of Kodaks
the whipping of bulletins as fans
and the heathen kids riding by
on rusty Huffys outside.

Mama was gonna be proud.

I pledge allegiance to the Christian flag
Onward Christian soldiers
marching as to war

Oh, Victory in Jesus
My Savior
Forever

Lord, it's been a month of Sundays
but I still know all the verses to
How Great Thou Art
but my voice is rusty

The B-I-B-L-E was not the book for me
I stood alone
on grown man feet and
couldn't walk back through
the vestibule door.

Blessed assurance
Jesus is mine
Little ones to him belong
I once was lost
or am
or wasn't

The son has now outlived the Son
But I can look outside and
see Him in a December sky
in my boyfriend
feel Him in the marrow of my sternum
as I write these words
with shaky hands
But, oh God
Is it well with my soul?

Pilgrimage

Pilgrimage. It’s defined by dictionary.com as “any long journey, especially one undertaken as a quest or for a votive purpose, as to pay homage”.

I suppose that’s as good a word as any. To pay homage. That’s why I’m doing this. It feels a little creepy and maybe somehow gratuitous to take a tragedy that didn’t really involve me and then somehow make it about me. I get that. Know that I feel as uncomfortable about it as you think I should. It’s just that in my life there have only been a few of those touchstone moments, those moments when you can look at it in the very instant it is happening and realize that you are changing that very second.

A bit of background: My work currently involves me traveling to a location and working 20 days straight with only one day off. During those single days off, it’s common place to either explore the area I’ve been living in and not seeing due to work,  or maybe sometimes just find a spot to take a breath after working non-stop.

My current rotation has me in Denver, a city that should spring to mind visions of breweries, outdoor activities, snow-capped mountains in June, and any number of restorative activities to help me re-center after working through a couple of weeks. However, it only took about 24 hours of being here before I knew my day off wouldn’t be hiking, brewery hopping, or even just a drive through the mountains. It would be the pilgrimage.

It wasn’t long after I got here that I started moving around Google maps to sort of place where I am in the city and saw that word. Littleton. The mental Rolodex set to work trying to remember why that name stood out. About a second later it settled: Columbine.

I realize that countless words have been written about that particular event, words that are far more meaningful, far more insightful, far more helpful, if that’s even a thing. But, I know that on that day, I was changed.

Sure, there’d been school shootings before this, even one just across the state. But this was different. Maybe it was the magnitude. Maybe it was the media coverage. Maybe it was that I was already going through my own college freshmen depression. But I remember seeing the news and it took my breath. I cried all day.

Yes. I did mourn the victims. All of them. I cried for lost innocence. I cried because I realized that my generation would never know of a world with a safe place. We would be the first to come of age when metal detectors and lockdown drills were commonplace, where the pop of a light bulb going out induces a moment of panic.

I cried, because I knew that without the strength a couple close friends had given me, without the grace of whatever God there might be, it could have been me.

I’m hesitant to write another story about a gay boy being bullied. I’m actually kind of irritated with the word “bully”. It sounds so playground in a parking lot world. So, I’ll exercise some brevity to just say that once we moved to a new town when I was in sixth grade, until the day I left that town for college, my life was hell. A home life that certainly needed some psychological intervention was made worse by a school life that daily told me I was worthless and weak, with a constant threat of violence. To say that I didn’t often think of turning the tables would be a lie.

We’ll never know what was going through their minds on the day two boys did the unthinkable. But on the day they did it, I broke.

I’ve never said it out loud before, but I felt bad for them.

No. Their actions are not excusable.

Yes. Their victims are the victims.

But, I guess to make tragedy make sense, we all process it through our own experience, and it’s what I admittedly assume is their hurt I can relate to. I can still feel. I can still be back to it with a quick memory. I can still feel that flash of terror when passing a certain boy, even now with us both grown men, as I walk through Kroger with my mom. That day back in 1999, I realized what that pent up hurt and pain can do. While watching news footage from my dorm room floor, I realized what living with hurts that deep can do and knew I had to find a way to get it out of me.  I dove deeper into writing, forcing myself to journal to get out what was inside. I also stopped watching anything that depicts violence.

The connection I made to Columbine compels me towards it when it’s a 10 minute drive away. And so, I set the GPS on my phone and point the rental car that direction.

***

I’m afraid there’s no pathos here. I went. I couldn’t bring myself to even turn onto the actual grounds of the school, let alone get out of the car. This sort of tragedy tourism I’d embarked on didn’t feel right. But in driving past the school, I can say I’m almost certain the sign out front is the same sign I remember seeing from news footage.

I turned the car around in the neighborhood next to the school and was surprised to see couples out for an evening walk, a boy and his dog playing fetch in a front yard. On the other side of the school is a park where a group had set up a grill and was playing volleyball. The day’s Little League games were wrapping up. It was so normal. People had moved on.

And that’s exactly as it should be. Life does go on. It may not seem like it, but I’ve moved on. You mark the hurt and the way it changed you, then try to move through the world as best you can. But you make the pilgrimage for the same reason people go to Ground Zero or Gettysburg. You go to not only pay homage to what happened there, to the victims, but to whatever it is you’ve found in yourself there. I’ve made the pilgrimage. I have no desire to go back.

Blame It All on Garth

“Ain’t it funny how a melody/can bring back a memory/take ya to another place and time/completely change your state of mind.”

            “State of Mind”- Clint Black

Coming from me, it may sound odd that my favorite Christmas gift was a Garth Brooks box set. I’m the guy who repeatedly listens to Fiona Apple and drove 10 hours to New York to see Bjork. I think I even surprised a few people when I mentioned the box set was on my Christmas list (thanks Sis!). But, as the name of the set suggests, blame it all on my roots.

I grew up in Eastern Kentucky where the prevailing music was either hymns in church or country music on the radio. My earliest memories are of me surrounded by music. In retrospect, what’s surprising is that while my parents certainly influenced what music I was exposed to, the music I listened to was my music. Mine. I owned it. 

For every birthday, I got records. When my grandparents would give me a dollar, I couldn’t wait to get to Mack’s or the TG&Y to buy a 45. 45s could usually be had for a dollar and would give me a chance to get a taste of a little bit of everything. I kept them in what had been a gallon Neapolitan ice cream bucket. This let me carry them and my portable record player with me everywhere I went.

For clarification, I’m not talking me as a teenager or even a tween. This is me at 6 years old, with my Randy Travis, Reba, Judds, Don Williams, Ricky Skaggs, Gene Watson, Barbara Mandrell and the records of countless others literally dragging behind me throughout the house. I sang along. I learned every word, even when I had no idea what most of it meant. It became my escape.

It wasn’t until looking through the box set today that I realized it’s dedicated to Garth’s influences. His own music and the songs and artists that he says shaped his sound. Many of these were the records, then eventually tapes and CDs, that were my childhood. While reading song titles and artist’s names, I was taken right back to Harlan County. Some of them literally took my breath away.

Just the recollection of a few bars of “Don’t Close Your Eyes” had me back in the floor with my record player, watching the Epic Records logo spin and trying to drown out the sounds of fighting in the other room. “Digging Up Bones” had me driving to Martin’s Fork Lake and remembering the first time I heard Randy Travis. Garth’s version of “Shameless” reminded me of having bought the Billy Joel “Storm Front” tape at the flea market and surprising my mom when I already knew every word when Garth’s version came on WFSR. It went on to become her favorite Garth song.

So, I’m spending today thinking about Wynonna and Naomi, Tanya Tucker and Sawyer Brown, Charley Pride and maybe even George Jones. It’s bringing back a ton of really happy and occasionally painful memories, loads of which I’d completely forgotten. But, just a quick scroll through my memory bank of that ice cream bucket of 45s and as Trisha sang, “even if the whole world has forgotten, the song remembers when”.

In Defense of Fashion

You ever see something that gets under your skin for no reason?  Something that really has no relation or bearing to your actual life, something that just has nothing to do with anything you have any control over and really isn’t in the scope of your everyday life, but for some reason, this irritating thing causes you to have a little mental meltdown? Ever had that?

It probably happens to me with more regularity than it should. Last night, a friend posted a link to a Buzzfeed story that displayed photos from various shows from Men’s Fashion Week in Milan. The article boils down to a series of carefully curated photos with snarky commentary from what was certainly the most out of the ordinary looks sent down the runways. The general premise being, “aren’t these ridiculous??!!...What are these fashion people thinking??!! No one would ever wear this!! Does Donatella think the next “Big Thing” is going to be gladiator costumes??!!”

And this, this is what set me off. Yeah, I’m not in the fashion world. I don’t design. I only own a couple of pieces of true Designer clothes. But, the lack of understanding about what a fashion show is, what purpose it serves, and the disrespect and ignorance (usually followed by disdain) that people often give Fashion got/gets/will continue to annoy me.

I’ve spent more time than I should have in my life defending not only my love for fashion, but also why it isn’t something to be discounted. Let’s start with a few quick premises:

1)      Fashion is Art. And no, I’m not necessarily talking about what you’re going to find at H&M, J. Crew or even the mass produced Calvin Klein you find in Macy’s in the mall. I’m talking from real design houses that actually spend time completing an honest to Gaga collection. Those collections have themes, intents, and actually work to say something that the specific designer wants to say. Sometimes it’s social commentary, sometimes it’s challenging the idea of masculinity and femininity, and sometimes it’s even commenting on Fashion itself. However, a true runway collection is no different than any other type of art exhibition. It’s an artist attempting to present an idea via the artistic medium he or she has chosen. Fashion just happens to be worn as opposed to an object d’art hanging on the wall or sitting in a gallery.

2)      Fashion shows are not for you. Or me. Or most of us really. They are either for the buyers at the major retailers who will pick what clothes will be sold in their stores, or for fashion magazine editors who will try to capture what the designer was saying and maybe comment on it in an editorial.

3)      That brings me to some of the looks that often make it onto things like the Buzzfeed article. Every season designers show pieces that are “weird” or “out there” or even “unwearable” in an everyday context. THESE ARE NOT INTENDED TO BE WORN WHILE YOU CLEAN THE HOUSE/GO TO WORK AT YOUR CUBICLE/OR EVEN OUT TO DINNER. These are often conceptual looks that fit into the collection by displaying a new technique or use the extreme to hammer home the larger message of the collection. Just because it goes down the runway on a model doesn’t at all mean the designer intended for that look to be worn by the masses as it was shown. If it shocked you, that was probably the designer’s intent.

4)      To that end, let’s talk about the exclusivity argument. Fashion is often seen as something for the pretentious elite, something that the shallow folks with gobs of money waste their trust funds on. And sure, most Fashion is above most of our budgets. Just as most of the art hanging in the Met or Guggenheim is out of our budgets. So, what’s the difference? Why is it ok for someone to spend thousands or even millions for a painting with precious little outrage, but it’s a crime for Prada to charge $5000 for a dress? Sure, you can buy a $100 suit at H&M. But, you also pay for what you get in terms of fabric quality, construction, attention to detail and the wages of those who made the garment. The garments may even appear similar. It’s sort of the same principle as buying the original Van Gogh or buying a print of it in the gift shop on your way out. Most of us don’t buy the original. Instead, we buy a mass produced, cheaply made version of it.

5)      While we’re on the topic of wages, take a moment to consider that awesome $5 t shirt you bought at a discount store. Sure, it was a great bargain for you, but at what cost on the back end? If you’re truly interested in the high cost of low priced, disposable clothes have a look and listen here and here. Maybe also watch an episode of Project Runway and see the art, talent and time it takes to construct one garment. Then, think about how it can be that anything sells for $5.

6)      And finally, let’s talk about the nature of what Fashion is for most of us. Even those who shun the world of Fashion have to engage it in some way to know what to rail against. And yes, just as it was succinctly described by Miranda Priestly in “The Devil Wears Prada”, what shows on the runways will eventually trickle down (with increasing speed due to that cheap manufacturing) to us masses. See all those printed shirts? They’ll likely show up in stores in toned down, more widely appealing patterns. See those color pairings and silhouettes? They might just show up too, in a way that hints back at the original’s general concept, but in a way that is relatable to most people.

And with all that being said, I’ll close with my final defense. Perhaps it’s the ultimate reason I’m bothering to post this. It’s the defense of myself. I’ve been accused of being shallow, pretentious, vain and any number of things due to my love of Fashion. It’s always been frustrating to attempt to explain why I don’t see Fashion as others seem ready to understand it. However, it is nothing more than an appreciation for what seems to me to be the art form we all most interact with, whether we like it or not.

Nope, I'm Not Going To Make A Reference To a David Bowie Song

So, hi there. Been awhile, hasn't it? 

My last post was over half a year ago. I'll stop myself from waxing too philosophic about getting older and time moving faster, but suffice it to say I'm shocked by that. This is actually something I really enjoy doing. So, I'm finally taking a moment to lay the devices and the day down and get to some explaining. 

I'm presently sitting in my hotel room in Cleveland, a place that I don't so much as unpack but move into. My stay is 19 nights. The Hilton points are glorious. 

The first change worth mentioning is that I'm writing my first post that's completely done on my iPad. Thank you Bluetooth technology. I really do require an actual keyboard. This leads to another change. My beloved (and I'm not really being facetious) BlackBerry has died. Thus, my devotion to the BlackBerry has died as well. I've kept my iDevices for lo these many years, but held on to my Tyrone (his name from Curve to Bold). We've taken walks on the beach, snuggled during sofa naps. He was always responsive and ready with his efficient and confident bounce/click on the keyboard (even after several of his letters had worn away). 

Yet, his successors forwent the keyboard, leaving me no choice but to complete the iFamily. I dare not speak its name in the same post. My fingertips will be forever longing for that reassuring click of a word/text/email/post without the intrusion of Siri, auto-correct or push alert. Adieu, Tyrone. 

But back to the reason I'm in Cleveland: the new job. I have taken a new job with the same company, but a bit of a different gig. The impetus for the change being the ever constant threat of layoffs and my desire to just get the hell out. So, I'm now no longer occasionally loaned to the Catastrophe Team; I'm part of it. This means that my new work schedule is 20 days "on" and 8 days "off". 

During the 20 days, I'll usually be in Cleveland, the site of our Response Center. While here, I'll do a little bit of everything. I'll organize people "on the ground" in various locations where Catastrophe has happened, and I'll work directly with folks who are presenting claims as a result of said catastrophes. I should also mention that "catastrophe" can include a large, populated area being hit by fairly innocuous hail to tornadoes tearing apart a town. A laugh about baseball sized hail pelting you as you try to cover the car in pillows and then tears with someone as they talk about losing everything can easily happen on any day. 

We work long hours. 7:45am to 7pm. Everyday. One day off over the 20. I come home spent and to people who love me and take care of me .I'm grateful and spoiled. 

I'm also a bit disconnected. I try not to be. The iDevices help. But, while here my mom has lost her job, and a few other actual tragedies have happened in the lives of people I love. I try not to let distance equate distance and send the love/hurt/empathy as much as the pixels let me. It always feels trite and not enough. I'm working on being sure I try anyway, because my initial reaction is to not do anything, because it doesn't feel as authentic as what I might do or say were I there in person. 

I'm midway though a rotation now and very much looking forward to the time I'm about to get home, complete with a mini-vacation to Atlanta where I'll get to boo the Braves in person and bask in the not quite full drag glow of the Beyonce. I also hope I'll get the chance to get and give the hugs and words that I need to. Until then, I'm pulling Carole King's "So Far Away" out of the cloud and placing it on repeat. 

Dec 15

It is very much on purpose that I haven’t seen the pictures or video. I’ve kept it to text on the BlackBerry screen. At age 32, it seems I can still become a teenager feeling Columbine too easily from two time zones over. It seems trite or not fair to feel what isn’t immediately my problem. As I sit here with everyone I know accounted for and safe, to grieve people I’ll never know doesn’t seem right. It wasn’t me and mine. Very likely if you’re reading this it wasn’t your and yours. To be sad, to cry, to rage, to pray when I’m not in the immediate seems wrong. I don’t, can’t, won’t feel the sting of what those in Connecticut feel as I move on with my day. To pretend I do is offensive. 

But yet, I’ve become an adult where this is reality. It happens in malls now, workplaces and sidewalks. It can be kindergartners or Congresswomen. We’ve somehow came to accept a world where school funding goes for metal detectors and security guards instead of computers and textbooks. We’re alright with a world where health care for all sorts of illness is not a protected right, but gun ownership is. We’ll even give lip service to anti-bullying measures, but still legislate against equal rights with a straight face. 

And that’s why I sat down to write this morning. Not because I can burst into tears, not because I’m a person who feels things that aren’t immediately related to me, but as a man who has seen too much. 

I find myself feeling less depressed and more angry that this keeps happening. Where were the people in charge when this kind of thing started? Why didn’t they do something? Why are we still not doing anything? 

I suppose it would be nice to be able to close out this little post with a call to action or some grandiose idea of how to move forward, but I’ve tried typing that and it just doesn’t  work. Maybe it’s too soon for that. 

Extrapolate and pontificate all you’d like about the reasons why, societal ills and legislative gridlock that prevents meaningful change from happening, but we have to admit that it’s getting worse instead of better. I’m not going to pretend I’m wise enough to know the answer. But what I do know is that many of us who grew up with school becoming a place of violence now have the power and responsibility to do what wasn’t done for us. 

To borrow a phrase from the President, I wonder if we can get and sustain an anger that’s enough to shout down the “carnival barkers” on TV, radio, Facebook feeds and even some of our pulpits? Or will we go back to our lives after this weekend and wait for it to happen again? 

I hope not.

End of Summer poem

Ok, it isn't really the end of summer for a few more weeks, but seeing the back-to-school ads and our general population increase, it feels that way. So, I wrote a quick poem this morning. I suck at titles, so it is as yet, untitled:

Summer is precocious
in this college town
when internships and so many
soon to be lost virginities cause
our population
to feel its age.

At first, it's just the
traffic's lighter and
the cereal aisle
less crowded.
Raisin Bran is on the
10 for $10
instead of Lucky Charms and Trix.

At the downtown bar,
you'll realize that
blue-eyed boy is gone
and your glass of wine
is delivered by a girl
too young to have crow's feet
and a picture of a toddler
in the black wallet where she
takes down your order.

Sure, you'll fire up the
grill, make sangria and
suntan your forearms and shins,
but even the boys brazen
enough to jog or play tennis
with their shirts off seem to
apologize for the 6 packs
being Bud Light Lime.

It isn't until the first, cool
night in August,
just after the extra long
twin sheets appear in Target
that you realize the prodigal
Abercrombie princes
have returned
wearing unabashed sex
as easy as pre-distressed
t-shirts and plastic flip-flops.

A table over, you hear someone
use the word "syllabi"
and a group of girls
in homecoming court heels
walk by
talking about "circle up".

And so, you sigh
force a wider smile
and slide an extra $5
in the wallet
and remember the
blue-eyed boy
is named Jacob.

I'm Back

There’s a certain something to ugly crying in a therapist’s office that is both disorienting and relieving. Something feels so great about letting whatever it is that seems to be the matter out, and at the same time incredibly awkward for doing this in front of a perfect stranger. Nevermind that it’s a stranger you happen to be paying, which really ups the creepy ante when you consider it.


However, when doing so, I’ve found the appropriate response is to first locate the tissues. They will exist and they will be placed in such a way that they should be in clear view to someone who has just entered the room or who isn’t trying to prevent snot from hitting their dry clean only pants. Trust that you will eventually locate the tissues, but the snot will also locate your pants. That’ll be $10 for the copay and $3.50 for the cleaners. It’s really not such a bad deal all told.

I’m likely getting ahead of myself, though. I’ve been awfully remiss about posting anything here lately. It’s just that every time I sat down to write something, it turned awfully morose, awfully fast. A post called “I’m a Cutter” isn’t necessarily the best read. And while I’m never one to care much about sharing personal information, I also don’t want to be another sympathy suck on the interwebs. Thankfully, I’m a good bit past the yuckiest of the yuck, so I think I’m more apt to move on with my usual healthy (or unhealthy dose, we haven’t gotten to that yet) sense of humor.

I can say that the whole sling snot onto my pants moment was a bit of a bucket list item for me. What actually ran through my head somewhere between the Beggin’ Strips dog moment of “Kleenex. Gotta find a Kleenex” and “Fuck. Really? These are dry clean only” was “Ugly cry in the therapist’s office. Check”.

That moment wasn’t really that far into my experience in “therapy”. (By the way, we have to come up with a better name for it. I’m up for suggestions. So far, I refer to is as a visit to my “Crazy Coach”). And I’m sure that it might disappoint the Crazy Coach to know that this little moment is a highlight of our time together, but it was this moment that I realized that I actually don’t have a written down “Bucket List”. (Bear with me).

Sure, I have ideas of things that I’d like to do. I’d always said I wanted to see Bjork in concert and I did that earlier this year. I’d quickly tell you I’d checked that item off this proverbial bucket list and that it was a big deal for me to do it. However, I’ve never taken the time to actually sit down and write out my list of other things I’d like to do.

In an extrapolation of that, I’ve realized that I’ve never really set and achieved a goal. I mean sure, I wanted to finish high school and college, but not because it was a “goal”. It just felt like “the next step”. Life has just sort of happened to me and I’ve gone with the flow. However, not once have I ever sat down and said, “I want to achieve this and here’s how I’m going to do it”. Damned near 32 years, folks and not once. Ever.

So, now that I’ve crossed off Bjork as well as slinging snot with the Crazy Coach, it’s probably time that I sit down and do that, isn’t it? I may even post some of the Bucket List items here as I come up with them. The bigger picture goals like “lose enough weight such that my button-up shirts don’t pull around my gut” and “pay off the car faster” are probably not things that are all that entertaining to read about. But, things that I do plan to establish a plan for and then figure out.

As obvious and easy as it probably is to most of you, these are totally uncharted waters for me. It seems like such WORK. But, I’m sure something that’s overall very much for the best, just like the visits to the Crazy Coach. (And y’all, I have to brave the Double Diamond of Death now that she’s moved offices). And yeah, now that this little post is out of the way, I’m hoping I’ll be back here a little more frequently, too. Also, since the Crazy Coach doesn’t budge on her pricing, let me know if y’all get any coupons for dry cleaning.

Aftermath

It’s fair to say that I have a conflicted relationship with UK Basketball. Most of the time, I’d say my attitude is “tolerant”. Living in Lexington for 10 years and in Kentucky for nearly 32, the Cats are an inescapable part of life. I’ve learned that everyone from the so-called “good ol’ boys” to the cashier at Kroger will quickly assess a new acquaintance by the response given to “How ‘bout them Cats?” and despite my native Kentuckian status, I’ve yet to figure out a good reply. 

As with most things athletic, basketball doesn’t interest me. It’s a lot of back and forth with precious little change of scenery. I’m baffled when I hear people use words like “thrilling” and “exciting” when describing a game. The little bit of “March Madness” I’ve seen this year held my attention for about a minute. In that time, I found myself being irritated by the melodramatic falls/attempted fouls and wondering why only 3 seconds had ticked off the play clock. 

My indifference can easily lean towards disdain. It’s easy to be annoyed by people who are evangelical about something that doesn’t show up on my radar, especially given the fervency that UK fans are known for. I think we can all agree that our Cats are in fact wild and maybe a little feral. Sometimes I just long for some of that energy to be put to what seems to my disinterested mind, a better purpose. 

However, I’ve grown up in Eastern Kentucky and realize that sometimes the boys in the blue jerseys are about the only hope that pops up in a given year for some. For a state that’s bottom of the list in just about every metric, our state school’s basketball performance gives some a reason to thump their chest, raise their chin and paint the truck nuts blue and white. I usually can’t bring myself to begrudge someone their source of happiness if it is, by and large harmless. 

And that’s what’s so sad about last night. It stopped being harmless. By now, we’ve all heard of the commotion on State Street, the overturned cars, the fires and the vandalism. I learned of it in seeming real time through Twitter while walking down Woodland Avenue. Something about the electricity in the air compelled even my unconcerned self to walk down and join the celebrating masses. And while my visit was more about rubbernecking than revelry, I also had a general sense of “good for you guys”. 

My two companions and I started the night with a general amusement when I read the reports of sofa fires. We all knew they were coming and so it didn’t seem to be a big deal. (Also, if one of you can explain this phenomenon to me, I’ll gladly buy your dinner). By the time we’d made it to Woodland and Euclid, the party was going full blast and it seemed a contained chaos. In contrast, the tweets kept rolling in about fires, pepper gas, overturned cars and SWAT teams from the other side of campus. 

It didn’t and doesn’t seem possible. I know we’re rabid fans, but the inconsistency between a celebration and a riot doesn’t add up. How do you go from one to the other? How does overturning a car show your enthusiasm for a basketball victory? How does vandalism express joy? 

I know these fans are the minority. Most people in this town and in the state raised their respective glasses, then tucked themselves in with a smile on their face. They’ll spend this morning whispering about this or that play over a pew or maybe make a cup of coffee and pop an aspirin. But it seems like this majority might need to sit down and have a heart to heart with the minority. 

I made a drive around campus early this morning and saw that just about everything looked normal. There was no evidence of last night’s throng at Woodland and Euclid. Limestone only had the occasional, errant beer bottle, no worse than any other Saturday night near campus. What really stung was when I drove down State Street and saw the litter, the remnants of various fires and the WHAS news van with a camera set up. Because it wasn’t the Cats victory or the literal thousands of peaceful fans getting broadcast back to Louisville; it was this. The debauchery and destruction is how the story is being framed outside of Lexington, not the “we showed ‘em who’s best” line that I think most fans would have preferred. 

So, we’re down to one final game. I’m told it’s a game that most believe UK has a damned good shot of winning. I won’t feel hard at my friends or at my city for taking to the streets in celebration. Even if I don’t understand it, I’ll likely even raise a glass of Kentucky Ale with them, because whether I like it or not, I love this city and the Cats are a large part of it. But, when the Cats bring home a national title and the nation’s eyes are on our little patch of bluegrass, this time, can we maybe show a little class?

Let’s realize that our city and UK itself will be in the spotlight and let’s show people what an amazing place this is. I can’t imagine it’s easy to be proud of your team, but not proud of how your city and fans are portrayed. 

I have no delusion that everyone on Limestone is going to hold hands and sing “My Old Kentucky Home,” but maybe when this next gathering happens we can leave the matches at home and overturn a stereotype instead.