The Cheap Seats

I had a bad break-up a few months ago. I was hurting, a bit lost really. And I was reminded again that letting go, or being let go is its own form of death. The obvious difference is that both parties know the other still exists and is out in the world continuing to put one foot in front of the other, living their life. The stark commonality, however, is a searing absence.     For weeks afterward, I shuffled uncertainly forward. My strategy was simple - keep busy, maintain a steady thrum of background noise to the soundtrack of my life. So, dutifully, I crammed my calendar full of events and activities both trivial and distracting. Fortunately, the holiday season was approaching and diversions (both required and elective) would present themselves almost daily. I've lived enough years to know that the biggest obstacle to making a break-up permanent is idealizing the former relationship. One or both parties is experiencing an excruciating loss, almost as if an amputation had b

'Twas the night before the night before Christmas, way up at the Pole, all the elves were on duty, each one with a goal. The Fat Man's quota was clear, they had a deadline to meet. "He's a _______ slavedriver!" the Head Elf did tweet. The children's wishes this year, dreamed up in their heads, were sure to put the Workshop's ledger deep in the red. So Santa called a meeting, and banged on his gavel. "Time for retraining boys, or Christmas will unravel!" "These days kids want gizmos and gadgets galore, to post, text and skype - and it seems much, much more.  I can't say no - you know hard that would be for a soft, sentimental old elf just like me."   So the University of the Arctic was quickly constructed, elves tuition paid - "don't worry boys, all tax-deducted." But the grumbling was audible, the feelings were bitter. "I better see a refund," the Head Elf announced via T

When did it all start to go wrong? Please don't say, " Bad things happen " or " There will always be evil in the world " or " Guns don't kill people, people kill people ". This is not the time to cower behind convenient cliches in a transparent attempt to invoke God's judgment or point fingers or promote and pursue a political agenda that either curbs or secures Americans' ability to purchase  firearms. But, if history is any template, that is exactly what will happen in the Land of the (get it for) Free and Home of the Blameless. And another golden opportunity, paid for with the innocent blood of children, will be missed. I want to believe the incomprehensible murder of 26 people (20 of them children between the ages of 5-7) will be our national tipping point. I want to hear our elected leaders, both Democrat and Republican, speak (with uncharacteristic honesty and sustained focus) of the cancerous trio that continues to afflict the

  I lived nearly all of my childhood in the Analog Age. In other words, pre-digital - there was no such thing as VCRs, DVD players, movie rentals, Netflix or Redbox. The concept of Tivo and DVR was not only foreign, it was non-existent. If I wanted to watch something on TV, I made sure there was a TV Guide in the house.   Never was paying attention to that weekly schedule more important than at Christmastime. Classics like How the Grinch Stole Christmas , Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman aired on one of the three networks only once each year. If a show was missed, the best we could do was try again in twelve months.   One show I never missed as a kid, however, was A Charlie Brown Christmas . I read Peanuts daily, and the sweet story of Charlie Brown's struggle to understand the true meaning of Christmas in the face of mass commercialism during the modern holiday season connects with people to this day. Combined with an understated jazz soundtrack

For all the words I put down on "paper" each week, I'm not that bright. Oh sure, I can rhyme on a dime, jot down some ideas or anecdotes now and then and occasionally sit in judgment of other people's behavior, but I don't really know how to "do" anything. I have always admired and been amazed by anyone who can "tinker". You know the type - the guy who pulls the engine out of his car, takes it completely apart and then reassembles it with no extra parts left over. Or the builder who constructs his own house. What?! Really? Who does that? If I were given such a task my "home" would look a lot like the birdhouse I "built" in Shop class. Suffice it to say that even squatters weren't interested in that dump. And then there are the new generation of engineers that work in the elusive areas of computer design creating networks, softwares and websites. Huh? I barely have a grasp of this Universe, let alone invisible cyber

Sanity seems to take a break off this time of year. From Thanksgiving to Christmas many of us seem to lose our minds - or at least the part that is usually governed by common sense. A feeding frenzy, more often found in piranha than people, grips our collective consciousness and we throw caution, good judgment and good money to the four winds. I'm referring to that annual rite of the holiday season called "Overdoing it". Some of you are nodding your head with a wry smile on your face, aren't you? You were in the club (as I was too). You never imagined you would have been a part of this alliance, but you were once card-carrying members with all of the rights, privileges and lunacy that came with charter membership. And now that you have extracted yourself from the "fun", you can put a name to your former condition - Overdoer. Who are these Overdoers, and what sort of madness grips them this time of year? More importantly, how do we safely recognize t

If you are near my age, you grew up in an entirely different era than today's children do. An innocent childhood might have been during the Carter Administration, a much wilder youth spent in the Reagan years. Your parents were much more likely to be together than apart. Mom and Dad met most of your needs but they weren't your friends. You had secrets they didn't know about, they had lives that didn't interest you. When you got in trouble at school, your parents didn't take your side. You were resilient and learned the hard way how to survive without expecting them to always bail you out. That status quo worked just fine. Fast forward to the present - Moms and Dads are Splitsville, parents and children are "besties", everyone's lives are open books, it's the school's fault and today's children will reach adulthood by the tender age of 28. Am I exaggerating? Of course, but in too many cases only slightly. Am I as guilty as the next par

Every once in a great while a book can completely change a person's attitude. When I was a teenager I harbored the self-righteous opinion that serving one's country in the military was NOT a noble calling. A waste of time and resources, I believed. And then at the age of 18, I read Battle Cry .   Written by World War II veteran Leon Uris, Battle Cry was a chronicle of the exploits of a United States Marine regiment. The story is told through the eyes of a battle-hardened sergeant from training recruits in boot camp through the jungle fighting on Guadalcanal to the island-hopping campaign in the Pacific that culminated with the regiment's final battle on the coral atoll called Tarawa. The effect Battle Cry had on me as a teenager rippled outward across decades to the man who is now on the back nine of his 40's.   As a result of  Battle Cry , I spent the entire 90's reading nothing but non-fiction biographies and histories of the American Civil War. I vis

A presidential election year is like a hard winter - shared suffering. We are all inconvenienced, the chill is felt equally, but instead of being up to our waists in clean white snow, we are up to our necks in something of a much darker texture and smell. Mercifully, it all ends Tuesday. I made a conscious effort this election season to avoid writing about the topic of presidential politics. Now more than ever, the subject is just too polarizing. Besides, this gig doesn't pay enough (pro bono) to offend my regular readers (all five of you). Oh sure, I took swipes at both Republicans and Democrats in July, but that was due to extreme lunacy on both sides of this aisle. But, just because I haven't written about the Presidential election of 2012, doesn't mean I don't have opinions. These opinions, however, aren't what they used to be. In my younger days, these political preferences were more rabidly partisan and one-sided. Time, it seems, has either made me

Recently - thanks to Facebook - a friend of mine posted a picture that was taken 26 years ago. The picture included more than 50 "kids" who had only one thing in common - their affection and bond with each other. Fast forward to the present and many of us from that grainy snapshot have - or soon will be - sending our own children off to their freshman year in college. And if most of the people in that picture are like me, they now probably recall that first year away from home a little wistfully. We look on our children with some measure of envy for the experiences they are about to share, the friendships they will soon make and the lifelong memories they will forge.   Blakely Hall, a small dormitory on the campus of the University of Minnesota-Morris, was our home in 1985-86. I doubt any of us had a clue that late September day of the powerful and lasting imprint the ensuing nine months would have on many of us. We couldn't have imagined then that our freshmen

I seem to tire easily these days. Perhaps it's my age. God knows Friday nights look nothing like they did 20 years ago. Now they largely consist of staying awake on the drive home from work just long enough to collapse into a vegetative state on the couch. Way back when, Fridays were an event, and one that usually didn't end until the early hours of Saturday morning. Ah well, all good things . . .   But that kind of fatigue is to be expected, right? Instead, I've noticed a different kind of weariness setting in - one that has burrowed under my skin and whose sole function is to irritate. I'm talking about a growing list of "things" that are embedded into our culture that wear me out - that I often wish would go away. Repeated viewing and hearing of these items makes me unconsciously groan and roll my eyes. Near middle-aged, remember?   Warning - some of these things I'm tired of might be near and dear to your heart. My intent is not to anger anyon

Don't be fooled - they are doing it to us again. Our beloved Minnesota Vikings have surprised their entire fan base by starting the NFL season with four wins and only one loss (correction: 4-2 after last Sunday's disappointing turn of events in DC). This was an offseason of extremely low expectations, coming off a dismal 3-13 showing in 2011. So, with 1/3 of the regular season complete, many fans are already dreaming ahead to visions of playoff glory. Cue the screeching tires please. Duped. Fans are being duped. The fiercely loyal, intensely rabid, purple-loving Minnesota Vikings fans are being duped. To quote Minnesota's own Bob Dylan, "How many purple roads must a man walk down before you call him a delusional man?" Or something like that.  How many roads? Let's count them shall we. 1. 1969 - The Vikings were led by Joe Kapp, a hard-bitten warrior who's completion percentage hovered around 50%, slightly higher that the percentage of

She's gone, and it feels just as awful as I expected it would.   We went our separate ways last Sunday and I haven't seen her since. Neither of us acknowledged the relationship was over, but we both saw it coming. Slowly but persistently, nagging doubts had worked there way into my thoughts over the preceding months, probably years. For a longer time still, I ignored them, telling myself what I was feeling was normal. Still, what we had was automatic, like breathing. That was how deeply we were intertwined. And, regardless of the pain to come, that's when I knew it had to end.   I had known from the day we met that she was going to be nothing but trouble. And like most trouble, she was beautiful, inviting. At first I saw her infrequently. I didn't think much of it, or of her. I knew of her reputation - that she could be a charmer. Still, I kept her at arms length for years despite her best efforts.   Finally, after years of resistance, she broke through my 

Middle-Aged. Once again, as happened last February (see link ), my inclusion of this dreaded term in my blog description ( Musings of a Middle-Aged Man ) has raised a few hackles of another friend whose age is  the same general time zone as mine. Her playful dispute of membership in my age group - and the teasing discussion that followed - made me realize that, although the century is still relatively new, our quaint definitions of age are as outdated as the eight-track tape. New definitions are long overdue. Changes in parenting, the health and wellness revolution, our chronic cosmetic pursuit of the elusive Fountain of Youth - these and other equally valid reasons demand a reclassification of the simplistic terms Childhood , Adulthood , Middle-Aged and Elderly .  But before I make the attempt, a disclaimer. Any disparaging remarks I aim towards any age groups I once occupied are entirely self-accusatory and may not reflect your personal experience. And how often have I bee

I am a critic at heart. Always observing, often remarking. Like any self-respecting critic, some of my judgements are harsh, perhaps too harsh - even unfair. A knee-jerk reaction morphs into a scathing commentary, an impromptu rant. Short-lived, quickly exhausted, but words that can't be unsaid.   In my younger years, I didn't give much thought to such thoughts. They blurted their way out and drifted downstream to join other aimless comments. But now that these musings exist more often in my conscious world, I want to cash in, put my spewings to work. So, my next career practically chose itself: Television Critic.   In the past, great acting, solid storylines, good writing and high production values were primarily found in movie theatres. Not always, of course, but more often than television, with its self-imposed network censorship. Even in the early 60's TV couples still had his and hers beds, the 70's witnessed artificial turf for backyard lawns and was Ma

Back in the dear old 20th century there wasn't too much a person could lose or misplace. A hunt for glasses, car keys or wallet was an occasional, but consistent nuisance. Choice words were spoken, a 24 hour backtrace was performed and now and then keys and wallet were found in the most interesting places - in my hand or back pocket. But - most of the time - these three AWOL items were carelessly set down in random spots throughout the home. Naturally, when I needed them most, I was typically in a hurry, late for something or close to being overdrawn at the bank (more than one debit card has been needlessly cancelled as a result).   Fast forward to the present and the loss of these "antiques" seems almost quaint. Finally, after years of silly frustration, this old dog took the necessary steps to insure that keys are always on a hook in the kitchen, wallet is always in my glove box (smart, right?) and glasses are always next to the bed. Unfortunately, as soon as I ha