The Cheap Seats

Every May, June and July for the past decade, I have filled my time umpiring a lot of baseball and softball games. The one guaranteed result from all of these active evenings has been that I sleep pretty well for three months out of the year. No big surprise, just simple math. But all that fresh air reminds me how much better humanity used to sleep than we do in this silly century. Though life was physically more challenging in the past, people undoubtedly slept longer and harder than we do today. After all, they had to. Manual labor was much more the rule than the exception in daily life. Fast-forward to today. The forty hour work week demands very little of us physically. Consequently, we toss and turn at night, our minds occupied by a world that our ancestors would collectively eyeroll at.  I'm not saying life was better "back in the day." I am quite content with all of the modern, time-saving devices that keep my hands callous-free. But I can't help not

A few weeks ago, at the same time I was lamenting the sheer amount of trash we humans deposit on the side of the road (among other places), I was listening to Michael Jackson's pre- Thriller album, Off the Wall. Because I connect a lot of music to different times of my life, I quickly calculated that Off the Wall was a monster album throughout the entirety of my 7th grade year. Before he was ever called The King of Pop , a very young Michael Jackson churned out hits like Don't Stop 'Til You get Enough, Rock With You, Off the Wall, and She's Out of My Life . The songs were great then, they're great now. And regardless of the late singer's alleged (or confirmed) abhorrent, criminal behavior, I will continue to listen to his music. Is that wrong? Ken Burns seminal documentary on the American Civil War was broadcast on PBS in the fall of 1990. That nine-part series held me spellbound over the course of two weeks, launching me into a decade of intense read

I used to be one of those nutty, daily runners. You know the type—always worrying and wondering when he/she will squeeze in a four-miler, meanwhile disrupting everyone else's schedule.  Insufferable, really. All that changed about five years ago when I (mis)diagnosed some mild but constant hip pain as sciatica. Naturally, another year went by before I visited my doctor (the last time I've been to a clinic, as I recall). He took an x-ray and drew some blood (no doubt because I had insurance) and concluded that I was arthritic in my left hip. You could have knocked me over with a shoelace. "You're going to have find some other form of aerobic exercise," he commented nonchalantly, completely misreading an obsessive runner. "Like what?!" I replied, much too harshly.  "Have you tried walking?" The transition to walking wasn't as bad as I'm making it sound. A grudging acceptance eventually took hold—an acknowledgement that I was no

I've always imagined myself a forward-thinking guy, someone with very little time for sentiment or a backwards glance. To-do lists, DIY projects and a variety of activities and obligations constantly filling my calendar. It's all bullshit of course, I'm just trying to stay one step ahead of something—regrets, creeping middle age, poverty, hair loss, weight gain. Take your pick. Still, I kind of enjoy the chase, if only to convince myself that I'm somehow winning.  Approaching the half-century mark two years ago involved a lot of hand-wringing. I'm not sure what I expected, perhaps a complete and total systems failure, some sort of steep and rapid decline across all fronts. You know, what happens to anything the day after a warranty expires or a car has been paid off. Kaput—time to buy a new one. But then 50 came and went and nothing happened—at least nothing swift and sudden. That's when I started paying attention.....and panicking. Succeeding at middle

My definition of a great educator is a person who can teach a student how to do something that the student would not otherwise be able to do or learn on their own. I had many good teachers throughout my childhood, people that worked hard and challenged me and my classmates. The one person who still stands out today in my mind as  great  was a smart, surly and sarcastic math genius named Bob Clark. Mr. Clark's smarts were off the charts. I passed those upper level math classes  only  because of him, plain and simple. If Mr. Clark knew a student was willing to work,  he didn't let them give up or fail. His surliness was mostly bravado but definitely by design, keeping students on their toes as well as burnishing his reputation. The truth behind Mr. Clark's bluster was that he cared very deeply about his students and his subject. The sarcasm, however, was genuine and undoubtedly what his students recall fondly about Mr. Clark. One particular scene played out in hi

I had an unusual experience two night ago. I actually time-traveled. No, I didn't accelerate a sleek silver Delorean up to 88 miles per hour and disappear in burst of bright light. Instead, I was driving a plain white Ford Fiesta to a bar/restaurant in Roseville, Minnesota. While the scenery didn't change the closer I got to my destination, my frame of mind sure did. And why not? I was about to gather with a group of people (many whom I hadn't seen in years) who still burn brightly in my memory. The older I've gotten, the luckier I know I've become to have met and grown close to this group of people in the fall of 1985. Yes, that long ago. After a quick review of the Cheap Seats archive, I wasn't surprised to discover that I had already written fondly of my first year of college at the University of Minnesota- Morris . Oh well, another one won't hurt, right?  The reunion was long overdue, but still planned for an entirely unwanted reason. As I men

I remember the first time I saw Jim Bartness. He was lying casually on his side in our dormitory common area as myself and 70 other freshmen were told the rules of on-campus college life by our Blakely Hall Residential Assistants. My first impression wasn't a good one. Jim had a comment for everything, most of them at the expense of the earnest RA's who were just trying to get through a long checklist of do's and don'ts. " Who's the smart ass? " I wondered as Jim gained new friends with each playful remark. Little did I know it in the fall of '85, but that smart ass would turn out to be one of my best friends for the better part of the next, and very formative, five years.  College still stand out as a vivid island of time in my memory. Everything was new—our friends, our experiences, our struggles. And if a person is lucky enough, the right people appear to help him become more like the person he's meant to be. Jim, and a few treasured othe

Eighty-six years ago Franklin Roosevelt addressed a frightened nation after taking the oath of office to become the 32nd President of the United States. Of the many words he uttered that cold, bleak March day, only one line has lived on in history. "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself." He couldn't have been more wrong. Almost four years into the Great Depression, America was teetering on the brink of revolution. The economy that had seemed boundless only a few years earlier had totally collapsed. Wages had plummeted, one out of every four Americans were out of work, and the fabric of family life was badly frayed. Fear was real, its causes could be named, its justifications were well established. But thanks to FDR and his Brain Trust (not to mention a job-creating world war), the United States crawled out of its self-induced financial collapse and became the great economic engine that dominated the globe for the next seventy-five years. While that

When I was a kid I devoured books about the Kennedy Assassination and the national trauma it kicked off. It wasn't long before my reading splintered off into the realm of conspiracy theory. How could it not? The Conspiracy Industrial Complex was practically born within hours of 12:30pm CST, November 22, 1963. Even to this day, speculation is still rife across the land that it was the CIA or LBJ or the Joint Chiefs of Staff or the Mafia (capital M) or some Venn Diagram combination of all four. And I bought it hook, line, and sinker for decades. Well no more. Lee Harvey Oswald did it. That's right—pathetic, loner, loser Lee Harvey upended American History (with a capital H) all by himself. Nobodies like him aren't supposed to, but he did. Sure, the Warren Commission (tasked with investigating JFK's murder) did a pisspoor job with the evidence, didn't interview everyone they should have, and even rushed to judgment to reach a conclusion that was foregone, but

A few days ago a co-worker asked me if Addie Braver was entirely fictional. I said it was, but admitted that many of the themes in the book (addiction and recovery, loss and redemption) were familiar, not just to me, but to all of us. "Write what you know, I suppose?" she said. I agreed. Sooner or later, we all find our therapy. It doesn't have to be talking to a trained professional or attending weekly meetings. Therapy comes in all shapes, sizes, and intensities. Therapy is running, singing, dancing, fishing, hiking, woodworking, painting, knitting, playing an instrument, and countless other fulfilling activities. My therapy just happened to be writing. No, I didn't have a crippling addiction I needed to break. But if you're like me (and I think most of you are), you've collected a lot of baggage too. After while it gets pretty darn heavy, crushing us from time to time with the weight of expectation and disappointment. Not all of that baggage was

I cringed when I wrote the title of this blogpost. Most writers want their words to be read (me included), yet my Midwestern-ness gets in the way every time I think about promoting myself. But instead of figuratively wringing my hands or being falsely self-deprecating, I'm going to push through and set aside that deeply ingrained Nordic reserve of mine and emphatically state:                                     "I WROTE A BOOK AND I WANT YOU TO READ IT!" I quit The Cheap Seats back in the fall of 2014 and immediately starting writing a novel. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, not to mention a wildly unrealistic notion how long it would take, but I knew there was a story inside me I needed to write, and ultimately share. So I stuck with it.  Without fully realizing it, Addie Braver (the title I finally landed on) took over my life. The characters became real to me, as real as anyone I know. More often than not, they were the first people I

I'm not a big fan of war. With a few notable exceptions, I can't think of too many instances where one team of people killing another team of people ever made anything much better. Warriors, however, are a different story. I admire them—their motivations, their willingness to accept self-sacrifice, their sheer grit. Warriors, yes—the governments they fight for, not so much. Which brings me to our National Anthem. It used to belong to all of us. Sure, it's a weird old song composed in the midst of a forgotten war and paired to the tune of an old English drinking song, but it was ours. Not any more. The United States government has a stranglehold on it. Some context: The Star-Spangled Banner didn't officially become our national song until 1931, eclipsing other unofficial, yet equally popular anthems such as Hail Columbia, My Country 'Tis of Thee and America the Beautiful. Nonetheless, playing the SSB before sporting events was hit or miss for decades until

A tipping point has been reached, affecting most Americans everywhere. The outrage building for a generation, Against the crime of managed health care. Capitalism at its worst, A cynical buck to be made. Companies offering insurance, as long as they keep getting paid. Hospitals and Big Pharma complicit, To the ever-skyrocketing cost, That family after family must bear,  As lifetimes of savings are lost. What kind of country have we become, If we measure everything by Gain? Bowing down to the alter of money, While so many people are in Pain. An amoral one—if you ask me, Practically gleeful to build a Wall, Instead of, heaven forbid, Offering its citizens Medicare for All. And before you say its a handout, Or some government takeover of healing, Ask yourself , Am I tired of deductibles and co-pays, The endless bills with which I am dealing? True, there's a cost and it ain't cheap, but it pales compared to more o

Hello again, it's me. I'm pretty sure those are lyrics to some forgotten song, but the song escapes me at the moment. Then again, a lot of things escape me these days. No, I'm not losing my mind or my memories. I've simply spent most of the last four years chasing a few narrow interests while gladly bringing plenty of old garbage out to the curb. Since we last met high in The Cheap Seats  in the fall of '14, the Big 5-0 came and went (more smoothly than expected), my children are grown and gone (each conveniently and coincidentally anchored in Boston), I became a home-furnishing DIY addict, grew to appreciate the taste of a really good Old Fashioned and wrote a book. If you're thinking I have a lot of free time on my hands (or a drinking problem), I can confidently say "no" to both. I just got tired of waiting for life to be "just right" before trying new things, potential failure be damned. Trust me, I haven't surrounded