The Cheap Seats

When I created this blog last January I was hoping people would read it. That probably sounds obvious, but I'm not sure all writers write to be read. Well - if I'm being honest - I do. So, to that end I did a little research and also spoke to an established, successful blogger. Both sources told me the same thing - don't use your blog to rant. Ranting turns readers off and leaves them looking as if they had just smelled a soiled diaper. Damn, clipped at the knees before I even started. So, I resisted my natural instincts. Instead, I wrote about topics I thought people would understand and empathize with - parenthood, aging, coffee, the pace of change. Whatever ranting I could sneak in was hidden beneath a mild dose of sarcasm. But with each successive post my inner ranter yearned to break free, especially because today's world offers so much to rant about. But maybe ranting is a young man's game? Perhaps they can get away with it because...

I used to think I was pretty smart. Seriously, ask anyone. But time - and a tribulation or two - has a way of humbling a person and making him realize that there is less and less he comprehends the older he gets. For a while - probably a solid decade - that bothered and puzzled me. I assumed more knowledge came with more birthday candles. Wrong. Oh sure, I now know what subprime means, have an intimate understanding of the phrase attorney's fees and have even been metaphorically kneed in the groin by the loss of collective bargaining rights. But I ask you, what did awareness of these and other grown-up terms ever do for me besides deprive me of sleep? Instead, I've turned my attention to knowing more about less. Hey, the synapses (or is it neurons - see, shouldn't I know this by now?) are only firing so fast these days - so why jam up the brain's expressways any further with knowledge that will only give me brain freeze? A...

We have been together now for Oh, so long. Has it been twenty years that my love has burned strong? During life’s joy, pain and cruel dark days, when I need you, you sustain me, and remain an arm’s reach away. I tried to “quit you” many times, Of that, we both know. Telling you, you were wrong for me, but over and over, I never let go. The bare truth is I ache for you, and suffer the void when you’re gone. Dreaming of your return, that always arrives with the dawn. Even now I can see clearly your light-creamy hue, and the surge of feeling again, that my love is brand-new. From your sugar-sweet taste hidden deep within, you return warm and inviting; I can’t wait to begin. How many ways I’ve had you I can’t begin to number. But your many scents and sensations shake me out of my slumber. In my bed - in the car, Or every room where I live, these places and more, you have had so much to give. You have belonged to...

I was born in the tumultuous 1960's and grew up in the cultural/political malaise of the 70's. Adulthood was reached in Reagan's 80's, but parenthood waited until the post-Cold War 90's. Now I find myself living in a post-modern world - one marked by tremendous technological advances that are directly competing with a social/cultural movement to return to "The Good Old Days". Looking backward to the security of the past is natural. History is written and only certainty exists. The future is unknown, and sometimes contains hand-wringing anxiety. Comparatively, the past is predictable and unchanging. But "returning to the past" only works if a group's existence in - say the 1950's (The Good Old Days) - was ideal. There is only one problem with this. The Good Old Days never were. True, Americans used to enjoy a certain degree of innocence - rural homes were often left unlocked and children sometimes played unattended for hours on ...

My parents were in town visiting me and my kids this weekend, and to attend a play that my son had a part in. This morning we enjoyed breakfast at Hot Plate  in south Minneapolis. During the course of our meal, I asked if four years had already gone by since my grandmother passed away. My dad - her son - said it was, to which my mom commented that she sometimes drives by the retirement complex where my grandmother lived, and still thinks about stopping in to visit her. My grandmother, it seems, although gone awhile now, is still very much alive in our memories. I was extremely fortunate to have lived over 40 years before I experienced the death of someone I was close to - my grandmother. Consequently, after her death I spent a good deal of time thinking of her; her life, her nature and her impact on me. And now I want to share that with you. My grandmother's last day was a quiet one. Of the few words she spoke to my parents that afternoon, one phr...