Would You Rather?

When I was waiting tables in college, some of us used to play exceedingly dorky, oftentimes gross bordering on disgusting, games of Would you rather? None of the quandaries were ever pinned to reality, but mostly served to pass the time with nonsensically humorous one-upmanship. Recently, nearly fifteen years removed from that gross-me-out, middle school level of comedy, I came up with a new, thoroughly realistic one.

Would you rather be able to walk, talk, or use your hands and arms?

 

I've given it a lot of thought and I don't know that there is a definitive answer, that is, each person might answer differently.

 

I would love the ability to walk, run, hike, do stairs, etc. So much that it almost hurts to think about. The personal freedom that it provides, the most simple human act of walking down the street, or through the woods, might alone be enough to fill every other hole in my life. I don't think I'd ever get tired of it - I might feel like I could do anything. 

 

I haven't yet lost my ability to talk, though it's certainly been compromised, so I’m sure I don't fully understand its impact. It's hard to imagine not being able to communicate with words, but as my voice has grown weaker, I've gained some perspective. I've lost a significant piece of who I am through my words. I act differently, more quietly. Wherever I am, I am less there without my voice. Having it back would certainly make me closer to the people around me, make it easier to have people around me, and undoubtedly make me feel far less alone.

 

Perhaps last is the outlier, the reality most difficult to imagine. What would your life be like without use of your hands and arms? We've all seen people in wheelchairs, making their way through life just fine. But your hands?! The hands do everything. If you were to care about your independence in the slightest, you need your hands. With full use of my hands and arms, my life would be wholly different. 

 

Maybe it'd be an easy decision, for me. Each idea makes my heart ache, none more than the first. But if I think it through, it's obvious which would have the greatest impact. I would choose my hands.

Fat Belly Dreaming

I think I had a dream last night where I look down to find a big, loose pile of flabby gut in the place of my admittedly growing belly. My dream-brain shrugged its brain-shoulders and said, Whelp, I guess that's where we're at.

Indeed, that's where we're headed. The rest of me shrinks while my belly fat grows.

 My mom just reacted to a spill in the fridge like she found a dead body.

The Future is No Place to Place your Better Days

On a walk in the neighborhood behind Dorset Park, I saw two kids on skateboards in the street. A girl and a boy, 8 and 10, stood still by the bend in the road as I approached in my chair on the sidewalk. Both of them watched carefully as I passed.

I wanted to talk to them; I wanted to tell them so many things it almost brought me to tears. The kinds of things that I wish I'd heard, really heard, growing up and throughout life.

Have fun. Be kids. Appreciate everything you can do, because there may come a day when it's taken away. I used to be like you.

Go inside; tell your parents what I'm saying. Live your lives. Think about what's happening in your life and whether you want something different. It's okay to be afraid. Talk about your fears with your family and friends; bring them out in the open and see if they are real or imagined. You don't know everything: don't be afraid to ask questions, and listen to the answers. Don't let your fear of embarrassment make decisions in your life. Trust your instincts: go for it. You don't want to end up like me, full of regrets; I can promise you that. 

I want to tell every kid, from grade school to college and beyond, all of the lessons I learned too late. Every day I wish I had a second chance. Though you've likely never given it any thought, there might not be another day. Today is the day.

 A mango, a beer, and a doughnut: tonight's nighttime snack.

I really can't yell. And sometimes you need to yell. 

I haven't had caffeine in over three months.

I haven't had more than one beer in over a year.

I don't even remember the last time I got stoned.

I do remember the last time I had sex, and it was a long time ago.

I would like to do one or all of these things.

I am in the unbelievably depressing position of having to appoint a guardian for myself, in the case that my parents pass before me. 

What do you think?

I've been writing a lot of stories for my book: trying to remember the details, researching the dates, and describing how I felt. 

Sidebar, if you're driving down a dirt road and you see someone in a wheelchair stopped on the side of the road waiting for you to pass, slow down; I can't jump out of the way.

Like stories for my blog, I've focused on what happened, and what was going through my head when it happened. But I haven't discussed how it makes me feel now, looking back on it. And I think that's a big part of the overall picture.

I spent a few days writing about a canoe camping trip in 2010. It's a story I've meant to write for a while, and for this purpose I tried to keep it short, though it turned out longer. I think back on those days and there's so much to say.

Over the years I've had more and more things taken from me. Last year it was my house and car. Before that it was walking long distances, or really anywhere outside. Before that it was hiking, and biking, and running, and skiing, and golfing, and drinking at a bar, and so many other things. 

Don't you want to be there?

I've been feeling trapped, anxious, and frustrated. I need to get away. I need to unplug. I look back on four days in the woods, paddling a canoe, making camp each day. Moving from Point A to Point B without smartphones and newsfeeds and Facebook and email and all the other BS that makes up daily life.

I can't put into words how much I miss times like that. The last thing I lost that came anywhere near that sense of freedom, of independence, was driving. After I couldn't run, or bike, or walk in any meaningful way, I could still drive. I've talked about that feeling you get after a hard workout or competition. I think the feeling I got driving the country roads alone in the middle of the afternoon, or pounding down a dirt road with high beams blazing through the night; I think that's the last time I felt anything like that.

What do you think? In a book about the past, does it make sense to reflect in the present? I've already given a sense of the present, specifically with the phrase "I don't remember..." in place of a detail. But I've tried to keep the reader in the moment. Should I? Do you really want me to reflect on the story you've just finished reading? Hmm, I don't know; I need your help.

Here's a little story from the chapter I've titled Doctors and Patience

I never embraced the ALS community, attended any support group meetings, or met a lot of fellow sufferers, but in the waiting room at one of those early clinics, I met one. He was in his mid-30s, married with two kids, and worked for a local beverage distributor. He'd been diagnosed after I had.

I watched as he stepped through the hallway to the desk, carefully planting each foot before making his next move. Standing still to greet me, he looked awkward, uncomfortable, like he was propped up in that position. He spoke with some difficulty, through a heavy slur; sometimes I couldn't understand. 

The staff was concerned about some falls he'd taken. He'd smacked his head more than once, his face visibly damaged. It was clear to me and anyone who'd put eyes on him more than a few seconds: he shouldn't be walking. For at least that day, he kept his feet under him.

His wife was there, spewing negativity. Seeing all that her husband was going through, it seems she grew angry at the world. With every word from her mouth, from the waiting room I scowled in disgust. Still, despite all I'd seen, I thought: At least he's married; at least he has kids.

A few months later I saw him again. While I still drove to these appointments, he'd been forced to give up walking and sat slumped in a motorized wheelchair. He was accompanied by an aide, his wife nowhere to be found. We said hello and he spoke, but his aide had to interpret; we couldn't understand him at all. After a short interaction we went our separate ways and even sitting in my cell, in the ALS clinic, I put him out of my mind. I was strong and independent, I could never be like him.

I've been thinking of posting some pictures of myself so people know what I look like. Not my face, but the rest of me.

One thing I am very sure of, if you see me without a shirt on, you will not be able to see me any other way.

I'm not sure that I want that.

In 2011 I weighed 144 pounds. I've lost about 30, give or take.

I don't remember the last time I walked up or down a flight of stairs. I like to think it's still possible, if I had to.

I bought the fourth vehicle of my life: Saab 900, Audi Coupe Quattro, Subaru Legacy, Dodge Grand Caravan. Yuck.

If you're ever wondering how I'm doing, and you haven't seen me in a while: I'm doing worse.

I can't talk you off a ledge. I need you to talk me off one. 

As the months passed, I began to notice odd little signs of deterioration. Typing a column or a script, I would misspell simple words, not just once, but eight or nine times. Sometimes my fingers felt like gloves filled with water and typing was a plodding effort of physical labor. My hands trembled too, and there were odd twitches in my legs, little spasms of protest, or I'd wake up with no feeling in my legs. I shook off most of these signals. I was just getting older, I told myself. I'm thirty-seven, and that makes me older than most of the ballplayers and all of the prizefighters. Hell, even the police lieutenants are younger than I am. But on a few clear-eyed mornings I knew that my body was sending me a message. I just wasn't ready to hear it. 

Pete Hamill, A Drinking Life

I haven't written here, but I have been writing. I'm trying to write a book. About the last ten years of my life. More about me; what else? 

Hiding from my Date

At a company function in the summer of 2011, I met a girl. To be more specific, my buddy and next-door-desker Hank convinced me to join him for the breast cancer charity dragon boat races on the Burlington waterfront. This isn't so much about that day, so suffice it to say, Hank, this girl, and myself had lunch and generally hung out all day.

This was all right before my diagnosis in late August.

After my diagnosis, maybe because of it or possibly in spite of it, I sent her an email and asked her to dinner. She said yes, which I now see was a bigger positive than I realized, because an email shut-down would've been the easiest of her life.

I met her at The Daily Planet, my choice; I thought that seemed hip, fun. I got there, looked around and grabbed a seat at the bar for a beer. I ordered a Wolover's Oatmeal Stout (sign of the times, and duh) and was a few sips in when she arrived. I don't remember what night it was, but it must've been a weekday because we were immediately shown to a table. 

I grabbed my mostly-full pint glass and we made our way to the table. Let me tell you, from my current prospective, smoothly carrying a glass full of liquid is a marvel. At that moment, as I walked staring at the sloshing liquid, I first felt the pressure of hiding.

You see, I never even considered telling her of my recent diagnosis. I didn't even believe it myself, how could I tell her, a near-stranger. 

Without spillage I made it to the table and our first date began. I think it went pretty well. I don’t particularly remember what we talked about. There were a few of those awkward silences, but you'll have that. 

After we finished I offered to walk her home, as she had previously told me where she lived. She had driven. I was dumbstruck. When I lived downtown I never drove anywhere. I thought, Is she one of those people who won't walk across a parking lot?! and was judgingly bummed. I should have thought nothing: Young woman would rather not walk alone across town at night, is not a story. I had a little aww-shucks moment to myself, walked her the twenty feet to her car, and said goodnight. 

I didn't try to kiss her goodnight. I of course thought of it, but the moment didn't seem right and it didn't worry me; I had made it through the night without embarrassment, that was enough.

Soon after I asked her to meet me for a drink after work. We met at The Reservoir, down the street from my apartment in Waterbury. Around 5:30 on a weekday, it was pretty dead in the bar. We got beers and she asked if I wanted to play pool. Normally I would love this, and I had spent a lot of time on the pool table at the Monkey over the last few years, but now things were different. I had played some pool with friends the previous winter, and found that my skills had evaporated.

And so I was very nervous about it, but of course I said yes. How could I say no? 

I set up the table and told her she could break. That would've been the biggest giveaway, at least in my mind, that something wasn't right. I could just see myself winding up and missing the cue ball completely, or grazing it just enough to send it into a corner, missing the entire rack. 

Together we could've made one passable pool player in that she could physically hit the ball but didn't really know what she was doing, and I knew what I wanted to do, but couldn't physically do it. I somehow made it through, excelling at the short, touch shots while struggling mightily at anything across the table. Just like what had happened to my golf game. 

We quit after the one painfully long game. Maybe she sensed my need for mercy. Or maybe she didn't want to watch my pathetic, awkward game anymore. 

If I can step back for a minute: It killed me (still does) to struggle at those little athletic activities that you do around regular people. That is to say people who are not experts at whatever the activity. Things like golf or bowling or horseshoes or ping pong or volleyball or anything really. I always did well in those situations. I had recently won a ridiculous cantaloupe-sized rubber band ball trophy in a Law and Compliance Dept miniature golf tournament. I almost fell over several times picking the ball out of the hole. I remember going down on one knee several times. I believe I won by four strokes. Weak competition. Weak.

Back to our hero. I mean fool. I don't remember much about what happened after that. I think she was on her way soon after. A quick drink after work didn't turn into anything more. Except plans for another night. Dinner at my place, oh boy.

Dinner at my place oh man what should I make? What does she like? I don't know. I make a mean mac & cheese, I know she'd like that. This is where the stupid, self-destructive Natty takes over. I could have bought the groceries the day before, two or three days before, but I didn't. I waited until the last minute and though I emailed her a heads up that I had to stop at Shaw's, I still made her wait in her car in my driveway. Smooth.

I grabbed my grocery bags and led her up the stairs to my door. I took them two at a time as I always did at that time. Forever I had been one of those people who ran up and down stairs, but I had adjusted to a railing-assisted two-stair approach on the way up. This is what was going through my mind.

I put the groceries on the counter, welcomed her to my apartment and excused myself to change out of my work clothes. I wasn't always one to immediately shed my shirt and tie for jeans and a hoodie, in fact I enjoyed wearing my work clothes out in the world. But I was all sweaty, also a new phenomenon after a day of sitting on my ass, so I applied a fresh coat of deodorant and changed my shirt, pants, socks, and underwear. Yes, I think I even changed my underwear.  

I reappeared in jeans and a zip-up sweatshirt because I was both cold and sweaty. So there she was in her sexy accountant outfit (trust me) and suddenly her date is dressed like a slob. It didn't really occur to me.

As I started to get everything together for dinner, I asked her to help me out by opening a bottle of wine. Quickly and expertly she had the cork out and had poured two glasses. I didn't ask her because I was busy with dinner. Having not recently used a corkscrew, I didn't know how it would go. In the years to come I would learn to hold the bottle steady between my knees for the uncorking. 

As soon as I put the groceries on the counter, mac & cheese stuff, bread, salad fixings, and the aforementioned wine, she asked and helped herself to a few hunks of bread. I was a little annoyed that she couldn't wait for my glorious meal, but she was "starving". I know I haven't given her a name, needn't worry, she has one. 

I got the mac & cheese going, which always seems to take longer than I expect. We talked about who knows what as I gave the necessary (constant) attention to my milk/roux. Needless to say I eventually finished preparing the meal and we ate off plates on my (legendary) blue couch. 

We ate quickly and before I knew it we were in post-meal couch conversation. One thing I didn't do, in that moment or all of the ones since we had met, was compliment her. I never uttered so much as "You look nice." As we sat on the couch and she could see that I was no closer to showing her anything resembling affection, she moved the conversation to tattoos, giving her the opportunity to show me hers. I don't remember exactly what it was, a math symbol or something decidedly dorky. I believe I actually called it dorky. Had she a hammer in her pocket she could've stood up, bashed me on the head and yelled, "That's not the point you thick-headed moron!" 

And it wasn't. The tattoo was on her side under her bra strap. She in effect showed me her bra and still I sat paralyzed. By nerves, by fear, preoccupied with hiding the fraud that I was. I wouldn't have to hide much longer, she soon made an excuse and ran out of there. I half expected a kiss at the door, what an idiot.

I never saw her again, at least not for more than a second in the hallway. I never had the chance to explain. No, I am not repulsed by you. I couldn't let you in. 

But it doesn't work

I often want the things I used to enjoy, I somehow think I'll enjoy them in the same way. But it doesn't work. I drink coffee and enjoy the mental buzz, but I sweat and I shake. I drink a beer or two among friends, remembering that feeling from so many times before, but it's different. It affects my body more than my mind. A drink or two and the muscles I still have give up and I feel even more like a lump of jello. I could go on, but really everything is like this. Nothing is the way it used to be.

Neighbors

There were a couple of guys that worked at the orchard next to my house in Monkton. I saw them every weekday in the fall, picking and loading apples into an old pickup and driving past my house, a couple of miles to the cider house. My neighbors told me they were from Jamaica. I always meant to introduce myself, say hello, maybe offer them a beer after a long day. I never did, mostly because I couldn't walk confidently into the orchard or converse confidently once I got there. 

Baffling

I'm continually amazed (and depressed) that we should be expected to side with the people who look like we do. The fact that it's newsworthy that a white man is standing up for what is right, baffles me. I don't even understand how there are sides to be taken. Stop killing people. 

Fooling Myself

You know when you watch a movie or past sporting event, or really anything where you know what's going to happen? And you still can't help but hope it doesn't happen that way? I think that explains my thoughts. 

I saw an Audi at one of the used car dealers in Hinesburg. It's a silver A3 wagon that's probably almost ten years old. I really like hatchbacks and wagons and it's much smaller than any wagon on the market today. And I find myself thinking, What are the chances it's a stick? And I want to go check it out. 

I do the same thing with Zillow. I look at houses and condos, the types of places I could feasibly afford and see myself in. 

For what? Everyone knows how this story ends. 

I had to look it up. It's a 2013, and incredibly it's a 6-speed manual. However it's front wheel drive; not interested.

Hermiting

I had a friend in high school who would jokingly call me "hermit" because of my occasional propensity to disappear for long periods for no apparent reason. I guess I've always been a bit of a depressive. It used to be more than balanced out with copious amounts of social activity. I no longer feel that balance. 

White Flight - Suburbia in America

White flight was the term coined for the exodus of white families from the urban core to the newly built suburbs starting in the 1950s and 1960s. It's a complicated issue and there were a lot of contributing factors both social and economic. The reasons whites moved away from city centers (such as minorities moving to cities to fill working-class jobs in the booming post-war economy, and the desire to own a home) are perhaps not as important as their ability to do so. The newly constructed suburban paradise was created for middle and working-class white families facilitated by federally guaranteed mortgages under the Federal Housing Administration which recommended the "prohibition of the occupancy of properties except by the race for which they are intended." It wasn't until 1968 that federally sanctioned discrimination in mortgage lending was made illegal.

To echo the words of a radio deejay in the ESPN film, The U, the federal government was saying "If you're black, you're not really first class."

My grandparents bought houses during this period, and I can't help but wonder how different things might have been for them, for my parents, and for my generation if they were denied a mortgage and the opportunity to build long-term wealth.

Most of this is fairly common knowledge. I didn't have to go buy an obscure book or dig very deep to learn of this. The history of any city in America or of the post-war era, discussing anything from road construction to the desegregation of schools will at least touch on the topic. 

If you'd like to read a short piece entitled The Dark Side of Suburbia, check out this link to Khan Academy.

You don't have to have black friends, or gay family members, or female coworkers to understand that all people deserve to be treated with dignity and respect. 

Privilege is having never felt the need to protest.

I'm Afraid that Nothing has Changed

On May 4, 1970, 29 members of the Ohio National Guard fired 67 rounds into a crowd of student protesters, killing four and wounding nine at Kent State University. For several days students had been protesting recent events (specifically President Richard Nixon's April 30 announcement of the start of the Cambodian Campaign) in the ongoing Vietnam War.

Killed were Jeffrey Duane Miller, age 20, shot from 81 meters; Allison D Krause, age 19, shot from 105 meters; William Knox Schroeder, age 19, shot from 116 meters; Sandra Lee, age 20, shot from 120 meters. All four were students in good standing at Kent State.

No criminal charges resulted from the killings. The State of Ohio settled a civil case including financial retribution to the families of the victims.

None of the victims killed or wounded by the government-issued M1 rifles was armed.

Focus

According to Joyce Carol Oates, the award-winning and prolific writer of fiction, distraction is the biggest enemy of creativity. David McCullough, the award-winning and prolific writer of history, in 2012 did a 60 Minutes interview in which he explains how he writes. He takes the viewer into his "world headquarters," an 8' x 12' cabin on Martha's Vineyard containing his manual typewriter. Thomas Edison, the award-winning and prolific inventor, was so maniacally focused that his wife, having not seen him in four or five days, would pay a visit to his shop to coerce him into a bath, a shave, and a change of clothes. He considered eating and sleeping a distraction and spent a minimum of time on either. 

All of this to say that we live in a world of distraction. You might find, as I have, that in peaceful moments your mind is able to go places it otherwise wouldn't. You may find that instead of being entertained from the outside, you are engrossed in thought from the inside. 

I thought of this as I was reading on the back porch this morning, listening to the birds, the breeze, and the distant ever-present lawn mower.

That Feeling

It's funny how things pop into your mind. I recently remembered the day I got my license. The drive home. By myself. Cruising down the beltline with the windows down, I could've been screaming the whole way. 

For those of you born yesterday, the DMV used to be out on North Ave. I had driven with my mom, but my mémère (that’s Quebecois for grandmother) met us there, freeing me from the learner's permit shackles. Thank you mémère. I hardly knew the way home. Besides, I could go anywhere. 

Where I did go I don't remember. It didn't matter. That feeling. It's almost hard to believe, but I think that feeling is even stronger in my memory than it was in the moment. If I could get that feeling again, well, just thinking about it almost brings me to tears.

If I could give you some advice on basketball

Really. 

I, along with the rest of the world, have been watching The Last Dance, the ESPN doc on the '90s Chicago Bulls. As you already know, everyone is, was, and always will be obsessed with Michael Jordan. Everyone wants to be like Mike. Let me give you some advice to pass along. Be like Dennis. Rodman. Really. 

No, not off the court, but on it. If you want to make the team, have teammates and coaches that love you, and contribute to winning, be like Dennis. Forget about scoring, leave that to the other guys; nobody likes a chucker. Tell the coach you want to guard their best player. When the shot goes up, go get it. When there's a loose ball or errant pass, go get it. Get in great shape. Be a ball of energy. Work your ass off. Go get it.

I missed Nick's birthday, that is, I didn't post. April 24th. 38 years old. I have no idea what he'd be doing. Would he be married, have a house, have kids? Where would he live, what sort of work would he be doing? I have no idea what he would be like. I guess I have some idea, it's just been so long.

I didn't want to write about Covid, but I couldn't think of anything else. When I did, it seemed trivial. It didn't seem like the right time to complain, and really that's all I can do. 

I imagine someone will write a book entitled "Stranded in a house with my parents" and that person will detail all of the ways that life was so different. I haven't covered the topic because my life hasn't been that different. And because as I have said, I don't intend to write paragraph after paragraph of parental mudslinging. That's at my parents if it isn't clear. Suffice it to say, your kids are my parents.  

If I ever become a comedian, and I tear down the walls, well, come to my show; I have a lot of material.

Shaved my beard. Sign of Spring. No more cream cheese and pasta sauce and every other food imaginable. One less obstacle to getting food to my gullet. 

Listen

Do you ever listen to music? Not while you're driving, or making dinner, or reading the news, or exercising. Or writing. But just put something on and sit and listen. Or lay down. Or dance. Isn't that what people used to do? You know, focus on one thing? 

Put some music on. Grab a drink and slow things down. Listen.

I Bet It

Whenever I hear myself say "I doubt it", I hear my brother echo "I bet it". 

At some point in our young lives, that was his favorite retort. 

Like anyone who grew up pre-information age, I wonder how many of those disagreements may have been solved in seconds. Imagine not running to an assumed authority figure and instead bowing at the foot of the all-powerful internet.

I realize the argument is the point, not the answer. So you find the answer and you learn something, but you've lost the interplay.

I don't remember any of the answers. I remember arguing with my brother. 

Another Throwback

For reasons that I won't get into, I took a poetry class in college. Okay the foremost reason was that I needed an English class and it fit my schedule. 

It was a reading poetry class, not a writing poetry class, I made sure of this. Read and discuss poetry; c'mon that's cake.

And it would've been. Except that every class started the same way, writing out last night's poem from memory. Actually we got to choose from five or so. To memorize. Including punctuation.

Had I known that we would be expected to memorize anything I would not have taken the class.

What's worse, I quickly learned that any failure to reproduce a poem, would not result in, oh, say a B or a C like any normal class. Instead I received my paper back with a note: Incomplete, see me.

Oh this did not go over well. Are you fucking kidding me I have to meet with him because I missed one word and a comma?!! 

So after the class came to an end, I started making my way to the front of the room only to find myself in a group of twenty or so students. Oh fuck this.

So I left, thinking it would be easier next time. 

I got to Waterman early the next time. I sat on the floor against the wall outside the classroom and stared at my notebook, where I had copied the day's poem over and over. 

As we sat down, I pulled out a blank page and began to rewrite the thing I had been staring at only a few minutes before. I began to tighten up, sweat, and scribble quickly. I passed my paper forward, knowing that once again, I didn't get it right.

I got the same note on my paper and again found myself too pissed, too stubborn, and too stupid to stick around after class.

What I should've done was drop the class before the end of the add/drop period. Okay, what I really should've done was talk with the professor. But at this point I think I was too bothered by the idiocy of his methods. 

Instead I tried a couple more times until I was nearing the withdrawal deadline. Nothing changed and I begrudgingly met with my advisor (who I had never met) to withdraw from the class. She gave me a form for the professor to sign and I finally had to schedule a meeting with him.

So I bring the form to the office of one Huck Gutman (name-drop) in the Old Mill, and ask out of his class. He was prepared, had looked me up. Instead of asking, as most would, Why is a business major taking poetry? he decided on another direction.

You're a business major right? How do you expect to be successful if you can't even do this? It was very belittling. I'm not sure that I had had my intelligence insulted quite like that. 

I shrugged. I was not mature or confident enough to snap back at his completely illogical bullshit. Plus I needed him to sign the form.

I'm not sure what would've followed had I said something like, Are you kidding?! Do you actually think that an inability to memorize poetry will have any impact on my life? Then I would've kicked him in the balls, paused to laugh at his pain, and walked out.

No, I wouldn't do that. I have wanted to in some way show him how full of shit he was, but it's probably best to let it go.

Nothing makes me angrier than seeing people irresponsibly spreading lies on social media. 

I got out for another cruise around in my chair yesterday. Despite the muddy driveway and an unfortunate run-in with some wintertime dog shit, it was an enjoyable afternoon. My mom and I explored the old cemetery, a few hundred yards from our house. 

A few dozen graves on a small square cut into the woods east of Gilman Road, it's easily missed. Visitors find no place to park a car; without regular maintenance it would disappear into the woods altogether. A short distance north sits the oldest surviving house in the area, a small 1 1/2 story brick number that dates from the late 18th century. A bit further south is a big 1810 brick colonial at the corner of Hines Road. As in Hinesburg.

The graveyard is situated atop a hill high above the La Platte River, only you'd never know it. I imagine there was a time, before all those trees took back their rightful places, that there would've been a commanding view to the east. 

The oldest stones take up the back of the property, just inside the fence before the drop-off to the river. Five or six small, thin, nearly identical headstones dating from the 1840s make up a tidy back row. Every stone faces the road, precisely perpendicular. Most are barely legible.

If you've ever taken a look around an old cemetery, you know that the deceased ages vary much more than you might care to know. At quick glance we noticed the grave of four-year-old Sally. The most prominent monument remembers the reverend's wife, who passed in 1875. Another memorable stone was engraved with both date of birth and death, a seemingly rare practice for the period (most indicate date of death and age) 1767-1864. 

I just spent far more time writing about that cemetery than I did exploring it. On the way back to the house I observed a number of things I hadn't quite noticed in the hundreds of times I'd approached the driveway. Little things, the three different species of evergreens alongside, and the view of the trailhead parking lot through the woods. The things you see when you take the car away.

Here’s another phenomenon that I find interesting. When a song comes on the radio that you own and like and could listen to whenever you want, you are excited to hear it. When cruising the channels it seems people will watch almost anything, but when given a huge variety of choices, nothing is good enough. Maybe it's the sheer number of choices, like a menu with too many options. Give me five choices and I'll be satisfied. Have we really been trained to decide what's best from infinite options? Why are we all convinced that there is a right answer? I guess (at least some) people have a sort of unconscious bias towards simplicity. Or maybe they'd rather relax and be told what to do. I guess there are others that enjoy the search, the opportunity to seek out something different. 

What kind of person are you? Do you seek out new music, movies, books, foods, vacations? Or would you rather go with something you know, and like, or take a recommendation from a friend?

On Validation

A few years ago I saw an interview with former Cleveland Browns star (really, it was a long time ago), actor, and civil rights activist Jim Brown. Among other things, he was asked about the state of race relations in the country. In the course of his answer, he got into an area I found fascinating. He explained that people think that black men need to seek validation from society. He said that he, as a man (grown man, adult) didn't need anyone to validate him. As in, I know who I am, I don't care what you think. 

Don't assume that anyone needs your validation. A stranger is not serving you. At the same time, look inward, know who you are. Be confident in that person. Listen to those close to you. It's not ego. Ego needs stroking. It's simply having the confidence to know who you are.

Why or Why Not?

I'm reading The Boys of Summer, the autobiographical 1971 book about covering the Brooklyn Dodgers in '52 and '53 for the now long defunct New York Herald Tribune. The book contains a lot of interesting tidbits, and maybe I'll get to some of the others, but here's one that struck me.

The author, in the course of telling a story about some sports writer or ball player (it doesn't matter) mentions a woman who has kids and weighs in on the guy getting involved with her. He says something like, "Well she would have to be really great". And yes it's 1971 and he's talking about the 50s. I am obviously not surprised or offended that men, then or now, feel that way. It was written as an objective statement of fact. As in, no man would ever want to raise another man's kids.

A while ago an old friend asked me about a mutual friend who is in a similar situation. That is, he is with a woman who has children from a previous relationship. And I was asked the question in a similar way. And knowing her and them together I felt I had to defend them. I found myself saying things like, "Oh yeah but she's great" and sort of leaving it at that. My friend was obviously implying, "Why would he want to do that?" And if I had thought it through I might've said, "Why wouldn't he?"

I'm not saying everyone should want to be a surrogate father. But even now there is this assumption (and societal acceptance) that men are so selfish and immature that no man would want to be a father to children who need one.

Here's a segue you didn't see coming. I recently saw an interview with Shaq on YouTube, and knowing that Shaq was raised by his mother and step-father, the interviewer asked about his biological father. He brushed it aside, said he had nothing to say about him, and for several minutes went on to praise the man that raised him, the man that chose to be his father, who did x, y, and z to make sure they had enough. He says that it would be disrespectful to pretend that he had any other father.

That sounds like a hero. Why wouldn't you want to be a hero?

What would I do?

People ask me what I would do; if I woke up tomorrow, you know, normal.

I tell them that I've thought about it a lot. And I don't have a definitive answer.

But I do have some thoughts.

I don't think I could spend five days a week in a cubicle. At the top of my list would be to try to get back all of the time I've missed. I really don't see how I could focus in a job without it feeling like a tremendous waste of time.

I think that would be my mantra: Do stuff. Don't waste time.

I think I would find a relatively cheap apartment or condo in Burlington because that's where I want to be. And because I don't want to be tied to a job that doesn't do anything for me just to pay the mortgage.

I'd buy a car. New, used, I don't know but I would definitely enjoy the process. The mere possibility of buying and driving a new (to me) car gets me revved up. Too much?

There are so many things that I would have to buy; everything from shoes to bikes to skis. And a kayak. I would have to buy a kayak. Hmm, hope I can afford all of this.

You know what I would enjoy as much as anything else, having a conversation. And meeting new people. And let's face it meeting women, and flirting, and dating, and well, I'll leave that there.

I guess in this scenario I wouldn't need to relearn everything I used to know. If I did, that would take a lot of time.

So I know the question was simpler, as in what would I do? for work. But I can't focus. That seems so unimportant.

Success and Satisfaction

I was listening to a podcast interview and was reminded of an idea I've had before. We are seemingly always being bombarded with Be the best and Never be satisfied and the like. And some say that anything less is the attitude of a loser, that the minute you become satisfied you stop pushing and sit back. But it's more complicated, and if you’re never satisfied then how can you be happy? 

Ok so it's Rainn Wilson on Armchair Expert talking about how for 20 years he was obsessed (he calls it an addiction) with his career. And after finding success on The Office he finally had the opportunity to be a leading man in a major movie. And it flopped. Disaster. And he took it hard. And over time, with lots of therapy, he came to realize, Not everyone is a movie star. I have a great career. 

You're not Michael Jordan, but you're in the NBA. 

I've had a similar conversation while watching golf with my dad. People will put a guy down who Hasn't won the big one or is deemed to be a disappointment in some way. I look at the same guy and say He's playing golf professionally, making gobs of money doing what he loves. 

Can we be satisfied and still successful? Do you want to spend 30 years grinding your teeth and digging in Bill Belichick style? 

Sometimes I think it's better to live in moderation, and instead seek a level of sanity.

I miss the casual nature of life. It seems like everything is such a production. 

When you ask a question and they start their answer with "The truth?!!" you might just be in for a good story.

I don't even remember how to write, you know, with a pen. My muscle memory seems to have forgotten. 

Let your thoughts find their own way

Sometimes I wonder: Does the past matter? Does the future matter? Or does only the present matter?

Does having happy memories or shitty memories really make a difference if the present is the same?

I have to believe that the future does in fact matter. The expectation of a positive future changes the way we frame the present. A negative future does the same.

So how can I delude myself into thinking there is a positive future?

I guess that's heaven.