Well, I have been officially 35 for one week and one day now. So far, it feels a lot like 34, which felt a lot like 33, which felt a little like 32 that, in turn was reminiscent of 31. Thirty-one reminded me of the better part of 23 while simultaneously morphing into what I can only imagine 60 to feel like. I constantly remind myself that I am only as old as I feel. The problem is that I have ever only really been ages 0 - 35 so my references are a bit askew. I can't, in all honesty, say that I "feel" 87 since I have no experiences being 87. I can use the information I've gathered from others to postulate what it might feel like to be a different age, but it is wholly based on another person's life and experiences and not my own. But I digress...
As I've celebrated each anniversary of the day of my birth I have been barraged with stories regarding one age being the "new" x age. This seems to me to be complete and utter hogwash. How can 40 be the new 30? Perhaps if I frame it in the proportional age reference of our times, where people are living longer and thereby an age that for one generation seemed "old" is now, taking current life expectancies into account, somewhat, for lack of a better term, routine. People are living and working longer. Sixty-five, from this viewpoint, doesn't seem too old to retire. Yet, that is what most people expect to do. Well, God Bless You if you are able to do that. I, for one, get a nice little reminder every year from the government about how much income I would be taking in based on a variety of "retirement" ages. So far, if I work until I'm 78, I'll bring home the maximum amount I can expect. Of course, these forecasts do not take other economic factors into account. Much like the cost of living varies from place to place ($40,000 per year of income in one area may mean that you live rather comfortably while the same amount in another area puts you at borderline poverty level) the cost of living in the future will surely be greater than what it is now. Bread may be $100 a loaf, in which case the $5000 I could potentially take home after retirement doesn't seem that comforting. All this is assuming I'll have anything left to retire on, of course.
I'm thinking of proposing a radically different idea behind the whole "age" thing. I'm going to treat 35 like the new 35. In theory we shouldn't worry about tomorrow, since tomorrow is not guaranteed. In reality, I, like many other people, find myself worrying about things that are completely and utterly out of my control. Why do we do that? We're living our lives as if the smallest financial misstep or mistake will follow us to the grave. Please do not misunderstand me and think that I am not a proponent of sound financial management. Quite the contrary. To be responsible with the things God has provided you is of paramount importance. But I'm learning as I grow that sometimes bad, unexpected things occur. Sometimes a car will need an unexpected and costly repair, which may mean you are late on a credit card bill or something. This in turn could lead to a lower credit score or, in extremely harsh circumstances, complete bankruptcy. Granted not everyone who has filed for bankruptcy really deserves or needs to (just one more abuse of the system by those who know). While many of us stay awake at night worrying over things such as these I am trying to learn to breath and trust in God.
I'll sum it up with a fake obituary.
John Smith, 77, of Main St. died on Febutober the eleventeenth after suffering from years of crushing financial mismanagement and debt. Mr. Smith, who had declared bankruptcy in 1998, leaves behind a wife of 40 years and a mortgage of thirty. He is also survived by the long-term effects of several bad investments from the early 1990's the least of which is the purchase of Beanie Baby stock at the expense of his own business expansion. Other mourners include the financial aid loan he took out when his job was downsized and he and his family were forced to live out of their 1974 AMC Pacer for a period of approximately 6 months in 1982. The line of credit extended to him by the Discover card people helped ease the burden for a bit, before his pool cleaning business took a complete nosedive after the "red water" scare of 1993. In addition to those mentioned, he is also survived by several unpaid credit card bills, tax returns, and parking tickets. In lieu of flowers please make payments in his name to the credit card company or bank of your choice. Chances are good that, in the end, whichever one you pick, he owed them money.
I have never seen an obituary like this. And that's the point...
Welcome to the New 35...
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
The Difference Between a Musician and a 14-inch Pizza...
I know it may sound hackneyed, but I love to laugh. I believe most people feel the same. I have yet to meet a person who actively despised laughing or laughter. Sure, I have had my run ins with cranky, curmudgeonly individuals but I choose to think that their lack of humor was more due to the situation at hand than any deep-seated hatred of being jolly. Everybody is entitled to a bad day, I suppose. But for the life of me I cannot figure out how some people make it through the day without laughing. It is as if they think that if they laugh they would suddenly be seen as "less than adult". I try to see the humor all around me. Whether it's the humor that accompanies my paycheck (those are hilarious!) or my wife holding a little Halloween spider costume we got for Samurai Jack and making it dance around the living room, one of the best gifts God gave us is the ability to laugh.
"It is a serious world, kid. Stop joking around." At heart, I am just a big kid. Because of that, I thoroughly enjoy making those around me laugh. Getting a laugh at something I have done or said ranks right up there with playing guitar and I can understand why so many people pursue comedy as a career. If I wasn't the bustling professional that I am, I would either be a touring musician or a comedian. Unfortunately the biggest obstacle to my pursuits of either of these lofty goals is a crippling sense of stage fright. Deep down I am a painfully shy and introverted person who would be easily dissuaded if I thought the crowd was laughing at me and not with me.
But with my friends and family, I have no shame. Hearing those little voices laugh always brightens my day. NT is become quite the little comedian herself. She says things that, for the life of me, I do not know where she got it. Sure, she's stuck in potty humor right now. Nothing cracks her up more than saying "poopy". When she laughs, SJ laughs. It is so heartwarming to hear bubs and his sissy laughing together. I was down on the floor today playing with them and I was pretending I was a bull. NT would fall to the floor and I would roll her over with my head. She would laugh and bubby would laugh. Then I would "attack" bubs and he would turn and squeal. Had someone looked through our living room windows at that exact moment, they might have thought that a) this guy is being really mean to his kids or b) this guy is having a seizure of some sort, perhaps I should stop peeping in this window and call for help.
Jokes are a great way to bond with people. Sharing a laugh can be a powerful introductory tool or it can be a way for others to get to know you better. What a person laughs at can say more about their character than an hour long interview. So, in an effort to help you, dear reader, understand me a bit more clearly, here's a couple of my favorite jokes.
Why does a drummer leave his drumsticks on the dashboard of his car?
So he can park in the handicapped section.
If a man is alone in the woods and talking to himself, is he still wrong?
A doctor is testifying at a criminal trial. The lawyer is questioning the doctor as to if he had made absolutely certain the victim was dead.
"Did you check his pulse, Doctor?"
"No, sir I did not."
"So you can't be absolutely positive that he was dead then can you?"
"Well, let me put it this way sir. His brain was in a jar in the other room. But for all I know he could still be out practicing law somewhere."
A little boy goes up to his dad and says, "Daddy, when I grow up I'm going to be a musician."
Daddy says, "Son, you can't have it both ways."
These are just a smattering of jokes I find hilarious. Hopefully you got a chuckle or two.
Oh yeah, the difference between a musician and a 14-inch pizza?
A 14-inch pizza can feed a family of four.
Some of the funniest people I've ever met, have been your average, ordinary folk. You got to be able to laugh at yourself...
"It is a serious world, kid. Stop joking around." At heart, I am just a big kid. Because of that, I thoroughly enjoy making those around me laugh. Getting a laugh at something I have done or said ranks right up there with playing guitar and I can understand why so many people pursue comedy as a career. If I wasn't the bustling professional that I am, I would either be a touring musician or a comedian. Unfortunately the biggest obstacle to my pursuits of either of these lofty goals is a crippling sense of stage fright. Deep down I am a painfully shy and introverted person who would be easily dissuaded if I thought the crowd was laughing at me and not with me.
But with my friends and family, I have no shame. Hearing those little voices laugh always brightens my day. NT is become quite the little comedian herself. She says things that, for the life of me, I do not know where she got it. Sure, she's stuck in potty humor right now. Nothing cracks her up more than saying "poopy". When she laughs, SJ laughs. It is so heartwarming to hear bubs and his sissy laughing together. I was down on the floor today playing with them and I was pretending I was a bull. NT would fall to the floor and I would roll her over with my head. She would laugh and bubby would laugh. Then I would "attack" bubs and he would turn and squeal. Had someone looked through our living room windows at that exact moment, they might have thought that a) this guy is being really mean to his kids or b) this guy is having a seizure of some sort, perhaps I should stop peeping in this window and call for help.
Jokes are a great way to bond with people. Sharing a laugh can be a powerful introductory tool or it can be a way for others to get to know you better. What a person laughs at can say more about their character than an hour long interview. So, in an effort to help you, dear reader, understand me a bit more clearly, here's a couple of my favorite jokes.
Why does a drummer leave his drumsticks on the dashboard of his car?
So he can park in the handicapped section.
If a man is alone in the woods and talking to himself, is he still wrong?
A doctor is testifying at a criminal trial. The lawyer is questioning the doctor as to if he had made absolutely certain the victim was dead.
"Did you check his pulse, Doctor?"
"No, sir I did not."
"So you can't be absolutely positive that he was dead then can you?"
"Well, let me put it this way sir. His brain was in a jar in the other room. But for all I know he could still be out practicing law somewhere."
A little boy goes up to his dad and says, "Daddy, when I grow up I'm going to be a musician."
Daddy says, "Son, you can't have it both ways."
These are just a smattering of jokes I find hilarious. Hopefully you got a chuckle or two.
Oh yeah, the difference between a musician and a 14-inch pizza?
A 14-inch pizza can feed a family of four.
Some of the funniest people I've ever met, have been your average, ordinary folk. You got to be able to laugh at yourself...
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
The Poetry Outlet...
I have never considered myself a writer. Of any caliber. However, it is something that I enjoy doing. Usually I write for myself in an effort to express thoughts and feelings. Sometimes those thoughts and feelings come through, sometimes I fail miserably. I was always encouraged to write by my family and by a variety of English teachers I had throughout school. For all that encouragement, I say "thank you", though you, dear reader, may feel otherwise after reading some of my work.
I have always harbored a not-to-secret desire to be a songwriter. I don't need to pen a "popular" hit but I would count it a great honor if at least one phrase from my musings could touch or move one person in some small way. I only mention this because, the way I see it, a great song often starts as a great poem. Think about it. Any song that really moves you upon hearing it can have the same effect when you read its words (though obvious differences in media should be taken into account). I guess in my effort to write a good poem, I'm essentially trying to write a good song. We'll see...
Here's an older poem from my collection.
If Words Were Meant
If words were meant
And deeds could save
There'd be none left
Within their grave.
Who would choose
To pass away
If belief were as easy
As to simply say?
What works of ours
No matter how grand
Will wrought or stay
What God has planned?
I have always harbored a not-to-secret desire to be a songwriter. I don't need to pen a "popular" hit but I would count it a great honor if at least one phrase from my musings could touch or move one person in some small way. I only mention this because, the way I see it, a great song often starts as a great poem. Think about it. Any song that really moves you upon hearing it can have the same effect when you read its words (though obvious differences in media should be taken into account). I guess in my effort to write a good poem, I'm essentially trying to write a good song. We'll see...
Here's an older poem from my collection.
If Words Were Meant
If words were meant
And deeds could save
There'd be none left
Within their grave.
Who would choose
To pass away
If belief were as easy
As to simply say?
What works of ours
No matter how grand
Will wrought or stay
What God has planned?
NT and the Ukulele...
As a non-biased parent, I must inform the reader that my kids are geniuses. More so than their daddy, who struggled with the proper spelling of the plural of genius. Genii didn't look right, though I dug the double i's. Regardless, I can state with absolute certainty that the offspring are certifiably uber-smart.
Since their respective births, both my kids have displayed a love of music that both humbles me and makes me very proud. No better example of this than the occurrence last week as I took my oldest, Ninja Toddler, to the local music store. NT, as she's known, is two and a half years old.
The initial reasoning for the outing was for new thumb picks, though there is always a reason to go to the music store. I had lost my last orange thumb pick at a recent jamming session and I was eager to replace it with another. There are songs that I need to learn, after all. NT, who always enjoys a good outing, wanted to accompany me and I was thrilled to take her.
We enter the local store and her eyes immediately get as wide as saucers as she takes in the glorious site of hundreds of beautiful guitars just begging to be played. Holding her hand a bit firmer, because I know how she could decimate this entire collection within 30 seconds and because I have a good approximation of how much a destruction session such as that could potentially cost me, we stepped even deeper into temptation.
She was fascinated by the variety of guitars (and other instruments). At one point she knowingly pointed to a row of acoustic guitars (Alvarez's, Ibanez's, and Takamine's) and said with the kind of certainty only a child could have that "These Daddy's p-tars!" I had to smile. Yes, honey, these are like daddy's guitars. It was at that point I decided she needed an instrument, a real instrument not like the slew of toy instruments we are inundated with at home. She had been asking me for several days for a "p-tar" of her own. The guitar snob in me would not settle for a low rent, piece of crap for my princess. No, her first guitar will be playable, practical, and nice. Unfortunately she is too small for any of the conventional guitars. It was then that my eyes fell upon the ukuleles hanging on the wall. The soprano uke. Utter genius. I'll get her interested in stringed, fretted instruments via that Hawaiian staple the ukulele. It is small enough for her, but not too small for daddy to play on as well. I have to be able to teach her after all.
I suggested a ukulele to her and she immediately started jumping. I escorted her over to the wall and we began studying the $40 instruments with all the scrutiny of seasoned hagglers. "Not this one honey, the neck isn't as straight as this one." "No, this one isn't in tune." "No this one has a bump on the face that could result in ultimate unplayability." Years of musical instrument knowledge came flooding into me as I poured over every minute detail of quality of craftsmanship of these Chinese instrument makers. I graciously shared this knowledge and my thinking with NT, as well as my comments regarding how it could have been done better. I was in the zone. It was an impressive display, if I say so myself.
After several minutes of detailed examination, I triumphantly held aloft two $40 ukuleles that met my stringent standards. One was a natural toned number, and the other was a green monstrosity that, despite the color, was very well built. "OK, honey, which one do you like the best?" I asked with an air of certainty, knowing she will choose the natural toned uke since it is the one most like daddy's. She stood there in such a way that belied her three foot stature. She took them both in, pausing and considering the pros and cons of each (or so I like to think). Her little eyes went first to the natural toned, then to the green. I was certain she was already thinking of the number of hit songs she will write on the instrument hand-picked with love by her daddy. She raised her little right arm and I could see she had reached her decision. At that moment, there was no prouder daddy in the world.
Her arm aloft she said, "Want the blue one daddy!" The blue one? I did not pick out a blue one. The blue one's are swill. Surely she was mistaking the green one for blue, that happens right? But as I though this I knew it was not the case. NT is a genius in many things, and colors are her specialty. I glanced over at the two blue ones the store had. I was not impressed.
Daddy, who admittedly doesn't know much but does know his instruments, tried a different approach: reason. "Honey, these two are much better. This natural one has a straight neck, chords easy, and the frets are filed on the edges so you won't hurt your hand. The green one is equally as good but also sports the bonus feature of a dolphin shaped bridge." I tell myself that she at least considered my words, but I know that is not the truth. She stood firm in her decision. "The blue one, daddy."
My mind raced, why the blue one? Did she see something special contained within the press board, laminated spectacle? Did it speak to her in some unique way, as some instruments do, that cried out for her little fingers to play it? I finally asked, "why the blue one, honey?"
"It's my favorite color." (I was a bit crestfallen at this point. Those who know me know of my disdain for selecting instruments based purely on visual features. I thought I had adequately conveyed these notions to NT. Obviously I was a failure as a parent.) She then added, "and daddy's too!" That simple phrase moved me more than the site of all those guitars in the store. She chose it because it was her favorite color, a favorite color she shares with her daddy. She didn't care that the neck wasn't as straight as some of the others, or that the frets weren't filed down as well. She picked that one because it reminds her of her daddy and his favorite color.
Perhaps I'm reading too much into her selection of the blue uke. But I was touched enough that we left the store with her favorite blue uke. And new thumb picks...
Since their respective births, both my kids have displayed a love of music that both humbles me and makes me very proud. No better example of this than the occurrence last week as I took my oldest, Ninja Toddler, to the local music store. NT, as she's known, is two and a half years old.
The initial reasoning for the outing was for new thumb picks, though there is always a reason to go to the music store. I had lost my last orange thumb pick at a recent jamming session and I was eager to replace it with another. There are songs that I need to learn, after all. NT, who always enjoys a good outing, wanted to accompany me and I was thrilled to take her.
We enter the local store and her eyes immediately get as wide as saucers as she takes in the glorious site of hundreds of beautiful guitars just begging to be played. Holding her hand a bit firmer, because I know how she could decimate this entire collection within 30 seconds and because I have a good approximation of how much a destruction session such as that could potentially cost me, we stepped even deeper into temptation.
She was fascinated by the variety of guitars (and other instruments). At one point she knowingly pointed to a row of acoustic guitars (Alvarez's, Ibanez's, and Takamine's) and said with the kind of certainty only a child could have that "These Daddy's p-tars!" I had to smile. Yes, honey, these are like daddy's guitars. It was at that point I decided she needed an instrument, a real instrument not like the slew of toy instruments we are inundated with at home. She had been asking me for several days for a "p-tar" of her own. The guitar snob in me would not settle for a low rent, piece of crap for my princess. No, her first guitar will be playable, practical, and nice. Unfortunately she is too small for any of the conventional guitars. It was then that my eyes fell upon the ukuleles hanging on the wall. The soprano uke. Utter genius. I'll get her interested in stringed, fretted instruments via that Hawaiian staple the ukulele. It is small enough for her, but not too small for daddy to play on as well. I have to be able to teach her after all.
I suggested a ukulele to her and she immediately started jumping. I escorted her over to the wall and we began studying the $40 instruments with all the scrutiny of seasoned hagglers. "Not this one honey, the neck isn't as straight as this one." "No, this one isn't in tune." "No this one has a bump on the face that could result in ultimate unplayability." Years of musical instrument knowledge came flooding into me as I poured over every minute detail of quality of craftsmanship of these Chinese instrument makers. I graciously shared this knowledge and my thinking with NT, as well as my comments regarding how it could have been done better. I was in the zone. It was an impressive display, if I say so myself.
After several minutes of detailed examination, I triumphantly held aloft two $40 ukuleles that met my stringent standards. One was a natural toned number, and the other was a green monstrosity that, despite the color, was very well built. "OK, honey, which one do you like the best?" I asked with an air of certainty, knowing she will choose the natural toned uke since it is the one most like daddy's. She stood there in such a way that belied her three foot stature. She took them both in, pausing and considering the pros and cons of each (or so I like to think). Her little eyes went first to the natural toned, then to the green. I was certain she was already thinking of the number of hit songs she will write on the instrument hand-picked with love by her daddy. She raised her little right arm and I could see she had reached her decision. At that moment, there was no prouder daddy in the world.
Her arm aloft she said, "Want the blue one daddy!" The blue one? I did not pick out a blue one. The blue one's are swill. Surely she was mistaking the green one for blue, that happens right? But as I though this I knew it was not the case. NT is a genius in many things, and colors are her specialty. I glanced over at the two blue ones the store had. I was not impressed.
Daddy, who admittedly doesn't know much but does know his instruments, tried a different approach: reason. "Honey, these two are much better. This natural one has a straight neck, chords easy, and the frets are filed on the edges so you won't hurt your hand. The green one is equally as good but also sports the bonus feature of a dolphin shaped bridge." I tell myself that she at least considered my words, but I know that is not the truth. She stood firm in her decision. "The blue one, daddy."
My mind raced, why the blue one? Did she see something special contained within the press board, laminated spectacle? Did it speak to her in some unique way, as some instruments do, that cried out for her little fingers to play it? I finally asked, "why the blue one, honey?"
"It's my favorite color." (I was a bit crestfallen at this point. Those who know me know of my disdain for selecting instruments based purely on visual features. I thought I had adequately conveyed these notions to NT. Obviously I was a failure as a parent.) She then added, "and daddy's too!" That simple phrase moved me more than the site of all those guitars in the store. She chose it because it was her favorite color, a favorite color she shares with her daddy. She didn't care that the neck wasn't as straight as some of the others, or that the frets weren't filed down as well. She picked that one because it reminds her of her daddy and his favorite color.
Perhaps I'm reading too much into her selection of the blue uke. But I was touched enough that we left the store with her favorite blue uke. And new thumb picks...
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)