Reunited and it feels....better than expected

If you are only as old as you feel, my AARP card should be arriving any day now.

            The various aches and pains I wake up with every morning are a grab bag of entertainment. Getting out of bed is like a check list for a space shuttle launch: Back pain? Check. Roll over too fast and cause shooting pain in my shoulder? Check. Lay completely still for five minutes to convince myself I can stand up? Check.* Even worse, I walk like Red Foxx from “Sanford & Son” for the first hour I’m up every day. This leads me to yell “Lamont, ya big dummy” at extremely random times, so it does have its benefits.

*This doesn’t even include the self inflicted pain I put myself through. Example one: I suddenly decided to take up tennis for the first time in my life a few weeks ago. The final image of that experiment: Me, flat on my back, racket no where in sight with a rapidly swelling ankle and mumbling “Where am I?”  Example numero B: I fully expect to wake up some Saturday morning after a Friday night bender to discover my liver has moved out, leaving only a tiny little letter that says “You should have treated me better…”

            Aches and pains aside, little has made me feel older than receiving the invitation to my 20 year high school reunion.

            Twenty years, how did that happen? If I had been born the day I graduated, I would now be older than I was then.* Due to my job, I routinely talk to kids who where born after 1991 and can drive a car. This is always followed by a double take. Evidently I’ve become that guy who thinks the world should adjust to my personal time line, meaning nothing after, oh, about 1996 counts. So these kids are perpetually three to four years old in my mind. I desperately do not want to be that guy, it leads to being pissed at anyone younger than 25, hating any music released in the last 15 years, wearing pants hiked up to my nipples and deciding Denny’s and Golden Corral are the two best restaurants ever.  (If anyone ever hears me say, “Back in the good old days…” please feel free to poke me right in the eye hole.) Obviously, I need a reality check, so I decided to attend.

*This sounds like either the beginning of the most complicated word problem ever (all that’s missing is a train departing from point A) or the plot of a new “Freaky Friday” style Disney movie where I have to live life as a 17 year old and learn the error of my ways.

            I skipped out on the 10 year job, so I didn’t really have any idea what to expect. According to the ridiculous amount of bad movies I have seen, this is the top five things to expect:

            1-Through a series of wacky mishaps the football team replays the big game against their rivals;

            2-Embarassment over where life has taken me will force me to lie about my life and I will tell everyone I invented post it notes;

            3-I will attempt to hide my lucrative career as a hit man; shenanigans will ensue. Bonus: This is accompanied by a soundtrack of really good 80s songs. No, wise acre, that is not an oxymoron;

            4-The super hot girl/dude from high school turns out to be gay;

            5-The evening culminates with someone getting it on in the locker room.

            That’s it, that’s the list.*

*If you can identify all of those references…you need to get out more. Seriously, go outside, the fresh air is good for you.

             I don’t think any sane individual is putting a lot of stock in that list, so I decided the best bet was going into it open minded. That’s not entirely true: After deciding I lacked the time to get in mind boggling shape, the luck to win the lottery or the funds to go buy an awesome sports car and rent a trophy wife, open minded was pretty much the only option remaining. Let’s break it down, running diary style:

            5:00 p.m.:  The “social gathering” portion of the evening starts at 7:00. Evidently there was a picnic and tour of the new high school earlier in the day and there was approximately (-52.46)% chance I was attending that. I can count on one hand the number of times I have been back in a public school since graduating; the entire experience is unpleasant. I immediately feel like I’m doing something wrong by being there and expect the jerk vice principal to spring around every corner to yell at me. I don’t need that kind of stress.     

            Only two hours remain to kick off, and I am thinking my “open minded” game plan may have some flaws. I decide to combine it with plan B-back up from my close friends Mr. Miller Lite and Mr. Crown.

            7:15 p.m.:  My above mentioned friends advise me it would be a bad idea to show up on time and I agree. The meeting is happening at a local bar and grill and I commence to circle the parking lot three times before deciding everything is cool, not to not bail and to go on in. I’m not sure what warning signs I expected from a few laps around the lot: People running from the building in terror? A giant flaming finger of god pointing away from the building? Regardless, I am reassured enough to go on in.      

            7:20 p.m.: I wander into the back room and am recognized immediately. This I was not expecting. It leads to me giving the stiffest hug of all time a an awkward round of small talk where I say for the fist time what will become my mantra for the evening: “Nope, I’m not married. Nope, no kids.” I am 94.62% certain I am the only individual in that specific demographic in attendance; I feel like a rebel.

            7:25: Someone has went to the trouble of setting out numerous copies of the high school newspaper on a table. I realize this is shocking, so hold onto your Fedora: I was on the newspaper and yearbook staff in high school. I know, I know, I seem like such a cool cat now… Armed with my freshly magic markered name tag, I spend a healthy amount of time looking this over and reading a few of my stories. My judgement of the quality, 20 years later: Oh, so bad. Laughingly bad. However, they are also somewhat charming in that “My eight year old colored a picture for me” kind of way. My mom would totally hang these on the fridge door. In fact, there may still be some up there.

            7:50 to 8:30: This time is spent milling around in the back of the room and randomly touching base with people here and there. People continue to fill in the room slowly and here is my main observation: From the neck up, everyone looks nearly exactly the same, only a little older. Watching people walk in that you haven’t seen in 20 years and still recognizing them is an amazingly trippy experience. It’s like one of those science fiction stories where the aliens have replaced everyone with their exact double, only they are just slightly off. At this point I realize I may have stumbled onto something and need to stay on my toes. Or, you know, stop drinking for the evening.

            8:42: I run into a guy who spent the night at my house when we were about 10. He recounted a story of how we spent Saturday afternoon trying to chop a tree down with a brick. Hey, I lived in the middle of nowhere, don’t judge me. We had four TV channels; three if the wind was blowing the wrong direction.

            8:55: I am repeating my mantra of having no kids when a gentleman tells me he has five and he would happily give me child number four. I laugh; his wife stops me by saying, “No we’re serious” with a slightly frenzied look. Cue the awkward silence.

            9:05: The topic of who from are class has died comes up. I have set the over/under at three and took the over. The final tally: Two. It’s a good thing for me gambling isn’t legal.

9:15: Someone tells me I was the last person they would have expected to see with a beer in my hand. I can’t decide it I feel proud or insulted by this.

            9:40: I emphatically tell a former classmate she looks exactly the same. I think she is flattered…until I decide to share my replaced by alien pod people theory. To her credit, she politely laughs before bolting for the other side of the room. That, kids, is my cue to exit stage right.

By 10:00 I have made my way around the room and said goodbye to most everyone there. All in all, it was a pretty positive experience, the kind that renews my basic faith that most people are inherently good.

Listen, I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck*. I understand that for a 90 minute period anyone can come across friendly and accepting. I get that people might be trying to remember who the hell I am in there head or won’t remember a bit of our conversation after I walk away. Still, there is something reassuring about be greeted by someone you haven’t seen in two decades with a smile and a handshake and genuinely feeling glad to them.

*Where does that phrase even come from? I feel like it should be racist to somebody, but I have no clue what race or ethnic group I am offending by using it. Someone please fill me in.

            The big question: Will I be back for year 30? Right now I would say yes, emphatically. Besides, that gives me 10 years to work out the sports car and trophy wife situation.

           

The Best Man I Barely Knew

It fascinates me when depressing songs become big hits.

Not “who listens to this garbage, what is wrong with kids today” depressing-I feel that can be explained pretty easily by a lack of good taste (and by good taste, I mean whatever I like)-but depressing subject matter. Subject matter such as death, abuse, illness, et cetera, et cetera, and so on and so forth; “woe is me my baby done left me” songs aren’t what we are discussing here. It is interesting that a large number of people want to continually endure three minutes of lyrics about such things.* I suppose it’s cathartic; everyone needs a good cry now and again.

*Having said that, the two best depressing songs that got a lot of radio air play are “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas and “Brick” by Ben Folds Five. That’s it, that’s the list. One is a song about our insignificance, the other is a song about a dude’s girlfriend getting an abortion the day after Christmas. Happy Holidays!

Lately, I can’t escape this “If I Die Young” by The Band Perry. Evidently, it has become one of these cross over hits that I hear every time I turn on the radio, regardless of what type of music the station plays (I’m fairly certain I even heard it on the ESPN station once, but this may have been after a couple of drinks, so don’t hold me to it). I feel as if I’m stuck in the brainwashing scene in A Clockwork Orange, only instead of scenes of violence, my eye lids are pried open to a depressed 13-year-old girl reading from her diary. At least that’s my excuse for knowing every word and singing along, even after the 14^th time I’ve heard it today.* After all this exposure, one lyric hit home this week: “Funny how when you die, people start listening.”

*I get a great sense of satisfaction out of seeing people sing songs that could not be less aimed at their demographic. Judging by the reaction of a car full of girls who caught me belting out a Pink song at a red light last week, I am not alone. 

The topic of the song, combined with the proximity to Father’s Day, has gotten me thinking about my grandfather.

I’m lucky enough to not have been exposed to a lot of death in my 38 years on the planet. I’ve never lost any close personal friends or members of my immediate family. In fact, the only people who had any sort of consistent presence in my life that are now dead are my grandparents. All four are gone, and not recently: My dad’s parents, the above mentioned grandfather, passed away about 15 years ago. He actually went about a year before his wife; I don’t know the exact date, which may make me a bad person. I remember it was early summer and the first funeral I had a role in.

Most of the details of that day escape me now. What I do remember is discovering this whole life the man had that I was unaware of through bits of pieces of stories overheard from guests who had stopped by to “pay their respects.” Two stand out: He was nicknamed Red. This still amuses me as in all of my memories, what little hair left on his head was white; the shade of white reserved for albinos and the elderly. So I am forced to take this guy at his word; he seemed reliable. Numero B: By all accounts, he was an extremely charitable man. One old friend of his told a story of how he had given a poor family some gloves one winter, right off the hand of his own kids. It was a small gesture, but one that had left a mark on this gentleman.

Those were my two revelatory moments. He was 85ish and I can’t tell you many details of his life. As far as I know, he never pulled anyone out of a burning building. I don’t have a leather bound book of his collected platitudes. I’m fairly confident he didn’t take out a Nazi platoon in W-W-I-I, help discover a cure to some disease, win any gunfights with Blark Bart at high noon, shoot down a mad dog in the middle of the street, donate a kidney to a stranger or deliver a eloquent monologue that convinced a jury to free an innocent man.

Yet I would unequivocally say I can’t imagine a better person. Here’s what I do know about him:

Anywhere I went with him, he was always good for a bottle of peach Nehi and a bag of peanuts.  At least one afternoon a week over summer break, he would haul me around on his mail route and never give me trouble for reading comics the first half and sleeping the last hour. He chewed those giant twists of tobacco that look exactly like a king size Tootsie Roll to an eight year old. He was married to one spouse for 60 some years and raised four kids who can say the same. He made up ridiculous nicknames for all of his grandchildren, including “Buckshot” and “Pee Wee”. Nothing fired him up more than leaving a light on in an empty room or killing the lawnmower after running over a large rock. From 12:30 to 3:30 p.m. he was parked in his recliner and not missing a second of his soap operas. He always had a paperback western nearby. He was always good for a five dollar bill on Christmas morning as well as this nugget of wisdom: “Well, we made it through another year.” He always made me feel like his favorite grandkid and I’m sure my sisters and cousins all felt the same*. Did I mention the peach Nehi?

*He was totally lying to them though. Don’t tell.

I believe most people could not imagine a more mundane list of details. Yet I wouldn’t have it any other way. Most of our lives end up much more Goundhog Day than Saving Private Ryan. I hope there is a nobility and inherit goodness in just living a life well. Sometimes the best thing you can do is just show up. I think that is the lesson I keep listening too long after my grandfather is gone.

Happy Pop’s Day.

Confessions of a Drive By Commentator

or, How the Internet Made Me a Bad Person in Four Easy Steps

Like all fiascos, it started with the best of intentions. It's a weak excuse, I realize, so save me all of your "The road to hell is paved..." and blah, yadda, blah, ad nauseum. At the time, it felt like the right thing to do. Ok, that is a lie, at the time it still felt mean spirited, juvenile, and vindictive, but lordy, was it entertaining. Who knew that taking shots at people from behind the anonymity* of the internets could be such a good time?

*Every time I use the word anonymity, two things happen: Uno, I can never spell the damn thing right. This would lead a normal person with a slightly above average education to a dictionary, correct? Nope, I spend eight minutes in a fierce battle with spell check trying different combinations until either I get it right or the computer just gives up. Ok, 15 minutes. B) My brain immediately brings up the image of Stuart Smally on those SNL sketches from the early 90s. TV has left my imagination a waste land of pointless references to sketch comedy.

I admit, in the grand scheme of confessions, it ranks well below murder. How-evah, it sure isn’t going to earn me any gold stars or trophies either. (Maybe a participation certificate; they give those to anybody.) So, kiddos, it’s time to come clean for my role in the decline of civil discourse. I did not create the heap of toxic waste it has become, but I certainly contributed my shovel full.

Step 1: Discovery

I used to have a diehard addiction to newspapers. I like to tell myself it was to stay informed of things like important political issues, world events, and local affairs. The truth is I usually scanned it for salacious headlines and sports news. I think the breakdown would look something like this: Stories read with the words sex, scandal, cover up, murder or any combination in the headline: 80%; Sports: 15%; Less than half a completed crossword: 4%; Stories read to delay getting back from lunch: 1%.

Two things contributed to my AA moment with newspapers: A) Most (and by most, I mean all) of the old papers ended up in the back seat of my car. This would be great if I ever found myself in need of something to start a fire, cheap ass wrapping paper, or a sudden desire to make paper mache. It’s not so great for hauling passengers. Plus, have you ever experienced the stench that is newspaper left for several days in the sun? Not pleasant. I was also terrified of finding a family of mice nesting back there.

Dos) One afternoon at work I was fighting the urge to hide under my desk and sleep by screwing around online. I ended up at the local paper’s web site. All the same stories I read earlier were right there on the computer screen. For free. There was no grumpy Kum and Go clerk demanding the last four shiny quarters from my pocket. After about 20 minutes of intense calculation involving complex equations I came up with this answer: The cost of the paper Monday through Friday=$5 plus tax. Cost of my just reading it online=Free*. Yes, I do have a place cleared on my shelf for my Nobel Prize in Mathematics.

*Obviously this does not include the cost to my employer for all the hours wasted staring at my monitor when I could have been working. I am convinced my productivity would increase by 78.9% if I were forced to work in a dark broom closet.

This in turn led me to the opinions page.

Step 2: Titillation

The opinion page is an interesting place. It’s the literary equivalent to the set of the Mad Max movies: A vast desert populated by crazy people who jump out from behind rocks and shout gibberish at you. The layout is pretty much the same every day. Lead with a toothless editorial from the paper’s editorial board, something that rallies the opposing side to arms. “Our view: Kicking puppies is bad” or maybe “Our view: Pants are great”. That kind of hard hitting stuff. Next is a column by one of the syndicated writers who aim to convince you Democrats are sending us all to hell or Republicans hate you and your mom, depending on the day of the week. We then get our local columnists, which I’m convinced got the gig by being the weirdest combination of demographics ever in an effort to make sure all Springfield’s crazy voices get heard. Monday is conservative Christian sailor, Tuesday is liberal church preacher who supports same sex marriage, and so on and so forth. I’m not sure why they want to write these weekly opinion pieces. Maybe it’s because they get their photo printed beside them? Who hasn’t dreamed of ending up on page 8A someday?

And then, oh then, the crown jewel of the opinion page: Reader’s letters. Give me a second, I’m getting the crack-shakes just thinking about them.                       Ok, better. What kind of topics get people so fired up, so incensed, so passionate that they go to the trouble of putting pen to paper and letting everyone know how they feel? After spending months looking at these things, I can say with confidence the most popular topics are: People in Springfield can’t drive and should use their turn signals more; God hates the sin, not the sinner, but you are all going to burn in hell anyway; everything would be ok if we could just get rid of the churches; everything would be ok if we could just get rid of beer/cigarettes/texting; the sitting President, regardless of who, is a liar, an idiot and hates America; and hey you kids, get off my damn lawn.

It was fantastic. I couldn’t imagine it would get any better until I read one word: “Comment.”

Step Three: The Voice of Reason

A whole world of possibilities opened up to me. One click is all that separated me from setting these bozos straight. Well, one click and the creation of a patently stupid screen name. This is where I enter stage left, riding my white horse and liberating the poor unwashed masses from the tyranny of limited thinking. I would be that voice of common sense in the vast wilderness of crazy town*. I hopped to work quickly.

*Do I realize that all the writers I just mocked above probably had the same intention? Not a bit. Excuse me while I get this piece of hubris out of me eye…

Most of my comments started out rational on the verge of boring. The specifics have left me, but I think the general idea was “Maybe you should calm down a little” or “Aren’t there more important things for us to worry about?” and “Take a deep breath.” You know, solid, if bland advice. I sat back, pleased as punch, and waited for people to bask in the awe of my sense of fair play, of reason. However, there was one tiny problem.

No one noticed.

Step Four: The Lowest Common Denominator

Honestly, I didn’t expect to change the world. I thought I could spark some self reflection, a pump the brakes moment, if you will. Perhaps some tete-a-tete in the comment sections where we share a chuckle over the banality of it all. What I didn’t expect was stone cold silence.

So I dug deeper. Who was getting responses? What I discovered shouldn’t have been a surprise for anyone who spent 12 plus years in the public school system or watches reality TV. Whoever says the most outrageous stuff loudly gets all the attention.

Outrageous doesn’t really cover it. Every base seemed covered: Religious condemnation, racism, sexism, intolerance and, topping the list, just general stupidity. These statements would start conversation threads that would last for days and approach 100 plus comments. We’re not talking in depth examination of the issues; just insults and craziness stacked up like bricks. It was more rock fight than a debate. A better person would have washed his hands of the whole thing and moved on to more lofty pursuits. A better person would have not wanted validation from strangers, weird ones at that. If you know this better person, please tell him he sucks.

So I went down the same path as many hacks before me and took aim. If the conversation was currently in the dark basement of civility, I was heading for the outhouse. At first I tried to stay at least on target with the topics. I was still presenting ideas I believed in, albeit in more colorful fashion. I started slowly, just a few “idiots” sprinkled here and there, an occasional bad joke about someone’s screen name or heritage. The results were predictable; I was certainly getting more responses, as well as many more threats to my health and well being, as well as invitations to molest myself in various ways. Good times!

It got to the point where I no longer even cared what issue I was defending/attacking. I fully embraced the role of contrarian. In fact, I started ignoring the issues entirely and started to just insult the others leaving comments. Cleverness was abandoned. “Let me guess, you are over 70 years old? At least I’m going to live longer than you” or “You misspelled a word genius, try proof reading*” all the way down to “I think you smell and likely have lice.” It was by no means a glorious flame out, more like some animal trapped in a tar pit, slowly sinking…

*For anyone who has spotted the many misspelled words in this piece, please take a moment to enjoy the irony. Drink it in.

This went on for several weeks, when a funny thing happened. I discovered it just wasn’t as fun if my heart wasn’t in it. I might get off a rare funny line here or there, or sting someone with a pointed insult, but it got old pretty quick without any real meaning behind it. What all the letter writers and columnists realized much before I did was that earnestness sells a lot better than bullying. It’s a trait that gets mocked more than occasionally but, in the end, certainly makes for more enjoyable people. In the long run, I would trade all the snark for that.

There you go, my 1,800 word confession. Obviously, brevity is not my strong suit. I can’t say I have quit trolling through the comment boards cold turkey; it’s still entertaining to poke the bear occasionally. If you happen to be on the receiving end one of these days, just take a deep breath and realize I’m just trying to get a rise out of somebody. And by all means, don’t stop commenting; I have a lot of hours of work to kill.