Why Make Things Easy When They Can Be Difficult?

"Measuring Up"

*based on a semi-true story....

He was sitting in a clump on the couch, tapping a pencil against his forehead, social studies book spread before him.

This was his thinking position.

“Dad?” asked my 12 year old scholar. I could tell by the inflection in his voice and the wrinkle in his brow that my son had one of those questions. 

“Yes?” I answered, rather hesitantly.

“Why do the English use the metric system and Americans use the English system? That doesn’t even make sense.”

For the sake of clarity, I live in the United States, a country which cantankerously clings with bald eagle talons to the English system of measurement.

“Well,” I began, “Americans are a little complicated.” 

Is that the best I could do?

“But the metric system is so easy,” my son pursued the issue. He wasn't wrong.

“Look at it this way," the gears were grinding in my brain, "Americans have a really hard time imagining ‘25 degrees’ as a nice, comfortable summer day.” 

I was proud of my example. 

“Well, water boils at 100 degrees Celsius and freezes at zero. Seriously, that’s so easy,” the young man was relentless.

And he was correct. Multiples of ten. That’s the metric system. Easy.

However, the United States refuses to adopt this simple and easy-to-use system of measurement. The U.S. stands obstinate with Liberia and Burma as the only three countries in the world to still recognize Imperial Units as the official standard of measurement.

I gave some further thought to his most excellent question. 

“You see, buddy,” I said in my most convincing father-knows-best voice, “Americans have always had a … difficult time adapting to something new. Americans can be a little ... stubborn.”

My son made a snorting sound from his nose. 

“Or a little stupid,” he mumbled as he flipped a page in his textbook.

Yeah, I chuckled to myself, or a little stupid.

Bookstore Jonesing

Emily's Used Books, Brainerd, MN

I am a victim of an infliction called “bookstore jonesing.”

I open the door and the aroma grips me first, sinking its papercut teeth into my nostrils. I willingly give myself to the musty, pulpy fragrance. I inhale like a stoner taking a hit. 

I am hooked.

There is nothing like the scent of my local used bookstore. Once lured inside, my senses become a mushy, short circuited knot. 

I lose myself in canyons of classics and I scale ravines of fiction. I bathe in the Sea of Forewords and plod through the Desert of Afterwords, while every syllable of every story whispers from the walls like stains heard but unseen.

Fluorescent glare guides me and skinny aisles beg me, stay for just a little longer.

Warning: this humble store is a black hole. Once its gravitational force sucks you in, you are an addict for life.

Ain’t it great?

Happy Thanksgiving, 2021

 

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Just a quick, personal post today.

I'm watching Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade this morning, cringing at all the pitifully lip-synched, piped-in music wafting from million dollar parade floats. Considering all the money spent on this annual event, you'd think they'd be able to afford live music. Good grief.

I hope you get to spend the day with family and friends. I am on-call over the Thanksgiving weekend, so I will miss the big Thanksgiving gathering with my wife's family. Today will be just the four of us, my own little family. It makes me happy.

I am thankful for so many things, it seems futile to even begin to list them all; that's a good problem to have. So, I will keep it simple: I'm thankful for all of you reading this, making the first month of my site so successful. 

But more than anything, I'm thankful for another year together with all of you. I see some of you frequently; others I haven't seen in 30+ years, but we still keep in touch, and that speaks volumes. Thank you for making my life a part of yours.

Time goes faster than should be allowed. I think, perhaps, Einstein got something wrong in his calculations. However, here we all are, zipping around the galaxy on a little round planet (yes, it is round), doing what we do: living our best life. 

Cheers to you. Happy Thanksgiving!

November Fades

Green blades stretch through the snow, arms in the air, surrendering, submitting to the inevitable. 

Seasons shift silently, leisurely. November fades to winter’s will, like chilled wisps of smoke twisting in late autumn air; the sun becomes a stranger and the moon bathes in exquisitely long nights. 

We curl in inky shadows, hibernating, assured that eternity will last just a brief time.

Five months of midnight, blindfolded, those blades of green will sleep, buried alive under a compressed canopy of white. 

But the earth turns, the canopy dissolves with the trickle of spring and the blades raise their arms in triumph. 

The circle is complete.

"About Me"

When I was a sophomore at the University of Minnesota, the greatest motivation I ever received was after submitting a crappy essay for a literature class. Although I failed to use footnotes properly and got a B on the paper, my professor scribbled in the corner of the page, “Never stop writing!”

To this day, I am not sure if this was a general philosophy offered to all pseudo-intellectuals like myself, or if it was personal encouragement. I just knew that it made me feel good. It was the best B I ever got in college.

After celebrating my half-century birthday a couple of years ago, I decided to be brave (or stupid) and start sharing my lifelong love for writing with other people. After more than fifty trips around the sun, I felt maybe I had something worthwhile to share, although I wasn’t sure what that might be.

In October I started a website called www.forty-leven.com, devoted to the joy of jotting down life stuff. 

My closest brush with fame came about twenty years ago, when I was selected as a finalist in the Minneapolis Star Tribune’s “Joe Fan” sports columnist contest. All I won was a lousy Star Tribune hoodie, but it encouraged me to keep writing.

I’ve had poetry published in a compilation called A Far Off Place and when I was a senior in high school, a Chinese foreign exchange teacher selected one of my essays to be published in his hometown newspaper (I assume it was translated to Mandarin). All I got was a lousy silk handkerchief.

Still, I felt emboldened to keep writing.

I am passionate about books, music, history, football (American), coffee and craft beer. Most of all, I enjoy observing to the world around me and reporting what I see with a sarcastic, off-color twist. I like writing about life stuff.

My greatest inspiration are my two children--their minds never turn off--and my biggest accomplishment is being married for 25 years (and counting) to a pretty nice gal.

Thank you for taking a moment to get better acquainted with me. Now I will hold my breath, press “Publish,” and hope I don’t embarrass myself.

Thankful for Another Spin

I sat at the kitchen table, my steaming cup of coffee now lukewarm, repeating the phrase to myself. It was so simple, so honest. And beautifully profound.

Never underestimate the wisdom of your children. Even though they lack life experience, that very innocence can be the key to a certain clarity, something that becomes clouded as we collect the scar tissue of adulthood.

I became a dad for the first time almost 16 years ago. My daughter was a dribbly, snotty-nosed miracle who changed my life forever. Three years later, her burbling, bubbling little brother made me the proudest pop in Minnesota.

Being a parent to youngsters was like traveling back in a time machine. All of life's marvels, long invisible as an adult, became strikingly clear again, especially during winter time. The thrill of learning to ice skate or the giddiness of tumbling ass-over-teakettle in a carpet of white powder brought almost too much happiness to bear. There was nothing like the joy of a winter wonderland.

It was a joy I had long forgotten.

Which brings me to the kitchen table. 

I poured myself a coffee and sat next to my son, who was gulping down a mug of hot chocolate. The afternoon November sky was getting tired as we watched the first snow of the year collect on the backyard lawn: green succumbing to white. 

I had to work early the next morning and I was not looking forward to negotiating slick roads. As I grumbled about the accumulating mess outside, my 12 year old philosopher offered invaluable insight.  

"Well, here we go again," I said with a sigh. Another miserable winter. Skin-numbing cold, wet socks and cars that won't start. 

"I'm kind of glad it's snowing," said my son, wiping off his chocolate moustache.

"Why?" I asked.

He thought for a moment. "Because I haven't seen it in a while."

That simple, poignant phrase froze my thoughts. 

Because I haven't seen it in a while. 

When we become adults, we make a tragic metamorphosis. We become anxiety-ridden worry machines. We worry about money. We worry about bills. We worry about jobs. We worry about things we can't control. We worry about things we can control. Hell, we even worry that we worry too much.

Being an adult is serious business.

The longer I sat at my kitchen table, as the snow continued to flutter down, the more I realized my son had unwittingly exposed a wonderful truth. 

There really is something about the change of seasons that is truly welcoming. Transitioning from one season to the next gives us a sense of renewal; we can't embrace the rebirth of spring without first burying the dead, frozen bones of winter. That forward momentum not only gives us hope, it allows us to leave the past where it belongs. 

This ride we are all on--this orbit around the sun--navigates us through life. It is fluid, rotating, ever-changing, yet remains comfortably familiar. This grand ellipse is all we have. Rather than gripe about another winter, we should be thankful for another spin.

As I had that little chat with my son, I, too, became 12 years old again. I vividly remember, as a boy, waking up one morning to a fresh blanket of snow on the ground. And yes, I also remember being euphoric over nature's beautiful transformation. And now I know why. 

Because I hadn't seen it in a while.

Perpetual Nocturnal Abyss Time

It has happened again, friends. We’ve “fallen back.” 

Daylight Saving Time is in the rearview mirror and the gates of infinite darkness have opened; we’ve started the inescapable plunge into the obsidian hell called winter. 

We’ve now entered “Standard Time,” or more accurately, “Perpetual Nocturnal Abyss Time.” 

Personally speaking, the beginning of November to the end of February is a tipsy season I like to call “Cocktail Time.” One for you, two for me. 

Cheers!

So why are we made to suffer through this change every year? As if the impending doom of another frigid winter isn’t enough, we must face the prospect of living on the dark side of the moon for the next four months. 

It’s really a bit much for even the cheeriest of souls.

Blame Germany

Daylight Saving Time (DST) started in Germany during the First World War ostensibly as a means of conserving coal. This new concept initially seemed to be a smart idea. However, it is now an antiquated notion currently employed by only about 70 countries in the world. 

Even worse, the application of DST is a worldwide hack job. 

Really, it is an international you-know-what-show as each country follows its own set of rules and protocols without regard to neighboring nations: the European Union switches to Standard Time a week earlier than the United States and Canada, while Chile and Paraguay are the only two countries in South America that even bother observing DST. 

Then there is Lord Howe Island in Australia, which adjusts its clocks by 30 minutes, rather than the traditional hour.

Why? Because Australians like a good laugh.

An Act of Congress

The European Union has discussed ending DST altogether, but some voice concern over such a radical move. (Fun fact: Iceland has not used DST since October 29, 1967. And Iceland is doing just fine, thanks). Just to make life interesting, under Brexit, the United Kingdom could end up in two time zones; one employing DST, the other not. 

But the United Kingdom has got nothing on the good ol’ United States. At least 19 states have either enacted or passed legislative bills electing to keep DST permanent. But like everything in the U.S., it’s not that easy. 

In typical convoluted fashion, making DST permanent would literally require an act of United States Congress. While all states are legally allowed to forgo DST (most of Arizona does, and all of Hawaii does; Indiana did, now it doesn’t), Congress must pass a law allowing states to observe DST year round, if they so choose. 

To put another way, it is possible that someday the U.S. could have states that observe DST in its present state, others that employ DST permanently and still others that forgo DST entirely. All at the same time.

In 1969, the band Chicago asked “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?” There can be no doubt they were referring to the Daylight Saving Time fiasco.

The Price We Pay

While DST proponents argue that longer hours of daylight in the summer may help reduce road accidents, conserve energy used for artificial lighting and give farmers an extended workday (in fact, the agricultural industry has lobbied against DST for years), we all know why the time change is still observed: to give people longer summer nights to rest and relax.

Now heaven knows I’m not opposed to rest and relaxation. But for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. What is the price we pay when we “fall back?” 

A season of blackness. 

We drive to our jobs in the dark. We pick up groceries after work in the dark. We walk the dog in the evening in the dark. 

We get into our jammies at 5:45 PM, because the murky gloom of the late afternoon messes with our sensitive circadian rhythms. We fight the feeling of constant exhaustion because our bodies are slowly being drained of precious vitamin D.

We sink deeper and deeper into that dim winter funk. 

We get fat. We get depressed. And yes, we have cocktails.

Are those few months of longer summer nights really worth it? Let me sleep on it and give you an answer in the morning. 

When it is still dark.

My Son Talks Weird

I blew out 52 candles on my birthday cake last month, but that didn’t make me feel old. Yeah, there’s a conspicuous bald spot in center of my scalp and deepening crow’s feet pecking at the corners of my eyes, but those are life’s battle scars. They don’t bother me at all.

Simply put, I don’t feel old. 

I hold fast to the hypothesis that age is just a number, but I must admit I’ve recently encountered subtle signposts in my life that point to the possibility I’m not a spring chicken anymore. This weighty prospect came courtesy of my kid.

My 12 year old son has become something of a "man of the world" in the past year. His knowledge of computers and video games is intimidating, he’s learned to make pancakes, bacon and scrambled eggs with the best of them, and his physical appearance is transforming into that of a handsome, strapping young gentleman. 

But there is a problem: I can’t understand a damn word he says. 

You see, my son talks weird. He speaks a foreign language indecipherable to ears older than 18 years. His swinging gibberish has given me reason to pause and reflect on a frightening prospect: just because I don’t feel old doesn’t mean I’m not. 

It started with lockdown in 2020. Tik-Tok became extremely popular, but my son wasn’t impressed. "It’s nothing but people throwing clout."

"Throwing clout?" I asked.

"Yeah, you know, they’re trying to get popular."

Curious phrases abound when I eavesdrop as he plays Xbox. Wearing a microphone headset and gripping plastic controllers his sweaty hands, periodic grunts of "Bruh!" or "Oh, straight fire!" or "I’m weak!" issue forth from his squeaky, cracking voice as he communicates with his friends online. 

In February 2020 we saw KISS. The show was met with descriptors like "Savage!" and "GOAT!" ...which I guess meant it was pretty good. (photo by author)

One afternoon I was sitting in my La-Z-Boy, revisiting an old Def Leppard album on the hi-fi when my son zipped past me en route to the refrigerator. As the Joe Elliott emphatically exalted rock of ages, my son bobbed his head to the rhythm and professed, "This music slaps."

"Hey, what’s wrong with it?" I asked defensively. In my world, no one disrespects Def Leppard.

"There’s nothing wrong with it, Dad. It’s lit!"

Lit? That’s good, right?

As our music discussion continued, I proudly claimed I could name the members of every ‘80s hair band, recite every album released in chronological order and recall the producer of each one (my close friends will confirm this is, sadly, true).

Rather than being impressed with this heap of useless knowledge, my son shrugged his shoulders matter-of-factly, and mumbled, "Weird flex, but okay."

What?

When I ask him what he’d like for lunch, I’m given a laid back, “Whatevs.”

More than once my son has walked out of the bathroom, "Dad, the toilet’s acting sus again." 

"It’s doing what?"

"It’s acting sus."

What the hell?

During one of his middle school football games, he excitedly told me one of his teammates "threw shade" at an opponent. Thankfully, no flags were thrown.

Speaking of school, his favorite subject is social studies because they discuss current events and it keeps him "woke." The kids are invited to share their insight on the day’s news, but if your "fam" doesn’t agree with your opinion, you might get "ghosted" in the cafeteria during lunch.

Sounds serious.

There are lots of cute girls in his class, but much to my relief he doesn’t have a “bae.” At least not yet.

Me and my rapscallion (photo by the wife)

I’m sure I’m not the only parent who wishes kids came with an owner’s manual (being a man, I probably wouldn’t read it, but still...). Certainly a primary responsibility of parenting is offering guidance to your child through this complicated world. Trying to be a good father, I started rehearsing a heartfelt conversation with my boy ("Son, you can’t keep speaking like a damn fool and expect a civilized human being to understand you. You’ve got to grow up at some point."). 

And then it hit me. 

I was abruptly met with a chilling reality from my own youth: I went through my adolescence navigating the vernacular of Valley Girls.

• "Grody to the max.”
• "Like, whatever."
• "Oh my god, like, gag me with a spoon."

The more I thought about it, the more indiscernible my own generation sounded: 

"Gnarly, dude!"  "Radical!" "Tubular!" "Eat my shorts!" "I’m gonna ralph."  "Take a chill pill." "That’s bogus." "Bite me!"

Yes, I confess I actually spoke that way in the '80s. In fact, some of those phrases still work their way into my daily lingo. After all, I was young once; maybe I never completely grew up? Maybe that teenage angst is still alive and well in my marrow? Maybe a drop of youth deep in my soul still oozes to the surface every time Def Leppard blasts through the living room stereo?

Like, totally. 

On second thought, I’m going to skip that sit down conversation with my boy. He can keep speaking his funky little dialect as long as he wants. I’m going to encourage him to stay young for as long as he can. That’s my fatherly advice.

Age really is just a number. I still feel pretty bodacious, dude.