Let's Not Talk About Sex: Having "The Talk"

We walked past the back wall of board games, looking for that unique gift idea that never seem to present itself in retail stores; no, Uno would not do.

"Wha! That is so inappropriate,"  my daughter Lily shrieked.  

Oh goodness, what could it be this time? A Bratz doll with a heart tattoo on her cleavage?  

No...I laughed to myself, as Lily pointed out the culprit.  

There is nothing sexy about this board game.  

It was a board game called: Battle of the Sexes.  

"It says Sexes!" she half yelled to me in her whisper tone.  

So, there, in the middle of the toy section, on an isle painted in every color of not-gender-nuetral pink, I had to explain the dictionary (1a) definition of sex.  The two definitive categories of gender based on reproductive organs. I did not include transgender or omnisexuals or androgynes, as the world is confusing enough to a nine-year, that referencing these "others" was...well, I don't know what the hell I'm talking about anymore. I just know that the board game Battle of the Sexes does not have a game piece for gender neutral individuals. I know, right; discrimination.  

Anyway, I know what SEX she was referring to, even though she doesn't know what that SEX really consists of.   

Which means, sometime soon, I or her mother, will have to give her the talk (please, God, let it be her mother).  

And she still believes in Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and that I'm the strongest man in the world.  

It's not fair, because quite frankly, she isn't ready. She attends a little private school (that we parents can barely afford) and her friends are still heavily interested in dolls and singing Frozen songs. She only has a few years of carefree living before the fission of hormonal lunacy and emotional drama turn her into a temporal irrational Medusa.  

I'm not making it sharper.  I'm dulling it,
so it will cut through flesh slower...

And I'm not ready to be turned to stone (or permanently stoned, now that Oregon legalized weed), although I somewhat understand why many parents want to "check-out" during the middle years of their children's existence.  

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm not ready for my little girl to grow up. I don't want her to be a woman. I'm not ready to deal with boys or men. I haven't even built my axe grinding stone near my front entrance to deal with potential suitors, yet.  

But she has so many questions, mostly because of the crap that gets plastered all over media. The other day she was singing Salt 'N Pepa's "Push It" song because somebody in the GIECO advertising department has no lyrical analysis skills, and used a song about SEX to sell insurance. (Well, sex does sell).  

And then she's discovered music. We couldn't stop it. She hears songs. She thinks she likes Katy Perry (even though she "dresses gross"). And she and her sister (Nadia age seven) love Christina Perri. And because we (her parents) are too cheap to buy these CDs, they access them through the Pandora app, or worse, through YouTube on our computer.  

I don't think Salt 'N Pepa were talking about "Pushing it"
in regards to childbirth, either. But nice try GIECO.  

For a while, I was adamant about not watching the videos, just like my mother was about MTV. Most of the messages that popular music portrayed went way over my head in the 1990s (like Naughty By Nature's OPP)...although others, like Baby Got Back didn't need Sir Mix-A-Lot's risqué video to convey the theme (although now I understand the "anaconda" reference).  

Many of the songs, though, have neat little messages to go along with the video. My girls fell in love with Taylor Swift. Love Story was a sweet little song, and a harmless little corresponding video. Swift is a smart girl. I like how she challenges the music industry, and her songs are often ironically criticizing her critics. She isn't trying to do the challenge the morales of the times, Madonna-thing, either.  

But YouTube doesn't let you just listen to one song. It entices you with "other related" videos.  Each video is a doorway drug that leads you to something a little harder, a little edgier, a little more sinful.  

Maybe the song is about "shaking off" the pounds?

My girls traveled down this looking glass, and wound up listening to Swift's Shake It Off. Sadly, I like this song (and again, it's message of ignoring critics). But halfway through the video, a strange twerking montage ensues as Swift snakes under the legs of some bustier butted women nearly bouncing their backsides on her head.  

Now, I think this is Swift maybe showing solidarity to Miley Cyrus, and the whole twerking VMA fiasco of last year.  Or Swift is owning the fact that she herself has very little backside (as she attempts to twerk and laughs it off). Again, I like her as an artist for this.

But my daughter watching said, "why do girls do that with their butts?  Isn't it gross?"  

She asked me, and not her mother.  I'm not sure how I feel about twerking. I like the female body, of course. I like backsides. I think there are about a billion sexier or more erotic things a woman can do than shaking her rump like arm flab...but...on some basic chromosomal level, the dance is appealing (even as I don't want it to be).  

This was once risqué. Now it's a huge statue.  

I wanted to say, "Well, you see, for the last forty years, sexuality, and more correctly, pornography, has devolved from exposure, to debasement. Playboy, a magazine that many men grew up salivating over even though it had a stigma of "sin" attached, has become almost mainstream. Even Playboy set up many men for disappointment, even though it only showcased nude women. Then the internet came along and said, "Playboy is for sissies, check out what we got some women to agree to______."  Most men initially looked at some of these fetish-like images with disgust...but then this became the new normal "porno."  And if no woman looks like the images in Playboy, no woman can (or will) do the stuff in most of these internet sites and porno movies. Yet some men still expect this kind of debasement to get turned on.  When women twerk in videos, it is really some music executive saying, "We need more sex in this video, because we need more guys watching it." Sadly, the secondary message is "Girls, this is how you attract guys...just like how hookers attract Johns by shaking their ta-tas on the street corner."  

Of course, I didn't say this.  Because my daughter is 9. Instead I said, "Umm...it is gross. Music producers like gross, and encourage their female artists to show off more and more of their flesh, because people are unnaturally curious if famous people's bodies look better than their own.  Unfortunately, having a great voice and catchy songs is not enough to sell CDs. A singer also has to sell the idea that she (or he) is physically superior to the average person as well. Swift isn't necessarily exposing herself in this video, instead she is having dancers do it for her...all in an attempt to sell her music."  

Thankfully, Lily accepted this answer and said, "That's dumb."  

Yes it is, Lily. But most of our over-sexualized society is dumb. The world is going to keep "pushing it, real good" when it comes to glamorizing sex. And as your parent, I'm going to eventually explain the deep connotations of sexuality, and I'm going to say that innocence is blissful, that purity is a virtue, and that someday, when you bring a boy over, I may or may not club him with an axe.  

Thanksgiving Happiness Flow Chart

Thanksgiving is stressful and difficult for many. I made a simple flow chart to determine if you should be thankful this year or not.

15 Best Non-Verbal Disney Moments

Michael Bay (Transformers) is doing his best to make us ADHD. And since the 1980s the trend in action movies to have fourteen false-endings keeps us always on edge (or completely annoyed). On the other hand, there's the independent film movement, which trades plot for boring establishing shots or character neurosis. Is it so hard to make a quality movie that has all the elements we as an audience want?

Yes. Yes it is.

Which is why the success rate of Disney is so surprising. They almost never have stinkers (except for the cow-pie that was Home of the Range).

How is it that one studio (I realize that there are many studios in the Disney family, including Pixar), can continue to make such outstanding, and money making animations?

Well, obviously you could say that Disney understands its audience better than anyone else (Marvel being a close second).  You could also say that they encourage top notch writers, directors, animators, CGI, and voice talent (except for Dane Cook who piloted Planes into a nosedive with his non-comedic touch).

But there's something else.

Almost a Disney magic. A non-identifiable quality that makes their movies, just better.  Don't get me wrong, Shrek, A Land Before Time, An American Tale, Anastasia, Ice Age, and the like were all really good movies. They just don't have the magic that makes me want to go back and re-watch them all that often.

And I think some of the magic in Disney is the non-verbal moments. The blocking of scenes. How they can make us feel a plethora of emotions in a two second clip or a two minute montage. Almost like it's live theatre, and we can see everyone's reaction to the drama.

I remember when Wall-E came out, everyone thought it would be the first Pixar flop. Could audiences handle a mostly silent film in 2008?  Could Disney recoup its 180 million dollar investment?

Well, it's currently ranked #59 on IMDB's list of greatest movies (Two spots above North By Northwest, by Hitchcock, a director who truly understood the importance of silent moments and suspense) and grossed over 500 million worldwide. I think Disney (and Pixar) knows what it is doing.

So to add to the ADHD of the masses, I've ranked the top 15 non-verbal Disney scenes of all-time by creating .gif files. (It's my first foray into the GIF insanity).

15. Robin Hood: From a boy's perspective, I don't really care for this movie much. Yeah, the escape scene is really good. Maybe I don't buy the evilness of a wimpy Prince John. However, this is one of the great animal romantic love scenes of all time (better than Lady and the Tramp)




14. Monsters Inc: Now here's a boy movie with substance. And Boo is maybe the cutest Disney child ever created. But when Sully lets loose his frustration on the scare simulator, and Boo watches her cute "kitty" become a ferocious monster...a perfect scene the captures the loss of idolization of loved ones.



13. Frozen: No other scene captures depression, anxiety, and isolation as when Elsa locks herself in her room and the ice explodes out of her, freezing the room in a personal Siberian gulag. This scene takes place right after Elsa's last connection to the outside world, her parents, are lost at sea. To anyone who has experienced grief or severe anxiety or depression, this moment of isolation hits close to home.



12. Mulan: The "decision" montage scene. I usually hate montages, as the 80s made them cheesy, but this moment of self-actualization by Mulan is the perfect counter to Elsa's depression. The moment when you know what you have to do, and fear will not overwhelm you.

11. Toy Story 2:  How to choose from the Toy Story franchise which has many memorable silent moments? Moments like Buzz's failed flying (I Will Go Sailing No More) scene, or the end of the third movie when Andy plays with the little girl, and leaves his toys behind forever...but my favorite sad moment is when Jessie is left for donation (as it leads to her abandonment issues).  The Toy Story movies say so much about the complexities of growing up; yet also entertaining us so easily...ugh...




10. Wall-E: If you want to talk about character, Wall-E has character. A robot with a moral code. Everyone should have a friend like Wall-E.  In a movie full of great social commentary and science fiction elements is a beautiful love story with unconditional commitment. May we all find a Wall-E in our lives.

9. Fantasia: Mickey, the Sorcerer's Apprentice scene.  Who hasn't done a little spell to make house chores become more manageable and have it go slightly out of control (heck, they made 5 seasons of I Dream of Jeannie on this premise). The slow corruption of power is shown beautifully throughout the whole movie. I don't watch this movie often, but when I do, I make sure I have a good HDTV.

8. Princess and the Frog: A well made movie (and sadly the last of the truly animated Disney movies), this movie has many memorable moments, including the killing of one of the heroes, Raymond the firefly, by the villain Dr. Facilier. Disney has always understood the importance of death (except when Captain Hook murders his shipmate for singing and playing his accordion). The characters give Ray a beautiful send-off before Ray is ushered into the sky and becomes the "second star to the right."

7. Lion King: Speaking of death. No words are necessary. This is just beautiful. And sad. Long live Mufasa!




6. Tarzan: I wanted to put Kala's loss of her baby gorilla here, but that's just too much death (also why you won't see Bambi alone in the meadow after his mom is shot).

But this whole scene, when Kala discovers the human home ravaged by the jaguar Sabor (the same jaguar that killed her baby), and finds baby Tarzan in his crib. She realizes on touch, that humans and apes aren't much different. She decides to adopt him. Great moments. The whole movie will almost make you want to adopt a whole Phil Collins CD.




5. Dumbo: Disney loves to separate parents from their kids. Jumbo is punished for protecting her awkward little boy Jumbo Jr. (whom is named Dumbo by horrible audiences), and gets locked away in a cage for wild animals. Dumbo is allowed to see her just briefly, and it's heart wrenching scene (another is when Jumbo doesn't get a package from the stork at the beginning).

4. Little Mermaid: And if being locked away from our children is emotionally disturbing enough, there's Ariel. She doesn't like her species. She wants legs to be a human, because she saw Eric, once. Dad, King Triton, in what must be the most lamentable, but selfless act, allows his daughter to go her own way. People love Ariel. But Triton is the real hero of this story. What an amazing dad.

3. Up. The whole beginning of this movie is just plain amazing silent story telling. Pixar has learned to do so much without wasting dialogue. Usually kids have a hard time relating to older protagonists, but by giving Carl's whole life at the beginning...we (including kids) totally understand where Carl's coming from when young, slightly awkward Russell, interrupts his "swan song." This scene, though...I dare you to not cry at the beginning...

2.  Tangled: Speaking of crying. This scene happens 18 years after Rapunzel is kidnapped by Gothel,  another dust-in-the-eye moment. Behind closed doors, we see the difficulty of being the face of the nation, the pain of losing a child and yet holding out hope, in the face of unbelievable realities.

1.  Bambi: Twitter-pated. Maybe dated in it's artistic styling, or cheesy moments, but who cares. It was a landmark movie, and this scene personifies the movie (more than the death scene).  Yes, there are sounds during this scene, but no true dialogue...and it captures my memories of first love completely.  

Maybe not the true #1 scene.  But didn't want to end on a bummer (and it was Walt Disney's favorite).  

Narrowly missing the cut: Prince Phillip fights Maleficent, Genie being freed (for actually shutting Robin Williams up for a second), The Queen becomes a hag in Snow White, The Beast gives Belle the library, and Cinderella's reaction to her torn dress. What did I miss? Let me know.  

With Risk Comes Reward, and Potentially, a Damaged Spinal Cord

No big deal, just an escaping inmate. At least it's not
Nurse Ratched.  She really scared me.  

In 1984, my parents rented a home in downtown Salem which was just a block away from the Oregon State Hospital in which Ken Kesey's novel One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was based (and filmed in).  Because of this proximity, and a fear that a real life Chief, Randall McMurphey, or Nurse Ratched might be lurking nearby, my parents rarely allowed us to loiter in the front yard.  It was one of the few regulations of my freedoms imposed on me by my parents.

Do not interpret that to mean I wasn't disciplined. I've taken many a lickings--deserved most of them-- and yes, I'm still ticking just fine. But as far as risk management goes, my parents let us be kids. We discovered a lot of scientific phenomena, like gravity, Mohs scale of hardness, inertia, chaos theory, and   Kinetic energy just from crashing our bikes.

We were always crashing on our bikes. It was an awesome time. We, like the previous thousands of years of human existence before us, YOLO'd through our childhood without helmets or leashes. We burned, scraped, scuffed, bruised, cried, and dared our way through challenges until our brains hopefully fully developed. Looking back, a helmet might have been a good idea...but I, for one, am glad we didn't use them.



I know there is plenty of evidence to show that bike helmets save lives, I agree. Dead argument. What I'm arguing about is the value of learning derived from taking risks without hundreds of safety precautions in place. Allowing ourselves the possibility to push our boundaries to extremes--and when or if we fail--to feel the risk.

Pain is a great educator. It teaches us our limitations. Sometimes the reward seems greater than the risk: Jump a natural dirt mound, get a few feet of air, then land it successfully? Endorphins flood the brain. If your buddy happened to see it as well?  Even better. Pure, unadulterated happiness.

On the other side of this equation is failure. Mistime the jump, miscalculate the landing, come in too fast or slow? Disaster. Crash and burn--and maybe limp home crying. But most will live to fight another day, maybe with a really cool scar.

Via pain, I learned that being a BMX star was not a logical or realistic goal for myself. I wasn't strong enough, or brave enough to do the complex tricks that we read about in underground magazines (this was before the X-games or youtube videos). My buddy Brain was more athletic on a bike. He could manipulate the frame to look like an extension of his arms or legs in an artful expressions of his imagination. While I was decent rider, I was afraid of air. Or rather, I was afraid of the landing.

Landing brought the cruel reality of science smack into my face. It only took a few face-plants before I learned to value my brain instead of my brawn. I'd rather paint, draw, write, or intellectually discuss the possibilities of jumps and twists and metallic bipedal contraptions disrespecting scientific laws than actually attempt the acts myself.

Of course, there are those who say things like, "No pain, no gain," or "Pain is just weakness leaving the body," and I say, "Your ignorance of biological survival instincts is just intelligence lacking in your body."

I've learned a lot about pain, which is why I tend to try to avoid it now.  I learned from bad relationships what I wanted to avoid in the future.  I learned from getting spanked as a kid that I shouldn't do the acts which got me in trouble in the first place.  I learned from getting punched in the face that fighting was not the life for me. I learned not to antagonize women (the key to happy life, is a happy wife). There are risks that are just unnecessary in life, and there are risks worth taking.

I'm made many mistakes in my youth. I crash and burned, and my momma was always there to patch up my owies.  But she never said, "you're playing too hard," or "I don't like this rough activity," or "Why don't you play something safe, like video games instead?"  No, my mom, my parents, wanted us outside learning from the hard knocks of life.

I have to remember this, because I, like many of my generation tend to overprotect my kids. I hover at the playground, worried that my daughter might break her arm on the monkey-bars again (I was only ten feet away when she did it at age four); or I steer them far away from the campfire, worried they might touch the glowing hot grill. But is this any way to parent? Do we really need to accident proof our children's lives, fearing that they might find harm? Worried that they might actually learn something from pain that is all around the world?

                                    My daughter Lily after breaking her arm: "Mom, you have four eyes!" 

I can't hold my children's hands forever.  They, like I did before, have to get bumps and bruises and find their own way through the gauntlet of life.  We can't be there to catch them every time they fall...but we can be there afterwards to kiss their owies and make them all better.

If we don't let them be kids now, when they are young, they'll grow up and YOLO it up in defiance.  I'd rather they take their licks now, when they are three feet off the ground, than when they're all grown up and the fall is much greater.

Disneyland: The Happiest, Capitalist, Place in the World.

Walt Disney's cryrogenically frozen head would thaw in its sleep chamber if he knew what his company was up to.  Charging over $130 dollars a day to attend his theme parks?  The man who once said "the backbone of his business {was to} cater to families," well, sorry, Mr. Disney, I think your vision has been utterly corrupted by Scrooge McDucks.

Don't get me wrong. The Disney company is still one of the most innovative, imaginative, and all-around fun companies in the world. Their recent cartoon movies have exemplified Mr. Disney's ideals of creativity, excellence and quality. I'm never disappointed after leaving the theatre. Likewise, his parks are clean, well presented, well-crafted, and transformative to whatever theme its creators intended.  The newest Cars ride, despite it's multi-hour wait, represents the genius of the Disney company.  When one buys a ticket to Disney, one is not buying a pass to a thrill park, one is paying for a theatrical experience with local fair quality rides.

My princesses, gotta love 'em.  I just wish our time at the park was this happy.  

But that's what one does most at Disneyland. Pays. And waits.

Disneyland sure can create some
ambiance and setting.  

I'm not trying to sound like a grumpy old man. I had some fun. The three minutes of each ride are locked into my visual cortex. Unlike Six Flags or Knott's Berry Farm, the idea of Disneyland is not to make your heart race and your stomach lurch into your esophagus, but to stimulate your eyes and capture your heart.

It works. The antiquated animatronics, and the newer (more believable) robotics have children and parents alike saying, "how'd they do that?"

Well, for starters, they have billions of dollars from those over-priced tickets. There are almost no discounts available for Disneyland. For years, my family on both sides has talked about making the trek to L.A. and enjoying its sunny disposition (with Disneyland being the ultimate goal). Somehow, I, the guy who "winged" his honeymoon, was challenged with the task of coordinating this vacation.  Probably because I'm the guy who always gets a good deal.

In a crummy economy, the only way for lower middle class families to make it is by getting deals. I haven't had a true vacation in five years.  My parents and my wife's parents are both retired and living on Social Security.  My dad gets a tiny sum from being permanently disabled.  We all lumped in our money and had enough for one of those "Costco Disneyland Packages."  Well, enough for one person. We had ten people going.  With no money for airfare or luxury themed hotels, I worked my magic.

The view looking up from the pool.

After 15 hours of internet searching (my wife, actually) found a guy who gave us a vacation home not quite ready for inhabitants. He was hesitant to rent the place because it was still a few months from being "resort" ready. He and his wife were still staging the house with cheap metal Ross decorations and cleaning up minor construction mess when we showed up at the front door.

We forgave the fact that the place smelled like new carpet; that the linoleum floors were both dirty and from the 1970s; that the hot water was scalding (then later shut off); that the old kitchen exhaust fan burned out and made the place smell like melted plastic; that ants infested the house on the third day and cockroaches ran around the pool and patio.  All this was forgivable because we are Oregonians, the pool was wonderful, and well, we were given ample discounts for accepting a home not quite ready for vacationing.

To people used to camping, this was luxury enough.

Disneyland, however, was a whole different experience.  With ten people, and three different families, I figured we could buy multi-day passes and go when we pleased.  It was much more economical to buy the multi-day passes, as a five-day pass is 300 dollars, (or $60 a day) as opposed to $137 for one day.

None of us was ready to go five days. My dad is disabled, my father-in-law has stage four cancer, my mother-in-law has had four knee surgeries, my children are 7 and 5, and I get peevish easily.  Only my wife and sister-in-law would even think they could do five days in the park, as they are self-proclaimed Disney-philes.

I bought six five-day passes, thinking we could share them when we wanted.  I knew they were non-transferable...but we had no intention of selling them.  Little did I know that Disneyland had merged with the NSA.  When the first group of six showed up, we were forced to give our names (which were written down on each pass).  Okay, no big deal, so we pretend to be somebody else on certain days. It's not like they can ask for identification. They did. And then they took photos of us and attached it to each pass, like identification badges. The security was tighter than at an Obama appearance in Omaha, Nebraska.

I spent the first hour inside the park looking at our options on my iPhone. If somebody else tried to use my ticket, and their appearance didn't match my image, they would confiscate the ticket and we would be out hundreds of dollars. Seriously, Disneyland?  I can't share my ticket?  I understand not allowing somebody else to use it the same day (hence the ultraviolet arm stamps), but they couldn't even use one of my other days?  Didn't I pay for five days?  What if I am exhausted after four days?  I can't give my last day to some underprivileged kid at the 7/11?

Nope. Not at Disneyland, where every step outside the park and into California Adventures is monitored by overzealous mall cops.

Grandpa Randy directing Lily towards the next
bumper car accident.  (Note Lily's road rage).  

To Disneyland's credit, they reluctantly exchanged my six five-day passes for ten two-day passes (after I told them my sob story). We lost ten days of park time, and I sucked it up and payed another $400 for these downgraded tickets.  $2100 for ten people to go to Disneyland twice.  I payed less for my first two cars.  I payed less for my wedding (seriously...and it was beautiful).  My father only went on six kiddy rides one day.  My father-in-law left by 5 pm exhausted both days.  Did they get their money's worth?  Absolutely not.  Not to mention that water and soda were both over three dollars, a crappy corn-dog cost seven, and nobody was ever close to being hydrated, full, or able to avoid the sun's oppression.

We did exhaust our little girls.  Gotta get your $100+
dollars worth.  

I did have fun. Well, some. Between blisters and sun burns, and dragging my lethargic little ones around to the next attraction or ride, I constantly wondered how my extended family was doing. The weight of inviting them on an expensive vacation that ended up costing more (for less) weighed heavy on my mind.

So newsflash Disney:  I saw less American families, and more foreigners speaking different languages than I've ever seen at your park.  While there were plenty of Californians there enjoying their discounted passes, there were hardly any other vacationers there from other states.  You've priced your park out of the range of the average family.  Your rides take too long to get on; your rides aren't that thrilling; your food is overpriced and under-portioned; your gift shop prices are extortionist; and there isn't enough places for families to just cool off and relax to get their second wind.

Overcrowding the Bug's Life Teacup ride.  

I knew it would be tiring, hot, and expensive. I knew my children were young, and would slow us down and force us to ride unexciting (and outdated) rides like Alice's Teacups. I didn't know you (Disney) had hired TSA agents to make me feel like a terrorist at each gate.  All because I tried to make a once in a lifetime memory by inviting both my children's grandparents to Disneyland before they are unable to do so; and do so without running up student loan type debt. Guess I was wrong.

In defense of Disneyland; their staff is incredibly
nice and cheery. One even offered us this photo op.  

Disneyland doesn't care about families. They care about gobs and gobs of profit. Instead of driving down the cost of living (like Walmart claims to do), you are concerned with lining the pockets of your executives and huge shareholders who probably never step foot into your crowded, hot parks.

So please unfreeze Walt Disney. We don't have a cure for lung cancer, yet, but we could probably keep you alive long enough to remake your parks "family friendly."  Because I don't think wishing upon stars is a good way to prepare financially for another Disney experience.

I had more fun swimming in the ocean at Huntington Beach and
watching the sunset with the family.  It only cost the price of gas
getting there.  (Although I'm wholly unqualified in the looks
department to remove my shirt there).  

Being a Single Parent? Don't Sign Me Up.

I'm tired. Running around keeping my two girls, 7 & 5, occupied, happy, fed, and disciplined is kicking my butt.

Italy, Greece? Blah.  Give me a
Denny's off the highway, any day.  

Not that I haven't done this before (although never for two weeks).  My wife has special opportunities in the school she works at.  As the theatre teacher, she's inherited a relationship with the Manhattan Theatre Company, and gets to go the NY City every other year and work on new plays and develop curriculum (she also drops a small fortune on "essential" Broadway plays).  She's also the Traveler's Club advisor, which means every few years kids fundraise to go see educational tours, like Japan, England, and currently Italy/Greece.

She took 11 kids this year.  A twelfth would've secured me as the second paid chaperone.  Alas, the 12th man in football is the crowd, the ever hopeful audience, and so it is that I am that cheering section for her. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.  But I'm happy for her.  She's having fun, and I'm...I'm watching the kids.

Which is why I'm exhausted.

They're older now, and easier in a lot of ways: I should be fine. The first time my wife left on holiday (as they say in England), one girl was barely out of diapers, and the other was earnestly filling them up. I learned a lot about myself during that week.  Things I don't like about myself.  If I had the Mirror of Erised from Harry Potter back then, I would've seen myself chanting incantations to bring He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, back.  It was a literal $#!tty dark Goth period of my life.

Thankfully, I've stopped speaking Parseltongue, and my kids have stopped fussing like infants.  We've all transitioned into the whining stage. We are all emo kids, now.

They whine about the food I make them.  They whine about their bedtime being too early (even though it is nearly three hours later than their school year time).  They whine, even though they had 11 softball games in 7 days (what a joy it is carting kids all over town for hour long games).  I've taken them to movies (Monsters University), rented movies, taken them out to eat almost once a day, gone miniature golfing, traveled to the Oregon coast, gone to both grandparent's house multiple times, gone swimming, etc.  I'd venture to say we've spent less than 20% of our waking hours inside our house (and it's nicely air conditioned---sorry rest of America).  I'm a little flummoxed.

I really feel like we should give the girls a timeout for
this latest outburst, what do you think coach? 

And then I remember...we're out of sync. Dad, even on entertainment overload, can never replace Mom. No matter how hard I try, these kids aren't experiencing the life they know.  We, my wife and I, are a team. And when one of the coaches is gone, the kids don't know where the signals are coming from.  I, like the town-drunk Shooter (Dennis Hopper) in Hoosiers, don't know how to coach when the real coach (which for the sake of this analogy is Gene Hackman, but also my wife) is incapacitated.  I'm trying my best, but I need Gene Hackman.

But he's in Greece (or at least my wife is...I don't know where Mr. Hackman currently resides). {That analogy was really awkward, remind me not to write like that}.

The Greeks had a lot to say about love.  They had many words to define it, even a god who supplied it, Eros. I don't believe in éros love. You know, that passionate/romantic love that is essentially, eroticism or lust. I mean, I don't believe éros love lasts very long. It has it's time and place, and fades, like all passionate emotions, quickly.  It cannot be the cornerstone of a partnership, IMHO. Real love, or real marriages, I should say, are based on agape love, which is translated as divine, unconditional, self-sacrificing, active, volitional, and thoughtful --love.  Wow, those are great words.

Active.  How many of us are active in our marriages? (Not sexually active: we could all use more of that).  Just active?  Actively keeping it alive, fresh?

So these last two weeks, I'm taking one for the team. Self-sacrificing (while complaining) with two discombobulated girls who are pushing their limits with dad. It's okay. I'm learning a lot about myself again, like: I don't know how to disinfect earring backings/mild infections and I hate coaching softball to 1st graders in 94° weather (who only care about getting under the shade and squirting water on their face).

Late at night, when my impish princesses are finally asleep,  I put on movies like The French

The old mountain of diapers in the backyard.  Don't worry,
I burned them all on Earth Day to lower my carbon footprint.

Connection, or the Royal Tenebaums, because I need my Gene Hackman fix. I miss my wife. I need my wife.  Because I, I could never be a single parent. I don't know how anyone does it. It's exhausting, demanding, and unfair to everyone involved. I don't mean to demean any single moms, or (Han) solo dads, but this work, raising children is tough stuff.  Life is hard enough.  Raising kids on top of that?  

It doesn't necessarily take a village, like Hillary Clinton wrote, but merely a team, to raise a family.  And I need my Gene Hackman to come home.

America: Land of the Free to Speak my Mind, and Home of the Unloving.

Just another day in Eugene.  

I live in a town where hippies never died, and small insanities rear their bizarre head every year in an event known as the Eugene Celebration.  Eugene, where rain falls more than it should, and college kids never leave town, making for over-educated bus drivers and baristas, is an anomaly to the American Dream.  Dollars bills have been sacrificed by the individual in exchange for political agendas and activism. We're not your average capitalistic town.  

Yet trying to get to know any of your neighbors beyond a passing hello or comment on the oft-changing weather, is sadly as common in Eugene as any dead end city I've ever lived. Despite all our idealism, we are just as insular, closed off, and unloving as most other cities in America.  

Unloving. If there is a term for what ails this nation, it is that. We replaced unloving with words like polarized, judgmental, skeptical, angry, upset, marginalized, opinionated, politicized, radicalized, and selfish, but a weed by any other term is still a weed.  And this town, this state, this nation is infested with weeds (and no, not that weed).  Uncultivated plants crowding out the desired produce.    

It crops up in conversations, in comment boards, in phone calls, texts and social media. Everything is making us angry and bitter and separated.  I recently read the story about the three women who escaped from a house in Cleveland after being abducted almost ten years ago.  Bleck and hallelujah.  Hopefully a trial that can be turned to gold.  

I then watched the story of the neighbor, Charles Ramsey, who helped the women escape--what a breath of original air he was.  When asked if he ever suspected anything of the kidnapping neighbor, he said, "I used to eat ribs and listen to salsa with this guy." 

I've never eaten ribs with my neighbors. Course in Eugene it would probably be salmon, tofu, or a fruit salad, which I would've found a way to excuse myself from because I'm a horrible neighbor (and I hate vegan-like food). Jesus said to love your neighbor like yourself. One of two commandments! TWO! YOU MEAN LIKE OUR SECOND AMENDMENT GUN RIGHTS? Surely Jesus wants me to have an opinion on gun ownership? Right? No?  

After reading the article on CNN (one of the few news sites that still allows commenting) I wanted to read the reactions of people. This type of story should make for all kinds of interesting discourse.

You know where any good

spiders are to eat? 

Unfortunately, like all major events anymore, the vast majority of humanity has become hardened and unloving. Some commenters insanely blamed the girls. Some blamed Puerto Ricans and immigrants. Some blamed Obama. Some made dark comedy jokes, as if this was some SNL skit. Some jumped down the throat of the 911 operator, as if this would save these women from any more trauma.  

I felt like I was inside the asylum from the movie 12 Monkeys.  

Where is our heart, America? I've never commented on CNN before, but I felt compelled to say this, knowing that I would be trolled instantly afterwards:

Newsflash people: This story is both traumatic and hopeful. A true miracle after a decade of hideousness. It made me hug my daughters a little tighter.
It is not a moment to make baseless political statements: evil has no political ally.
It is not a moment to make banal jokes: this is not a dark comedy, it is human life.
It is not a moment to criticize people of faith: evil is the antithesis of faith.
It is not a moment to question every aspect of the story that doesn't make sense.
It is not a moment to show your wit, or trolling skills, or fantastic retorts.
It is a time to celebrate life. Three lives that are free of sick disgusting evil.
Think before you post if you are adding evil, or humanity, to this life we all have to share.

I realize that the internet, by nature, is unhuman; but it doesn't have to be inhumane. We've let the internet go far too unchecked. It's time we rescue the internet from quacks, imbalanced ideologues, anger mongers, soulless trolls, and extremists.  

I've tried to show more love in the real world as well. I've seen a lot of unloving actions that I felt the need to act on. I reported an act of parental abandonment to DCS (which for once turned out positively for the child); and I sent a very emotionally personal (and not Chris-like) text to an extended family member after he burnt his bridges in the family, telling him what he meant to me personally.  

I love my family, but it's hard for my love to branch beyond my family tree. I'm trying to recognize the other trees, desperate for love and nourishment around me.  I'm trying to be a better neighbor. Maybe if we all try to be better neighbors, we might catch wind of sicknesses before they've festered for a decade, like in Cleveland. Maybe we can pluck the weeds before they steal the nourishment from the trees. And--because this story originated in Eugene--we can grow one epic forest together again. Ugh. I sound like a hippie. Oh well, the Beatles were hippies, and so was Jesus, kind of. That's not bad company.

You might have warmer weather, but we have this awesomeness.  

No Easter Service? What's an Uncommitted Pew Sitter To Do?

...And you will find that the sermon of
the most frivolous and least religious...
is always the longest and most relentlessly
pious...Homely truth is unpalatable.
-- Mark Twain (Tom Sawyer)

I rose from the grave bed yesterday and realized that all my Easter day plans had fallen through. Our somewhat-attended church is feeding the homeless, (a very Christ-like, but not traditional, Sunday experience) and well, it just feels odd. I have the utmost respect for those that go out into the dark underbellies of our cities to nourish the souls of the forgotten flock: those so far outside normal society that we pretend don't exists so we can sleep well at night. Yet, noble as the act is, it isn't unlike what I deal with at a low income school on an everyday basis; and it isn't exactly what I want for my little daughters who haven't really experienced the traditions of Easter, yet.

Mostly, this didn't matter because a week earlier my mother asked if I would help her lead worship at a different church that we have connections to from years ago.  It sounded like fun. I don't get to play my guitar much anymore, and Easter usually packs the house; filling those normally sparse aisles with dragged-in agnostic spouses, and Tom Sawyer-ish children who may only experience "church" two or three times a year.

{A note about my family's style of worship--we don't pull punches. We don't play nicely because it's Easter, or Christmas Eve. And if we do decide to put a hymn into the mix, I can guarantee it will have a two minute musical interlude that might include an acid-electric ebow guitar lead or an eclectic ukulele strum by my sister. We like to call it, spirit-led worship.}

Long story short, the worship gig fell through as well, leaving me with nowhere to go for Easter.

Only G.O.T. fans will get this.  

Which means the only thing on my Sunday agenda is the Game of Thrones season 3 premiere on HBO; a wholly unholy event that I have been hedonistically looking forward to. I'm not judging myself for wanting to see the show, it just feels unjustified now that my uplifting spiritual aspect of the day is no longer possible.  (It IS weird timing on HBO's part). And even though I don't really believe in the religious idea of GUILT, I did feel like a balancing of message immersion was necessary.

So rather than attend a random church that we would probably never visit again, I decided to have church at home, which isn't so strange historically, but feels odd in today's times.  Hundreds of churches would gladly accept my family as visitors, but I'm not good at being a spectator.  I believe in a body of believers, where every person has a calling in the flock, not just the pastor, worship leader, and the guy who gets to hand out the offering plates, but actual spiritual roles in the church. This  organic model of church is more difficult and messier than the big-box business approach to church building with its top down leadership roles. I think modeling churches after business is what is driving people away from churches.  They can sense the inauthenticity before they taste their bland communion wafers (Jesus would never taste like stale rice cakes).  Needless to say, I have a few opinions on churches, so I make for a terrible "visitor."

But I'm also not a good spiritual self-regulator. I don't pray much, often forgetting for weeks at a time how important it is to my well-being.  I don't read the Bible much, either.  I'm not ignorant of the Bible, though--I can quote a few scriptures here and there, and know the general idea of most books of the Bible, but I'm no scholar.

Being frank, though, most people don't need a scholar.  And while I cringe when somebody makes a political absolute on the thinnest Biblical theology, I believe that the majority of people who call themselves "believers," do so because of a spiritual experience, and not because of "sound doctrine."  While I think it is important for a church to be founded and practice Biblical principles, the majority of people who are looking for a church, are wanting real spiritual experiences--with real people.  (Not necessarily like-minded, but authentic people).

In summation--church shouldn't be phony.  If the church is going to be viable in this century, it has to give up the stupid top down leadership role, and allow messy, sinful, diverse, and odd members to not just be pew sitters, but active participants in the church.  Jesus pulled his disciples and followers from the lowest rungs of society and made them Earth shakers.

The Apostle, a surprisingly honest look at life inside
a former phony preacher.   

The world needs Earth shakers, and not the kind who wear $600 suits, went to the top seminary school, and dream of buying a wireless microphone that will never feedback...no, the next generation of "seekers" will not buy into the whitewashed appearance of churches of the past. These college educated masses have become so jaded and skeptical and misinformed and literal and untrusting and sensitive to any message, that if it doesn't sound authentic, or include an unfathomable spiritual experience, they will walk out the door and never return.

And some, desperate for reverence, might end up having church in their home like it was 1876: living in a homestead On the Banks of Plum Creek.

The Day I Ran Away from Home: An Epic Fail

I ran away from home once.  I was 11 and my brother, Corey, was an immature 14, when we opted for our own independence.  Maybe we'd read too many Choose Your Own Adventure books, because we were ill prepared for the loneliness of the vagrant life.  Nevertheless, our lives had come to a junction that demanded desperate actions, and we accepted the challenge with idiotic gaiety.  I even made a stick with a handkerchief tied up containing all the necessities that would keep me alive for approximately nine hours. I was a regular Tom Sawyer.

Two steps away from the trail connected to our backyard we heard:

"HEY BOYS!" Our slave driving father yelled from the back deck, "Get back and clean up this sheetrock mess!"

We stopped in our tracks. I guiltily looked at my feet, sure that the machine guns would open on us any second. We had gone AWOL, trying to avoid the two hours of slave labor that had been thrust onto our youthful bodies.

Our unrelenting general father would surely have us shot.

Yet he didn't.  Maybe he didn't know our intentions. Maybe the old Dad, the guy who loved us unconditionally, and didn't need us to be his grunts for the last year of home remodeling, had resurfaced. Maybe he felt sympathetic. Aware that he had pushed us too far, too fast, too young, into the glazed eyed world of overworked men. Maybe we would finally get some leave time, and let our fried nerves and muscles regain their composure.

"What are you boys doing?"

"Nothing, we were just..." I laid my stupid hobo stick down, hoping he hadn't seen it yet. Corey finished my response, "We were just going to the pit for a little while." The pit was an abandoned gravel pit about a 1/4 mile down a trail through the back forest. Our destination--an industrial wasteland that somehow maintained wildlife including an unnatural pond stocked with disgusting, most likely radioactive, perch fish; surely this environmental pariah could also sustain two homeless, world-weary boys.

Just another day working in the
coal mine...er, house construction

"I didn't say you could go to the pit!  I want this sheetrock mess swept up before dinner.  It's a 45 min. job that you boys have dragged out for the last few hours!"

We reluctantly sauntered back to the house.  Our escape only made it 200 feet to the back of the yard, a complete and utter failure.  Four in the afternoon was a stupid time to try an escape. I'd remember that for the next time. Obviously, we weren't very serious about our freedom.

I looked back at my hobo sack, the product of an hour's work. Runaways need to advertise their independence. Surely my red kerchief said, "Badass: don't mess with me."

But my street savviness didn't translate with Dad. Dad simply said do, and we did. There was no arguing, no making deals, no manipulating, ours was not to question why, ours was to do and...

Godfather's dessert pizza...mmm. 

Then, like a coach sensing that morale was down, my dad said, "If you get it swept up in the next hour, we can all go to Godfather's Pizza tonight."

Oh sweet words. Oh sweet, sweet, loving father. I've wronged you father. I'll never run away, again.

It's amazing how bitterness works, as well as love, forgiveness and pizza. We brothers as a tandem had grown increasingly angry about having to help out in the home remodeling business. It was Dad's fault we bought a stupid plain 1920s church building that needed everything updated. To convert a frontier church into a modern home was insanity. No walls, no working kitchen or bathroom, just one large room with "beautiful hardwood floors" that needed months of refinishing. We hated that house, and the constant chores we had to do to make it livable. We were kids, not a construction crew.

Such was our "tortured" life in the early 1990s in Northern Washington. The neighbor kids grew up like peasants, helping out their families on massive dairy farms; slogging through cow dung, bucking hay, and milking cows. We didn't think of the timeless plight of farm kids, though. Only the glorious life we had before the church-house. We were kids, then, with no muscle mass, and no aching backs. Only stupid adventures, carefree collections, and entertaining ourselves for hours with child's play.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

We were the perfect nuclear
family, then my sisters had
to go and be born.  Geesh.  

That difficult moment in life ended soon after. Three solid years of massive home remodeling (or demolition, as it often was) translated into a beautiful two story house.  The year of living in a twenty foot travel-trailer, of constant debris in living spaces, of exposed wires and leaking pipes, and a dad who hit thumbs with hammers, and said exotic expletives we only knew from legend, all this chaos ended, and we became a family again.  

Those unintended angry words, the constant frustration, the flustered look of mom magically making the bills work out, all that ended too. And our real Dad came back. The man who had been working 40 hours at his church, dealing with other people's problems, coming home to work another 4 hours on our "church," delegating most of my middle school years into constructive construction tasks, he was gone.  As the last touches of finished carpentry were nailed up, he learned to relax. We finally had a home. One from which I no longer wanted to escape. The stress of massive home renovation is enough to tear even the stablest families apart. We barely survived.  

Here's looking at you kid.

Ten months later, we sold our beautiful home and moved to Oregon. Into another fixer-upper. And it started all over again. But Mom and Dad had learned something about keeping a family intact during chaos.  The money wasn't so tight this time, and Dad was more accommodating of our youthfulness. And Corey and I? We had learned how to work. So when it was time to help build our new home, we complained, but not enough to run away.  

Which is a good thing, too. Because I totally would've died of exposure within 24 hours, or been violated by a cougar.  (which I guess to a teenage boy, is kind of a fantasy).  

Unfathomably, 1.5 million U.S. kids run away each year. Unlike myself, many have legitimate reasons.  If you'd like to help, check out the National Runaway Safeline or other programs.  And take your kid out to pizza every now and then to prevent pent up feelings.