Two-A-Days

Two-a-days.

The bane of corner-backs and dance captains.

It was a term I first heard my brother use during his high-school football years. Two-a-Days referred to the last few weeks of practice before the football season began.

The team would practice for four or five hours in the morning and return in the late afternoon for another four or five hour practice. Remember that the start of football season is late August and the heat was at best, blistering.

The boys would suit up in their post-industrial armor and head out onto the field. Bash themselves into testosterone adrenaline ecstasy, hit the showers, and then after a hearty lunch, suit up again for the slaughter. These days are remembered fondly by the old timers like soldiers who have lived to become generals. Champions have been made, children have been killed.

I used to apply this term to any weekend when both a matinee and an evening show was scheduled. It brought a certain amount of manliness that I desperately needed as I stood in the wings, dance belt squeezing my genitalia, costume stiff with hours old sweat.

Two-a-days always . . .

. . . Always . . .

Almost always, resulted in two bad performances. The first performance stank of cowardice. We would hit our marks, sing our songs, pause for for the laughter, and listen carefully as the laughter began to crest to resume our dialogue. All the time remembering to save a little bit extra for later because there was another show that night. Another show that would be populated with a larger more invested audience. An audience not filled with silver foxes, but with our friends, parents, and critical reviewers.

But no matter how much we saved for the second performance, no matter how professional we professed to be, our metabolisms weakened by the steady diet of coffee and cigarettes always got the best of us. Our voices would crack and our physical movement became nothing more than adrenaline fueled exaggeration.

Two-a-days were artistic suicide sponsored by the local rotary club that need all those candy-bar sales at the end of the first act.

Dropping a perfectly thrown pass might lead to the gentle ribbing in the bars at the end of a hard day at the mines . . .

But fucking up on stage could cost you a career.

My god, how I hated two-a-days.

One time I had six shows over the course of three days. Two-a-day friday. Two-a-day Saturday, and then on the fifth show during the second number I twisted wrong coming out of a somersault on a raked stage. For two performances the entire cast had to drag me on and off the stage as if I was limp corpse that still had to sing and dance. I did the final song on Sunday night with three courageous dancers holding my body steady in front of a microphone before carrying me off the stage as if I was a dead soldier who could not be left to defilement on the battlefield.

But in the middle of my theatre career I discovered how to perform a two-a-day.

Which is to say:

I didn’t think about it.

I practiced the same routine for the matinee as I would for the evening performance. Which is to say, I didn’t think about it at all until the hour before. I would warm up the same way, I would check my props at the same time, I would find the same technician and thank them for their hard work. I would drink copious amounts of water and pace back and forth in the hall behind the stage. I would repeat my first few lines over and over again, because once I found those first lines, the rest of the performance was rhythm and muscle memory.

No one ever really taught me. I just figured it out along the way. Had there been a mentor in those days, I might have made something of myself that is different than who I am now. Not good or bad, just different.

I saw a show the other night. A show, that I’m afraid to admit, I was not looking forward to. It had been a stressful few days, and frankly, I suffered the kind of exhaustion that only a man in his pre-mid-life crisis years can feel. I was hating everybody and everything. Nothing was working the way I had dreamed it would and I needed about ten hours of battery recharge time.

But it was my niece’s final performance. A show that she was proud of. A show that she wanted everyone to see. And there will be more than enough sleep in that sleep of death that I’ll be damned if I’d let the world beat me into that kind of submission while there is still food in the fridge and money in the bank.

And so I went.

And so I was glad.

The show was fantastic. A high-school performance none-the-less. The music was good, the dialogue breathed with life, the direction was tight, and for the first time ever I saw a group of teenagers look comfortable on the stage. Sure, there was the kind of community theatre glitches, kids miss-cast, high notes that only a professional singer should really try in front of an audience, but none of that made much of a difference when I could walk into the theatre and enjoy myself. I’ve paid ten times more for half as much entertainment.

It was the second performance of the day and final performance of the run. And yes, it was obvious that two-a-days can be brutal even to well fed energetic youth. Voices cracked, costumes showed their stains of sweat, and the orchestra really needed a conductor whose hands weren’t trapped at the piano keys.

But then there was my niece.

She radiated. She exuded. For the first time in the years I’ve seen her perform, she seemed at home upon the stage.

Sure there were the technical flaws of youth. The lines delivered too energetically. Songs and choreography with too much sexual innuendo for a sixteen year old girl to perform comfortably (at least in front of grey foxes and christian family members). But even when the orchestra fell wildly out of the pocket, she remained steadfast and strong. In fact it wasn’t until after the performance, when I could congratulate her with a big hug and having felt her adrenaline fueled heart beat, could I even see the effects that the two-a-day had on her.

Somehow, she had, by sheer osmosis, delivered a two-a-day, that had taken me years to learn how to manufacture (Techniques that I have subsequently forgot). Melina is going to be an artist. How she will navigate the rest of her life is a mystery.

The irony here is that artistic apprenticeship is dead.

There is no one, I repeat, no one, who could take her under their wing and guide her beyond who she is now. What she does with her artistic life is up to fate, luck, and tenacity. In that order. Because she only has control over her tenacity. Sometimes luck will find her and move her to the next universe, but it is ultimately fate that will decide.

And that’s not fucking fair.

Even I, who has been blessed with a lineage of artists, a palpable talent, and the drive to work, can only guess what at who I am and where I stand.

So I have only this to offer, as mentor, uncle, comrade;

Seek to work only with those that are better than you. The people on your level and at your heels are beautiful and wonderful, but they teach you nothing, except how to be a better teacher and friend. At worst, they feed your ego, and your ego needs far more bruising than feeding.

Never stop practicing. It takes six months to regain what you’ve lost with during one month of apathy.

Lend and borrow with equal aplomb, for you will need to learn how to do both, often.

Mentors make lousy lovers. But feel free to take advantage as the last act before you move on.

And lastly, to thine own self be true,

especially when you have been blessed with a partner who respects all that you try to do, but doesn’t allow you to wallow in your own bullshit.

I’m proud of you kiddo. I’m scared for you. If I can be there for you, I will.

Love
Uncle Josh

Chances Are

"Cockroaches. Everywhere, cockroaches!" the boy hissed as he sped passed us toward destination unknown.

We had been apartment hunting in LA for three days and it had not been a success. One apartment labeled "One Bedroom with New York style loft" had turned out to be a small studio with a cheap shelving unit separating the living space. Others had bars on windows, and signs that said "Clearly not for a young white couples." We had scoured the papers, hit every bulletin board and even paid $50 for an apartment search service.

After hours of driving quickly through the ghettos, not making eye contact, we came upon a beautiful little neighborhood only to be told that the listing was ten years old and the actual rent was nearly triple the price of the listing.

Awesome.

Then finally we settled on this okay looking complex, not too far from the freeway, and the minute we began talking to the Rental Agent this boy in his early twenties who could easily have been a model in a Gap ad, interrupted our genial greetings in order to make a few well worded complaints.

He seemed polite and calm while describing the broken appliances, the broken locks, and the pool of water that was mysteriously turning his living room into a swamp. It was early July after all.

"I'll be with you after I show these two around" the agent said, trying to contain both her anger and embarrassment.

What she showed us was frankly, acceptable. Acceptable if it was just me and the blushing bride and we really didn't have many needs beyond clean water and a suitable roof. But there was the ten year old to think about. God only knows how long it was going to be before I sold some songs and the place was dark, dingy, and damp. It was only one room, which meant that the ten year old was going to have to sleep on a couch, and it was just slightly beyond our price range which meant the ten year old was going to have to adjust from fresh italian gourmet cooking to ramen noodles and the occasional macaroni and cheese around pay day.

My brand new wife and I looked at each other with the fresh gaze of understanding.

"We'll make it work" that gaze said.

"We'll follow our dreams and we'll make it work, god dammit!"

Remember, six months before, I had told this woman that I had quit my job and was going to be running to LA for three weeks with another woman to record some songs.

She didn't even blink an eye.

In fact her only stipulation was that I break down an get a cell phone because she wanted to make sure I was okay during the long drive.

Love, dude, love.

The agent finished describing to us how nice the neighborhood is and how we should leave a $30 check along with our application. She told us that she had some errands to run and that we should just drop the application in her mailbox before she scurried away.

And she did scurry. No doubt about it. Like a mouse in the middle of the night when the kitchen light turns on.

We paused in the center of the square long enough to take a breath and decide what we were going to say to each other when we reached the safety of the car when the nice looking boy in his early twenties sped past us in a brisk walk.

"Cockroaches. Everywhere, cockroaches." he said.

"Don't do it." he said.

"Run. Cockroaches."

And then he too was gone.

And our will faltered. Our courage failed. We hurried back to our little car speechless and broken.

"Well?" she said.

"Nope." I answered.

"What do we do now?" she asked.

"We come back next week, I guess." I said as we began to make the 8 hour journey home.

But there was no next week.

On the long drive home, my blushing bride noticed a lump on her neck that months later turned out to be an innocent little cyst on her thyroid, but solidified the fact that we don't can't comfortably live without some type of health insurance. And the project that we dreamed would lead to a recording contract and full scale album teetered in development and eventually faded from sight. We decided it was better to be poor in Roseville than poor in LA and that I can write music anywhere. I went back to work broken but grateful that they would take me back, and internally joyous that I was at least doing something I loved.

And I never stopped making music. A year or two later I had recorded most of my first album. The baby came. The ten year old went crazy. We bought a house. We struggled to keep food on the table and smiles on our faces. I finished the first album with the baby on my lap and the neighbors gently rapping on the walls when the hour got too late. I started performing again. I started being again.

My little son began to talk. My big step-son began to take control of his life. My writing matured. My voice matured. I am the best I have ever been. There's no need for me to wish any longer because I am living the perfect life.

Perfect life.

Perfect Life.

Career Professional. Beautiful wife. Healthy brilliant children. Comfortable house in the safe quiet suburbs. Studio in the garage, and an upcoming album that has greatly surpassed any of my previous projects.

Perfect life.

Perfect Life.

Last night. It's late. I've probably had a few too many glasses of wine. I get a text.

My friend, manager, greatest fan, tells me that Bravo is hosting auditions for a songwriting competition. I apply on line immediately. American Idol for songwriters. It was in fact an idea I had the first season of American Idol when an expensive recording session was paused so that all the musicians could gather around and see that night's episode. There I was, starving like a fat kid during lent and wishing that part of the contest included songwriters. I'd dreamed of this. I was desperate to be a part of it.

But there wasn't enough wine in the house for me to forget reality. My application would be one among thousands. And even if I was chosen for a second round, is there enough magic in the world to see me through. And even if I made the final cut, what would happen if I had to make the choice between the life I've built and a few swings at glory. And even if my skill as a tunesmith pushed me to the next level. And I won the competition and was given a publishing deal and got to spent the following months penning songs for Brittany Spears and Kelly Clarkson, I might have to drag my wife apartment hunting in LA. But this time with a sensitive four year old and a freakishly lazy seventeen year old. Even resounding success would be a cautionary tale.

But it was late. It was time for bed.

And then I go to sleep. And dream the kind of dreams I dreamt before life made me a man. The future is an empty void of possibility and in that empty void I dream of introducing myself as "Joshua Macrae . . . Songwriter"

Luck made me smart. My parents made me capable. Luck made me talented. Hard work made me prolific. Luck gave me some good songs. Tenacity allowed me to make them real.

Chances are that by this time next week I'll have received a very nice letter of rejection and I can go about dreaming my other dreams.

Chances are that by this time next week I'll get over that rejection and write my songs.

Chances are that someone will hear my songs and be moved by them.

Chances are.

I met a man

Haven't written in a long time.

Sorry.

But it's not because of any sort of block or even laziness.

I haven't written because I met a man.

I met a man who is afraid of butterflies.

And not just any ho hum skiddishness when the little insects take flight, but the kind of fear that stops his breath, grips tightly to the base of his spine, and sends him running in the other direction. The sort of fear we all feel at the sound of an engine's backfire or the late night sound of footsteps by our bedroom door.

And he's not ashamed either. In fact his story is quite good. Its very real.

"Have you ever seen a butterfly up close?" he'll finish. "They're fucking scary."

His story is important to me because Calvin is also afraid of butterflies.

In fact I've been dreading the coming of the spring, where the butterflies flutter by en masse at our favorite park. The field between the sand box and the big kid slides turns a jolly skip into a terrifying run. There is crying and screaming and pleading to go home. And I acquiesce out of fatherly shame, and can hear the disappointed "tsk tsk" of our child psychologist.

"He needs to face his fears. One at a time. And you have to push him to do it." he said.

"But how do I know when to stop? Isn't there a point when he's freaking out so badly that it creates more trauma than it's actually worth?" I ask.

"Nope."

I like this doctor. He taught me a lot. He answered my questions. He didn't bullshit me about the inadequacies of modern psychology. I once asked him if Calvin's fears were going to haunt him the rest of his life or if their would come a time when it would just be over. He just shrugged and told me that he had no idea.

In fact, after three sessions, he said "We're done. You know enough to deal with these situations on your own. Each one will be more challenging than the next, because he will have learned how to try to work around you, but you'll have a common dialogue, and as long as you're consistent and persistent, you'll win."

And he was right. It's become second nature to me now to recognize Calvin's avoidance. How to get him to tell me what he was afraid of. How to get him to face it.

We also created a "Scary Scale"

His face would pale at something and I would say;

"Big scary, medium scary or little scary?"

For something like the sound of an approaching motorcycle his hand would shoot way up into the air indicating "Big Scary" Dogs might be "Medium Scary" unless they moved toward him and became "BIg Scary"

The vacuum cleaner was "Little Scary" but eventually become "Zero Scary."

We also spent hours making lists of things that are "Good to be afraid of" (Sharks, fire, aligators) and things that are "Bad to be afraid of" (Slides, lawnmowers, butterflies).

And we made progress.

But dude, it's hard work. Sometimes satisfying, but freaking hard.

Not all of his fear manifests itself as screaming and running. Sometimes it intuition. For example, he was chasing around the jungle gym with some kids and every time they ran up the steps to a particular slide he would veer off and wait for them at the bottom. I saw it three times and then after a bit of cajoling I got him to tell me that he was afraid of that slide.

So, then we went up to the top, him kicking and screaming. I forced him to sit on my lap as we both went down the slide. Then we walked right back up and I helped him into the tube and gave him a little push and he went down all by himself. Finally spirited by his own success, he forced me to stay down at the bottom while he ran up and went down the slide alone.

But it doesn't end there. The next time we went to the park we had to start all over again. The second time was easier (less kicking and screaming) and it took three more outings before I could successfully say that he is no longer afraid of the slides at Castle Park.

And it's like this with everything. Two steps forward, one step back. Eagle, Bogie, Eagle, Bogie. Which, at the end of the day is a damn fine score, but it's exhausting as hell for this procrastinator.

Then I met a man who is afraid of butterflies.

A complex, rational, intelligent man who is capable in every other way.

Just afraid of butterflies.

And then suddenly it occurred to me that maybe fear isn't all good vs bad, black vs white. Fear is our genetic response to danger. And if danger exists, if there is such a thing as danger, then maybe there's danger in butterflies.

Pause . . .

think about that for a moment . . .

If there is danger,
Then there's danger in butterflies

There lays the meat of this cautionary tale.

That is a damn fine lyric. it's the kind of "turn of phrase" that just melts my creative soul. Oh goodness, and the rhyming possibilities are endless. Eyes, skys, lies, lays, tries, dies, cries, size. And that's just off the top of my head.

Boom

Boom

Pow

But here's the rub.

I could never complete it. Endless notes. Scribbles on the back of grocery lists. A long line of instrument and melody changes. It was a requiem one day, then a gospel choir the next. Mornings with a cup of coffee, late nights with a bottomless glass of wine. Nothing clicked. I never ran out of ideas, again I'm not a believer in writer's block, but nothing I thought of had the sticking power of class room paste.

For months I have refused to give it up. Hell, I even wrote a lovely little duet for the wife and I in the hopes that stepping away might be the only solution to what was becoming my daily mind suck.

And still . . . nothing of value.

So yesterday, tired of banging on my piano, I mowed the lawn.

For the last year, Calvin has been both fascinated and terrified by the lawn mower. At first he would run and hide in his room. Eventually his fascination got the better of him and he would watch from a window or in the case of the front lawn, he would insist that I put him in the car with the windows rolled up so he could still see but not hear.

And yesterday he watched me storm out of the garage and into the backyard. I open the shed and pulled out the mower. I adjusted the blade height and began the slow back and forth meditation of a man and his lawn.

About halfway through my pendulum of serenity, I looked across yard back at the house expecting to see his pale little face pushed up against the sliding glass door. But instead of standing at the window with his hands greasing up the glass, he was sitting quietly at the edge of the grass.

Somehow, in the same hour that I had stopped trying to capture his fear, he had stopped being afraid.

I had met a man who is afraid of butterflies.

So I spent two months believing that its okay. Wait . . . not just okay . . . but that their was enough beauty in the danger of butterflies that I bloodied my knuckles to prove it.

But their really isn't. It really isn't okay to be afraid of butterflies.

Calvin knows it and is doing his best to move on.

I should do the same.