Fear and Corn dogs in Captivity

Are you excited to go to the zoo?

Will there be cows?

I don't know.

Cause I'm not going to the zoo if there's gonna be cows.

Kay.

I'm far from delighted to admit that the fear of cows isn't exactly a new thing in my house hold. Walking home from visiting his preschool Calvin suddenly stopped, screamed and ran to Joann and I in clear panic.

What the fuck?

We thought.

What's the matter?

We said.

I can't see it. I can't see it.

What?

The cow.

There isn't a cow.

Then what's that noise?

We paused for a moment. Listened to the air rustling the wind. Then listened to the air rustling the wind chime. The wind chime hanging from the awning of a little cottage on our right. And we knew instantly what he was talking about.

The wind chime sounded like a cow bell.

Not just any cow bell, but the exact same pitch of cow bell that signals to an avid "Slingshot Cowboy" that there is about to be a stampede. A stampede where furious cows with deep red eyes charge the player in all their pixelated fury.

The first time Calvin played this game, which no respecting parent would allow their child to play since it simply consists of launching rocks at grazing cows, the first time he played this game and the angry cows stampeded toward him, he threw the iPhone ten feet from where he was sitting and ran to find us. Eventually he found a unique love for the game where he was satisfied with launching the rocks, but would close his eyes and turn off the sound at the very moment the cow bell chimed.

Is it over?

He would ask.

Sure, I would say.

So when the wind chime scared him out of his pants, we thought it far too funny to give it any concern. We had and have other concerns, and really, what are the odds that Calvin is going to need to stand his ground during a conflict with a charging bull?

And so when he mentioned his fear of cows as the number one concern when attending a field trip to the zoo, I realized something.

I kind of don't care.

Central to his challenge in life is going to be fighting his flight response in the face of the unknown and poorly perceived.

Who am I to stand in his way?

How many times is someone going to tell him that butterflies are not dangerous?

It's not gonna hurt you, its not gonna hurt you, its not gonna hurt you . . . etc.

Doesn't work.

Never did.

Try it yourself.

The apathetic approach is far less stressful and effective.

Dad! There's a bug!

Here's a fly swatter son. Kill the fucking thing or go inside, I don't care which.

It has a 50% success rate.

Just slightly above Prozac.

And self indulgence does not require a prescription.

I was thinking about this a lot today as I dragged my struggling son from exhibit to exhibit. Watching animals in a zoo fills me with a powerful ambivalence. The tree hugging side of my psyche wants tigers to run and birds to fly, and monkeys to masturbate in private.

The logical side of me thinks that if you could ask a two toed sloth if it would prefer the jungle to a nice cozy tree limb and three squares a day you'd probably get the kind of violent eye roll exclusive to teenage girls.

Most of those animals would be unable, for whatever reason, to go home again and enjoy the freedom of survival.

And, really, they can't feel any more trapped than I do when asked to participate in a conference call.

We all exist in our little cages. And I'm not pointing out anything poetically new. The cubicle metaphor has been mined and mined and mined again. Still . . . I was thinking about all the little cages we build for ourselves and wondering how stressful it has become rattling our tin cups against the bars.

I wanna be a rock star. I want to redecorate the house. Why is there never enough money, food, books, time, sex, sleep, clothes, friends, time, words that rhyme with tertiary, time, wine, money, sex?

Hey Mr. Lion. You wanna pop outta that cage?

Nope.

You sure?

Yup.

Don't you wanna run around, scare a few kids, and stalk something?

Nope, dude, I'm cool.

Don't you wanna sneak outta that cage and take a big fat bite of a freshly deep fried corn dog covered with spicy mustard. Don't you want to burn the roof of your mouth and not entirely care until you've nibbled the crusted cornmeal off the end of the stick?

Seriously dude. I'm cool. Go bother the monkey.

Just don't shake his hand.

Freedom is apathy.

And I'm making corn dogs for dinner.

Middle Class Career

I don't normally read the arts section of my Sunday newspaper.

Most of the time the artists are droll and predictable and I spend the rest of the day in a huff of vernacular superiority.

Sometimes they are classy and exciting and I spend the rest of the day in a huff of insecure inferiority.

Either way.

I huff.

At first glance of the front page I was fully ready to be dismissive. A sea of orange augmented by the artist wedged between two columns, eyes pinched closed, mouth wide open as if screaming with great passion against a deaf world.

Oooh.

There's such a fine line between the passionate fury of an artist on the brink of creation, and the temper tantrums Calvin throws when I tell him he has to eat one more piece of broccoli before he gets his ice cream.

And frankly, I don't think I can tell the difference any more.

But I open up the paper anyway, cause that's where my crossword is hiding and I saw a second photo of the artist below the fold line.

Hey, I thought, I know that girl.

"Jules Baenziger, aka 'Sea of Bees' is the toast of public radio for her yearning beautiful songs."

The byline read.

Way to go Jules, I thought.

And then I almost felt a little guilty for my pompous first reaction.

Almost.

The article was a good one. It had a beginning, a middle and an end. And I was rooting for the protagonist the whole time.

Near the end of the article was a line that caught my eye.

Jules had asked her producer if he could make her famous.

He said he couldn't.

But he fully believed he could help her achieve a nice middle class career.

What a great answer. What a great image. White picket fence, bologna sandwich in a brown paper bag, peck the little wife on the cheek, and out the door you go. Except its Friday afternoon and not Monday morning. And your brief case is a Takamine 6-String, and your suit is made of felt, and your wearing a purple cravat where a tie would otherwise go.

Instead of dead animals and half burned drapes in a hotel, you leave a five dollar bill in an unused ashtray for the maid.

Instead of rehab, you see a physical therapist for impinged nerves.

I'm still not convinced there is such a word as "impinged"

So I finished the article. I downloaded her album into my iPhone. (Which apparently she released in June of 2010, and I was in such a fog I didn't know it.) I scrunched up on the couch with my earbuds in and the crossword puzzle on my lap, and sat for a good hour feeling relaxed and happy to hear a friend gaining a little traction on the oil slicked pavement of the road less traveled.

It was almost half a day before the melancholy began tapping its finger on the back of my neck. My own little middle class career rests on the shelf like the baseball trophy you get for participating.

Oh there are enough pointed little fingers to go around. I'm not dedicated enough. I don't sacrifice enough, I'm not talented enough. I was never in the right place at the right time. Except that one time, but I was surrounded by the wrong people. Either way the dream is just a dream, and my middle class career is a stamp collection. Its that thing that daddy used to do. Its not even a footnote.

What's funny is that my real rock star dream is really about the writing. I just want to be a songwriter. Rock's equivalent of a "Stay at Home Mom." Let the Lady Gagas of the world strut their stuff, I want to get fat and grow old. Watch my kids do the same. I want to drink tea in the morning, a coke at lunch, a nice glass of wine for dinner.

I want the phone to ring and the person on the line telling me that Brittany needs a new ballad and could I have it ready by Friday.

Can do.

I want to be that dead guy who only the people in the know will get misty for. I want to be that kind of footnote.

I want a garage full of classic muscle cars, and I want to walk to the grocery store.

But for better or worse, mostly worse, the artists who want to strut also want to write. Its where the money is.

Can't blame them. Can't blame the machine.

So now I'm stuck. What do I do, what do I do? If music was just a hobby I could leave it on that dusty shelf along with the boxes of old photographs and classic novels I'll get around to reading some day. If it was the driving force of my soul I would be touring the little night clubs of Europe sending Facebook updates like digital postcards. I would wear thrift store clothing and smell lightly of cigarettes and scented candles. I could live off of tortillas and refried beans and drive a van.

So what do I want? Where am I? Where am I going? Am I serious? Am I a dilettante? And just before all this self deprecating thought spirals out of control . . .

I tell myself to back the fuck up.

I'm not a victim of circumstance. In fact, I've been quite deliberate in how I've chosen to live my life. In fact this middle class suburban thirty something life is the great inspiration and not the ball and chain its been made out to be by lesser men.

Grow a pair.

Get back to work.

Calvin's hungry and I've got a four part harmony to work out. There's a lawn to mow and a guitar line to play and an early dinner and a drowsy novel and a 4am wake up call.

Live the dream, fat kid, live the dream.

And as for Jules,

or Sea of Bees,

thank you for your album.

(available on iTunes, Songs for the Ravens)

And may you too be so lucky as to live the deliberate life. Picket fence and all.

The Little Spanish Girl Makes Me Cry

Yesterday I got to deliver a speech to 300 teenagers.

The speech was a letter to my dead son.

Killed by a drunk driver on his way home from school.

There really wasn't a drunk driver, nor is Taylor really dead. For now.

The occasion was a mock situation at Taylor's high-school where students were removed from their classrooms and sequestered in a hotel for 24 hours. The rest of the class was read an obituary and a tombstone for the dead student was placed in the quad. All of this done in a effort register in teenage minds what it might be like if one of their classmates was killed in a drunk driving accident.

The episode culminates in a two hour assembly where police give speeches, the dead students read letters to their surviving loved ones, and parents read letters they've written to their dead children.

Kind of sad.

A little fun.

But kind of sad.

Two weeks ago, I was tasked with writing this letter to Taylor, including his obituary, because Joann wasn't going to be able to really participate in it at all. Way too sad. And slightly demented.

I approached this assignment with a pretty sick level of joviality, because, honestly, what parent out there hasn't imagined killing their children?

Especially step children.

Cause frankly . . .

Sometimes . . .

We all want to shake the baby.

But fantasizing about killing your children is a far cry from imagining they're dead.

As I learned.

It was a hard piece to write. I may have even gone through several drafts, where usually I'm so clean. (chuckle chuckle)

So I dug down real deep and produced a piece I was proud of, if nothing for the fact that there's not a single mom who could read it and not cry. It was so tear jerky that I was asked to read the letter for the assembly.

Sure, I thought. What could be easier than to deliver a speech to a bunch of half baked teenagers and crying soccer moms? I won't be the least bit nervous or swayed by the proceedings. I'll deliver the speech cleanly, with vibrato and strength. It will be powerful and stoic.

As we walked into the auditorium, my wife and I, we were handed the schedule of speeches to come. I was told that I was going on after one of the dead children, and that I'd know which one because she's going to be reading her letter in spanish.

Cool, I thought.

And most of the assembly went as I figured. The lights were dimmed, the police officers showed pictures of collisions, one had a personal story of regret. A few parents read their letters, a few students read theirs, and then came the little latino girl.

She began her speech with her eyes glued to the podium. Her words were clear, precise and delivered from a place of strength. But then she looked out into the crowd of parents sitting on the right hand side of the audience and her voice began to falter.

Her tone rose an entire octave and though I could only pick out a few words from the speech,

amor, corazon, muerte,

love, heart, dead,

I felt the panic of her message as she desperately tried to convey her anguish that her parents would never see her again. It seemed to me a moment of intolerable courage as she read the last sentence and pulled her eyes away from the page to address the crowd once more in silence.

The audience took a collective breath, and wept.

And then it was my turn.

Which sucked, because I too was in the audience.

And the little spanish girl made me cry.

And I was going to have to deliver a speech in front of 300 teenagers with an incredibly uncool lump in my throat.

Thank goodness for all that actor training I received in my 20's because I was able to get through the whole thing without blubbering or flubbing my lines, but I wasn't exactly the Prince of Denmark either.

I was more or less like Keanu Reeves in "As you Like It".

"I'd rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in his grace . . . whoa"

But even though the speech wasn't a crowning achievement in the performance art of my life, the letter was a nice piece of writing which follows below. It will be the end of this little blog, because I don't think it deserves my snarky commentary. But try to imagine it being delivered a man in full control of his faculties rather than the weeping sissy pants that spoke it in real life.

Here it is:

Dear Taylor,

Yesterday, the house was filled with the sound of your voice. The pop music escaping from your ear buds. The click of the keyboard as you furiously type, hit delete, and type again.

The sound of your voice escaping your vocal chords as the music,

that only you can hear,

swells.

The sound of your enormous feet, like cinder blocks, plodding across the wood floors.

Yesterday, there was a book left on the counter. There were note cards with tiny ineligible writing, splashed across the dining room table. A black retainer sitting in the center of the cards. And yesterday I was furious with you for leaving these things around for me to gather up and pile in you room.

Yesterday, your brother asked where you were.

And I could tell him.

Yesterday, I was bragging to my customers how proud I was to have a son who would graduate at the top of his class. He would be going on to college, to his doctorate, to take life in both hands and deliver unto the world, a man of extraordinary greatness.

A man who has battled demons the rest of us didn’t even know existed. A man who could still smile, still laugh, while the world was collapsing around him.

Yesterday, you had dreams. Yesterday you had nightmares. Yesterday there were a thousand possibilities of life. And yesterday, we stood proud, that whatever life had in store for you, you would meet it with an unsurmountable optimism and grace.

Yesterday, I couldn’t find my iPhone charger,

and I knew,

I just knew that you had borrowed it.

You must have brought it with you to school.

And I will never find it again.

Because today . . .

today . . .

You’re dead.

And the house is quiet.

And there are no books, retainers, note cards, ipods, noises of any sort that would allow me to believe,

that any minute now,

you will come walking through those doors.

Since for as long as I can remember, I have loved you. I have taught you, I have hurt you, I have complimented and harangued you.

I have seen you in weakness.

I have seen you in strength.

I have sheltered you and thrown you to the wolves.

All of it done, so that I may one day see, what this great man before me, has to accomplish in the world.

But you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. And any dreams that I may have had for your life,

have been swept away.

Your brother lies on your bed now.

Breathing in the scent of you.

Hoping to god that Santa will bring his brother back for Christmas.

“But its only April.” I tell him.

“I can wait” he says.

“I can wait.”