Two Cents

Just be on time, don't be afraid to fail, and when you get thrown off your horse, just learn how to land well, dust yourself off, and climb back on. If you learn nothing else in life, learn how to handle the rough landings. If you know how to get back up, you're never going to suffer for too long.

You'll only have a handful of people you can really trust by the time you die. Don't wait too long hoping people turn around. They never do. Know the difference from friends who change and friends who just grow apart. Its a two way street, and your interests just aren't there. It doesn't mean you did anything wrong.

I don't know what happens when you die, but I've never bought into the scare-mongering. You know what the right thing to do is. Do it. That being said, there is no premium on your own happiness. Money, looks, and status won't make you feel any better - if you're not happy, make moves.

Politics will depress you once or twice in your life time, but as one famous politician said "There's no Republican way to clean up garbage." When all else fails, figure out how to help your community because its probably where your kids will grow up, or where you grew up, or where your friends kids will grow up.

There are two styles (for men) that are timeless. I refer to them as the Sinatra and the Springsteen: suits or t-shirts, jeans, and sneakers (chucks more so than nikes). If you don't want to look back 30 years on and think you're an asshole, stick to those two. And by the way, don't let people tell you dressing a certain way matters for shit, if you wear your personality on your sleeve expect someone to spill something on it. I don't know what that means, but who wants juice on their personality? I sure don't.

I used to think guys who worked out all the time were brainless and had some terrible priorities. The truth is, few things matter in the end. Read books and work out. Fitness, both mental and physical, are going to be the only things that matter at some point. Through them almost everything is possible, without them, you're going to pay a lot of money for the same damn thing.

Get a passion. There's nothing worse than a person who likes nothing. They're boring to talk to and they don't make for good party guests. Always be a good party guest.

At some point you're going to try to be something you're not. You're going to look back and hate yourself, I promise. There's nothing else I can say about that except everyone has to learn that lesson by doing it and feeling the agony of selling out and getting nothing for it.

A smarter person than myself once said "Solitude without peace is loneliness." If you know what you need, I'd suggest you go for it and apologize after the fact.

Grow your hair long before you're 21. Grow your beard out before 25. Its probably not going to look good, but if you do it before then, you won't appear to be completely clueless.

Sugar really is that bad for you. Its (and laziness)killed off enough of my teeth that I can tell you honestly.

Good luck. Believe in yourself. And keep your shoulders back, you're not greeting people at Frankenstein's castle.*

*Jack Francis Donaghy

Honoring the Dead

I get the impression from speaking with people that I think a lot more than is average. And one of the things I constantly do is think of moments in time or scenes or people that I haven't seen in a great many years, or who've shuffled off this mortal coil. Tonight I thought I'd write about the later.

Her name was Helene (pronounced Hel-en) and I met her when I was roughly 16. It feels weird to say this about someone who's no longer with us, but it was normal to say then I thought she was beautiful. For the next few years, she and I had an intermitent-at-best friendship. This was partly do to our mutual attraction to one another and mostly do to me being sort of an asshole about that. I've made countless mistakes in my romantic life but I never really held on to them as long as the ones I made with her. Maybe it was because I attempted to be logical about a passionate situation and screwed up royally.

I can't say we were serious or that, at the time I'd found out she had died that we were close. I would often think about her and wonder if she ever did the same. In the near recent past, living in the town she had grown up in, I attmpted to track her down. I found her on Facebook and her profile was sparce. I assumed it was one of those "tried it and hated it" profiles. In fact, it wouldn't even let me post or message her. I was told (by the computer) that what I could do was write a message and tag her in it. I did and wished her a Merry Christmas and hoped things were well.

Then I got a message from a mutal friends (who I was better friends with). I remember the weight on my chest when I read she had died. As these things tend to do, I think I'd lost touch with normality - I googled her to find news articles, rememberence pages, and some page that let me know she was working to educate inner city youth. I was sad and numb at the same time. I went back to that Facebook page to check on one thing: Most folks with even the tightest security settings for some reason don't lock up their profile photos. I always assume that they don't understand locking your profile pictures doesn't mean hiding your current profile photo. To whatever end this was luck, who ever had locked up her page post-mortem failed to make the same move, even though her current profile picture was the default silhouette.

It was deep in the month of Decemeber and had to be around midnight when I saw the 4 old profile photos. I mention this because it added to the haunting I felt; two of the photos were her, staring into a webcam presumably to try it out. I'm sure it was the situation, but she seemed sad and empty. And I must have just looked for around 10 minutes, thinking of all the wrongs and missed opportunities. It wasn't sadness or loss. It was something beyond emotion where I felt like she would always be a part of me.

So here I am tonight, writing a tribute to a woman that I barely knew in reality but still think about on a regular basis. I can't help but think that for a passing romance, she's shaped my life in innumerate ways, and the least I could do was honor her memory in a never-read Blog on the internet. It makes me sad to think we lost her early when its clear her intent was to make an impact on the lifes on many more with less advantages and to whom she would help more.

Such is life though. Her memory should carry on in those she managed to touch by the young age of 25. And it would be my hope that, in her continued presense in my mind, I should attempt to reach even half as far as she did in a small attempt to honor the dead.

Old Hat Rabbit Tricks Dog New

The Sonnet of Fading Friendship

Tea leaves are worn as a shifting mask,
Truth lingers beneath our social mores.
Disciplines unruly task
Diplomacy's unending chore

That stability should silently ask
Civilities grip, utmost, endures.
When our culture mirrors the Pyrenees' basque
Patience hand is all that cures.

The bull it stomps and billows smoke
It kicks up dust and draws its line
Mistaken for its confidence

Against its lingering pains did poke
Like a gaping wound to meet the brine
Charges headlong against insignificance

When did folks get boring?

"The great enemy of truth is very often not the lie--deliberate, contrived and dishonest--but the myth--persistent, persuasive and unrealistic. Too often we hold fast to the cliches of our forebears. We subject all facts to a prefabricated set of interpretations. We enjoy the comfort of opinion without the discomfort of thought."
— John F. Kennedy

I remember a time when the weekend was uncharted territory. Before I got a smartphone and had a calendar on it to keep track of plans. Back when I knew 15 people who'd be up for anything this weekend. They have shuffled off to Europe or California. Some got married or committed themselves to an eternity of work because of their jobs.

I seem to remember my early-to-mid 20's as nothing but carnival rides and fireworks. Even the bad times were at least interesting. When I overdrew an account, it was by $800. When someone broke up with me, it was seemingly the most ruthless ay to do it you could imagine. These days I never overdraw my accounts; I'm in a stable relationship. Its not lamentable, but its leading me to some new places and I'm not sure I understand the rules here.

It seems when you hit (or approach) 30, everyone wants to conduct themselves as if they're bloodless WASPs around whom everyone ought to conduct themselves as if it were a tea party, regardless of how endreged your current position is. And if anything about Marriage bothers me, its the unspoken cultural dictum that we need to whitewash our past. That who we were is just how we coped with the misery of singledom and now that its gone, we should all disregard our inner impulses and just be pleasant. If I have to bear witness to another smiley introduction that is the mimetic equivalent of a curtsey I'm going to drink myself into a coma.

For the record, I'm fine with marriage and civility. But it doesn't equate to boring. Or at least it doesn't have to. There's a regular occurrence whenever I'm out where people make this face as if I've offended them. The problem is I'm almost never speaking about them. Their being offended, in my opinion, because I refuse to conduct myself like royalty and I'm removing the image of the tea party. Whenever it happens, I can imagine the conversation when I'm gone. "oh thats just Brow."

I don't intend to make this a rant on the falsehood that takes place between people. We all know what fake is, and we can generally tell when people are it. But if you've got a job, you're likely fake the entire week. I have to pretend I'm interested in stories, problems, other peoples families, and feelings. Thats just how the game is played if you want to pay rent. But when we punch-out and the quitting whistle has blown, why continue? And if you have a reason, don't you fear for the impending mental breakdown? Have people not seen American Beauty?

I like to think of myself as a people person. I engage strangers and old friends in the exact same way: like I'm playing a Rugby match in the rain. I get messy, I'm not afraid of sliding around or full contact, and I never lose sight of the goal - lets have a decent time. Because at some point soon, I'll be wearing a tie and shaking hands with clients who's money I need. I'd prefer to not sit around and wait to get back there, so for this short period, while we're young and insouciant, why don't we agree to have a drink more than we should, to roll with a few more punches, and try to remember that regrettable past for just a couple hours. Because you've got an eternity to act old, be miserable, and play it safe.

tears of a clown

"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary." - Steve Jobs

"I want you to know that you haven't lived until you've fought back, that you haven't won until you've lost, that you can't understand what it's like to relish something until you've suffered, and that some mistakes you never stop paying for"- Roy Hobbs

Remembering Reagan

I've curbed much of my political ranting for a shorter, more frequent Twitter posting (@lowbrowpolitics) but if this blog is going to be what I'm thinking, I can't quit politicing for good. This month, Time Magazine is remembering Reagan. The cover would have you believe its a big comparison between He and President Obama, but its only one article. The rest is in reference to the centennial.

While most of the writing is political, his Daughters piece is deeply personal, and whatever you think of the man, its worth a read...

Several years into my father's journey down the narrowing road of Alzheimer's, when he was still going out for walks, I looped my arm through his one afternoon and walked with him along a leafy street near my parents' home. A few people recognized him, waved and called out, "Hello, Mr. President" and "God bless you." He smiled and waved back. Then he looked at me, confused, and asked, "Do I know them?"

No, Dad, I said. "They recognized you and wanted to say hello." He looked even more perplexed. "But how do they know me?"

I already knew his memory of being President had been extinguished. He remembered ice skating as a boy and swimming in the Rock River in summer but not his impact on the country and the world. I didn't want to add to his confusion. "They've seen you walking here," I told him. He smiled, and his eyes lit up. "That's very sweet of them," he said. "They're nice people."

Moments like that revealed what was most essential about my father — his graciousness, his kindness toward others, his gratitude and his humility. Even at the end, Alzheimer's didn't kill those qualities, although it killed a lot.

I often imagine what it would be like if my father were still here to mark his 100th birthday, if Alzheimer's hadn't clawed away years, possibilities, hopes. What would he think of all the commemorations and celebrations?

Basically a humble man, he'd be embarrassed, I suspect, although certainly flattered. He would cover his emotions with a joke — probably something about George Burns' living to 100 and how he just couldn't let George get all the glory for making it that far. I'm sure he'd be disappointed in the meanness of politics these days yet amused by all the politicians trying to adhere themselves to his legacy, even aiming to be "the next Ronald Reagan." He'd probably suggest, with a twinkle in his eye, that they should figure out who they are as individuals and be the best at that.

But most of all, I imagine spending time with him as a daughter — and his allowing the residue of my rebellious years and the hurt I caused him to blow away like dust, maybe with a bit of humor, since I did manage to snag his attention by being the bad girl. I'd like to ask him if he was ever really fooled by me.

I'd also like to ask him about the nearsighted boy he once was, whose father frequently disappeared on drinking binges so severe he'd pass out, often miles from home. Maybe my father would finally open up to me about the uncertainty and the waiting ... and the fear.

Yet he had no fear, and I wish more than anything I could sit with him by a window in the dying light of day and ask him about that. How did you come from where you came from and learn to be so confident? How did you learn to trust so completely in your faith that fear didn't stand a chance? I want to tell him I remember the nights when I was a child and he traced the constellations for me, showing me Pegasus and Orion. I want to tell him that even though light-years came between us later on, I never stopped believing he hung the moon.

My father's body lies in a stone tomb high on a hill. People walk by, pause, think their own thoughts about him and move on, back to their own lives. I can never move on. He is everywhere. I know you think I mean publicly, especially now that he would have been 100 years old. And in part, I do mean that. But what I really mean is, he lives in me on the edge of dreams. He lives in the regrets that burden me and the sweet memories that keep me afloat. There was a moment, midway through the Alzheimer's years, when I was leaving my parents' house and I said to him, "Bye. I love you." His eyes opened wide in surprise and he said, "Well, thank you. Thank you so much." He had no idea who I was. He was startled and typically gracious about another human being's telling him she loved him. I don't know if I will ever reach that level of grace, but I'm grateful for having been born to a man who did.

Until the last three years of his life, when he became bedridden, he carried in his pocket a coin that says "Let go and let God." I keep it now in a box on my dresser. I don't know where he got it, but I'm guessing someone handed it to him when he was out walking and he looked at the message on it and thought of how lovely it was and how he related to it. Every day after that, he put it in his pocket — as a talisman, perhaps, but also to remind him of a stranger's kindness.

He was not a perfect man. He was not a perfect father. But he tried to reach higher, to understand what God wanted of him. He was a unique person who carved out a unique place in history. I sat beside him as he died. And now he sits inside my heart as I live my life, without him but with him.


Read more: http://www.time.com/time/nation/article/0,8599,2044468,00.html#ixzz1CosN8T5Z

A father is an interesting thing in America. You often here that people weren't close to their father, and the relationship was never close. But they have a way of loving after they're gone, as if their echo in history lingers, holding us best through a post mortem example, as if their presence is an heirloom which is handed down and carried on until we pass on ourselves, and pass along our small spin on an otherwise enduring legacy.

The narrative of feel...

To parry rhetorical idiocy, lets not use a genre here, but instead I’m just going to put 5 songs down, and say that sound equals genre X, where X = a word I will make up soon.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Down Boy
Arcade Fire – Ready to Start
TV on the Radio – Blues from Down here
The National – Blood Buzz Ohio
Decemberists – And here I dreamt I was an architect

This genre, which I’ll attempt to put into words, should be called (for the sake of this article) Menthol-Indie because I feel like it. Moving on.

Maybe its because I live in a city known for lobster and sub-arctic wind chill. Or maybe its because I’m keen on lament, but this style of music creates an environment, so closely resembling abandoned city streets in winter, I can’t help myself but try and draw the parallel.

I think Phil Spector is over-hyped and what he contributed was, at best, benign to the times. But his philosophy, while boring in concept is amazing in practice. The wall of sound with the least amount of instruments possible (Somewhere in here, Andy Warhol becomes the creator, but I’m not entirely sure where, and its not essential for this ramble) essentially creates white noise, and with some percussion, melody, and narrative in front of it, makes it the backdrop of a person lost in the world, contemplating the finer details of “why the hell am I here?”

What we get in life is often background noise, car horns, engines rumbling, trains roaring by, planes, dogs, one-sided cell phone conversation and any number of small ticks; insects, clocks, technologies constant reminders that they’re waiting for us. This serves no purpose to the individual, and in a musical sense, it would not effect (or shouldn’t, outside the schizophrenic mind, a purpose to narrative.) If it hasn’t been made obvious yet, I’m making the connection between the individual and the narrative, which should be clear to begin with, but its being pitched differently here.

What this white noise may come to represent, if it wasn’t the intention to begin with is the innumerate life teeming beyond the individual which, when already in a position of indirection, may only further the idea that life goes on without, therefore, what’s your purpose?

But beyond our teen angst and depression, these instances are less an overall characteristic of the individual, and more a characteristic of an event: a break-up, a parent dying, rejection, and unemployment. Could white noise, in the adult mind (or narrative) be the chaos that comes with the myriad of responsibilities throw into havoc when something like this comes? Ignore for a minute whether or not it does. Hear me out…

The device (Wall of Sound), when viewed as a device, seems to suggest to us the interpreter that the chaos marches in a lock-step uniformity; that chaos must represent “the other” by virtue of its consistency, and lack of relationship to the listener. When applied to any narrative, this follows a logical literary pattern of Person v. Environment, which is a traditional Antagonist. Traditionally, this is found in Drama not Comedy (literal sense) but music, and especially that which could be considered post-industrial (society, not music) seems to suggest a comedic effect in so far as there is no resolution. The white-noise, chaos of the Wall of Sound is a constant, something the Protagonist lives with and grows increasingly familiar with. Have you ever heard the Wall of Sound used in a staccato capacity? Neither have I, and I’m not even sure how you would pull it off, but lets forget that for a second.

What this style says about chaos, which was traditionally considered the opposite of self (the other) , is that it becomes a familiarity. If we look to the alternative of the post-industrial society, its generally rural, where all noises come with nature, and therefore has a very logical connection to a given person. People hunt, fish, farm, and live in the environment, which are at least a few degrees away from direct relations. But in the city, too much “environmental” factors have little or nothing to do with anyone else. The consumer order is sharply divided. I saw 3 news helicopters today. While the argument for benefiting the individual could be there, if it wasn’t our lives wouldn’t be so much different (do we really need to know about a traffic jam after the fact?).

A few paragraphs back I wondered if the familiarity with noise is the immediate stress of the responsibility and it’s new found immediacy. What I think we’ve tripped over in between is that its less the immediacy, but the presence of all things that must exist in order for a City-Society to function. That is, theres a butterfly effect that occurs to me if the Traffic-Copter isn’t out that day, even if its effects are not felt directly. In finality, the wall of sound seems to operate within the narrative as a sort of societal feedback. One that doesn’t suggest a wish to return to a rural life, but the pressure cooker of demands in a metropolitan lifestyle, and beyond this, the ever growing coldness that comes with or all too familiar relationship with it.

Its said of New York City, if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere. If we funnel this through out musical filters, I think Menthol musicians would argue its because a grave disinterested attitude is not created by a personal interest, but a necessary interest in survival. Essentially, the Menthol guitarist, with his reverbed out instrument asks us, “Do you really think Deluth would have recovered from 9/11 as quickly as NYC did?” For too many albums, they’ve been telling us the answer is “no.”