There was a time when my expectations far exceed my reality. As a child of the 70’s, I was raised with the expectation that the future would be far out and futuristic. Somewhere along the line of time future became present. I grew up and stopped expecting to be entertained by the world. Life without expectations is surprisingly easy, it turns out. I am now content to sit quietly and watch TV shows in which skeevy singers perform nearly discernible music while Jennifer Lopez weeps and Steven Tyler removes his pants. He’s Steven Tyler. There doesn’t have to be a reason. Life without massive expectations of external fulfillment means that I can wear my pajamas everywhere. Thank you, brave new world, for that.

     There was a time when I’d see people in the supermarket or the movies in pajamas and I’d want to rattle their brain pans and shout “Don’t you even care about your appearance?” These days I don’t get so uptight. I now go out in p.j.’s. Retailers don’t even call the apparel pajamas any more. Now the clothes are referred to as lounge wear. Saying lounge wear evokes the image of a fun place to be with a clubby, convivial atmosphere. The lights are low, the music is tolerable. We’ve eaten entire tins of Altoids because lounge wear clad party goers have told us about the buzz that comes from breath mints. Lounge wear fits right into this ethic. We work hard and then lounge harder. If we call lounge wear, the uniform of lost expectations, pajamas then we’ve given in to the reality that we can’t be bothered to put on real clothes. I do harbor one expectation for the future that won’t go away, though. When the world ends I’d like to be wearing clean pajamas at least. It’s just good manners

.

#American Idol #Jennifer Lopez #Pajamas as Daywear #Steven Tyler

In marriage, many statements that begin with “we” are precious. “We’re going to have a baby!” is a welcome sort of moment of we-ness in a couple’s life. “We get the keys on Friday.” was one of those good, moments for team Andy and Lori when we bought our house. “We” sometimes leads to those details in life that make my brain shut down and shrivel away, though. I got in trouble tonight, in fact, because I said the dreaded anti-we phrase to my wife:

What’s this we stuff?

When confronted with the “you know, we should…” ideas from anyone, my mind tunes out. I go to a lonely forest, where there is no “we.” In the lonely, empty path down the center of my mind, I leave behind all of the stimuli forced on me about the meaning of couplehood. The relationship of a true, loving couple apparently has a lot to do with cleaning the basement and finding mystery smells in the sink drain. “We should clean the basement” is code for “Go clean the basement, devil man.” I’d rather travel down the empty path, but it isn’t to be. I’ll end up in the basement, attempting to clean, or reading old Mad magazines. Part of the “We” relationship is knowing when to give in to it. You don’t get the good moments, the one’s where you’re both laughing at the world’s stupidity, unless you give a little back to the couple fund. The we bank has to be filled for the lean times. So, I’ll help out. Sometimes, out of the blue, “we” actually means what it says and we end up accomplishing tasks together as a couple. We’ll knock out the Saturday morning house fix-up jobs, and then I’ll use the fine art of distraction to get us out of work and to Taco Bell. We love each other and we love our time when “we” means “we’re together and that’s what matters.” Of course, Lori and I love crappy tacos, even more.

#Couplehood #Marriage #Partnership in Marriage #Relationships Husband Brains Lazy Husbands Taking Time To Do Things as a Couple

There are three institutions that I avoid strenuously: dentist’s offices, instant oil change shops and dry cleaners. This might explain why my car smokes like the characters on Mad Men, why my Chiclets are so straight (and horizontal) and my clothes look as if I lent them to Wilfred Brimley during a Hagan-Daz bender. That said, I’d still rather avoid using these services, because the proprietors usually lecture me about my shortcomings. It’s embarrassing to have the guy at Aunt Maude’s Olde Oil Shoppe school me about proper lubrication in between bites of his Whopper with Fleas. The dentist is even more nerve-wracking. During the last visit he fished a bunch of pull tabs and Keno slips out of my gums while lecturing. I never again want to have anyone’s hand in my grill as he turns to his assistant and asks for something serrated.

Today I went to the cleaners. Dry cleaning clerks are the worst about making me fess up to a life of sin. It starts with how long it’s been between visits. Gosh, I don’t know. When did Hanson break up? Right around that time. They want to know every detail about the stains on my garments too, which leads to lots of tears. The cleaners want specifics. Food? Blood? Was I hunting in my overcoat? What is the exact origin of the smell emanating from my clothes? Have I mucked out stalls or shown 4H animals that day. I broke down today, not able to stand up to the chemical cleaning technician’s scrutiny. “Okay! The stains on my clothes are from eating in the car. I use ketchup packets without wearing a bib!” Actually, I went away feeling better. The counter clerk told me to go and eat fast food no more. Sure. Anything to avoid the confessional.

#Dry Cleaners #Hagan Daz #Hanson #Keno #Mad Men #Wlfred Brimley

The last few weeks have shown that the true apocalypse is upon us. I am not so pompous as to say that I can predict the final days of our life on earth. Rather, I’ve seen the signs, all the telltale markings of the end. Last year’s earthquakes were merely a foretelling and the Middle East uprisings are just a shadow of the end times. The true test of the crumbling of life on earth is that more people are choosing to take off their clothes and commit crimes. A few weeks ago, a man strapped in the back of an ambulance travelling the Los Angeles freeways jumped out of the vehicle while naked and was mowed down in traffic (during the rare moment when it was moving). Today the Associated Press carried a wire story about a South Carolina man who stole a fire truck while naked and ran over a pedestrian. Captain Naked Grand Theft Auto got a few more yards before hitting a tree. I feel deeply troubled by the thought of carnage at the hands of drugged out, naked maniacs. The nudity presents it’s own disturbing set of questions and the need for a set of new guidelines for the criminally flapping in the wind.

•      If you choose to be naked for any length of time, or another individual causes your nakedness, make sure the doors are bolted. Stay calm and remain in one place. Nobody is interested in what’s under your clothes.
• Are you Angelina Jolie? If not, refer to the above statement.
• Do you think you’re Angelina Jolie? This poses still more problems. Just to be safe, keep your clothes on.
• Are you interested in an exciting career working with emergency vehicles? An overlooked fact about  people in emergency services is that nearly all of them work clothed. The ones who don’t are bachelor party entertainers, and even they start out clothed.  Keep your clothes on folks, and enjoy reading some blog posts while you wait for the world to end.

#Associated Press #Grand Theft Auto #Naked Man Hits Pedestrian With Stolen Firetruck #Naked South Carolina Man Steals Firetruck

     Several years ago, I ran a gimmick blog post in which my then 8-year old daughter Anna and I watched the Academy Awards red carpet pre-show and made commentary. Anna is older and wiser now, but still manages to render an opinion on most subjects. I sat down with her to watch the Super Bowl (i.e., the big copyrighted sports telecast not to be mentioned by name) and see if she had anything to offer. There were parts that made her put aside Harry Potter long enough to pay attention.

Anna on the first drive of the game: ‘Dad? What’s a quarterback? Do you have to put quarters into his back?”

“Yeah. This one looks like he needs a lot more quarters.”

On Audi’s “Bravery” spot:              ” Wow! Do you think they really punched that guy in the face?”

“I think the black eye is just painted on. People can’t really just punch each other.”

“Oh. It would have been more real if they had.”

Regarding Oreo’s cream vs. cookie ad in which the actors burn down a library: “What’s the difference. It’s just a cookie.”

Anna’s first impression of Raven’s quarterback Joe Flacco: “He looks like Simon Cowell.”

On the lack of progress writing this post: “Any farther? Yeah. I didn’t think so.”

On Beyoncé: “Oohh that’s flaming. What the heck? Where is she? Too much fire. She needs to dress more appropriately. Where’s her kid?”

(then, mercifully, Anna went off to brush her teeth and missed much of Beyoncé’s um, light show. She returned for the Destiny’s Child reunion to ask “What is this? A freak show, or something?” Even Anna, the skeptical pre-teenager, had to admit that Beyoncé is extremely pretty.)

Anna, amid much protest, went to bed just ahead of the first half. Someday, I’ll go over what makes up a first down with her (again)  and try to steer her away from the suffering of a being a Lions fan for life.   Maybe, before she’s too old to appreciate, the Lions will go to a Super Bowl and we won’t have to worry about the commercials. Thanks to the miracles of medical science, maybe I’ll be alive when that happens in Super Bowl CCCIV. That will be a lights out game.

#2013 Super Bowl #Audi Bravery Ad #Baltimore Ravens #SanFransisco 49ers #Super Bowl #Super Bowl Commercials Beyonce Destiny's Child

One of the wonderful things my wife did when we got married was that she made me stop dating. Okay, I honestly wanted to stop. I love Lori more than any other person on earth.  Thank God for not having to go through the sham ritual of courtship anymore, though. I was never any good at relationships. Or personal interaction. Or speaking to people without gibbering and flapping my arms. Flirting was impossible. I just never got it. Maybe it was because everything I tried to say came out in 452 word bursts. Some people have a gift for nonchalant flirtation, some only manage to catch fire from zipper friction, because they wear cheap pants. I don’t flirt. There are times when I make the vain attempt at speaking casually and end up paying for it (and having to purchase new pants when the old ones burn up).

I went for a haircut. This is always a mistake, because hair stylists often are the best at making therapeutic small talk. They know nearly everything, because they’ve heard nearly every story conceivable. Once in the chair, I began to babble about how my hair always ends up looking like that of Sopranos tough guy Pauly Walnuts. The side wings just say I should put on a jogging suit and a Members Only jacket. The patient stylist asked me lots of questions about myself and I babbled. And babbled some more. The problem, I noticed after returning home, was that one side of my head is cut differently than the other. This always happens when I try to be funny and light. The rule before each trip out of the house should be: “continue to be a jerk, Andrew.” This is not my first brush with small talk induced failure. A few years before meeting Lori, I tried to practice being fun and flirty at a blood drive. When asked to choose between an older, veteran Red Cross associate to draw my blood, or a cute girl, I went for small talk and jokes. Unfortunately, practice outweighs pretty. I have veins that show like the Mississippi River on a map, but she missed on a half-dozen attempts. Signaling for the seasoned vet and another guy my age, nurse vampire had the three of them sit on my arm in an attempt to get blood from the part of my ulna the needle was bent and wedged into. My arm should hurt as much as it did that night every time that I think about trying to be friendly. It’s good to be married to a beautiful woman who doesn’t pay attention to my dumb attempts at small talk. Hopefully, she won’t ask about my weird haircut.

#Dating #Flirting #Marriage #Pauly Walnuts #Relationships #Social Awkwardness #Sopranos

Hi. My name is Andy. Its been three years, one month and twenty-seven days since I had my last Coke. For much of the first year after quitting I dreamed at night about cola. Sweet, slightly bitter, ultra-acidic, always effervescent drinks that formed rivers I’d floated down for more than thirty-five years. Even though Coca-Cola, and it’s caramel colored wannabe beverage companions made me violently ill, I still craved them. With a ravenous thirst, I longed to rip off their tops and ravage the sugary goodness out of them. I only quit, because getting sick on soda and pouring out waves of black, syrupy acid nightly was no way to live. Sometimes, I pass those slender hipped Coke bottles and think “I could have my way with you…” only to remember that they’d just make me barf. Too torrid a relationship to continue, and my teeth hurt just thinking about it.

I like those advertisements for Coke in which pontificating morons stand atop a hill proclaiming the virtues of world peace through the gift of Coca-Cola. The sentiment of those commercials is beautiful. “I’d like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony.” What a truly inspiring, unselfish thought. In the original ad, the singers tagged the end of the commercial with “Coca-Cola: It’s The Real Thing.” I sure hope it is. If you give people The Fake Thing, they’re likely to smash the daylights out of each other with pop bottles. Imagine if the Coke Singers had offered the world an RC Cola. Riots would have broken out. Sometimes, I hum the old, beautiful sentiment of “I’d like to teach the world to sing…” to myself and dream about the old days when I’d guzzle two liter bottles of that garbage and go run around (and around and around) the block. Then I make sure to and read the truth, such as this letter to the UK Guardian:

Oh naive you! Commercial caramel has only a distant connection with the traditional bitter-sweet tasting stuff made from burnt sugar. Caramel constitutes about 80% of all food colouring, and there are four different types of commercial caramel,depending on use e.g. beer, soft drinks, soy sauce, gravy, pet foods etc. The type in fizzy drinks is type 4, which has to be acid resistant. It is also known as sulphite ammonia or soft drink caramel, acid proof caramel, SAC caramel or SD caramel. It is made with ammonium and sulphite compounds, and is a product of the chemical industry, not grandma’s kitchen.It is made basically from various carbohydrates (which can be types of sugar like fructose etc), heat-treated with the addition of ammonium compounds namely hydroxide, carbonate, bicarbonate, phosphate, sulphate, sulphfite and bisulphite. The sulphite compounds are sulphurous acid, and potassium, sodium and ammonium sulphites and bisulphites. The compounds that can be used for all four types of caramel color are sulphuric and citric acid, and sodium, potassium and calcium hydroxide. Dr A Eames-Jones, Stotfold, Hitchin UK

I’d like to buy the world some type 4 sulphite ammonia and keep it company. It’s the real thing. At least until the soft drink companies invent a low caloric, non-headache inducing soda that doesn’t contain the same ingredients as a North Korean missile.

#Caramel Color in Cola #Coke #I'd Like To Teach The World To SIng #Migraines #Soft Drinks and Headaches food colouring perfect harmony

Yesterday afternoon involved driving the ancient Honda around on a list of pre-holiday errands after work. The temperature only reached 97° and didn’t top out over 100° until today. I’m not heat acclimated, being from the frozen north (“We come from the land of the ice and snow, from the midnight sun where the hot springs flow”). When the weather takes these turns we don’t know what to do with ourselves, other than to take off the remainder our clothes and go sit in a icily air-conditioned supermarket meat isle. Not that I have, but if the heat doesn’t break, the day may come soon. On my last stop, I was still cheerful, despite having my dress shirt clinging to me and playing “What’s that smell?” in the Honda. I ran into an older gentleman wearing the uniform of freedom, the wardrobe of “I won the war for you, so shedddup.” White undershirt, shorts/trunks, give-away baseball cap with the straight-starched bill, short black socks over a second pair of knee-length black socks and black safety shoes. He was standing in the sun, talking to whomever happened along about the heat.

To say that these folks don’t exist in more cosmopolitan cities is just not true. The black socks and safety shoe set is America’s greatest export to the world.  They’re everywhere, like armies of pasty white retirees ready to mow down the forces of darkness with their electric scooters. Maybe it was the heat, or just the sheer, blinding “aw, c’mon” of the situation, but I did start to ask the gentleman some questions, before I chickened out and drove away in the smellmobile. One serious question I wanted to ask regarded how I could avoid a similar fate. When my days working for the man are over, I want to donate the black socks to Goodwill and wear my Chuck Taylors everywhere. By then, I suppose, some under-40 know it all will call me out for wearing hopelessly out of date kicks and hanging around parking lots. Hopefully, I’ll have perfected my “shedddup.”

#Immigrant Song #Knee Length Men's Black Socks #Led Zeppelin #Michigan Weather #Midwest Heat Wave 2012 #Old Men In Black Socks

  When I was a strapping, long-haired hippy boy of 25, I was pretty smug about the aging process. At that time, I worked with a muscle-bound gentleman who attributed his physique to dietary supplements. One night, he turned to me and mentioned that he was, in fact 51 years old. Prior to that I had no idea.
“You know what keeps me fit?” he asked, in a way that indicated he was also hawking supplements as a sideline. Before I could answer, he held up a canister of bee pollen and told me how much he put on his shredded wheat every day. I read the canister and managed a “Wow! Well you’re really well-preserved. Keep that up!” The guy rolled his eyes and muttered “Well preserved, my a**.” Life went on and I finally now get the inappropriateness of my response.

I started to go gray late last year and my Pauly Walnut hair wings are starting to sport a kind of nice, even pewter tint. The term I’ve always heard to describe the gray-haired man is “distinguished.” This might be true if one was Roger Sterling, rich and able to do…the things that fictional character Roger Sterling does. There are great perks to the arrival of the gray age and the change in my appearance. For instance, Cialis ads are starting to make sense. I’ve asked my wife if we can get a couple of claw foot bathtubs for the backyard. Those commercials are shot through the cracked lens of societal expectations, though. Cialis is built on the 55/35 myth. The ads feature a man of middle age with a much younger woman. Not that I care, because I just really wants some indoor style antique plumbing for sitting around outside in. The Viagra man is an even less realistic expectation for the aging male. Those ads don’t even feature women. What are we now, the Marlboro Man? We ride, we rope, we start fires with rocks. There is the idea of companionship at the end of each commercial, but the time before that is spent alone with animals and cars. This is what it means to be the distinguished man. We can start fires and then go home and…I don’t know. The commercials haven’t explained that part. I may be older, and supposedly distinguished, but the virility supplement and pharmaceutical industries need to really paint by numbers for me. Distinguished my a**.

#Cialis Ads #Distinguished Middle Aged Men #Gray Hair #Roger Sterling #Viagra ads

I lift up my eyes to the mountains-where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth. –psalms 121:1-2

I’ve riffed on the subject of running and The Mad Monk Season many times, but the feeling is embedded so deep within my soul to get out and conquer the pavement that writing on it just seems like a natural extension. The Mad Monk Season is that time in running each summer when my focus narrows to life’s basics. Each day I give my all to family, especially my 9-year-old daughter Anna’s acting pursuits (she’s in a musical tonight. Go Anna!), to doing precedent setting work at my job and to meeting all of the strange and wonderful obligations that grown-up life has to offer. I make no bones during the summer training season, however, that my focus is honed in on three basic questions: How can I love God and give him everything each day while helping others be the best that they can be? How many games back are the Tigers? When can I go and run? There is no giving short shrift to anybody, just a paring of life down to the essentials. The idea is to lose weight spiritually and physically.

Today’s running music mix on my phone featured a completely great, but not really good for cadence song by Radiohead entitled “Subterranean Homesick Alien.”  I didn’t hit fast-forward, because I love the line

Up above
Aliens hover
Making home movies
For the folks back home,

Of all these weird creatures
Who lock up their spirits,
Drill holes in themselves
And live for their secrets.

Do we? Sometimes, watching out for the cracks in the pavement, I do just let it all go and abandon myself to the gifts God has given me and to the joy of running  itself. Sometimes, I’m only training to be human. A mad monk on no mission at all. The marathons will go fine when I get to them. (Lyrics from Radiohead’s “Subterranean Homesick Alien, 1997, OK Computer. Used without permission).

#Marathon PR #Marathon Running #My Help Comes From The Lord #Psalm 121 #Psalms #Radiohead #Running

0 Hiawatha

Last Wednesday I posted about being a solitary person and having a need at times to step back from life and just think. Over the days that followed, I drove deep into the woods of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, far past Mackinaw and the pasties, fudge and smoked fish that are meant to lure in us southern dwellers. Even though I am a Michigander by birth, my trips over the bridge to the U.P. have been few. The world of the Yoopers is different. Towns are few and far between and most consist of small grocery stores, or gas and bait shops that cater to hunters and fisherman on their way to lodges. Over a seventy mile stretch of two lane highway, a driver might only encounter five passing lanes. For the most part, if you get stuck driving behind tourists, there will  be a grinding wait before being able to pass the slow vehicle in front of your bumper.

Each morning on my visit to the U.P., I made a habit of waking up at six a.m. and then watching through the window for the first “barely there” strains of dawn. At half past, I’d lace up my running shoes and head out into the woods. After a half mile, I’d reach a paved road that wound its way through the Hiawatha National Forest. There are few times in life when I’ve felt so absolutely alone. The further I’d traipse away from the cabin, the more isolated I began to feel. The trees seemed to grow around and over me, only allowing the sunrise to break just a bit over their tops. I smelled nothing but the cool scent of piney woods wafting on the breeze mingled with the fish smell rolling off of the lakes. Alone in the woods, I wondered what would happen if I ran across a bear. After twenty minutes went by on the road without seeing a car or any dwellings, there arose a flutter of panic in me. Then it vanished. For the first time since living in Grand Teton as a young man, or the year spent roaming the Delaware Water Gap, did I feel truly at home. In emptiness, as well as in quiet, did I find peace and the realization that I am infinitely small in the vastness of God’s world. The world is and will continue to be and my small footprint is just…small.

On its margin the great forest
Stood reflected in the water,
Every tree-top had its shadow,
Motionless beneath the water.
From the brow of Hiawatha
Gone was every trace of sorrow,
As the fog from off the water,
And the mist from off the meadow.
With a smile of joy and triumph,
With a look of exultation,
As of one who in a vision
Sees what is to be, but is not,
Stood and waited Hiawatha. H.W. Longfellow, The Song of Hiawatha.