Real Rock Stars are Born

Last night was the first public performance of “Parallel Reflections”, a three piece band of 16 year olds. My son, Maxx, is the bass player. This group of kids has been friends since their elementary school days and they love one another like siblings born to different mothers.

The show was at a restaurant not far from where we live. The occasion was the 40th birthday party of Justin’s (the drummer) mom, Angie. She and her husband Rob allow the band to practice every weekend in their garage which is conveniently located miles from our house and mercifully out of earshot. The performance was the kids’ way of thanking her for her kindness and an opportunity for them to get over the hump of playing live for a real audience.

Parallel Reflections does all original material. They do not waste their time on covers. Being just another bar-band is not in the picture for them. The band writes all the music together in that chilly garage working out the riffs and rhythms as a group. The lyrics are primarily written by Jessie (she plays lead guitar and sings).

A couple of months ago the band laid down a few tracks in a studio essentially recording an “EP”. The songs are good and it is obvious to anyone who has an ear for lyrics they have something to say. Are they a mature group with polished numbers and catchy pop-hooks? Of course, not: they are just little kids. But they have potential.

Anyway, last night was the big show. I was a bit nervous, I don’t mind saying. Maxx is not the kind of kid who likes the spotlight and I thought he’d be having some pretty major stage-fright. Joy and I were thrilled he allowed us to go to the party and see the performance.

And, let me tell you, they brought the shit. These kids, kids I used to drive to and from soccer practice a few short years ago, played their songs to an audience of 50 or 60 adults like they’d been doing it for decades. The songs were tight, the energy was high and the crowd loved it.

Naturally, I was all over the place taking pictures and whooping and hollerin’ like a half-drunk Idiot. I’m quite sure I embarrassed myself in front of a room full of strangers, but the kids didn’t seem to mind. They know me and know how much I love them all, even the 2 that aren’t mine. I was so completely blown away and so utterly proud I couldn’t contain myself.

It was one of the greatest nights of my life. Joy and I are beside ourselves with pride and completely dumbfounded with the idea that, while we weren’t really paying attention, our boy found a passion and, with his closest friends, worked and created and worked some more so they could realize their collective vision.

I’m not spending a bunch of time getting all word-smithy on this piece; this one's not about me and how cleverly I can write words on a computer. This is about Jessie and Justin and Maxx.

You did yourselves proud.


from left to right: Maxx, Justin and Jessie

Rock on

Dear dude,

It’s been a while hasn’t it? 3 years, give or take a week. I can’t believe that much time has passed and, at the same time, it feels like forever.

Like the forever since you left us for what you believed would be relief; an escape from your troubles, from your pain, from yourself. And I hope it worked out like you wanted because, if that is the case, maybe it will make it seem worth it.

We have had our difficult times without you. Of course, the early going was torture. J and M and C and R were a wreck. And your sisters? Don’t get me started on how this affected them. That was a long, bad day when we laid you to rest.

Me? When C told me the news, I was leveled like I’d been hit in the stomach by a bowling-ball fired out of a canon.

But, being the good friend, husband, and father I have always tried to be, I got up as soon as I could and went back to work. Rub a little dirt on it and walk it off, I thought. I found comfort in my routines. I liked to think I was setting an example from which others would draw strength. But now I know, I was just running: running as fast and as hard as I could, but getting nowhere.

Another downside to my particular coping technique? I delayed my own processing of the pain. So, over time, as my loved ones were beginning to come up out of their depths of despair, I was just beginning to sink. And sink I did.

It really caught up to me last spring. I was suddenly overwhelmed by a profound sadness unlike anything I’ve ever known before. I reached out to a couple of friends during the darker days, but was careful to not drag anyone back down with me. It helped to get it off my chest, but I still felt terribly sad and depressed. And it’s been lingering around since.

And, no amount of alcohol can wash it away. Self-medication doesn’t work. But you already know that.

For months now I haven’t been able to look at the pictures of you we have around the house. The one I keep on my desk? I’ve had to lay it face down many times. And forget looking at the video of that vacation we all took together back in ’91. No fuckin way I could have gotten through it.

I know you know that, if I could have, I would have done everything in my power to have saved you. You had my love and the love of your family and our friends but it wasn’t enough. There was nothing more that we could have given you. I understand that today. Finally.

So, what now? Now I move on. And so do you.

I’m ready to reflect back on our time together with a fondness rather than dread the memories and the pain they have brought. You must go now so that I may once again think of our friendship with joy in my heart. Grief has stolen the happiness being your friend brought me, and I want it back.

Rest in peace, my dear friend. It was a gas while it lasted.

Ian

On the Line (in a Fiction Factory)

Boxes roll down the line never ending. Stack and count. This is my job. Stack and count, stack and count, stack and count…

I wish I had little trap door in my skull. When a negative idea found purchase in my brain, I would push a button and the thought would tumble to the floor next to my big brown boots. Then I would step on it, twisting my steel-toe like I was snuffing out a cigarette. That would be cool.

But it’s not real. I may be mad, but I’m not stupid. I know the difference between fantasy and reality (I think).

I am forever stuck with my brain and my thoughts. I know they are poison. Eventually, they will bring me to an end, or to, at least, a transition, and it won’t be pretty. You will know it when you see it happening to me. You might think (or even say out loud), as I am mauled by security and thrown out into the street, “What the hell happened to that guy? He seemed OK the last time I saw him.”

With your nine-to-five normal brain you might think that it’s only been a day or two, perhaps a week, since we shared a few moments and you bought me a coffee, but you know what? It’s been six months. Two entire seasons have come and gone. Spring rain turned to summer heat-waves and I stood here dumb on my mat waiting for my friend. Patiently I waited and hoped for the generous offer of a ride to the bus stop. Maybe we would have had a nice bit of conversation, you and me. Maybe not. Either way would have been OK; I’ve never needed a lot of chit-chat to enjoy the company of another.

I get it: you are a busy man now. You have the job. You have the people. You have the responsibilities. I have seen you working many times while I stood alone. On the line. Stack and count.

The numbing work puts my mind at ease most days. It consumes my mental energy which is something of a relief. When we worked next to one another, the boredom made you only want to talk more while I could barely stay awake. That’s funny, isn’t it? I always thought it was.

Boxes roll down the line never ending. Stack and count, stack and count. It’s only me now. Stack and count, stack and count…

It’s terribly loud in this room. The earplugs I'm supposed to wear to protect my hearing give the thoughts opportunity to whisper their message unhindered. Sometimes they are not so well behaved and they scream. And that’s when I am most afraid.

Of course, your position changes everything. Your days watching machines hump product down-stream for packing are over and now you watch from afar. You have done well for yourself. I am proud of you. I wish you had some time. For me. Maybe you could sneak away from your worries for just a few minutes and we could have a smoke out back and laugh, like before. Do you remember how we laughed? I do.

Boxes roll down the line never ending. Stack and count. This is my job. Stack and count, stack and count, stack and count…

The Crossover

It’s all so transient. Everything we see, do, and are, exists in a constant state of change. Like ourselves, everyone we know is on their own road and moving forward too; writing their own stories; coloring in the lines of their life. The thrill in it all is that, as we motor along, we occasionally drift over the center-line and bump into one another.

Sometimes these encounters remind me of cars crashing at a figure-eight demolition derby. Two seemingly healthy individuals violently collide at a crossroad and come away damaged; less able to navigate the remainder of the course, they wobble along and their pace diminishes as they leak tears of oil and radiator fluid.

But then there are times when the impact is absorbed by a giving of ground and an embracing of each others’ hard edges of steel and glass. In these cases, the participants each benefit and are comforted by their union. Together they are stronger than either can be alone.

The hope for those affirming connections is what drives us. But it takes guts to steer yourself into on-coming traffic. Will the result of the contact be positive or negative? I don’t think we can ever know for sure. Is it worth the risk? You tell me.

Heaven Beside You*

I don’t enjoy flying and yet, I find myself having to do it with some regularity, and usually for business purposes. It’s not that I am afraid of flying to the point of being a white-knuckler, it’s just that I find the whole idea to be a little screwy and ill advised. Airplanes go down from time-to-time, and when they do, there are rarely survivors.

Now, you logic-based thinkers and aerospace engineers can quote me statistics and thrust-to-lift ratios all day, and as long as I’m comfortably standing with my monkey-feet on the ground, I’ll agree with your theories, and say things like, “well, of course” and “you’ve got a valid point there”. But when I get to the airport? I’m stopping at the first bar I see for a pint of courage. I don’t think it’s any coincidence that airports are full of bars. Even the airport in Salt Lake City has them. There’s one every fifty feet. And the fact that they serve drinks on the plane only goes to support my thinking.

When I get to a boarding gate and I’m waiting, I suddenly and temporarily find religion (I know, I know, you can save the speech). I look about the seating area at all the others who will be climbing aboard with me and I search for passengers who I think might give me some good luck: There’s a cute little baby. God wouldn’t let us go down if He knew she was on the plane. Or, oh look, a honeymoon couple just starting their lives together. What divine entity would cut short the happy union of two such young and lovely people? And you can’t fool me; I’m not the only one playing this little mind game. I can see everyone else is doing it too. Maybe there’s no such thing as atheists in airports.

So, the other day I have to catch a flight from San Diego back home to the wilds of the northwest. I was running a bit late and so had to race through security and ignore all the watering holes as I headed to the gate at a near-run (which is never fun in dress shoes).

Fortunately, I’d been bumped up to first-class (which I figure is a good sign from the Lord to begin with), so I was feeling OK about the idea of the impending trip. After showing my boarding pass, I zipped down the jet-way into the plane. Seat 1-D: first row, on the aisle; fecking beautiful. I hustle my pack into the overhead and plop my ass down as I wonder if there would be pre-flight libations.

There was a gent already seated next to me on the window to my left. I gave him the quick peripheral-perusal sizing him up to determine if I was going to have to worry about small-talk. In a flash I realize a most amazing thing had occurred: God, or Krishna, or Yaweh, or Fate, or Elvis had seated me next to a goddamn priest! White starchy collar and all. Glory, glory, halle-fuckin-lujah! This is the best sign EVER! Holy-shit, I thought, what are the odds?! And, as if that weren’t enough, the good Father was studying a Bible. It. Was. Awesome.

After we lifted-off and were well into our climb to cruising altitude, I noticed the Padre never looked up from the book (except to occasionally assess the level of wine in his glass). It was like he was reading it for the first time (maybe things change in it from time-to-time? Maybe God, with his super-hero powers, likes to scramble pages and passages to see who is paying attention?).

Anyway, about an hour into the flight, I glanced over toward the priest and caught the view out the window just past his left shoulder. It was a gorgeous sunset. I was transfixed as I watched the sky change from firey-yellow to the color of persimmons and finally to a rich, deep ruby-red. It was truly breathtaking. I knew then, everything was going to be fine and that we would all make it home.

I thought, as I watched this spectacle of nature transpire before my eyes, I should interrupt the Father’s reading of his good book so he might enjoy the sunset too. But then I realized it was pointless. We all look for our solace in different places and Heaven is where you find it. For me? I’ll take the miracle that is today over the promise of a better tomorrow anytime.


*Title used without permission of Alice in Chains (I figure I’m probably going to hell after this one so what’s a little copyright infringement?).