Double Nickels

Run, rabbit run
Dig that hole, forget the sun
And when at last the work is done
Don't sit down
It's time to dig another one

For long you live and high you fly
But only if you ride the tide
And balanced on the biggest wave
You race towards an early grave

^{Breathe  |  Pink Floyd  |  Dark Side of the Moon  |  © 1973 Roger Waters}

The Daily Grind
It’s a complex dance, yet one so familiar and well-practiced that we rarely stop to even give it the briefest of consideration in our work-a-day world.

Gotta go to work.

The biblical account of Adam and Eve explains that it’s The Curse in action; the realization of God’s decree in Genesis 3:19, upon Adam and Eve’s expulsion from The Garden:

By the sweat of your face
You will eat bread,
Till you return to the ground,
Because from it you were taken;
For you are dust,
And to dust you shall return.

^{New American Standard Bible}

Some of us live to work, but all of us in one form or another, work to live.

For most in modern society, whether you’re a member of the nine-to-five, swing shift, or graveyard crowd, we all put in our time — figuratively or literally — punching the clock. We scratch out our existence; some of us working for The Man, and others of us, being The Man.

But while such harsh metaphors of employment are hardly the reality for most of us blessed to live here in 21st century America, the concept has, and always will be, relative.

And even as Roger Waters’ brilliantly poignant lyrics to the nature of our everyday existence speak to the more-or-less metaphysical aspect of the treadmill we call subsistence, yet another rock group, the 80s hair band, Loverboy ironically distills the concept to a much more immediate, corporeal, single statement (although they probably didn’t intend it that way):

Everybody’s workin’ for the weekend.

And indeed we are.

Ever consider the paradox in how many of us view our jobs? Every Monday morning we wish it was Friday, and every Sunday night we wish the weekend was just one day longer. Finally, one day we wake up and realize that every work week we pray will pass quickly is five less days we have left in our lives to enjoy; to experience; to celebrate who we are and why we’re here.

Kinda sobering, ain’t it?

Workin’ Fool
I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds in assuming that most people think as I do on the subject, but if you don’t, I’m sorry, however, I’m actually quite happy for you at the same time.

It’s just that after 33 years of official membership in the working class, supporting myself and my family, and being inexorably connected to the mass vibe of America’s commerce machine, I believe I’m qualified to go out on a limb and say that, given the chance, the vast majority of Americans would opt out of their usual existence if they could. In other words, we work because we have to, not because we want to.

Of course there are exceptions to the rule. Some people do indeed love their jobs and hopefully, not everyone hates what they have to do to earn a buck. I, for example have always loved the fact that I’ve basically made a career out of doing what I’ve always wanted to do. That’s a real advantage in the quality of life department for yours truly and something I am indeed grateful for.

I’ve been blessed to have achieved what I considered among my ‘dream jobs’ on two separate occasions, in two related, yet distinct fields. Each was challenging, each was exciting, and each was gratifyingly successful.

But given even my own experiences, I know that the notion of the truism, “Find the job that you truly love and you’ll never ‘work’ a day in your life,” is little more than type-‘A’-personality bullshit. Most of us are far too lazy and much too selfish ever to choose spending 40-60 hours a week making somebody else rich, over logging that same amount of ‘me time’ in its place

Than being said, just because I’m not stuck digging ditches for a living (not that there’s anything wrong with that, mind you), don't think for a minute that if I ever won the lottery (or some other nonsensical pipe-dream that will never happen), that I would miss the work-a-day grind for even a millisecond.

No way, Jose.

I am of an age in which I’ve accomplished more than enough to make me feel as though my life has been worthwhile. And while I might not be counting the days until retirement (mainly because it’s been a long time since I took math in school and I’ve sorta forgotten how to count that high), I am most definitely looking forward to that time when it finally does arrive.

I still can’t drive…55
So what does all this face-sweatin’, run-rabbit-runnin’, work-a-day-hatin’ business have to do with the subject of small change and/or highway speed limit signs? They’re all associated with a journey — the journey — upon which you and I each embark in order to get where we’re going to in this life. The way that we respond to these cues more often than not can dictate not only the enjoyment of the ride, but the quality of the vehicle in which we’re asked to travel as well (...both literally and figuratively).

So why the even-more-intense-than-usual-navel-gazing-metaphysi-babble subject matter today, you ask? Well, as far as that aforementioned journey is concerned, as of today I'd have to consider myself a little better than two-thirds of the way home, so it’s kinda heavy on my mind. Today is my birthday. I’m 55 years old, and for the first time in my life I can honestly say, I’m not all that ‘happy’ about it.

I am none too thrilled about the speed at which time is passing. I am particularly not jazzed about the fact that now, the longing for time to think and to write and to do the things that I want to do is, essentially, tantamount to hitting the fast-forward button of my lifespan — skipping over the ‘now’ in favor of the ‘later,’ when life will be simpler; when I no longer have to run the treadmill; when I’ll likely be too old to really enjoy it.

And I guess what bugs me the most is that I’m realizing that I’ve now become the person I always used to make fun of; the one who insists on re-celebrating his or her 39th birthday each year; the one who wants time to stop instead of embracing old age gracefully.

Some may point to ‘50’ or perhaps ‘65’ as the most momentous of latter-year landmarks in a person’s life. However, for me, ‘55’ is the big one.

‘50’ was a piece ‘a cake; my life almost literally began at ‘40’; I was still trustworthy when I hit the big ‘3-0’.

But ‘55’? Please. Somebody cue Sammy Hagar.

This is the day I officially hit the backside of the hill; this is the year in my life that initiates, statistically, the accompaniment of exponentially fewer chances that I’ll live long enough to see another one.

I knew that this day would come; I just thought I’d be better prepared; I always figured that I would sort of grow into the part a little more — you know — like actually feeling 55?

Instead, it’s like someone went back to 1991 and threw me into some damned time machine, then dropped me off here in 2011 and announced, “Congratulations, AJ, you’ve hit double-nickels. Averages say you now have 22.9 years left to live (if you’re lucky). Oh, and so sorry that the last 20 years of your life have been a blur, but get used to it; the next 20 will go even faster.”

My Forties: The Good Ol’ Days?
Remember how momentous just the the idea of the impending dawn of the new millennium seemed, years before it happened (and then quickly became old hat)? Long before the late 90s doomsday hubbub surrounding the computer implications of Y2K became the subject of near-mass panic, I can clearly recall thinking about the year 2000 way back in the 70s and 80s, realizing that I’d be the ‘ancient’ age of 43 when we finally hit the turn of the century. “Wow,” I thought. “I’ll be so old by then. I wonder how I’ll feel...” (as I imagined myself all wrinkly, with gray hair and liver spots).

Hell, are you kidding? 2000-2005 were among the very best, most life-affirming, productive, and liberating years evAR for me! Outside of my early 20s, there were no better ‘good ol’ days’ than my early-mid-to-late 40s. It was a time in my life when I experienced and felt many different things, but never, ever, was ‘feeling old’ among them.

And to be honest, I still don’t; I feel and think of myself as the same guy I was 25, 30, even 35 years ago. But that’s just the problem — the calendar (with an assist from the mirror) says otherwise.

Of course I’m being more than a little melodramatic here, but you get the point. Everything is relative, and particularly in our culture, hitting your mid-fifties is hardly tantamount to loitering at death’s door. Nonetheless, to ignore reality at this point in life and continue thinking that I’ll simply go on, unaffected by time’s incessant march is the most absolute definition of folly.

However, I’m not looking for a pity-party here on my birthday. After all, there’s nothing magical — or fatal — about reaching the age of 55. It’s just that with such a major mile-marker on the road of my life now in the rear-view mirror, I kinda felt that I should acknowledge — to myself if to no one else — that feeling like I’m 32 should never be confused with believing I still am.

My American Dream
Again, in the event that this post’s intent somehow became obscured in the firmament of sparkling anticipation for my golden years, let me repeat: this really isn’t a woe is me kinda post. It’s actually a celebration; a celebration of simple reality despite my oft-not-so-simple way of dealing with it. I am actually much happier and satisfied with how my life has turned out than that twenty-something kid who once wondered about Y2K ever imagined he would be.

Have all of my dreams come true? Hardly; but a lot of them did. But don’t get me wrong — I haven’t stopped dreaming; it’s just that now, my goals are more practical, and a lot less costly — both physically and spiritually. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my 55 years on this rock; my greatest ongoing dream is to see to it that I never make them again.

At this point, I figure that I yam what I yam, financially; I’m firmly ensconced in the middle class and that’s more than okay with me. There’s no Mercedes in my future — not that I have ever honestly wanted to own one. I have no more dragons to slay; no more truly daunting mountains to climb. And to be perfectly honest, I never really had many to begin with. I’ve always been much more about keeping my life simple; about being happy, and humble, and most of all, realistic.

I’ve never made a lot of money, but I’ve been rich for quite awhile.

My American Dream is my wife, Michelle, my kids, Shawn and Amy, and the aforementioned fact that I have indeed experienced my dream career; twice. I may not be the very best at what I do, but I’m confident that I’m better than most, and that’s okay too because something else that I did years ago pretty well filled that oftentimes silly compulsion we Americans seem to feel is our birthright.

I was a collegiate national champion in my sport of choice, gymnastics. As a rings specialist, I performed a skill on that apparatus that, in the opinion of a few people who would know, had never been performed in the same way by anyone else, before or since. And that, right there, is more than most people would require to feel as though they’ve accomplished something.

But before you wag your head and say, “Oye, there goes AJ bragging about gymnastics again,” let me stop you and say that you’re missing the point. I don’t walk around the house, wearing my gymnastics medals nor is it the first thing I bring up in conversation with the man on the street. I don’t need to employ athletic accomplishment as a crutch to make me feel special, but there’s no denying that it does. I don’t live on past glories, yet I continue to be fulfilled by them in a most wonderfully contented way.

However, that’s nothing compared to how rich and how blessed I feel to be married to Michelle, now for 32 and a half years, and for having successfully raised two incredible, beautiful, and talented children. And buddy, that’s worthy of bragging about, right there. Michelle is the game-changer in my life; she is the reason you should ALL be bummed out that you’re not me.

Comparatively speaking, all the shiny gold medals in the world can’t hold a candle to that accomplishment.

The cynics among you may dog me for being so easily satisfied; for not pushing myself more, but you can’t touch how truly happy I am to have what I have and to have done what I have done. I may not have all the toys that often mark the success other of men my age, but I also don’t have the bills, the heartburn, and the pressure that comes with it, following you around like a pet.

I have fought the good fight; I have kept the faith, and I ain’t finished yet.

I am 55 and I am content.

It may all be downhill from here, but I’m pretty sure that I’m gonna enjoy the ride.

*     *     *     *     *

finis

For the 11,680th Time, Marry Me?

Mixed Messages
I know I haven't officially announced it here yet, but something wonderful is in the offing. This past February 14th, my daughter, Amy, became engaged to a young man that Michelle and I both approve of and like very much. No official wedding date has been set as of yet, but if the stars align properly, it’ll be sometime late this fall.

Naturally, for about a month now, the wheels have been spinning in earnest amongst my two favorite females. It’s an extremely exciting time for Michelle and me. We, like most parents, I would assume, will be experiencing a rite of parental passage unlike anything else in seeing our daughter make that all-important next step in her life; in many ways becoming the complete person she’s always dreamed of being.

But believe it or not, that’s really not what this post is about.

There’s another blessed event to be celebrated, today, as a matter of fact. It’s an annual event that is at the same time exhilarating and frustrating for yours truly: Michelle and my wedding Anniversary.

Exhilarating, because it still gives me the same goosebumps and lump in my throat that it did on St. Paddy’s Day, 32 years ago today, when I stood before a brightly sunlit window, gazing into the morning sky and pronouncing, vocally, “I’m getting married today, and my life will never be the same.” And 11,680 days later, indeed it has not been.

However, it’s frustrating as well, as this year, like many of the years before, the most we can afford to do to celebrate our anniversary is go out to dinner and exchange heartfelt sentiments via the poignant-as-we-can-find anniversary cards from the local card store.

But this year (knock on wood) the reason is a good one; I started a new job after more than a year of unemployment, after being laid off by The Company I had worked for eleven years previous. I’m still in my 90-day probationary period, so I don’t have any available vacay days until the first of next month.

So we’ll perhaps postpone any plans of a real celebration for later on in the year, when I do have plans and will take Michelle on a genuine vacation. We just can’t do it now.

However, to be honest, it’s not like we never do anything special on our anniversary. We’ve managed to celebrate the ‘big ones’ like the 10th, 20th, and 30th in style. The most recent of course being the weekend we were able to enjoy at the Opryland Hotel two years ago. Now THAT was fun, and something I really want to do again. I guess once you get the taste for something like that, it makes subsequent occasions when you don't do it seem that much less satisfying. But no doubt I’m being harder on myself than I probably need to be.

Michelle is no diva. She’s not high-maintenance. She is as unassuming and undemanding as a man could want in a life partner. Each and every day she makes me realize what an incredibly lucky guy I am to be the man she chose to love for the rest of her life.

And thus is revealed the twain of my daughter’s impending nuptials and the anniversary that marks 59% of Michelle’s and my current lifespan, spent together.

Wait. Did I say twain? I meant Train.

Early Adoption
I could (and likely will, someday) devote an entire post to my longstanding admiration for a band from San Francisco that was more or less discovered in Nashville.

Some of my fondest musical experiences in this town occurred in the late 90s, during a series of music festivals designed to highlight local and regional, unsigned talent: the late, great NEA Extravaganza. It was a week-long celebration of nightly, multiple-venue showcases that was wildly popular in Music City before petering out near the decade’s end. Music industry officials mixed with fans in packed clubs and concert halls throughout downtown Nashville, hoping to see ‘the next big thing’. For music hounds like moi, it was beyond great.

At NEA’s 1998 festival, Train headlined the Aware Records Show at 328 Performance Hall. Within a few months of that appearance, the band was signed, and hits like Meet Virginia were all over the radio, nationally.

Without hijacking the story any further at this point, let me just say, I came, I saw, and I was smitten, particularly when soon thereafter, Train also performed a free, Who’s on 3rd show, at 3rd & Lindsley Bar and Grill. That evening nearly everyone in attendance got the chance to meet the band, and came away really feeling as though they’d gotten in on the ground floor of something special.

From the subsequent release of their 1998 self-titled debut album to their current, 2010 smash release, Save Me San Francisco, Train has subsequently established itself as one of the great American pop bands of their era.

Lead singer, Patrick Monahan’s soulful, yet wildly resourceful voice is unlike any other I’ve ever heard, and particularly on their current effort, runs a gamut I previously didn't believe possible.

However, it was the lyrics to one of his new new songs, one bearing his trademark improvisational style, that really wowed me.

Guilty Pleasure
I’ll have to admit it, my wife has won me over on a few TeeVee shows I once swore to myself I’d never watch. One is ABC’s, The Bachelor. I started watching it with her three years ago while, in the midst of moving into our new house, we had to spend six months in an apartment, with but one decent TeeVee to watch.

This season’s finale was last Monday night, and as part of the final video montage of bliss, depicting glimpses of the reality series’ final contestants’ love connection, a tender ballad played in the background.

It was soft enough (and my hearing is bad enough) that I couldn't quite make out who the artist was. However, what was clear was the predominant phrase in the song’s chorus: Marry Me.

It was totally appropriate as The Bachelor season’s swan song, as Brad, the young man looking for love, made no bones about the fact that he was looking for permanent love; he was looking for a wife.

When we heard the song, Michelle and I immediately looked at each other and said, nearly in unison, “What a cool song!” We didn’t have to state the obvious; we were thinking bout Amy’s wedding.

Michelle immediately commissioned me to find out who sang that song and where we could get it. I agreed and began searching online. I was both delighted and embarrassed that top Google search result for “Marry Me” was a YouTube link to the video below:



I was obviously delighted because it was so easy to find. There were several links to Train’s official website in reference to the song. A little further down the page was yet another link to a The Bachelor-related blog that confirmed the song’s appearance in season finale episode, suggesting that “...we’ll always associate this song with The Bachelor.”

Weeel, maybe, maybe not.

By now you might be wondering, if I claim to be such a dedicated Train fan, why I didn’t immediately identify the artist when my wife asked; surely I already owned Save Me San Francisco, right? How come I didn’t know the song?

Well, that’s the embarrassing part. Fact is, I knew that Train had come out with a new album last fall. However, buying music wasn’t quite at the top of my disposable income budget during the previous year and a half, when I was out of work for 14 months.

Sorry, My bad.

However the song is definitely on my radar now; in fact I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it for the last three days.

After watching the awesome video and investigating the lyrics, I have decided that whether Amy wants Marry Me to be played at her wedding doesn’t matter; I now associate this song with my marriage instead.

You see it’s not about one special day. It’s not even about a single marriage proposal. It’s about the daily commitment; the daily renewal of the ever-elastic bond of marriage; it’s about is the way I feel toward my wife.

Thanks to Train for putting into words what was for me, a previously indescribable feeling; for one of the greatest Anniversary gifts I could ever receive, or give.

And today, for the 11,680th time, I give it to you, Michelle.

Happy 32nd Anniversary, Sweetheart.


Forever can never be long enough for me
To feel like I've had long enough with you

Forget the world now we won't let them see
But there's one thing left to do

Now that the weight has lifted
Love has surely shifted my way

Marry Me
Today and every day

Marry Me
If I ever get the nerve to say
Hello in this cafe

Say you will...Say you will

Together can never be close enough for me
To feel like I am close enough to you

You wear white and I'll wear out the words I love
And you're beautiful

Now that the wait is over
And love and has finally shown her my way

Marry me
Today and every day

Marry me
If I ever get the nerve to say hello in this cafe

Say you will...Say you will

Promise me
You'll always be
Happy by my side

I promise to
Sing to you
When all the music dies

And marry me
Today and everyday

Marry me
If I ever get the nerve to say hello in this cafe

Say you will...Say you will

Marry me

_{Words & Music © 2010 Partick Monahan and Train}


finis

It Was Twenty-Eight Years Ago Today

I was standing in front of the bedroom window in the California apartment where we would soon begin our life-trek together. The early morning sun streamed through the glass; I felt its warmth upon on my face, much as I did standing before the sliding glass door this morning, here in our current Tennessee home.

I remember thinking, “Today is the most important day of my life. Today everything changes. Today I’m getting married.”

And despite all the frustration, heartache, strife and malaise that has visited us off-and-on these past twenty-eight years, I still feel that same joy, that same excitement, the same thankfulness whenever I recall that wonderful moment; the moment when it really sunk in that my life would forever be changed by the woman God gave me to share my life with.

A woman who would bear my two wonderfully kind, gifted and vibrant children; a woman who would become the driving force in my life to slowly undo the not-so-positive conditioning of a passive father and mind-controlling stepmother, allowing me to become my own person, all the while weathering my passive-aggressive best attempts to resist her at nearly every turn.

A woman I truly adore.

That woman is you, Michelle.

Happy Anniversary.

So many stories, so little time...

Hmmm…so I already used the line about the dog eating my homework, huh?
This is another impromptu post; another one of those stream-of-consciousness diaryesque spiels I find I need to write every so often, just to open up my head and see what I’m thinking. Not that I feel the need to apologize for my absence — I gave up that guilt trip long ago — but I do need to explain it, to myself if to no one else.

I had been writing since yesterday, trying to complete my current series, which in all honesty, I believed had languished simply because I had become bored with it. However now that I've gotten back into the flow, it's coming along a just fine. Hopefully I’ll have something posted soon.

But what I’ve decided was the real source of my recent writer’s block is not boredom, but rather information overload. There is just so much going on in my life that I want to talk about, so much to reflect upon, I simply don’t know where to start. I just want to put everything else on hold, but my half-cocked obsessive sense of order just won’t allow me to do it. If I had my way, I would go on a week-long writing bender; drink a gallon of coffee a day and probably age ten years in the process, not to mention wreck my marriage while I was at it (Michelle and I had an interesting discussion about that, by the way, that I’ll have to write about at some point soon).

I always thought it was a cliché reserved only for the old and bent, but I can truly say now that I understand what my Mom meant when she used to say, “There just aren’t enough hours in the day.” There simply aren’t. I have no idea when somebody decided to speed up the clocks, but my days literally fly by now. It doesn’t seem fair. Weekends aren’t long enough. Vacations seem like weekends. I’m really starting to grasp my own mortality, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. However it does serve to be a wonderful impetus to write. There is truly just so very much I want to say. I simply don’t seem to have the time.

The primary culprit is my job. I have been placed in a position of such uncertainty, yet with so much opportunity, I dare not screw it up. I have been challenged by my new boss to step outside the box that I’ve been comfortably huddled in for at least the past five years. She has given me the permission to do what I’ve said I have wanted to do ever since I started working there, but had never found the support to accomplish. Now it’s up to me. Problem is, during the time I was complaining about not having the means, I allowed myself to fall so far behind on the technologies needed to accomplish these initiatives that I’ve been caught somewhat flat-footed. It's put up or shut up, and buddy, I'm puttin’ as hard as I can.

Every free hour I’ve had at work, in addition to a few nights and weekends, I’ve spent studying; scouring the Web for any tips, tricks, or tutorials I could lay my fingers on. I’ve made some strides, but I still have a long way to go, and not a lot of time left to get there.

Quite frankly, I feel my job is secure, but if I play it safe, that security may not last. What’s more, the prospect of turning fifty this year and possibly looking for a new job is not something I find particularly attractive.

Therefore my nose has been to the grindstone, each and every day. And those fifteen-minutes-that-usually-turned-into-an-hour here and there during which I used to write during the workday have now ceased to be. I know I had related that before, but now it truly is a reality. Now the weekend is my only devoted time in which to write, and even that has been challenged and will only be more so as summer and its clarion call of yard work reasserts itself into my weekly routine.

Music has also played a big role, both in its occupation of my free time and my exasperation over the inability to write about it. I’ve been to some fabulous concerts, musical plays and movies over the past three weeks that I most definitely will be writing about in the future. I would like to blend those stories in with some other as-yet-not-written remembrances of shows that I’ve attended as far back as the Fall of 2004, which never got written but for my entrenchment in still other long and emotionally taxing series that I couldn’t seem to pry myself away from. I know, I know; it’s a sickness. But it’s my sickness, and it’s a part of myself that I actually kinda like, so I deal with it.

And speaking of concerts, the story of the very first rock concert I ever attended (which was also a large part of the genesis for this blog), has been solicited to be a part of a new Rock Music retrospective on the Web by a music historian in the UK who found me here on Blogspot. Pretty cool, huh? I only received the e-mail from him yesterday, so I really don’t know where it will go — if anywhere — from this point. But again, it’s nice to know that there are indeed people out there who are reading. I’ll have more to say if and when it happens.

My marriage (Michelle and I celebrated our 27th Wedding Anniversary last Friday); my job; my kids; my aunts and uncles; my brother Alex; my music. I have stories in my head right now that I want to write on all of them. But time is not on my side. Guess I have to just get back on the saddle and ride as far as ‘Ole Paint will carry me, one story at a time.