The Joshua Tree 2017

Its been almost a week and I still can't stop thinking about U2's concert at AT&T Stadium on Friday night. The images, the sounds, the emotions, they won't leave me. Not that I want them to.

There are only a few full circle moments in life. Moments where you see the beginning from the end, where you are transported back to a time when you were much younger, but with the benefit of years of experience gained along the way.  In many ways and for many reasons, this show was a full circle moment in my life.

Back in 2015 I posted on this blog a musical bucket list. These were the top artists that I wanted to see before I, or they, kicked the bucket. U2 was number two on the list, only behind fellow countryman Van Morrison. This is what I wrote:

"I had the chance to see U2 once, back when U2 was EVERYTHING to me. I had a ticket to their sold out show at Tarrant County Convention Center when they were touring in support of the Joshua Tree. November 24, 1987. Unfortunately, I had received a speeding ticket the previous week and my father grounded me from the concert. A friend of mine sold my ticket for face value and I have resented my dad ever since.   I know U2 still tours and perhaps one day I will see them perform, but it won't mean what it would have meant to me when I was seventeen."

 It had to be U2.

The most important band of my generation.  The band of my passionate youth. The band that woke the American conscience on a cold night at Red Rocks. The band that carried the banner of love, peace and pride for the sons and daughters of those who had lost their way. The band that fed the world. This band is the only band that could make me feel seventeen again, and for two hours that is exactly what they did.  From the opening drum kick of "Sunday Bloody Sunday" to the final sing along rock-out of "I Will Follow" I was taken back in time. This was the show I had been waiting 30 years to see, and it was so worth it.

It had to be "The Joshua Tree"

U2 at their zenith. I was, or course, a huge fan before this album was released but "The Joshua Tree" was such a culmination, a fully realized vision. This was the perfect music, in the perfect moment, in the perfect location to remind us all that America is a wonderland. A land of mystery and myth, of big sky and bigger dreams. It was at once a loving portrait and a dissection. It transcended radio and MTV and managed to weave itself in the fabric of my life. I memorized it to such a degree that even if I did not have my Walkman handy, I could play the entire album in my head. It was and is, a masterpiece.

It had to be my wife.

Here's the thing that strikes me as I type away next to my sleeping wife, the people I have connected with over U2 are all people I have loved.  There was Doni Jandl, the girl I crushed so hard for as a sophomore in high school. I loved her, she loved Larry Mullen Jr. She was the first U2 superfan I ever knew. At first, I was interested in U2 because I was interested in her, later I grew to appreciate them on my very own, which is good because Doni never became interested in me.   There was Travis Williams, my best friend from those days. We would spend hours listening to U2 while he tried to copy the drum parts on his snare, because that was the only drum he had. He is the one that said Bono could sing opera if he wanted to, and he was right.  Then there was Erica Carson. Erica was another one of my crushes, this time as a senior. She was super intelligent, pretty, and of course, out of my league. We were friends though, good friends. She was the friend I was going to the show with that fateful November evening in 1987.  After I missed the show, we went our separate ways. I think she went to Princeton, while I attended Princeton on the Pond, i.e. Tarrant County College Northwest Campus.

So it had to be my wife who was sitting next to me this time around. The woman who bought the tickets so we could go, the woman who, even though she is not a big U2 fan, wanted to see the look on my face when I finally witnessed them hitting the stage.  The woman who smiled because I could not stop smiling. The woman who has given me two daughters that I thought about when the band played "Ultraviolet" and images of great women spread across the massive screen. She is my biggest love.  She completes the circle.

So thank you U2. Thank you for bringing it all back around again. Thanks for reminding me how much music matters, how much it holds the power for change and for goodness and grace.  How it can make you feel like a kid again. By the way, dad, you are forgiven. I know you were only doing what you felt was right.

The Ticket and Me: Part 2 (Or Part 1 of Part 2)

Thanks for being patient.  Life has forced me into the fast lane and out of memory lane for the last couple of months.  But with just a little time on my hands I wanted to continue to remember my time at The Ticket, which turned 23 this year.

After being let go from the station in January of 1996, I was a little lost.  I had tapes and resumes out there, but not many offers, back then there was only one sports station in town and I was narrow minded and arrogant enough to believe that not only did I belong in town, but I only really wanted to be a sports guy. (Side note: if you want to stay employed in broadcasting, best to be able to do a little bit of everything. Over the years I have done news, weather, traffic, and the always difficult to execute "traffic and weather together." I have done promotions, emcee duties, public address announcing.  I have done play-by-play for high school girls softball on the internet, to high level college and minor league sports on ESPN News, ESPN 3, Fox Sports Southwest, etc. In other words, have voice, will travel)

For not the first, or the last time in my career, I got very lucky in March of 1996.  Since The Ticket and KRLD/TSN were owned by the same company, management had made the decision to move the Kate Delaney show to the Texas State Network.  She would still be heard on The Ticket, but now she was being syndicated statewide.  TSN needed a sports anchor for her show and someone to cover games, edit tape, and handle a few morning and evening sports casts for the network. The program director at The Ticket recommended me to the director over at TSN and from there I was off to the races.  A new job with some of the old perks, it was a great deal.

I spent three years at KRLD/TSN.  Fairly early in my tenure KRLD/TSN and The Ticket went their separate ways due to ownership changes.  I was no longer being heard on The Ticket, but I had a great job.  I would come into work about 2:00 PM and prep some afternoon sports updates for TSN.  After doing the updates, I would head out to whatever game happened to be in town that night. During the fall and winter I spent most of my nights at Reunion Arena covering either the Mavericks or the Stars.  I also went to a lot of TCU and SMU basketball games and events like the Texas/OU Classic at the Cotton Bowl.  During the summer, the majority of my nights were spent at The Ballpark in Arlington.  This made sense. KRLD was the radio home of the Rangers at the time and the KRLD/TSN studios were at the Ballpark. I literally walked out our back door into the concourse area behind Greene's Hill in center field.

I loved, LOVED covering the Rangers. The Ballpark was still almost brand new, the team was turning into a winner under Johnny Oates and in fact, would win their first Division title in the fall of 1996. I was privileged to be in the locker room that night.  Summer nights at the ballpark are just about as good as it gets, especially when the hot dogs and sodas are free and you get to sit in an air conditioned booth right above home plate.  The Rangers press box had an empty booth that was only used very sparingly when an extra broadcast space was needed. Almost every night during a Ranger game it was occupied by Mike Rhyner and Greg Williams, the super popular, super baseball power hitting duo of the Hardline.  They allowed whoever was covering the game for The Ticket that night to sit in that booth, and one other, humbled, honored, special guest, me.

Those nights were just spectacular.  I learned baseball from two of the most passionate baseball nuts I could imagine, I was sitting at the equivalent of the cool kids table from junior high, an invitation only space of our very own, to be as loud and obnoxious as we wanted without drawing the scornful glances of the high and mighty scribes down in the writers pressbox. I laughed my ass off pretty much every night. I enjoyed trying to crack up Mike and Greg as well. Every seventh inning stretch I would come up with what I called the "Free Verse Cotton Eyed Joe" wherein I would ad lib lyrics to the Cotton Eyed Joe that were crude and sexually perverse, usually about people I had spotted in the stands. I'll not re-print them here, you can use your imagination.

This was also the birthplace of the "Half-Assed Novelist."  One night I was trying to make Mike laugh so I was doing this old mans voice, regaling Mike with this long winded, verbose story about a little boy that turned out to be John Cangelosi (I think, the details are fuzzy).  Rhyner liked it, he liked it a lot. He told me I should call in on the show and do the character.  Now mind you, at this point in my career The Ticket was the competition. But it was still where I longed to be. I started doing the bit for the Hardline and it seemed to be a hit. This only served to validate my thought that I was wasting away at KRLD and stoked my desire to return to The Ticket. (BTW I was wrong about wasting away, even though I eventually did go back to The Ticket, I should never have taken for granted the good thing I had at KRLD/TSN)

The Half-Assed Novelist was not the only character I did for The Ticket during this time. When down in Port Charlotte, Florida covering the Rangers for spring training, I happened to be there at the same time as The Musers (George Dunham, Craig Miller, Gordon Keith). Of course, I hung out with them most of the time when we were not at the Ballpark and one morning I saw a commercial on television for some New Age Music compilation. One of the artists was a guy named Ottmar Leibert.  I started goofing around with a voice that sounded like one part Colonel Klink, one part Kathleen Turner.  In our minds, Ottmar Leibert became a German industrialist who toured around the United States going to different sporting events. In whatever town he was in, he would develop crushes on the athletes of a certain team in that town and express those feelings of love in rhyme, in third person. A few examples:

"Ottmar is jealous of Mrs. Greg Ellis"
"Ottmar wants to do the splitski for Dirk Nowitzki"
"Ottmar wants to give a bone, to Jerry Jones"

This was, believe it or not, also a marginally successful character and my desire to return to The Ticket grew with every covert appearance. Every time I would hang out with those guys it would just remind me of what I was missing out on.  There was not an opening at the Ticket that would have made sense for me to leave what I had at KRLD at that time, but soon enough, a couple of wheels would begin to turn that would ultimately give me my dream shot...dang this is going to be a long post, better split it up.  I promise part two of part two will come quicker than part one of part two did. Hang with me.

The Ticket and Me, Part I

Sportsradio 1310 "The Ticket" turned 23 this month. Unbelievable. The little sports station that nobody gave a chance is now one of the greatest success stories not only in D/FW radio, but nationally.  Drive around the country and see how many towns have a sports station called "The Ticket". There are a ton, but the one in Dallas, the one I worked at three times over the course of ten years, was the first. I am pretty sure it is also still the best. Mainly because I want to get this down before I forget too much, I am writing about my time at The Ticket and some of the memories I have of the place. I hope you enjoy.

I spoke my first words on The Ticket a few months into it's existence in 1994.  I was trying very hard to finish up my degree at the University of North Texas, graduating on the six year plan and needing to pass this Algebra/Pre-Cal class that had kicked my butt twice before. I was also working on my fledgling radio career, first at KNTU and KDNT in Denton, then the USA Radio Network in Farmers Branch.  My best friend Mark Followill told me there might be a weekend, overnight board-op job opening up at The Ticket and I should apply.  A quick primer, the weekend, overnight board-op is basically the lowest guy on the programming totem pole at any radio station. The job is simple, play a station ID once an hour and try not to get caught sleeping. I jumped at the chance.

The Ticket was the dream.  From the very beginning. Even though the industry "experts" were brushing it off, the guys I hung out with, those of us who went to UNT, studied under Bill Mercer, looked up to our predecessors like Dave Barnett, Craig Way, George Dunham and Craig Miller, we knew that this was something special and somewhere we needed to be. Mark had been the first of us come aboard, hired from the start to be a "Ticket Ticker" guy. His presence at the station had opened the door for me.  I started at the station in the spring of 1994, within a couple of months of it going on the air. Not a Day 1 guy but pretty close.

I ran the board on Friday and Saturday nights, overnight, when no-one else was at the station and the programming was syndicated garbage from some national network. I played the station ID at the top of the hour and watched television the rest of the time. Sweet gig. My first involvement with an actual show was running the board for "The Ticket Stub".  The Stub featured two young, up and coming talents named Gordon Keith and Laurence Scott.  It was an awakening.  The show was fresh, raw, completely original and unpredictable. It was the first time I had worked with genius level talent.  Both Gordon and Laurence were on another level intellectually and while that worked to create some of the funniest radio I have ever heard, it also created some of the most awkward on-air friction ever. Gordon was always concerned that the show would get too sports intensive, shifting the focus away from his strength, the comedy. Meanwhile Laurence, knowing he had the upper hand when it came to sports knowledge, was always trying to expose Gordon in that area and show off his own sports acumen.  It was mutual sabotage. It's a shame, because while both have gone on to outstanding careers, Gordon, of course, with the Musers, Laurence as a game host, commentator and content producer for the Golden State Warriors, had they been able to work together they might have become the best product The Ticket ever produced.

My first on-air break occurred quite by accident.  I was finishing up the overnight board shift.  The Saturday morning show, "The Bottle Rockets" were coming in.  Being a live show there were Ticket Tickers, but the anchor had not shown up and it was almost time to go to break.  I ran into the Ticker booth, threw together a couple of notes, and did the update.  It was probably terrible, but I remember it being among the most exhilarating feelings I have ever experienced.  I was just on the air, on The Ticket!!  After that the Bottle Rockets producer, Rick Arnett, gave me a regular assignment recording a sports calendar of events that would air throughout the weekend. I was on my way.

There was only one problem, I was coming up on graduation, having finally tackled that damn math class (D is for Diploma) and I was going to be in need of full-time work, and soon.   I figured I would have to travel out to a smaller market, maybe Mount Pleasant or Abilene, to get a start but I knew I should ask my bosses at The Ticket first.  I was at a remote at the Hard Rock Cafe when I approached station owner Spence Kendrick and told him about my situation. He said he would see what he could do. (Thank you Spence!!)  The next day the program director, Jim Short, came to me with a proposition, how I would I like to do Ticket Tickers mid-days, Monday through Friday?  At this time there was not a mid-day slot for Ticker guys, David Burrall handled the mornings, Mark Followill the afternoons. I would be the third person hired for the job. Amazing. Did it pay much? Hardly anything.  Did I care? Not a bit.  I was right out of college and about to be working full-time in a Major Market. Living the dream.

I did Ticket Tickers from August of 1994 to January of 1996. Along the way I picked up the nickname "Doogie" from Mike Rhyner.  Rhyner nicknamed everybody and I am not sure why he settled on Doogie but I am glad he did because Greg Williams wanted to call me "Flounder" after the character in the movie Animal House.  I was also just happy Rhyner took an interest in me at all after an unfortunate encounter in the Rangers clubhouse when I was still in college left me wondering if I had made an enemy for life in the radio business. That is a story for another day.  For a while I worked two Ticker shifts one during the mid-day and one during a new night time show called "The Sports Princess" with Kate Delaney.  I still lived in Denton, so I practically never went home, and that was fine by me. This was during the summer of 1995, or as I call it, "The Summer of Drunk". That's because virtually every night after the Sports Princess show, her co-host Gordon Keith, her producer Randy Myers, Mark Followill and me would all head out to Louie's or some Lower Greenville establishment and proceed to enjoy libation until the place closed down.  It was easily the most fun summer I have ever had. I was married to The Ticket, to the life, and it was a loving relationship, until it wasn't.  They let me go in January of 1996.  They said it was a budget thing. I was devastated.  All I had wanted to do was work at The Ticket, now that was over. Little did I know that this would only be part one of a three part series.  

The Half-Assed Novelist

The year was 1973.  I was an artist, living in New Orleans...I drew caricatures for tourists along the boardwalk on the East bank of the Mississippi River.   The times were indeed high.  My artist friends and I we shared love, we shared passion, we shared whatever intoxicants we might possess at our midnight gatherings in Jackson Square.  It was such a fine and natural sight, everybody dancin' in the moonlight just like the King Harvest song of a similar name.

It was at one of these nocturnal festivities that I saw something wondrous and truly affirming.  I was lying on my back, letting the cool of the grass support my carriage as to give my tired legs a moment of respite. In that moment my eyes happened upon a kite, swaying against the moonlight. The kite was as patriotic as Old Hickory himself, streaked with brilliant reds and blues against a backdrop of white.  I was mesmerized by the hypnotic dance of this flying wonder and could not help myself but to follow the string all the way down to the earth where I saw that the string stopped inside a little hand, a hand attached to an arm which made a skinny journey to the torso of....

a little boy.

This lad was a firecracker. He was decked out in bell bottom jeans with patches on the knees, a "Super Friends" t-shirt with likenesses of Batman, Superman and Wonder Woman.  He wore a baseball cap bearing the logo of what must have been his favorite team, the Baltimore Orioles. He wore horn-rimmed glasses which perched ever so carefully atop a slightly runny nose.

I rose to my feet. I walked over to the boy, fascinated by the way he mastered the kite flying high above our heads. I said "Son, what's your name?"

The boy barely gave a sideways glance as he mumbled somewhat under his breath "Jimmy."

My stare penetrated his blank exterior and I asked with fervor "Jimmy what?"

And with that the boy made a massive pull on the string, sending the kite into a nosedive, he jerked the string with such a violent motion that the kite leveled out, three feet above the ground, the pointy tip flying straight into my posterior.  I fell to my knees, my eyes watering, my backside on fire. The boy glared down with sinister, repellent eyes and said to me "My name sir....

is Jim......






FREGOSI!!!!"

Song of the Month

I am a lyrics guy. This might have something to do with the fact that I am not a musician. I love music but aside from being able to strum C, D, and G on six string I have no discernible musical skill. Lyrics though, lyrics I get. To me the essence of a song lies in what it has to say.  Obviously a great song needs to make sense melodically and feature excellent musicianship, but if I am to remember a song, more than likely it will be for the message that I take away from the lyrics. Recently I started compiling a list of songs that have changed my life. Songs that have buried themselves in my heart and now exist as part of the collateral mass that makes up my soul.  Naturally, these songs are great lyrical songs, with lines that resonate permanently in my psyche.  I came up with about twelve songs which means I should be able to share at least one every month throughout the year.  I will list them in no particular order, though some might be more timely than others depending on the season. Here goes...

"Fast Car" by Tracy Chapman

 


Timing was definitely part of the reason this song had such an impact on me. Released in April, 1988, "Fast Car" came out just as I was preparing to graduate from high school.  I was moving beyond the synth-pop of the mid-eighties, looking for a change of pace from my punk flirtation with Black Flag and Circle Jerks, and my obsession with classic country was still a few years in the distance.  Tracy Chapman came along when I was trying to be a grown-up, and listen to grown-up music. Her song, a tale of a girl caught up in the cycle of poverty, alcoholism, and the bitter need to be self-reliant, was about as grown-up as it got.

"And I had a feeling that I belonged
I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone"

"Fast Car" is the musical marriage of Joni Mitchell and Charles Bukowski.  It's gorgeous melody cradling the tattered soul of a woman beaten by desperation and frustrated by the father, and the partner, who have done nothing in her life but let her down. Perhaps, one year earlier, in the incubator of high school where life is taken care of by those who know what's best, this song would not have registered.  But as a young man who graduated high school on a Friday, and went to work in a hot warehouse the following Monday, this song struck a literal chord in my life. It was about small victories and big dreams, and the heartache that occurs when those dreams have to be put down.  I would not be so presumptuous as to say I saw myself in the song, God knows I had it pretty good all things considered, but I did relate to the message.  For me the song is a testimony to the truth that no matter how much you want to believe in someone, at the end of the day you are responsible for your life, for better or worse.

"We gotta make a decision
We leave tonight or live and die this way"

 "Fast Car" changed my perception. It was so well-crafted, so intelligent, it moved me to explore deeper musical subject matter, and reminded me that life was bigger than what I saw through my windshield. That out there somewhere was a world I did not know, but I wanted to, desperately.

You got a fast car
I want a ticket to anywhere
Maybe we can make a deal
Maybe together we can get somewhere
Anyplace is better
Starting from zero got nothing to lose
Maybe we'll make something
But me myself I got nothing to prove

You got a fast car
And I got a plan to get us out of here
I been working at the convenience store
Managed to save just a little bit of money
We won't have to drive too far
Just across the border and into the city
You and I can both get jobs
And finally see what it means to be living

You see my old man's got a problem
He lives with the bottle that's the way it is
He says his body's too old for working
I say his body's too young to look like his
My mama went off and left him
She wanted more from life than he could give
I said somebody's got to take care of him
So I quit school and that's what I did

You got a fast car
But is it fast enough so we can fly away?
We gotta make a decision
We leave tonight or live and die this way

See I remember we were driving, driving in your car
The speed so fast I felt like I was drunk
City lights lay out before us
And your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder
And I had a feeling that I belonged
I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone

You got a fast car
We go cruising entertain ourselves
You still ain't got a job
And I work in the market as a checkout girl
I know things will get better
You'll find work and I'll get promoted
We'll move out of the shelter
Buy a big house and live in the suburbs

See I remember when we were driving, driving in your car
The speed so fast I felt like I was drunk
City lights lay out before us
And your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder
And I had a feeling that I belonged
I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone

You got a fast car
And I got a job that pays all our bills
You stay out drinking late at the bar
See more of your friends than you do of your kids
I'd always hoped for better
Thought maybe together you and me'd find it
I got no plans I ain't going nowhere
So take your fast car and keep on driving

See I remember when we were driving, driving in your car
The speed so fast I felt like I was drunk
City lights lay out before us
And your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder
And I had a feeling that I belonged
I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone

You got a fast car
But is it fast enough so you can fly away?
You gotta make a decision
Leave tonight or live and die this way

Songwriters
Chapman, Tracy L

Read more: Tracy Chapman - Fast Car Lyrics | MetroLyrics

Respect for the Also-Ran's

Once, a very long time ago, I was "The Weakest Link." Allow me to take you back, all the way back to the turn of the century, 2001 to be exact. At this time there was a very popular game show on television called "The Weakest Link". It was hosted by a curt British woman named Anne Robinson. She was known for her harsh stares and directness, and for making contestants feel like dirt when they did not perform up to expectations. The idea of the game was that the contestants would build the jackpot together, answering questions, banking money in the kitty, and voting each other out of the game until one by one each of the contestants was eliminated save for one, and that person walked away with all of the money.

Early in 2001 the show was holding open auditions in cities across the country.  During this time I was producing a morning radio show in Dallas on 93.3 FM "Merge Radio" which before that was known as "The Zone", then afterwards "The Bone", then "I-93", and maybe a few dozen other names as well. Anyway, as a bit I auditioned along with the two hosts of the show, Tim and Yvonne.  The audition consisted of answering a few trivia questions, talking about yourself, and displaying interesting talents (Hellooooo Breakdancing!).
Yvonne received a call right away and was on the show soon after. As I recall she did well, finishing somewhere in the middle of the pack.  Months went by, I left the radio station, forgot all about the audition,  and then one day the phone rings and it's a producer from the show. They liked my audition, and want to fly me to LA to be on the show.

Cutting to the chase, I was terrible. I did not answer a single question correctly, I did not bank any money, and at the end of the first round I was voted the weakest link by every other contestant. Goodbye!

For a long time I looked at that as a defeat, a serious blow to my confidence. I had choked on national television. It all felt like failure, everything that I had been taught to believe about winning and losing told me that I was a loser.  Somewhere along the way, however, I began to realize something; what people saw on television was only part of the story.  Sure, I had blown it in that one round, and the fact that it was the first round was certainly a case of bad timing, but what was not seen was the victory that was getting on the show in the first place.  To become a contestant on "The Weakest Link", not only did I have to impress the producers in the Dallas audition, I had to be impressive enough to be chosen over people in Dallas, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, and wherever else the auditions took place. Once you arrived in LA, they did not just slap some makeup on you and throw you on television. The producers brought more people to Los Angeles than they planned on using, so we had to play a "practice game",  a rehearsal if you will, only the people who made it through that simulation were chosen to be on the actual show.

Did I win any money? No. Did I get an all expenses paid trip to LA? Yes. Did I look silly on national television? Yes. Would I trade the experience? Absolutely not. Now I do not believe in the "every kid gets a trophy" approach that our culture currently embraces.  I think there are, and should be, winners and losers. I do believe, however, that we have too narrowly defined what a winner is.  We tend to see only the last man standing as the winner while giving no respect to the ones who gave everything they had, and fell just short.
People who do their best are winners.  People who don't give up are winners. People who overcome adversity and challenges and don't make excuses are winners.  We need more winners like this in the world, no matter where they might place in the race of life. Despite what society may say, no one who does these things is an also-ran.



 

To Him the Glory

The struggle is for our growth, the victory is for His glory!

Every now and then I will throw down some preaching. God knows how to speak to me because He made me.  He knows what will resonate and connect.  I think in sound bites so He often will speak to me in that way, giving me little quotes that I can jot down like the one above. Those words came to me this morning in prayer time when I was thinking about how our God is a God who is with us in the daily junk. He is intimate with our struggles but does not leave us stranded there. Instead He is leading us out, to a place of victory and redemption where we can look back at where we came from and rejoice in His might, His goodness and His love.

Take heart that God knows it's hard sometimes, but He also knows what you are made of, because He made you. He knows that you have power and strength. Most importantly, He knows that when things seem too much to bear, you have a God who is on your side, and will not let you down.

So when you are in the struggle, remember that you are growing, becoming who God designed you to be. When you achieve the victory, remember that it was God who delivered it and to Him should go the glory.

On Living Long

When is a good age to die? I will be 45 this year, halfway to 90. Ninety seems like a really good age to die. You have lived past your 80's so hopefully you have been blessed with health and feel you have lived a good, long life. However, you don't make it to 100, which is alright because between 90 and 100 I would imagine you spend most of your time checking over your shoulder for the grim reaper anyway.

Much more important to me than how long I live is how well I live.  I don't mean living well in the sense of having nice things and being comfortable, I mean the satisfaction and joy that comes with being independent, able, and of sound mind and body.

My greatest fear when I was young was being "normal." Living as an anonymous, faceless drone doing a job that nobody noticed or cared about. That fear certainly motivated me to pursue a broadcasting career, I loved the idea of being on the radio, of being heard, even more than I loved the actual sports I was covering.
Some people fall in love with sports, and that love leads them to a career in play-by-play. I was the opposite, I loved radio, and my love of being on the air manifested itself in a sports broadcasting career.  Now that I am older and I have come to terms with being both known and unknown, my biggest concern is that I will one day be helpless, unable either mentally or physically, to do the basic, daily tasks that make us human. The things of dignity, respect and self-preservation. I want to be the old man who putters around, running his daily errands, having little adventures. I want to be my own man, always.

I know, however, that the day might come when that is no longer a possibility.  I am fortunate to have two wonderful, caring little girls who I am fairly certain would tolerate me if I become a little old man, ornery and stubborn, but in need of their care. That is not my prayer. My prayer is to be the daddy they know, full of life, light and surprises. A blessing to their kids and even their kids kids, right up until the day the light goes out. Whatever (old) age that may be.

The Jersey Boys

I am not judging, but I don't get grown men who wear jerseys. I see them everywhere, grocery stores, restaurants, even at church. Mostly they are worn by men who bear no resemblance whatsoever to the person whose name adorns the back of the garment, unless Dez Bryant somehow morphs into a middle aged white dude when he is not on the football field.

I don't know why it bothers me, it just does. Like I said, I am not judging and I really don't have a problem with how other people choose to express their support of a particular team.  It's just not something I understand. I would never, as a grown man, wear what amounts to a replica of the work attire of another grown man to show my admiration for said individual.  To me it would be akin to showing up for a doctors appointment wearing a lab coat with a stethoscope draped around my neck. 

When I was a kid I had jerseys. I remember being very proud of an Earl Campbell Houston Oilers jersey and my Pittsburgh Steelers jersey bearing the name and number of the great Franco Harris. I guess I had a thing for stocky running backs. But when I grew up, I put away childish things.  Now if I want to support a team, I will wear a t-shirt or a hat with the teams logo, maybe a golf shirt if I am feeling upwardly mobile that day.  I guess I associate the wearing of a jersey with idol worship, in essence the wearer is saying; "I want to be this person when I grow up." The problem is my friend you are grown up and chances are your career path does not include playing time in the NFL (I know, if not for the knee injury in high school you would have made it) so maybe it is time to let that dream go.

There was a stretch of my radio career where I spent about 200 nights in a year in a locker room. My job was to interview players, take the sound back to the radio station and cut it up for use in updates the following day.  I interviewed guys like Michael Jordan, Nolan Ryan, Troy Aikman, etc. One of the reasons I think I was good at it was I never looked at it like "OMG! I am talking to Nolan freaking Ryan"! It was always one guy doing his job by talking to the other guy about how he did his job. Maybe that is why the whole jersey thing escapes me. I see athletes as guys doing their jobs...entertaining as hell and fun to watch, but just guys, not gods.

A Musical Bucket List

I was sad to learn of the passing of Little Jimmy Dickens this week.  Dickens debuted on the Grand Ole Opry stage in 1948 and was its most senior member.  I always enjoyed watching him perform. He just seemed like the nicest little firecracker you could ever hope to meet.  I never did meet him, or see him perform live. I have never been to the Opry, but it is something that I have always wanted to do.  Now that I think about it there are numerous musical adventures I would like to have before it is too late, so in that spirit I have created my own musical bucket list, here goes...

1) Van Morrison.
Right now Van is performing in Europe, mostly in his native Ireland.  If I were able to see Van the man in concert on his home soil, I don't know that I would ever need to attend another concert for the rest of my life.  Morrison has inspired me and his music has connected with me in a way that no other artist ever has. One day on this blog I will tell the story of when I was first introduced to this transcendent talent but until then just know that this is number one on my musical bucket list, by a large margin.




2) U2
More Irish greatness.  I had the chance to see U2 once, back when U2 was EVERYTHING to me. I had a ticket to their sold out showTarrant County Convention Center when they were touring in support of the Joshua Tree. November 24, 1987. Unfortunately, I had received a speeding ticket the previous week and my father grounded me from the concert. A friend of mine sold my ticket for face value and I have resented my dad ever since.   I know U2 still tours and perhaps one day I will see them perform, but it won't mean what it would have meant to me when I was seventeen.
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3)  Kris Kristofferson
Johnny Cash is dead, never saw him. Waylon Jennings is dead, never saw him. Willie Nelson is alive, but I have seen him. Kris Kristofferson is my last chance to see another Highwayman. I love this man, and I love his music. I think that he is perhaps the greatest writer to ever step foot in Nashville and I will push Steve Earle off of Bob Dylan's coffee table to get up there and say so.  By the way I have seen Dylan so he does not make the list.

4) The Grand Ole Opry
Might not be as appealing to me now as it would have been in the days of George Jones, Tammy Wynette and Loretta Lynn, but still something that every country music lover should probably experience.

5) Barbara Streisand
Not so much for me, but if I took my wife to see Barbara Streisand, I could leave the toilet seat up for the rest of my life and it would not matter. Plus, it would most likely be a really cool show.

There you have it...hopefully I will get the chance to see Elvis, Michael Jackson, George Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Mozart, Johnny Cash, Buddy Holly, and a bunch of others one day as well, but that is after I kick the bucket.

Why do we hate Florida State?

I admit it. I am a Florida State hater.  Judging by yesterday's reaction to the Seminoles loss to Oregon in the national semi-final, I am far from the only one.  It seems that most of the country took great pleasure in seeing Jameis Winston, Jimbo Fisher and the rest of the FSU team dismantled at the hands of current Heisman winner Marcus Mariota and the talented Ducks.  I never felt sorry for Florida State, but at some point I began to wonder what is behind the loathing? Why do we love to hate Florida State?

I think there are several reasons why the Seminoles became the J.R. Ewing of college football. One reason has to be their success.  I remember when the Chicago Bulls were on their remarkable run of NBA Championships. The country was polarized by the Bulls, either you loved them because they were so good, or you hated them for that very reason.  I think there is a large percentage of people who love the underdog, and if you love the underdog, you can't love Florida State, a team that had won 29 in a row going into the Rose Bowl.  It was maddening to the Seminole hater to see the team come from behind week after week to win football games, teasing us with the prospect of a loss only to be gloating and smiling at the end of another victorious effort. For those people yesterday was a sweet vindication, even though Oregon was the higher seeded team going into the game.

Other people point to cheating, claiming that Florida State is guilty of infractions and violations that have heretofore gone unpunished.  But hating a college football team for cheating is like hating a lion for killing a gazelle. One does what one must to survive in the jungle. 

Jameis Winston.  The name alone raises the ire of many a Florida State hater.  Here is a petulant wunderkind, a gridiron savant, playing the role of college football's bad boy.  How we took joy yesterday in his fall (literally) from grace.  I don't know if we have seen a player that more people love to hate.  Whether it's the relatively minor incidents of questionable behavior (offensive language, crab legs), to the far more serious question of whether or not he raped a woman, Winston has given the college football fan plenty of reasons to wish failure upon him and his Teflon coated teammates.

And that is my problem with Florida State.  I have never seen a football program with such an impenetrable shield of immunity. From the coaches, to the University administration, to the fans, to the freaking City of Tallahassee Police Department, all are doing their part to make sure that if you are a Seminole football player, the ONLY thing you will be held accountable for is showing up to practice, playing your ass off on Saturday, and "keepin' the winnin' goin'." 

It is sickening to watch an entire community, so blinded by loyalty to a football team, that they are willing to look the other way time and time again while those who don the helmet essentially do whatever the hell they want, without any fear of consequence.  I am scared to think of what lengths these enablers will go to protect their beloved program.  Could a Florida State football player literally get away with murder in Tallahassee?  I want to say of course not, but sometimes I am not sure.

Hey, maybe I am blowing this whole thing out of proportion. I mean, it's just a game, and boys will be boys, right?

Happy New Year!

This is day one of what I hope will be a 365 day journey of consistency.  In the past I have started each new year with a few resolutions, most of which, o.k. pretty much all of which flame out sometime around the Super Bowl.  One resolution I make practically every year is to write more.  I love writing and consider myself a writer, but writing itself often falls down the list of priorities in my daily life. I want that to change in 2015. Therefore, I am making it my goal, not resolution, to put something in this space everyday. It might be rubbish, actually there is a fairly decent chance of that, or it might be gold. Either way words will be written because as you can see by the new title of this blog I believe that writers write. Right?

The thing that is on my mind as we begin this new year is greed.  I wrestle with greed the way a boxer might approach a formidable opponent. I respect its motivation and tenacity, but I still want it annihilated.
I read a lot of social media, probably too much, and I see a lot of anger toward things such as white privilege, systematic oppression, and even capitalism.  Don't kid yourself, white privilege, systematic oppression, those things do exist and whether or not you believe you have contributed to it in any way, it continues to be a problem with deep, deep roots in our culture. This country is still sharply divided along racial lines. As a white man with an African-American wife and two bi-racial children, I wish terribly this was not the case, but the evidence is too strong to believe that it is not true.

We can talk about racism another day. Today I want to focus on capitalism. There seems to be a belief that the system is at fault for the way things are. Capitalism created the 1%. Capitalism denies the opportunity for a man to provide for his family. Capitalism oppresses the poor. I for one don't blame the system, I blame greed.  I am not an economist, I know that there are others out there far more educated than I am on the subject but I look at this way; the ones who know best how to take advantage of the system tend to be the greediest among us. For them, enough is never enough, it is always about more.  More production, more money, more profit. More is not evil, it can be a good thing when handled properly, but there is a lack of morality, of ethics among those who are always striving for more. They tend to be of the mind-set that as long as there is more for me, then screw everyone else.  That mentality, that greed, not capitalism, is what has created this prosperity gap that continues to widen every day.

I believe it was Spider-man's Uncle Ben who said; "with great power comes great responsibility." This attitude has been lost on a generation of the business class who would rather believe what another movie character said back it the 1980's, when Gordon Gecko told all of us that; "greed is good."
I believe in people getting ahead, I love the fact that a man can conceivably start with nothing but a dream and end up on top of the world. I don't think there should be a limit on a persons success, but I think that each of us has a moral obligation to be good stewards of what we acquire. That means playing the game fairly, abiding by the rules. That means giving back, being generous, lending a helping hand.  I don't think this only applies to money. I believe that we all have talents and resources that go beyond the monetary and that if we shared these things with others that we all would benefit. That is my hope for 2015, that the concept of greed become outdated and obsolete. I know the chances are slim, but you have to start somewhere. Kind of like this blog. I will write everyday, try to be less about me everyday, and 365 days from now, hopefully we will all be living in a better world.

Father's Day

This week I found out that there is no shortage of “World’s Greatest Dad’s.” If I am to believe Facebook and Twitter, the overwhelming majority of my friends and acquaintances were blessed with the kindest, smartest, funniest fathers that anyone could ever ask for. I am happy for them…really. 

I saw picture after Polaroid picture of dads on my social media feeds on Father’s Day. Dads decked out in polyester, dads proudly displaying a hard- won catch from the lake, dads hugging kids, young kids, grown kids, their kids. Great words too, dad was an inspiration, dad was a mentor, dad is a hero.  I had to disconnect, unplug. I had to remove myself from the endless tribute.  It was too much.

There are people who remained invisible to social media on Father’s Day. They did not post loving memories of dear old dad. They did not give words of thanks to the man who taught them so much and loved them so well. Some are fatherless, never knowing the man who is semi-responsible for their existence. Some know their fathers but, after a lifetime of abuses, wish they did not. Some are working through it with their dads, trying to lay pavement to a relationship that has always traveled along very rocky terrain.

For people like that, people like me, there are questions as to how we should feel when Father’s Day rolls around. Is it okay to be a little resentful of friends that seem to have been blessed with a wonderful relationship with their dad? Should I consider myself lucky that at least I did not have it as bad as others who have suffered unspeakable crimes at the hands of their fathers? What is the appropriate amount of pain I am allowed, and when should I just “get over it” and move on? 

The thing I have learned about pain, it’s like a fingerprint, unique to you and attached to you. Other people may see your pain but they don’t know it, and because they don’t know they really don’t have the right to tell you how it should be managed.  We have a bad habit in our society of putting pain on the scales of justice, rationalizing that because one person’s wounds seem to be deeper than another’s , then the more wounded person deserves more compassion. It’s a false assumption.  Compassion and understanding are for everyone, and so is the right to heal. 

I have known many people with parental wounds, and while I do my best to encourage them, I know enough not to try to “fix” them with a self-help catchphrase or even worse, tough love. Your wounds are your own, so is your road to healing. For some, it is simply a matter of forgiveness, being able to let go and move forward.  Others might require confrontation and justice, an acknowledgement of wrongdoing, an apology.  For everyone who must deal with the past, the question of the future also remains. Do we try to repair the broken relationship, or do we build a wall and leave the offenders on the other side? It is unique, a million life circumstances and just as many responses, fingerprints.

As for me, I am approaching peace. I am fully aware of whom my father is, and I know that we will never have the happy, smiling, father-son photo op that social media seems to adore.  That is ok.  Sure, every once in a while I might mourn our dead relationship but I know what is best for me. That is why on Father’s Day I did the very best thing I could do for myself. I unplugged, put my phone away, and took my two beautiful little girls swimming. We had a wonderful time!

Gun Lovers, Don't Tread on Me.

It was my friend Monty’s birthday, sometime in the summer of 1989.  Monty was from the country. He loved to hunt, fish, and ride horses.  The horses we had in common, everything else, not so much.  Monty had decided to have his birthday party at an indoor firing range in Fort Worth. I went, if for no other reason than to see what it was like.

 I had never been to a firing range before. The only experience I had with guns was firing a couple of shots at a tin can with my grandfather’s .22 rifle. That was a long time ago.  Now I stood in a booth, ear muffs on, pistol in hand, ready to shoot. I don’t remember whether or not I hit the target, I remember the recoil, jarring and sudden. I remember the noise, booming even through the “ears”. Holding that weapon I was awestruck by the idea that something so simple and small could be so forceful. Here was the power to take life, to maim and cripple, to alter family histories, to alter world history, and it fit in the palm of my hand.  That thought humbled me, in fact it terrified me.  I was uncomfortable. I did not like the feeling of having the arbitrary power to end something, or someone’s life. It did not belong to me. What right did I have to a power like that? More importantly, could I trust myself with a power like that? It was the last time I picked up a gun.

So I am not a gun person.  Does that make me un-American? Am I a “sissy” because I don’t like to shoot things?  According to some folks in my great home state of Texas, the answer is yes.  Recently members of the “open carry” movement in Texas have been holding very public demonstrations, exercising their right to walk around with long rifles, assault rifles, and the like. They have mugged for pictures inside restaurants and coffee shops, they have marched in the parking lots of Home Depot’s and they harassed a former Marine in downtown Fort Worth because he had the audacity to question the sanity of their brazen disregard for the safety and security of their fellow citizens.   This particular group of people actually accused the NRA of being too soft after that organization called the groups tactics into question.  Wow.

I have questions for open carry advocates. These questions are not asked in the spirit of accusation but in the genuine interest of understanding your position. You want to be able to display your weaponry for the entire world to see.  Why? I really don’t understand. Is it for protection? I would think if someone wants to take you out being able to see what you’re packing and where it is on your person would actually put you at a disadvantage.  Is it fear? Are you so afraid of the bad people in this world (and yes, there are bad people in this world) that you feel your only recourse is to strike fear into the people around you, be they man, woman or child, guilty or innocent?  I hope your reasons go beyond intimidation and antiquated notions of old west justice.  I am for your rights, but please don’t tread on mine. 

I think back to that birthday party at the gun range and I remember this; it was not the gun that frightened me. It was the thought of what I could be capable of with that gun that scared the hell out of me.  So when I say I am uncomfortable with the way you are expressing your rights, I am not saying it because I don’t trust the guns, I am saying it because I don’t trust you.   I don’t trust you to always, always think safety first. I don’t trust you to always, always keep your emotions under control.  I don’t trust you to always, always value human life, even if it is the life of someone you hate.  You want to have guns?  Fine. You want to carry them openly in public? Ok. Just know that along with that choice comes the burden of a greater responsibility that you can even fathom. I’m simply asking that you take that responsibility with the seriousness it deserves.  

 

Bro? No.

He is a staple of our culture, equal parts annoying and hilarious.  He rages against the dying of the light, fueled by the internal hunter to pursue good times, good booze, and good looking women. Laughter is his medicine, that and dollar longnecks. He has traveled through history under many names.  He has been our chum, our pal, our buddy.  In the eighties and nineties he was simply known as “dude”, a term so encompassing and versatile that by varying ones inflection it could be the only word spoken between two "dudes" in an entire conversation.  In the new millennium our friend goes by another name, one that has certainly entrenched itself into the fabric of pop culture. Today he is “The Bro”.

The Bro loves to party.  His priorities are hanging with other bros, getting drunk, and hooking up, usually in that order.  His life is carefree. Not saddled with a mortgage, a wife, or kids, his income is expendable and his burdens are light.  He lives for the good times, he lives for today, never putting much stock in the future.  We tend to think of him at his worst, drunk and disorderly, misogynistic, self-centered and irresponsible.  At his core, however, beats the heart of the restless wanderer, the nomadic warrior, the alpha dog fighting domestication.  These are qualities that are important, even essential to manhood. In their proper context they are part of what equips us as leaders, husbands, and fathers.  The problem is that in the massive value shift that is re-shaping our society, the bro no longer sees responsibility and relationship as an end goal to be achieved, rather they see them as looming monsters with yellow teeth, something to be avoided at all cost.

I was reminded of this a couple of weeks ago when watching the final episode of the CBS sit-com “How I Met Your Mother.”  The show tells the tale of Ted Mosby (Josh Radnor) and his four friends as they navigate life, love, and New York City, growing from 20-somethings into 40-year olds.  One of Ted’s friends, Barney Stinson (the fantastic Neil Patrick Harris), is the eternal bro. He lives by a “bro code”, a never ending list of rules about how a bro is to behave (e.g.  “Article 2: "A Bro is always entitled to do something stupid, as long as the rest of his Bros are all doing it.”) He has a playbook for picking up women, and a “guy” for everything from securing VIP passes for the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show after party to booking a castle in France.  When the show began nine seasons ago, Barney was easily the breakout character.  His schemes and tall tales were clever, absurd and reflected the legendary life many of us tried to live out in our twenties.  As time went on, and Barney aged, the bit grew stale and a little sad. By the time we reach the end of the show and Barney is still “the bro” into his forties, it is just pathetic.

I think every man (and woman for that matter) should experience the unique freedom and fullness of life that is only available in your twenties.  You’ve graduated, your making your own money, life is full of potential and possibilities and the world and all its spoils are yours for the taking.  This is a great season of life, but it is just that, a season.  The longer it goes on, the lonelier it becomes until you are left by yourself in the endless summer while everyone else has moved on to fall.  At some point, you have to know when to let go of the bro.

I don’t blame the bro. Hollywood portrayals of marriage and family are very rarely glamorous or even appealing. The beaten down husband/father with the dead end job, the nagging wife and the obnoxious children is the standard for movies and television.  Given that example, plus the fact that at least half of the young adults in our country come from broken homes, it’s not surprising that millenials reject the idea of settling down.  This is sad to me because while I loved being a “dude” in my twenties, I am so grateful that I am not still clinging to that stage of life. Back then I never pictured myself as a husband or a dad but now I can’t imagine myself any other way.  I think that young men would be missing out on so much if they turned their back on this life and its rewards. However, I have also seen too many guys get married and have kids, but never really change.  They escape into man caves; they play in softball leagues, go to the gym or the sports bar and ignore their families in order to do their own thing.  Those guys should just stay single; they haven’t left the bro behind.

I am not saying male bonding is not important, it is. Men should have friendships. Those friendships should grow with the man and support him through the various stages of life, not serve to keep him in a perpetual state of adolescence.  If you feel like that is the state you are in, it’s time to let the bro go.

No Foolin'

Originally published on The Nameless Valley Blogger (4 April 2014)

April 1^st came and went uneventfully again this year.  None of my friends attempted to pull an April Fools prank on me. No one ever does. I would like to say the reason I don’t get pranked has to do with my incredible ability to smell a rat, or the fear of what dastardly shenanigans I might return to them as a form of retribution. Alas, no. It is has more to do with the fact that pranking me is too easy, and there is no payoff because I just have no enthusiasm, positively or negatively, for the art of the prank. Allow me to explain.

It started when I was ten.  It was approaching Christmas and I was certain beyond any doubt that I was going to be receiving an Atari 2600 game system. I had stacked the deck in favor of this since it was the only thing I asked (begged) for and since I was the last kid on the block to have one. I figured I was due.   My lobbying effort, along with a little tear of wrapping paper and a quick peek at the biggest box under the tree, convinced me I was right.  Did I get a little arrogant?  It’s possible. Did I strut around the house singing an annoying made up song about getting an Atari?  Most definitely.

The big day arrives and I confidently rip away the wrapping paper concealing my long awaited prize.  The box is glorious, the Atari 2600 on the top, a picture of plastic perfection.   A huge, smug smile on my face as I open the box and empty the contents to reveal…rocks. ROCKS!!  A sane, logical boy would surely have realized that a prank was in the offing.  No mother would go through the trouble of finding the box of the one thing her son so desperately wanted, fill that box with rocks, and present it to him on Christmas day.  Unfortunately, my little boy brain lacked that logic.  In my mind I imagined my mom going to the store, purchasing the Atari, making her way over to the poor side of town, giving the contents of the Atari box to some less fortunate child, a boy who would be grateful for this Christmas miracle, then bringing the box home, filling it with rocks, and giving it to me in order to teach me a lesson!   I began bawling. I melted down like Velveeta in a microwave.  My mom, and my step-sister, who was in on the gag too, began bawling.  They started throwing other presents at me and yelling for me to open them.  It was the Atari. Every piece boxed individually.  They explained that they knew I had been sneaking around the tree and had already figured out what I was getting so they thought it would be funny to see my face when I opened the box and it wasn’t there.  Wasn’t very funny was it Ma?

Four years later I got my first job bussing tables part-time at a Mexican food restaurant.  After my first shift ends the guys in the kitchen tell me they have something for me.  Apparently it is customary for the cook to make a meal for a new employee at the end of his first shift.  The sour cream chicken enchiladas looked appetizing, and the first bite wasn’t bad.  On the second bite I noticed something was off.  Out of politeness I tried another, that’s when it occurred to me that these enchiladas reminded me of the time I got punished for saying dirty words.  Yes, the “chef” had filled the tortillas with soap, not chicken. Hilarious…the entire staff got a really good laugh out of it but I did not get it.  Not because I was the victim and not because I was embarrassed, I just thought it was mean.

Why do we love to laugh at someone else’s misery?  The awkwardness, the brief moment of panic, the kick in the groin, I know it’s a temporary pain and in the long run hopefully everyone, including the victim, is able to laugh about it, but it just makes me very uncomfortable.    I am pretty sure I am in the minority on this.  Pranks have probably been around as long as we have and April fool’s day pranks can be documented back to the Middle Ages.  I was bombarded on Tuesday via social media with announcements of fake firings, fake resignations, fake engagements, and fake divorces. Of course companies did what companies always do, turn any minor holiday into a marketing bonanza, so I also was introduced to fake new products, fake mergers and other assorted fakeness that just made me tired. 

Honestly, I love to laugh. I think I have a good sense of humor.  I just find that most April fool’s related humor falls into two categories; either it lacks imagination, or it is cruel, and in the worst cases it is both.   Maybe you have a different opinion. If so I would love to hear it.  Just don’t wrap my car in foil because that is a waste of good aluminum.  

The Man I Love

Originally published on The Nameless Valley Blogger (29 Mar 2014)

  I am in love with a man.  Shocking right? You might not want to hear about it but I would like to tell you about the man I love. This man I am in love with is older, by about 2000 years.  He is smart. He seems to know everyone and everything and anything that anyone has ever done.  Armed with that knowledge you would think he would be extremely judgmental and have a low opinion of humanity, I mean imagine the evil he has seen.  Really it is quite the opposite. He loves people, every last one of us.   His capacity to love people is amazing. He even loves those sinners; you know the ones, the 7 billion of them that inhabit this planet.

The man I love is kind.  He stands up for the poor and the oppressed.  He forgives wrongdoers, even the ones who have done wrong directly to him.  He would never throw a rock at someone as a punishment for their lifestyle, and he would never, ever, protest the funeral of a soldier to further a hate filled agenda. Again, the man I love does not hate people, he loves them.

That is not to say he is passive or permissive.  One of the things I love about him is that he knows right from wrong, it’s almost like he wrote the rules himself.  He calls me out when I’m wrong, and I am wrong a lot.  That is not judgment or condemnation. That is accountability.  He does not condone sin.  People seem to have this idea that because he hangs around with sinners that he is totally cool with sin. He is not. But the man I love would rather be a bright light for us than shine a bright light on us and all of our junk.

This wonderful man, I’ll call him “J”, he loves children.  He loves their minds, their hearts, and their ability to believe.  It saddens him when children suffer.  He wants every child to be loved and fed, and that is much more important than who happens to be holding the spoon.  I know, hard to imagine.  He just cares that much.

The thing is, and this is the thing that made me fall in love with him in the first place, “J” values love above all other things.  He loves us and wants us to love each other.  In fact, you know that old saying ‘love thy neighbor?’ He made that up!  If you want to know who your neighbor is, watch the movie “Gravity” starring Sandra Bullock and George Clooney.  When you see the big blue ball they orbit around, just know that everyone who lives on that ball is your neighbor, everyone.

I am sure by now you have figured out that the man I love is Jesus.  Maybe you love him too, maybe you don’t.  Maybe you would like to meet him and maybe you think he doesn’t even exist. That is your prerogative.   The purpose of this post is not to convert you to Christianity or try to “shove religion down your throat.” I am simply saddened by the misrepresentation of Christ in our culture.  Extremists on the right and on the left have propped up Jesus as a symbol of their cause when nothing could be further from the truth.  Jesus does not pick sides because all of humanity is of concern to him.  He does not rank sins in order of most to least heinous because to a perfect God all sin is the same.   He does not wave a red flag or a blue flag because believe it or not he is not even American! 

Jesus is love. He wants to take away your sins, not your sensibilities.

Listen up!

I am writing for a new blogging site called www.thenamelessvalleyblogger.com  This is the first piece I posted there...more are coming and I will link them here as well. Enjoy.

I love to talk. More to the point, I love to be heard.  It has been that way since I was young.  I remember the one consistency on my elementary school report cards was a check mark in the space designated for those who had a problem with “talking in class.”  Being heard, being visible, being significant, has always been an important thing to me. It makes sense that I chose to make a living in broadcasting. Being heard, being someone who matters, important stuff.

Talking has served me well. I have been very lucky to put a few meals on the family table through my abilities with the spoken word.  As I grow older, however, I am finding more and more that being heard, being noticed, talking…is overrated.  Sure, it is nice to have a voice, and my voice, like any other, has a right make itself heard.  But now I am beginning to really understand that there is something much more important to a life of meaning than being heard; and that is hearing.  More to the point, listening.

Hearing is involuntary. If you have working ears, you hear.  That is why I don’t like the term “selective hearing.” I prefer the term “selective listening.” We live in a world where we hear lots of things, but we control what we listen to. I call it the “earbud effect.”  With a pair of earbuds we can essentially tune out the entire world and listen to only that which gives us satisfaction and comfort.  That is dangerous, not because it might damage our ears (this is not really about earbuds, after all), but rather because it keeps us from experiencing and considering the voices of those with whom we might not agree, or those that make us uncomfortable.

“The most basic of all human needs is the need to understand and be understood. The best way to understand people is to listen to them.”  --Ralph G. Nichols

We used to debate, and it was good! The reason was we listened to one another.  Yes, I wanted you to hear what I had to say, to understand my feelings, but I was willing to listen to you and consider your feelings as well.  Where has that gone?   Now instead of debating we argue, and the point is no longer to judge ideas based on their own merit but to win a shouting contest. 

This mindset has polluted everything from politics to religion and dominates pop culture.  We have become so afraid of being wrong, of being seen as the loser, we won’t even allow for the possibility that someone who opposes us could actually have good ideas.  We stopped listening. 

I find it amazing that great minds throughout history valued listening over talking, have learned more from their failures than their success and yet we continue to define our personal value by the sharpness of our tongues and the wars we win, however petty those may be.

One of the reasons I was interested in writing here was the idea that this would be a site where opposing viewpoints could co-exist in an atmosphere of civil discourse.  I have opinions. I am not a fence sitter, but I don’t want to sit so far on one side of the fence that I have no clue what is happening on the other. After all, the grass could very well be greener over there. 

We have two ears, one mouth. I believe that is intentional. It’s my goal to learn more than I teach, to listen more than I talk, and to be smarter tomorrow than I am today. Feel free to chime in, I am listening.