Parting Shot

Words of wisdom, quotable quotes,
Reader’s Digest sayings for those losing hope,
Why do I feel so mocked by the hands of the clock?
Well, anchor me down to the solid rock,
I want to leave you with something, but I almost forgot,
Was it a closing statement or a parting shot?

Well, you lie on the flowers here in the wind,
I’ve twisted it all with original sin,
There’s a knowledge I traded a long time ago,
Well, I bartered it off for these rags I call clothes,
But I learned how to fake it and remake it on cue,
And I swear I never stopped needing you.

There’s a question forming, out here in the dark,
In the heavy air all around my heart, now laden with consequence, chain link fence, and shot through with all manner of lies I’ve been trapped in and caught,
And the world, like a tempest, in your ears doth roar,
And the flesh wants to dress up and play your whore,
And the devil wants to cast all manner of doubt on the real lover with the key, dying to let you out from the bars that you fashioned with your stolen clout.

Well, I may be confused, but I’ll play my hunch,
Did it feel like a kiss or a counter-punch?

Evening is closing and the kid drones on and on, and on,
Well, get out your car keys, I hope this is his last song,
Wait, it’s bigger than life; it is gracious and grand,
Something a child readily understands,
Hey, you know I sure could use a new suit of clothes,
See, I’m gone all threadbare and my shoes are worn,
Now the flowers are growing right out of these bones, and I hear the trumpet sounding like Louis Armstrong,
When the great divorce happens, hide me in your song, though I don’t deserve it and I don’t belong.

I want to leave you with something, will you take it to heart?
Are you a closing statement or a parting shot?

Ring

For hours and hours it bore the brunt of our jabbering. If only phones could talk . . .

If there was a cord – and back then there generally was one – I would stretch it across the dining room, twist it around the backs of chairs, and wind it around my finger until it curled upon itself. An irreparably damaged, serpentine tether.

And the sweat! The earpiece slip sliding over my outer ear and falling to the floor if I didn’t wipe it off on occasion. Once, I wandered a bit too far and it suddenly wasn’t there anymore, yanked away despite the vise-grip shrugging of my shoulder and the tilting of my head and the craning of my neck. Muscles and actions that seldom failed me.

Ma Bell and I, we were tight. She carried the weathered and weary sighs, the muffled giggles and outright, outlandish guffaws, and the sweetest, cacophonous chasms of silence across the miles, over rivers and hills and fields of flowers and busy metropolises, and never let on that the whole thing was miraculous. The way science and technology can be when we stop to think about it and not get caught up thinking of it as nothing but the way it has always been.

It snowed yesterday. Enough to make the relatively short trip home a sudden and unwelcomed ordeal of no small magnitude. So I instead drove to my mom and dad’s house and spent the night there. On the couch, sort of like the good old days. And before I went to sleep, I called my wife. The one who back in the day had her place not only in my heart but on the other end of the line. I had gone home for a semester, and home stood entirely too far away.

We’d talk about important stuff. And it all seemed important. And then we’d talk about the little things. And then we’d talk about nothing at all. Eventually, we’d just listen. Sentences would end, or even just trail off, lose their steam. There were fewer questions then. And answers had no particular finality.

No reason to hurry. To wrap up the conversation so we could go back to whatever. Whatever didn’t really matter or seem all that important. Instead, we lingered.

And the minutes glided by . . .

[Flickr photo is by flattop341 and is protected]

Tysdaddy is Awesome! – TRUTH!!!

Summary of the eRumor:
Word has been going around that Tysdaddy, known as Brian to most people – except for his relatives in The South, who still refer to him as B.J. or Beej – is awesome. Some even go so far as to call him “amazing,” “spectacular,” and “the best.”

The Truth:
The following was found on Brian’s nightstand a few days ago . . .

See?! I told you so . . .

Today, I’m leading a conversation about relationships with our children over at The Real World. Do you find that one relationship is stronger than the others? Is this normal? Come join us . . .

 

Two Things – In Memoriam of Clint

Despite my most earnest efforts, I never could convince him that St. Anger really wasn’t all that bad of an album. In the grand scheme of things. The Big Picture!

Yeah, they’ve sounded better musically. Sure, there were no blistering solos and Lars’ drums sounded like some hyperspaz banging on empty soup cans. It was all about the LYRICS, this time ’round.

Nope. Young and cocky, he wouldn’t have it. I was either two bricks short of a proper heavy metal load, or deaf.

Training was boring. We had hired in together, so we consequently sat through it all together. Every boring speech about shit we had yet to encounter. We begged for smoke breaks. Took them when we said we were going to the bathroom. Argued about Metallica.

He made me feel young again.

We learned the Nordson together, under our trainer’s watchful eye. The three of us were part of The Smokers Club, and could always be found either on the benches by the guard shack before work or around a picnic table after the last bell. We’d talk about the Colts mostly, or the latest factory gossip, or he would chime in about some professional wrestling match he’d recorded the night before. Guy stuff.

Clint never walked. Instead, he sort of . . . bounced. Never flatfooted. Always on the balls of his feet, like the king strolling through his jungle, waiting to pounce. A literal spring in his step. And that ever-present smile. I don’t recall him ever uttering an unkind word. Sure there were the usual grumbles, but never anything hateful or pretentious. When we found out he was going to be a dad, we made him a special badge to wear on his lanyard. When we found out the new Metallica was coming out, he and I did a happy dance. Or a happy headbang. A happy mosh. Whatever. Oh, the heavens did rejoice in the fact that Death Magnetic didn’t suck.

We also shared a love of writing. As I attended classes to learn how to do it better, he bought a thirty-nine-cent spiral bound notebook and wrote a novel. In longhand. Pretty much during the downtime on the line. I’d glance his way, across the aisles of machinery and circuit boards, and there he’d be with his notebook open and his pen flying. A pen! That’s confidence. He’d share snippets with me, but held most of the plot close to his chest. It didn’t really matter what it was about. He did it. That’s what impressed me the most about Clint Mauller.

He died yesterday.

Sadly, I had just been thinking about him. We hadn’t touched base in a few years, ever since he moved on and I stayed behind. I wondered if he’d heard the new live Metallica stuff. If it was any good. How he liked being a dad. If he’d written another book while the coaches weren’t watching.

Two things:

1) Buckle up.

2) Call an old friend.

Before it’s too late . . .

I Will SOOO Be In the Doghouse After This . . .

My wife? Josh Groban fan.

BIG Josh Groban fan.

I even coughed up the money and swallowed an unholy amount of pride several years ago to take her to see him live when he did us a favor and stopped by our mediocre metropolis. Bit my tongue as he took the stage and serenaded us with his velvety vocal vibrations. Didn’t wave my hands in the air in mock orchestra-style-conductor jubilation on those solid high notes or make fun of the fact that you can’t understand a word he says most times by making up lyrics of my own.

It was hard.

But . . . damn! Thanks to a friend of mine who was kind enough (Pot-stirrer!) to send me this, I have perhaps an ounce or two more bits of respect for the man. Maybe not respect, but . . . willingness to let Josh be Josh and cling to the now confirmed notion that he has a funny bone. That, or he’s just a good sport.

Enjoy!