Parenthetically Yours

14,600 days

"The secret of genius is to carry the spirit of the child into old age, which means never losing your enthusiasm."
Aldous Huxley

"A person is always startled when he hears himself seriously called an old man for the first time." Oliver W. Holmes

(rw)

Lazy and Unoriginal

I'm taking the weekend off from the blogosphere. You see, I turn 40 tomorrow and I think I deserve a break. That doesn’t mean I do deserve a break, mind you. I’m just saying I want one. But if I’m honest with myself, every day is a break for me. I’m a musician, for cryin’ out loud. What would I be taking a break from? Resting? A musician working looks like anyone else procrastinating. Sure, there are rehearsals, sound checks, the travel and odd hours, but in the grand scheme of things, my job is cake. The only thing I do that resembles work is carrying equipment into a venue. But that’s not too often, and besides, we have people on salary to do things like that.

When I was younger, say 26, I imagined at 40 having a job with a title. Like, “Regional Sales Manager” or “Communications Director.” Not Lead Guitarist. That's not a title. That's a condition. It even looks ridiculous with capital letters. It connotes someone who is skinny, tattooed, and spends more money on hair product than food. Not a married guy with gray hair and a garden. I’m just not cool enough to be a musician. You want to know how cool I am? I stayed up til 2 a.m. last night watching a documentary on David McCullough. Not cool. You want more proof? I just yanked out an ear hair and I can’t deny that I got a little rush from it. That’s the kind of cool we’re dealing with here. Negative cool. Yet, when I was growing up, that’s all I wanted out of life—for someone to think I was cool. Like, Barry Gibb cool, but even that's not cool anymore. These days I'd settle for Jimmy-Fallon-imitating-Barry-Gibb cool.

So, what do I do? For the first time in my life, I want to be younger. In my mind I’m still mid-twenties and feel like I’m acting hypocritical if I behave differently. Is this what happens to guys in their 40s who get a younger wife and Corvette? I started out on the right foot by marrying the girl of my dreams, who just happens to be younger, so that’s a non-issue. Does that mean I need to buy a Corvette? I would, but remember the kind of cool we’re talking about…

My dream car is a BMW station wagon.

(rw)

His Dark Materials

At a loss for words. I can't begin to come up with a thing to write about because I have a problem this morning. I have a song stuck in my head. If I could paint a picture of how it feels, this is what it would look like: (click the pic to see the intricacies of my illustration)

To make matters worse, it's not even a good song. If it were something like, "Let it Be," or "Born to Run," or even "Hit Me Baby One More Time," I would be okay and I could get on with my day. But NO...it's that awful Rob Thomas song "Lonely No More." This is the sound of evil, of pure commercial sugar music. It's placebo. Pablum. This is what Satan himself has in his CD player, I'm convinced. What else is in his disc changer, you may query? Well, there's the aforementioned Rob Thomas solo album, Shania Twain's Come on Over, Clay Aiken's Merry Christmas with Love, Yoko Ono's Plastic Ono Band, the new Sheryl Crow single, and a couple of Al Franken audiobooks. This is real satanic music. Nope, you won't find Slayer or Judas Priest on the devil's iPod. That stuff is just too obvious. Anyone who shouts at the devil from the rooftops is not one of his minions. His real pawns are much more subtle--their music lulls you into an intellectual coma so you lose the ability to think and reason. Before long you're thinking things like, "well, since Leona Lewis and Keane are both from England and they're in the Top 40, they're pretty much the same." Then in your stupor, he's able to convince you that Madonna is a genius, that Oprah is a spiritual advisor, and that you actually look good in those ridiculous sunglasses. It's sneaky, but anything to get you to believe a lie.

So...the song is still stuck in my head and the only way I know how to rid myself of its bonds is to pass it on to you, my dear readers. Sorry, but I had to do it. Otherwise I'll never get anything done today.

Oh, and for the record, Satan doesn't have an iPod. He owns a Zune.

(rw)

And yes, we're participating in Watercooler Wednesday at ETHOS!

(un)Hip Hop

The Scene:

In the car, heading home from the mall. Katie turns on the iPod and scrolls to her guilty pleasures mix. This includes En Vogue, Christina, Salt 'n Pepa, et al (we call it booty music). We join our scene already in progress, around the 1:45 mark of 50 Cent's "In Da Club."

Randy: He doesn't articulate very well.
Katie: You're an idiot.

And scene.

(rw)

Love/Hate

A few months ago I was picking up my favorite hot beverage (short vanilla latte) at our local Starbucks and noticed a small pamphlet called “My Starbucks Idea.” My first reaction was genuine elation, but I’ll get back to that in a few hundred words.

I have a love/hate relationship with Starbucks. We all do. We love the tasty goodness and the predictability, but hate the price. I love the hang and the convenience, but I hate the McDonald-ising of coffee shops. And even though it’s June right now, I’m already excited about the holiday cups in December and how cozy every store is around Christmas. I’m also a BIG fan of Starbucks, the company. They have genius marketing, a moral business plan, take care of their employees (profit sharing, health care, etc), and promote fair trade. Unfortunately, though, they’re becoming the Wal-Mart of the food industry. Because of sheer volume, the quality of the coffee has dropped considerably and they’ve become an easy target for locals-only coffee snobs, intellectuals and anti-corporate city punks, all of which practically defined the original target market for espresso consumers. However, thanks to the Seattle company, Americans are used to paying $3 or $4 for their lattes which has indirectly made it easier for mom-and-pop coffee houses to survive. The non-conformist, anti-sbux consumer will be happy to plop their $4 down at Portland Brew (or Bongo Java or wherever). But I digress.

I’m an idea person and occasionally these ideas will incorporate Starbucks to some degree. So naturally, when I saw the brochure asking patrons to visit www.mystarbucksidea.com, I was overcome with joy. I could just see it—my bank account filling higher and higher as a result of royalties from the scores of genius ideas/advice I would send to the suits in Seattle. Then I read the legalese. Let me sum it up for you: Zilch. Nada. Nothing. You will receive no payment, no royalties, and maybe even no credit whatsoever for your idea. Not even if it makes them millions. Nothing. Basically, it’s an easy way (and an absolutely genius plan, by the way) for Starbucks to get the public to do what their Marketing and Merchandising departments (who no doubt came up with the concept) are paid to do. Except you don’t get paid.

So, here’s my Starbucks idea: Don’t give Starbucks any free marketing or merchandising advice. I’ll keep mine to myself and let another company pay my consulting fee.

As a P.P.S. (a pre-postscript in this case), everyone can get two hours of free wifi at their stores now. See? I hate them…but I love them.

So. Much.

(rw)

Good Williams Hunting...?

I had lunch with my friend Dale from Colorado yesterday. I don't call him "Dale from Colorado" as a moniker but it makes a good sentence. Dale is my kind of guy. In many ways, he's the guy I want to be. He plays guitar, is always in a good mood, rides dirt bikes, and hunts elk with a handmade longbow. Compound bows are for sissies and cowards, according to Dale. I've never heard him say this mind you, but it sounds like something he might say, so I'll pretend he did. He reminds me of Ted Nugent but with a clean mouth and a much less guilty conscience.

I've never been able to hunt and I've always felt a little lesser-than because of it. My cousins, uncles, in-laws, and friends all hunt, but I don't. I'm not sure why, but I just can't stomach it. I can't help but be a little jealous, though, when I hear my buddies repeating their epic tales of tree-stands, of deer camps far away, and stories about duck blinds and defecating in the woods standing up. It's as if I've missed out on some required male rite-of-passage. Some may ask, Randy, are you some closeted P.E.T.A. sympathizer? Nothing could be further from the truth. Well, there were those years in college when I slapped Greenpeace stickers on everything, but that was more of an attempt to seem "edgy" and "liberal." I'm pretty certain, though, that it just came off "annoying" and "pretentious." But no. I don't do that anymore. In fact, my new favorite t-shirt says, "Meat is Murder. Tasty Tasty Murder." I like my steak medium rare, have owned several handguns, and think vegans are pasty and self-righteous. Sort of like the French without iron and protein.

When I was around twelve, I shot a mockingbird in our backyard with my Daisy Red Rider pump action BB gun. It was sitting there on the phone wire, minding its own business, perhaps thinking of that juicy grub he had for lunch. I took dead aim (literally) and blew its head off. The visual of the thing swinging upside down, muscles still clinging to the wire, gave me the heebie jeebies and kept me from sleeping for a week. Plus, since I'd killed the Texas state bird, I'd also committed my first crime (I was a nervous child after that). A few years later, I shot a rabbit on my grandparent's farm with a .22 rifle. The thing let out a yelp that I swear sounded like an infant crying. Done. That was it. I haven't shot a creature since. Fishing? Different story. I've fished all my life and some of my favorite memories are from my Uncle Randall's house (yep, I'm named after him) on Lake Conway. On the grand scale of pain, though, fishing is much more torturous than hunting, yet I have no problem yanking a crooked hook through the lip of a fat crappie and dragging it into the boat.

If they only made deer hooks, I think I could do it.

(rw)

Creepy Crawly

It’s an uneasy discovery finding a tick on your body. I found three on me recently (well, I found one, Katie found the other two. Isn’t marriage wonderful?) and quickly got the tweezers to yank the buggers out. It didn’t hurt too bad and was over quickly. We played a show up in the mountains in southern Missouri last Saturday and were finding ticks all day. I’m assuming this is where the little guys hitched a ride—unless that church in Rockford, IL has some serious pest control issues.

I grew up in Arkansas and Texas and played in lots of overgrown fields and woods. Ticks are just part of that equation. It’s been years, though, since I’ve had one on me and, like most things, it got me thinking. The most unnerving part of finding those ticks was realizing they’d been there for three days. I had no idea. Just going about my day with no clue that the blood thirsty creatures had attached themselves, drinking the very life from me (melodramatic?). I had become their host unaware. As an aside, isn’t the word host just a little too polite for what’s actually happening? I never sent invitations and the hors d’oeuvres were me—a tiny tick flash mob on my nether regions.

So, yeah. I had no idea they were there. It’s slightly metaphoric for so many other things too. I let little things attach themselves and before I know it, they’re slowly killing me (or parts of me). My smile gets a little dimmer, my words a little sharper, my spirit a little dryer. I don’t realize it until something very un-me happens; I snap at my wife, make a condescending remark to a friend, withhold gratitude, etc. These things aren’t me, but they are evidence of the things that attach themselves to my soul: pride, distrust, bitterness. Unfortunately, it takes humility, love, and forgiveness to uproot these things. Slightly larger than a pair of Walgreens tweezers.

Ticks suck.

(rw)

I’m participating in Watercooler Wednesday at Ethos. My pet peeve phrases/words are: “Make no mistake…” and when someone wanting to be perceived as passionate describes anything (food, music, film, book, etc) as amazing. Amazing should be reserved for things like Steinbeck, Schindler’s List, and Led Zeppelin II.

Dog Gone

We kept a friend's dog last week and it taught me something: I'm not ready for kids yet. As far as time and attention needed, it's not a long leap from puppy to baby. To be sure, the little gal was cute and kinda fun. But you can stick a puppy in it's little puppy crate when you leave the house. I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure they don't make those for babies. That's the luxury of having a dog--you won't have Social Services called on you because you left them in a plastic cage for hours while you went out with friends. I think there's a Jerry Springer episode entitled "I left my kids in a plastic cage while I went out with friends."

I didn't have many pets growing up. Mom was never too fond of them and neither one of us kids seemed too passionate about the little critters. But from time time (as children are inclined) one of us would get the bug. This would usually happen as we were walking past the mall pet store (Is there anything more depressing than a mall pet store? Maybe an Indonesian brothel. Maybe.). Then started the bugging. MOM? Please? Please? I promise I'll take care of it! I love it sooo much. A few times, mom eventually relented and let me have the begged-for animal property. I had two hampsters named Ace and Peter (I was obsessed with KISS) and a dog named Pooch. Mom named Pooch. Very creative nomenclature. One of the hampsters died from constipation (I swear) and we sold Pooch in a garage sale. Yep. A garage sale. Classy.

I sort of dated a girl for about 4 weeks in grad school named...umm...something. She had a rabbit. I think she thought it would be oh. so. cute. if I would keep Hoppy (or Furry or Retarded or whatever it was named) for a few days. But we'd have a fight and she'd want the awful thing back. Then she'd need me to take the rodent back for a few more days. Ad nauseum. And nauseating. I think I recall saying something to my roommates like "this rabbit is such a great metaphor for our relationship: back and forth, back and forth, yet no matter where it is, the thing just stinks." Rabbits are good for two things: stew and cheap coats.

So, yeah, I'm probably not going to be a dad anytime soon.

(rw)

Tommie Lee

The most significant letter I’ve ever received was an email from my dad. It was on Father’s Day about ten years ago and I’ve read it about fifty times since. It’s too sacred to share on a blog, but I can sum it up for you pretty easily.

My dad grew up pretty rough. His alcoholic father left at an early age and his mom was married a few more times after that. There didn’t seem to be much consistency or predictability (at least on an emotional level) in his family and the stories from his youth that I’ve heard revolve primarily around his friends from school (some that are still in his life) and not the usual family fare. To say it wasn’t ideal is a great understatement. He rarely heard I love you growing up (save for the occasional visiting aunt or uncle) and never had a dad in his life to speak of.

My friend Don Miller wrote a book called To Own a Dragon. It’s a great book, especially for guys who grew up without a dad and he makes a great distinction between a father and a dad. This made sense to me because I’ve never been able to refer to my dad as my Father. It seems so formal and detached. Fathers are sperm donors. Dads are heart donors. I guess that’s why I have a hard time calling God my Father. He’s more of a dad to me. Abba Father. They say that your relationship with your earthly father will form much of your view of God. Mine has. Thankfully. If Yahweh is anything like Tommie Williams, we’re all in for a treat. This is what I received from my earthly dad (and I know exists in our heavenly one): kindness, selflessness, sensitivity, concern, graciousness, a servant’s heart and the loudest cheerleading voice on the sidelines at every game. He literally lost his voice at most every game my sister and I played. His knees wouldn’t allow him to run with me, but I learned to run apart from him, and independence is an entirely other gift.

I asked him one time how he knew how to be a dad since he never really had one. He simply and poignantly said, “Well, I knew what I didn’t want to be.”

At first it struck me odd to be getting a note from my dad on Father’s Day that Sunday ten years ago—shouldn’t I be the one handing out the encouraging words? But what I received was my dad’s heart in 100 words or less. Something every boy needs. And even though I’m turning 40 this month, I’m still Tommie’s boy and beyond proud of it.

Happy Father’s Day Dad. I love you more than you know.

(rw)

Esse Quam Vederi

I fell down at church the other day. Honest to goodness. It was the end of service and we were standing up about to be dismissed after a few announcements. I shifted my weight and tried to move my left foot toward Katie but something happened during the transfer of weight and I just went down. Awkwardly slow. My first reaction was to just to turn it into a quick sit-down, but since my weight was still moving left, the sit-down turned into a lay-down across three seats. If you were sitting behind me (and about 300 people were), it probably looked like I needed to take a nap RIGHT! THIS! SECOND! There was nothing cool or subtle about it and my reaction was neither cool nor subtle. I hopped back up, maybe a little too quickly, which made the whole scenario look even more ridiculous. This all took around 2.8 seconds to complete but it was nearly an hour in humiliation minutes. Katie started giggling, I started giggling, and pretty soon our whole section of seating had the trying-to-be-quiet-in-church giggles. Thankfully, church giggles are incredibly contagious because the collective laughter lessened embarrassment’s blow.

Humiliation is an awful thing. It’s forced humility. A good friend of mine, Michael Guido, used to say, “Come to the Rock crushed or risk being crushed by the Rock.” I don’t know if he made that up or if he was quoting someone else, but I’ve played that piece of advice over and over in my head for years. I get that. I don’t always do it, but I get it. It’s one thing to “humble yourself” and it’s another thing entirely to “be humbled.” It’s beyond painful.

In our humbling there can be comfort if—and it’s a big if—IF we allow ourselves transparency with those close to us. However, if we put up a front like everything is ok, like we’ve got it all together, that’s not transparency. That’s a façade. Facades are the fake fronts on those buildings in theme parks that make them look two or three stories tall. It’s not real. It leaves a good impression as you walk by, but if you get too close—phony. Christians are great façade-builders. We don’t want to let anyone know that things in our world are out-of-control, that we aren’t exactly who we seem to be. This is works-based theology—that we have to earn God’s favor. This is arrogant thinking and I’m great at it. To think that my behavior would impress the Lord of Hosts. Good one, Randy. To think the Maker of all things would look down on creation and say about me, “Finally, one of them gets it!”

Equally as bad, no one can relate to perfection. I can’t relate to Tiger Woods. That type of skill makes no sense to my messy mind. I don’t relate to Bill Gates or Michael Jordan (well, until he tried to play minor league baseball) either. We relate to the underdog. That’s why we love fairy tales, Disney movies, and Extreme Makeover: Home Edition (aka: 60 minutes of Randy crying). We relate to normal people, people who don’t have it all together.

When we come together based on our perfection, we build competition. When we come together based on our imperfection, we build community. I don’t know where I heard that, but it’s one of the most sobering truths I know.

When I admit to myself, my friends, and my God “I can’t get it right,” that’s when He says, “Finally, he gets it.”