365 # 126: Beth M.T.

Had I known that Slapdash Flimflammery was your very first acting experience, had I had any way of knowing that the processes put in place to make all casting decisions as random as possible would lead you to be cast in the scene that I wrote, then I may have thought twice about having your character be stuck with singing a bunch of idiotic songs, songs whose lyrics did not flow, that did not lend themselves to any kind of melody, and were practically unsingable. Yes, I might have thought twice about that, and then gone ahead anyway. Thanks for pulling it off so fantabulously.

I Build and I Sing and I Sing and I Build

My mom's Christmas present to the boys was a big backyard playset, complete with swings, a slide, a treehouse, the whole works. It arrived at my house in three enormous cardboard boxes, every piece separate, not a lick of it pre-assembled or labeled. I've now devoted approximately 2.5 days to its construction, and I estimate I've got at least another day left before it's done.

Most of today was spent working on the enclosed cabin part of the structure. This is the place where I predict the boys will go when they're mad at us. I expect those walls will be witness to many a hatched plan, conspired conspiracy, and gathering of small people. I wonder how long until one of them decides to snag some extra fabric from Mom's sewing room to hang in the windows so's nobody can see what they're up to.

Anyway, while I was sitting four feet off the ground in the cabin, Henry kept looking up at me and asking if he could climb up with me. I kept telling him that he couldn't come up until I had it all built, but then it occurred to me, aw crap, once thing thing is all put together, he'll be climbing all over it. I wonder how long before the first good fall? I gotta shred me up some tires before somebody breaks an arm.

So while I was screwing in the billion-odd wooden slats that make up the house's walls, I had rap lyrics running through my head, one of which was Talib Kweli saying "It's a small wonder like Vicki/that I'm picky..." and I don't remember what comes after that, but I got stuck on that part because my internal singer--you know, the little person inside your head that sings when you don't feel like singing out for all the world to hear? Well that little guy started singing the theme song to "Small Wonder." And before I knew it, he'd sung the whole goddamn song. I let my drill hang at my side and took my finger off of its trigger while I let that little fact sink in: Holmes, you know the entire theme song to "Small Wonder." Sometimes when I remember old shows like that, I'm not certain if I should trust my memory. Like "Parker Lewis Can't Lose" or "Square Pegs." I ask myself, were these shows really on T.V. at one point? Or do I just have some false memory of them? Could it be that perhaps I was the only person in the world watching them?

I was pondering all of this later on while I was rocking Simon to sleep. It occurred to me that I could've tweeted about knowing the "Small Wonder" theme, but the moment was passed. Ah well, I can live with a bit of tweetgret.

Tweetgret: noun. The feeling of regret that one experiences upon realizing that an opportunity to tweet has passed.

I shouldn't have been surprised that I knew that song. My brain is a magnet for lyrics that I don't want to remember. Like the other day, I was being silly and I started singing the chorus to a Tori Amos song, thinking that I would only sing a line or two, but then I realized that I knew the whole fucking thing. And yes, I sang it out. You might say I belted it. I'm not what you'd call a Tori Amos fan, more like an antifan. But somehow, every woman that I've ever dated, married, or otherwise had cause to exchange fluids with over the course of a significant span of time has been a Tori devotee. Which is why if you put on Little Earthquakes, I could probably sing along with 80 - 99% of it. And I'd do it too, just out of spite. Spite for who or what? Can't say, my friends. I just can't say.

Maybe I'll post about the holidays at some point.

365 # 125: Matt H.

I was such a jerk to you, and I'm sorry. When my friends wanted to ditch you that one weekend because they thought you were lame, I should've told them they were all assholes and hung out with you instead. I probably would have had more fun. But I went along with their stupid plan and felt shitty about it afterwards. Oh well, spilled milk.

On another hot summer weekend, an entire horde of us descended upon the Guadalupe River to tube its cool waters. Near the end of the course, you fell out of your tube, which isn't really surprising considering the amount of beer we brought with us. You would have been fine except that you somehow managed to rack yourself on a piece of tree stump hidden just below the surface of the water. To add injury to injury, when your sack came into contact with the stump, you screamed, which might have been okay except that your head was underwater at the time, so your voice was completely destroyed for about a week. Your sack didn't end up healing quite so quickly. You ended up having to go to the hospital where they found that one of your nuts was completely ruptured. The poor guy had to be removed, but in order to keep things in balance, you received a titanium replacement. Not long after your surgery, you went to a party and some hot chick sat on your lap. You ended up literally busting a stitch.

365 # 124: Natasha C.

I'm a bit more outgoing these days. When I was younger, I wasn't so great at just speaking up. My expertise lay more in keeping my mouth shut. Then on the other end of the spectrum was you. I don't mean that to sound like I'm calling you a loudmouth because I'm not. I only mean that you were the type who could open her mouth and just let words come out, and they were often words that formed sentences that communicated shockingly open facts about yourself. I could just sit there in the passenger seat of that beat-up little hatchback you drove everybody around in and hear about whatever exploit you were in the mood to divulge. You might have been the first over-sharer I ever met.

Austin's bus system has problems

365 # 123: Derreck V.

You were a perfectly nice guy. A tad goofy, a tad sarcastic, often given to good-natured debate. Overall, perfectly well-liked by most everybody, including the rest of the staff at the camp where we worked, as well as the kids that you taught week after week. And then you went off to Texas A & M, joined the corps, and became a complete and total asshole, not at all likable except to others in the same asshole category as you. And I haven't seen you since. I wonder if you ever became aware of the fact that you had become an asshole, or if you just further embraced your newfound asshole-ism.

365 # 122: Elana R.

I was so angry with myself when I realized I had lost you. Well, it wasn't you that I'd lost, but a drawing I had made of you, which was actually pretty good. When I remembered you and added you to the list for this x365 thing, I thought I would include it. I drew it one day in college when you and your boyfriend came over to my place so he could use my computer. Maybe you were tired or maybe you were just bored, but either way, you curled up on my bed and fell fast asleep. I've always envied people who could do that, like a cat, just find a spot and drop off to sleep for a little while. At the time, I was in a drawing class, and I had gotten into the habit of drawing any and every subject that caught my interest. Most of it was crap, a lot of it resembled the subject but had not a bit of originality about it, and a blessed few, like the one of you, actually seemed to capture a little something. When I saw you'd fallen asleep, I plunked myself down with my notepad and went to work. I even managed to get that little mole over your lip. I don't remember if I ever showed it to you or if I was too embarrassed.

Me and Religion: A Post in Two Parts

So a bit of background first: I wrote the first part of this post back around September or October, several weeks into my most recent semester at the seminary. I set it aside, fully intending to finish it, but never got around to it. Honestly, I think I've been avoiding it. I've opened it up a few times over the last couple of months and thought to myself, "you know, Holmes, you really ought to finish that." And then I'd close it. I wrote it during a time when I was pretty depressed, which is perhaps another post all on its own. But now the semester is over, and I think it's time to revisit it, if for no other purpose than as an exercise in self-exploration. Having said that, this might be kind of long, sooo, yeah, do as you will. I'll indicate where the old text ends and the new text begins.

So I don't really know if this is "ha ha" funny or "oh hey what a surprise" funny or "I think I'll go be a super villain now" funny. But in whatever sense, it's funny. To me anyway. So to recap, I'm in my third semester at seminary, the goal of which is to move into the counseling field. I chose the seminary for several really good reasons:

1. I fully believe that the spiritual side of the self is of great importance to many people's mental health and well-being, and so I wanted to be able to at least talk about it when and if it ever comes up. Not that everyone in the world is Christian, but rather that Christianity is one vehicle, a language, a symbology, through which to try and make sense of the divine. And it's a vehicle whose language I am somewhat familiar with. So it's a place to start.
2. The decision to move into this field had a lot to do with something of a spiritual renewal of my own, though it was one that was fraught with questions. Thus, I wanted to put myself in an environment where I could grapple with these questions. I wasn't looking to be spoonfed easy answers - I just wanted a place where I could struggle with the questions, hopefully with other strugglers.
3. It's cheaper than UT or St. Ed's.

But now, here I am in my third semester at this place, and while I can definitely say I've learned a great deal about the theory and practice of the field that I intend to go into, I also find myself realizing that any and all concepts of an interventionist God that cares one iota about the human condition simply doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me anymore. I've held off on writing about this because I've been trying to identify a narrative to plot how I got from wherever I was to where ever I am. But I can't quite see it. It's like a book with a bunch of the pages ripped out.

So that was sort of unexpected.

I have made one decision though: I'm not going to run from this.

And with that, I stopped writing and the post sat idle. What follows picks up where it left off.

The questions are big, and not easily answered, perhaps not even answerable at all. Which then begs the question, do they even matter? Which, of course, is just yet another goddamn question. But I don't feel as if just walking off in disgust is quite the way for me to go. It's not as if the questions will just go away. I don't think humans are wired that way. And to stick with the metaphor, I have to wonder if much of the discomfort and unease that I feel is a result of the process of tearing out some of my old faulty wiring and looking for new ways to hook things up, a process that's been going on for a number of years now, and will probably continue for years to come, perhaps even until the day I die. Maybe that's life. Maybe that's the journey. Maybe it never makes sense, and we simply make peace with the fact that we just don't know, and that any one of us is just as likely to be as full of shit as the next person. To me, this inspires a sense of humility. Why doesn't it do that for everybody? Argh, more questions!

Maybe my problem is my perspective. I see a question, I feel the need to find its answer. If the answer is not forthcoming, then harumph and argh and well fuckall, etc. Sometimes, that is. Other times, I'm perfectly laid back enough to accept whatever. It could be, however, that the shift I'm making is larger and in a different direction than I expected. I definitely didn't plan to somehow become "more Christian." In a lot of ways, I haven't really felt Christian for quite a while, and that's only become more solidified over the past few months. But I've never before seriously considered that maybe, just maybe, This Is All There Is. But now I am. I'm not making that as a declaration. In fact, I'm running pretty short on anything much that I can declare. Instead, it's a new question, another one to toss in the old thought grinder for some mulling over for the next few...however long. Just another thing I just don't know.

In talking to a friend of mine about all this, she suggested an exercise to try to get at the heart of it, and it goes something like this: Ignoring external influences as much as possible, including other people's opinions, political leanings, religious background, etc, write down the things that you truly, deep down in your core, believe to be true. It'll probably only be a few things. Maybe even just one. You don't have to prove it, just state it. So here's mine, in no particular order:

1. Everyone who has ever lived and ever will live is capable of great good, unthinkable evil, and everything in between.
   
2. We are not the sole architects of our lives. We are born into situations with people and certain inheritances, and given certain advantages and disadvantages. Still, we encounter choices that are ours and ours alone to make.
   
3. Our lives and our decisions affect other people. Ignoring this fact causes harm.
   
4. The human race has discovered so much in its time, yet there is still so much we do not know and cannot presently explain. This fact should humble us each enough to treat others with respect.

So that's all for now. I imagine this list will evolve over the years. Perhaps it will grow. Maybe I'll find better ways to state things. Maybe some things will be shrugged off entirely.

And with that, I'm off to live life some more.

365 # 121: Craig W.

Damn you, Craig. It's your fault that I can't make rude jokes about people who live in trailer parks without feeling guilty. That's because you were my friend and you lived in the trailer park down the road from my neighborhood. We met on the school bus in 9th grade. I'd gone to private school up until that point, so I didn't really know many of the kids from my 'hood that I was now sharing the bus with. You'd gone to school with 'em for the last eight years, so I don't know what your excuse was. Maybe there was some anti-trailer park sentiment going on among our busmates. Whatever it was, we spent the next few years sitting next to each other on the bus. You grew taller and goofier, while I pretty much stayed the same height and developed my smartass attitude.

For The Funk Of It

Sunday night, Hip-hop Show Buddy and I found ourselves downtown. It was a pleasant night, not quite what you'd call warm, but not at all cold either. You might say it was as close to perfect as the nights here ever get. It was great weather to catch an outdoor show featuring the legendary Ice Cube. I was particularly happy to be out seeing this show since just a few weeks before, I had skipped out on seeing Method Man and Redman due to the boys being sick. In that case, I'd already paid for my ticket, but when your baby boy is covered head to toe in hives, that becomes a bit less significant.

For this night, however, I'd spent not a dime. Austin Hip-hop Scene had held a contest, the prize being two tickets to see Ice Cube. So I dropped my name in the hat, and then forgot about it until one morning I went to work and checked my email, only to find out that my name was going on that guest list. Gotta say that was a good day.

At least, my name was supposed to go on the list. As we neared the door, I started wondering what the hell I was going to do if my name wasn't there. Sure enough, Clipboard And Stamp Guy flips through his various lists and can't find my name anywhere.

"Who was supposed to put you on the list?"

I told him.

"It's not here."

"Well, it's supposed to be."

We looked at each other for a second. Then he says, "Fuck it." He stamps my hand. He stamps Shayne's hand. Whether I was ever on that list or not, we were in for nada dolla. Gangsta, gangsta.

The opening act was an idiot named Trick Trick. I'd never heard of him before, but from the sound of some of his lyrics, he's got a bit of a homophobia issue. This is an ugly aspect of hip-hop that doesn't seem to get addressed much. For years, there's been a lot of talk about the gratuitous violence and the degrading portrayal of women in hip-hop lyrics, but homophobia doesn't seem to have been talked about nearly as much. One of the major exceptions, of course, was the hype that surrounded Eminem a few years back. For my part, I have less of an issue with the violence aspect than I do with the other two. I think the point has been made plenty of times that gangster rap is a close cousin of punk rock. They're raw, scary, maybe a bit mean. And both are intent on portraying the reality of worlds that are too ugly and too close to home to be comfortable enough for prime time.

Of course, both have been somewhat commodified, and have given birth to a number of artists that have become almost caricatures of the music they are supposed to be about. I mean, when you've got artists trying to portray their pasts as being more gangster than they really were, that's just sad. Still that doesn't take anything away from the impact that this music had when it first hit.

Wait, I was talking about homophobia, right? Yeah, the ugly treatment of women and homosexuals in a lot (read: NOT ALL) of hip-hop music makes me sick. I'm thankful that the music's gone in different directions over the years, with lots of artists taking the basic building blocks of beats and rhymes, and innovating them to create something new. It's as if more rappers seem comfortable being who they are rather than trying to portray themselves as some kind of ultra-violent gangster poet. Some artists have even spoken out against disrespecting women and gay people. And just as I think the tide will turn against bullshit like Proposition 8, I think it will turn against attitudes like these in hip-hop music. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if a gay rapper rose to prominence using his or her rhymes against homophobia. Homophobia may not be wiped out completely in our lifetime (I mean Christ, we still have fucking racism), but you just can't win against the power of an idea whose time has come. Still, seeing Trick Trick was a pretty blunt reminder that this problem is still with us in a big way. And the fact that he has him on his tour tells me that Ice Cube, who I've respected for years, must condone his attitudes at least to some extent.

All the same, Ice Cube's performance was incredible. He played some new shit, he played some old shit, he even played some N.W.A. It's one thing to be all Office Space about it and sing along with the tracks in the car, it's quite another to sing along with the dude that wrote it. At one point, I turned to Shayne and said "that's Ice Cube! He's right there!" That's one more "gotta-see" show I can mark off the list.

Sometimes things work out exactly as you expect them to

Case in point:

This is the first Christmas where Henry has been the one to bring up Santa Claus. For the last couple of weeks, he's been talking about wanting to go see Santa, a feat we've never attempted before because, well, see above. Still, he insisted he wanted to go so that he could tell Santa what he wants for Christmas. And do you know what he wants, what he has said over and over and over he wants to find when he wakes up Christmas morning? No, not a Red Ryder beebee gun. No, even better: cookies! Like, the kind you eat! Score, yo. I'll swing by the grocery store on the way home. It'll be the best Christmas ever.

As you can see, Simon is, as usual, unfazed.

365 # 120: Dale C.

Allright, stop. I know. It was 1990. We were freshmen in high school. Lots of people had that Vanilla Ice tape and knew all the words to "Ice Ice Baby." Some people, like you, were even sporting the haircut, and even trying on the attitude for size. But when you were still sporting the same look senior year, it got to be a bit old. For your sake, I hope you found a new do.

365 # 119: Carolyn G.

You are, without a doubt, one of the finest managers I have ever had the pleasure of reporting to. I never thought I would find the business of business something to be impressed by, but I was continually impressed by you. You knew, almost as if by instinct, how to manage people, how to deal with difficult customers, and how to get crappy situations under control. On top of that, everybody on your team both liked and respected you. You seemed to care about each and every person that reported to you, both professionally and personally. When you announced to us that you were leaving for a new job at another company, you involuntarily broke into tears, and then got mad at yourself for doing so. Oh, that temper was awesome, I'm so glad I was never on the receiving end of it. I remember that time you took me with you to Toronto to meet with a client, and we missed our connecting flight at O'Hare. Oh, the string of profanity that you did let loose as watched our plane pull away. It was truly glorious. In conclusion, I don't know that I was necessarily cut out to spend my life in the business world, but I learned from you a lot of tools to help me manage my way through it.

Necessity is the mother of some such or something like that

Sunday night after the boys were asleep, The Ash and I busted open the boxes and decorated the tree that had stood in the corner all afternoon, naked, patiently waiting for our attention. Every year, somewhere during the tree decorating process, I find myself stepping back for a moment and considering the strangeness of this tradition. What might a visitor from another planet think of this practice of bringing a tree into one’s dwelling and adorning it with all manner of lights, ribbons, and bright shiny objects of various shapes? Not to mention the rest of the traditional Christmas decor. You know which one always cracks me up? The nativity scene with the kneeling Santa Claus. That’s just the most Christmasarrific mashup ever. Maybe at Easter, there should be a giant bunny dressed as a Roman soldier. Or maybe a wabbit pushing a stone away from a cave. I’d put that on my lawn.

Monday morning, the boys discovered the tree. Our nearly one-year-old is plenty mobile and plenty curious, so we left the bottom foot or so of the tree undecorated. It’s like the tree is dressed in a short skirt. Just showing off a little leg, ya know? Hey, a tree’s got needs. So I watched as the nearly one-year-old, my little New Year’s Eve baby, eyed the lowest hanging ornament, a shiny silver bell with colorful stripes all the way around. From his sitting up position it was well out of his reach. He raised his hand towards it and attempted to stand. His legs wobbled for a moment, then he thunked back down on his little baby butt. He tried again, same results. I watched him try this maneuver again and again, never taking his eyes off of that bell. Finally, he stood up and held his stance firmly, long enough to reach out and pluck the ornament off of the tree. I have you now, pretty shing thing. With it safely in his grasp, he sat back down and inspected his find more closely. The bell remained stoic.

I suppose if all the good tasting fruit grew out of the ground, humankind would still be crawling.

365 # 118: Jimmy L.

You were the valedictorian of my high school class. You were also the first guy that I ever heard just come out and say "You know what? I jerk off. And I'm okay with that." And one by one, the rest of us all fessed up to the same. It was a new level of drunk bonding, all brought about by the guy with the best grades.

365 # 117: Mr. H.

I haven't checked the latest figures, so I don't have an exact percentage, but I don't need comprehensive data to tell you that most kids, if given the choice, will choose the top bunk on a bunk bed. I was no exception to this rule. My mom shipped me off to my first summer camp experience with the church youth group, and you were the counselor for my group. I managed to score myself a top bunk on one of the rickety metal bunk beds.

One night, I was awakened by the impact of my head with the concrete floor. I had rolled out of the bed and landed right on my noggin. You heard me crying somewhere in the darkness of the cabin. You found me, picked me up, and carried me to the health lodge on your shoulders in the middle of the night. Betcha got a headache, huh?

365 # 116: Matt C.

The assignment was to write the most offensive scene possible. Each person was given a theme to work with, and mine was race. Gosh, how could you possibly offend anybody with such an innocuous subject? I ended up writing a scene about a rapping Ku Klux Klansman, complete with copious uses of a particular word that lots of popular rappers use in their rhymes, but that white people really shouldn't sing when they're rapping along, even if they're alone in the car. That's just the rule. Oh, and there was some abortion stuff thrown in there too, just to catch anybody that might not have been bothered by all the race stuff. I felt like I'd really nailed the assignment good.

So it came time to do a reading of these scripts, and Brandon says "Hey, my friend Matt could probably come help us out if we need some actors to read." It was only when I showed up for the reading and met you for the first time that I found out you were black, and it was only then that I stopped to think about how a scene like this might be taken by somebody who A) doesn't know me, and B) isn't white. Sure, I know it's meant to be dark and satirical and offensive, and people who know me would know it too, but what of everybody else? What would this look like through their eyes? Should I, as a writer, even worry about it? It's easy to brush questions like that off in a vacuum, but not when faced with an actual human being.

Thankfully you didn't get upset. I don't think you liked the scene very much, but you recognized it for what it was. Later on, I even got to direct you in another play. And those offensive scenes? Never saw the light of the stage. That's probably for the best. But don't tell self-righteous 23 year old me that I said that.

365 # 115: Regina Y.

This may sound like it's disparaging to all the other fine actors who have participated in the plays I've written, but it's absolutely not meant to be. It's just that, on the two occasions when you acted roles in my plays, I felt somehow weirdly honored. Like, here was this incredibly serious actress who's done all this other stuff, and here she is kicking ass in something I wrote. You pulled off creepy religious woman and frustrated housewife beautifully.

365 # 114: John G.

One handshake with you completely changed my life. We met one day in my 20th year when I was walking to class. I could probably go to the very spot where it happened. You just walked right up out of nowhere and introduced yourself. You had long hair and wore an Alice in Chains tee-shirt. We chit-chatted about them for a few minutes before you got around to telling me about this church you went to. The true motivation for your introduction was revealed. Normally I would have just let the conversation end and then forgotten all about it, but you seemed like somebody I could be friends with. And I was sort of in need of a friend. So I ended up going to your church.

A few weeks later, I was a full-blown member, just like you. It sounds crazy, but I basically let myself get brainwashed. I was actually convinced that this little church, with its little outposts here and there throughout the globe, whose Austin branch met in the ballroom of a downtown hotel, was what it claimed to be: the one and true church. Everyone else? Going to hell. I actually believed that. Yes I did. I went from lapsed semi-maybe-agnosticish person with a Christian background to hardcore believer. Yes I did. It boggles my mind that I let that happen, that there was a time in my life I could have been duped like that, but there it is.

Throughout my time with this church, you were my best friend, and the person to whom I was supposed to go when I needed to discuss spiritual matters. In fact, I was supposed to, oh my God, I can't believe this, I was supposed to confess my sins to you. How ridiculous is that? How ludicrous? How manipulative and conniving? Though I can't say it was your fault. It was the system, and you and I were both willing players in it.

The truth is, we really were friends, even outside the structure of the church that said we were all "friends." We hung out every day. We talked about heavy metal. You brought your bass over to my house sometimes so we could rock out. We were buds.

People who left the church, and there were many, were said to have "fallen away." Not only were they on their way to hell like the rest of the world, but their punishment would be particularly harsh because they had known the truth and chosen to turn their back on it. It was hard to find a group photo of people in the church without at least one or two people in it who had "fallen away." I bring this up because when I left six months later, I hated the thought that you would be thinking I was one of these "fall-aways." I knew you would blame yourself, that it would eat you up inside, and that the leaders would go on and let you stew in that guilt. But there was no sticking around for me, not after I learned what a complete and total lie I had given myself over to, what a sham this organization was, how theologically ridiculous their premises were, how manipulative and downright evil many of their practices were, and how much damage they had done to people's lives all over the world. I hated to leave, and I hated to leave you behind. I felt like I was making a jailbreak and there was no way to bring you along with me.

I haven't spoken to you since then, but I swear that was you I saw in the Ikea parking lot a few months ago. You were with a woman, presumably your wife. We made eye contact briefly, and I think that was a smile of recognition. That is, assuming it was you and not some friendly stranger who resembled you. Last I heard, the church had crumbled, so who knows what happened to you and everybody else after that. I can only hope you found your own way to freedom.

365 # 113: Aimee B.

I don't consider myself to be a hyper-competitive person. But I have to admit, I remember being thrilled about beating you in the competition to see who would represent our school at the spelling bee in the first grade. I went on to take first place, beating out all the other first graders from a bunch of other schools. So really, you never stood a chance. Was it just me, or did you give me a bit of the old cold shoulder after that? If it's any consolation, I still spell check everything I type. What, that's not consolation enough? Fine, here you go: mistkae.