LONGWALKABOUT

The meanderings of a restless soul. (it's a lot less serious than it sounds)

Kids and Dads and Sports (Part 2)

Almost four years ago I wrote about inducting my boys into the brotherhood of sports fandom. I have to admit that it has been an uphill battle. When I manage to pry them away from video games they usually resort to their second favorite pastime of going on YouTube and watching people play video games. Recently I have had some breakthroughs though. Much to my surprise, both my boys sat down with me and watched one half of one quarter of an NFL playoff game. One of them turned to me and said, “Dad, I can see why you like this so much.” PROGRESS.

My youngest has taken to ice skating. This Christmas I bought him an NHL game for the Xbox which has helped him learn the rules of the sport. (Not to brag, but we recently won the Stanley Cup.) He even watches a little hockey with me once in a while. So, when I recently asked him if he would like to go to a hockey game and he said yes, I did the logical thing and pulled him out of school and drove to Pittsburgh.

Pittsburgh is an unpretentious town. We arrived. Swam in the hotel pool. Had four slices of surprisingly good pizza and a drink for less than eight dollars, and made our way to the arena to join the friendly throngs waiting for the doors to open.

The NHL has made their product much more kid friendly. Sure there is the occasional fistfight, but how is that different than most work places? Seriously, though, there isn’t nearly as much of that as there used to be. Prior to every game most arenas let you take your kids right down to the glass for the pregame skate, no matter where your seats are. It’s a really unique experience to be mere feet away from some of the best athletes in the world while they show off their skills. My little guy ducked as pucks hit the glass in front of his face and marveled as players juggled them on the blades of their sticks.

My guy getting close to the action.

After the pregame skate we made our way to our seats, and for the next three hours my son and I participated in time honored traditions. We chanted. We booed the refs. We ate food that no athlete would be caught dead eating. The game went into overtime and when Jake Guentzel scored the game winner we leapt out of our seats and hugged and cheered……. and then the guy behind us fell on us because the drunk guy behind him had fallen on him. After we all disentangled, my son provided me with the highlight of my night. He said. “That was AWESOME.” I couldn’t have asked for a better first game experience for him.

Pittsburgh is far from home.

It was a whirlwind of a trip. Thirty six hours. Six hundred and nineteen miles. One tired dad. But now I have two boys that will even ask me about scores and standings from time to time. The fun is just beginning.

POLAR VORTEX? REALLY?

My dislike of cold weather has been well documented here on this blog as well as on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, in angry letters to Al Gore about the climate not warming as fast as he said it would, and once in a while by me yelling at the sky in my backyard. At home I don’t use the word winter. Instead I refer to the cold months as the devil’s season.

My wife says that I am dramatic when it comes to the cold. I’m willing to keep an open mind, but I don’t think I’m dramatic,,,,,, I just think that low temperatures are inherently evil. The truly dramatic people when it comes to weather are your local meteorologists. They’ve turned the nightly weather report into a parody of itself. It’s almost as if the weather people got jealous of the regular news anchors who got to report real news. Stories full of life and death and real human drama. They thought, “We can make weather just as exciting as everything else.” And they were off to the races.

Now we have all kinds of ridiculous weather terminology. It can no longer be said, “Atmospheric conditions are going to make the moon look abnormally large early this evening.” NO. Now we have to say, “Hey everyone, there’s going to be a SUPERMOON tonight! Tell your friends!” We also have this new phenomenon whenever there is a cold snap. Instead of saying “Temperatures are going to dip along with the jet stream”, we have to call it a POLAR VORTEX. Everything is a SUPERSTORM or a MEGABREEZE or an EXTREME DRIZZLE. It’s all kind of absurd.

In addition to real, measurable weather statistics, we also have completely made up things like “wind chill” and “real feel temperature.” My wife likes the wind chill “stat.” I tend to be old school I guess. If you give me a temperature and a wind speed, I can pretty much guess what kind of jacket I’ll need. I guess other people like “wind chill” reports too because we are always assaulted with new made up weather metrics. It wouldn’t surprise me if I heard something like this tonight. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we are going to add a new stat to the weather report. It will help us describe to you how it feels outside so you will never have to leave your cozy living room. Imagine if you will, that you were outside, soaking wet, and completely naked. Well if that were the case, the current temperature would feel like negative one hundred and twenty three degrees. We are going to call this the “Nude Feel” temperature and we will be bringing it to you nightly. You’re welcome. Watch for the Supermoon tonight.”

I just looked at the ten day forecast and despite what the groundhog says, I see no end to the devil’s season. By the way, next Tuesday the Nude Feel temperature will be negative eighty seven.

Locked Out

Pictures from the actual beach taken on the actual day of the event.

There really is nothing like locking yourself out of your car. You stand there helplessly staring at the keys sitting on the seat or hanging out of the ignition, pulling on the door handle for the twentieth time in the last minute like maybe the next pull will be the magical one that, despite all practical laws of engineering and mechanics, lets you back in. Then you have to call Triple A or your delinquent friend who stole cars as a youth to try to get back in. You know what’s even better? Locking yourself out of your car while it’s running. I know this because I’ve done it,,,,,,,,, more than once……… In fact,,,,,,, three times. Because I’m so experienced in this area, I can confirm that no matter how many times you pull on the door handle, It Will Not Open! So, when this happens to you, don’t bother. Search for other solutions right off the bat.

The first time I did this, the car was in my driveway. My delinquent friend came over and we handled the situation.

The second time was at work. Triple A was very helpful.

The third time. Well. That was a doozy. Three months after my first son was born, we took him to see his great grandparents in Puerto Rico. My father-in-law traveled with us. We introduced the little guy to all necessary tropical experiences. Sleeping under mosquito nets, sweating while doing no physical activity at all, going to the rainforest, and most importantly, going to the beach.

Forty five minutes from where my wife’s grandparents lived there was a beautiful, isolated, state park beach. Because I’m introverted to a fault and couldn’t bear the thought of sharing a public beach with, gasp, other people, we headed to that isolated slice of heaven. It was a beautiful day in the tropics. The sun beat down, the breeze was onshore, and the surf was knee high. Two hours ended up being the max time for a baby on the beach, so we pack up and headed back to the car. 

I reached the car first and thought everyone would enjoy getting into a car that was already air-conditioned, so I started the car, put the air on full blast, and shut the door, feeling pretty proud of my good idea. Of course, when everyone else arrived I discovered that the car was locked up tighter than Enfamil at a Walgreens.

Picture if you will a slightly befuddled guy trying to figure out how this happened, an angry new mom, and a frustrated grandpa holding a baby in a carseat, all standing in the shade of a cactus next to a running car in the middle of nowhere. I glanced at my little son and he stared back at me with a calm look that said, “From the conversations I overheard while I was in the womb, this is pretty much what I expected dad.” 

Cell phone service was nonexistent, so we were on our own. Luckily I had watched a ton of Macgyver as a child, and as a young adult, and as an adult, so I had an idea. I took one of the spokes out of our beach umbrella, pulled on the top of the car door, and slid it down between the door and the car frame. If I could just hit the unlock button. Thirty minutes later, I had come close, but had no luck. (You’d be shocked at the kind of dirty looks a new mom and a new grandpa can give while they stand in ninety degree heat with a baby.) Then the park rangers showed up. They joined the circus and we all tried for another half hour. Then the cops showed up. And we all tried for another half hour. Eventually one of the cops hit the button and became everyone’s hero. We thanked them all profusely and got into our car which was roughly the temperature of the freezer at Seven Eleven. As we headed back to the house everyone agreed that getting into a hot car was better than doing this again. The baby just looked at me judgmentally, like he knew I’d end up doing this all over again.

 

ALONE TOGETHER

Solitude is underrated. I spent my fifth semester of college in virtual solitude at a school where I knew no one. I lived with a family out in the country, but they were out of town half the time. For work, I cleaned a lumber mill at night, by myself. There were times when my girlfriend would call me and it was weird for me to hear the sound of my own voice. Sound lonely? Well, yes. But it was peaceful. It gave me time to read and think and listen to the radio. Learning to be comfortable alone is a useful skill.

This past summer I decided it would be nice to enjoy some solitude, so I planned a river trip and loaded my wife and two boys in the car so that we could all be alone together.

The West Branch of the Susquehanna River in northern Pennsylvania cuts through some of the most isolated country in the state. One twenty-two mile stretch in particular is not accessible by any road. That’s where we went. We shoved our kayaks into the water around noon on Thursday, and watched our last connection to anyone else for a while recede behind us. For the next twenty-two miles we were more or less on our own. Cell service would go more than come, so it was a bad time to start wondering if I left the garage door open. Eleven miles later we made camp on the bank of the river. We swam. We cooked dinner over an open fire. We drank camp coffee out of an aluminum mess kit bowl because I forgot my cup. My family retired to the tent as dusk was falling. I stayed by the fire and read for a while. Then I sat in the dark and thought about how it would suck to be attacked by a bear. Then I wondered if I should have brought my family, or if I should have come alone. I decided it was better for the family to be there with me, because when that bear came to get us my wife could surely talk him out of eating us. She would make him feel horrible about not being properly prepared or stealthy enough to even think about carrying out a bear attack at all. Eventually the bear would apologize to her and we would all pass around the ceremonial coffee bowl while my kids lulled him to sleep with stories of watching people play video games on YouTube. No longer worried about a bear attack, I went to bed. 

The next morning dawned with only the sounds of nature. We cooked breakfast and had another bowl of coffee before continuing down the river. When eventually we saw another person (at mile 21 of the 22 mile trip), I was kind of disappointed. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of being alone and self-reliant. In an age of almost constant connectedness, it is refreshing to be able to cut the ties that bind us to everyone else and feel like Daniel Boone, if even for a little while. It’s nature’s reset button.

By the way, if you are wondering about the paddling limit for an eight-year-old boy…… It’s almost exactly twenty miles. For the last two, you will have to tow him while he constantly asks “How much farther?”

If you would like to take this trip, the folks at McCrackens Canoe can provide you with a shuttle, boats, information, and all types of gear.

Thoughts On Used Leather Pants

Just some dudes in leather pants.

I was in the thrift store the other day. It must have been a Monday or Thursday because those are the sale days.

(Right now 75% of you are thinking. “What a cheapskate, he only goes to the thrift store on sale days.” The other 25% are thinking. That guy really knows how to shop.” Well. You’re all correct. But I’m probably only going to be friends with the 25% because my feelings are a little hurt by all of you who called me a cheapskate.)

Anyway. I was in the thrift store the other day and I ran into one of the more unusual items I have seen there. That’s saying a lot for a thrift store. There is no shortage of odd stuff. I was sorting through the pants and what did I find but two pair of leather pants. This begged some important questions. Were these donated by the same person? I’m just going to assume that they were. If so, why? Why would someone who made the significant investment of buying two pair of leather pants, just give them away? Did they gain too much weight to wear them? Did they convert to veganism and feel overwhelming guilt whenever they put them on? Were they ironically killed running with the bulls in Pamplona? Or, perhaps saddest of all, did they finally give up on their rock star dreams?

No matter the answer to any of those questions, the fact remained that I was staring at two pair of leather pants that were a terrific deal. Especially on sale day. I stood there and imagined myself fronting my own rock band. Never mind the fact that I have no discernible musical talent. That doesn’t seem to stop a lot of lead singers. Rock n roll is more about attitude and looking good. Hence the leather pants. But could I actually wear used leather pants? The answer is no. I feel like leather pants are a one owner kind of item. Like underwear, or athletic cups, or q-tips. No matter what you do to them, it seems to me that leather pants are still going to contain some of the soul, and other residues, of the original owner. I just couldn’t get past that. In my mind those pants contain less of the cow they are made from than the person who first wore them. I mean. Imagine the sweat. (~SHIVER~)

So I walked away. I left the pants hanging there with the used khakis and sweatpants and the ghost of their owner. When I returned on the next sale day, the pants were gone. Some brave, cheap, aspiring rock star had picked them up and is probably at this moment sweating in them in his garage while he and his buddies play a barely passable cover of Stairway To Heaven. Rock on my unhygienic friend.

Snow Day 2018

Captain’s Log- Snow Day #3, 2018

7:34- Wake up to find oldest son watching Youtube videos of his favorite gamer. (If someone would have come to me when I was a kid and said, “Hey, you want to watch some VHS tapes of guys playing video games?” I would have said, “No! What do I look like, some kind of weirdo? Let’s play Tecmo Bowl. And, no, you can’t be Bo Jackson. That’s cheating.)

8:00- Everyone having breakfast. Snow is falling.

8:43- Things remain calm. The boys are playing video games. Granny is completing her lottery scratchy. My wife is working upstairs in the office.

9:45- Snowfall rate is picking up.

10:17- Inform the boys that it is time to do homework. First signs of unrest emerge.

11:00- Homework complete. The boys and the dog play in the snow outside. I make cookies for the family. Granny watching The Price Is Right. Granny visibly upset when the Showcase Showdown is interrupted for a weather report.

11:47- The boys and dog have returned from the backyard. Visibility dropping as snow piles up. Increasingly likely that we will be snowbound. I inform the family of this. The information is met with assorted grumbles.

12:15- Lunch.

13:00- I tell the boys that they will have to clean their room before playing any more games. They are hostile.

13:38- Snow totals increasing.

14:00- Wife chastises the family for being too loud while she is on an important international phone call. I make ill received joke. (This happens often.)

15:00- I suggest we watch a movie. Granny unhappy because movie would preempt her second favorite show, Caso Cerrado. Am beginning to think that family is getting stir crazy.

15:37- I tell the boys that they have no more video game time left. They quietly retreat to a corner where they whisper to each other and stare at me.

16:30- My wife comes downstairs from the office. I am relieved to have reinforcements to assist me in dealing with increasingly unstable family.

17:00- Dinner. Eaten in silence.

17:30- Inform children that there will be no more screen time for the day. They descend the stairs into the basement.

18:40- Have not heard any noises from the basement. Wife begins to browse amazon.com. I inform her that the snow day budget was depleted during the first two snow days of the year. Wife angrily shuts computer and joins the boys in the basement.

18:50- Granny is napping.

19:00- I cautiously open the door to the basement and suggest that we watch a hockey game together as a family. Silence.

19:15- I fear that repeated snowstorms have finally driven family mad.

19:17- Granny wakes up from nap looks out at the snow and hurls an empty Malta bottle at the window while yelling, “CASO CERRADO!” Bottle does not hit window. Luckily.

20:02- Snow still piling up.

20:05- Distracted by the hockey game, I fail to hear my wife and kids approaching stealthily. They rush me using wooden swords made from table legs with amazon packing tape wrapped around the handles. They are yelling about snow and slush and the color gray and how this is somehow all my fault. FULL SCALE MUTINY!

20:07- I barely escape and barricade myself in the master bedroom.

20:13- All power goes out. I look out the window and see that the neighbors still have power. Suspect that family is now using psychological warfare.

21:00- All is darkness and silence and I am beginning to hallucinate.

22:17- I look out the windows and see sun and palm trees but know this is not possible. IS IT?????

23:00- SO cold. Sooo COLD> ljjfalsngm,…ssdf

Am going swimming in nEighBors pOOL..  This iS LasT ENTry………………asdclkjojfoj…

 

 

Swimming In Memphis

Seven years ago, my sister and her husband moved from the Baltimore area to Albuquerque, New Mexico. Being the helpful brother that I am, and also being in need of a road trip, I volunteered to drive one of their cars to their new home. I am still unclear whether the service that I offered was actually required, or if my sister was just enabling my road trip. If she was just enabling, then God bless her. Either way, early one morning I loaded myself and my five year old son into their trusty Honda Accord and we headed west.

I know. You’re probably saying, “Wait wait wait. His wife let him take their five year old son on a trip across the country?”

Yes. Yes she did. Because my wife is better than yours,,,,,,, at praying and trusting the Lord.

Maryland. West Virginia. Kentucky. Tennessee. We wound our way towards the southwest hitting some sights along the way. A long second day of driving brought us to the outskirts of Memphis where we picked a mid-range national hotel chain to stay at. We always picked our hotels based on whether they had a pool or not. This one had a pool and a free breakfast. The kind where you could make your own waffles. Score! Some people may stick up their noses at the make your own waffle bar, but I’m here to tell you that those people are wrong. Also, those people most likely have psychological problems that, untreated, will manifest in them shopping at Neiman Marcus and driving a BMW.

Sorry. I got a little off track.

Our hotel experience quickly went downhill after picking up the key at the front desk. We parked in front of our ground floor room. A  long-haired shirtless guy walked past as we unloaded our gear. When I opened the door, our room was empty, but I could still feel the presence of the thousands of travelers who had come before us. Call me crazy, but when I check into a hotel room, I like to feel like it’s just been remodeled and I’m the first one using it. I don’t want to have the sneaking suspicion that if I pulled the entertainment center out from he wall I’d find an carving that says “Ted Bundy slept here. Try the waffles.” I put down our stuff, shook off the uncomfortable feeling, and we got dressed to go swimming.

On the way to the pool the shirtless guy passed us again, heading the other way. The hotel pool was old and had seen better days, but it was open for business. A few other families, one of whom had apparently named all of their children after virtues like Justice and Truth, paddled and splashed as my five year old hurled himself into the deep end from the crumbling cement edges time and time again. Our shirtless friend wandered past again. For some reason the hotel staff was congregating in the pool’s pump house. Once in a while one of them would step outside looking worried, like maybe the pool pump was broken, or the latest water test had come back positive for flesh eating bacteria. Eventually my son got tired and hungry. We traipsed back to our room, again passing Mr. shirtless, who always seemed to be in a hurry. Maybe he was retracing his steps in hope of finding his shirt or maybe he had misplaced his meth. After a shower and a trip to get some fast food we returned to our room. Before settling in for the night, I went back to the car and retrieved some dress shirts that my brother in law had hanging inside the rear passenger door. After all, there was someone in need of a shirt wandering the parking lot. How would I explain a broken window and stolen dress shirts?

That night my son fell asleep pretty quickly. I laid there and worrying about bedbugs and scratching imaginary bites.

In the morning we ate waffles and it was glorious. I even got to share my waffle machine operating expertise with a waffle bar rookie. Our friend from the parking lot didn’t show up for breakfast, cause you know,,,,, No Shirt, No Shoes, No Waffles.

If you ever find yourself in a run down hotel east of Memphis, pull the entertainment center out from the wall. You just might see a carving that says, “Marc slept fitfully here. Try the waffles.” It’ll be right below Ted Bundy’s.

It’s Really Not ‘Just A Game’

I live near Philadelphia. If you have been in a cave for the last three weeks, you may not be aware that the Eagles just won their first Superbowl. Traffic light poles all up and down Broad Street were torn down, because the last things that excited Eagles fans want to deal with are traffic laws. Celebrations lasted for most of the week. A week during which Eagles fans bought the most championship gear that any fan base has ever bought. It was something to behold.

I’m not an Eagles fan, but I can appreciate the passion and the release of energy that comes with a championship because I am a sports fan. I understand the emotional roller coaster ride that is a football season. Non-sports-fans don’t get this. Maybe they never will. That’s fine, however, they really should avoid commenting on sports.

The phrase “it’s just a game” is demeaning to people who care about sports. It takes something we are emotionally attached to and belittles it. This may come as a surprise to the rest of you, but we are aware that sports are a game. They are also more than that. They are what we bonded with our dads and best friends over. They are the radio broadcasts that kept us company during long hours at work or lonely nights on the road. I used to fall asleep listening to baseball on my AM clock radio when I was a kid. They are the escapes we got to take after a hard week. They are one of the things that most effectively join together people from infinitely different backgrounds. We grew up playing and watching these “games” and they are a part of us.

For those that may still not understand the importance of sports to us, I am going to attempt a simple exercise.

Non-sports-fan: “I’m so depressed. All of my boy band autographs were stolen.”

Me: “Oh well. It’s just ink on paper.”

Non-sports-fan: “The power went out and the fancy cheese collection I had in the fridge went bad.”

Me: “It’s just coagulated milk protein.”

Non-sports-fan: “My favorite magic themed book series just concluded. I feel like I’ve lost a friend.”

Me: “He was just a muggle.”

Non-sports-fan: “Looks like I’m not going to make it to the Star Trek convention this year.”

Me: “It’s just an average sci-fi show.”

Non-sports-fan: “The pet parakeet that I’ve had since high school just died.”

Me: “It was just a bird.”

Non sports fan: “Blah blah blah… career …blah blah blah… politics.”

Me: “It’s just a game.”

It may now be painfully obvious that I have no idea what people do if they’re not watching sports. That’s not the point though. The point is that when we belittle what people care about, we belittle the people themselves. I could go on and on about this, but lucky for you, there’s a hockey game about to start.

Why The Northeast Seems Mean

I have spent much of my life in the northeastern United States. (I’m not real happy about that, but there you have it.) I don’t necessarily consider myself a “northeasterner”, in fact, when fillng out forms I prefer to say that I am from “parts unknown”, like a masked wrestler. Some people, however, proudly advertise that they are from this region, going so far as to slap a bumper sticker on their car that advertises which Garden State Parkway exit they like to vacation off of. To each their own I guess. One thing I have become aware of is that we in the northeast have a rep. Here is a conversation I have to endure from time to time when I travel to other areas of the country.

Them: “Hi, where are you from?”

Me: “Pennsylvania, outside of Philadelphia.”

Them: “Why is everyone from up north so mean?”

Me: “Why don’t you just shut your face?”  JUST KIDDING, JUST KIDDING.

My usual response is: (Laughing) “Things are just different up north.”

In the remaining three hundred and twenty words of this post (give or take) I would like to try to explain why other regions’ perception of the northeast is slightly misguided.

You know how some people have recurring sore throats and then eventually have to have their tonsils removed? A similar thing happens in our part of the country. We have recurring run ins with other people, leading to the removal of our patience. Twenty nine of the top fifty most densely populated areas of the country are in the northeast. There are simply too many people. We don’t have the time to stop and have a polite conversation with every one of them.

Another thing that makes us seem grumpy? The weather. People in other parts of the country have much better weather than we do. Our winter is too cold. Our summer is too short and humid. Our spring is cold, wet, and muddy, except for a two week window. Fall, or raking season, as I like to call it, is also miserable, except for a two week window when the leaves on the trees get really pretty. Like I’ve told my wife. I’d be perfectly happy to live in a place where the leaves never change. Seeing it once in a lifetime is enough. So, you see, we all continually have Seasonal Affective Disorder. We aren’t mean, we have a diagnosable environmentally-induced condition.

Our dialect up here is also different and easily misunderstood. A conversation overheard can be misinterpreted quite easily without having someone to put it into the proper context for you. I will provide an example for people from other regions.

Person #1: (Drops glass jar on the floor, shattering it into a million pieces.) “AAAGGH, what idiot left the door open, it made me drop this jar.”

Translation: “I am embarrassed that I didn’t see the door and now I’ve broken a jar of my favorite pickles.”

Person #2: “Maybe you should just watch where you’re going ya moron. What’d the door do, swat it out of your hand?”

Translation: “Are you okay? Be careful of the broken glass. Sorry I left the door open.”

Person #1: “Shut up or when I’m done cleaning this up I’ll break another jar over your head.”

Translation: “I accept your apology for leaving the door open. Could you please bring me a broom and a roll of paper towels.”

Person #2: “Whatever, moron. Here’s a broom.”

Translation: “Here’s a broom. I’ll be right back with the paper towels.”

Person #1: “Thanks.”

Translation: “Thanks.”

Do you see how someone who isn’t familiar with our dialect could have easily been alarmed by that conversation? It isn’t so much that we’re mean up here, it’s just that we are misunderstood, there are too many of us, and we all probably have psychological issues due to the change in seasons. So, as an unofficial representative for the northeast, I’d like to request that the rest of you losers to stop referring to us as mean or we’re going to have to smack you around a little.

 

Make A Soundtrack For Your Winter

It’s going to be so cold here this weekend that I’m considering adding extra insulation to my basement windows. All of this seems completely unnecessary. The cold, the snow, winter in general. Winter has to be one of the worst things about the fall of mankind. Winter and t-shirts that aren’t tagless. I don’t think there was any winter in the Garden of Eden. There may be something legitimately wrong with people who like the cold. I could be mistaken about this, but if we all got together and paid for every eskimo to take a Caribbean vacation, I bet only twenty percent of them would return home. Half of that twenty percent would only be going back to get their pets. The other half are just psychopaths like people who prefer black coffee. When I go off about this subject my wife will undoubtedly say something wise like, “It takes all kinds of people to make up the world.” Begrudgingly I have to admit that, in some areas, she’s right about this. I mean, there have to be some people who like weird things, otherwise the bottom of my freezer drawer would be full of orange popsicles forever.

As I sit here bundled up, I’m looking out the window and wishing that I could hibernate like a bear. Seriously, do you know how skinny I’d be when I woke up in the spring? Right in time for swimsuit season amiright? One of the things I do to deal with the fact that I can’t hibernate is listen to lots of music. All kinds of music. I enjoy finding a new band and listening to them until I’ve literally driven them into the ground like I did our first Subaru Outback. (If I’d only changed the timing belt I might still be driving that thing.) Music is an area where my wife’s wise “it takes all kinds” point is definitely true. I’ve reached the point in this rambling post where I will drop some good advice of my own. Music is completely subjective. Never read anything written by a music critic. Listen to the music. If you like it, like it. Dave Grohl once said, “I don’t believe in guilty pleasures, you know. I believe you should be able to like what you like.” He’s right. And I don’t even like the Foo Fighters. It takes all kinds of people to make the music world go round. Most art is like this. Subjective. (Except for modern art which is complete and utter nonsense.) It’s healthy to form your own opinions about music and how it makes you feel.

In Conclusion.

  • If you prefer the cold, you are still probably a psychopath just like people who don’t watch sports.
  • Music is a good way of passing these dreary days.
  • Don’t let anyone tell you what kind of music to like.
  • Orange popsicles are kind of gross.
  • Wegman’s Romano is my new favorite shaky cheese.
  • My wife is wise.

Whew. There was a lot in there today. Now I’m going to sit by the fire with my coffee and listen to Taylor Swift, Metallica, John Denver, Mandy Moore, Def Leppard, P.O.D., Good Charlotte, and Bob Seger. In that order.