I am in Barcelona for a week for work, missing Valentine's Day with my wife, an ocean away from my ailing father, losing a four-day weekend with my children. And, of course, soaking in an incredible city for the first time.
I have never been one of those people who says about themselves "I love to travel!" I do not love to travel. I love to see new places, experience new cultures, drink new beer, eat new food, make new friends, sleep in new beds. Those things are true. But the "traveling" part, the getting there, the journey itself....not so much. The take-offs, the landings, the bumps in the road, the fools one must suffer along the way, the small bathrooms in strange airports, the lack of immediate access to caffeine at all times, the constant anxiety and paranoia about your imminent death at the hands of fate, beyond your control (is that last one just me?)....these things do not sit well with my admittedly turbulent day-to-day disposition. On a spiritual level I subscribe to the notion that "it's the journey, not the destination" that matters. Literally, I think that's bullshit. It is most certainly the destination that matters. I've taken trips to Barstow and I've taken trips to Hawaii. And Hawaii is better.
As destinations go, it turns out, Barcelona is also pretty hard to beat. What a beautiful city this is! It has about it an air of relaxed, coastal charm combined with the thriving energy and old-world depth of a real, world-class city. And the food! Que buena! Prosciutto, chorizo, queso, croquetes, sangria, mariscos...I could eat Spanish food for the rest of my life, or at least until my arteries clog and cry out in rebellion. Which would probably happen in about a month, given my starting point.
So the city part is great, and the work part is fine--old hat at this point. These tradeshows are all the same, and once you're in the confines of the convention center itself it doesn't matter where in the world you are or *who* in the world you *think* you are, because the drill is still the drill, the faces are all blending together, the sportscoats and white shirts with no ties and frantic bluetooth dealmaking in the hot dog line...it doesn't matter if it's Las Vegas, Berlin or Denver--you have reclaimed your place in the International Society of Douchebags, and business must be done.
So I will do my best to enjoy the rest of my time here, to give in to the city's charms, and to endure the journey home and fall back into the warm comfort of my beautiful family, shining like a beacon at the end of the road. The journey is even more bearable when the destination is Home.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Real Life
"As I get older, I get smaller. I see other parts of the world I didn't see before. Other points of view. I see outside myself more. "
--Neil Young
I have been uncharacteristically disinclined to engage in excessive navel-gazing lately, for a variety of reasons, which means, among other things, that I haven't found time to post on this here blog even one time in twenty-aught-ten. I haven't found time to do much in the way of proactive creativity lately, in point of fact. Instead it feels like my task right now is to take it all as it comes, try to assess the impact of the objects hurtling toward me, brace accordingly, and then rest up and repeat the cycle all over again. Real life, in other words. And I'm not complaining (I seem to find the need to write that phrase a lot for some reason). I'm happy for the privilege to live my life, I know it's a good life, and I am grateful for my blessings.
One of my challenges when it comes to real life is is finding a way to be "realistic", which is not a quality I generally admire or aspire to but one which I believe is necessary, increasingly, as I get older and strive to be useful to those I care about. Realism, for me, seems to quickly devolve into cynicism, which quickly devolves into defeatism, which quickly devolves into bitterness. And then I'm just another asshole with a chip on my shoulder, growling and grumbling and patting myself on the back because I'm so much smarter than everyone else.
And that's not the guy I want to be. It's not the guy I am, at heart. I'm an optimist by nature, truth be told, but an optimist with a temperamental aversion to cheerfulness, a highly volatile temper, full blown anxiety disorder and more than a touch of depressive tendencies. To quote the de facto poet laureate of my native land--"Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself. I am large, I contain multitudes."
So I am large, as anyone who's met me would attest, but like Neil Young (a poet laureate in his own right), I'm also getting smaller these days, and not because my diet is working (though it kind of is, in fits and starts, but that's a story for another day). The world outside imposes itself, in all it's infinite complexity, and if you listen closely enough you'll hear a cacophony of suffering, desperation, joy, love, terror and beauty distilled into the rhythm of a hospital breathing machine or the splat of a raindrop at any given moment, and you will feel very, very small.
One of the accompanying feelings smallness can inspire is something akin to powerlessness, which can be another slippery slope down the road to bitterness. In my experience, nothing creates a sense of powerlessness more than watching someone you love suffer as you sit by and do nothing more than bear witness or help pass the time. I have spent a fair amount of time as a bedside visitor lately and it ain't any better than I remembered it. My 85 year old father has been in the hospital for over a week, battling what appears to be pneumonia through some touch-and-go moments. He is one tough motherfucker and is now well on the way to recovery, an act he's perfected through a lifetime of slings and arrows, but this one clearly hit him particularly hard. And looking it at now from what is hopefully the other side of the struggle (the best way out is through) I feel smaller than ever, but with a wider perspective and a better and truer compass. I even feel a tiny bit of his reflected strength underneath my layers of blubber. I am cut from from some hard stuff, so bring it on, real life. You can't keep a good man down.
--Neil Young
I have been uncharacteristically disinclined to engage in excessive navel-gazing lately, for a variety of reasons, which means, among other things, that I haven't found time to post on this here blog even one time in twenty-aught-ten. I haven't found time to do much in the way of proactive creativity lately, in point of fact. Instead it feels like my task right now is to take it all as it comes, try to assess the impact of the objects hurtling toward me, brace accordingly, and then rest up and repeat the cycle all over again. Real life, in other words. And I'm not complaining (I seem to find the need to write that phrase a lot for some reason). I'm happy for the privilege to live my life, I know it's a good life, and I am grateful for my blessings.
One of my challenges when it comes to real life is is finding a way to be "realistic", which is not a quality I generally admire or aspire to but one which I believe is necessary, increasingly, as I get older and strive to be useful to those I care about. Realism, for me, seems to quickly devolve into cynicism, which quickly devolves into defeatism, which quickly devolves into bitterness. And then I'm just another asshole with a chip on my shoulder, growling and grumbling and patting myself on the back because I'm so much smarter than everyone else.
And that's not the guy I want to be. It's not the guy I am, at heart. I'm an optimist by nature, truth be told, but an optimist with a temperamental aversion to cheerfulness, a highly volatile temper, full blown anxiety disorder and more than a touch of depressive tendencies. To quote the de facto poet laureate of my native land--"Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself. I am large, I contain multitudes."
So I am large, as anyone who's met me would attest, but like Neil Young (a poet laureate in his own right), I'm also getting smaller these days, and not because my diet is working (though it kind of is, in fits and starts, but that's a story for another day). The world outside imposes itself, in all it's infinite complexity, and if you listen closely enough you'll hear a cacophony of suffering, desperation, joy, love, terror and beauty distilled into the rhythm of a hospital breathing machine or the splat of a raindrop at any given moment, and you will feel very, very small.
One of the accompanying feelings smallness can inspire is something akin to powerlessness, which can be another slippery slope down the road to bitterness. In my experience, nothing creates a sense of powerlessness more than watching someone you love suffer as you sit by and do nothing more than bear witness or help pass the time. I have spent a fair amount of time as a bedside visitor lately and it ain't any better than I remembered it. My 85 year old father has been in the hospital for over a week, battling what appears to be pneumonia through some touch-and-go moments. He is one tough motherfucker and is now well on the way to recovery, an act he's perfected through a lifetime of slings and arrows, but this one clearly hit him particularly hard. And looking it at now from what is hopefully the other side of the struggle (the best way out is through) I feel smaller than ever, but with a wider perspective and a better and truer compass. I even feel a tiny bit of his reflected strength underneath my layers of blubber. I am cut from from some hard stuff, so bring it on, real life. You can't keep a good man down.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Muddling Through Somehow
My wife is a Christmas junkie, and through the years her overwhelming enthusiasm has managed to virtually erase my own Scrooge-like tendencies. And you can't really pull off a humbug pose with two young kids nipping at your heels--even the hardest heart melts like Frosty in the greenhouse at the sight of your own offspring bursting with joy on Christmas morning.
So I'm not trying to resist the cheer this year. I'm letting it in, and I'm extremely grateful to be able to celebrate and revel in the love that surrounds me. And isn't that what Christmas is really all about, Charlie Brown? (Enough with the shepherds already, Linus. Save it for right-wing radio.)
And yet, there's a reason that the suicide rate skyrockets this time of year. Circadian rhythms, shorter days, the constant barrage of manufactured blah blah blah...It's not that for me, so much, actually. Instead, I am reminded of very specific losses during the holiday season, in ways that we probably all are, and those wounds feel as fresh to me now as they did over a decade ago.
I see a couple ghosts, in other words, more clearly than ever this time of year, and I can't pretend that I don't. I don't want to pretend that I don't, because I still love them, I still miss them, and I'm grateful that they're still here, even if it cuts me deep to catch a glimpse of them in an empty chair next to the Christmas tree. I'll take those reminders over real absence any day, and in my own way I'll try to thank them for hanging around to keep an eye on me and help guide me forward. Because God knows I need them, now more than ever.
So here's to a clear-eyed, open-hearted holiday, absent of expectations and filled with real love and joy. And lots of booze. And chocolate.
Speaking of which, I'm still ploughing through on the fitness front. I've lost 7 pounds in the first week and have slipped into a fairly workable exercise routine. The real challenge lays ahead, of course, and I'm taking Christmas day off to indulge as I see fit with the belief that I can hop right back on the wagon the next day. We'll see.
And because there is no way to avoid Christmas music in the Huntington house these days, I present to you what has become far and away my favorite holiday song, sung with just the perfect bittersweetness by Sweet Baby James--assuming I can get this embed code to work. I don't care if it's cheesy--it's a flat-out beautiful song, and it perfectly captures my mood right now. So have yourself a merry little Christmas, now.
So I'm not trying to resist the cheer this year. I'm letting it in, and I'm extremely grateful to be able to celebrate and revel in the love that surrounds me. And isn't that what Christmas is really all about, Charlie Brown? (Enough with the shepherds already, Linus. Save it for right-wing radio.)
And yet, there's a reason that the suicide rate skyrockets this time of year. Circadian rhythms, shorter days, the constant barrage of manufactured blah blah blah...It's not that for me, so much, actually. Instead, I am reminded of very specific losses during the holiday season, in ways that we probably all are, and those wounds feel as fresh to me now as they did over a decade ago.
I see a couple ghosts, in other words, more clearly than ever this time of year, and I can't pretend that I don't. I don't want to pretend that I don't, because I still love them, I still miss them, and I'm grateful that they're still here, even if it cuts me deep to catch a glimpse of them in an empty chair next to the Christmas tree. I'll take those reminders over real absence any day, and in my own way I'll try to thank them for hanging around to keep an eye on me and help guide me forward. Because God knows I need them, now more than ever.
So here's to a clear-eyed, open-hearted holiday, absent of expectations and filled with real love and joy. And lots of booze. And chocolate.
Speaking of which, I'm still ploughing through on the fitness front. I've lost 7 pounds in the first week and have slipped into a fairly workable exercise routine. The real challenge lays ahead, of course, and I'm taking Christmas day off to indulge as I see fit with the belief that I can hop right back on the wagon the next day. We'll see.
And because there is no way to avoid Christmas music in the Huntington house these days, I present to you what has become far and away my favorite holiday song, sung with just the perfect bittersweetness by Sweet Baby James--assuming I can get this embed code to work. I don't care if it's cheesy--it's a flat-out beautiful song, and it perfectly captures my mood right now. So have yourself a merry little Christmas, now.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Drop Meets Bucket
Four days since the leaf turned over and I'm still kicking. Three pounds down, ain't ate no cheezburegers, and I've managed to get in three more or less vigorous workouts. I dare say I'm feeling spry, if not quite unstoppable. I'll take it.
But of course the land mines await my approach, as always. Fuck it, it's Christmas! And I'm so stressed out and work is so crazy and somebody ordered pizza for the lunch meeting and I didn't have time to go to the gym and then I'm in Vegas for work, and you simply *can't* be healthy in Vegas, because really, what's the point? And then it's my wedding anniversary, and then it's my son's birthday party, and then it's Valentine's Day, and I'm still *so* busy and somebody ordered Chinese for the lunch meeting and then...
That's the old story, anyway. A process of surrender, one day at a time, as if I were completely and totally powerless in the face of a vast conspiracy intended to convince me to give up. As if I had no say in the matter whatsoever, as if my life was not my own.
Bullshit. Please, finally, sitting here closer to 40 than 30, let me be done with that weak-willed, passive numbskullery. Every moment, every action or refusal, is a choice. My choice. Whether I like it or not. Man up.
Four days in, three pounds done, and I ain't ate no cheezeburgers. I'll take it.
But of course the land mines await my approach, as always. Fuck it, it's Christmas! And I'm so stressed out and work is so crazy and somebody ordered pizza for the lunch meeting and I didn't have time to go to the gym and then I'm in Vegas for work, and you simply *can't* be healthy in Vegas, because really, what's the point? And then it's my wedding anniversary, and then it's my son's birthday party, and then it's Valentine's Day, and I'm still *so* busy and somebody ordered Chinese for the lunch meeting and then...
That's the old story, anyway. A process of surrender, one day at a time, as if I were completely and totally powerless in the face of a vast conspiracy intended to convince me to give up. As if I had no say in the matter whatsoever, as if my life was not my own.
Bullshit. Please, finally, sitting here closer to 40 than 30, let me be done with that weak-willed, passive numbskullery. Every moment, every action or refusal, is a choice. My choice. Whether I like it or not. Man up.
Four days in, three pounds done, and I ain't ate no cheezeburgers. I'll take it.
Monday, December 14, 2009
PSFAADSSAYHBITLIIIA
Today is the day I kick off Project Stop Fucking Around And Do Something Serious About Your Health Before It's Too Late If It Isn't Already, or PSFAADSSAYHBITLIIIA, for short. Go me!
My goal: lose 75 pounds by my next birthday, September 20, 2010. That's approximately 10 months away, which means I need to average somewhere around a loss of 2 pounds a week in order to hit my target. 75 pounds is a relative drop in the bucket toward a truly healthy sustainable weight, sadly, but I've decided that I need to set measurable goals and proceed toward them in a challenging but realistic fashion. One day at a time, and all that. I'm using a free online nutrition calculator/food diary/exercise journal called Fit Day to chart my progress, and I'm going to track and analyze everything I eat, keep a food journal, and record my exercise.
I started this morning, and I've managed to make it to 3:00 PM without killing anyone. I hit the gym at lunch and trudged through 45 minutes on the elliptical, and I've been drinking water and sticking to a low-fat, relatively high-protein menu that is a bit of an improvisatory work in progress. I'm going to exercise five times a week and weigh myself every morning.
It's important to me that I hold myself publicly accountable toward my goal, so I'm going to do my best to post here as often as I can with status reports. If it goes off the rails, I'm going to write about it. If I succeed beyond my wildest dreams, I'm going to write about it. Which means this blog may get pretty boring, and I'll probably stop updating my facebook status every time I post something. So if you for some reason you want to monitor the progress of my fitness initiative, check back directly on the blog as often as you'd like.
Here's to desperate measures...
My goal: lose 75 pounds by my next birthday, September 20, 2010. That's approximately 10 months away, which means I need to average somewhere around a loss of 2 pounds a week in order to hit my target. 75 pounds is a relative drop in the bucket toward a truly healthy sustainable weight, sadly, but I've decided that I need to set measurable goals and proceed toward them in a challenging but realistic fashion. One day at a time, and all that. I'm using a free online nutrition calculator/food diary/exercise journal called Fit Day to chart my progress, and I'm going to track and analyze everything I eat, keep a food journal, and record my exercise.
I started this morning, and I've managed to make it to 3:00 PM without killing anyone. I hit the gym at lunch and trudged through 45 minutes on the elliptical, and I've been drinking water and sticking to a low-fat, relatively high-protein menu that is a bit of an improvisatory work in progress. I'm going to exercise five times a week and weigh myself every morning.
It's important to me that I hold myself publicly accountable toward my goal, so I'm going to do my best to post here as often as I can with status reports. If it goes off the rails, I'm going to write about it. If I succeed beyond my wildest dreams, I'm going to write about it. Which means this blog may get pretty boring, and I'll probably stop updating my facebook status every time I post something. So if you for some reason you want to monitor the progress of my fitness initiative, check back directly on the blog as often as you'd like.
Here's to desperate measures...
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Talking 'Bout It!
My six-year-old son tends to repeat a certain phrase, usually an exclamation of excitement or distress, repeatedly throughout the day to greet certain developments. A catchphrase, if you will, much like an ESPN announcer or a bad comedian. Often, these phrases are slight variations on actual phrases commonly used by English-speaking humans. Most recently, he's been saying "Talking 'bout it!!" whenever he gets really excited. An example of conversational usage would go something like: ME: "Hey Robbie, it sure rained a lot today didn't it?" HIM: "Talking 'bout it!! There were huge puddles everywhere!!"
Now I of course find this to be the most endearing thing in the world, but it's also interesting to me in a linguistic sense. In this case, it seems like he's conflated two common phrases he's heard on TV or from the adults in his life--"tell me about it" and "that's what I'm talking about!" and unknowingly created his own, new exclamation. I love that language works that way, and I rue the day when he will stop creating his own Robbie-isms and start saying exactly what all the other kids are saying. That will of course happen (and if it didn't he'd probably eventually be publicly humiliated by some asshole kid on the playground), but it will mark the end of certain part of his childhood when it does.
Even the youngest of us don't stay young forever. That's the closest thing we've got to certainty in this life.
Now I of course find this to be the most endearing thing in the world, but it's also interesting to me in a linguistic sense. In this case, it seems like he's conflated two common phrases he's heard on TV or from the adults in his life--"tell me about it" and "that's what I'm talking about!" and unknowingly created his own, new exclamation. I love that language works that way, and I rue the day when he will stop creating his own Robbie-isms and start saying exactly what all the other kids are saying. That will of course happen (and if it didn't he'd probably eventually be publicly humiliated by some asshole kid on the playground), but it will mark the end of certain part of his childhood when it does.
Even the youngest of us don't stay young forever. That's the closest thing we've got to certainty in this life.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Thanks, Given
At the risk of writing a hallmark card, here are a few things I'd like to remind myself I'm thankful for as we commemorate the rape of Native American land this holiday season:
I am thankful that I still have the ability to remain surprised by life.
I am thankful for that everything is a story, and that stories get me through the day.
I am thankful that I can still find kindred spirits whenever I look hard enough.
I am thankful that I can still believe that we are more alike than we are different.
I am thankful for the lulling distraction of television sports and the way it can fill the silences in difficult rooms.
I am thankful that I can almost always see a path through, whether I have the strength to take it or not.
I am thankful to have a job, today, and food for my family, and a roof over our heads, a structure to contain the love and chaos and joy.
I am thankful for all I've learned and some of what I've forgotten in this long, crazy year that ain't over yet.
I am thankful for the sound of the coffee grinder, every blessed morning.
I am thankful for the smell of my two-year old's hair when I hold him close and he nestles into my chest, the smell of the unbridled, overflowing love that he has for every second of every day.
I am thankful for the brilliant, sensitive, defiant, inquisitive, emotional, loving, playful face of my six year old son, whether it's grimacing in anger or bursting with happiness.
I am thankful beyond words for my partner in life, love and occasional misery, the wife I will spend the rest of my life trying to deserve.
I am thankful for my father, tough as nails, heart of gold, constantly fighting his way back and attuned to the simple joys of life at every moment.
I am thankful for my mother, the matriarch, the heart, the soul.
I am thankful for the friends who put up with my craziness, who give me comfort and strength and laughter and joy and then always piss me off one way or the other.
I am thankful for health of my family, and the wonders of medication that more or less keep my insanity in check.
I am thankful for Jim Beam Kentucky Bourbon.
Most of all, I am thankful for the home I have to return to at the end of every day, good or bad, to find the warm, safe, glowing embers of love burning bright. God am I thankful.
I am thankful that I still have the ability to remain surprised by life.
I am thankful for that everything is a story, and that stories get me through the day.
I am thankful that I can still find kindred spirits whenever I look hard enough.
I am thankful that I can still believe that we are more alike than we are different.
I am thankful for the lulling distraction of television sports and the way it can fill the silences in difficult rooms.
I am thankful that I can almost always see a path through, whether I have the strength to take it or not.
I am thankful to have a job, today, and food for my family, and a roof over our heads, a structure to contain the love and chaos and joy.
I am thankful for all I've learned and some of what I've forgotten in this long, crazy year that ain't over yet.
I am thankful for the sound of the coffee grinder, every blessed morning.
I am thankful for the smell of my two-year old's hair when I hold him close and he nestles into my chest, the smell of the unbridled, overflowing love that he has for every second of every day.
I am thankful for the brilliant, sensitive, defiant, inquisitive, emotional, loving, playful face of my six year old son, whether it's grimacing in anger or bursting with happiness.
I am thankful beyond words for my partner in life, love and occasional misery, the wife I will spend the rest of my life trying to deserve.
I am thankful for my father, tough as nails, heart of gold, constantly fighting his way back and attuned to the simple joys of life at every moment.
I am thankful for my mother, the matriarch, the heart, the soul.
I am thankful for the friends who put up with my craziness, who give me comfort and strength and laughter and joy and then always piss me off one way or the other.
I am thankful for health of my family, and the wonders of medication that more or less keep my insanity in check.
I am thankful for Jim Beam Kentucky Bourbon.
Most of all, I am thankful for the home I have to return to at the end of every day, good or bad, to find the warm, safe, glowing embers of love burning bright. God am I thankful.
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