I’m not generally a fearful person. I don’t cross over to the other side of the street when I see a rough looking dude coming the other way. I stand by windows during thunderstorms. And Homeland Security’s old color-coded terror scale amused me more than worried me.I’m not some macho nitwit who covers my car with No Fear stickers, and I don’t think I’m such a badass that I can conquer anything. I’ll leave that attitude to the morons in Mountain Dew commercials.The bravery I possess is more of the statistical kind. It’s unlikely in life that really bad things are going to happen to me, thus it doesn’t make much sense to be frightened of them. Sure, I could be shot on the street at any time, but it’s not likely so I don’t give it much thought.This attitude frees me to worry about other really important things in life. Such as how to slow the passage of time, and whether Harper Lee’s second novel will be as good as her first.However, there is one aspect of my life in which fear has always gripped me, and continues to grip me. I wage a daily battle against it. For the most part I think I’m victorious—or at least not badly defeated—but it’s a battle that never ends.The battleground is parenthood.
What is parenting if not a series of fears? Although we might not all share the same fears, we all have them. Any parent who says they have no fear regarding their children is a no-good parent.I’m not talking about the sort of fear in which you think every single thing is going to harm your child and you’d have him or her live inside a plastic bubble if you could. That’s a common fear, I suppose, but I think most people know that it’s not realistic, so we don’t go to those extremes.The fears I have in mind are more of the day-to-day fears.What if he’s not learning enough in school? What if she’s no confident enough? What if he doesn’t make new friends? What if someone makes fun of her?These are the sort of fears that keep parents up at night, and sometimes they’re fears about which we can do nothing.I don’t deny my parenting fears though. I think it’s better to embrace them. When we embrace them we might find out that we can actually do something to alleviate our fears.When I was a little boy I used to worry all the time that someone would kidnap me. I remember actually thinking one time, “I wouldn’t be surprised if someone just snatched me right now and I never saw my family again.” That didn’t happen. But when I became a father I redirected those old fears toward my children’s well-being.My wife is the same way.But we don’t keep our kids locked in the house all the time just so they don’t get kidnapped. Instead, we do rational things like make them stay by us in public places instead of running around. We don’t let them wander the neighborhood by themselves. We always know where they are.However, while this protects them from being kidnapped, I fear that it’s stifling their sense of adventure, or limiting the development of their independence. I rode my bike around my neighborhood all day when I was a kid. I don’t let my kids do that. I fear they’re losing something because of it.I fear that by emphasizing academics that they’re missing out on athletics. I fear that by sometimes letting them eat junk I’m teaching them bad eating habits. I fear that by stressing the importance of the environment and energy conservation that I’m going to turn them into fossil fuel-burning, tree haters.Fear forces me to think about things I might not have otherwise considered. It makes me consider the bad, but protect the good.So fear will remain part of my parenting personality. There’s nothing I can do about that, other than to turn it into something positive. I can’t protect my children from every single bad thing in the world, but I’ll do what I can.The world’s not as dangerous as we think it is, but it’s not as good as we think it is either. Fear reminds us of the danger, and how we react to fear protects us from thinking the world is too good.Sometimes I’m fearful. But when it comes to my kids, I wouldn’t have it any other way.Once a month, during an event called Blogapalooz-Hour, ChicagoNow challenges its bloggers to write a post in one hour on a topic that's unknown to them until the hour begins. I've decided to tackle all of the challenges held before I joined ChicagoNow over the next ten days or so. This challenge was "Write about fear, or lack thereof, and the role it has played in any aspect of your life." PREVIOUS POST: My Love Letter to a KnifeIF YOU LIKED THIS POST I BET YOU'LL ALSO LIKE: That Time my Parents Thought I Was Kidnapped+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
My Love Letter to a Knife
My Darling Chef’s Knife,At first I thought I might feel silly writing a love letter to you. I mean you’re an inanimate object, and I’m an animate object, and it’s sort of unusual for one to love the other enough to actually write a letter, don’t you think?Although, I will say, that if one of us is going to get all mushy gushy and poetic, I’m glad it’s me. If I ever receive a love letter from you, I’ll be quite worried. You know, the whole inanimate (unfeeling, unthinking, unmoving, not alive) object thing.Yet, the more I think about it, what could be more passionate than a love so intense that it causes an inanimate object to animate and express itself? That’s the stuff Chuck Woolery was looking for when he hosted Love Connection.![IMG_1122[1]2](http://static1.squarespace.com/static/595a738a6b8f5bb02124c887/62e157ca95da86416e818036/62e157d295da86416e818292/1658935250384/IMG_112212.jpg?format=original)
Anyway, my lovely Chef’s Knife—do you mind if I call you CK? That will make it much easier. CK, I feel a closer, more intense bond with you than I’ve ever felt with another kitchen utensil.That slotted spoon? Not even close. Vegetable peeler? It’s not even sharp anymore. And that old school hand crank mixer? How could I feel a bond with a tool that hasn’t been relevant in more than half a century?No, CK, when it comes to kitchen utensils, you’re the bees knees. (Whatever the hell that means.) You’re so wise. Maybe not wise, but you are sharp. You make such quick work of those sweet potatoes that I wonder how I ever prepared Thanksgiving dinner without you.And those smooth slices you coax from a nice, ripe tomato are enough to make even the toughest guy weak in the knees. Gone are the days when I used to worry about ending up with crushed, smashed, ruined tomatoes. What’s love if not well-prepared salsa?And the meat. Oh my goodness, you handle meat so well that my mouth waters just thinking about it. With the grain or across the grain, well-done or rare, thin slices or thick, it just doesn’t matter. You handle it all with equal skill and grace. It’s truly amazing.I haven’t even begun to mention the way you feel in my hand. A knife hasn’t felt so comfortable in my hand in years. Actually, you probably feel better in my hand than any other knife I’ve ever held.That long, black handle is perfectly contoured to fit my hand. It’s like you were custom made especially for my fingers and palm. I chop, slice, dice, and julienne for hours on end, and I’m not sore. With you I can just keep going and going. I’m sure there’s a limit, but I haven’t reached it yet.Lest you think that I have some distorted view of reality and I’m seeing you through rose-colored glasses, let me tell you that I remember the difficult times we’ve had.You’ve hurt me often, CK. I remember the cucumber slicing incident. You jumped halfway across the cutting board and cut off practically half my index finger. And that same finger still throbs from this past Monday when I was just trying to scrape some ice cream off of a platter, and you got all attitudey and dug so far into my skin that I bled for three days.Not cool, CK. Not cool.But I can’t stay mad at you for long. You’ve been too good to me. Every time I think that maybe I need a break from you, I see the way you precisely annihilate a beet, and my heart flutters.Wow!I guess what I’m saying is that much like Whitney Houston in The Bodyguard, I will always love you. I’ll wash you by hand after every use. And I’ll dry you, too. Do you know how special that makes you? I don’t even dry my own hands after I wash them.You’ll never see the inside of a dishwasher. No way would I ever subject you to those random jets of water and harsh detergents like you were just some spatula.Like any good relationship, our relationship is going to take work. I’ll do the work though. I bought that fancy stone to keep you sharp, and I’ve been watching YouTube videos for a week to make sure that I perfect the technique. And I was going to wait to tell you this, but I just bought a magnetic strip to attach to the wall. You can hang from that now. So you’ll never have to be thrown in a drawer with all of those other ordinary utensils again.So thank you, CK. Thanks for all you do for me, and thanks for being so easy to love.But most of all, thanks for not flying at my face like those knives that attacked the mother in the film Carrie.Love,BrettOnce a month, during an event called Blogapalooz-Hour, ChicagoNow challenges its bloggers to write a post in one hour on a topic that's unknown to them until the hour begins. I've decided to tackle all of the challenges held before I joined ChicagoNow over the next ten days or so. This challenge was "Write a love letter, but it can't be to a person." PREVIOUS POST: The Most Memorable Place I've Ever LivedIF YOU LIKED THIS POST I BET YOU'LL ALSO LIKE: What Happened When I Ate Food from a Stranger's Plate+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The Most Memorable Place I've Ever Lived
I have fond memories of most places I’ve lived. Whether it’s the house where I lived for sixteen years with my parents, or one night I spent in the Omni Hotel on Michigan Avenue, I’ve enjoyed most places where I’ve put my head down for the night.Before I go any further, let me talk about one glaring exception. I stayed at a Comfort Inn with my wife and kids just outside Atlanta in 2008. It was a hell hole. The blinds on the windows were covered in dirt. The elevator was falling apart. The bed collapsed when my two-year-old son sat on it. And when I looked under the bed to try to fix the problem, I found a red high heel that appeared to belong to a Lady of the Night.I still scrub for a few extra seconds in the shower just to ensure I don’t have any lingering detritus from that hotel room on my body.But let’s not talk nightmares. Let’s talk dreams.I’m writing this on the eleventh anniversary of the day when my wife, daughter and I moved into our current house. In those eleven years we’ve welcomed three more children, held dozens of parties, and created countless memories. That house will always be special to me, and it was the first place I considered writing about.However, when I think about my favorite or most memorable place that I lived—even just for one night—the Smoky Mountain cabin in which I honeymooned with my wife is at the top of the list.It’s called Rejuvenation, and if you’re ever in the Smokies, you should try to stay there.
We arrived at Rejuvenation two days before we married at a little log chapel in Gatlinburg. My wife and daughter and I had the place to ourselves for one night, before welcoming family and friends for a night-before-the-wedding gathering on our second night in the cabin.We married the next day, and at the end of our wedding reception/celebration at a nearby cabin, my wife and I drunkenly staggered downhill on the gravel road. The next morning we awoke and looked out the huge picture window that overlooked the mountains, and saw the characteristic thick fog that gave the Smoky Mountains their name.For the next week or so that cabin served as a retreat for my wife and me.It has three levels, including a loft at the top that serves as a bedroom and provides one of the most magnificent mountain views I’ve ever seen. A spiral staircase spans all three floors, which is insanely awesome, but can also be challenging, especially with a fair amount of alcohol. Two large wrap-around decks provide an outdoor space to enjoy the view.The basement has Coca-Cola themed decorations, a pool table, an air hockey table, and a large television. No doubt it was designed as a hangout for a large group of people, but it worked perfectly as a retreat-within-a-retreat for newlyweds as well.The interior walls are entirely pine boards. Numerous windows throughout the house provide unbelievable views. And the smell—I’m not sure if was the cleaning agent, or air freshener, or maybe just all the pine boards—but it had a smell so great and distinct that I haven’t smelled it in eleven years, but I can vividly recall it just by thinking about it.As awesome as the house itself is, it’s memorable and special to me because of my emotional attachment to it. It’s the place my wife and I spent our first night as a married couple. We’ve returned to see it a few times since then, but we haven’t stayed there again. And every time we go back, I’m instantly transported to the days we spent there.Never has a house been so appropriately named. The amenities, the scenery, the location all provide an opportunity to get away from the rest of the world and just take some time to relax, unwind, and rejuvenate.I’m not a person who covets material possessions. And even though I don’t actually possess it, if Rejuvenation ever ceased to exist, I’d be crushed. The memories would still exist, but sometimes we need a physical manifestation of those memories as well.That’s what makes a fancy log cabin even more valuable than its material worth.Once a month, during an event called Blogapalooz-Hour, ChicagoNow challenges its bloggers to write a post in one hour on a topic that's unknown to them until the hour begins. I've decided to tackle all of the challenges held before I joined ChicagoNow over the next ten days or so. This topic was "Write about a favorite or memorable place you have lived for any time at all, whether a country, state, city, childhood home, fraternity/sorority, hostel, hotel or even bedroom." PREVIOUS POST: The Art of SilenceIF YOU LIKED THIS POST I BET YOU'LL ALSO LIKE: That Time I Met a Girl at a Bar+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The Art of Silence
Calvin Coolidge, who was president in the 1920s, was famous for being a man of few words. During a party, a woman greeted him and said, “You must talk to me, Mr. President. I made a bet today that I could get more than two words out of you.” Coolidge, earning the first four letters of his name, replied, “You lose!”I’ve often thought Coolidge was a twerp of a president, but I do admire his ability to keep his mouth shut. I think it’s a lost art, and one that’s almost always beneficial to the person who perfects it.That old saying, “The squeaky wheel gets the grease,” might be true, but it’s also just as likely that the grease will be applied to the jaw by a clenched fist. Wheels don’t have jaws, but you know what I mean.I’m a naturally quiet person. It’s a trait that can be annoying at times, I suppose. My wife frequently spends her days talking to children and idiots. By the time I get home she’s ready to have a good conversation, and if I’m especially quiet, I can see why she’d want to stab me.But most of the time, silence is golden.I read an article once in which Neil Young was talking about playing with Pearl Jam, and he said that what makes Pearl Jam great is that they know when not to play. There are moments in certain songs during which a brief pause—silence—is what’s called for. Lesser bands might try to fill every single second of a song with music. It takes a talented, confident band to allow silence.And think about Morse code. It’s the silence that allows it to exist. Only when the dots and dashes are interrupted by quiet do they make any sense.So if silence is so beneficial, why do so many people have so much trouble perfecting it?Perhaps it has something to do with the way we communicate. From the very earliest stages of our life, we’re taught to speak if we want something. “Use your words,” we hear.(Incidentally, something about that phrase bugs the shit out of me. I’m not sure what it is. Maybe it’s the “your words” part. As if that kid has invented words all his own. If that’s the case, great. But here’s a newsflash, kid, your words are useless if no one else understands them.)In school the kid who talks all day gets more attention than the kid who says nothing. When we’re at a sporting event and something happens that we like, we cheer loudly. When two people have problems they’re urged to talk it over.But who’s on the side of silence? Librarians?Great, let’s have 70,000 rabid football fans advocating one point-of-view, and a little old shushing, cat lady librarian advocating another and see who’s more convincing! No wonder the “blah, blah, blah” of background chatter never ceases.So what do we do about it?
Well, the good news is, this is a problem you can help solve. It may take some getting used to, since we’re constantly being bombarded with the belief that we must always be connected, and we carry around devices that allow us to be connected. And if we’re connected, then we’re probably not being silent. But in order to be silent, all you have to do is shut the hell up.Try it sometime. Just try not talking. Don’t speak. It’s not a crime for your voice’s sound waves to be absent from a room. Your ears will still work even if you’re not the one making the sound. Chances are, whatever you have to say can probably be summed up in three words anyway: blah, blah, blah.Do yourself and everyone around you a favor and just try not talking. No small talk, no gossip, no empty philosophizing, no “here’s what I think,” no filling the air with meaningless, useless sound.In short, shut up!You’ll be surprised that the world doesn’t end because you temporarily stopped voicing your opinion on every single thing. Your voice will be glad for the break. Your ears will enjoy not having to ignore that endless river of drivel you spew forth.And if you’re lucky, you might even learn something!PREVIOUS POST: It's Good to be the IncumbentIF YOU LIKED THIS POST I BET YOU'LL ALSO LIKE: Apparently I Have Resting Bitch Face+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
It's Good to be the Incumbent
At last count there were roughly 100,000 people running for president next year.Okay, so maybe there aren’t quite that many people running, or maybe I’m just not good at counting. But still, there are a lot of people who think they’d make a good president.Next year is an interesting election year since there’s no incumbent running. Barry Obama has been elected twice and despite hysterical conspiracy theories that claim otherwise, I suspect he has no plans to trash the Constitution and stay in power. (He’ll probably just return to Kenya to practice his particular brand of socialist Islam, right?)So that means we’ll have someone new.But the interesting thing about having someone new in the White House is that even though many of us think we’d like to have someone new, when push comes to shove, the person that’s already there often ends up being re-elected.
It’s good to be the incumbent. There are a number of reasons that's true, but perhaps no reason is more important than the simple fact that we know who the incumbent is.That may seem obvious, but when faced with the decision of choosing between a known entity and an unknown entity, most people are going to choose the known entity.A brief look at history proves this. In the past eleven presidential elections in which an incumbent has been up for re-election, the incumbent has won eight times. So only three out of the past eleven times has the country evaluated a president and decided that he needed to be replaced.This is consistent with how the country began, as well. Five of the first seven presidents were re-elected.It’s especially puzzling when we think about the past three presidents, all of whom have been re-elected.Clinton, Bush and Obama all endured motivated, vehement opposition to them and their re-election campaigns, but all three won. Millions of dollars, warnings of the calamities to follow, and talented challengers weren’t enough to overcome the incumbent.Because no matter how bad we think the incumbent is, at least we know who he is. We’ve had four years to take a look at him, think about him, see how he handles things, see what his deficiencies are, and see what kind of president he is.The challenger, on the other hand, is unknown. How’s this guy going to react in a crisis? Can we count on him? Does he have any real ideas? Is he honest, or he is telling us what we want to hear? Do we like him because he’s great, or because he’s not the President? It’s much easier to like someone when viewing them through rose-colored glasses. And it's easy to campaign, but what's going to happen when he (or she, hopefully!) has to govern?So sometimes it seems we’re close to choosing the challenger. Clinton, Bush and Obama were all behind in polls during the summer of their re-election year. But then Americans really started paying attention. The challengers had a few missteps and their shine wore off a little.But the president just kept on being president. He kept on handling crisis after crisis. He kept on reminding us why we elected him in the first place. He kept on being what all presidents must be: the steady, reliable, unflappable leader. Plus, let's not forget, the president knows what the job entails. The challenger can only guess.We like that. So we re-elect him.And if we liked the president even before the re-election campagin, then lookout! That’s how you end up with an election like 1984 when Ronald Reagan won 49 of the 50 states on Election Day. Poor little Walter Mondale probably thought he had a chance. He probably thought he was a good guy, had good ideas, and had enough charisma, likability, and charm to put him over the top and into the White House.But Reagan was already in the White House. He was already the man in charge, making decisions, being presidential, reminding people that they were better off with him than they were before him, and maybe even warning them of what might happen if they made a horrible mistake and chose Mondale.That was the end of the road for Mondale, even though we liked him. He was a good guy. He served our country for a long time. He’d even been vice president. We gave him a good, hard look, thought about electing him—even put him ahead in the polls for a little while—but then we remembered Ronnie.He was the president. We knew him. We trusted him. We liked him. So we stayed with him.And there was nothing that Mondale could do about it.PREVIOUS POST: My Daughter Graduated High School?IF YOU LIKED THIS POST I BET YOU'LL ALSO LIKE: Interesting Elections from American History+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
My Daughter Graduated High School?
My daughter graduated high school today. I’m not sure how that happened. Wasn’t it just yesterday when she wouldn’t stray more than four feet from my wife when they went to the park to play?How much time has passed since we went on that fishing field trip and she had a bloody nose the entire time? Just a few years, right?Oh…Well, I guess she was actually in first grade then, which makes it eleven years ago.Eleven years? It’s things like this for which the acronym WTF was invented.My feelings on high school graduation are mixed. On the one hand it provides an opportunity to look back at one’s childhood and sort of take stock as to how one arrived at this point.My daughter arrived at this point through a most-circuitous route. She developed friendships and lost friendships. She gained three new siblings, got used to living with me when I married her mom when she was in first grade, and maintained a close relationship with her grandparents.
She learned new things, and struggled in some subjects. She worked hard, and she was lazy. She fought with us, and came to us for advice. She tormented her siblings and played with her siblings. She embraced and then rejected every popular fad that a girl encounters as she grows up.And now that she has completed high school, she’s searching for what’s next. She’s only seventeen-years-old. She’ll be eighteen in a few weeks. I’ve often thought that it’s ridiculous to expect someone that young to know what they want to do with the rest of their life.I’m thirty-seven-years-old and I’m still not certain what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. I certainly didn’t have that sort of clarity twenty years ago.So the future for my daughter is uncertain. That’s not to say that it’s not bright. I have no doubt that she’ll find her niche and succeed. She’s a genuinely good person, fun to be around, cares about others, and is very personable, which is no small feat in a world that exceedingly seems to be filled with assholes.She’s only seventeen. Which, if you believe the actuarial tables, means that she’s got a solid sixty years left. That’s plenty of time to figure it out.Now, on the other hand, I think high school graduation is rather silly. I saw something on Facebook earlier today that showed some graduates and had the caption, “Congratulations, you just completed the easiest part of life!”That sums up how Cynical Brett feels about high school graduation. Adults at school tell kids exactly what they need to do to succeed, spoon-feed them information, provide opportunities for “extra credit” (whatever the hell that means), and then pat them on the back when they succeed.Meanwhile, adults at home just have to make sure the kids get to school. Then if the kid doesn’t learn anything the adults at home get to complain to and about the adults at school.Most of the time I tell Cynical Brett to shut the F up because no one wants to hear what he has to say. Sometimes he gets loose though. Sorry about that.Other observations on today’s graduation ceremony:--Kids love to see pictures of themselves. There were four speeches, two vocal performances, and two instrumental performances, none of which were as long as the senior class slideshow, which was set to the music of three songs. Who needs words of wisdom when you’ve got a collection of pictures from Facebook and Instagram?--It’s important that the person reading the names practices the names beforehand. It might not even hurt to ask a student how she would like her name pronounced. I’m speaking from experience. When I graduated college my name was read as Brett Barker. If you can’t get Brett Baker correct, you shouldn’t be reading names.--Some of you adults are lousy. Which part of, “Please don’t clap or cheer until all names are read,” don’t you understand? We didn’t think it was cool when you ignored the principal’s request and cheered for your kid. All we thought was, “Now we know where that kid gets his jerkiness from.”--If you’re going to put a picture and the name of each graduate on a large screen as their name is read, perhaps it would be wise to have someone carefully proofread each slide.--Moms, grandmas, girlfriends and others: please, in the name of all that is Holy, lay off the perfume. You may think you smell nice, but you put too much of that crap on. And then it mixes with the other lady sitting next to you, and the lady sitting behind me, and the grandma passing by, and I’m stuck in a vortex of fragrance deadlier than an EF5 tornado.And by the way, congrats to all the graduates. Job well done!Really. (Cynical Brett has been contained.)PREVIOUS POST: Best (Worst) High School Graduation SongsIF YOU LIKED THIS POST I BET YOU'LL ALSO LIKE: Why Are Parents so Dumb?+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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Best (Worst) High School Graduation Songs
My daughter graduated high school today. I’m going to write about that. Not here, but soon. I’ve got some things to say about her, about graduation, and about people in general. (And now that post is done. You can read it here.)
But all that can wait for a day or two. Right now I’m thinking about music. Specifically the music that we try to attach to high school graduation, which is one of the first child-adult transitions we all experience. So it’s no surprise that we look for songs that artfully explain what we’re feeling during that time.Some songs do it well. Some songs don’t. And some songs make us wonder if the kids who chose it as their class graduation song learned anything in school.I begin with the horrifically sappy song that played over the school PA system either on the last day of high school or the last day of junior high, I can’t remember which. This is about high school graduation though, so I’m going to lie and say that I vividly remember it playing over the speakers as we finished our last day of high school.[placegallery]PREVIOUS POST: Tomorrow May Surprise MeIF YOU LIKED THIS POST I BET YOU'LL ALSO LIKE: 8 Sad Songs too Beautiful to Avoid+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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Tomorrow May Surprise Me
ChicagoNow’s challenge to its bloggers for this month’s communal writing activity is “Write about your tomorrow. Not figuratively, literally write about anything that you hope, fear, believe, expect -- anything -- that you may experience tomorrow.”Are you kidding me? How am I supposed to find something interesting to say about what I’m going to do tomorrow? It’s hard enough to make this blog worth reading when I’m talking about something cool. How the hell am I supposed to make people want to read this blog when I’m talking about my tomorrow?I could make some stuff up.I’m going deep sea fishing in the Arctic. I’ve got lunch with Barry and Shelly Obama. I’m riding an elephant through the jungles of Asia. And to finish the evening, I’m headlining at Alpine Valley.It’s going to be a busy day. Or…I’m a liar. Guess which it is.Before I tell you about tomorrow, I guess I should decide when tomorrow is. I’m writing these exact words at 1:04 am, which is technically Friday, but still feels like late Thursday night to me. So even though tomorrow is actually Saturday, I could make an argument that I should write about Friday.Or if I wanted to be even more annoying, I could say that I should write about Thursday, the day that just ended, since this challenge was actually given on Wednesday night, but I’m just getting around to it now.But who really cares? Let’s just get on with it. I’ll conform to your rules, Mr. Twenty-four Hour Clock Man, and write about Saturday.
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