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After the Party

I love to party. Always have.

And I’ve come to love partying so much, I even love the day after the party.

Molls and I will be laying in bed, slowly waking up, a little groggy, voice hoarse from shouting and singing all night. The both of us, laying on our backs, recycling the evening in our heads.

And then one of us will kick it off.

“That was so fun.”

“Yeah.”

And we do this thing where we go through our favorite moments which inevitably becomes giving shout outs to our friends, kind of like they used to do on Romper Room when I was little where the teacher looked into a magic mirror and began reciting people’s names, taking a moment to acknowledge the kids in the room and the viewers at home…

“Chris is such a good friend.”

“Heather is amazing.”

“Jen and Doug are always so much fun.”

“Thank God we invited Amy!”

(Laugh)

Our little ritual begins to feed itself. Once we start, now we gotta go through the whole party and remember everyone, remember all the good things about them.

And we just lay there, and that’s all we do for a while, sort of staring up at the ceiling, holding hands because this beautiful circle of awesome people is something we created together. And apart. A life’s work. Celebrated.

And I’m certain that we’re not an anomaly, that there are others lying in bed, on a morning run, eating a bagel, thinking about others, and us, as if the vibrations of the party are still ringing outward, across the city and the bay.

The music still plays, the laughter still moves us.

We go into the world, feeling that invisible connection that no one has been able to prove, but everyone knows is there, like the roots of the trees underground and the wisps of the clouds passing into and through each other.

Descendants of stardust, we sparkle.

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Faraway Neighbors

Close up shot of keys on a red surface

I think we know too much about each other.

Or rather, I think we know too much about people we don’t really even want to know.

I moved out of my hometown for a reason.

I love some of the folks there, and I appreciate that it shaped me into who I am, but the place itself wasn’t right for me.

So I moved across the country.

But now, thanks to mobile phones, social media, traditional media, which has basically become social media, VR, and AI…

That place that I left is still very much in my life.

I don’t want to be neighbors with the muscle-head who tried to beat me up in high school, but, strangely, with the algorithms the way they are, it’s hard not to be.

Here’s something weird to say out loud as a guy who deeply values connection and community: I think we were better off when we weren’t connected to everyone everwhere all the time.

In reviewing the quasi-arguments that happen online where no one changes their minds and no growth is happening on either side, I gotta say, maybe echo chambers aren’t all that bad.

I can raise my flag in San Francisco and that muscle head back in my hometown can raise his flag in his small corner of the world, and neither us would have to know the other exists. We each get our friends, we each get our views.

But that ship has sailed.

Social media has shrunk the world. The land I put between me and the things (and people) I don’t need to care about has disappeared. Now everything’s in my face.

And yours.

At the risk of sounding like a luddite hermit with tinfoil on the antenna of his TV, I don’t think our species was meant to get information as quickly and as broadly as we do.

We’re a long way from the Pony Express.

Our brains aren’t supposed to process the holiday dinners of 10 different families in 30 seconds. We’re not supposed to know how the tribes in other continents are celebrating their kill. And we certainly don’t need to watch it while it’s happening.

Animal brains with futuristic gadgets.

Not supposed to happen.

But here we are, unable to write something without publishing it, unable to have a moment without recording it, unable to have conviction without public support.

Stepping into heated arguments with people we don’t even know, reviewing photos of people we would never ever move next to, participating in fake discourse, which create emotions that are very very real.

I suppose that’s the part that burns me up.

We get riled up the most by the people we don’t care about: some troll of a troll three thousand miles away.

They hijack our minds for hours, sometimes days. We’ve all been there: screaming in the kitchen at no one, coming up with our best comeback in the shower.

Without that faraway neighbor and his infuriating flag, I’d just be making eggs.

Sounds better to me.

But I’m not sure.

What do you think?

Please like, comment, and subscribe.

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The Boy in the Road

I was making a right at the 7-Eleven. It was still sunny out, so I had both windows rolled down. I was in a good mood, headed to Trader Joe’s to (finally) pick up some olive oil, eggs, and milk so we could (finally) get back to having a normal breakfast.

There wasn’t a light at the corner, but I was stopped anyway because a teenager with one of those mop-head haircuts was just stepping off the curb, head down, looking at his phone. His pace was extremely slow, like well below the level of sauntering.

I was there long enough to acquire 3 cars behind me, also looking to turn, as well as a third car trying to make a left from the other direction up that same hill, stuck in the purgatory of the intersection.

The boy missed it all. He only looked up when he got to the other side of the road., off to my right. He saw me looking at him.

I wasn’t pissed; just feeling cosmically wronged and in need of a little acknowledgment.

“C’mon, dude,” I said, both palms up, shoulders shrugged.

But I didn’t get what I wanted.

“Hey, fuck you,” he said, with a real hard look. And then went back to his phone.

I was already traveling up the hill so’s not to cosmically wrong the people behind me, but man did I want to beat the shit out of that kid.

I pictured driving my car into him
Knocking him out of his slacker shoes
Cracking him in the nose with my fist, his mop-hair flying up.
No wait, I’d kick him in the balls first, then punch him in the nose.
Okay, maybe I’ll just turn around, track him down, pull up on the curb, and tell him to fuck off.
Would I get out of the car, or do it from inside the car?

It went like this, all the way up the hill.

My body was tense, my mind no longer on eggs and milk, but now on ass-kicking and clever comebacks.

That little fucker, bumming my trip.

It happens a lot, don’t it?

The outside world not lining up with your inside world.

Getting wronged in a way that sticks with you, that stays in you.

Where the fuck is karma? How long does it take to arrive? And who really cares if it arrives if I can’t watch it do its thing all over that kid’s face.

But, then I crested the hill, and was coming back down.

A metaphor?

I made the decision to let it go.

Not easy, seeing as that boy deserved an ass-whipping, I mean, like the whole world deserved to have me kick that kid’s ass.

There I go again. It’s a process. But I found my way out.

You know what I thought of to help me let it go?

Us.

The good people who want things to be good. The adults in the room. The folks who have lived long enough to know that more anger and more hatred don’t do a goddamn thing. For anyone.

Don’t get me wrong.

Getting mad is important, I’d even say essential.

But holding anger is hurtful to the holder, like trapping a wasp in cupped hands.

So, I thought of us, and that helped.

Then I thought of him again, going back to his mop-head friends and doing mop-head things for a few years, going around and fucking up the cosmos, making karma work double shifts, and maybe eventually sorta who-knows hopefully probably coming around someday and stepping out of that small circle into the bigger one….

where we all stand, when we finally come to realize that we need more good things in the world than bad, that the balance of it all is up to us, individually, together making hard decisions to not squash the wasp.

A lot to think about on the way to the grocery store, but I’m glad I did, because when I got there, all those people looking for milk and eggs weren’t in my way. They were there with me, like me, (finally) taking the time to tend to their needs.

I waited patiently for a man to pick out his milk. He grabbed the whole milk, then went for the 2%.

“Sorry,” he said.

“No worries,” I replied, much happier than either of us expected.

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Common Enemy

Vibrant crowd cheering at outdoor stadium event

Instant replays are all over the World Cup now.

We can roll back the tape to reevaluate history in real-time.

Baseball is doing this new thing where they allow the players to challenge the umpire’s call by tapping their helmet. I first saw it in the minor leagues, but it’s now in all the games.

After the tap, the play is reviewed by a computer (AI?), which can easily tell if the ball was in the strike zone. Then the call is either underscored or overturned.

I heard a guy on NPR talking about this, and he brought up something I witnessed myself at the minor league games.

The crowd loves this new ruling.

Whenever someone taps their helmet, it’s like a betting pool opens up, but not with money, with emotion. We all have our opinions out there in the bleachers, and we let them be known. Both sides are equally confident.

Great call. Totally a strike.
That was a bullsh*t call. Not even close.

It’s almost like religion.

My God.
No, my God.
No! No God.

And we’re all right.

Right?

And then the loudspeaker comes on: The call is overturned. It’s a ball!

Half the crowd goes wild with excitement and half the crowd boos and jeers… middle fingers, high fives, arms thrown up, c’mon! beer spilling, and all of it directed at the umpire who, though doing his best, is the scapegoat placed there for us hate.

I’m guilty of it too. I do those high fives. I scream at the TV during the World Cup, text my disdain to friends. You get caught up in it. It feels great to slap literal and proverbial hands with people.

I just wish it wasn’t only for that.

Having a common enemy, in this case, a portly umpire or neon-shirted referree, bonds people together, but the glue is cheap and it doesn’t last. We become friends with strangers in the moment. Hands reach toward each other, and I suppose I should be happy about that.

But all I can think about as the applause dies down, and we resume our perches to vulture-watch the next call, is how fleeting the good vibe was.

How often do we reach out to each other only to put someone else down?

This is now a tactic of professional sports: to rally fans around their anger toward the umpire AGAIN. It’s a second chance to stoke the flames of anger and joy. To fuel us.

Like war.

Like the schoolyard.

We do this a lot: using hate to build alliances — hate exhumed from the belly and brought up to the surface, tacky and gooey.

It works long enough to give the illusion that we’re together. Alas, we are not; we’ll filter out into the parking lot and into the classrooms quite separately. That is, if we lose. If we win, we will dance.

Reticent free thinkers plagued with a legacy of tribalism.

Searching for something good with primitive tools.

Pitchforks, cudgels, torches…

And cheap glue.


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2 Trips

Woman in white sweater packing clothes in the luggage bag

My oldest daughter loves to pack for trips.

I asked her what’s so great about it, and she said, “It makes me think about what I need, so I think about being there, and so it’s like I’m already there.”

Not bad, kid.

If we think about packing as visualizing, it can be quite enjoyable. And productive.

Don’t just see a bathing suit, see the pool. As you grab your toothbrush, picture yourself standing in front of a mirror with a different reflection. As you pull out a dress, you’re in a sunny park. A nice belt means dinner in a new restaurant.

Each thing you grab fills in the image a little bit more, brings the future into the present.

You get 2 trips in 1.

And in a way, you’re planning. You’re deciding what you want to do on your trip, the moments you want to collect, a collage for a map, an agenda in a suitcase.

We have more control over the future than we think.

But whatever you do, don’t overpack.

You have to leave room for a few surprises.

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Prelude to Productivity

Squirming on the couch like a fish out of water, Hazel let out the refrain I knew was coming, the words all kids have howled out to their parents in a torturous tone:

“I’m sooooo BORED.”

Okay.

I, on the other hand, was not.

I’d just finished trimming the foliage of our front-yard/jungle, cleaned three rooms top-to-bottom, and was (quite ironically) trying to figure out a place to put all of Hazel’s toys, several of which were new additions sucked in through a surprise birthday party.

It was hard, with my sore back and arms full of stacked board games, not to call her a spoiled brat and throw her toys out the window.

But I kept it together, not because she didn’t deserve to be yelled at (spoiled brat!)… but mostly because she had an important lesson to learn.

“Being bored is the beginning of something great,” I said to her. “You’re lucky. Good stuff is about to happen for you.”

She writhed even more, kicked her legs, and cried out “You don’t GET IT!”

“I certainly do,” I said, in a calmness that pleased me and infuriated her, as signaled by her flipping over onto her stomach and burying her head in the pillows.

“I’m not going to save you.” I said. “You have to dig yourself out on your own.”

And I left, because, as mentioned already, I had plenty of things to do, and if the things in my head weren’t enough to keep me busy, I had a dry-erase board full of to-do’s.

As I walked into the dining room, I heard her run outside to appeal to Mom sweeping the front walk. Mom said something, and then more moaning.

Nice. Mom held her ground.

Hazel came back inside, wandered around the living room for a bit before storming up the stairs and slamming her bedroom door.

She likely was in the process of flinging herself onto her bed or into her self-created “wiggle nook.”

It took about 5 minutes.

5 minutes of ending the excruciating pain of being bored…

I knew she was saving herself when I heard the faint angsty lyrics of Olivia Rodrigo coming through the ceiling.

I heard the tell-tale signs of a young room-cleaner: drawers closing, wardrobe doors slamming, and underneath the banging and clacking and achy words of Olivia, I heard the hum of a little girl who had found her way through.

It went on like this for a half hour. Alas, my joy of listening to a lesson-learned faded when a friend of hers showed up and they went screaming through the house out into the backyard to play on our waterslide.

Ah well. She got a taste.

But then, while they played outside, I went upstairs with another armful of books and toys and birthday cards, and art projects piled up to my chin, and as I side-stepped into my office (where I safeguard the art projects), I had an unexpected delight.

There, on my crowded dry-erase board, at the bottom, in her unbalanced grade-school handwriting, was a sign that I had gotten through… or rather, she had gotten through.

In pink highlighter…

Hazel’s To-Do List:
–Clean room
–Fix sewing machine
–Sew

Ha!

The hardest part of work is the beginning. Plato said that.

Hazel got through the hardest part.

As I turned away from my dry-erase board, the art projects and folded, little paper things slid off the stack of boxes and scattered on my floor like falling leaves and snowflakes.

I sat on the hardwood, in a place I never sit, and looked across the multi-colored landscapes, origami boxes, homemade pop-up books, and half-done comic strips. I picked up one and pinned it to the wall between a picture of a talking ice cream cone and an exploding robot.

These little humans; miracles amidst chaos.

I wonder what she’ll sew.

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I Got a Dad Who…

I got a dad who acted like a backhoe operator on Sunday mornings to scoop us up out of bed and carry us to the bathroom to brush our teeth.

I got a dad who, when he watched cartoons with us on the family room floor, laughed out loud so hard that he would buckle over with an elbow on the couch and have to wipe away tears from his eyes. Especially when it was Wile E. Coyote, Pepe Le Pew, or Yosemite Sam.

I got a dad who came up with the greatest nickname ever: Clifford B. Clifford. (Okay, truth be told it was his bar buddy, but my dad immortalized it.) Still uses it today.

I got a dad who took me to the barber shop when I was little, and let me hang around all that big-boy talk I didn’t understand but felt privileged to hear.

I got a dad who, upon giving advice for my first date, told me to forget about “that thing in my pants” and focus on her.

I got a dad who’s not afraid to fall deeply in love. And admit it.

I got a dad who did that thing with the bike where he told me he’s still holding it up but he’s actually not; he was just rooting for me from a distance, watching me go.

I got a dad who dressed up for Halloween and wouldn’t break character, even when people talked to him.

I got a dad who, without hesitation, drove to the school in the middle of his workday to chew out the principal who falsely accused me of vandalism.

I got a dad who didn’t pressure me to pick a major or a career but when I showed interest in something, he was all about it. It was my dad who encouraged me to make slides out of my artwork. It was my dad who told me to keep writing. It was my dad who pointed me to buy a suit for my first interview at my first real job at the Writers’ Guild. Footnote: I was the best-dressed person in the office.

I got a dad who flew across the country to see my firstborn child come into the world, and when he walked into the room with his Yankees baseball cap and blazer, he did the grandfather strut across the room, and everyone laughed.

I got a dad who cries when he hurts.

I got a dad who is ALWAYS available to talk. And when I talk, he listens. My dad’s my biggest fan. No contest.

I got a dad who will say hi to anyone, especially janitors, security guards, and front desk folks who everyone else just walks by — a habit, I guess I’ve picked up myself, as noted by my daughter, who the other day impersonated me saying hello to a man selling newspapers.

I got a dad who somehow surprised us every Christmas, even when money was tight, even when we no longer lived together. He was more excited than us when we opened our presents, and he helped us build, fix, power up, and play with all of our toys that same morning.

I got a dad who, when he moved out, rented a house he couldn’t afford so he could have 2 extra bedrooms in it, even though we lived with mom and only saw him every other weekend.

I got a dad who waited patiently with nothing but love while I separated myself from him and shut off my heart for 12 years. And when I came back at age 22, after a long-overdue conversation, I lay on his shoulder on the couch at my Aunt’s house, and we just sat like that for an hour.

I got a dad who lets me off the hook when I forget something important, like his birthday. No questions asked. No guilt trip.

I got a dad who tells me repeatedly that I’m smart and kind and loving and special.

I got a dad who loves to stop everything and tell everybody to enjoy the moment. His mantra is “Here we are…” Both of my daughters do an impersonation of him saying this, which makes me laugh every time.

I got a dad who has an insane ability to predict the future, especially when it’s my future.

I got a dad who still likes to learn. And not just from books, from moments and people, especially people younger than him.

I got a dad who offered to fly out to Montana to help my mom when she got dementia, and when I told him it would be too intense for her to see him, he told me he’d just come and sit in the hotel lobby so he could be there for me when I got back.

I got a dad who is doing the greatest thing a dad can do when he gets older: be happy and live a fulfilled life. It’s not as easy as it sounds! But little eyes are watching.

I got a dad who’s proud to be my dad and who makes me proud to be a dad.

I bought a T-shirt, now tattered and almost illegible, that has a pair of baby shoes next to some beat-up old work boots, and in script it says:

Fatherhood: the toughest job you’ll ever love.

Yeah.

I love my job because my dad loved his.

Happy Father’s Day, Al Flamer, Jr!

You did a bang-up job, not once but twice.

And I’m carrying on that legacy.

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Sculpture 2.0

Modern futuristic installation

Your life is a great work of art.

It is one of a kind, twisting and turning, some of it intentional, some of it spontaneous, some of it luck. You’ve spent years on it.

So, when it shatters into hundreds/thousands/millions of pieces, it is devastating, to say the least.

Our body helps us with the first part. We feel sorrow, our stomach aches, our throat closes, we cry, we moan, we fall to the ground.

Go with that.

Then, with a tear-stained, snotty face, shaking hands, and a wounded heart, you will begin to see differently. (This is the faith part.)

Now that your great sculpture has shattered, you can see what it’s made of. You can see the inside, which has been trapped. You can feel the sculpture without worrying about breaking it. Remember when you worried about breaking it?

You may be so bold as to grind down a few pieces and snort them right up your nose. Grind a few more, and you’ve got a full supply of body glitter. Walk into town, fabulous, high as a kite, and shimmering all over from what used to be.

You can carry the pain and still twirl.

Perhaps the artist who made that sculpture needs a break, would appreciate a divergent path. Perhaps that artist breathes differently now, wants to hold her hands differently.

Loss is liberating if you let it be.

You still have the talent. You still have experience.

And now you have the thing you’ve likely been upset about not having but were also so unwilling to create for yourself.

Now you have space on your shelf.

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The Virtues of Loving Someone

Kissing cousins

It feels good. For them, and for you.

You become more connected to others. Mom, tell me how you met dad.

You live longer.

You can do things you didn’t think you could before.

You are capable of surprising yourself, which, regardless of timing or magnitude, is always a gift.

Love can make you smile when you’re alone.

It helps you feel your heart.

It allows you to discover things about yourself — good and bad things — which are both, in the long run, good.

You gain admission to the greatest show on earth: experiencing ALL of life’s emotions.

No one can take it away from you. Not even the person you love, not even if they leave, not even if they betray. That love is yours.

Love makes grief possible, and grief is the forever-reminder of love; it is the hardest thing we do, that gives us all of these virtues, infinitely. It connects us in our great and courageous acts.

Love brings people together.

Love brightens the darkest room.

In loving, we live fully; we access the entirety of the universe from our small patch of Earth.

We travel through time.

And we are always home.

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Grampa Vic & The (Not So) Mini Golf Course

I had a dream about my grandpa last night.

(In line with how most dreams go, it was weird.)

We were in Chicago. No idea how I knew that.

We passed a mini golf course, and I commented on how cool it looked.

“That’s the golf course I saw on TV. It has the longest putt in the world!”

My grandpa, a very fast walker who was always in front of me when we were going places, turned to look at the course, jingled the change in his pocket, and promptly said: “Let’s go.”

My Grampa Vic was the closest thing I had to a genie. If I mentioned something, he would try to make it happen. Not material things; he didn’t gift me with gifts, rather, he gifted me with the notion that everything was possible. He loved to find things, and fix things. And he was good at it.

If I mentioned my basketball hoop was unusable because the rim was bent down, I’d come home from school the next day, and he’d have jimmied up the rim with a 2X4 resting on a piece of plywood, offering me a rubber mallet before I could put my backpack down.

If I said I had a hankering for pancakes, but we didn’t have a car, he threw me my jacket, and we’d walk 2 miles to the restaurant, with him up in front the whole time.

One thing we loved to do together is go to the town flea market. He’d look at old tools, and I’d try to sneak a look at girly magazines. He wouldn’t buy me fireworks, which I complained about as a kid, but eventually realized that’s the answer I wanted him to give.

I felt safe around my grandpa. He was a barrel-chested Viking of a man, who always wore the same 3 short-sleeve polyester, button-up shirts with his glasses pouch sticking out of the chest pocket. Much like most grandpas in our nostalgic memories, he smelled like aftershave, and his jaw felt like sandpaper.

After the flea market we’d hit the Redwood Cafe, which was an ancient eatery on the south end of the flea market property. The floors bowed, and the tables wobbled.

Grampa Vic loved to wager the waitresses that I could eat 2 breakfasts in one sitting. I was a skinny little stick of a boy (and they loved his eager smile), so they would always bet against me. And I’d always win, gulping down a stack of pancakes and a cheese omelet, including the homefries, and toast.

Each and every time, he’d laugh. And when he laughed, he’d laugh with all his breath with his mouth open so I could see his gold fillings in the way back.

“You didn’t think he’d eat all that food, did ya?” He’d say, laughing and playing with his napkin in both hands. “Your eyes just about bugged out of your head when you saw his plate was empty.”

And the waitresses would do their part: “I can’t believe he ate all that!”

The adult-me realizes that it was a game they were playing, but the kid-me would just sit back, quite uncomfortably full, and lick his chops and pat his belly like a proud lion.

It was part of our routine. He’d challenge me to do something that I didn’t think I could do, or that I didn’t think could be done at all. And then I’d do it.

So, when I found myself at the mini-golf course with him in my dream, it’s not surprising that there was an optional challenge to get to the first hole. You had to climb, hand-over-hand, up a black cable that got steeper and steeper, until you reached the top of the course, where the first hole was.

I hopped up there without even thinking about it, and, unlike real life (I’m afraid of heights), I wasn’t scared at all. My body was light; I could have climbed like that all day.

“He’s gonna do it!” the mini-golf person at the top said, and everyone looked up at me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my Grampa Vic down below, using the railing to pull himself up the stairs, looking up at me, after every step, and laughing that breathy laugh of his.

In the real world, I never got to be an adult around him; I was always a kid, my mom’s son. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was playing a role too.

He died when I was 19. Got hit by a drunk driver while traversing a crosswalk. He was on his way to the mall to read Halloween stories to the kids. I was in college. And just days before I got the call from my mom, I thought to myself: I should plan a trip to see Grampa Vic. Just me and him. Just us.

I never got to go on that trip, never even planned it. And I never got to play that monumental mini-golf course in my dream.

When I woke up, I tried to hold that fresh image of him in my mind as long as I could, a bird’s-eye view of him looking up at me while pulling his heavy frame up the stairs.

It made me happy and sad at the same time.

Happy, because, for the first time in a while, I could see him.

And sad because I wished my dream lasted long enough for me to get to the top of the course, and for him to get to the top of the course, and for what came after that.