Life's not fair and neither is death

A high school classmate died today. And at my age, that's an unusual thing. It's not that our Class of '88 has been immune to death. No, it's actually seen more than its fair share it would seem, at least in our first couple decades of life. I can list several whom we've lost before we were 25: Marcus, Theron, Art, Angie, Ron, Kevin, Wesley, Dane, Leslie. There were vehicular accidents, cystic fibrosis, suicide, and more I'm sure. What's unsettling about this one is that it's the first I know of since we've entered the Facebook era. When we were still in school or freshly graduated, we all had ties to the community where we grew up so we at usually got word rapidly in that small town way of news traveling fast. In the intervening years, many of us ended up further from home, fewer connections to the hometown and when someone passed, the ripples of that stone hitting the water didn't seem to travel as far. And so it has seemed relatively calm on the death front for several years. Enter the Facebook era. I certainly enjoy it because you can keep up with what's going on with your classmates whom you otherwise would only hear about at 10-year intervals if you were lucky. It also brings the sobering news of things like personal tragedies, illnesses and death. One classmate earlier this year I learned had undergone heart bypass surgery. That he was my age was unsettling in its own right. What was more shocking was that from photos I'd seen, there was no way he was less healthy than me. Sure, there was a classmate who had been battling cancer for about three years. But it was cervical cancer and she had survived the initial onset pretty successfully. So between my not having a cervix and her relative success to date, it did not affect me like the bypass did. It was disheartening to learn that Amy, the classmate fighting cancer, had experienced another wave of the cancer. She reported it matter-of-factly as she'd have to go for CT scans and all manner of testing. Her close friends, whom she'd known since grade school, had coined a phrase for her battle. It was Kick Cancer's Ass! KCA for short. And Amy did just that. She did everything she could. I had classes with Amy. We didn't run in the same circles. She was part of a big group of girls who had grown up in our town, played in the band, went to church and, bluntly, they never had any more time for me than I had for them. I was a guy who wanted to be everything heavy metal in life and they certainly did not. Amy and her friends were just normal, straight up people who went about their lives. We just were different kind of people with some similar circumstances as to where we lived and went to school. That said, I can't remember Amy being anything other than just a decent person. She carried herself the way I would hope anyone would want their daughter to live - with a smile and surrounded by friends. I know many of those friends and all of them just adored Amy. They would likely sign up and say give me the cancer if they knew it would mean she would be rid of it. That's how close they kept for decades. I have but one friend like that. In the years since I've been Facebook friends with Amy, I've noticed how non-plussed she always seems in her posts about her illness. She was always very positive, determined and simply treating the cancer as a phase that would one day pass. And it did today. She finally shed the body with cancer and went to a place where she'll never feel pain again. And that's a beautiful thing. I can only think of her husband and two daughters who will have to wait to see her again and the pain they must feel. What was most shocking for me was how abrupt the end came for Amy - at least to those of us who only got updates via Facebook. Only a couple weeks ago she was having a drainage tube removed from her lungs and in her own words said she felt like she had "finally turned a corner." The circumstances of her passing I'm neither privy to, nor do I need them. All I can say is that in some ways, it can be a blessing to not have a prolonged struggle that goes on for months or years. An uncle of mine who died of cancer told me shortly after he stopped the experimental treatment he had been getting that he would rather his children know the man they saw die than some shell of who he had been. Amy, as I knew here, lived her life as much as she could and showed her two daughters that fighting doesn't have to be pitiful. She was dutiful in how she took her treatments, dealt with the pain and other effects, and never lost her identity. I know her friends certainly held her up for prayer and that the love she received was never, ever taken for granted. I wasn't close to Amy and never would suggest we were - but I can tell you I prayed for her recovery and kept her in my thoughts frequently. Because I was so impressed with how she faced the challenge and because I knew there was absolutely no way she ever deserved it. No one really ever does. I wear a Livestrong bracelet every day because cancer has affected many people in my life, including Amy. It could have been me, my wife, my sister or my mother. But it wasn't. Yet that didn't let me simply think, that's so sad, and then go along with my life. I wrote to Amy and told her that I truly admired her. I still do. These kinds of things will probably begin to happen more frequently with my peers now that we're getting older and entering new phases in our lives. It will never be easy, nor will it be welcome. We can only face like Amy did - with grace and dignity.

Things work themselves out

What a difference a couple days make. Well, that and realizing not to eat before working out.

Completed my second workout tonight and the result was so much better than the first. On that regretable night, I had arrived at the gym to find a packed parking lot and the city's most popular radio station doing a live remote. Never mind, I thought, pulling back onto the street and heading home.

I decided I'd go back later when the post-work crowd had subsided. So I went home and enjoyed a nice dinner with the family of leftover chili. I only had one bowl.

That was enough.

I drove back into town and overcame the apprehension and walked myself into that Gold's Gym Express. I went into the locker room and removed my jacket, put on my iPod and walked decisively out into the large open room full of evvery kind of workout apparatus imaginable. I knew I needed to do some cardio. Yet the bikes were positioned in front of the treadmills which were in front of the ellipticals. So rather than become the evening's entertainment, I headed straight for the back row and clambered up onto an elliptical.

Now this wasn't my first muscle machine rodeo. I know what an elliptical is capable of doing to even people who are in shape, much less morbidly obese people like me. But I was going to take it easy.

I tried to turn it on using a Quick Start button but that didn't take. So I hit start and was then cross-examined with a series of questions that included weight, age, gender and probably middle name. One question it asked was how long I wanted to do it. Five minutes seemed pitifully short - so I typed it in. Finally it told me to start.

Immediately, there wasn't as much resistance as I expected. And I don't recall past ellipticals making you feel like you're moon walking. But this one did and eventually I got the rythym and started walking away. It had little poles on the sides like ski poles and a second place to hold on in the middle front. A couple minutes in, I went to grab the middle ones and the machine flashes an alert that I needed to hold the sensors for my heart rate to be measured. Of course there's no normative data, so it gives me a number that really is nothing more than a number to me. Seems kinda high, but isn't that what exercise is all about?

This thing eventually gets harder. But I try not to let up and look like some guy who hasn't been in a gym in over eight years or more. Then it really surprises me and scares the hell out of me. It says my heart rate is too high! That's not exactly the message a person who lives in fear of a heart attack wants to see the first time he tries getting some exercise. I slow down as much as I can.

The rate slowly falls and I try to keep it just under the warning threshold. I though five minutes would never get there.

When I got done, I worked my way around to some machines to work my upper body. I always preferred to do upper body any way. None of the machines was particularly hard - I just tried to get enough reps in to make it matter. But i was winded and continually looking for a drink of water. Hit the water fountain two or three times between machines. Just wasn't catching my stride. I eventually decided - OK, that's enough.

Went into the locker room and immediately sat on the bench to catch my breath and sort of cool off. I immediately became nauseous. It took everything I had to not throw up. Was hot, uncomfortable and almost dizzy. A stranger who came in noticed me looking odd and said, Hey man, you OK?

Told him I wasn't feeling well and just needed to take it easy for a little while. He said, "yeah, you've got to be careful. You're not going to lose it all on first night."

"Yeah," I replied, with what little courtest laughter I could muster, wishing he'd just leave. And he actually did fairly soon.

I must have sat there for 10 or 15 minutes and finally felt good enough to stand. I gathered my stuff and headed for my truck. Called the wife and told her I overdid it.

My second night was tonight. I didn't eat before I went. I did the bicycle instead of the elliptical. And I did even more upper body, and just a little lower body work. I left feeling pretty good. Reminded me of college when I lifted fairly regularly and enjoyed it.

Maybe this will work out after all. What have I got to lose but a hundred pounds or so?

An odd ode to a non-musician

It's one thing to be an odd person and another thing completely to be an odd person and realize it.

I fall in the latter category and cannot apologize. I can only state that I was just made this way.

This oddness manifests itself in many ways. My interest in music is one. And it's not the types of music that make me odd. I listen to '80s metal and rock, classic country and modern Texas/Americana music. Those are all popular enough. What's weird is how important music is to me.

I've not played an instrument since the flutaphone in the 4th grade. I remember being jealous of my classmates who got to participate in a program that I presume was like Suzuki strings and they got to learn to play the violin. The rest of us just plodded along on our white-and-red flutaphones playing "Hot Cross Buns" over and over.

That was my one and only experience playing music. Missed the window for band after switching schools. For the rest of my life, I've been a consumer of music. And what a consumer I have been.

Somewhere in the bowels of this blog is a list of concerts I can remember attending. And that didn't include in the last four years, when my number of Texas/Americana shows has skyrocketed. Granted, it's been a few different artists at a lot of shows (Bruce Robison, Kelly Willis, Slaid Cleaves, Lost Immigrants have all seen my face multiple times).

I have a lot of music (enough to fill a 60GB iPod) and don't mind buying it. I've actually bought music after getting it free online. I attend concerts and buy merch.

Two minor asides on these topics: 1) one of my friends is befuddled that I would go see someone more than once. He can't understand why after I've seen the artist live would I want to go see them again. For me, every show is unique. They typically play a different mix of songs, the sound is different, the musical arrangement's sometimes different, the venue is different. Can't fully explain it and so I won't. 2) Buying merch is part of the fun of going to a show, but when you're looking for ultra-fat-man sized T-shirts, you can pretty much write it off. There's nothing worse than convincing yourself that 2X will fit and getting home to find out it will fit a 2X teenaged girl.

Music in so many ways affects me. In high school, I used to know a lot of song lyrics. I could come up with a lyric for almost any situation. I once considered trying to find a way to turn that into a career (like choosing songs for specific scenes in movies) but I probably wisely let that dream fly away.

Still, there are songs that I can listen to over and over and over. And I still can't fully explain that. Other people seem less obsessed with music than me. Many simply don't even think about it. So why am I so odd?

Maybe it's because I have such an appreciation for what goes into a good song. Good writing is so important. Most people don't know this but as a writer, I cannot make myself read fiction any more. Somewhere along the line I stopped and haven't been able to go back. And I pretty much think to myself, well anyone can make up fiction. I *could* do it. I just don't. And so I stick to non-fiction. As a journalism major, I have a super-appreciation for the ability to tell the real story.

Yet it is obvious to me as it probably is to readers of this post that songs are typically fictional. And you know what? That doesn't bother me. I think because I see songwriting as another echelon. Whereas anyone can make up a story, a songwriter (usually) has to make it catchy and most importantly, set it to a melody. And then we're back to my lack of musical talent.

I have no musical talent and only the greatest envy of those who do have it. They can make it seem so easy. I'm one of those people who sings along and play air guitar and drums during the same song, shifting between guitar licks and drum paradiddles with no regard for continuity or accuracy.

In the meantime, I have been writing about music. I write feature stories about musicians for a non-profit music series that brings Texas singer-songwriters (and some who don't fit that mold from time to time) to a city I used to live in. And it's very rewarding for me in many ways. I feel like I can actually do what I do best within an industry I love but would never attempt to make money in. Because that's when it stops being fun.

This allows me to hold my own among creative people whom I admire and no one else tells me how to do it. It's pure freedom that I revel in.

And while no one else really gets that part of me aside from my wife, who shares at least a little of my fanaticism, that's OK. I'm just odd like that.

A non-story of too little too late

So maybe I do believe in writer's block. Or maybe it should be writer's too-lazy-to-go-to-the-trouble, which is kinda what mine's been like. Two years since I wrote here. But a friend's solicitation of blogs to read yielded mine in a private exchange and prompted me to think that I really ought to get back to writing in my blog.

In the last two years, there've been numerous times I've *almost* written something. If Facebook had tolerated longer posts or made its Notes more visible, I might have done it. But I didn't.

I tend to think about writing a lot. I would like to write about that, I often think to myself, usually at a time when I didn't have the time. Then, at times when I do have the time, none of that inspiration is within arm's reach.

One topic I considered today, while waiting for a callback from a utility company, was about how companies that send technicians to your home or even the onese who offer 'customer' service via telephone seldom really care about your time. The preface is that we simply should be available when they are available. My uncle John has some great stories on this topic related to his numerous encounters with the Cuddyback trail camera customer service department.

So I'll mark this spot as the day I got back to writing, and then cop out and not really do anything but freewrite on the subject of getting back to writing. Maybe tomorrow, maybe later tonight, or maybe in 2014....

Kids

As a writer, I find that I seldom have 'writer's block.' Rather, I tend to encounter subjects that sometimes leave me unable to write about them because I simply cannot do them justice in print.

One such topic that has vexed me is the notion of what joy kids can be. There are some truly incredible moments as a parent that are indescribable. And as a person who's made a living writing, that's a damned humbling experience.

My kids remind me of innocence, promise and the world in front of you. I remember thinking that at times as a kid, I stood out by being smart, different and funny. When my own son starts doing that, it makes me warm and gives me chills. My daughter on the other hand is just such a delightful spirit. She's warm, expressive and brighter than even her brother was. That scares the heck out of me.

One day I hope to really convey those moments when life causes you to pause and really soak in the moment. Until then, I can only say that kids are worth every darn hassle and worry they cause us in life.

Simple pleasures

Got a two-for-one treat last November when I attended the Austin Family Music Festival with the family (how apropos). Two, yes two, new Bruce Robison CDs.

The first one I expected to get -- "The New World" which had been out about a month or so. I was busy the week it first came out and managed to not get it because apparently the one copy available in Waco was bought early. Multiple trips to multiple music outlets only gave me resolve to eventually find it somewhere in person without having to order it on the Internet. I eventually got it in Austin.

Having heard the new songs previewed on Bruce's website before the release, I wasn't as excited about this one. Based on initial listens, there was only one song I was sure I liked. So there was no rush for either the one song or the mystery of newness that had already been given away.

In this case, first impressions were wrong. There are several songs I'm now very fond of - they just took a few listens to realize it.

The second CD -- and the purchase that was most satisfying -- was a greatest hits compilation called "His Greatest" which basically includes the songs that basically made him professionally successful and paid a lot of bills. The ones most people who haven't heard of Bruce would have heard of... Wrapped, Desperately, Traveling Soldier, and that one that probably was his biggest ... Angry All the Time.

What makes "His Greatest" very special is that the songs are recorded fresh for this CD -- and the arrangments are mostly new. Gives them all at least a slightly different sound than either Bruce's own previous recordings of these songs or those of other artists. The result is way different.

Bruce described them in a brief conversation I had with him after his Austin show that day as having "more of a live sound" and that's certainly true. One of the most noticeable differences here than on his own original recordings is that his own vocals are quite natural. In some ways, it's much more honest, like seeing him live. On the other hand, it sometimes contrasts greatly with the album versions of the same songs and makes you long for the Bruce you hear there.

Maybe it's his aging voice or, more likely, just an indifference to the notion that he's supposed to be a singer when songwriting is really what comes first. But where the vocals may disappoint some, what I'm stricken by are some of the lavish acoustic intros on songs like "My Brother and Me" and "Rayne, Louisiana" that make you think this is a musician's delight. Other songs just feel like jam sessions.

I read that "His Greatest" isn't technically supposed to release until after the first of the year. All the more special it seems for this fan who finally got to see Bruce after a several month hiatus due to personal schedules and budget.

Returning to "The New World" -- I've got to say that it really has gotten better with each listen.

Favorite song was originally "She Don't Care" -- a great heartbreak song that I'd heard Bruce sing on several occasions. Apparently Garth Brooks recorded the song and placed it in obscurity on one of his boxed sets available only at Wal-Mart. Yet, trying to determine which set that was without buying them was nearly impossible as the sets at my Wal-Mart didn't include song lists on the outer covers. It's a catchy, banjo-laced song. I've come to love the banjo.

"The New World" is said to be a mix of American music styles. OK. I'll leave that to the music people. As an uneducated fan, it's quite different from some of Bruce's previous work. But the songwriting remains an obvious strength.

My favorite is "California '85" which has some of the most clever lines I've heard in a while. A particularly rich verse includes "It's not the fall that breaks your heart so it won't mend; but it's the quick stop at the end."

The gender-crossing "Bad Girl Blues," which we had the treat of hearing prior to the album's release earlier this year is an excellent song, though the slow, bluesy pace requires patience. Conjures the spirit of a smoky lounge and Bruce's knack for writing in the female voice is so good it's bad (weak pun intended).

"Larosse" has gotten a lot of buzz from other listeners who've written about it on the web. It's well done, but just not a song that I will skip over others to hear. Nice subtext as a man tries to sell his trusty horse after many hard years together.

"Only" brings the banjo back in and harkens to some of Jerry Reed's hits with a story unfolding in a song. An ode to the singer's newest "only one" -- it's infectious. Then again, another song perhaps about the same girl is "The New One" which is a little different style. Little more traditional Bruce style of future country pop hit. Catchy lyrics and hooks throughout - this one could be a George Strait song in the future.

Last of the songs I'm really fond of is "Hanging on Hopeless" which has a very desolate feel, like the subject matter, accentuated with a nice hang-dog steel guitar and acoustic guitar.

Other songs include the opening "The Hammer" a stomp, I've read, and decent enough. Sounds kinda like "Sanford & Son" theme song mixed with a dash of southern funk. It's smooth but Bruce's vocals don't mesh with this one like perhaps another singer might.

"Echo" got a lot of discussion because Bruce noted in interviews how he was intrigued that both Buddy Holly and Bob Dylan had girlfriends by that name. It's nice and has very lavish accomaniment throughout. He imagines what a girl named Echo might be like.

"Twistin" is my least favorite on the album. Harkens back to the 50s era when "The Twist" was popular. Just seems a little hackneyed in the approach and the name is a little too derivative. The style is fun, almost rockabilly, but more miss than hit to me.

All that said, "The New World" is rock solid. "His Greatest" is an incredible collection and worth it just for the new arrangements. One of his better designed album covers, too, with some excellent photography. Quite a contrast to the whimsical cover of "New World" which puts a cartoon illustration of Bruce's head amidst several cartoon Earths. Like Bruce, never figure him to take the safe route.

Taking the Me out of Remember

Reunion complete. Though the word reunion, in some ways, is a bit strong. It suggests we were together once. And, if there's a lesson I brought home from my 'reunion' it's that I'm not really sure we were ever really together.

Did we all graduate? Well, most of us did. 151 supposedly, based on our class size in 1988. Yet, that's about the only thing that we were all really united on. Not football, not band, not church; nothing.

In the months leading up to my reunion, I started to build up an aversion to going. When pressed by my lovely bride as to why I was pensive about the event, I finally stumbled upon what had been sticking in my craw for some time. I loved my school and hated it at the same time. Moreover, the hate usually won out and I realized I was carrying a big ole chip on my shoulder against LHS.

The reasoning... well, there were several. Boiled down, I think they'd basically fall into two areas: social marginalization and the perception that I'd been passively screwed by the system.

Social marginalization boils down to this: Lindale was never a very welcoming community to me. Cordial, kinda, but not really welcoming. Not outright hateful, either. Just not embracing. It hurt to read some people write in advance of the reunion about the arrival of certain people in a certain year and how all the girls noticed. Funny, I arrived the same year and found that the exact opposite happened. No one really noticed. After high school, I had exactly one good friend I kept in touch with. So going back and seeing all these people was nice. But once it got past "where you live, what do you do, any spouse/kids?" questions, I didn't really know what to say.

That whole subject could be an entire post; hell, an entire blog. Everyone feels socially awkward, except of course the most socially adept. And they were 'popular' -- friends to everyone. I was less a social butterfly and more a social floater who could at least interface with each group but never fit in with any of them. Just the way it was. So going back is odd, because I didn't have a 'group' like so many others seemed to. And that was a little depressing.

Getting wronged by the system was much less a big deal, except for the resentment it's caused in 20 years' time. A couple minor jilts that I've seethed on for years comprise this me vs. them attitude that admittedly is about as 'so what' as one might imagine. One had to do with finding out just before graduation that a class I'd taken in 10th grade had been labeled as remedial. I signed up for it, an office duplicating practices class, because it fit my career of journalism and writing to learn how to use printing presses, etc. I didn't know it was considered remedial and no one bothered to tell me that. As a reward, I got docked 10 points off my gpa for each semester because it was remedial. That little nugget didn't get shared until I asked why my GPA calculation didn't seem to jive. Seems I'd have been much higher than 15th in my class had I not been robbed of 20 points the gross score.

The second systematic wrong was more an act of being disregarded by the system. I visited my high school several years ago - it was actually moved to a new building. But banners hung in the lobby recognizing state-level achievements. There were people and groups who placed at state. I placed 5th in editorial writing at state competition. No banner. They didn't do anything for 5th place the year I graduated -- only 1st thru 3rd. Yet, there were other examples on the wall for people who'd placed 5th or lower as I recall. Add to this the fact that while any kid who played in the band all four years got a letter jacket, I got neither the letter nor the jacket for going to state. They did give me a short little story in the yearbook with a photo. Guess that was my reward.

But with a lot of brooding about these admittedly penny-anny wrongs, I was getting nowhere. It didn't do me any good and I never felt better for having spent the energy being miffed. Why should I care? It wasn't like someone was out to get me and did these things to me.

And then it hit me.

That's what I took home from my reunion. Everyone there was on a different path. Sure, some were much closer together than others. But especially looking at where everyone is today, there's been such diffusion from the original point of departure. We were all unique individuals despite our attempts to prove otherwise via hair, clothes, music or whatever.

I went home from that reunion with a lot of regret. Not for anything done at the reunion, but rather for being so damned self-absorbed in high school (and for about 20 years that followed) to the point that I missed out on getting to know so many other people better. The best friend I have is great -- he's been a better friend to me than I could ever be to anyone. Yet, seeing everyone again, this time without the social stigmas that high school put on almost everyone, was refreshing. I wanted to sit down with everyone and have an hour-long conversation to find out about THEM, what they've done, and how they've managed to survive. But I basically didn't. Because I just didn't know where to begin.

I'm really a joker. It's a coping mechanism. Deep down, I'm very introverted. The sarcasm and funny business is there to mask my discomfort. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. But maybe, in five years, if we have another reunion, I'll get a do-over. I can walk in without the baggage, shake some hands, hug some necks and pick up wherever we need to in order to get to know each other. Maybe they'll be a little more welcoming this time around.

Putting the I in Reunion

There's a lot to be said about high school reunions. Unfortunately, little has NOT been said before.

So for once, I'll be brief.

I'm going to my 20th reunion. Don't know what will happen. Not sure whom I'll see. Not sure what I'll say. Deep down, I'll still resent the hell out of a lot of people and, at the same time, wish I could go right back to being in the 12th grade again if only for a few days.

Life's complicated and so am I.