wrote a subtle thing for the boys while I'm out of town...

Let me tell you about two boys, Bartle-O and Bartle-Q,
they look so much alike
it’s hard to tell who is who.

They have the same hair, eyes and nose,
and it’s even said
they have very similar looking toes.

They both are funny, handsome and always polite,
like at the table,
where they make meals a delight.

Many times even their parents get it wrong,
calling out Bartle-O
when it’s Bartle-Q they needed all along.

Or when they’re looking for Bartle-O,
yet find Bartle-Q,
it gets crazy and no one knows what to do.

But there are subtle things that can be found:
like Bartle-Q is taller,
and weighs more by one ounce and a pound.

Bartle-O is the junior of about two years,
and cuts his hair real close
(having overcome his barbershop fears.)

Bartle-Q and Bartle-O are always keen to compete,
and often when they do,
it starts a battle of who’s the one to beat.

Bartle-O will run and catch Bartle-Q,
and then the brothers
bicker until they’re blue.

And it makes their parents crazy (as you might agree,)
that these two wonderful boys
can’t get through the day quarrel free!

But one day it dawned on Bartle-Q: 
Bartle-O
is the best friend he ever knew.

And it jarred him with tingles to his brain,
that racing Bartle-O
would make him faster than a train!

And Bartle-O got giddy in a flash,
that an older brother
just might teach him reading and math!

Each brother, it turns out, could make the other bigger, 
and together they could help out their sister, 
(who’s still but a nipper.)

So now the boys share their space with great glee,
and it’s said…
they’re more alike than you and I can see.

Because while Bartle-Q and Bartle-O look so much the same,
it’s something else,
like their brains, that’s their real claim to fame.

 

Robin Williams made me do it

It was a hard day, and I say that selfishly, if not even sadistically. I say it because the death of Robin Williams ripped a bandage off a wound I've been trying to hide. I know I need to get back on the stage. I know I need to be funny. I need to. As of late I've cowered, and in that weakness have emerged only to be bitter and tired. It's the face of aging on the inside that's the ugliest. I've hidden behind menial chores and mopping floors. I vacuum, I mop and I swear that I want to sell the house and move. Move where? Move to where the hiding might hide you some more? 

Listen, when you know you can do something, and when you know you can do something that people might enjoy, then do it. I know death and I know suicide. That's where the morbid, selfish, sadist side of me thinks of those who've killed themselves (or tried) and, because of their deed, I keep my dying only a fantasy. Sometimes it's after a great gig when I feel I should go out on top, and others it's just bad. It's bad. It is bad. I won't kill myself because I have Sarah. And I have kids. And even though kids can grow up without a father, I know that one of these children will one day deal with depression, and I want to be there. I want them to know that when they feel it--when they feel the tread wearing off on the long hot journey that is that sadness, that they can call. They can call day or night and I'll be there to tell them it's OK. They're not alone. Now lets go outside and have your heart remind your head about living again. It could be (in a theory I'm coming up with right now) that your brain spends day and night telling your body to live, but every now and again it needs some feedback from below: "You're not alone; I'm alive and intend to stay that way."

It's a mystery how our heads are part of our bodies and yet we still talk to it in the third person. I talk to myself in the third person, like even though I'm me I don't have control over the outcome of what I do. I feel the negative thoughts; the bullet relieving the pressure on the brain, and I rejoice in how easy it would be. I would never chide anyone for thinking about it, or use some terrible cliche about a temporary problem and a permanent solution. For a moment, go with me into that place that kills people. Take the best day you've ever had. Take the elation and electricity of say, a basketball player "in the zone," and that's where you are winning at whatever you do. Take all those chemicals and all those internal accolades and happy tears, and then turn them around. Make inverse the cheers and turn bitter the euphoria. Squeeze the celebration out of every gut and leave yourself empty and retching on the crosswalk of expectations. Everyone's disappointed. Turn off the electricity and shrink the elation, and then stand over the sad and shriveled relic before letting it breathe relief in its last breath. You're not even you anymore. You're not killing yourself; you're killing whatever spiteful piece of shit you've dehumanized and demonized in countless bad days of self-flagellation. Suicide becomes a necessary homicide. A mercy kill.

And I've imagined that last clip of horror when you realize it's not.

That's helped.That sadistic son of a bitch in me. 

But I can't kill it. I won't. The band aid ripped off tonight tells me that I've got to be done crying in my car. I've got to balance the good and the bad. I've got to make the demons work for me. They're there, and they won't go away, but somehow, some way, they make us artists. They make us lovers. They burn magma out of us until we can shape it in our hands and put it on display. They make us want to make others feel good. That makes us feel good. And for the win--and for Robin and countless others--I'll do what I'm supposed to do. As I am me, and that dude has a lot of work to do before he goes.

Because YOU WILL take two minutes to watch my baby crawl

Watching this kid and I'm really not sure the last time I worked as hard a baby does to get somewhere. You can use it as an inspirational video. Upworthy should post it.

Eliot is now officially an all-terrain vehicle, often showcasing her best efforts around danger or the dog. Here's her first musical montage:

And now our comfortable little life has been shattered. To think that we once wanted our firstborn to crawl as early as possible.

Huge ordeal overcoming the Ewy head size.

Living on the edge (of a bathtub): Life at 40

What is it to be 40. Nothing, I guess. Nothing that would have you cling to the edge of life hoping that your heart doesn't attack you. It's just what it is, which is the most annoying answer to anything: it is what it is. Unless you're naked and on the back porch. I'm in the suburbs and so naked and so gassy. Naked farts are the best. So free range, raw and intestinal. Nothing recirculates and mixes with denim and guilt. They just rush out and remind you that they are what they are. It's best to be by yourself.

I don't always drink alone and naked. It's really dark and I can't see any trace of our back neighbor; the new girl who moved in and then broke it off with her boyfriend. I hope she's not up, in the dark and reflecting only to have me punctuate (funktuate?) her meditations with this dinner burrito. It's fantastic for me, though. And it's a nice place and time to stare at the silhouettes of trees and power lines and remember growing up in a place where I could walk out the back door and get lost. And I did frequently. I'd walk and walk and at every turn be certain I knew where I was, only to realize I had no idea. One time my dad was working on the roof and he could see me in the woods taking wrong turns and missing the house by about 100 yards, only to end up at the bottom of the driveway and completely surprised about where I'd arrived. As I walked up the road, thirsty, sun burned and carrying a battery-powered boom box blasting Run DMC, he asked me if I'd gotten lost. "No," I told him, certain to turn down the music he hated. It's the same thing that has guys turn down the car radio when they need to think. I just wanted to look less vulnerable to poor decisions, so quieting the rap music seemed the best way to present myself as such.

How many years ago was that? I wondered in my moonlit nudity. Holy shit, I offer myself a response. 29? And then I do that thing where I try and place a major event in each year since then. I want to make sure I've lived.

At 40 you do get the distinct pleasure of being reminded of mortality. It's not so much the ten thousand days behind you, but that it's only a handful of years to fifty. Jesus, that's old.

It's old to be old, unless you're youthful. Someone at work asked the difference between young and youthful. Looking around the room at the fresh faces I felt neither. Just wait until they know I drink naked in tight neighborhoods. The upside is that I was reminded that it's the thought. It's the awareness that makes it count. I still think I'm 19 until I look in the mirror. Sweet god what is that? It's like George Costanza was raped by Mr. Clean. I'm the bastard child of so many strange biological turns. Physiological changes. I had to trim my chest hair so it wouldn't tickle my chin. What kind of animal has to do that? And yes, my ear hair are like goat pubes. I know this doesn't mean much, though...right?

So out goes the thought muscle flexing across time...and I'm pretty certain I couldn't have it any better. I've done the math. I've been hit hard every time someone mentions a year, a number, a memory. We watched a documentary tonight about an old bus. An old, used school bus left to be ridden by Guatemalans trying to get to shitty jobs. The bus was a '95. Sweet god, I may not even be as useful as that bus. I have some help, though. I've been in a midlife crisis since that bus was a baby. It's the curse of too much thinking. Yes, it's all in your head.

You can't hide from truth or thoughts, but you can turn lemon into Pledge and clean the place up. You can do ill-advised 40-year-old guy fist pumps at little victories that would have your dragon-slaying ancestors run their sword upon you for mercy's sake. You can punch convention in the sack and fart naked on your patio. It's OK, I should add, to doubt everything and hate everything and think terrible thoughts as long as you realize that the only thing that truly matter is what you make of it. Yah, that old horse still whinnies, but only during those dark moments when you let yourself out to pasture.

In 1983 a drunk guy locked me in the bathroom and yelled at me for a long time. I don't know exactly how long, but it had everybody at the party concerned and standing in line outside the door saying gentle things to Jeff, the drunk guy. "Jeff," would say the owner of the house, "can you just let Jared out and we'll make you some coffee." I sat on the edge of the bathtub with this guys mustache about five inches from my face. He was in his early twenties and was renowned for drinking and behavioral issues. Only moments before I'd been wrestling with he and his buddy, Johnny, when I'd accidentally kicked Johnny in the nuts. It was fun and games. I was a kid.

About an hour later I went to pee and Jeff burst in behind me. I peed on my hand, I recall. I remember this because I could see the sink on just the other side of Jeff's red and spouting head. He shouted at me about the disappointment of life and I looked past him wanting to wash my hands. He kept insisting on shaking my hand and, at the time, I didn't realize the victory of wiping urine on my assailant.

Jeff, though, told me about living. He told me it wasn't all fun and games. He told me it was painful and serious and that I couldn't just kick some guy in the nuts and laugh about it. I told him it was an accident and if it were really that bad my dad would have kicked my ass. Even Johnny had taken it well. I see it now: escaping their playful grasp and trying to run up the stairs. Johnny grabbed me and I kicked. I turned around in time to see he and his cowboy jeans crumple by the wood stove.

"It's not just fucking around and hurting people, Jared," Jeff illustrated for me with quivering lips so close that I could see the individual hairs on his face. That was awkward so I looked down. "You need to listen to me..."

"Jeff...you're scaring him and you're scaring us," came the pleasant tone of his mother. I think she'd had to talk to him before like this. I think she'd hoped for something different from Jeff, and he knew that. He'd heard in it everything she said.

She also pleaded that he not hurt me. "Don't hurt him, Jeff," she said in a way that makes me hate the name Jeff. Why would that be an issue? Has he hurt people before? And you sound as if--on the other side of a door and a chasm of marred maternity--you're threatening him? I'm here, on the edge of Jerry and Dorothy's recently remodeled bathtub, and very much in striking range of the emotionally unhinged, and your going to prod the beast? She'd let a little reality into the room. Squeezed a balloon and ripped up the air a bit. I tensed.

Jeff paced back and forth. I watched him, waiting to be clubbed. But he had no plan. He could only walk awayThis is where it all went down, the North Park KOA. It's a lovely place that features the best soft serve ice cream on the planet and is currently up for sale. and lean against the wall, staring away from me and realizing his misfortune. Eventually, he would punch that wall and break his hand. The crashing noise had the adults kick in the door. I was still on the side of the bathtub and Jeff was a fucking mess. The invading forces grabbed me and asked if I were OK. They tussled my hair and offered me soda. I didn't want to make too much of a scene, like a celebratory touchdown dance while my assailant was being cornered and berated. In honesty, I think I just wanted to get back to the TV. They had a satellite dish the size of a moon crater and channels that came in crystal clear.

I would say 40 is a lot like that. There's a lot of negativity being yelled right in your face. The creepy mustache of life is inches away and making you feel like your about to end up in a very poor place. Your internal Jeff is about to have his way with you when you realize you're a grown up and you can just walk out of the room. You can turn the channel. You can turn the time stuck at a stoplight, in traffic, into an asset instead of ashes. No one is going to kick in the door and save you from the shit, because after you've grown up everyone assumes you'll be able to figure it out. That's kind of a neat trick. Everyone thinks you're more capable than you think you are.

I've often thought about what I'd say to that kid on the edge of the tub. I've had violent fantasies where I destroy Jeff; choke him to the floor, set him at ease. But that kid doesn't need to see that. I think it's about taking it easy. Reminding the boy that it is easy. Chew your food. Floss. Jeff is right, life can suck, you just can't get sucked in.