I Know There’s Something Going On

There’s something you need to be aware of me and that’s to never sit next to me at a children’s birthday party. This past weekend I got out of the house and engaged in what is my sad social life. My middle daughter, Lyla, got invited by her best friend forever and ever’s 10th birthday celebration at a pizza parlor. I thought I would play with my phone for two hours, give up the only cash I had, about three bucks, to my kid for arcade games, and smile as the other parents - eight women around my age – complained about their husbands and gushed over the latest episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Instead, I talked about socialism with the star of the party’s Swedish immigrant mother.

My personal politics have changed a lot since I became a father. I was told that I’d become more conservative and appreciate money, more. But the opposite has happened. As much punk rock as I listen to and as many artists I admire, you’d think my tilt to liberalism would end in my iPod earphones or after the credits roll on my favorite television shows or movies. But I seem to be auditioning for a sequel to Warren Beatty’s 1981 pro-commie film Reds about controversial journalist John Reed.

The moms and family members of the birthday girl began to pair off and after a few minutes I found myself alone in a spare booth attacking Twitter like a teenage girl with a new boyfriend. After a short amount of time I looked up and the birthday’s girl’s mother was sitting in front of me exchanging pleasantries. Between my patented smirk and awkward smile I asked a question that unloaded almost two hours of some of the interesting conversation I’ve had, outside my own home, in a long time.

“So, do you ever miss your home country?”

My daughter’s best friend’s family are Swedish-American immigrants. Her grandfather founded a famous jewelry business in Sweden, later Turkey, before coming to the United States a little over twenty years ago. My partner in talk, we’ll call her Frida for blog post sake and because she’s my favorite ABBA member who put out a decent pop album in the early 1980s, followed her father. She now runs a successful jewelry franchise. Since I wasn’t asking about her husband or what happened on Grey’s, Frida started dropping Swedish bombs about how she misses the laid-back liberal lifestyle of her yellow and blue homeland but loves the business opportunity and overall freedom of the U.S.A. I wanted to pump my fist and say something stupid like “hell yeah, America rules!” but instead I put my phone away and listened. Frida’s experience, and overall frustration with this country and her own, made me relate. Plus, everytime I turn around, Swedish business is more prominent than American – Ericsson phones, IKEA furniture (my girls have a bunk bed from there), Volvo, Saab, Electrolux).

Sweden has one of the highest GDP (gross domestic product)s in the world. It’s a country that listed as one of the happiest. Since the 1930s, when they went from a monarchy to a parlimentary democracy, Sweden’s operated under socially and fiscally democratic policies that soem call socialism that have seen it become one of the safest and best countries in which to to. They haven’t been to war in over 200 years. Sweden’s focus on maximum labor force participation, gender equality, egalitarian benefits, social safety nets and extremely low levels of corruption have led to a stable economy, low unemployment rates and a cool book and movie called The Girl With The Dragon tattoo.

The Swedish Model is simple:
1. Free health care for everyone
2. Free education for everyone
3. Five weeks fully paid vacation a year and 13 months parental leave for each child  for EACH parent
4. A budget in balance
5. No wars/stay neutral

What I noticed the most about Frida was every time she expressed support or positivity about something “liberal” she’d lean into me, in between bites of vegetarian pizza she charmed me into eating (it was delicious), and whisper. It was as if we were in the French Underground during World War II exchanging spy words. That’s because everyone else in the room thought differently than we did.

The jist of my conversation with Frida was that while she missed the less judgemental, less money obsessed lifestyle of Sweden, she enjoyed the freedom of America and the chance to grow her family’s jewelry business under less taxes. The last thing Frida said to me before going to cut the cupcake cake, was the most profound.

“You know, Lyla’s dad, maybe when our girls are President and Vice-President, they can implement the policies that we like without so much hate and division”. The cream cheese I tasted a minute later had never been so sweet.

As I watched my daughter and her best buddy and other girls run around giving each other “cupcake tattoos ” (icing on their faces and arms) I looked into my daughter’s blue eyes to see wonder and hope. I named her best friend’s mom Frida for this post for a good reason. Frida’s hit song from 1982 was called I Know There’s Something Going On. In the non-prejudiced, non-fear mongered minds of my daughter, and Frida’s, the girls with the cupcake tattoos, was opportunity. They symbolize a chance for this country to not  just want rugged individualism, but also a collective better life where everyone is accepted and success is measured by happiness, not money.

Here’s the real Frida and buy the book – The Ballad of Helene Troy, paperbacks out now! http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=lance+burson#/ref=sr_kk_1?rh=i%3Aaps%2Ck%3Athe+ballad+of+helene+troy&keywords=the+ballad+of+helene+troy&ie=UTF8&qid=1361892587

http://youtu.be/uz5DkTF2RW8

Nine Minutes Of Me

I made a vlog in my bathroom where I talk about me, my new book The Ballad of Helene Troy, and some thank yous.

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/288604

Amazon/Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/The-Ballad-Helene-Troy-ebook/dp/B00BJOMM84/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1361667874&sr=8-1&keywords=lance+burson

Thank you

Where Is My Mind?

“One minute was enough”, Tyler said, “A person had to work hard for it, but a minute of perfection was worth the effort. A moment was the most you could expect from perfection.”

Source: my personal copy of Chuck Palahniuk’s Fight Club 1996 copyright, purchased from a used bookstore in September 2006.

*****blogger’s Note*****

This is a book that truly changed my life. For this week’s 33 word challenge from Trifecta Writing, I give you 33 words from the club we’re not supposed to talk about. http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/

Here’s The Pixies, from the movie’s soundtrack and the author (Chuck Palahniuk)’s CD collection with Where Is My Mind? -

Here Comes A Regular

One of the things I learned from 2 1/2 years of therapy, besides an hour means 50 minutes, is to never hide who you really are because people will figure you out anyway. I don’t know if this is true all the time. Writing online for three years straight and on and off for another three years prior, I’ve revealed a lot about myself, good and bad, but I don’t think people have figured me out. They probably never will. Because in my offline life, or what some people would call “real life”, few people have any idea the whack job they deal with on a daily basis. This is certainly true with my family and my day job has no clue who and what I am. I write a lot about my anxiety and depression. I call myself “regular crazy” to make people feel more comfortable about it all.

When I met my wife a friend asked me “Has she shown you her crazy?ore importantly, has she seen yours? Because if she’s with you, she has to have a little, because you have a lot!” I laughed it off then found a corner to curl up in the fetal position because I knew that this would have to happen soon since my wife, then my girlfriend, had children and I did too. So I showed her my crazy. Like tweets, Facebook stati, blog posts, and book chapters, my  crazy came at her in pieces. By the time we married she was ready for the full on whackadoo me. And she got it. Why we’re still together is a volatile mix of modern medicine and blind, dumb luck, I mean love.

My good situation at home and my writing experience have made me more transparent at work. On a conference call, during a brief intermission while we waited for someone to join, I was talking about a previous project that everyone on the call had worked with me. It was infamous because of problems so when I said “yeah, that project was as much fun as a Kafka novel” I thought someone might chuckle. When silence happened, I realized what normal people were like and I waited for someone to drag me from the freezing cold ocean of dumb I’d fallen into.

I’m reading a lot of people who talk about cutting back on blogging and social media to “spend more time with real life” and I always say aloud ”well, what will they do with their crazy?” This is why we blog and tweet, right? Eventually that crazy, or different or alternative thinking, however you wish to label, has to come out. Sure, you get off the computer for a while, but when you’re in line at the grocery store and the person in front of you shows every racist, homophobic, annoying coupon hoarding personality tick where do you express your frustration? Those books you download, those websites you visit, that music that none of your friends or family like; where do you talk about that stuff?

Therapy, whether it’s clinical or something as artistically tangible as writing, is supposed to teach you that what’s inside of you can be harnessed into fuel to make your engines – the mind and body – run better over time. Facebook shows me, and it should show everyone who reads this post, that while normal and conventional is good for those who possess those traits, those who feel outside of the white picket fence life need their outlets of expression. This is why My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog, @TLanceB, and my columns for SprocketInk.com exist.

Being different, offbeat, or my own label – regular crazy- is okay so don’t be afraid to reveal it. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

Paul Westerberg is one of my heroes and he knows what I’m talking about. He writes about ir perfectly in this song from his Replacements days. Here’s Here Comes A Regular. It’s brilliant.

Bittersweet Symphony

Dear Taylor,

You turned 17 last week. While my memory is fading, I do recall what it was like to be your age, 25 years ago, you know, when there was no internet. You’re in the middle of your junior year of high school. I write next to where you left SAT test prep book. The changes and landmark events like graduation and college are so close that when I’m not tearing up thinking about you leaving your mom and I, then worrying about your future overwhelms me.

It’s my job to protect you and help you be your best. But you have to do most of the work. Dad is a supervisor role. Daughter is labor. This is why you don’t like me very much, right now. When you have a few minutes then put your phone down, stop watching Pretty Little Liars, and taking pictures of your chicken sandwiches, here are some things you should take heed.

Your happiness is more important to me than my own. I wish that I could guarentee you will be an amazing success with no obstacles to leap and no periods of disappointment or sadness. I can’t do this. I’m going to extoll some wisdom (I’m your father, so yes, it’s wisdom. Stop rolling your eyes) you should know.

Life is very hard. It’s not impossible but if it were easy, then your mom and I would have met each other many years earlier than 2008, and prevented a lot of the pain and road bumps that occurred before all of us got together.

There’s a song called Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve you should hear. You’ve seen me turn it up in the car and warble the lyrics at the top of my lungs before you got embarrassed and started texting your friends. It came out in 1997, right before I made horrible decisions in my life that changed almost everything almost who and what I am. I can’t say I regret them because they produced your 9-year-old sister. But I think, had I really listened to the lyrics and applied them to my decision making, then who knows, maybe I could’ve found you, your mom and your 8-year-old sister, earlier.

You know I despise giving advice, but I’m your father so it’s okay if I’m a big, fat hypocrite every once in a while. These are 4 Be’s. Notice it’s Be’s not B’s or Bees.

1) Be self-aware. This is a superpower that is inside of you. Most people never tap their own because they’re afraid of failure, making people angry, or admitting faults. You’re already better at this than I ever was at 17-years-old. You know your strengths and weaknesses. You also know that many people are full of crap. As you graduate high school, go to college, then enter the real world, you will find that people embrace the negative more that the positive. You’re awesome at pointing out when I do this. Know that your mistakes will teach you more than you successes but you have to acknowledge them. It disarms people and makes you a leader.

2) Be prepared. People can really suck. Sometimes nice, kind, sweet, innocent, and wonderful don’t work, especially when the more powerful or those in charge are not any of those. You will get knocked down. You will get yelled at. You will lose, sometimes. What matters is how you come back from being down and how you handle adversity.

3) Be selfish. Since you don’t have a spouse and children like your mom and I do, it’s okay to want for yourself, right now. Ambition can be beautiful. Your dreams, those ones you have while you dance around to Taylor Swift in your room, are more important than anything. But a dream without a goal is a wish. Make goals and do whatever it takes to reach them. Should you intentionally hurt others to be successful? No. But as I said about being prepared, some people will not share your ambition. They’ll try to take you down or hold you back. Now is the time for you to be very selfish and concentrate on you.

4) Be yourself. Currently, your two best friends are one and two years younger than you, respectively. They seem great. But don’t make decisions based on your future because you might disappoint them or be away from them. Friends come and go but your life does not. Never let anyone try to co-op or glom onto your dreams and your happiness. If they’re really your friend, they’ll be there for the ride and the arrival. Stay true to who and what you are. You will mature, change, evolve, and blossom.

Now, Bittersweet Symphony is on the Urban Hymns CD. I have two copies. One of them is yours. Symphony isn’t what you’re used to listening to. Swifty isn’t experienced enough to write something like this. What I hope you gather from the five minutes it takes to hear the song, is life is a very difficult road to travel, but if you keep your mind open, your heart guarded, and your dreams large, you can make your own Symphony very sweet, with almost no bitter.

Sincerely, and with all my love, beautiful,

Dad

Beyond Belief

Being the father of a seventeen-year-old girl while writing on the internet means I spend a lot of time thinking about my teen years while wondering why I even turn on a computer. While standing in a Mall food court line for Bourbon chicken over lo mein noodles, I ignored the screams from inside of my body for its inevitable fate to reflect on how lucky I am there was no information superhighway when I was my daughter’s age in 1987. Occasionally, okay, several times a week, I offer, unsolicited, my experience in relationships and my career in journalism to my daughter. I counter her eyeroll with pithy remarks about being smart, protective, and cynical. That’s right, I tell my daughter to question everything and walk hard with a critical nature.

This Manti Te’o story about being duped by two or more people who created a fake online girlfriend that the All-American Notre Dame linebacker used to generate publicity that helped him finish second for the Heisman trophy should be taught in schools. I would love for my children to hear about someone closer to their age (Te’o is 21) than mine who eschewed common sense to become so fooled that he lied to avoid people thinking he was, well, a fool.

My three daughters, aged 17, 9, and 8, belong to a generation that co-exists with the internet. They are taught more by wikipedia, online educational sites, and their dad’s blog (kidding) than their actual school teachers. Running across the bad of the web is expected as much as the good. They can type in Taylor Swift or Carly Rae Jepsen’s name into google and be a click away from seeing Rihanna mass tweeted goodies. There’s no reason to be outraged by this, because that’s like being ticked off there’s traffic on Saturday mornings when you go to the mall.

My wife disagrees with me as well as my other family members, but being naive or “innocent” in the age of 4G internet service just isn’t wise much less possible. Manti Te’o, by most accounts, is a nice, kind, smart, well-mannered young man who values his virginity as well as his public image. Yet, despite an intelligent mind and disciplined body, he was allegedly made to look like a total rube by people on social media sites. Welcome to the club where dues are paid in embarrassment and fake girlfriend memes, Manti.

Being the butt of every twitter comedian’s joke isn’t as bad as having to explain your MySpace account musings in open divorce court. So, my sympathy for Manti Te’o stops at “dude, you were dumb, buck up and make a lot of tackles in the NFL as a millionaire”.

What I want my children and you all to know and think about, is that being cynical doesn’t mean you think boogeymen and women are around every corner of Al Gore’s internet. In fact, the web can be and do amazing things. But having a healthy eyebrow raised at stuff that just doesn’t make sense or seems too good to be true is how you survive and suffer fools rather than be one.

Let’s get a something straight between us. This is me.

If I was lying, I’d show you a picture of Matt McConaughey or one of those other magic Mike stripper boys. I’m 42-years-old, married with those three aforementioned girls, with a dog, two cats, and a basement that I neither live in nor write from. I’m clinically crazy but not criminally, I’ve never intentionally hurt anyone other than myself. Technically I met my current wife online. She dropped over 20 grand just to talk to me. That’s almost a true story. But after one phone call, I set up a lunch at Chili’s because chicken crispers are lie detectors. You ask me anything, if the women I live with approve your questions, I’ll provide the answers. I’ve never fake dated a Notre Dame linebacker nor have I used a fake relationship to almost win a Heisman Trophy.

Most of all, blogging, writing for websites, and drawing on my six and half years in my early twenties as a full-time journalist has made me tougher and thicker-skinned. I think this is something a lot more people who are online should be. For those with similar backgrounds, do some good, and relay your web war stories and made the clicking culture more positive.

****blogger’s note****

The great Elvis Costello, one of my musical idols, had no clue there’d be something called the internet or social media when he wrote this song over 30 years ago. He was reflecting on the crappy music business and even crappier music journalism business at the time. But his well-written song, Beyond Belief is perfect for today’s post. I hope Manti Te’o isn’t too gun-shy with the computer to track this tune down.

Evil

It may seem ridiculous for me to type hundreds of words about a liar talking to a narcissist but I think I can make a salient points that we can discuss and learn. A sociopath, Lance Armstrong, sat down with the narcissist, Oprah Winfrey, somewhere in Hawaii this week and picked his teeth with some kind of apology. Depending on which leak you believe, the other Lance, not this Lance, acknowledges he used performance enhancing drugs and lied about it for over a decade. At some point Oprah asks him how spiritual he was, if he ate hamburgers from Amarillo, Texas, and if he liked Dirty Dancing. There was some speculation in that last paragraph, toward the end.

Why is this important? On the surface some dude who rode a bike to many Tour De France titles, got cancer, beat cancer, really well, while doped up and then having his blood doped to avoid prosecution seems, well, whatever. In my opinion, this is important because for well over a decade he founded, ran, and used his charity pulpit, Livestrong, to raise hundreds of millions of dollars for cancer research. He did it on a lie of “I came back from the brink of death out of sheer will, determination and never give up spirit to be a champion”. Have you seen how many yellow bracelets people wear? Most of the people at your gym, kid’s soccer game, or church social have never pedaled anything more than a Big Wheel.

Okay writer Lance, not cheating athlete Lance, the money went to a good cause, he made a lot of people aware and happy, and at the end of the days he’s been stripped of every title he won and disgraced. Why do you care? I care because Lance Armstrong did more than lie. He hurt other people who tried to do the right thing by being truthful. Yellow jersey Lance abused people as much as he abused the drugs.

I’m going to watch the Queen Of Green billionaire Oprah interview the Pinocchio of Pedaling. Because I want to see if he answers some questions other than, “dude, you did you use drugs then dope your blood to evade positive tests? It should go sot of like this:

“Why are you letting me, Oprah Winfrey, interview you? I know nothing about cycling and my cable channel is watched by about 4,000 housewives and no one knows what channel it’s on their cable package unless I show a movie where Jo from the Facts Of Life gets beat up by her boyfriend. Did you agree to this because I was on one Hawaiian Island while you on another? I just told my bff, Gayle King, that you made me stay 2 extra days in Maui. This is hard work. So, you ask me a hard question, Lance, okay don’t.

Two of your perjury cases have had their statute of limitations pass. My producer, the one I didn’t fire for bringing my latte too hot, told me that. Is this why you’re coming clean?

I don’t like testicles, Gayle can tell you that, but you only have one. Is that due to all the drugs you took? I mean some steroids can cause cancer. Or is that cows? I’ll ask Dr. Phil.

Several of your old teammates like Greg Lemond and Tyler Hamilton questioned your drug testing results and your statements, now you say were lies. You basically ruined their careers through intimidation and scaring away sponsors. You’re worth millions, by the way, my gardener makes what you make, but I digress, and Hamilton and LeMond are having hard times making money through cycling. Are you sorry for them?

Oh the way you treat women, and trust me brother, I don’t like them either, otherwise I would treat my staff better and speak out more on women’s issues, is horrible. You dumped Sheryl Crow after she got cancer? I like her. She played on my show. What’s up with that?

More on the girlfriends, boyfriend! Emma O’Reilly, oh God, that sounds fake, that was her name? Anyway, Emma was an Irish girl who gave you and your team massages. In the early 2000s, she told stories of rampant doping and how she was used to transport the drugs across international borders. She testified that you tried to make her life hell. Her story was true, Lance, wasn’t it? And you knew it was true. Yet despite knowing it was true, you, a famous multimillionaire superstar, used high-priced lawyers to sue this simple woman for more money than she was worth in England, where slander laws favor the famous. She had no chance to fight it.  She testified that you tried to ruin her by spreading word that she was a drunken prostitute. That’s messed up, Lance. Oh and you sent one of your boys to threaten the wife of one of your teammates, Betsy Andreu when she and her husband, former teammate named Frankie, testified you admitted to using several drugs and doping agents. Now, you are going to call these girls and apologize too, right?”

The point is, the other Lance will unlikely answer these questions. It will be about feelings and redemption. Those are awesome things, if you weren’t a raging sociopathic gangster for over a decade while posing as the picture of perspiring perseverance and collecting checks.

Nine-hundred words about two people I’m convinced will be, as Bruno Mars sings, locked out of Heaven. Because they’re evil. I’ll be glued.

Here’s Interpol.

The Shock Of The Lightning

Other times with Trever Hoyt, superhero - http://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com/2012/07/19/everybody-knows/

 

The last hour of the twentieth century would be the last time Trever Hoyt and his older sister, Fallon, would ever be normal. Only nineteen-years-old, Trever looked at the seven Blue Moon beer bottles lining the top rail of the wooden deck in an order of labels facing out,  the backyard.. Twenty-two-year old Fallon had bought a twelve pack. She was holding her fifth beer. Trever’s mouth formed a wicked grin.

“Fal, I outdrank you. You’re getting weak in your old age.”

She shook her head and straight shoulder-length dirty blonde bangs feathered over her right eye. She stood over him and announced.

“Little brother, it’s bad enough I have to spend New Years Eve with you. Don’t ruin it by being a mouthy drunk. That’s my deal, dude. I’d hate to have to kick your ass all over Aunt Nealy’s house.

They laughed as thunder rolled over the two-bedroom ranch on a one-acre plot in the middle of Orange County, Florida. Trever stumbled as he stood, grasping the extent of his buzz.

“Fal, I’m going to the redneck boys room then shoot off this last bottle rocket. Storm will be here soon. We’ll be ringing in the New Year on the couch.”

Fallon didn’t respond. The telephone inside the house on the kitchen wall next to the refrigerator, rang. She assumed it was her Aunt, checking on her house and it’s sitters.

Trever strolled to the large mound in the middle of the yard. After zipping up, he found a lighter in his left front pocket. He pulled his jacket sleeves up a few inches on each arm. He heard Fallon’s voice from the deck, but couldn’t decipher her words. He ignited a tiny flame, and held it to the bottle rocket’s wick  then held it over his head with his left hand. He pulled th trigger of the launcher.

“Trever Morgan Hoyt!”

Fallon screamed her brother’s name. He was too drunk or too stupid to hear, she thought.

The lightning strike was bright orange and white. It must have hit Trever on his left hand, because by the time she reached him on the mound, the sleeves of his jacket and his green and black flannel shirt were burned off, to the shoulder.

“Oh my God, Trever, please be alive!”

Panic waved over her. He was unconscious. The orange and white charge from the strike danced over his extremities like a mischievous demon.

“Oh my God, Trever, I don’t know what to do!”

Fallon leaned her right ear to her brother’s chest and heard nothing. She placed her hands over his heart and pressed down to manufacture life. As her shaky palms touched him, the orange and white demon shot her back. She landed a few feet from his body, on her rear end.

“Fal…Fallon?”

His murmurs, faint, lost, desperate brought tears to her eyes. He was alive.

“Yeah, little bro, I’m right here. I can’t move you. I don’t know what to do.”

Trever rolled to his right side. His left hand appeared injured. He couldn’t move his legs.

“I, uh, I think it’s wearing off, or something. Just give me a minute. Damn, this feels weird. Really, different, like my body’s plugged into a socket.”

Fallon scooted on the grass, within inches of her brother. She sat with him until he could move his legs. It was the last few minutes of the twentieth century. They’d never be the same.

*****blogger’s note****

This is my response to picture it and write.

It’s an origin story of a superhero story I’ve been brainstorming for months. I’ll reveal the character’s powers, current situation and superhero name later, if you guys like it.

Today’s song goes with the picture and the story, except it was made in 2007. It’s Oasis’ Shock of The Lightning. Happy New Year, Have a great ’13.

Memory

My first memory was bad. I was five-years-old and of what I recall, it was very bad. It was an incident of domestic violence. My family played peacemaker. My role was easy. I got to stay up way past my bedtime and entertain my friend while we watched Good Times. It was the episode where Michael failed the IQ test that was prejudiced against black children. You could say I learned two life lessons that night.

I know in the blogging world, Shakespeare’s “the better part of valor is discretion” from Henry IV, isn’t popular, but trust me when I tell you my parents were a peaceful lot, even having to deal with me.

In sadness over the horrible event at Sandy Creek Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut, I can’t stop thinking about the ages of the young people involved. The shooter was twenty, and most of the victims were between five and ten-years-old. This means those who were injured or witnessed the terror will harbor as their first memory, something dreadful.

What makes me hug, kiss, and talk to my three daughters the most, is knowing that two of them, aged 8 and 9, are forming their first set of sustained memories that they will be able to reference for the rest of their lives. We had an intense, tear-filled, and positive discussion at our dinner table on Friday night that made me become more aware of giving my children as many good memories as possible. The following day I took them to the park with our dog then their mom and I took them to a roller skating rink.

It’s impossible to shelter your children from tragedy. Two of my daughters knew about Sandy Hook before they came home. But we talked to them about that incident and other negative ones to make sure they understood everything.

My first memory occurred thirty-seven years ago. My family probably thought I was so young, I’d be okay without a talk, and thus I’d forget. I didn’t. What I learned from, then, and I’m learning now, is choosing right over wrong, and being the calm in someone else’s storm are characteristics of the kind of person I want and should be.

Now, I need to know how many episodes of Good Times I saw that I shouldn’t have, like JJ painting the naked girl.

We need to be careful with our children’s remembrances. I hope I don’t end up reading one of my daughter’s blogs in a few years about the time I yelled at them for using up all the toilet paper. Maybe they’ll post that despite their father’s vast imperfections, they remember him being alright.

I hope for healing and hope for those younger and older in Connecticut.

****blogger’s note***

as much as I wanted to play the Good Times theme song, I wanted to make a point with today’s song. Sugarcult’s Memory is meant to be romantic but the lyrics can be turned into something more sad and relatable, here.

Driver 8

Watching the white sedan pull away from the house, my heart and my mind punched each other simultaneously like Rocky Balboa and Apollo Creed in the final scene of Rocky III.

My oldest daughter, sixteen-year-old Tay, became a licensed driver capable of motoring herself and one member of her immediate family for the next six months, last week. This morning, I found out I had to work from home due to a computer problem in my office. When I settled into the kitchen table for the day, my youngest daughter, eight-year-old Goose, pranced in front of me, dressed to the nines, looking for socks in the dryer.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I asked.

“Me and Tay Tay are going to take the kitten to the doctor at mommy’s work, then go to Mimi’s (her grandmother, my mother-in-law), then go to the mall to buy stuff.”

I didn’t believe her. Since Tay got her license on Friday, she’s gone to the grocery store for us, met a buddy at Starbucks, and taken her middle sister, nine-year-old Bug, to her other’s family’s home. But errands, grandmother’s and the mall? No way. Then Tay appeared holding our four-month-old kitten, Alfie, with her keys in hand, dressed for a day out.

“Hey, we’re leaving. Do you know where the cat carrier is?” She queried.

What? Are you kidding me? My little girls are going to galavant over two towns, including the busiest mall in the state of Georgia without my help in any way? If Ashton Kutcher pops out in a trucker hat, I’m punching him and grounding them, I thought.

Then, they drove away.

I may or may not have teared up like I was watching my alma mater, the Alabama Crimson Tide, win another national championship while I was cutting onions and lemons.

Crap.

Dude, seriously. How did this happen?

Distracted and worried, I did my work, wrote an article about World War 5 in The Middle East http://sprocketink.com/the-winter-of-their-discontent-the-gaza-strip-rockets/ and stared at my phone waiting for a text or call telling me my teenager was scared and needed dad to come rescue her. That message never came.

There are a lot of changes going on in my home. Our Christmas Tree is up earlier then ever and my younger girls can do laundry.

But having my oldest girl being able to get in a car and run errands, take herself to cheerleading practice, and go meet her gal pal for a latte and gossip is overwhelming.

I tried to find something my daughter was probably cranking to 11 while she was driving but everything she listens to is pretty much awful and didn’t match the post. So, I’ll turn back the clock to November 1986 and play something I was bobbing my head and mangling lyrics to in my Chevy s-10 pickup truck on my way to some sort of trouble or a gallon of milk for my parents.

Here’s R.E.M.’s Driver 8. Get it?