You know, it’s odd that men rarely speak of spirituality with our confidants. Well, there’s a reason for that. Men rarely have confidants. We have buddies. We have pals. We have friends. But mostly we vacillate between co-workers or teammates or rivals. And through the paces of the day, men do not take the time nor do men take the risk to speak of personal responsibility to other men.

A confidant is someone who is equal in nature. One can confide in a confidant because of the equity in responsibility and consequence. This equity assures that neither holds power nor consequence over the other. Spouses share equity in humanity but are not equals because of the differences between men & women and the distinctions between male and female emotional response. So although a man and a woman can share spirituality … and in a marriage they must share parity … they cannot have equity in spirituality because the emotional and psychological responses differ.

Spirituality is the response and reaction to the action of God. I do not imply that either men or women have somehow achieved a greater understanding of God and His attributes. For instance, I will never render a judgment on the preeminence of Saint Augustine verses Saint Teresa of Avila. God is the Supreme Being. God sits on one throne as mankind bends on both knees. I said men and women were not equal. I assert that because all variants aren’t exactly the same. However I did not place them in a vertical hierarchy with the implication of inherent superiority. I place them in a horizontal spectrum. Men and women are not equal; they’re parallel.

As an aside, people often confuse the words responsibility and duty. Although they share a number of variables, the words responsibility and duty are not synonyms. True, both words are dependent on the actions of others. So both words are actually reactions. Responsibility: a response. Responsibility is the ability to make a response. Duty is quite similar but has moral tones that hue the definition. Duty implies obligation and consequence. Whereas responsibility is almost dependent on geography - I am here so I’m required to react to this action. I find most people who traverse our society are responsible. Yet few people are dutiful. And I think I know why. The bar is so much higher for duty. There are higher standards to be met to achieve dutiful. There is a higher personal cost to dutiful because it implies reluctant self-denial. Responsible holds equal obligation but less consequence.

I find it impossible to sever my masculinity from my spirituality. I respond as I do because of who I am and what I am. And how I respond to God and His challenges and His synchronous obligations depends on the chief variable that I am a man. I often speak of the joy of the camaraderie of humanity but I hold the fraternity of humanity dear.

This post began because I mused a thought throughout my day. I considered how important it is for a man to know who he is. Society now calls that self-awareness. I’ve maintained it’s a constant examination of conscience. Today I realized that it is of greater importance for a man to know who he is not. For a man to know who he is - he must see his obligations in his world as he kneels before his God. For a man to know who he is not - he must see his duties to the world and his shortcomings in his responsibilities as he kneels before his God in His judgment. And it is by seeing his failings in his responsibilities that illuminate his duties towards contrition. Self-awareness isn’t a man’s duty. Responding to God’s call to service is.

April 06, 2007

Whenever I travel I calculate how far I am from home and I approximate how long it will take me to get back again. I’ve done that most of my life. I enjoy traveling. I do. I like meeting new people. I like seeing new things. I enjoy the ambiance of the amiable. But I’m quite fond of my familiars.

My sister Carol and I play a game while we’re out and about. We compete to see which of us recognizes the most people. I find I play that game even while I travel. I look for familiar faces at fairs. I scan for a semblable soul at the sites. I canvass the crowds in the cities. I’m ardent in the airports. And eventually I encounter friends.

Last week I traveled to Chicago. Now you’re probably thinking I’m going to write about some encounter I had with a classmate or a neighbor. But I’m not. I had to catch my flight at Midway Airport so I arrived a couple of hours early and found the security precautions didn’t consume a lot of time.

So I walked around the concourse to forge for food. As I turned down the “A” corridor I looked the length of the hall. I saw the pastel painted rocking chairs and I thought how terrific they’d be for toddler tranquility. I spied the businessmen with their laptops and the staff in their uniforms. I contemplated a new briefcase and I noticed my shoes needed a polish. I’m terrified to fly. I hate it. So I spent my time with scattered staccatoed streams of thoughts. I prayed. I cringed. I swore. I trembled. I fortified. I vowed. To distract myself from my impending horror, I started to play the game. And then my heart broke.

My best buddy from high school died last year. Roger and I hadn’t kept up over the years. Parts of his personality conflicted with parts of mine and geography made it easier to part ways. Years later I stumbled over his email address. I started to write but couldn’t think how to begin. I closed the screen. Yet I read his obituary and sat stunned. We’re young. I wasn’t anticipating it. And honest to Christ, although I hadn’t considered Roger in years, I was emotionally unprepared for his death.

I don’t know why I thought of him Tuesday. I looked down the hall as far as I could see. And I realized I wouldn’t see him. And the horizon held a completely different perspective. I realized at that moment that it didn’t matter which corridor I traveled or which hall I traversed because he wouldn’t be there. I thought of people I might possibly see. And I thought of the people it was impossible to see.

We were best friends. There was a time in my life when I considered him hourly. There was a time I considered him daily. And there came a time I didn’t consider him at all. Roger and I split our first bottle of vodka together. I hung my head out the passenger door of his 1978 two-toned tan Dodge Duster at the Vali-Hi Drive-In. He hung his head out of the passenger door of my 1974 two-toned blue & white AMC Hornet. I smoked my first cigarette from his pack. Roger is the last man to punch me. And I deserved it. He was so right that I didn’t even retaliate; I just apologized.

My God do you remember when we were young enough to tell our best buddy everything? It was the last time we were allowed to speak of insecurities and intimidations aloud. We talked school. We talked women. We talked ambitions. We talked interests. We talked about everything. We talked about nothing. We spent hours on album covers and minutes on things that should have mattered. But it all mattered. It was just in the proportion of youth.

The last time I saw him (in 1982) we met at an Embers in Minneapolis. We sat for hours and talked. We both sat with our backs against the wall, our feet up on the seats, and our cigarettes dangling from our mouths. I think he smoked two packs. I know I did. I knew we wouldn’t be friends anymore. He knew it too. We walked away. And then I drove home. And we weren’t friends anymore. But I still have years and memories of great moments that somehow include him.

Isn’t it astounding that memories are nearly as memorable as the moments we now make? And as I traveled the moving walkway at Midway, I thought how amazed I was that someone that mattered so very much to me for so long, so soon didn’t matter to me at all. And I was saddened by his death, but I was devastated that I didn’t care more.

It seems apropos that the corridor was lined with the rocking chairs. You hold the ones you love so closely when they’re little. You rock and you sing and you soothe. And you sit and you remember and you try to hold on to their memories when you are aged. The rhythm of the rock is like the tick of time. Time passes. We pass our pasts. I won’t see Roger in the halls anymore. But I’ll see him when I remember.

My mother believed the earth should pause for a moment each time someone died. She taught me to see the majesty of God and His idiosyncratic creations. She taught me of the splendor of the encounters of humanity.

I know I’m supposed to end this post with some comment about how I’ll see Roger “on the other side” or some bullshit about how “we know he’s happier now.” I can’t judge where he is now. And I can’t know how he feels now. But I know how I feel. I’m sorry that I didn’t keep in contact with Roger and I’m sorry that I’ll never see him in the halls. I liked him. He mattered to me.

April 09, 2007

The other day while I volunteered, two women in the hall of the hospital embraced and I looked at the doctor standing beside me and said: “Ok. This is something that two men wouldn’t do.” And Pete agreed. We both laughed as we shook hands. I handed him a piece of candy and he went back to work. And I smiled.

No. We wouldn’t hug in the hall. But we embraced. I shook his hand. A handshake to me is an embrace. Now this post isn’t about sex. There’s enough sexual material on the internet to satisfy even the most prurient of men. And this isn’t a post about the asexual physical aspects between the sexes. There are too many rules now. I don’t shake a woman’s hand unless she offers her hand first. And even then, I’m reluctant. I don’t touch women in societal situations.

Yet quite frankly women haven’t any problem with touching me. As I volunteer, women approach me and offer me hugs. They pat my knee. Old women often pat my cheek or pat my hands. And occasionally the aged have been known to hold my hand as we talked. I often receive a pat on my back. And both sexes tend to pat my balding pate. Perhaps my demeanor is inviting or perhaps my countenance is warm or welcoming. I don’t know. I’m not offended when someone touches me. Sometimes I enjoy it. Ofttimes I’m indifferent to it. Rarely I’m annoyed by it. And twice their touch was met by my words: “Get your goddamned hands off of me.” Regardless, I’ve never been a fan of the hug.

But I treasure a handshake in my friendships. Now I’ll offer my hand to every man the first time we meet. It’s not a ritual to me. I’ve shaken a dog’s paw. It’s just a nice way to greet and it implies an equal footing between us that suggests a willingness to remain affable. A handshake reveals that my hand isn’t a fist and I’m willing to offer my open-handed palm.

Subsequent encounters don’t necessarily mean that I’ll offer my hand. If I didn’t like the man; I’ll simply nod. I refuse to ignore any human being. If I feel ambivalent - I’ll nod and say hello. If I recall an agreeable encounter - I’ll shake his hand. But by God - if I really liked the guy and he’s earned my respect - I’ll stand up, walk to greet him, and shake his hand. And if I wed that handshake with the words “Hey Buddy” well damn - we’re practically brothers.

And I judge every man by his reciprocation. I judge him whether he grasps with his grip or if he’s docile with his digits. I honestly believe a handshake is indicative of a man’s disposition. It’s a very handy means of measure. Ok, sure. It’s judgmental. But you’ve got to hand it to me. I consider all my actions and I consider all of yours. How often can you say that you’ve met someone who considered you and your actions worthy to actually merit consideration? It’s a compliment.

April 16, 2007

When I was a boy my Mother said: “There’s no in between with Mark. He’ll either be a priest or in prison.” Now I’m a man. I’m determined and I’m decisive. I deliberate. I decide. I declare. I am an all-or-nothin’ kind of fellow. I’ve never been one to sit straddled. I love it or I hate it. I’ve yet to meet my indifferent.

I have two activities that I hold quite dear:

1. I love a bath on a rainy day with a good novel and a dangerously dangling ashtray balanced on the rim of the tub. I like a soda on the seat and a towel near the mat so I can dry my hands prior to the turning of the pages. I place my feet on each side of the spigot and I place my head on the enamel at the back. As the water cools, I drain from the pool and toe the tap to fill the drought. If it’s a great book, it’s better. If it’s not, the time’s not for naught. I enjoy the experience. It’s one of my favorites.

2. I love discovering new music. I love the acquisition. I love the ascertainment. And I don’t listen to the entire album at one time. I haven’t done that since vinyl. I had a ritual with vinyl. I put the album on the turntable. I placed the ashtray on the coffee table. I placed my head on the side cushion of the couch and I held the cover in my hands. If the artist was a favorite, I sat on needles and pins and hoped I wasn’t disappointed. I followed the text as I listened to the tracts. If I loved a song, I sat upright and reset the tonearm. I’ve been known to grind the groove from the discovery of a diamond. And I’ve scratched more than the surface of the songs I’ve etched in my memory.

As our cars grow bigger, our music shrinks smaller: compact discs, iPODs, MP3s. I don’t mind the minuscule except for the markings. I hate the smaller covers. An album cover was the second art we owned in our youth. After crayon colorings, we discovered the photographic evidence that the music was more than just sound. I remember a childhood with crayoned covers and erased eyes evolving into sufficient surfaces for studied subjects. An album cover was my canvas to de-seed or to doodle during a decision. And as my age demanded larger texts, the demands decided smaller spaces. Listening became less about art and more about artifice.

Yet, I’m still attentive while I listen. I still try to ascertain their intention. I still appreciatively applaud their expression. Let me make this clear. I love the clarity. I love hearing all the new sounds. But I miss an old sound too. I miss the scratching sound of the tonearm when it stumbled until it caught into its groove. And although I don’t long for the days of playing vinyl, I do recall the days when a long playing record meant the length I listened and not the longing I’d feel as I aged.

I sound old. And isn’t it ironic that I’ll soon turn 45? What will we listen to when I turn 78? I wonder if I’ll still rant. Will I still record my thoughts here? Probably not. Let’s hope I’ll discover a new passion. I hate to think I’ll leave this earth saying the same thing over and over again and sounding like a broken record.

 

April 24, 2007

Ok … get on board if you’re in the mood to surf. Ride this wave: I have a buddy who is a cardiologist. A couple of weeks ago I read in the newspaper about a medical advancement in the world of heart research. Normally I would have breezed the title with a lack of interest but I took note of the text and paid attention to the notation. I later saw Gary and I told him of the joy I felt when I thought of him while I read the article. And because I’m a writer, I asked him if he reciprocated while he read and thought of me when he saw words. We both laughed. Well, because it’s goddamned funny.

Here’s my point of this portion of the post. I see things from the written point of view. From my writer’s vantage, I don’t understand why a composer or lyricist would embrace digital downloads. When I hold the CD booklet in my hand, I have the written word to read. It makes the message more meaningful and memorable. How many songs do you listen to and question … “what? what did he say?”

Now if I only composed songs to be hummed - I can see the uselessness of the paper. Or if you wrote songs like Alanis Morissette, you probably wouldn’t want physical evidence that you felt that much rage. I’m thinking it wouldn’t help your case in the commitment hearings. And if misogynistic, monosyllabic, monothematic, and monotonous rants continue to be the wave of the future of music, then I’ll wave the airwaves goodbye. I enjoy a sing-along but I can’t go along with all that hate. It just breaks my heart.

You oughta know that I’m beginning a wave. Why are people so willing to whore their friends’ accomplishments and talents for free? Why do they expect free services or free advice from friends just because they are friends?

I don’t feel a barber who is my buddy should cut my hair for free unless I intend to offer him bread in the barter. I don’t think a man who has lead a sleepless, studiedly, stressful series of interminable semesters while in medical school & residency should be required to provide medical advice to me without monetary compensation. Well unless I intend to arrange to make his student loan payments as granted gifts. Christ, a mother studies her children for 18 years and yet no one expects her to offer childcare to the neighbors without compensation. I don’t think I should drain my uncle of his livelihood just because he’s a plumber and I own pipes. And I don’t think my cousin’s husband should provide discounted carpentry just because he happened to nail my aunt’s daughter.

Hey, come on. Pay your own way. Earn your own needs. This “you owe me” attitude is a jealous justice based on coveting and one’s existence alone does not entitle him to preferential uncompensated professional services from a man with a title accompanying his name. And it doesn’t matter whether he’s earned the prefix of doctor, professor, or carries the suffix of esquire. Just because you have a need doesn’t dictate that he must justly donate his services. People drink milk but I don’t hear any lamentations against cashiers for being salaried. Why do people consistently award the achieved with congratulatory criticism and offer accolades of guilt?

Now if you think that the innate goodness of mankind demands that all people should receive all goods and all services through the generosity of the human spirit, I have a question for you. Why are you reading this? Why haven’t you taken the medical degree that you’ve earned and relocated to Jakarta to provide a much needed service? Hell, sell the goddamned computer and give the cash to a homeless shelter. Or do you believe generosity is exclusively demanded from the attained?

Besides, the only time a man is required to offer his services without compensation is when you’re required to address him as Father, Archbishop or Your Eminence. And even then his services aren’t free. He’s paying for his providings with humility, chastity, poverty, and obedience. Actually let me restate this point. Even God offers compensation for deeds based on merit. It’s called eternal peace or eternal damnation. So let’s put this “give it to me” attitude to an eternal rest.

Titles take tuition and tax a man’s efforts. And the efforts of the effortless have earned less. Pay a man an honest wage for his work and his worry. Justice isn’t that everyone is afforded the same thing. That’s unjust to the one who has earned more. That’s not even equity. Hell, that’s not even charity. Charity isn’t when you give someone something he deserves. Charity is when you give someone something someone else has earned and the donation cannot be earned. And you have no right to decide who deserves what they’ve earned.

Justice is granted when merit is judged by deed. And reward is deemed when deed is indeed judged justly. There’s just so much a man is required to give and there’s just so little a man has a right to ask. And there’s just so much a man is required to write on an emptied stomach. Time for a snack.

April 25, 2007

There are three occasions when men allow themselves to expend or to express emotions: athletic events, romantic encounters, and artistic endeavors. And these three are also the only occasions a man is willing to watch expressed emotions. Emotions that occur outside these occasions are avoided as often as child support payments in a Tennessean trailer park. Artistically, it’s rare the man that can paint. Well, unless you factor in Sherwin Williams and Benjamin Moore. And most men don’t like to write anything more than a check and even then you’ll find more difficulty putting a pencil in his hand than experiencing his parting with his paycheck. But although our women offer dispute, men do possess the ability to listen. And so we embrace music.

I write about music often. I love music. Although it’s one of my passions, I’ve never played an instrument. Ok wait. I pianoed “heart & soul” until my fingers nearly bloated in middle school. It’s not that I played it well. I absolutely did not. Shari played well. And Shari kept me keyed up. That’s all that mattered to me. Hey, I just remembered that I did receive instructions to play the recorder while in grade school. I think I may have mastered “Hot Crossed Buns.” I have no recording of my performance. And mastering didn’t mean I elevated to a wind instrument. Yet ironically, I did get fairly long-winded.

Since I couldn’t create music, I satiated my ardor for the aural by acquiring albums among all genres. I tend to gravitate to pop music. I love pop music. And I love all kinds of pop music. But something happened in the early nineties. Pop music died. No. You’re wrong. It did. No; it did. We had alternative (Nirvana) / grunge (Pearl Jam) / bubblegum (N’Sync, Backstreet Boys) / prepubescent (Britney, Christina) / I-hate-you-I-want-revenge (Alanis Morissette) / celebrate-the-uterus (Sarah McLachlan) / latin (Jennifer Lopez- yes, she has vocal chords) but pop music died. The airwaves turned black and I couldn’t identify with it. So I closed my wallet. And I left the shop. And I turned off the radio. And I mourned the music.

And I didn’t buy a CD of a new artist until I bought Beth Hart in 1999. But she’s not pop. So several summers went by with only oldies out my dashboard. And let’s admit right now that there are two times when pop music reigns definitively. 1. While driving. No, not just in summer - anytime. 2. On a Saturday morning when you’re putzing and not pursuing.

I didn’t embrace neo-country. Keith Urban, Kenny Chesney, Toby Keith - these are people who smashed beer cans on their foreheads and laughed while others ate snot. I can’t get behind them. Ok - for full disclosure I did purchase Shania Twain, but that’s because I’m a man with air-filled lungs and she was great looking. But, her music was mediocre at best and mundane at least.

I often ask others for recommendations. I discard most; I embraced one. I like Paul Jackson, Jr. But he’s not pop. I discovered Dinah Washington. So in this digital age, I bought digital versions of the aged. Until Monday.

Monday I heard pop music again. Friday I ordered a CD and Monday I held it in my hands. The band is Supraluxe. The music is pop-rock. But it’s not the pop of our youth. It’s vital, not vintage. They’ve done the unexpected. They’ve reinvented pop. They’ve reinvigorated pop. It’s shades of beach-pop and mixes of euro-pop. It’s folk-pop that’s not militant but not saccharin on the lobes. It’s Sergio Mendes mingled with the Beatles and splashed with the Beach Boys. It’s Fleetwood Mac or Fogelberg with a grunged guitar. It’s not homage. It’s never a reiteration. It’s relevant. And although the entire album touches on every aspect of pop music, it’s not an echo. Each song affectionately caresses the scattered styles of pop music like smooth stones skipped over a placid pond. Yet, no song sinks deep into a pool of duplicated duplicity. When you read good literature you acquire great words. Good writing means you use great words to reveal universal ideas. It doesn’t mean you have to invent a new vocabulary to illustrate radical ideas. Revelation is only relevant when I can relate.

The stand out songs are “Flower,” “Chemical Fun,” & “The Big Comedown.” Flower is pure perfect pop. The timing of the guitar at precisely three minutes into the tune is inspired. It recalls the Phil Spector wall of sound. Yet the guitar cleaves the wall and clarifies the arrangement. The reintroduction of the vocals returns the sound back to cohesion and pops it back into classic rock. And the layering of the vocals into that revolution makes an anthemic sound that’s classic but not arthritic. I added the CD to my computer playlist and I find myself backing the song up to the Bay City Rollers’ beat and hearing that evolution into the solo. It’s definitive.

The song Chemical Fun is pure bossa nova pop. And this is when the CD takes a step up. I’ve lived those lyrics. The lyrics cut close. They remind me that pop music doesn’t have to be insipid. The lyric “say my name without the disdain” is an example of words that not only reverberate, they ring true. Dear God, we’ve all dated women who pronounced our names like spats of profanity.

The song “The Big Comedown” is when Supraluxe defines its own sound. The wedding of the lyric and the melodic is perceptive. The irony of the lyrics of disappointment and a melody of optimism defines the dichotomy of hope & realism and the schism of societal action & personal reaction. And as the lyrics grow in the expression of disillusionment, the melody expands in its cheerful hopefulness. And the mirroring of the lyric “Baby feels the risks of the conversation / sounding like a la-la-la-la” and its despondent banality with the happy background voices is revelatory. It defines the band. It defines the album. It’s their sound.

It’s catchy lyrics with an infectious beat without a doctored sound. Pure Pop. Click the cover. Buy it. We can’t claim they don’t make ‘um as good as they used to anymore.

April 27, 2007

I recently attended a party and a conversation occurred that exemplified an aspect of masculinity I find particularly abhorrent. Two buddies were engaged in a conversation that was playful in manner but brutal in intent. It’s the kind of conversation that occurs when women are around and male pride is apparent. Now, the two men seemed the best of friends. As the jest progressed, a joust arose. And one of the men revealed an incident that the other man had confided. The incident was not intimate; it was private and should not have been made public.

While his words slurred from his lips, my heart fell to my feet. I’ve been the man who stood by while a compatriot shattered my confidence. And I’ve been the man who stood near and shattered my companion by my combat. And I’ve been the man who stood around and watched the shattering of companionship and cloaked myself in objective complacence.

Society deems boxing as barbaric but the trading of barbs as burlesque. The man who slays the compeer in competition is considered razor-sharp, a cut up, a cut above the rest, and on the cutting edge. Hooray. So what was sheared? Who’s left in shards? And how is the victim to sit now that he’s been castrated in the name of comedic conquest?

Remember that a bosom buddy doesn’t mean his heart is close so you’ll have little difficulty sliding in your saber. And a comrade in arms doesn’t mean you’re required to keep him at arms length nor does it mean you should arm yourself with amiable ammunition that allows you to abuse and affront, but it does suggest that you greet him with open arms in the name of the fraternity of humanity.

A battle of the wits is exactly what it is: a battle. At the dawn, the only spoils of war will be the decayed friendship that will not endure. And while you raise your head and glance in the mirror with the razor in your hands, water in the sink, cream on your cheeks, and shame on your soul, as you avoid your own gaze … remember how sharp that razor really is.

And on the day when the dawn seems dusk and you need a friend because you’re at your wits’ end, regrets will be more plentiful than people and pals will be as absent as empathy. You won’t give one wit whether you’ve won that battle or not. You’ll have lost the war. And your legacy will not be a litany of the laudable. It will be a list of your casualties: a list of the wounded by your casual yet caustic comedy.

April 28, 2007

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