Beaming

“So you sold your house, but don’t have a new one yet?”

“That’s right. I can’t get any bank to understand that my overtime pay is required by my job. The problem is most of my pay is from overtime, so by not counting it, it looks like I’m hardly working, which is about as far from the truth as possible. One lender is only giving me my hourly wage times eighty hours a month. I’m working eighty hours a week. They just keep saying that the VA loan has a guideline that requires two years of overtime history before it can be counted as income,” he said, pausing. As if hearing a starter’s pistol, he quickly resumed the story, saying, “The thing is they keep blaming the VA Loan guidelines. I’ve called the VA and they said that I’m right, and that they’ll essentially support any loan that a lender is willing to make. It’s the friggin’ Veterans Affairs after all, not the Anti-Veterans Affairs. They pointed out that they’re guidelines, not black and white, and more than that they said it’s the lenders money. The lender can do what they want. The VA is going to support the veteran. They just recommend that the lender document what they were thinking with unusual cases like mine.”

“So what are you and H- going to do then?

“Tell her, H-” he said, nudging H-.

“We’re vagabonds,” H- said.

He beamed.

“Tell her where our home is for now,” he said.

“Our home is the street-” she proudly continued.

“-No…no, no, no,” he corrected upon seeing the look on the grandma’s face. “The road, H-, the road. Our home is the road. You can’t say street. Totally different meaning. Our home is the road. Vagabond. Road.”

Oh. My. Goodness.

“H-. I just put your clothes out on the bed and so go upstairs and change while I put your cereal in a bag. I remembered we need to get going fast this morning,” he ordered as he jogged down the flight of stairs, himself still needing a change of clothes before stepping outside.

“Okay daddy,” said H-. She was nearly off the chair before she must’ve felt discipline’s heat and asked, “Please may I be excused?”

“Ha. Of course, H-. Get going.”

Dawdling as only a little girl can, H-‘s footpath revealed that she nearly forgot that her mission was to climb up the stairs and change into the clothes her father had put out. One glimpse of her father’s unmoving face refocused her promptly. The creaky stairs and second floor told him that she made it into the room.

“Oh. My. Goodness,” he heard her deliver with stunning maturity.

Interested in what could possibly be the reason for the disbelief she felt, he listened intently for the coming explanation.

“There’s no tag on my underwear!” she said.

He rounded the front hallway arriving at the bottom of the stairs only to look up and see two four-year-old arms holding out a pair of underwear at the top of the stairs. These arms were attached to a face whose eyes and smile sought confirmation that, more than unbelievable, this unprecedented silly situation required adult intervention. With no small amount of labor he climbed towards her, laughing.

“Can’t tell which is the back, eh?” he asked.

“No, I cannot,” she said definitively.

As he gave her a few tips for putting tag-less underwear on correctly, his mind couldn’t help but wander. A solitary sadness always led its journey, the sadness of knowing that her innocence is going to end some day. But this sadness was quickly washed away with the realization that it wasn’t going to end today. Not today. Not yet.

Review of Christian Mingle Movie Preview

Click here if you haven’t seen the preview (it’s worth it–trust me). The subject line I chose when sharing the preview with my brother was “worse each second.” His response included, “Offensive to anyone with a brain.” Another friend said “ridiculous” and meant the word’s literal definition. Running only two and half minutes in length, the damage it causes is immeasurable.

Choosing a place to begin is proving difficult, so I’m just going to go free association from here on out. Who knew you had to be white to be a Christian? Who knew you had to have a full head of hair? And wear checkered button-down shirts tucked into khakis? Actually, I think we all knew that. I didn’t know Christians kissed outside, but come to think of it I should have. I am happy to see that, like in real life, once you have a black friend, you get to tell them they all look the same.

I for one can tell you no matter how happy my family looked in church, discord was the norm at home, especially during the holidays–even the big one. (What Ma?! I’m just acknowledging they were stressful.) But yes, Christians do certainly seem to be happier in public, don’t they? I think it’s because that’s when they try. Oh, and the fact that they have all the answers. And that’s why we should all marry a Christian. Or date one. Or at least subscribe to Christian Mingle. The good news is you don’t even have to be Christian or single to get a credit card.

In conclusion, I’d like to demonstrate my ability to simplify a movie’s raison d’etre from the trailer.

(Summoning deep slow-paced Movie Preview Man voice) Christian Mingle: Because Lord Knows, A Woman Without A Man Is Worthless. (Speeding up now) Coming to a theater near you.

Part 6

His hands never did grow back. Of all the possible reminders of this fact, from eating to drinking, to driving, to making love, the one that bothered him most was hitting the snooze button on his morning alarm. It had been three years since losing Tara and his hands and he figured he’d had to reset that damn clock four hundred times. And while he could still use his nubs to navigate a smart phone or tablet holding one was another issue. For Jim the little things always added up to big things.

The sound of tires rubbing against cement accompanied his turn out of the garage as he backed out onto the dimly lit street before sunrise. After six months the neighbors began to openly question why he visited her grave every day. Leaving before they woke up was his solution. But he knew that they knew he still went.

For a while he tried to explain why he went, but no one would listen. Most people claimed ignorance about such things. They didn’t want to hear words like guilt and shame. Guilt and shame are what drove him to the cemetery though. Guilt for knowing he could’ve saved her. Shame for not saving her because of office politics or some such shit.

They hadn’t any children, so daily visits were the only way he could think to pay his respects and atone for his weaknesses. And the visits worked for the first half of every day. Three minutes into every lunch break, as he finally folded back the flaps of his brown paper lunch sack, though, he could only feel an intense desire to trade places with her. Or join her.

Huge Numbers For Four

“And when your daddy was young H-, he used to laugh so much at dinner that we had to send him to his room,” the grandma said as she leaned into the table signaling that this was privileged information.

“Uh-huh,” answered H-, happy to be counted as trustworthy.

“That’s right. We would have plans after dinner and need him to hurry, but he just wouldn’t stop laughing. So we sent him to his room.”

The little girl giggled and shyly glanced up at her dad seated to her right. She seemed poised to interject her thoughts.

Her grandma saw this too and in hopes of hearing some unpredictable commentary explained further, “It happened over and over again. He would just laugh and laugh, so we sent him to his room again and again.”

“Like a hundred fifteen nineteen times!?” H- guessed excitedly, her voice’s pitch rising to a nearly inaudible level.

The laughter that filled the room might have been mistaken for making fun of the guess if it wasn’t for the accompanying knowing nods between all adults and the purity in H-‘s eyes as she absorbed the limelight. Yes, she was her father’s daughter.

A Dinner Scene

“Speaking of people sounding black or white, I just watched this thing on back-up singers-,” the family matriarch began, steering the conversation in a new direction.

“Yeah, one of my friends mentioned that that is just a fantastic film,” the no-good smart-ass disrespectful-though-very-funny adult middle-child added.

“It really was!” she said earnestly, taking back the floor. “And the surprising part was that a lot of the singers were black and got their start in churches as little girls.”

“Ha. That’s exactly what my friend shared about the film. Funny.”

“Well, what I was going to say was that there was one scene where the girl said that she was singing back-up for Ray Charles. And she told a story about a time when Ray Charles stopped the concert and just played one note over and over again telling her that that was the note to sing. That note,” she said, repeatedly pressing her finger into the table with her eyes open wide in a reenactment of the scene. Laughing, she continued, “And the singer said that after that moment she never missed a note ever again. It was so embarrassing.”

“Crazy,” said the middle-child, voicing the sentiment he felt was expected.

“I mean just think of it. With all that noise and the sound of the crowd he was still able to pick out her voice,” she said, letting a natural pause emphasize her child-like wonder of the skill involved in such a feat.

He lived for moments like this one. Unable to withstand the opportunity, he timed the punchline perfectly as he inhaled with about-to-speak force and added with a tone of disbelief, “And he was deaf!”

“Blind!” the son-in-law corrected forcefully, coming to her defense.

“Blind!” the mother rejoined, happy to be defended but wishing she was faster to correct the constantly instigating know-it-all smart-alec.

Not only quicker on the draw, the son-in-law was also the first to shake his head and leave the table mad at himself for ever believing his brother-in-law had anything of value to say. Everyone else just laughed and laughed. The middle-child just smiled.

As for our storyteller? Her face red as a beet she laughed until she could not laugh anymore as she wondered what she ever did to be treated this way. She would have thrown something at him if everything in the room wasn’t so darn nice.

Vulnerable and Mature, A Counterpoint Review of Michael Jackson’s “Dirty Diana”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it. People generally wouldn’t say MJ was a mature man. But then again, no one really knew him, did they? Just like no one knows Sam Smith. So, taking their respective singles as simply stand alone art, I see no reason that the man who built Neverland for real shouldn’t get a fair shake.

Have you ever read the lyrics to the number one single “Dirty Diana”? I feel like I have memories of watching the video from childhood, though I can’t place from when or where. I know I certainly didn’t know what the song was about until about a decade ago. Then I was shocked. Who knew he ever sang about such things?

Contrary to Smith, MJ’s masterpiece lacks introspection or self-reflection. It starts slow, builds, and then reaches a climax all the while admitting a terrific weakness of character. For my money, it is perfect art for the precise reason Tolstoy was leery of music’s power. Tolstoy once wrote, “Music transports me immediately into the condition of soul in which he who wrote the music found himself at that time.”* (Since reading that, I haven’t been able to get that concept out of my head. Good art makes the listener/viewer feel the way the creator felt. Nice. Simple.)

And just like Smith, there is something in MJ’s voice that sounds personal. These are two clearly torn artists. But unlike young Smith, not-quite-as-young Jackson didn’t feign insecurity or doubt about his station in life. He knew the score. And that was in 1988, which was a few years before Smith was born. Point being, when will we ever learn? Jackson didn’t want to do it, but did. Smith did it and now questions his decision. Me? I’m with MJ on this. At twenty-two, Smith is too old to waffle. Ignorance is not bliss. You knew what would happen. Grow up. Everyone has to.

I guess I’m just bothered because I liked the song. And I wasn’t alone in liking it. But then I saw that it wasn’t what I thought. And I don’t like being taken. Argh!

*Tolstoy, Leo. Master and Man ; The Kreutzer Sonata ; Dramas. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1904. Print.

Correction to Friday’s Post

A mellow friend of mine informed me that Sam Smith is gay. The interwebs confirm this is true. So, in my last post about his song, I’ve gone back and edited three words. In the third paragraph, the word “girl” is now “guy” and “her” is now “him”, and then in the fourth paragraph “her” is now “him.” 

Please accept my apologies for this error.

Vulnerable or Immature? A Review of Sam Smith’s Hit Single “Stay With Me”

We all know the feeling we get when we find out a singer isn’t black. It’s really quite humorous that we think we can tell people’s skin tone by the sound of their voice. And Sam Smith is the newest artist to shock the masses and sell a few more records along the way. I bet most of you didn’t know that I’m black. Just kidding.

Smith’s new single “Stay With Me” has been hogging air time for at least the last month. It’s catchy. It’s all heart. Men I’ve never heard sing have sung it. And that’s because it’s edgy. A simple three verse song, “Stay With Me” is a request for a groupie to not leave in the morning. I imagine most male listeners claim to identify with the feeling because they think women find Smith’s vulnerability appealing, and yet these guys still get to maintain their man-card because they could only identify with the song because they’ve had one-night stands themselves. If I’m right, everyone is mixed up. Here’s an attempt at order.

First, as a friend of mine’s dad once told him, “Be grateful for the sex you’re getting. It’s more than you deserve.” Second, while the brutal honesty the song portends is no small feat, I can’t help but wonder if it’s a valuable confession. It only works if it’s in response to the idea that guys who have one-night stands are supposed to kick the ol’ belt-notch to the curb at first light. Right? Smith is basically winning his version of a rap battle Eminem-style. Some real-large-type arse-hole picked on Sam for calling the guy back the next day. Instead of defending his action (which would be weak) he goes one further and admits that he never wanted him to leave in the first place (which is a fatal blow in these contests it seems). Good for him. But we can’t let uncommon vulnerability distract us from the truth. His actions which trigger the song demonstrate that he is not a man. He is a boy. And boys shouldn’t be listened to.

Men–real men–do not have one night stands. They don’t. How do I know? The same reason you know. Because it’s the way it is. Smith wonders why he’s so emotional the morning after, and then advises himself to gain self-control. Another good friend of mine would tell Smith he’s emotional because “the inner man isn’t one with the outer man.” You want to stop crying over him, Sam? Too late buddy. You’re crying because you just caused the two of you pain. And pain hurts. The good thing is that the pain wasn’t lethal. You can learn from it. We can learn from it. But learning is defined as a change in behavior caused by experience. A change. And no fellas that doesn’t mean that you learned if you don’t get weepy next time.

In the end, the world could use a whole lot more and a whole lot less Sam Smiths.