On July 27, 2014, at 3:34 a.m. I got out of bed to check on my dad

From where I slept every night—in the room where my mom kept an old doll collection—the moon’s light made it easy to walk into where Dad now lay motionless in a hospice-prescribed hospital bed. He was in the same room where he'd spill his morning coffee for the last four months.

The only sound was a hum from the oxygen machine.

Ever since Dad’s diet consisted of me squirting morphine into his mouth, he had no need for his dentures, which were now on the dresser in the master where Mom was asleep. Dad’s lips caved into his gums. He was in the same position as when I said goodnight. For that matter, he appeared no different than the full day before while the family held one-sided hopeful conversations.

“Dad, it’s me,” I said in the dark. “Doing okay?”

I repeated my words, but I knew. I felt his hand, noticeably not warm. I turned on a lamp, which is when I really knew.

“Ahhh . . . Dad? I love you, Dad.”

I brushed the back of my hand against his neck. I pressed harder, hoping and wondering and second-guessing.

“Dad. Dad?”

He was gone.

As much as I knew and loved my dad, I just stood there somewhere between guilt and paralysis. My dad died on my watch, after all. But on the other hand—I would rationalize later—dying seemed like the most vulnerable thing we can do; who wouldn’t want to die alone?

More important, Dad didn’t owe anything to the living—not me or my three brothers and two sisters or even his wife of 62 years. Robert O’Brien gave all his life. He gave and gave and now his body was done.

How a person simply expires from one moment to the next, warrants eloquence and poetry but I had none then just like I have none now. I knew he was at peace, but my thoughts were deficient. Death felt dark and foreign. We enter the world, we cry, we take, we dream, we laugh, we give, we work, we share, we love, we overcome, we celebrate, we reflect, we love some more, we die.

The other sadness I felt was for my sister Mary, who boarded the first possible flight from SFO but then got convinced to spend the night at our sister Shelly’s house with every intention to see Dad first thing in the morning.

There was also the simple-not-simple task of waking Dad’s true love—my Alzheimer’s-afflicted mother.

I turned off the oxygen and pulled out the plastic tubing from his nose. I sent a group-text to the family but what could I possibly say? It didn’t matter. I kept it short: "Sorry. Dad is in heaven, all peaceful. Consoling Mom now. Love."

*  *  *

I knew Mary would be crushed, but I also knew she wouldn’t be surprised. It wasn’t even 4 a.m. and she replied right away, saying she and Shelly would leave asap punctuated with a couple heartfelt emoji hearts.

Whatever the form heaven takes, there was solace in it. There was no way all that grace and personality and well-lived life can disappear into nowhere.

I loved my dad, very much. And as much of a cliché that this might sound, I can’t overstate it: it would be really difficult for anyone not to like being around my dad. He was kind and warm and solid without any overdone pride. He was ballast and armor. He could make his opinion known—which wasn’t too often—in the best of ways. He was a real man without needing a sledgehammer.

I can’t think of a single time when his point of view wasn’t in my best interest.

I’d been living with my parents for nearly a year. My de facto caregiving role was something I backed into after what was unraveling around me: At one end, I needed to escape one very fucked up relationship. On the other, Mary had made an observation from 600 miles away, which sounded like this: "You guys: Mom and Dad need help."

Within six months of me moving into a spare room filled with white wicker furniture and a display case filled with old dolls, Dad had fallen a dozen times. If I was at work 45 minutes away and Mom called me with panic and confusion, I would try to calm her or call 9-1-1, or both, but I’d rush home either way.

I was 51 the first and only time I yelled at my dad. It was a Saturday morning. After getting him dressed, fed, and into his easy chair, I sat for a bowl of shredded wheat and blueberries because  . . . well, because I had my own old-man tendencies. With my head down on my breakfast fiber, my dad apparently got to his feet and then tumbled over.

“What are you doing?” I shouted it, a verbal lashing.

He was bunched in a corner below the TV. He smiled up at me like a two-year-old.

You sort of get used to it. With every fall, there would be blood. I’d get excited if I saw self-adhering flex wrap on sale. Nurses complimented me on my handiwork.

If a fall involved a hit to the head, it meant an automatic ride to the E.R.—not necessarily out of concern, but to be compliant with first-responder protocol. Clear rules meant paramedics wouldn't have to debate World World II veterans.

A crew of five or six emergency professionals from the Tualatin Valley Fire Department would show up so often, Dad started referring to them as “the boys at the station.” What’s funny is that these same group of guys—all built like power forwards—knew they'd been elevated to the top of Dad's call-for-help list. By the time I arrived, they'd be trying to lecture and stern-talk Dad on safety tips, while Dad smiled, nodded, and changed the subject. Dad had a way of making the boys at the station scratch their heads, smile, and laugh. Just like he did for the rest of us.

Being aware of your last months or weeks or days—not knowing yet knowing—has to mess with your head. On one hand—for me, anyway—I’d simply want to go head first. Death, that is. I remember thinking my life ought to be done as soon as I could no longer wipe my own ass. I figured I could tell my daughter Ellie one day, "smother me with affection—I mean, a pillow." But I also knew enough to know that our perspectives change throughout the arc of life. Living has a way of reminding ourselves that it's always a great time to be alive.

*  *  *

In case it's not already obvious: death never felt more certain than standing over my dad's body on his death bed.

Meanwhile, my mom—my dad’s wife for 62 years—no longer had the capacity to make new memories. She spent her days looking out the window at a big Douglas fir on the practice tee beyond the back patio. She had a series of go-to phrases she’d say over and over, using their rhetorical quality as a small comfort. From a chair near where my dad would eventually lay so still, she’d point to the tree and say, “Would you look at that tree? It’s really grown, hasn’t it?” And then “I can’t believe how much that tree has grown.” And she'd say each again and again, creating a loop of conversation that kept us tethered. There was a child-like quality to it. Over time, we learned to fill the voids by pulling from a grab bag of favorites:

“Time really flies, doesn’t it?”

“We can’t really control the weather, can we?”

“Look at those clouds.”

“What would we do without the rain?”

If all else fails, reach for one of her hands and describe how unbelievably soft it is.

*  *  *

If Mom had an episode where, for instance, she'd ask when her father—Daddy—was dropping by, it never felt quite right to explain that he died in 1955. I would simply say I wasn’t sure, but would you look at how big that tree is getting?

You can’t argue someone else’s point of view just like you can’t compare pain.

Long-term memories were no problem for my mom. We could talk about the people from her childhood: her grandfather with the big house and beautiful rose garden on Cranbrook Road outside Detroit. There was also Mother May, her maternal grandmother who lived with Mom as a child. The sweet irony is that these two people died long before I was even born. It’s through my mom's changing mind that I'd become acquainted.

I thought I knew a thing or two about patience and living in the moment, but her limitations advanced me in the realm of being more present. But maybe that’s what all great parents do without even knowing it.

For all the years before Mom lost the capacity to make new memories, she was sweet and even-tempered and clear-minded as can be. And ever since the Alzheimer's took  hold, she remains sweet and mellow with some added OCD for good measure. It seems routine and familiar faces and surroundings are all she has to make sense of not knowing what day it is.

She tries to hide her confusion, but will occasionally confide with a heavy sigh, full of exasperation: “I just don’t remember,” she’d say as if I’d never noticed.

When I think of the way a parent with Alzheimer’s makes me feel, I wonder if there is a word for when you need to cry, but laugh instead.

*  *  *

Back to that pre-dawn and letting my mom know her husband since 1951 was no longer alive: It was a lonesome and quiet morning with just me, my deceased dad, and my sound-asleep mom. I’m not much for drama, but the moment I sat at her side and touched her on the shoulder, she awoke in tears.

“Mom, Dad is in heaven.”

I anticipated only questions and confusion, but she just sobbed into her pillow. It's still a mystery to me; I have no idea how she could react so clearly. This is the same woman who months ago put the cordless phone in the trash bin under the kitchen sink.

Her tears brought me to tears.

“Come on,” I suggested.

“Okay,” she said, just like that. I helped her with her robe and she grabbed my hand to see Dad. We walked out of her room in silence.

The moment she saw him, she couldn't get close enough to him—cradling his face in her arms, talking through sobs.

“My Bobby. My Bobby . . . ” If she could’ve crawled up onto the gurney, she would have. “You were such a wonderful man and husband and friend. I love you, my dear Bobby.” She kissed him on the forehead and on the cheek.

Aside from handing her a Kleenex, it was as if I weren't even there, which made me feel grateful.

I remember thinking how I wished my brothers and sisters could’ve been there to see such raw emotion. It was all privilege. Who in the world was I to witness—be present for—that particular moment? I stood speechless, a jumble of inconsolable voyeur. Three minutes passed or ten? After she wiped away her tears from Dad's forehead, she looked up at me to say, as a matter of fact, we needed to go back to bed.

There is no arguing with an Alzheimer’s patient.

“Ok,” I said and walked over to hug her.

“Will you cuddle with me?” she said.

I can do this, I thought, because when your 83-year-old mother asks to cuddle and takes you by the hand, you’re grateful. We got into bed—she still insisting—and then me keeping awkwardly still as my mind raced between being in the moment and wondering where to find the number for the 24-hour hospice hotline.

As soon as she fell asleep, I was up and on the phone.

Mary and Shelly arrived a little while later.

By 10 a.m. or so, my sisters went in to help Mom get dressed. The weather outside was much like it is today.

As Mary and Shelly walked Mom out of her bedroom, the family—Mike, Chris, Rob, and a lot of the next generation—stood in silence. I could see that Mom's memory of the tears and farewell six hours earlier was lost. It was if Mom was experiencing for the first time that her beloved Bobby had passed away into the morning.

Rose City's modest skyline makes it portlandy

I’m no architect, but I've never understood the tendency for the design of buildings to blend old with new, which is why I appreciated reading what this anonymous architecture blogger writes:

“UNESCO’s own regulations regarding World Heritage Sites deplore historic mimicry, recognizing the need to differentiate old from new in order to respect and revere that which is historic, not blur the lines as Portland’s current Landmark Commission irresponsibly attempts to do with every project.”

The premise of this “The City of Fabric” blog post (I think) is that Portland’s sense of place has evolved as a wonderful whole being greater than the sum of its parts. So it seems what Portland’s skyline lacks in a signature icon, it makes up for with ambiguity, modesty, and making the collection the priority.

The writer touts what is uniquely Portland: As long as the city keeps being acclaimed for a cityscape without a Transamerica Pyramid, Sydney Opera House or Eiffel Tower, it doesn’t need one.

Skyfront

Contrasting coordinates.  

Tower in the sky

Big pink in the blue sky of Rose City. 

Underground chrome-plated steel

If you live in Portland, you've driven over this sculpture at least 762 times. It's my favorite outdoor sculpture that's not outdoors. The artist is Bruce West, installed in 1973. 

Eastward

I need to credit the person who snapped this photo. It's good. 

Sunday stroll

NW Glisan at Broadway ©2015

The letter for the win

Sometimes good ideas get forced out of hard work. Other times they sneak up all vague. In this case, a good idea emerged because of something Ellie said. 

And it helped me win a modest bidding war. 

*  *  *

Dear Linda,

No more jinxing: the view from my pending balcony.

It’s difficult knowing if this letter might help my cause as a buyer, but—as soon as I heard another offer was on the table—my daughter reminded me that there are a lot of good people in Portland.

To her, it was a good enough reason for all of this to work out, Dad.

What a great thing to hear after tossing and turning all night. 

“Wait,” she said by text. “This is where you write a letter to make your case, right?” 

What?

“Let the seller know how much you belong there.”

So, here’s my awkward plea: without equivocation, I really (really) want to buy your place. Yes, yes. Say yes.

I’m just a regular, middle-class guy hoping to be a downtown dweller for good. I follow rules, I tip every time, I ride my bike, I try to work hard, I should read more books, and I’ve become pretty good at living in the moment because of life’s random vagaries.

I’m not a military veteran, but I’ve never had any run-ins with the law either. I’m easy going. I don’t smoke, don’t judge those who do, and rarely swear unless it’s going to make someone laugh. I watch over my Alzheimer’s-afflicted mother on weekends.

In sum, I’m very fortunate in life.  

Why do I love downtown so much—and the South Downtown neighborhood, in particular? Its pulse. A sense of place. I love to look out my window and know exactly where I am. I’m also moved by the 60-block history of what was once called South Portland: settled by Italian Catholics and Russian Jews, swaths of homes and six synagogues were razed for the best of urban-renewal intentions.

I don’t see the Portland Center Apartments or what's now known as Harrison West as just a place to live. Between 1966 and 1986, my father worked in the building overlooking the Keller Fountain; the thought of peering north and seeing where Dad spent most of his career providing for six kids and Mom seems poetic.

I grew up in Cedar Mill, graduated from U of O. I’m a father of a wonderful daughter who graduated from Lincoln High and OSU, is now on her way in the world, and—incidentally—lives only a 10-minute walk away under the OHSU Sky Tram.

On a more relevant note, I found your li’l piece of heaven at the heels of another offer that went south through no fault of my own. I'm qualified. I'm ready. I can move fast. I can close when you want.

Meantime, I'm not about to diminish your interests as a seller. I know what the market is doing—and I may be naïve with this letter—but I simply want to give you a sense of the person behind the offer: someone ready to further his roots.

Thank you for your consideration. I wish you the very best.

Sincerely, 

Dan

Remembering Dad: a Eulogy

Remembering Robt. W. O'Brien (Sept. 15, 1926–July 27, 2014) with the words spoken at his memorial mass at St. Pius X, Portland, Ore., Aug. 14, 2014.  

This is a story of love.

Dad was born in Chicago on Sept. 15, 1926. He was the third child of parents J.C. and Virginia O’Brien.

He had a sister named Kathleen Rose, a brother James Kenneth, and a younger sister Virginia (who went by Ginny). Dad lived to 87, the last of his immediate family.

We think he would like hearing the names of his siblings today because they were family, and there really wasn’t anything more important to Dad than caring for those he loved. It showed to the very end.

And there could be no greater love for and devotion to the person at the center of his world. His one true one: our dear Mom, Marilyn.

* * *

If it’s true that a parent’s love can lay down tracks for life, I’m reminded by something my Aunt Kathleen wrote in a letter decades ago: “Your grandfather expected a lot of your dad. He never stopped telling him to walk with his shoulders back and head held high. O’Briens are not shanty Irish.”

This helps explain why Dad never liked asking for help, nor was there anything to complain about.

* * *

Throughout his neighborhood north of Chicago, Dad was known endearingly as Tubby O’Brien. His early years were a universe of family, friends, sports, and a collie named Rex.

In 1944, after Dad’s junior year at Evanston Township High School, he enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps with his older brother Ken.  Still only 17, he completed boot camp at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina . . . and was assigned to the 5th Division, 28th Regiment, 8th Battalion, Company C . . . or as Dad would say, “28th Marines.”

From San Diego, he sailed for more training in Hawaii and then onto the battle for Iwo Jima, bypassed Okinawa, and stopped at Sasabo, southern Japan. It was Aug. 14, 1945—the same day the war in the Pacific was declared over.

Within a year, he was on leave and back in Detroit finishing high school and starting college with the Jesuits at Univ. of Detroit Mercy.

*  *  *

Meanwhile, with his younger sister Ginny attending Michigan State University, Dad knew right where to find the finest looking ladies. Ginny’s roommate at the Kappa Alpha Theta house was a 20-year-old Marilyn Smith.

On Aug. 25, 1951, Mom and Dad were married at the Shrine of the Little Flower by Fr. Charles E. Coughlin—who—because of his national radio broadcast—was easily the most recognized and polarizing priest in North America. As context, think Bill O’Reilly.

When Mom introduced Dad to Fr. Coughlin, the celebrity priest told Dad how fortunate he was to be marrying Marilyn.

“Well, Father,” Dad said, “I’m not so bad myself.”

With the U.S. buildup in Korea, Dad apparently had O’Brien karma on his side.  He spent only six weeks in Viegas, Puerto Rico, followed by nine months back in Camp Lejeune before finally being discharged.

*  *  *

Out of the marines, Mom and Dad moved to Birmingham, Michigan, where Dad was hired by General Motors Parts, doing everything from sweeping floors to checking inventory. After a year of—in his words—showing up on time, he applied for a junior position in Pontiac’s San Francisco Zone office.

Aside from meeting Mom, he felt the job in San Francisco was one of his big breaks in life. At the start of 1952, he and Mom left behind Detroit . . .  and moved west. In San Francisco, the young couple lived on Jackson Street (where Shelly was born), then to 16th Avenue (where Mike was born).

Within five years, the O’Briens bought a house in San Rafael, Marin County. By 1962, there were six mouths to feed and a few years later: Dad’s fledging career hit a crossroads. He could partner on a Pontiac dealership in the Bay Area . . . or stay with General Motors to help open a new Pacific Northwest Zone office . . . in Portland.

Portland was love at first sight.

He relished the weather, the commute, the home prices—and loved trading jabs with his brother and sisters in Detroit. He called Oregon God’s Country.

He also loved his new home in Oak Hills, and so much of his joy was because of the people, several of whom are here today.

He understood the value of friends. A one on one chat with Dad created moments when not much else could possibly matter. He was always ready with a smile.

His affable charm meant you and he were now in on an inside joke. And he was the perfect balance between warmth and humor. Sincerity and bullshit.

*  *  *

From my father, this is what I learned: first, a big part of success is being able to focus and keep cool under pressure . . . and second: It’s not wealth or acclaim for a life well lived, but simply not needing the elusive trappings of things.

Love what you have and want only what you need.

*  *  *

What Dad wasn’t: an outdoorsman and handy. He was the original Mr. Can’t Fix It. There were people who could troubleshoot and do it themselves like Val Vasks and Harley Morgan, but--rather than ask for help--Dad just looked for the duct tape.

The funny part is that even his best tape jobs were a mess.

Somehow, we still managed to camp and go rafting as kids. He knew the value of play and being outside. He had a thing against sleeping in or watching cartoons on a Saturday morning. His TV viewing was all sports and news.

In no special order, it was basketball, football, baseball, and golf. Blazers, Giants, Cubs, Tigers, Niners, Seahawks, Ducks, Beavs, Fighting Irish. He always had an opinion, but he enjoyed the conversation more.

Dad was a happy Dad because he was a happy man.

And the ease in which he engaged people explain his knack for spontaneous nicknames. He is the only person I’ve known who could make someone feel special despite getting the person’s name wrong.

Second anniversary, 1953.

When it came to oddball expressions, he was king. If he didn’t know the name of the store or restaurant, just make one up. We’ll figure it out.

It was as if details were frivolous, because all that really mattered was how best to provide for all of us, especially Mom.

He was good with a dollar without being stingy.

As a father and role model, Dad lived his life by example. Patient, tolerant, always kind.

Without diminishing Mom’s role, Dad deserves credit for so much of the healthy dynamic as a family. His advice was always so welcome because he rarely jumped to conclusions. Respectful and without judgment. If he lodged a criticism, it was deserved.

Right from wrong never wavered.

There was no entitlement or false sense of accomplishment.

Our character was only as good as our last deed and doing the right thing in the here and now — and — Rule #1 — keep your head down/work hard.

Dad retired in 1987.

With mom at his side, Dad showed great dedication to the Church and did so while embracing the vagaries of humanity. He rarely talked about it outside the context of counting his blessings, but for two decades, Dad delivered food to abused women and children on behalf of St. Vincent DePaul.

*  *  *

I’m certain Dad would be proud of seeing everyone here today. Knowing you care to take the time and being here for Mom and the family, he’s not only beaming with gratitude. He’s humbled to tears. That’s who he was.

I also sense his light in Shel and Don, Ira and Frances, Katie and Gordon and Landon and Jackson, Janie and Caitlyn, David and Kimberly and  little Marilynn. Mike, Chris and Kathi, Madeleine and Connor. Rob, Kelly, Erin, Clare; Mary and Terry and Michellie and Paige, and my daughter Ellie.

And those who sit before me as well as those who couldn’t be here today.

He’s touched all of us with a great life lived.

#  #  #

Daughter graduates! Dad proud!

I'm proud. I'm about to dote.

You've come a long way since you hummed while eating pureed yams from your old metal high chair. Just yesterday, I swear, you were having full-length conversations with your imaginary friend named Lucy. Or crawling around the kitchen floor while barking like a dog. Those days went fast.

Do your friends know you used to call a toilet a turdett? You were three.

Somewhere along the line, you survived the trauma of losing a favorite stuffed animal during a two-minute trip to our local grocery-video store, getting a couple baby teeth knocked out in a parking lot, and succumbing to a mysterious "illness" involving NoDoz, a best friend named Taylor, and a call from a chaperone in Washington, D.C.

You went from cartwheels to car wheels, as the song goes. You were my favorite un-delicate and barely-graceful ballerina at age five. You often looked at the world with slight confusion and random wonder. That's a compliment. You dreaded guitar lessons at age six, you tolerated softball through fourth grade and basketball after that. Your passions rarely needed any structure because you asked for very little and aimed to please.

And here you are: you're a woman of principle who's comfortable in her skin. That says something.

As your Dad, I say you've traveled a greater distance these last few years than all the years before. On your own. Take pride in that. Be empowered.

People you've let into your heart know they can count on you. They appreciate your confidence and honesty. You're a natural leader. Your awareness of the good and bad and your knack at seeing wide angles and varied perspectives explains why you're both stubborn and compassionate. You're creative, fierce, loyal, smart, brave, forgiving, and funny.

I know this about you, too: your bright light is going to get brighter. It'll be quite a force especially if you keep reminding yourself (and me) of all the stuff you already know:

1. Life is short. Live each day with purpose. When will we ever have this moment again?

2. Be a good friend.

3. However you define success, it demands patience, purpose and commitment.

4. Whether you're able to decide what to be and do, make a move. Doing something is the important part. It's also the only way to pass through doors.

5. Luck is a result of diligence and work and focus. You're just starting out, so you can't afford to turn things down. Work begets work.

6. Love what you have and you'll feel like you have everything you need.

7. Be a team player. Leave your ego out of it. As we liked to say in the ‘70s, step up and suck it up.You know this.

8. Stay nice and kind and warm. Build rainbow factories.

9. You're good at forgiving and probaby even better at forgetting, which says a lot about your character (and memory?). In any case, blame is wasted energy and resentment kills twice.

10. Ambition is relative. How much you want something should equate to how hard you work to get it. Don't fear. Cultivate drive not only in yourself, but in the people around you.

11. Never take pleasure in someone else failing.

12. If you coast, you'll atrophy your mind, heart, spirit, muscles. (Don't confuse coasting with downtime; the re-charging the battery can be built into your routine.)

13. You can't always get what you want. But if you try, you just might find you get what you need. If you haven't heard this, reach out to the guys I've known forever (e.g., T, Matt, Trent, et al).

14. For socking money away, building a nest egg and other smart fiscal matters, listen to your Uncle Rob. To stretch a dollar, consult Pavlina.

15. Stay in shape and healthy, and eat slowly. Only one in ten of your relatives knows the Heimlich.

16. Don't compare yourself. You'll end up getting stuck, or worse: getting down on yourself. When you're in a rut, go out and give freely to others.

17. Very important: keep doing things outside of your comfort zone. It'll add to your character, make you a better leader.

18. Be interested. Only boring people get bored. Gram says that.

19. No one's entitled to something not earned. Be wary whenever you hear someone say "I deserve this."

20. You never have an excuse to be rude. Unless, maybe, you're talking to a motorcycle cop. Motorcycle cops don't have human souls.

21. Mother Nature always wins. Be her #1 Fan.

22. Stay open, look outside yourself. Lend an ear, give your smile, extend a hand.

23. If patriotism means having courage and humility, honoring the brave, seeking truth, and doing the right thing, be a patriot.

24. Respect your elders.

25. If you only remember a single prayer, make it "thank you."

26. Please know I'll always have your back.

Kind of long-winded, I know. Am I lecturing? As I said above, I think all this content is as much for me as it is for you. And that same amount is a result of observing all the great people in my life, and scribbling down the words of heroes and heroines I could only dream of meeting.

Anyway, I need to stop writing this letter right now before I get weepy about how far you've come. My point is for you to know how proud I am. And how I will be right there watching you tomorrow while you bask in the glory of your milestone.

For now (in my best ceremonial voice): take on the day -- seize it -- and begin writing your own definition of success! You'll do great.

Love you.

hey blob!

I'm here!

It's a new year, opposed to old

I need a good name for my street gang I'm thinking about forming for 2010. I want the name to sound "bad," as in mean or at least confrontational sounding. I need the right name so potential foes hear it and steer clear of our “turf." Upon hearing our street-gang name, I want our adversaries to collectively say to themselves: "whoa, man. Steer clear of these guys.”

Working in the Work-a-Day World

I was asked to compose the holiday greeting card for the large company I don't even work for. This is what I came up with:

"If you live north of the equator, it's cold this time of year!"

I thought about adding something along the lines of "This is a really stupid assignment," but I said fuck it and left it as is. I did a pretty fair to middling job, don't you think? In the end I didn't want to grandstand or make the full-time internal copywriter feel threatened or make her think her job was in jeopardy.

I knew it: Americans get to marry other species

Someone on TV really said these things.

I heart democracy!

How can we get aggro about Iran's stolen election without mentioning a couple of elections in this country, particularly the ones in 2000 and 2004? My worry -- or maybe it's just a question -- is whether the Iranian people are more serious about democracy than Americans.

Make Your Own Luck!!

I believe in making my own luck. Here's the secret: one cube of butter (or a half-pint of cold bacon fat), a box of dough (whatever kind of dough you want!), and a spoonful of blueberries and/or capers. Dump your mix into a skillet, and plan to heat it up on "low-medium" for ten minutes. You don't have to eat it! It's just a recipe for making your own luck. You should do it. Go ahead, make your own luck. Go for it! Good luck!

Money Saving Tips

Instead of getting a haircut, try large dabs of conditioner! Any conditioner will do. You should try it.

Commencement Talk, Pt II

I was so proud to be sitting in the coliseum last night, waving and cheering for The Daughter, ignoring my dad complain about the student jam band midway through. The Daughter did me proud, as did the other 462 Lincoln High grads. I've decided commencement ceremonies are pretty alright when they involve your own offspring.

Meantime 3,000 miles away, Eugene Mirman delivered on a promise to offer words of inspiration at his alma mater's graduation in Lexington, Mass. It's David Foster Wallace lite, or economy size, because it was for high schoolers:

Hello, little dragons. Congratulations! You are now free from your 12 years of Knowledge-Prison. Today you begin the next phase of your life — whether it’s college, a job, or a program abroad — where you build a schoolhouse for underprivileged children, while hooking up with each other.

The main difference for you, between life yesterday and life tomorrow, is you can go to the bathroom whenever you want. It’s a pretty big responsibility, but you’ve earned it. A few more things: you can vote, start a family, go to war, even buy a beer. Just kidding, you’re only mature enough to shoot our enemies in the face.

Your parents are proud of you, but they’re nervous — 2009 is very different from when they grew up — most of them still remember exactly where they were when Lincoln was shot.

But here we are today — amidst several wars, with history’s largest deficit, in the worst recession since families gathered around radios to learn about evolution. On behalf of the generations who came before you, we’re really, really sorry. We made some oopsyies.

I won’t lie to you, there is an asteroid heading for the earth and you only have four days to live. I’m sorry, where was I?

Oh yeah, it will be up to you to lead America into the future. And I don’t mean your generation. I mean the 326 of you. You alone must fix the whole world. Tonight — relax, celebrate — have some Manischewitz. Tomorrow, start fixing.

Good news! This is the point in the graduation speech where I tell you a personal anecdote about perseverance and then quote a song. What’s the worst grade you’ve ever gotten? A D? An F? When I was in eighth grade at Diamond Middle School, on a homework assignment, I once got a -8. I did my assignment worse than not doing it. But did I let getting a grade lower than the lowest possible grade stop me? No. I was put into Recourse Room (Special Education) and turned my F into a D.

So, you see, sometimes you can fail, then barely pass, and then become a comedian. Also, I recommend being on television occasionally, because people treat you nicely.

Lastly, some tips for life:

Don’t forget to follow your dreams — unless your dreams are stupid — like eating all the cake in Arlington.

Be kind to people.

Don’t get too excited when you read the Fountainhead.

In this time of recession, it is the time for invention. Did you know both the telephone and the automobile were invented during recessions? So was “talking dirty.”

Things can kill you. So just keep that in mind, you fearless-know-it-alls.

Good luck with everything and don’t become addicted to heroin, unless you want to be a great songwriter.

And now, as promised, I’ll quote a song. Garden Party by Rick Nelson. It’s about him getting booed off stage at Madison Square Garden in 1971: “It’s all right now, I learned my lesson well. You see, ya can’t please everyone, so ya got to please yourself lott-in-dah-dah-dah, lot-in-dah-dah-dah.”

She Graduates

Congratulations, Daughter. Your future is bright if you keep pushing your heart, looking outward, and staying unafraid of challenge.

The following is an excerpt from a 2005 Commencement Address (Kenyon College in Ohio). It was delivered by the late author David Foster Wallace. It's good and real and says it like it is.

There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says "Morning, boys. How's the water?" And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes "What the hell is water?"

This is a standard requirement of commencement speeches, the deployment of didactic little parable-ish stories. The story thing turns out to be one of the better conventions of the tradition, but if you're worried that I plan to present myself here as the wise, older fish explaining what water is to you younger fish, please don't be. I am not the wise old fish. The point of the fish story is merely that the most obvious, important realities are often the ones that are hardest to see and talk about. Stated as an English sentence, of course, this is just a banal platitude, but the fact is that in the day to day trenches of adult existence, banal platitudes can have a life or death importance, or so I wish to suggest to you on this dry and lovely morning.

Of course the main requirement of speeches like this is that I'm supposed to talk about your liberal arts education's meaning, to try to explain why the degree you are about to receive has actual human value instead of just a material payoff. So let's talk about the single most pervasive cliché in the commencement speech genre, which is that a liberal arts education is not so much about filling you up with knowledge as it is about "teaching you how to think." If you're like me as a student, you've never liked hearing this, and you tend to feel a bit insulted by the claim that you needed anybody to teach you how to think, since the fact that you even got admitted to a college this good seems like proof that you already know how to think. But I'm going to posit to you that the liberal arts cliché turns out not to be insulting at all, because the really significant education in thinking that we're supposed to get in a place like this isn't really about the capacity to think, but rather about the choice of what to think about.

If your total freedom of choice regarding what to think about seems too obvious to waste time discussing, I'd ask you to think about fish and water, and to bracket for just a few minutes your skepticism about the value of the totally obvious.

Please don't worry that I'm getting ready to lecture you about compassion or other-directedness or all the so-called virtues. This is not a matter of virtue. It's a matter of my choosing to do the work of somehow altering or getting free of my natural, hard-wired default setting which is to be deeply and literally self-centered and to see and interpret everything through this lens of self. People who can adjust their natural default setting this way are often described as being "well-adjusted," which I suggest to you is not an accidental term.

Given the triumphant academic setting here, an obvious question is how much of this work of adjusting our default-setting involves actual knowledge or intellect. This question gets very tricky. Probably the most dangerous thing about an academic education -- least in my own case -- is that it enables my tendency to over-intellectualize stuff, to get lost in abstract argument inside my head, instead of simply paying attention to what is going on right in front of me, paying attention to what is going on inside me.

As I'm sure you guys know by now, it is extremely difficult to stay alert and attentive, instead of getting hypnotized by the constant monologue inside your own head (which may be happening right now). Twenty years after my own graduation, I have come gradually to understand that the liberal arts cliché about teaching you how to think is actually shorthand for a much deeper, more serious idea: learning how to think really means learning how to exercise some control over how and what you think. It means being conscious and aware enough to choose what you pay attention to and to choose how you construct meaning from experience. Because if you cannot exercise this kind of choice in adult life, you will be totally hosed. Think of the old cliché about the mind being an excellent servant but a terrible master.

This, like many clichés, so lame and unexciting on the surface, actually expresses a great and terrible truth.

And I submit that this is what the real, no-bullshit value of an education is supposed to be about: how to keep from going through your comfortable, prosperous, respectable adult life dead, unconscious, a slave to your head and to your natural default setting of being uniquely, completely, imperially alone day in and day out. That may sound like hyperbole, or abstract nonsense. Let's get concrete. The plain fact is that you graduating seniors do not yet have any clue what "day in day out" really means. There happen to be whole, large parts of adult American life that nobody talks about in commencement speeches. One such part involves boredom, routine, and petty frustration. The parents and older folks here will know all too well what I'm talking about.

By way of example, let's say it's an average adult day, and you get up in the morning, go to your challenging, white-collar, college-graduate job, and you work hard for eight or ten hours, and at the end of the day you're tired and somewhat stressed and all you want is to go home and have a good supper and maybe unwind for an hour, and then hit the sack early because, of course, you have to get up the next day and do it all again. But then you remember there's no food at home. You haven't had time to shop this week because of your challenging job, and so now after work you have to get in your car and drive to the supermarket. It's the end of the work day and the traffic is apt to be: very bad. So getting to the store takes way longer than it should, and when you finally get there, the supermarket is very crowded, because of course it's the time of day when all the other people with jobs also try to squeeze in some grocery shopping. And the store is hideously lit and infused with soul-killing muzak or corporate pop and it's pretty much the last place you want to be but you can't just get in and quickly out; you have to wander all over the huge, over-lit store's confusing aisles to find the stuff you want and you have to maneuver your junky cart through all these other tired, hurried people with carts (et cetera, et cetera, et cetera) and eventually you get all dinner supplies, except now it turns out there aren't enough check-out lanes open even though it's the end-of-the-day rush. So the checkout line is incredibly long, which is stupid and infuriating. But you can't take your frustration out on the frantic lady working the register, who is overworked at a job whose daily tedium and meaninglessness surpasses the imagination of any of us here at a prestigious college.

But anyway, you finally get to the checkout line's front, and you pay for your food, and you get told to "Have a nice day" in a voice that is the absolute voice of death. Then you have to take your creepy, flimsy, plastic bags of groceries in your cart with the one crazy wheel that pulls maddeningly to the left, all the way out through the crowded, bumpy, littery parking lot, and then you have to drive all the way home through slow, heavy, SUV-intensive, rush-hour traffic, et cetera et cetera.

Everyone here has done this, of course. But it hasn't yet been part of you graduates' actual life routine, day after week after month after year.

Then the dishwasher goes out and the car's oil is past due and needs new tires and the yard is going to hell and your 401(k) is underfunded. But it will be. And many more dreary, annoying, seemingly meaningless routines besides.

But that is not the point. The point is that petty, frustrating crap like this is exactly where the work of choosing is gonna come in. Because the traffic jams and crowded aisles and long checkout lines give me time to think, and if I don't make a conscious decision about how to think and what to pay attention to, I'm gonna be pissed and miserable every time I have to shop. Because my natural default setting is the certainty that situations like this are really all about me. About MY hungriness and MY fatigue and MY desire to just get home, and it's going to seem for all the world like everybody else is just in my way. And who are all these people in my way? And look at how repulsive most of them are, and how stupid and cow-like and dead-eyed and nonhuman they seem in the checkout line, or at how annoying and rude it is that people are talking loudly on cell phones in the middle of the line. And look at how deeply and personally unfair this is.

Or, of course, if I'm in a more socially conscious liberal arts form of my default setting, I can spend time in the end-of-the-day traffic being disgusted about all the huge, stupid, lane-blocking SUV's and Hummers and V-12 pickup trucks, burning their wasteful, selfish, forty-gallon tanks of gas, and I can dwell on the fact that the patriotic or religious bumper-stickers always seem to be on the biggest, most disgustingly selfish vehicles, driven by the ugliest most -- [responding here to loud applause]: this is an example of how NOT to think -- disgustingly selfish vehicles, driven by the ugliest, most inconsiderate and aggressive drivers. And I can think about how our children's children will despise us for wasting all the future's fuel, and probably screwing up the climate, and how spoiled and stupid and selfish and disgusting we all are, and how modern consumer society just sucks, and so forth and so on.

You get the idea.

If I choose to think this way in a store and on the freeway, fine. Lots of us do. Except thinking this way tends to be so easy and automatic that it doesn't have to be a choice.

It is my natural default setting. It's the automatic way that I experience the boring, frustrating, crowded parts of adult life when I'm operating on the automatic, unconscious belief that I am the center of the world, and that my immediate needs and feelings are what should determine the world's priorities.

The thing is that, of course, there are totally different ways to think about these kinds of situations. In this traffic, all these vehicles stopped and idling in my way, it's not impossible that some of these people in SUV's have been in horrible auto accidents in the past, and now find driving so terrifying that their therapist has all but ordered them to get a huge, heavy SUV so they can feel safe enough to drive. Or that the Hummer that just cut me off is maybe being driven by a father whose little child is hurt or sick in the seat next to him, and he's trying to get this kid to the hospital, and he's in a bigger, more legitimate hurry than I am: it is actually I who am in HIS way.

Or I can choose to force myself to consider the likelihood that everyone else in the supermarket's checkout line is just as bored and frustrated as I am, and that some of these people probably have harder, more tedious and painful lives than I do.

Again, please don't think that I'm giving you moral advice, or that I'm saying you are supposed to think this way, or that anyone expects you to just automatically do it.

Because it's hard. It takes will and effort, and if you are like me, some days you won't be able to do it, or you just flat out won't want to.

But most days, if you're aware enough to give yourself a choice, you can choose to look differently at this dead-eyed, over-made-up lady who just screamed at her kid in the checkout line. Maybe she's not usually like this. Maybe she's been up three straight nights holding the hand of a husband who is dying of bone cancer. Or maybe this very lady is the low-wage clerk at the DMV, who just yesterday helped your spouse resolve a horrific, infuriating, red-tape problem through some small act of bureaucratic kindness.

Of course, we don't know, but it's not impossible. It just depends what you want to consider. If you're automatically sure that you know what reality is, and you are operating on your default setting, then you, like me, probably won't consider possibilities that aren't annoying and miserable. But if you really learn how to pay attention, then you will know there are other options. It will actually be within your power to experience a crowded, hot, slow, consumer-hell type situation as not only meaningful, but sacred, on fire with the same force that made the stars: love, fellowship, the mystical oneness of all things deep down.

Not that that mystical stuff is necessarily true. The only thing that's capital-T True is that you get to decide how you're gonna try to see it.

This, I submit, is the freedom of a real education, of learning how to be well-adjusted. You get to consciously decide what has meaning and what doesn't. You get to decide what to worship.

Because here's something else that's weird but true: in the day-to day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshiping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship -- be it Jesus or Allah, be it YHWH or the Wiccan Mother Goddess, or the Four Noble Truths, or some inviolable set of ethical principles -- is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life, then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough. It's the truth. Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It's been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness.

Life in Linnton

What Linnton is known for besides moss: slugs. Humungous slugs. No, really. Trust me. They're HUGE.

Dream: cloying perfume causes tooth decay

I dreamt I was getting my morning coffee at a café where exotic dancers unwind after a long night on the pole. As I walked the gauntlet to place my order, I was struck by what could only be described as poor dental hygiene. Either the dancers had stubborn blueberry/coffee stains between their incisors or visible signs of gingivitis. Some had both.

My Favorite People

Say you could list your favorite ten types of people. Without really thinking about it too much, here are mine:
1. Girls who wear dresses on bikes
2. People on my bus
3. Civil War re-enactors
4. Smiling people who work at fast food restaurants or Safeway
5. People who can't remember any movies they've seen
6. Painters who aren't very good yet
7. Mousy nerdy people who like to party
8. People grateful to meet or see me
9. Christians wandering around places like Pakistan
10. Physicists even though I don't know any

How did she get my email?

I'm wracking my brain trying to figure out who Krystal Thacker is and why her subject header says: Bigger, Harder, Longer. The only thing I can think of is the girl at ACE Hardware who was helping me decide on the right set of drillbits.

Protecting & Serving & Frying Food

I meant to blog today, but then I lost track of time, and next thing I knew, I was searching YouTube for beatboxers and working up an appetite on www.whyyourefat.com and checking my Facebook status and -- as you can imagine -- I hadn't found the time to blog. My life is very busy with all the stuff I need to watch on my DVR and all the fried food I plan to prepare in my deep-fat fryer and all the people I need to stalk . . . and then there's the swine flu pandemic coming our way, which I'm hoping ignore. So, yeah, I'm busy. Damn straight. Add, also, that I'm an artiste with a novel to write as well as all my commitments (and deadlines) I need to fulfill as a prominent in-demand professional blogger for a real-life actual blog. You might think you have a right to get all emo on me for not blogging sooner, but actually I don't think you do. Maybe, though. Not sure.

Cleveland has a good energy

I'm not one to find any amusement in swear words and I'm not one to take delight in other people's misery (i.e., unemployment, pay-phone usage, drifting, people's decisions to have a mullet, etc.), but I do have a great appreciation for some of America's great cities.

Explaining a Good Day of Crafting

Below is some gold from Peter Rock, Portland author of The Bewildered, The Ambidextrist, This is the Place, and the new novel My Abandonment inspired by the father and daughter who lived in Forest Park for a few years. In Forest Park, not Forest Heights.

A good writing day is any day where a piece of the clock is given over to the invisible people. In the past I was spoiled, and often had hours and hours to write; now the writing often happens when I wake up and can't sleep at two in the morning, or at five, before my daughter wakes up, or fifteen minutes on the bus, or half an hour pretending I'm not in my office with all the ways the visible people can reach me turned off, shut down, disconnected.

I want to believe and to travel. Sometimes a good writing day is an hour of madly scribbling, vistas opening up ahead and inside, landscapes and synapses of some person rushing at me, and the whole rest of my waking day I carry that like a charm, knowing there's more and that I've been in touch with the invisible again; sometimes a good writing day is ten minutes of crossing out a paragraph, or adding a comma; sometimes a good writing day is half an hour of daydreaming with not a word to show for it.

There are no bad writing days; even those that seem the worst are leading us onward, only in ways that were not expected, perhaps slower than we believed we desired.

What could be better than that?

He strung together a lot of awesome words and made their sum so beautiful and artistic and inspiring and mostly true for me as well, but a really good writing day is a certain feeling of knowing my story and my people are headed somewhere -- to somewhere I can't wait to discover. Sounds corny, I know, but I'm no Peter Rock either. Besides, my good crafting days haven't been happening too much lately. I've been experiencing less synapses and more "crossing out paragraphs." Or just staring at them.

Future President of the World

A really good speech and excellent example for Toast Masters everywhere. In 1992 in Rio de Janeiro, 12-year-old Severn Cullis-Suzuki of Vancouver B.C. closed a Plenary Session at the UN's Earth Summit. If you're not moved by her words and their delivery, you're dead.

Career Choices

I probably should've pursued a fall-back plan in one of these job areas:
1. Abandoned/Foreclosed House Housecleaner or Sign Painter/Planter
2. Grief Counselor
3. Undertaker
4. Movie Star
5. American Idol judge
6. Facebook Guy
7. IRS employee-at-large
8. Drug Lord
9. Network News Anchor
10. Bachelor Contestant

Facebook Chain Letter

If you're reading this, you have to automatically cut and paste the questions into your Facebook Notes page and start answering them. Then tag hundreds of your Facebookies. Do it. If you do it, I think you'll automatically get seven years of uninterrupted employment. If you break the chain, something unsavory might happen. I'm not sure. Good luck!

YOU'VE BEEN TAGGED TO ANSWER ONE MORE SERIES OF STUPID QUESTIONS
1. IF YOU HAD OCTOPULETS, HOW MANY WOULD YOU KEEP?
2. WHAT IS IDAHO'S REAL NAME?
3. WHAT TYPE OF CURRENCY DO YOU UNDERSTAND BETTER: BEAUTY OR DOLLARS?
4. DO YOU LIKE HIPPIES?
5. DESCRIBE DALLAS, TEXAS.
6. WHAT KIND OF HATS ARE GOOD?
7. DID YOU VOTE FOR WALTER MONDALE, MICHEAL DUKAKAS OR PAUL TSONGAS?
8. WOULD YOU HAVE BILL O'REILLY OVER FOR DINNER IF SOMEONE PAID YOU?
9. DO YOU WASH YOUR HANDS WELL ENOUGH WHEN PREPARING MEALS FOR GUESTS?
10. WHO'S YOUR FAVORITE CURMUDGEON?
11. WHEN YOU FIRST HEARD ABOUT THE PROSPECT OF AN INTERNATIONAL "SHROOM DAY," WAS YOUR FIRST CONCERN FOR PUBLIC SAFETY OR SUPPLY?
12. PENCIL LEAD OR PINK ERASER?
13. NEIL YOUNG?
14. IS BEYONCÉ PART OF SOME SORT OF STIMULUS PACKAGE OR WHAT?
15. PICK A 20TH CENTURY DECADE TO BE 24 YEARS OLD INDEFINITELY.
16. IF YOU COULD RENAME FACEBOOK, WOULD YOU CALL IT SUCKYFACE OR FACE-ON-YOU OR ...?
17. WOULD YOU EVER WANT TO LIVE IN OKLAHOMAH? WHAT ABOUT OKLAHOMA?
18. HAVE YOU EVER WATCHED ADAM 12, THE HIGHLY UNDERRATED POLICE SHOW?
19. WHO IS WAY COOL?
20. WHO WOULD PLAY YOU IN A BLOCKBUSTER MAJOR MOTION PICTURE?
21. WHICH FAMOUS PERSON WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE STUCK IN AN ELEVATOR WITH FOR HOURS AND HOURS AND HOURS? (DON'T SAY McGUYVER BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE STUPID.)
22. DO YOUR PARENTS KNOW HOW MUCH OF A WASTE OF TIME FACEBOOK IS?
23. HAVE YOU PRETENDED TO BE A SUPERMODEL? YOU HAVEN'T?
24. ARE YOU A STALKER?
25. WHEN PEOPLE SAY "THIS CITY IS TOO LIBERAL," WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?
26. SHOULD ALIENS FROM DISTANT GALAXIES BLEND IN, BE CUTE, BE SCARY AS HELL, OR LEARN TO SPEAK ENGLISH?
27. WHAT KIND OF COFFEE DO YOU LIKE?
28. BLAH BLAH BLAH.
29. I NEED COFFEE.

Melikes my mayor

As long as Sam Adams doesn't want to date us, we've got an excellent mayor. I can't decide what's worse: the witch hunt or Sam's lie.

On a Roll!

I'm psyched. We have a new president, one with all those characteristics and brains I associate with great leaders. I get a sense he truly understands. He absorbs. He's creative. He thinks. He unites. He makes sense when he speaks. He has a genuine spirit. His ego seems fully evolved. He seems cool under pressure.

The inaugural address he delivered yesterday felt as if it were cut with a diamond. Pure and resonant. I witnessed more than the transfer of power. I felt a rebirth of our national spirit.

As far as my Great American Work of Fiction goes, thanks for asking. For two weeks straight, I've been rewriting the first two paragraphs nonstop. Yes, I've been pretty productive for the last 300 hours. Not quite on a roll, but ... well, you know. I'm going for it, giving it my all. I should have my new novel in the can about the same time Malia or Sasha -- either one -- makes a bid for president in 2032.

Twitter is VERY useful

When I first learned about Twitter a year ago, I was somewhat critical of its utility. Now I'm convinced of its many practical uses:

1. Locating friends at a convention.

2. Letting friends know how bored you are in the convention panel you're attending.

3. Making sure total strangers understand how important social plans/Hollywood meetings are.

4. Asking questions about new iPhone apps.

5. Answering questions about new iPhone apps.

6. Exhibiting pith and wit.

7. Telling people you're "friends" with someone they might know.

8. Letting people know you're prone to distractions.

9. Saving awesome independently owned bookstores.