I'd like to use this forum today to personally apologize to all of the poor souls who have had the unfortunate experience of conversing with me during the past three years. I just returned from the doctor's office and it turns out that I am sick, you see. Not well at all. Apparently I suffer from a rare disease the good Doc described as "Cantshutupitis." This is a dreadful condition that has been known to ravage unsuspecting stay-at-home parents dating back to Europe in the Dark Ages. There is no cure and the effect this disease has upon the public at-large can be devastating.
Here's how it works -- Shortly after beginning the glamorous existence of a stay-at-home parent, the unwitting victim undergoes a drastic transformation within the brain-system-thingy. The electrical impulses that run from the brain to the rest of the body go all screwy, and the victim begins to act like a grade-A dillhole during all social interactions. (Okay, I must confess that I'm not as smart as that last paragraph makes me sound. You see, I copied the symptoms verbatim out of my new textbook, "Hey Idiots! This here's the Brain!").
So basically the combination of utter boredom and complete lack of regular conversation with anyone over the age of three causes a stay-at-home parent to, um, act kind of funny when they actually leave the house.
A typical social situation goes something like this -- After spending around 30 consecutive days listening to "Wiggles" songs and vaccuming, a breathless stay-at-home parent leaves the house and enters a party filled with unsuspecting victims, er, people. Picture a starving dog pouncing on a juicy rib-eye.
Soon the first victim, er, person approaches and attempts to kick off a polite conversation. They might ask something innocent like, "How are you?" Now remember from the textbook that "Cantshutupitis" patients have screwy brain-impulse-thingys. Instead of hearing, "How are you?," the patient actually hears, "Tell me everything you know about the art of changing a diaper. And please, spare no detail! If you could ramble on for over 20 minutes, that would be outstanding!"
It's not the patient's fault I tell you! You've gotta believe me! It's a disease dang it!
Another victim/person might ask about the weather and instead receive an hour-long dissertation on the wonders of visiting the grocery store on a Tuesday morning, complete with Powerpoint and a slide show.
One poor lady recently made the inexcusable mistake of asking me about my wedding ring. You see, she noticed I had a tungsten-carbide band. What followed borders on harassment. Why she didn't find the complete story of how April and I came upon this beautiful ring as fascinating as I did, one will never know. Some mysteries are meant to stay unsolved.
I've battled "Cantshutupitis" for some time now, and I naively thought I had it under control. Until last Saturday night. The symptoms of my rare disease flared up violently and left a very nice couple seeking therapy.
April and I met said nice couple, lets call them "Matt Leinart" and "Kelly Ripa," for dinner at a local sports bar. I was meeting the adorable twosome, complete with matching blond hair and million dollar smiles, for the first time. Never a good situation for your's truly.
I am convinced the evening would have transpired without incident if not for one major problem -- "Matt Leinart" and "Kelly Ripa" happen to be a very quiet couple. There is nothing wrong with this. Unless you happen to suffer from "Cantshutupitis." The disease views a lapse in conversation as a challenge and attempts to overpower it by sheer volume.
I must admit I was in rare form that night. I enlightened these two poor souls with all of my knowledge regarding The Doodlebops, religion, hockey, Boston, former Idaho State University basketball coach Doug Oliver, food allergies, and I think I even described the strengths and weaknesses of the entire Arizona Diamondbacks pitching rotation. A true testament to the sheer power of "Cantshutupitis."
There was a point in the evening where I'm convinced that "Matt Leinart" was covering his ears while I explained the exciting financial benefits of grocery shopping at Winco. At the time I figured he was simply trying to block out the crowd noise so he could fully consume my every word. I tried to help him out by speaking louder and closer to his ear. A gesture he no-doubt appreciated.
I remember thinking what a nice couple they were while they sped off in their Outback, leaving smoke and rubber streak marks in their wake. It wasn't until hours later that I realized the misery I subjected them to.
So please allow me the opportunity to apologize to "Matt Leinart," "Kelly Ripa," "ring lady," and all of the countless others I've inadvertently tortured while battling this disease. Just know that my blabbering was never intentional and I feel really bad about it.
Kind of like the time I printed a kids name wrong in one of my sports articles. Hey, did I ever tell you about that. It's a great story! I was sitting in 100-degree heat during a scorching July afternoon in Mesa. There I was, sitting in the bleachers and sweating my head off, when the kids took the field for the first inning. The kids had these weird black jerseys, and I remember thinking it was so silly to wear black jerseys on such a hot day ...............................
So sorry kiddies!
- Dave
(By the way, if you find this even remotely amusing, please know that I am mercilessly, um, borrowing the wonderful humor-writing style of author Patrick McManus (who is from Idaho!). Please, please, PLEASE read one of his books. "Never Sniff a Gift Fish," is my favorite. Be aware that mastering the art of reading while laughing out loud takes time and practice. But don't worry, you'll get the hang of it!)
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Daddy sermon
I've been spending an ample amount of time this week preparing a "sermon" for my church. I referenced it once before in this blog, but it's basically a long-winded plea for myself and others to stop labeling and dividing everyone and at least attempt some communication. A novel concept, I know, but it seems we've lost touch with the art of communication lately in our "I'm right, you're wrong," society. Anyhoo, I'll be presenting it on March 30 at the Boise Unitarian Universalist Fellowship, if you'd like to see a genuine stay-at-home Dad try to sound coherent. And (bonus!) April is going to sing! I'll post the sermon here the following week.
While I was rehearsing my little rant, I realized that I've never actually posted the "sermon" that I presented last summer at BUUF. It's a spiritual journey piece that basically serves as a tell-all regarding my experiences as a stay-at-homer and my discovery of the UU fellowship. So I figure I'll post it here, so you can understand how I became this way. Here goes ---
While I was rehearsing my little rant, I realized that I've never actually posted the "sermon" that I presented last summer at BUUF. It's a spiritual journey piece that basically serves as a tell-all regarding my experiences as a stay-at-homer and my discovery of the UU fellowship. So I figure I'll post it here, so you can understand how I became this way. Here goes ---
“FINDING SPIRITUALITY WHILE CHANGING DIAPERS”
By David M. Ward
Sound about right?
For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Dave and I am indeed a Unitarian Universalist stay-at-home dad. The real deal. A genuine specimen standing before you in the flesh. It goes without saying that in our great state of Idaho, the land of pickup trucks, cold beer and rifles, I stand out amongst the crowd like Bigfoot in an opera house. Not only am I a “stay-at-homer,” I am also a “UUer.” Basically an unemployed liberal who doesn’t follow the bible or the Republican Party.
Other than that, I fit right in.
Strangers greet the news with looks of bewilderment and confusion. Close friends, many of whom I’ve known since childhood, are equally baffled. Most people tackle the “stay-at-home” puzzle with a predictable, “Getting out of work, eh? Smart man.” This is typically followed by a few hearty laughs, and then awkward silence. The “UU” angle is another story entirely. The typical response resembles, “Unitarian Universalist, what’s that?” Or, “Isn’t that the gay church?” I usually dive into my elevator speech about supporting many paths to the holy and universal acceptance, but it hardly ever matters. To them I am still a furry behemoth snarling my way toward the orchestra pit.
What are ya gonna do?
As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I haven’t always been a stay-at-home dad. Or a UU, for that matter. You see, I used to be just like you. I used to get up everyday, sit in rush-hour traffic and toil in front of a computer for eight to nine hours. I worked as a sports reporter for several different newspapers in both Idaho and Arizona, covering everything from high school golf to NFL football. I carved out a nice little niche for myself, producing sunny feature stories along with tales of heroics under the Friday night lights. I even won the occasional award. But I digress. Nobody wants to hear me blabber on about chasing high school coaches around.
I’m just saying it was a nice little career. Translation – I wasn’t an alcoholic bum who couldn’t get a job. I went to college and everything. There was only one problem. I was completely miserable. The combinations of long hours, deadline stress, low pay and zero respect left me battling depression and searching for something more.
I celebrated my 26th birthday on a sunny Arizona day in April, 2004 with seemingly everything a man could want. I had a good job, a beautiful wife and all of the modern luxuries our society holds in such high esteem (cars, a house, a swimming pool, etc.) Yet I felt something was missing. I never felt whole.
What followed was a three-year odyssey that saw me move across the country and completely change everything about my life. I returned to my home state of Idaho, quit my job, and had a son. I even, gasp, joined a church. This after spending the first 26 years of my existence railing about the “evils” of organized religion. I have emerged from this whirlwind tour of emotions a little dazed, a little confused and feeling fulfilled for the first time in my life.
This journey I’m describing began precisely during the early morning hours of July 23, 2004. Michael Patrick Ward entered this crazy world kicking and screaming at approximately 11:45 in the morning. As every parent will attest, my life has never been the same since the first time I laid eyes on that tiny creature huddled snugly in the nurse’s hand, covered in blood and wailing like a banshee. He arrived a month early, and I was far from ready. The nurse handed him to me, and I just stood there dumbfounded. Nature’s ultimate magic trick left me numb. In a matter of seconds a living, breathing creature materialized before my very eyes.
Now all I had to do was keep it alive!
I worked evenings during that time, so I watched Michael in the morning and took him to daycare in the afternoon. This sounds perfectly logical, but logic knows nothing of the human heart. In reality the task of dropping off my newborn son at daycare was a gut-wrenching experience. I may as well have dropped him off at a Nazi war camp. I spent all of my hours at work daydreaming about little Michael. I cut corners at work. I went home early. In short, I became the world’s worst employee.
A few months after Michael was born, I began to experience the worst bought of homesickness I have ever felt. My family all resides here in the Treasure Valley, so moving to Phoenix was hard enough to begin with. Once I had a child of my own, it was unbearable. My wife, April, managed to obtain a job in Boise fairly quickly, and we left the desert in a flash.
Moving back to Idaho cured my homesick blues, and also provided me with a fresh start. This was my chance to get out of the journalism rat race, and try something new. I would just stay home with Michael for a few months, you see, until something came up. Well, two years later, I’m still staying home with Michael. I have fully transitioned from a dad staying home with his kid, to a bonefide stay-at-home dad. The reason for this is simple.
It just makes sense for our family.
There is an old saying that behind every great man there is a great woman. Well, I believe the opposite is also true. I have a saying of my own: “You always defer to the talent.” If you’ve ever met April you know she is a true “talent.” I’ve known this since the day I met her back at Capital High School many moons ago. Straight-A student, beautiful, funny, and charming, she was always on a fast track toward success. While I toiled through my writing career, earning a salary far too embarrassing to admit here, April quickly climbed to the top of her profession. Her salary easily tripled mine. More importantly, she loves her job in a way that I never could. I am her biggest fan in the world, and I would never offer anything but love and support. Social norms, be damned.
So, I slowly entered the undiscovered valley of the stay-at-home father. I entered nearly two years ago, and have resided there ever since. As you might guess, the life of a stay-at-home dad is nothing like the stereotype. It is an isolated existence, that you might even call glamorous. As long as you consider washing dishes, folding laundry and taking endless trips to the park and the doctor’s office “glamorous.” There is a song you will hear in a few minutes entitled “Mr. Mom,” that April jokingly refers to as my theme song. And in many ways it is just that. In the song, a man finds himself out of work and pondering life as a stay-at-homer. His head fills with visions of relaxing and taking naps. Going from “a hardworking Dad, to being Mr. Mom,” is the exact quote.
For those of you who share in this fantasy, allow me a moment for rebuttal. Yes, it is true that a stay-at-home parent does not have a paying job, but that does not mean they are not working. You may work hard for nine hours a day, but your boss does not follow you home crying and demanding food. Your boss also does not sleep in the next room, and wake up two to three times per night crying and, you guessed it, demanding food. He or she also does not have an uncanny knack for grabbing your arm and screaming whenever you answer the phone or the door. They do not throw things at you when you have the audacity to give him/her milk instead of juice, spit up or throw up on your shirt, or (drumroll please) demand that you, ahem, change his/her diaper.
If your boss does demand any of these things, I beg you to find a new job.
Of course the flip side is the love and happiness the little ones’ provide. You just can’t get that with a “job”. I have to admit my heart melts every time Michael smiles at me out of the blue and says, “I love you Daddy.” Or when he gazes up with those big brown eyes and asks, “Are you having fun, Daddy?”
“Working” as a stay-at-home dad has brought out the full compliment of emotions. Everything from frustration to joy, usually occurring within a five-minute span. I still recall the time we were in line at the bank, and Michael began chanting “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” at the top of his lungs. The first 15 seconds were utter bliss. The final 5 minutes and 45 seconds were utter embarrassment. Or there was the time when I was carrying Michael out of the grocery store, and the little guy decided to yell “Help! Help me! Help!” all the way out the door. I was never arrested, so I guess the shoppers called his bluff.
Memories such as these sit like a box of chocolates in my mind, waiting to be enjoyed at a moment’s notice. The worst fear I’ve ever experienced happened the day Michael wandered out of our front door while I was vacuuming. I can still picture running from room to empty room, and never finding him. The pit in my stomach that formed upon realizing that he wasn’t in the house. The panic as I burst through the front door and ran down the street. The absolute relief I felt as I saw a strange woman walking up toward me with little Michael in her arms. His face the picture of innocence. And finally, the complete shame I felt as she unleashed a lecture for the ages. It’s all funny now, but you can bet your life that all doors are locked in the Ward household when it’s time to vacuum.
It would be easy to withhold information and act like these two years have all been easy. Act like I’ve been the perfect father, and staying home has been a natural transition for me. This is simply not true. During the first two years of his life, Michael screamed constantly. He screamed during the day. He screamed at night. Horrific screams surpassing normal infant crying and venturing toward torture. Inhuman sounds resembling a little boy actually being stabbed in the stomach. Doctors merely shrugged it off, using the trendy phrase of “colic.” Saying it was a “phase” that he would “grow out of.” Well, he never did. We finally discovered, however, that Michael suffers from severe food allergies. A complete overhaul of his diet managed to cure the screaming and reveal a wonderfully happy child.
I’m ashamed to say that I did not handle this challenge well. A combination of sleep deprivation and frustration transformed me into a monster that I will never recognize. Although I did not hurt Michael physically, I did lose my temper. There was plenty of yelling and swearing during the middle of the night. A nightmare I cannot erase and it nearly cost me everything. My marriage. My life. My little boy that I love so dearly. I have no excuses for my actions. I can only express my deepest regret and seek forgiveness each and every day.
This is where the Unitarian Universalist portion of my story comes into play. Shortly after our move, April talked me into attending a summer service at BUUF. I was hesitant to attend any “church,” but April explained that this church was different. This church celebrated all forms of religion and embraced diversity. I have to admit I was curious. So, reluctantly I entered this fabled sanctuary two summers ago. I still remember the lively service. The choir took center stage, performing songs from all over the world. Everyone was singing, laughing and, if you can believe it, happy to be there. It was an entirely new “religious” experience for me. We came back a few weeks later and a few weeks after that. Before long we were coming regularly, and we haven’t stopped coming since.
During January of that year I gathered enough courage to attend the New UU class taught by Steve Thomas. This was a huge decision for me. Remember that I spent most of my life railing against organized religion. So to even consider becoming a “member” of a church was life-altering stuff. Turns out it ranks among the best decisions of my life. I attended newcomer classes at the Catholic Church years before, and left after a short time disappointed by the experience. Lets just say the church and I didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye. Attending the New UU classes at BUUF was nothing like that. I found I actually enjoyed being there. I also found the more I researched the history of the church, the more I liked it. I really bonded with all of the people in the class, and Steve was, well, Steve. Which is to say a wonderful person who I’m sure you all miss as much as I do.
The class flew by, and before I realized it, I was standing in front of the BUUF fellowship accepting my pin and pledging membership. I didn’t feel nervous, or apprehensive. To borrow a line that Mitchell Bethel used during his spiritual journey speech last fall, I just felt “I was home.”
My journey at BUUF simply took off from there. Several members of the new UU class decided to keep meeting, and eventually we morphed into a group of friends rivaling any friendships I have ever known. We meet twice per month, and I look forward to their companionship and support. We call ourselves the “Optimystics” and without them, I wouldn’t have survived my late-night challenges with Michael. They helped me through the hard times, and ushered me out of a deep depression. I am eternally grateful to each and every one of them. As I am equally grateful to each and every one of you at BUUF. Coming here each week, I finally feel part of a community where I can be myself fully. I feel support. I feel love. For the first time in my pessimistic life, I feel hope for the future. If places like this do in fact exist, then this crazy world we live in has a fighting chance, don’t you think?
Recently it has been my great pleasure to watch my UU and stay-at-home-parenting journeys merge right here at BUUF. Michael has become a fixture in the nursery; making “pretend pizza” and wheeling his little shopping cart all around the sanctuary during coffee hour. I’m sure most of you have experienced a small bundle of curls ramming into your ankle with a miniature plastic cart. Sorry about that. My excitement grows when I think about Michael entering the wonderful religious education classes here at BUUF, and the amazing opportunities he has coming his way. A chance to learn about the world and all of its diverse beauty.
This journey has been both life-altering and life-enhancing. Some might argue that my experiences as a stay-at-home parent and a new UU are unrelated. I disagree. Both occurred at roughly the same time. Both brought clarity and meaning to my life. And both are endless adventures that promise fulfillment for the rest of my days here on Earth and beyond. It’s easy to get sentimental when tackling issues such as life, death and parenting, but I’ll leave you with some toddler wisdom. “Are you having fun, Daddy? Are you having fun?”
Yes. Yes I am.
- Dave
Friday, March 14, 2008
A star is born
Good evening and welcome to the first installment of Living the Dream's True Hollywood Story. Tonight we will examine the meteoric rise and subsequent fall of a young child prodigy by the name of Michael Patrick Ward. The tale of a career filled with abundant success and widespread praise, before tragically evaporating into obscurity behind a trail of sugar-highs, crankiness and tantrums. Over these next few minutes you will experience it all. All of the highs and the lows that Michael endured during his almost two full hours of fame, glory and adversity.
This IS the True Hollywood Story!
Our tale begins on a brisk spring morning in the quiet town of Boise, Idaho. A fresh-faced Michael skipped into the television studios of the local Public Broadcasting Station where his grandmother works. The station was deep in the throws of its annual pledge drive, and Michael quickly fell in love with the fast-paced environment. All of the lights, cameras and most importantly, balloons, left the little boy breathless with anticipation.
Michael was scheduled to make his appearance in front of the cameras just a few moments after arriving, but like many child prodigies before him, shyness overtook him and he opted to watch the proceedings for awhile. He sat mesmerized as the host used the cuteness of small children to coax the public to donate money.
When the second opportunity arrived, little Michael mustered up the courage to take a seat beside the host and kick off his career in front of the cameras. A breathless nation, or at least several dozen bored housewives in Boise, finally caught a glimpse of little Michael Ward.
The host began the show by interviewing Michael with a hand-held microphone. Here, for the first time, is the official transcript of that fateful exchange:
Chris (the host): Hi Michael, how old are you?
Michael: Well, really good!
Chris: Really good?!! How old is that?
Michael: Well, three ... years ... old!
From that point the shyness faded from Michael like an early-morning mist, and a budding star emerged. When a fellow child exclaimed that her favorite PBS show was "Caillou," Michael chimed in with, "Yeah! I like Caillou TOO!!" Displaying a natural flair for the dramatic, Michael emphasized his statement with a brisk waving of his finger. Realizing the emerging Bob Hope in his midst, Chris turned to Michael and asked,"Can you tell the people to call now?" Taking the cue and running with it, Michael responded with, "Call now! It's $9.99!!"
At this point Michael's star reached the stratosphere. The young phenom slipped into what is known in showbiz circles as "the zone." Michael began yanking the microphone out of Chris' hands and delivering a flurry of one-liners that will live in infamy. He followed with a 40-minute stand-up comedy routine and finished with an exclusive solo performance of "The Phantom of the Opera" in its entirety.
After the final breathtaking note escaped his mouth, Michael slumped to his knees while security guards rushed the stage, covered him in a diamond-encrusted cape, and began escorting him off James Brown style. But the show was not over! Michael brushed them aside, threw off the cape and burst into an emotional rendition of Frank Sinatra's "My Way," before finally leaving to a standing ovation from the tear-filled audience.
The performance earned a permanent place in Ward family legend.
Shortly after his brisk rise to stardom it was discovered that little Michael had been hiding an overpowering addiction to candy fruit treats. Several crew members caught little Michael sneaking two or three treats into his mouth when he thought no one was looking. This practice reached epic levels just minutes following his performance, and it wasn't long before the prodigy began showing unmistakable signs of addiction. There was crankiness, irritability and hyperactivity that disturbed those closest to him. Clearly the combination of stardom and sugar addiction were taking a toll.
His father made repeated attempts to intervene. To slow this cycle of addiction, yet Michael scoffed at these attempts and remained mired in his own misery.
When the time for his second performance arrived, Michael was clearly a shell of the inspiring performer that touched so many dozens of lives just an hour before. The magic was gone and what remained was nearly unwatchable. Michael took the stage amidst a contract dispute with the producer and quickly scoffed at a cameraman who dared to use an angle depicting his "bad" side. The young diva followed with a tantrum after he dropped his toy, and stomped out of the studio yelling, "I can't work under these conditions!! Do you have any idea who I AM!! Get my manager on the phone! Where is my latte?!!"
It was a dramatic fall signaling the end to a once promising career. Over a span of two fateful hours young Michael Ward experienced it all. The joys of stardom, the desperate pain of addiction, and the utter devastation of losing it all.
But our tale does have a happy ending. Young Michael returned home to find a large lunch prepared on the kitchen table. The combination of grilled chicken, chocolate chip cookies and milk helped restore balance to a young life so previously out of control. His mood brightened, and his addiction to candy fruit treats disappeared for at least the next few hours. After experiencing the glitz and glam of showbiz, young Michael has set his sights on a new aspiration. The young phenom is now dedicated to becoming the next Power Ranger and saving the universe from evil ninjas in cheesy costumes.
Stay tuned kiddies!
- Dave
This IS the True Hollywood Story!
Our tale begins on a brisk spring morning in the quiet town of Boise, Idaho. A fresh-faced Michael skipped into the television studios of the local Public Broadcasting Station where his grandmother works. The station was deep in the throws of its annual pledge drive, and Michael quickly fell in love with the fast-paced environment. All of the lights, cameras and most importantly, balloons, left the little boy breathless with anticipation.
Michael was scheduled to make his appearance in front of the cameras just a few moments after arriving, but like many child prodigies before him, shyness overtook him and he opted to watch the proceedings for awhile. He sat mesmerized as the host used the cuteness of small children to coax the public to donate money.
When the second opportunity arrived, little Michael mustered up the courage to take a seat beside the host and kick off his career in front of the cameras. A breathless nation, or at least several dozen bored housewives in Boise, finally caught a glimpse of little Michael Ward.
The host began the show by interviewing Michael with a hand-held microphone. Here, for the first time, is the official transcript of that fateful exchange:
Chris (the host): Hi Michael, how old are you?
Michael: Well, really good!
Chris: Really good?!! How old is that?
Michael: Well, three ... years ... old!
From that point the shyness faded from Michael like an early-morning mist, and a budding star emerged. When a fellow child exclaimed that her favorite PBS show was "Caillou," Michael chimed in with, "Yeah! I like Caillou TOO!!" Displaying a natural flair for the dramatic, Michael emphasized his statement with a brisk waving of his finger. Realizing the emerging Bob Hope in his midst, Chris turned to Michael and asked,"Can you tell the people to call now?" Taking the cue and running with it, Michael responded with, "Call now! It's $9.99!!"
At this point Michael's star reached the stratosphere. The young phenom slipped into what is known in showbiz circles as "the zone." Michael began yanking the microphone out of Chris' hands and delivering a flurry of one-liners that will live in infamy. He followed with a 40-minute stand-up comedy routine and finished with an exclusive solo performance of "The Phantom of the Opera" in its entirety.
After the final breathtaking note escaped his mouth, Michael slumped to his knees while security guards rushed the stage, covered him in a diamond-encrusted cape, and began escorting him off James Brown style. But the show was not over! Michael brushed them aside, threw off the cape and burst into an emotional rendition of Frank Sinatra's "My Way," before finally leaving to a standing ovation from the tear-filled audience.
The performance earned a permanent place in Ward family legend.
Shortly after his brisk rise to stardom it was discovered that little Michael had been hiding an overpowering addiction to candy fruit treats. Several crew members caught little Michael sneaking two or three treats into his mouth when he thought no one was looking. This practice reached epic levels just minutes following his performance, and it wasn't long before the prodigy began showing unmistakable signs of addiction. There was crankiness, irritability and hyperactivity that disturbed those closest to him. Clearly the combination of stardom and sugar addiction were taking a toll.
His father made repeated attempts to intervene. To slow this cycle of addiction, yet Michael scoffed at these attempts and remained mired in his own misery.
When the time for his second performance arrived, Michael was clearly a shell of the inspiring performer that touched so many dozens of lives just an hour before. The magic was gone and what remained was nearly unwatchable. Michael took the stage amidst a contract dispute with the producer and quickly scoffed at a cameraman who dared to use an angle depicting his "bad" side. The young diva followed with a tantrum after he dropped his toy, and stomped out of the studio yelling, "I can't work under these conditions!! Do you have any idea who I AM!! Get my manager on the phone! Where is my latte?!!"
It was a dramatic fall signaling the end to a once promising career. Over a span of two fateful hours young Michael Ward experienced it all. The joys of stardom, the desperate pain of addiction, and the utter devastation of losing it all.
But our tale does have a happy ending. Young Michael returned home to find a large lunch prepared on the kitchen table. The combination of grilled chicken, chocolate chip cookies and milk helped restore balance to a young life so previously out of control. His mood brightened, and his addiction to candy fruit treats disappeared for at least the next few hours. After experiencing the glitz and glam of showbiz, young Michael has set his sights on a new aspiration. The young phenom is now dedicated to becoming the next Power Ranger and saving the universe from evil ninjas in cheesy costumes.
Stay tuned kiddies!
- Dave
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
I Don't Believe You
If I could eliminate just one word from the dictionary, it would be "can't." I absolutely despise it. The very premise of the word. The very idea of no negotiating, no arguing, no wiggle room. You simply "can't" do that. Wear that. Think that.
Why does this word even exist? Isn't a major part of life's appeal the fact that anything is possible and that any thought, idea, or dream can be achieved? If not then what is the point? Why are we even here?
Can you imagine what the world would be like if every single person throughout history bought into this "can't" myth? If little Albert Einstein listened to the many people who undoubtedly told him, "You can't do that. You can't even tie your shoes!" Or if a young Mozart heeded the advice of, "You can't do that, you're just a child!"
On a much less dramatic note, what if all of the doctors, firefighters, authors, business leaders and other professionals prescribed to this "can't" attitude. There would be no progress and the world would never advance and prosper. Some might argue that progress is not always a good thing, but I'm sure you would agree that our lives today are much better than our great, great ancestors fighting for survival each and every waking moment.
We each have our own rituals to combat this "can't" trend. If we didn't we wouldn't ever leave the couch. We all have our ways of casting out negativity and steering a course toward the lives we desire.
Allow me an opportunity to share mine:
My way of casting out the "can't," involves turning on my CD player, slipping on the headphones, closing my eyes and drifting back to a crowded concert hall in Manchester, England, during the spring of 1966. Standing on stage that evening was a certain floppy-haired folksinger known as Bob Dylan. After entertaining the crowd for nearly an hour with nothing but an acoustic guitar, a harmonica and a microphone, Mr. Dylan left the stage for a short intermission to the sound of thunderous applause.
What happened next has become the subject of rock legend (and yes, I am a geek when it comes to music history). Dylan, arguably the most famous folksinger of all time, walked back on the stage holding an electric guitar. An entire band followed him, and within a matter of seconds, you can distinctly hear a voice counting off "One .... two .... three ... four!" and a wave of music blasts through the hall.
What follows is a 30-minute rock and roll show that changed the way people saw Bob Dylan forever. From that point on he was no longer the folksinging voice of a generation. He was a rocker, a poet and a true artist. You would imagine the crowd would have loved this transition, right? You can just see them rocking along to timeless classics such as "Like a Rolling Stone," and "Baby, Let Me Follow You Down," as the band poured them out. Well, actually, no. The crowd HATED it. There were a few polite applause from a stunned crowd after the opening song. The polite applause soon deteriorated into booing, heckling and finally silence.
Dylan and his band played through it all. You can hear one enlightened soul shout "Judas!" at Dylan, who simply replied "I don't believe you!" and kept on playing.
Here's the thing -- Dylan and his band were unbelievable that night! The music on this CD is simply jaw dropping. You've got one of the most inspirational artists of all time at his absolute apex, jamming along with a take-no-prisoners band and the result is simply magic. The problem is, no one in attendance was listening! The entire audience was so caught up with a, "You can't do that!" attitude that they missed it entirely.
My favorite part of the concert happens right before the final song. As the audience is absolutely beside itself with boos and jeers, Dylan turns to his band and yells, "Play f@#$% loud!" What follows is the most inspired version of "Like a Rolling Stone" you will ever hear. It gives me chills every time.
Faced with thousands of people booing, hissing and basically calling for his head, Dylan brushes it all aside, sticks to his artistic vision and yells "Play f#$%& loud!" If that's not inspiration, then I don't know what inspiration is.
There are times when I get stuck in "can't" mode. I feel like I "can't" do this or that. Think this or that. Wear this or that. When that happens all I have to do is picture ole' Bob standing on a stage in England living out his dreams. Audience be damned!
I say we all take a cue from ole' Bob and cast "can't" out of our vocabulary. Find the courage to live out our dreams regardless of the consequences. What's the worst that can happen? Even if an entire concert hall decides to boo and heckle us, we know at least one person who's already been through it, and things turned out pretty good for him.
Play loud kiddies!
- Dave
Why does this word even exist? Isn't a major part of life's appeal the fact that anything is possible and that any thought, idea, or dream can be achieved? If not then what is the point? Why are we even here?
Can you imagine what the world would be like if every single person throughout history bought into this "can't" myth? If little Albert Einstein listened to the many people who undoubtedly told him, "You can't do that. You can't even tie your shoes!" Or if a young Mozart heeded the advice of, "You can't do that, you're just a child!"
On a much less dramatic note, what if all of the doctors, firefighters, authors, business leaders and other professionals prescribed to this "can't" attitude. There would be no progress and the world would never advance and prosper. Some might argue that progress is not always a good thing, but I'm sure you would agree that our lives today are much better than our great, great ancestors fighting for survival each and every waking moment.
We each have our own rituals to combat this "can't" trend. If we didn't we wouldn't ever leave the couch. We all have our ways of casting out negativity and steering a course toward the lives we desire.
Allow me an opportunity to share mine:
My way of casting out the "can't," involves turning on my CD player, slipping on the headphones, closing my eyes and drifting back to a crowded concert hall in Manchester, England, during the spring of 1966. Standing on stage that evening was a certain floppy-haired folksinger known as Bob Dylan. After entertaining the crowd for nearly an hour with nothing but an acoustic guitar, a harmonica and a microphone, Mr. Dylan left the stage for a short intermission to the sound of thunderous applause.
What happened next has become the subject of rock legend (and yes, I am a geek when it comes to music history). Dylan, arguably the most famous folksinger of all time, walked back on the stage holding an electric guitar. An entire band followed him, and within a matter of seconds, you can distinctly hear a voice counting off "One .... two .... three ... four!" and a wave of music blasts through the hall.
What follows is a 30-minute rock and roll show that changed the way people saw Bob Dylan forever. From that point on he was no longer the folksinging voice of a generation. He was a rocker, a poet and a true artist. You would imagine the crowd would have loved this transition, right? You can just see them rocking along to timeless classics such as "Like a Rolling Stone," and "Baby, Let Me Follow You Down," as the band poured them out. Well, actually, no. The crowd HATED it. There were a few polite applause from a stunned crowd after the opening song. The polite applause soon deteriorated into booing, heckling and finally silence.
Dylan and his band played through it all. You can hear one enlightened soul shout "Judas!" at Dylan, who simply replied "I don't believe you!" and kept on playing.
Here's the thing -- Dylan and his band were unbelievable that night! The music on this CD is simply jaw dropping. You've got one of the most inspirational artists of all time at his absolute apex, jamming along with a take-no-prisoners band and the result is simply magic. The problem is, no one in attendance was listening! The entire audience was so caught up with a, "You can't do that!" attitude that they missed it entirely.
My favorite part of the concert happens right before the final song. As the audience is absolutely beside itself with boos and jeers, Dylan turns to his band and yells, "Play f@#$% loud!" What follows is the most inspired version of "Like a Rolling Stone" you will ever hear. It gives me chills every time.
Faced with thousands of people booing, hissing and basically calling for his head, Dylan brushes it all aside, sticks to his artistic vision and yells "Play f#$%& loud!" If that's not inspiration, then I don't know what inspiration is.
There are times when I get stuck in "can't" mode. I feel like I "can't" do this or that. Think this or that. Wear this or that. When that happens all I have to do is picture ole' Bob standing on a stage in England living out his dreams. Audience be damned!
I say we all take a cue from ole' Bob and cast "can't" out of our vocabulary. Find the courage to live out our dreams regardless of the consequences. What's the worst that can happen? Even if an entire concert hall decides to boo and heckle us, we know at least one person who's already been through it, and things turned out pretty good for him.
Play loud kiddies!
- Dave
Friday, March 7, 2008
Tear in ma Beer
Seems I'm havin' myself a country-song type a day. Everthin's goin' wrong, even when it's goin' right. So get out yer hat, yer slide-guitar and yer kleenex, and sing along kiddies!
"Ma Life"
By Graybeard Davy
Ma boy woke me up this mornin'
About an hour before he sup-oohhhhh-stahh
I cut ma chin again shavin'
Now I'm bleadin' from here to Tuuullll-sa
Jumped in ma Jeep to drive away my paaaaiiinnn
But ma danged CD done gone and skipped aggaaaaiiinn
I recken this is ma liiiiiiiiiffffffeeee (ooooohhhhh)
Scoopin up dog chow and cookin' dinner for ma wiiiifff
Boy I guess I outta be glaaaad
Next to jury duty this might not be so baaaaad
Had a buddy call out a faaaa-verrr
Seems I promised some heavy laaaa-berrr
Now I'm spendin' ma weekend washin' dishes
Come back genie I need a few more wishes
I recken this is ma liiiiiiiiiffffffeeee (ooooohhhhh)
Scoopin up dog chow and cookin' dinner for ma wiiiifff
Boy I guess I outta be glaaaad
Next to jury duty this might not be so baaaaad
Ma boy's gotta 'nother tummy aaaakkkk
He's a-cryin' and carryin' on for goodness saaaakkk
Oh please God let that Mo-trin kick in
If he'd just stop cryin' I'll nee-ver sin again
I recken this is ma liiiiiiiiiffffffeeee (ooooohhhhh)
Scoopin up dog chow and cookin' dinner for ma wiiiifff
Boy I guess I outta be glaaaad
Next to jury duty this might not be so baaaaad
I'll end this little ditty with a joke I heard from ma pals Jay and Carol. Just what, do ya suppose, ya get when ya play a country song backwards? Well, ya get yer dog back, yer truck back, yer house back, yer wife back .....
Yeeeeha!
- Dave
"Ma Life"
By Graybeard Davy
Ma boy woke me up this mornin'
About an hour before he sup-oohhhhh-stahh
I cut ma chin again shavin'
Now I'm bleadin' from here to Tuuullll-sa
Jumped in ma Jeep to drive away my paaaaiiinnn
But ma danged CD done gone and skipped aggaaaaiiinn
I recken this is ma liiiiiiiiiffffffeeee (ooooohhhhh)
Scoopin up dog chow and cookin' dinner for ma wiiiifff
Boy I guess I outta be glaaaad
Next to jury duty this might not be so baaaaad
Had a buddy call out a faaaa-verrr
Seems I promised some heavy laaaa-berrr
Now I'm spendin' ma weekend washin' dishes
Come back genie I need a few more wishes
I recken this is ma liiiiiiiiiffffffeeee (ooooohhhhh)
Scoopin up dog chow and cookin' dinner for ma wiiiifff
Boy I guess I outta be glaaaad
Next to jury duty this might not be so baaaaad
Ma boy's gotta 'nother tummy aaaakkkk
He's a-cryin' and carryin' on for goodness saaaakkk
Oh please God let that Mo-trin kick in
If he'd just stop cryin' I'll nee-ver sin again
I recken this is ma liiiiiiiiiffffffeeee (ooooohhhhh)
Scoopin up dog chow and cookin' dinner for ma wiiiifff
Boy I guess I outta be glaaaad
Next to jury duty this might not be so baaaaad
I'll end this little ditty with a joke I heard from ma pals Jay and Carol. Just what, do ya suppose, ya get when ya play a country song backwards? Well, ya get yer dog back, yer truck back, yer house back, yer wife back .....
Yeeeeha!
- Dave
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