I cracked the laptop screen on vacation. The one that we got for you special, the Macbook Pro with all the upgrades. I was so disappointed with myself. It happened near the end, too. It’s a hairline fracture. Noticeable, but not productivity-hampering. Just enough to really irk me that I let it happen.
We finally gave away the rest of your clothes. I mean, all of the stuff that was worth saving but not brand-new/like-new-that-might-be-sellable-LuLaRoe stuff. Most of it went to J & M up in Oregon. They absolutely loved it, it was like early Christmas for them. There were some things that didn’t fit their style or size, so I returned home with a small bag of clothes to donate to wherever. I left it sitting in the closet, not on the floor but near floor-level.
Keira, while I was gone recording the podcast (@RARCpodcast | iTunes | Google), got into this bag of your clothes and pulled out a shirt. She didn’t chew or bit or otherwise maim it, she just pulled it out of the bag and left it there on the floor nearby. As if she’d smelled your scent, faint though it must have been, for a brief moment, investigated, and found that you were not there.
If only I could tell her how many times I’ve done that. Not literally, of course, but figuratively, metaphorically. Spiritually even.
I saw you last night in my dreams. More clear and close than I have in over a year. I felt your hand squeeze mine, for the very briefest of moments. I tried to capture that moment, to hold on longer, to curl up into a ball of warm memories, a puddle of desperate longing. It almost worked.
I saw your eyes. Your big, beautiful, blue-green eyes. They were closed for a blink, but they opened up and looked back at me. For the very briefest of moments. I knew that moment was fleeting. Light and time were already beckoning me to wake. Just a little longer, I beg. But no.
I heard your voice. Your sweet, strong, comforting voice. We had an argument that passed just as quickly as the dream itself. Even in that, the pangs of familiarity pulled at my heart. And we reconciled, and became as one. And it was gone.
You were sitting across from me, listening to me talk about something that was about to happen, as if it already had. You had no words, only your loving and knowing eyes. Are you still with me? Do you keep vigil on these lonesome roads and dark nights? Do you still love me?
Holy good gawd, has it really been 2 weeks? My apologies, dear reader. As the millennials say, “the struggle is real”. Thanks for bearing with me. 😉
Every day I think of you. Today was no different. I was shopping at Target, refilling some of the now empty OTC medicines that we used to go through by the pound — Tylenol, Advil, Benadryl, Zantac, Melatonin, Gas-X. Obviously after October I still had quite a stock-full, but slowly & surely, as I realized that I still need to take care of myself the way you would have wanted me to, I did use them. Aches and pains, upset stomach, insomnia. Most of them help in the way they’re supposed to.
Anyway, this immediately flooded my head with memories. Whether it was with you on one of these hundreds of shopping trips, or bringing them home to you for some much needed relief, or just knowing that you were still looking over my shoulder, gently reminding me that “It’s okay to not be okay.”
I try to stay active, but it’s been hard. The heat wave is killer. Oh we’d be paying heavenly bills right now for A/C, there’s no doubt about that. I’d do it in a heartbeat for you. I’d move the polar ice caps to have you back home with me.
Motivation for work has been a struggle. It’s not that they’re treating me unfair or taking advantage of me, like the old job sometimes did. No, things are great here, still, after over 3 and a half years. Just like you and your mom said they would be. I just can’t seem to find the chutzpa to get up-and-at-it like I used to. Even as recently as a few months ago. Can you help me find it again?
Carry on… Give me all the strength I need, to carry on.
So let the light guide your way. Hold every memory as you go. And every road you take, Will always lead you home.
It’s been a long day, without you my friend. And I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again.
We all have our traditions. If you’re American like me, one of them probably involves doing a barbecue, and seeing some fireworks (or launching some of your own, if they’re legal in your county/city), tomorrow on July 4th. My wife and I usually did that too.
I’d like to share with you another tradition, which I think was a little more unique to us, or to her rather. It was also super adorable and always made me giggle.
Many of you know the 1996 sci-fi classic Independence Day. Will Smith, Bill Pullman (underrated actor, btw), Jeff Goldblum, Randy Quaid, Judd Hirsch, and that poor actress that nobody remembers. And Data, being charmingly creepy as usual. It’s a wonderful, highly quotable (“Yes yes, yes, without the ‘oops’!”) summer blockbuster alien-flick with just the right amount of cheese.
Our tradition was that we’d watch this movie together, on or around the 4th. She’d actually been doing this before she met me, regaling her family with quoted lines and re-enactments of key moments.
But the best part, the very most endearing, silly, and charming thing she did, was this: She would recite, word-for-word, that ridiculous fervent patriotic hype-up-the-troops speech which the president gives to his combat pilots just before the climactic aerial battle that defines the film’s final act. And of course we’d all applaud her like we were just as amped as those soldiers about to fly to their collective doom. (Spoiler alert!)
I mean, they don’t ALL die, but if you expected more than a few key characters.. and the token rando.. to walk out alive, you obviously don’t know how these scenarios play out. =P
And so, without further ado, I present to you, that speech. Because it’s awesome. And she was awesome for doing it, for making us laugh, and for brining us together with joy and love.
In less than an hour, aircraft from here will join others from around the world; And you will be launching the largest aerial battle in the history of mankind.
“Mankind…” That word should have new meaning for all of us today. We can’t be consumed by our petty differences anymore. We will be united in our common interests.
Perhaps it’s fate that today is the Fourth of July, and you will once again be fighting for our freedom… Not from tyranny, oppression, or persecution… but from annihilation. We are fighting for our right to live. To exist.
And should we win the day, the Fourth of July will no longer be known as an American holiday, but as the day the world declared in one voice: “We will not go quietly into the night!” We will not vanish without a fight! We’re going to live on! We’re going to survive!
Today, we celebrate, our Independence Day!
If you’ve never seen the movie, do yourself a favor and watch it (on Hulu!). It’s just good old fashioned 90s sci-fi fun. And it actually holds up pretty well for its age.
Now go have an enjoyable, safe holiday weekend! Or, as Harry Connick Jr’s character would say…
Let’s kick the tires and light the fires, big daddy!
Since I forgot to prepare something for Friday, these are few random tidbits from my grief journal about little things that remind me of her, sometimes catching me off-guard. I hope that you may find some solace in knowing that they happen to every griever, in a million unexpected ways.
I found myself talking back to a movie like we used to do. It was Shooter, with your boyfriend Marky-Mark (Wahlberg). Such a fantastic movie. But as I was talking to it, I caught myself in a moment as if you were with me. Then it faded just as quickly. We won’t ever do that together again.
This sunburn spot below my neck is driving me insane. You would have reminded me to put on sunscreen for the snow. I miss your reminders. I love you.
After they leave, I gather my strength for one last clean sweep of the old apartment. I purge a little more, I stow the rest in the pickup, sweep and sweep, and finally say goodbye. There is no emotion nor attachment left to this place. You are gone from it; you are with me, but above me, like the subtle hint of rainbows spilling across the sky yet touching the ground somewhere undefined. I know that no matter how close I come to the source, I will not find it again.
As I’m sifting through our old gadgets, I reminisce about our early days. There was that infamous call from the peak of Mount Lassen when I went camping the summer of 2008, just after we’d started talking – the “smile ten-miles wide”. I can still recall that first ten-mile-wide smile on your warm inviting face, those deep steel-blue eyes, that sunny blond hair and sun-kissed California skin. Life began that day. And ended the day you passed away. Nothing in this world will ever be as beautiful as you.
My subconscious must be in denial. I saw you come back to me. As though you had simply gone missing for months, but returned alive and well. I told you of many things that happened while you were away. Including, of all the strangely random things, the results of your .. not colonoscopy, but that similar thing where they make you swallow a camera and then take a bunch of pictures of your digestive tract and stuff. Which you really did have done not that long ago.
We embraced, but it was fleeting. We spoke with words of silence and in quickly forgotten whispers. Then we settled back into some oddly normal routine. You asked me to make you a fruit smoothie. Also with a tiny camera in it. Apparently you weren’t satisfied with the results the first time?
And then, as most dreams do, it got strange..er. We were in bed; a night had passed. I was trying to get up. I did, and you had rolled over into my spot and lay there sleeping so peacefully, comfortably. I stroked your arm and whispered a word of comfort as it looked like you had a bad dream for a second. Scene re-set. I’m trying to get up from the same position again, barely able to move. You’re no longer there. I stumble and turn back to see myself still sleeping on the bed. Not you. No more you.
Scene re-set. I’m stuck in a position but trying to get up again; the dog is next to the bed, but when I finally wrest myself from the pillow and stand, the dog is on the bed too — a replica? Scene re-set. This time I’m truly struggling to get up and awake. One more time. Some kind of strange background noise, almost like elevator music, seems to have been playing on repeat this whole time; I get a flash of an announcer-style voice saying “thank you for trying such-and-such wake-up tunes; this has been a free trial, but if you’d like more, please call and subscribe.” The hell? I literally drag myself out of the bed one last time, barely moving, almost purposefully trying to fall over to cause some kind of jolting motion in hopes that, like Inception, it will trigger a “real” wake-up.
It does. And I’m alone. Well, except for the dog. And she’s not replicating, thank God.
This is something of a love-letter, to the band that defined my teenage years and still, even into adulthood, continues to be on regular rotation in my playlist. A band that almost none of you have likely heard of, let alone have heard their music. They never received much radio play. Nor did they garner much media attention. Until they reunited and launched a Kickstarter campaign to tour and ultimately self-produce a brand new album, which at the time and in their particular market was nearly unheard-of.
Growing up, my exposure to music was, let’s say, sheltered. Quite. My parents pretty much listened to Country and Churchy music with little exception. You’d think, having grown up in the 60s – 70s, they’d have at least a bit of disco or classic rock in their repertoire, but nope. Randy Travis, Clint Black, Alan Jackson, Reba McIntire, Shania Twain, etc. Now, as most children of the 90s did, us kids had a boom box — a combination CD player, tape player, and AM/FM radio. And what did we do with this? Mix tapes, obviously! But it was never much of a “mix”. I’d try to ask for the “jazziest” songs from the various western albums. My dad even branched out to Steven Curtis Chapman and some no-name Christian soft-rap-rock-worship hybrid mess.
Then some of the
other kids in the youth group introduced us to DC Talk, the Newsboys, Audio
Adrenaline, Skillet, and other acts of the late 90s contemporary Christian
alt-rock spinoff movement. This was
where Switchfoot and P.O.D. got their start, you know; before they sold out to
corporate or got caught with their pants around their ankles. These were okay, but ultimately forgettable,
like so many waves on the sand.
My friend Michael, from across the street, had an older brother, Brian. One day when I was over, waiting for Michael to do something, Brian let me come check out his CD collection and his computer games. I asked if he had any music recommendations, and he pulled out a few albums by this band I’d obviously never heard of called Five Iron Frenzy. And the rest, as they say, is history.
I was in eighth grade; appropriate, since the first line of a verse in one of these songs was exactly that. Brian loaned me their first three CDs. I knew the parents would approve because they were a Christian band, but I’d never heard of this “ska” genre before. Five Iron Frenzy’s album art was wonderfully done: deceptively simple hand drawings that held such deeper weight behind them. I got them home to the boombox, and popped in the first disc. From the blast of that distorted guitar chord, the blare of those horns, and that absolutely biting sarcasm of the intro track, ‘Old West’, I was hooked. Between the boombox and a couple disc-mans (disc-men?), those CDs played dozens of times throughout my teens and early 20s.
In sophomore year, their next album came out, and boy was I excited. All the Hype That Money Can Buy was the first CD I bought with my very own dough, hard-earned at the Burger King down the street. Being a Colorado based band, they were heavily influenced by the Columbine school shooting, which shined through in the track ‘A New Hope’. Once, in college, thinking I was being profound, I would sneak into one of those larger lecture halls and write the lyrics to its refrain on the big chalk board for the next attendees to find and ponder. “Peace floods us, by hope we steer; our dark hearts salvaged, we live without fear.” That line can still give me goosebumps. Although, it’s not quite as impactful as the conclusion to The End is Near‘s ‘On Distant Shores’, which cleverly calls back to their second album’s final track, and builds to such breathtaking catharsis that I can still feel the lump in my throat every time I sing along with it. But more on that in a minute.
Later, in 2001 or
early 2002, I was lucky enough to attend their concert at the Glass House in
Riverside, CA. I even made an iron-on
tee with their name on it to wear to the show.
They were horribly late to start; I think we stood there almost an hour
and half past the scheduled time. But it
was worth it. Super high energy, loud,
slightly mosh-y, and all my new favorite songs.
I would later come to realize that they weren’t all that spectacular as
a live act — they tended to rush tempo during shows to get more songs out in a
limited time, and the quality suffered a bit — but still, that was a memorable
Let me take you on a little journey through the ‘FIF’ (as their fans affectionately abbreviated) albums themselves, in a small tribute to the journey of musical discovery that they sparked for me.
The first album, Upbeats and Beatdowns, seethed with sardonic wit like nothing I’d ever heard before, in tracks such as ‘Old West’ and ‘Beautiful America’. It juxtaposed nicely with the humble sincerity of ‘Where Zero Meets Fifteen’ and ‘Milestone’. And heck if I don’t belt out those la-la-la’s from ‘Cool Enough for You’ every single time. Sure, there were some throwaways, like ‘Combat Chuck’, and they suffered a bit from the lack of lyrical enunciation, like most third wave ska did at some point in their career, but it was pretty solid.
That first album was good, but the second, Our Newest Album Ever, blew me away. More cutting sarcasm in ‘Handbook for the Sellout’ and ‘Fist Full of Sand’, more silly antics like ‘Where is Micah?’ and ‘Oh Canada’, and more heartfelt sincerity in ‘Suckerpunch’ and ‘Second Season’. This is where their own little inside-meme began with ‘Blue Comb 78’. You could also see a developing theme in ‘Banner Year’, where for the second time in as many albums, they denounced the historically covered-up atrocities committed against Native Americans. But the crown jewel has to be ‘Every New Day’, the final track, which takes upon itself the pressure of striving to be a good example of God’s love yet trying to just fit in with your peers, and builds it up only to release it again with the realization that it’s perfectly okay to not be perfect.
Most listeners, outside the die-hard fans, could be forgiven for forgetting about Quantity is Job 1. It wasn’t really an album, technically; it was an ‘EP’, old-timey record-store lingo for ‘Extended Play’, meaning somewhere between an ‘Single’ and an full ‘LP’ album. It mostly consisted of seven-ish tracks parodying all different musical styles with a ridiculous ‘Whose pants are these?’ mini-song. The two shining stars here have to be ‘One Girl Army’, a sharp anti-chauvinism tune that gave their lone female member a well-deserved spotlight, and ‘All That is Good’, an encouragement to be more open-minded and think critically in the face of blind dogma. Also, I used the innocently hopeful theme of ‘Dandelions’ as an inspiration for an English paper.
Now, as I said, when
their next album released, my anticipation was high. When I brought home that maddeningly
shrink-wrapped disc and its bright orange themed cover with a funny little
picture of a white guy in a fro trying to dunk a basketball, I knew this was
going to be good. But I had no idea what
I was in for. It starts with some truly
upbeat positivity in ‘The Greatest Story’ and ‘Solidarity’, and you can sense
the Latin influence in some salsa-esque beats as their producer yips and yelps
‘Oi!’, culminating in the decidedly Hispanic-flavored ‘Hurricanes’. We get some expected silliness, and a bit of
hair-metal, in ‘Phantom Mullet’, and a self-deprecating banjo-twanged song
about their home state. Plus a batch of
freshly crisp criticism of the church’s bigotry and inbuilt phobias in
‘Fahrenheit’ and ‘Four-Fifty-One’.
It wasn’t until ‘Giants’, the bleak outcry against mega-corporations’ takeover of society, that the subtly subversive hook truly sunk in for good. I knew that I needed more. And the title track ‘All The Hype’ surely delivered. Followed by a seemingly random cover of ‘It’s Not Unusual’, which ends hilariously with Reese saying ‘more reverb!’ as his ears get pummeled by bad guitar outros. Finally, we have the concluding tracks, ‘A New Hope’ and ‘World Without End’. There is a palpable pain there from the school shooting that, in manifesting our worst fears, seems to have become an American trend. Yet, it ultimately gives way to a heartfelt peace and love, expressed as a choral refrain with bells, for a reassuring sense that everything will eventually be alright.
By this time, the
band was maturing, knowing that the ska wave of the 90s was ending, so they
made a small shift towards pop-punk (with horns). If the previous album was a whimsical
mish-mash of musical experimentation, this was a truly polished experience with
a consistent theme and sound. Vol. 2: Electric Boogaloo, as the name would
suggest, signaled a reinvention, a sequel that would be different enough yet
still true to its roots; and unlike the movie, not widely regarded as
terrible. This is the album that
embossed their talents well, and established that they were not just some
passing fad. The self-deprecating humor
returned in ‘Pre-Ex Girlfriend’ and ‘You Can’t Handle This’, the struggle of
attempting to live a Godly life in ‘Spartan’ and ‘Eulogy’, and the inveigh upon
immoral practices in the name of religion through ‘Blue Mix’ and ‘The Day We
Killed’. Much like ‘Giants’ in the
previous album, ‘Vultures’, another blighting critique of excessive capitalism,
tipped my fandom from a ten to an eleven.
Three years went by. College, other musical discoveries, my palette shifting to classic rock. Yet their special place in my heart never grew cold. Unfortunately, through some bad combination of ignorance, busyness with college, and obsession with Warcraft 3, I completely missed the fact that they quit touring in 2003. They released the double-disc set The End Is Here in 2004, a culmination of their last studio album and their final concert from their hometown of Denver. I learned about it a few years later from a coworker, and while I was a little heartbroken that they were gone, I was absolutely enamored with the work itself.
Right from the
start, the blast of ‘Cannonball’ kicks up your eardrums with aplomb. ‘New Years Eve’ feels so incredibly
true-to-life that I literally thought it was about me. Of course there’s the usual fun antics with
‘At Least I’m Not Like All Those Other Old Guys’ and ‘Wizard Needs Food
Badly’. The searing criticisms, first of
religious dogmatism/legalism with ‘Farewell to Arms’, then of fear-based news
media in ‘Anchors Away’, still hit home more than a decade later. And ‘Something Like Laughter’ serves up
another faithful reminder that Feminism is not
anti-Christian, and visa-versa.
Finally, we come to ‘On Distant Shores’. At first, it sounds a little too upbeat to be goodbye. But as it builds, the permeating theme of divine forgiveness in the face of failure, which ultimately defines much of their catalog, rings truer than ever before. With such beautiful poetry, the pulsing acknowledgement that what we do with our lives is so often marred with selfish intent and shortcomings, cathartically transforms into that quintessential refrain from ‘Every New Day’, as both the listener and the band itself are invited to rest their weary heads in the solace of God’s infinite love and mercy. In this understanding that every day we live is another gift — another opportunity to build up our fellow man and woman instead of tear them down, and to be that light, however dim or scratched or scarred, to a world that so desperately needs it.
Since then, I will admit that I originally missed out on their Kickstarter-fueled 2013 reunion and album Engine of a Million Plots. Yet, thanks to that same coworker and fellow fan, I knew of it, and I gave it a solid listen. So far, ‘Battle Dancing Unicorns with Glitter’ is my favorite song title of recent history, and it’s the one that’s stuck in my head at the moment. ‘Zen and the Art of Xenophobia’ is perhaps their most biting critique of American cultural pitfalls to date, which feels hauntingly prophetic when you realize that it was written before the Trump White House. And ‘Into Your Veins’ turns the self-parody up to eleven, as they proclaim to feed your addiction to their very words, knowing full-well that it’s a completely ludicrous notion.
Truly, Five Iron has always been ahead of their time. And as they go about their mid-lives, hold down actual careers while balancing the occasional weekend concert or two, and reflect back on their glory days, I hope they will remember them as fondly as I do. Because their music had soul, in a market where, ironically, that was lacking; and silliness, in a market that often took itself way too seriously. It had an encouraging undercurrent of questioning the status-quo, which, however aged and comfortable we become with our tired traditions, is essential to an active mind and a productive person. Above all, may they never lose sight of what made them great in the first place: love. For each other, for God, for the youth, for people in general. And for the sometimes thankless, seemingly futile task of trying to bring some spark of peace and hope to those around them. Indeed, ‘It Was Beautiful.’