Christmas Wishes from a Special Guest Blogger

Today's post is by a special guest blogger, though this was written well before any blog existed. Before the internet existed. Heck, even before I existed, though I was on the way. Today's guest blogger is my mother, Lisa Jeanne. This piece was often included in outgoing Christmas cards to family and friends and though she has not been with us for nearly a decade, her words are as powerful as ever. Perhaps more so given these troubled times. They deserve to be shared with a wider audience this holiday season. So without further ado, please enjoy:

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We wish for you what we wish for ourselves--a Christmastime of thoughtfulness and rest, of assessment and compassion. A time to look back on the year just passed and sort out wastefulness from growth. A time to plan a new year of work informed by respect for individual worth and love for one another. A Christmastime of realizing that time is all there is--and is not too late to change our lives. 

We wish for all of us the courage to hold on to a vision of a world in which children are born wanted and loved with enough food and care and shelter to grow up whole. The vision of all people as perfectable and transcendent--free of social prisons of sex and race--and remarkable for the hopes and dreams and capabilities that exist in unique and unrepeatable combinations in each of us. 

This Christmastime it is too late to justify suffering with the promise of rewards in some other world. Too late for nationalism, for racism, for violence, or for the belief that one can win only if another has truly lost. Too late even for brotherhood of man because it has excluded the sisterhood of woman, and therefore the humanity in us all. 

At last we begin. We look into the god in each of us and say YES. We celebrate the world outside us. We say peace on Earth, good will to people. 

Melissa Jeanne, 1966

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Merry Christmas to those who celebrate the season, and a Happy New Year to all.

How to Tell Your Kids the Truth About the Santa Claus Myth

A few months ago, I posted a belated eulogy to my friend Rob who passed away unexpectedly in October 2018. It dealt with immortality and its many forms. Today I would like to revisit the subject with an important topic most parents who celebrate a secular Christmas must deal with at some point or another.

For years I agonized about how I would explain the Santa Claus myth to my children once they got too old to believe (although are any of us really too old to believe in the everlasting symbol and spirit of Christmas?).

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As a child, after hearing kids at school claim there was no Santa Claus, I had to know for sure and I asked my mother to give it to me straight. She sat me down and explained the truth. I felt cheated. I felt like one of the happiest parts of my life had been a lie and that I had been deliberately deceived by those I trusted most. I vowed that if I ever had children, I would not lie to them the way I had been lied to.

But then kids happened. My older was born a few days before Christmas, so I had at least a full year to figure out what to do about the St. Nick myth. Because that guy is everywhere during the holidays. In songs, on television, peeking cryptically from the covers of books and magazines, winking from greeting cards, his droll little mouth drawn up like a bow everywhere you looked.

So that presented a dilemma. I could refuse to perpetuate the myth, but that would merely cause confusion when every other source of incoming information says that Santa Claus does, in fact, exist. Even the editor of the (now defunct) New York Sun once insisted to a little girl that "Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus." And Santa symbolizes so much cheer and goodwill, wouldn't it be cruel to deny my kids a decade of magic and merriment in imagining the right jolly old elf visited once a year, courtesy of a team of flying reindeer, to bring them toys and treats? I've seen Miracle on 34^th Street and always thought the mother character so cold in denying her daughter the joy of Santa Claus (well, the joke was on her, am I right?)

So we went with it. We perpetuated the myth, all the while dreading the day I would be asked to elucidate on exactly how one man can traverse an entire planet in a single night with enough room on his sleigh for toys for every single child. Or how he could live for so long, being the benevolent bearer of gifts for generation after generation of kids from one to ninety-two. For a while, as they grew older and more dubious, certain sources would act as a salve to their doubt. The Polar Express deals with doubt and belief in a beautiful fashion. The various Rankin/Bass stop-motion specials provided Kris Kringle origin stories and explanations and affirmations and perfectly perpetuated the myth for years. The aforementioned Miracle on 34^th Street, which proved, irrefutably, in a courtroom, that Santa Claus exists.

Then, one day, it happened. My older came home from school and reported a teacher who said that Santa Claus didn't exist and that anyone who still believed in him was too old for such. Okay, real quick: If you're not the child's parent YOU DO NOT GET TO DECIDE WHEN OR HOW THEY LEARN ABOUT SANTA CLAUS. I cannot stress this enough. You do not get to do that. Go have your own children and tell it to them, but leave mine out of it especially when it's none of your damn business. They'll come to you when they're ready to know. Kids are smarter than they're often given credit for; trust their instincts. 

So I sat her down and asked her what she knew about immortality. Being a Star Wars fanatic, she cited blue force ghosts and Luke Skywalker sagely advising: "No one's ever really gone." We talked about different forms of immortality. I told her no one physically lives forever, not even Santa Claus, but he's very much alive in other forms. Dozens of songs and poems keep his spirit alive. Hundreds of programs and films. I played the man once in a 3rd grade play. I told her to just look around at Christmastime: Santa is everywhere. She asked if he's not alive in body, then who delivers all the presents on Christmas Eve? I explained that St. Nicholas is based on a real person who did deliver presents to children at one time and that while he may no longer be alive, his legacy lives on. He's become bigger than a living person could ever possibly be, not a myth, but a legend. Santa Claus is the most recognized face on the planet. He has become an idea and an ideal. He has been immortalized in song and story, and in that way can never die. She still looked doubtful and said, "So you're Santa Claus then?" This is the question I had been waiting for. I clinched it for her.

I said, "Anyone who knows the truth about Santa Claus becomes him. Yes, I am Santa Claus. Your mother is Santa Claus. So are your grandparents, your aunts and uncles. Everyone who has ever given gifts in his name is Santa Claus. And now, with this knowledge, you are Santa Claus. He lives on through you."

That did the trick. All was well. She was satisfied. I'd done my job as a parent as honestly as I could and didn't cheat her (at least I hope; I'm sure some will attempt to correct me on that). I proved to her that Santa does exist, as sure as she exists. Or as her idol Luke Skywalker might have paraphrased: "A thousand generations of Santa live in you now."

And then, as a kind of epilogue, and, admittedly, to not destroy all belief in one fell swoop, I told her--and this is 100% true, something I'll swear to with my dying breath, whether or not you choose to believe it--that shortly after I learned "the truth," I fell asleep on the couch one Christmas Eve and around midnight blinked awake to see Santa standing nearby, admiring our tree. He turned his head to me, touched a finger to his lips, smiled, and vanished. I'm sure it was nothing more than the fading remnants of a kid's last hope clinging to the myth he'd believed for nearly a decade. That has to be it. Right?

Right?

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate the holiday and best wishes for a Happy New Year. 

Eulogy, A Year Removed

Photo credit David Scharenberg

A year ago today, a close friend of mine passed unexpectedly. We met in the late 90s through an acquaintance when the ragtag outfit of musicians I consider my first band badly needed a drummer. No one we tried out even came close to the personality or musician we sought.

The acquaintance told me, "Hey I know this complete animal who would fit right in. Better yet, he's a great person." He introduced us to Rob, who had come home on military leave, and he could not have been more right. Rob was both an animal of a drummer and a great person, who became a great friend. Who became a brother.

I could spin endless threads about the adventures we shared in the two decades plus that I knew him (half of that time playing in various rock outfits), but I won't. Not here. Ask my sometime face to face. That's where they belong, not in this cold web deadspace. I will tell you this, though:

In my memories, I can feel in all five senses. I can smell the tang of weed and ancient ashtrays of each backstage of every venue we played; I can hear the audience clamoring, a raucous, multi-headed creature, hungry to hear what they paid for, and their cheers and catcalls and croons of "Play 'Freebird,' dudes!" (Rob hated that); I can taste every beer we ever shared onstage or backstage and every greasy meal in every grimy road house or diner while touring; I can feel the ground-and-pound bass throbbing through subwoofers and the driving backbeat of the drums like rail spikes through your rib cage and the guitar screaming like a demon unleashed and the way the stage shook beneath our sneakers and the sweat and blood that baptized everything in the path of our thrashing.

And I can see Rob. Standing right there, stage left. Or seated behind his Pearl drumkit like an artillery captain locked and loaded. Like it was yesterday. Like time playing on a loop, that one drunk friend dropping in your favorite disc and hitting REPEAT for eternity.

But that's the thing, isn't it? They say time heals all wounds. So does music. Music is salvation. Music has the power to transform. It binds people together. It ignites and incites and invites. It unites. That's precisely what it did with Rob and anyone whoever shared music with him, whether onstage or off. Music makes memories.

  Photo credit David Scharenherg

And that's the beauty of memory. Memory is a path to immortality. As long as someone is remembered, they're never truly gone. And unless I'm very wrong, stories about Rob will trickle down for generations.

Speaking of, Rob was a storyteller too. Ask anyone who knew him. He told some of the best goddamned stories I've ever heard. Fiction and factual. Real jaw-droppers. He could tell a ghost story that would slush your blood. His jokes could make you laugh until you popped an ab. And some of the most impulsive off-the-cuff things that came out of his mouth still make me double over if I think of them today (most of which I can't repeat here, but ask me about them sometime). I'll be standing in line at the supermarket and remember one of Rob's one-offs and you should see the stares I get when the laughter bubbles up.

There's probably not much else I can relate here that hasn't already been said about Rob by people better than me. I'll finish by saying Rob was inspiring. Charismatic. Charming. He would have  risked bodily harm to defend his true friends (and did on more than one occasion). We may have drifted apart in later years, but the bond of true friendship remains. It always does once it forms, distance be damned. That goes behind friendship.

That's brotherhood.

Rest in peace, Rob.

You are missed. You are loved. You are my brother.

You are immortal.

Photo credit Samantha Schramer

7 Steps to Completely Fix America

Hiya folks! I recently posted a snapshot of my views on death, so I thought I'd take the time to tackle another unpleasant subject: the mess we call America! Never in the longer than four decades I've inhabited space in the U.S. have I seen it this divided. Now look, I'm not going to get political here. I'm not blaming anyone in particular, nor any group in particular. Too often that's the easy way out. The cheap way. Nope, not going to do it here.

That said, I've identified 7 steps to begin correcting what most see as uncorrectable. Now it's going to take some compromise, but that's what our republic is built on, right? Compromise. So without further ado, let's begin.

1. Cut Her Up. That's right. Divide this big busty nation right smack down the middle along a longitudinal line. Let's say, for our purposes, the meridian 100° west (+/- 10°). The reason we'll go vertical this time instead of horizontal (as we did last time the nation was divided in the midst of the Civil War, for those of you unburdened with the knowledge of history), is because we'll want everyone to be able to live happily in whichever climate they choose, be it tropic or tundra. Now, you'll have to be willing to relocate, but believe me it will be worth it. (Choosing not to relocate is acceptable, but you will be required to abide by the new laws of your location.)

2. Build The Wall. That's right. In this scenario, the President gets his wall. Except it won't be along our southern border. No, it will be right along the dividing line between East and West. It can even be a big, beautiful wall. Make it impregnable from both sides. Do you see where this is going?

3. Pick Your Side. One side of the wall will be reserved for so-called "red states" and the other for "blue states." It doesn't matter which side is for whom (we can flip a coin for all I care), but it would seem intuitive that the east would become blue states and the west would become red. Sure, California would have to be ceded to the reds and Dixieland to the blues, but bear with me. We're getting to the good part.

4. Alaska And Hawaii Are Neutral. For those who do not wish to participate in this new separation, they can choose to live in a tropical paradise or the chilly wilds, whichever better suits their climatological tastes. These territories will be wholly neutral to either red or blue status and political fighting shall not be tolerated here. Lebanon, Kansas is also neutral, but we'll get to that shortly.

5. Everyone Now Lives In Utopia. Here's the fun part! Red states, you get all the guns you want and can carry them concealed or in the open. Gun-free zones are outlawed. You're free to fire at will anytime you wish with impunity. Revenue from unchecked firearm sales fund infrastructure upgrades. Your healthcare premiums remain morbidly high and deductibles higher, but you get to see any doctor or specialist your HMO covers. All abortion is instantly outlawed. Bibles become a staple of public school curriculum. There is not, nor ever will be, a Green New Deal and you power your homes and businesses with all the fossil fuels you can mine. Hell, I'm sure the blue states will even trade you all of theirs for all the kale you'll harvest in your new Californian territory. Electric cars DO NOT EXIST here and, in fact, leaded fuel makes a surprising comeback. Moonshine is 100% legal. President Trump can be retitled King Trump and hereditary rule will be instated to ensure his family succeeds him at the time of his demise. Las Vegas is named the red state capital, and is ruled from Trump Tower (natch), which is rebranded as Trump Palace. King Trump hires a private contractor to add his face to Mount Rushmore. MAGA hats (facial tattoos also allowed) are not only encouraged, but are soon required to be displayed in most public places, like casinos and churches. And casino-churches, which will be introduced in a pilot program which rolls out slots on the back of pews in place of hymnals.

Blue states, you get the free healthcare, housing, and education you desire. You can plant as many trees to hug as you wish. You also get guns, but with sensible laws in place. You implement solar, turbine, tidal, and geothermal power to provide sustainable energy. Church and state remain separate entities, though religious affiliations are now required to pay taxes which will fund universal healthcare, housing, and education. Megachurches earning more than a billion dollars annually will pay a steeper tax. High-speed rails are installed that will whisk passengers from Maine to Florida in under two hours, and pollution-producing commercial air flight is eradicated as a result. Solar roadways replace outmoded asphalt, creating thousands of new jobs and safer driving conditions. Washington D.C. is dissolved as the capital and the entire city is turned into the world's largest escape room, just for fun. New York is named the new capital and the Statue of Liberty's age-old visage is re-sculpted into an uncanny likeness of President Ocasio-Cortez (yes, I realize she's too young to serve as president under the current U.S. Constitution, but the Founding Mothers will draft a new constitution on the framework of the old one, only . . . you know, updated). Weed is legal and cheap.

6. If You Live In A Politically Divided Family Never Fear! The city of Lebanon, Kansas and the surrounding area (considered the exact center of the U.S.) will be used as a neutral meeting ground. Here, the wall will extend into a large cubicle formation where scheduled meetings of split families will take place. A variety of restaurants, parks, and events will be available within the Lebanon Free Zone and families can spend up to twenty-four hours at a time visiting and reminiscing about the good ol' days.

7. Free Trade Between The Divided States Is Encouraged But Not Expected. Sure, the states can trade if they wish. Delegates from each side of the wall will often meet in the neutral territories to discuss matters of policy and determine if there will ever be a reason to tear down the wall between the states. These talks, unfortunately, will not go far and ultimately both sides wind up heading home in a huff, both vowing to never return to the negotiating table. Also, all former U.S. military forces are divided equally and agreed upon to be solely used for defensive measures against potential invading foreign entities who view a divided nation as easy prey.

So that's it. This is how to fix the mess that is America. Anything you'd add? Subtract? Multiply? I'd include "Divide?" but we're all pretty well divided as it is.

The Only Certainty in Life is Death--So Why are We So Afraid of It?

I have for many years held quite different views on death than I believe many people hold. These views have come from many years of meditation and introspection, and I share them here so that if I should die—or, rather, when—those who read this document may better understand my state of mind.

The old adage says, "The only certainties in life are death and taxes." Nah. Taxes are fleeting; they will one day be long gone to the dustbin of history while death will remain the lone certainty.

Death is literally the only predictable aspect of any living thing's existence. Think about that. The only 100% guaranteed certainty. Until science says otherwise, at any rate. But as of this writing, every single man and woman understands that one day they will no longer exist in their current form. Many of us fear for when that day will come because there is 0% certainty of what happens afterward. Heavenly harps and halos? A wandering spirit, invisible to the living? A space ghost cruising the cosmos? Reincarnation? Complete obliteration of consciousness? No one knows. It's the greatest mystery humankind has ever faced.

Which is why it's pointless to fear it. It is going to happen, whether we wish it to or not. While I'm currently not ready for that day to come, I know its eventuality is inevitable.

And yet people are constantly shocked when someone they know passes. Shocked. As if they never saw it coming. As if they've completely forgotten that death may come for any of us, at any time, at any moment, of any day. Adds a pinch of spice to life, doesn't it?

And let's be real a moment. We treat death like the ultimate Bad Thing, the Thing To Avoid At All Costs. We stand in lines at the doctor's office or the pharmacy, hoping against hope to prolong our terms in these bone prisons as long as humanly possible. Like it's a race in reverse and the goal is to be the last to cross the finish line.

But listen. It all amounts to nothing. Naught. Zero. So you eat your pills and your kale and your gluten free muffins in an effort to live to be eighty or a hundred. Centenarian or bust! Why? Because of fear. We're terrified of what we might find behind door number one.

Speaking of doors, I liken death to letting my dogs outside. We have a back door and a screen door, just like you probably do. And each time I open that back door, my dogs shuffle forward until they realize there's a second door barring their way. They ought to know it's there, but they never do. That's like how most people are. They know death is waiting for them on the other side of the door, but they're always shocked to see it. It's a conundrum I've baffled myself through for years and still have not come to any conclusion as to the cause of this mass self-delusion.

And then I thought of something else. With a majority of mortal earthlings subscribing to some form of afterlife governed by a benevolent omniscient creator, why are they afraid of death at all? If anything, they should yearn to reach their divine paradise rather than stick around in a stinking meat mechanism. Those most certain of a divine reward are also those most reluctant to go to it. Again, baffling. Baffling, I tell you.

Yet, the same people terrified of their mortality happily and gleefully go on to create other people who will likely one day become terrified of their mortality. BAFFLING. We are a strange breed, we humans who bear the burden of being aware of our own demise.

The truth is, I don't process death the way I imagine most folks do. Sure, I go through the same five phases of grief everyone does, but they hit all at once, one after the other, and then it's done. No drawn out period of mourning, no existential suffering (or a reasonable facsimile thereof). This is neither good or bad; it simply is how I process death. You process how you do, I'll process how I do. No judgments here.

So. In the eventuality of my departure, please do not weep for my loss. People rarely weep for the departed, anyway. They weep for themselves. They weep for their loss, not the loss of the deceased. It's really quite selfish, but that's a quality many of us reserve the right to retain, and do so, happily in love with our misery.

I know everyone says, "When I die, I don't want anyone crying for me! Celebrate! Party! Have fun!" And of course no one ever honors that particular wish. But the point is, death is every bit a natural part of life as laughing and lovemaking and eating and excreting. Don't be shocked when I am gone. Don't be sad. Be happy I had a chance to check this place out. It's not bad, mostly. Could use more kindness and less hate. Less anger. Less fear. (I've got ideas on how to accomplish that, but we'll save that for another day.) My point is, ultimately, please do not mourn my loss, folks. 

And, hey, just maybe I'll see you on the other side.

Recommended reading: The Fall of Freddie the Leaf by Leo Buscaglia