Tag: self-esteem

The Cruelty of Addiction

The Cruelty of Addiction

Audio version now available.

 

When the gifts are purchased and wrapped, the dinner is planned, the tree is trimmed, and the cookies are baked, I might grind the gears a little as I down shift out of my hussle-culture existence, but I can get slowed down into holiday mode. Now, in the week between, I’ve got to check my own pulse to make sure I’m alive.

 

As a drinker, and in early sobriety, I sought an elusive perfection in the holiday season, and always started the new year disappointed. Now I seek peace and contentment, friendship and family. I’ve surrounded myself with people I love this past week. I want to carry this warm feeling with me as I shift back up through the gears into business as usual. Business as usual, but with a lingering feeling of love, and a foundational knowledge that I’m blessed and everything will be OK.

Atrophied Intelligence

Atrophied Intelligence

Audio version now available.

 

I finally found a use for AI. If I am trying to find a way to reach a semi-famous person to invite them on our podcast or to initiate an exchange of ideas around their area of expertise, the default AI thing at the top of Google search will sometimes scrape the interwebs and come up with an email back door for me. I don’t ask ChatGTP questions. I don’t use AI platforms to write for me. I don’t trust AI search results and always click on the source material. I don’t think I am a grumpy old man who is in denial of progress and our human destiny, but then again, would I recognize it if I was?

Bizarre at the Boathouse, Part 2

Bizarre at the Boathouse, Part 2

Audio version now available.

 

Boathouse shindigs are my kind of parties. Years ago, we were at a barbeque in someone’s backyard when one of the children of the host fell going up their deck stairs and needed stitches. The hosts both left with their child, and the rest of the party goers pulled together to put away the food and clean up the party. While picking up cups and dishes, I knocked a full glass of red wine left on the fireplace hearth onto their white living room carpet. That experience is why I’ve always appreciated cleanup at the boathouse. It is more of a covered patio. It is elevated with a walk-in basement below, but the party area is a concrete slab with a roof overhead–perfect for spring and autumn nights. And also, perfect for cleanup. A pushbroom, and snow shovel for a dustpan, and maybe some spot mopping, and the renter gets their security deposit back.

 

At a recent church event hosted at the boathouse, I was hanging around waiting for cleanup to start. My wife, Sheri, works at the church, and as is the case with most nonprofit organizations that depend on volunteer labor, the spouses of the employees were voluntold to help clean up. Just like I witnessed the bizarre behavior of the teens when the boathouse was used for homecoming, I leaned against the boathouse wall and watched a peculiar ritual of young adulthood with which I was painfully familiar. The twenty and thirty somethings were well lubricated, and the alcohol gave me a glimpse of how the reserved professionals and parents behaved when they dropped their shields of decorum. Listen, nothing debaucherous took place at the boathouse, much to my disappointment. If people are going to let loose and compile regrets for the morning, I want to see something worthy of my penchant for storytelling. I was left disappointed in that regard.

Bizarre at the Boathouse, Part 1

Bizarre at the Boathouse, Part 1

Audio version now available.

 

The boathouse in Wash Park has a long and storied history. I mean, it must, right? I’ve never looked into it, but it looks old, and it’s definitely the anchor of the park, the neighborhood, maybe the whole southeast side of Denver. It is the hub of the Independence Day bicycle parade, couples get married there, and it is an easy meeting spot for people walking together in the park.

 

But it doesn’t house any boats. Maybe they store the floating plastic paddle swans under it in the winter, but for all of its iconic grandeur, they ought to have an old Mississippi riverboat cemented into the lakeshore next to it.

 

A riverboat would make a nice backdrop for homecoming dance pictures for the high school adjacent to the south side of the park. We are in the midst of a universally acknowledged, social-media-exacerbated, mental-health epidemic, so the homecoming dance sounds like a great way to encourage our young people to spend face-to-face time together. And it is. I am pro hoco. But as I leaned on the boathouse Saturday night, trying to stay out of the way and not brush against any of the girls who seemed to have shopped for dance gowns in the lingerie department, it occurred to me that the predance picture ritual might not be helping.

Progress

Progress

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Waymo cars driven by humans are techno-mapping the streets of Denver. Local TV ads are recruiting D.P.D. officers to fulfill their destinies and become ICE agents (read that sentence in your best James Earl Jones voice). There are over eight billion people on the planet, but a handful of lunatics possess nuclear codes that could wipe us all out. People get their news from platforms that also allow us to sell our old air fryer or garden hose to our neighbors. I miss plays at the high school football game because I get distracted by the drones filming the action. And I just want to go deep in the mountains and build a lean-to out of sticks and mud.

Yummy Summer of Turd

Yummy Summer of Turd

Audio version now available.

 

She looked at the back seat of my open-top, two-door Jeep Wrangler and asked, “How do I get in?” Her face lit up with delight as she watched her bandmate step on the back bumper, throw a leg over the roll bar, and plop into the seat next to hers. “You mean I can just climb in? Ooh fun!”

 

My youngest kid’s high school band played at halftime of the Colorado State University football game Saturday night. Just before the performance, my son texted asking if we could take a couple of other kids home when the bus got back to Denver around midnight? I didn’t recognize one of the names, so I asked for cross streets to gauge against my feelings of hospitality. I’m a nice guy, but I’m not building a resume for sainthood. And I follow the Herm Edward’s doctrine that nothing good ever happens after midnight. She lived close, so I “generously” agreed.

Rubber Stamping a Toxic Culture

Rubber Stamping a Toxic Culture

Audio version now available.

 

I bought a rubber stamp from a door-to-door rubber stamp salesman once. It was early in our whole grain bread bakery career–maybe 2005. He was wearing a suit and tie long after Friday business casual had seeped into the other four days of the week. He carried a brief case that he opened on our bakery counter. It didn’t actually have briefs in it at all. He had dozens of rubber stamps in little molded foam compartments. He had big stamps that said, “PAST DUE,” in all caps, and small round stamps that said, “Have a nice Day!” in letters arched around a smiley face. He had stamps with rotating numbers so you could adjust the date, and stamps with custom corporate logos. Of course, he had bottles of various colors of ink, and ink pads with lids to keep the ink from drying out.

Dudes on the Struggle Bus

Dudes on the Struggle Bus

Audio version now available.

 

Nothing frustrates me more than hearing a man complain that his wife doesn’t love him unconditionally.

 

He’s right. She doesn’t love him unconditionally. And she’s not supposed to. It’s a stupid thing to complain about. It would make more sense to complain that his lawn mower does a shitty job shoveling snow.

 

How can a relationship that starts with a long list of conditions be expected to magically morph into unconditional love? People partner up for a variety of reasons–popular among the categories are aesthetics, intellect, wit, and charm. If he is looking for unconditional love, maybe he should look to a relationship that’s not completely dependent on so many conditions. His anger is misdirected. But honestly, it’s not his fault.

 

He’s likely never been loved unconditionally.

Courtesy Flush

Courtesy Flush

Audio version now available.

 

There are only two bathrooms in our house, which means sharing sometimes. Occasionally, the sharing is delightful, like when I am brushing my teeth as my wife steps out of the shower. More often, sharing involves one person sitting down as another person tries not to gag while attempting to identify a new pimplish bump just far enough back on the shoulder as to make the mirror a frustrating accomplice in a fruitless attempt at diagnosis.

 

My wife instinctively demands, “Courtesy flush, please,” even when she walks into a miraculously unoccupied bathroom.

Do You See What I See?

Do You See What I See?

Audio version now available.

 

Three drinks for two people. That sure looked familiar. He carried them triangle style – two beers in plastic cups secured in the semicircles of both of his thumbs and index fingers, with her plastic wine cup precariously squeezed between his two middle fingers. His priorities were made clear by which drink was least secure in the very likely event that he stumbled. But he didn’t stumble. At least not yet.

 

They heard the upbeat music from the beverage tent, and drifted over looking for the party and his people. But this was a brass band playing at a summer outdoor festival for a food-truck lunch crowd, and so early in the day, he was one-of-a-kind. A kind I recognize. He was me from a decade ago.