WHAT'S NEXT?

/

Could we have a little fun? You know; laugh a little to keep from crying?

"Buckle up and hang on. Now we know why the streets are empty, and the man’s ravings take on some new dimension: Maybe he’s just regular unhinged, or maybe he’s been driven into lunacy by the last eight or so weeks of madness. Or maybe he’s the only sane one left. Who can tell? By late May 2020, even the most unflappable among us felt one raisin short of a fruitcake."

This is a paragraph from my friend, Alissa Wilkinson's New York Times' review of the film "Eddington". For some reason(s) her words struck me as a complete explanation of my state of mind these days. I've not seen the movie she has reviewed but still her words paint a picture that feels very familiar.

I learned a new word a few years ago. We were visiting Seattle, hitting the must-see spots there. That meant a visit to the original Starbucks in the Pike Place Market area. It was humble and seemed too small and narrow to give birth to the ubiquitous franchise we know today. I asked the barista if the coffee house, Cafe Nervosa--the one that Frasier and Niles frequented actually existed. "No." Then he recommended a likeness, a place called "Zeitgeist Coffee". So, we set out to find the Zeitgeist: the coffee house; and after I discovered the meaning of the word I realized I was in search of that too.

zeitgeist
noun

the general set of ideas, beliefs, feelings, etc. that is typical of a particular period in history

Buckle up and hang on indeed. Who would have thought we would all know the name Epstein? Who would have thought we would grab hard to a moment of fun at the expense of a couple of idiots going reluctantly public in front of the Kiss-Cam at a Coldplay concert. The Corporation for Public Broadcasting defunded. A den of dehumanization in Ochopee, Florida, called "Alligator Alcatraz" by those who love the idea of it. I don't know about you but I feel more and more displaced by this tsunami of zeitgeist upheavel.

I saw a post that Trump was announcing a renaming of the San Andreas Fault to Joe Biden's Fault. Mid-laugh I stopped; the thought hit me this could actually be true. Crazier things have happened... or did they?

Alissa wonders about the protagonist and it makes me wonder about myself: "Maybe he’s just regular unhinged, or maybe he’s been driven into lunacy by the last eight or so weeks of madness. Or maybe he’s the only sane one left."

We can all shudder at remembering an 8-week period in the late May of 2020 timeframe. But now we've gone into warp speed and it's dizzying. What once took eight weeks, now takes eight days. Heck, some days eight hours can be all the time we have to hang on for dear life during a full zeitgeist whiplash.

Tariffs on/tariffs off. Epstein files open/Epstein files empty. Putin is amazing/Putin is a liar. Try keeping up with the names of things. Gulf of Mexico/Gulf of America. Now Republican lawmakers, in a giant kiss on the giant backside are working to rename the opera house at the "John F Kennedy Center For Performing Arts" after the first lady. Representative Mike Simpson, a Republican from Idaho introduced the amendment. Mr. Simpson said in a statement after the vote that naming the theater after Mrs. Trump “is an excellent way to recognize her appreciation for the arts.”

HEY! I appreciate the arts too!

As if he doesn't have better things to do, POTUS is threatening to block the Washington Commanders' new stadium deal unless they revert to their former name, the Redskins. Just a thought: Maybe they could compromise and tip their helmets to his highness and go with the Washington Orangeskins.

Too far? Too soon?

Could we liken it all to being on a roller coaster, complete with all the turns and dips and hairpins and many forks in the track, not knowing which one the lead coaster car will take until the last second? Maybe the train will grind to a halt, sparks flying, and back up to take the fork less traveled, hurling us all into a dark cave. We emerge to find people who know nothing about roller coaster track building quickly throughing track pieces together leading into some unknown. We do know this: its feeling more and more like this train will never return to the station.

My favorite line of Alissa's paragraph is the last one, the one that implies at least, we're all in it together: "...even the most unflappable among us felt one raisin short of a fruitcake."

/

IN BETWEEN

"You know what the happiest animal in the world is? It's a goldfish. It's got a 10 second memory. Be a goldfish." --Ted Lasso.

Hopefully you're familiar with Ted Lasso and his fish out of water story. Ted is a coach of an English football (soccer) team. He knows very little about the game but has an uncanny insight into people and a morsel of folksy wisdom for every occasion.

One of his best players has had a bad game and he's let it get to him. Ted gives him the goldfish fact in order to help him see that it's possible to move on. Stuck? Be a goldfish.

In another episode of Ted Lasso, they diagnose one of their players as having The Yips. I suspected that The Yips is a real thing and apparently it is. I should consult with my daughter-in-law, Dr. Brooke Fuller, a "mental performance consultant" on the matter. But that doesn't seem fair. She'a pro. I shouldn't be asking for free advice.

According to Psychology Today magazine: "The yips refer to psycho-neuromuscular impediment interfering with the execution of fine motor skills during sport.

"One of the saddest and strangest phenomena in professional sports is when an athlete starts experiencing the yips. The ability of our best athletes to perform under high levels of stress is a major determinant in attaining the highest level of sport and competition.

"One famous example of the yips involved Steve Sax who went from being named National League Player of the Year in the 1982 season to not being able to throw the ball to first base on routine plays during the next season. Fortunately, he overcame this affliction, but not all pro athletes are so fortunate."

I've actually witnessed Brooke working through an exercise with a young athlete--her niece, Nora, the gynmast. It was in the moments leading up to Nora's first big meet. She was riding to the meet with me and her Mimi (aka: My Amazing Missus). She was getting pretty anxious. She recalled a practice session when she had an incident on the bars. "Be a goldfish", I counseled. That didn't help. Let's call Aunt Brooke.

I won't go into the details of the conversation they had but it worked. Nora went on to win best overall in that meet and every other meet she entered during the season.

"Getting in one's own head" is a trip I've taken many times. You would think I knew it well, but it's sometimes dark there and fluid; so I don't know what I might find around the next corner or under the next rock--the overthinking and obsessive analyzing of situations, which leads to more overthinking and frustration. The advice for getting out of one's own head: focus on the present moment and engage in activities that ground you, such as mindfulness or talking to others. So this essay is me being mindful and communicating it by casting these words out into the ether.

I'm reading a book by David Brooks called, "How To Know A Person: The Art of Seeing Others Deeply and Being Deeply Seen." [note: If next time we meet I seem a little strange, I'm just trying to see you deeply.] Brooks suggests some questions we might discuss with one another and ourselves. Maybe, I thought, that by working through these questions, I might be more goldfish-like and therefore able to courageously navigate these senior years. Who knows, there may be others out there in their own head, or their wilderness, their in-between. In case you would like to try, here are the questions:

What crossroads are you at?

What would you do if you weren't afraid?

If you died tonight, what would you regret not doing?

If we meet a year from now, what will we be celebrating?

If the next five years is a chapter in your life, what is that chapter about?

Can you be yourself where you are and still fit in?

If someone asked me these questions I would reply, "Those are great questions. I'll get back to you with my answers." I would never get back because these questions are too big. I've been pondering them for weeks and still haven't settled on a definitive answer for a single one of them. Heck, I struggle when someone asks me: "Sup?" or "How's it going?" or "How are you?" My honest answer to each of these three is: I'm just not sure. Not to worry though: I like a bit of mystery and suspense.

Being in-between doesn't have to be purgatory--the kind of place where, in the dark, you might bump into depression, despondencey, or despair. It might (metaphorically) be that your number will be the next one called to order at an amazing ice cream shop or bakery. You know, where you're surveying the goodies, pointing at this one and that one, finalizing your choices and deciding if you'll have a coffee to go along with your treat once your number is called.

Let's go back to David Brooks' questions with a few ideas for answers:

1. What crossroads are you at? Banana split or affogato.

2. What would you do if you weren't afraid? Buy the new Airstream.

3. If you died tonight, what would you regret not doing? At that moment I would be beholding stuff that didn't include regrets.

4. If we meet a year from now, what will we be celebrating? That's a conundrum. A year is a long ways off and it will be here before we know it. Hopefully it will involve sitting beside a shiny Airstream, enjoying another banana split. My inability to honestly answer #6 is a hurdle to full disclosure of my answer to this question.

5. If the next five years is a chapter in your life, what is that chapter about? Peace, love and joy.

6. Can you be yourself where you are and still fit in? Where it really matters: yes! These days though, I tend to make my world too small.

If you're a goldfish, a small small world is okay. The comic Dusty Slay does a bit about the short memory of the goldfish. He tells of a goldfish circling his little aquarium, "Hey, look! There's a scuba diver in here." "Hey look, a treasure chest!" "Hey, look! There's a scuba diver in here." "Hey look, a treasure chest!" "Hey, look! There's a scuba diver in here." "Hey look, a treasure chest!"

Thankfully, for all of us, there is the promise of more. It's okay to occasionally speak the language of in-between where we start our thoughts and sentences with: "For now..."

Let's meet again on July 12, 2026 and celebrate the past and the wonder about future.

PROPAGATE

/

MY MOTHER was a prolific propagator; of many things: encouragement, grace, advice, sincere interest, gossip (although she would call it by names such as concern and curiosity). But, let's start with her African Violets.

For the entirety of my years "at home" these things were everywhere that a bit of filtered light streamed into our house. She was an african violet evangelist. Any time a guest in our home would comment on her beautiful violets she would encourage, yea, implore them to take one home. Each one was handed over with a bit of advice: "Don't overwater, don't get the leaves wet, don't thank me for it that's bad luck, talk to it (the plant) each time you water it."

In the early years of our marriage, My Amazing-Missus and I took home and killed a succession of these picky, persnickety, delicate little pieces of fauna. Undaunted, she would give us another. When mom would come to visit we could count on her sticking her finger in the pot of each of our plants and her nose in our business--out of genuine love and concern and a bit of fretting. "It might be happier with a little more light." Was she talking about our plant or our marriage?

I read an interesting opinion piece about propagation. In this case it was not about plants and beauty, but half-truths, lies, misinformation and how fertile the ground is to receive these poison seeds of propaganda. Social media was getting a lot of the blame for the choking spread, but what about the increasing appetite for it? How do we seperate the wheat from the chaff so to speak?

Maybe, like an African Violet, bringing some of this stuff into the proper light will help me be better informed and and healthier.

You know what's wonderful? There are still so many voices of truth and goodness. They are not always the loudest in the room but they are there and they are consistent. Take our two daughters-in-law. They are propagators. Many of the plants we have in our home today came from them, including those that sit on my desk or hang in the window in a cool macrame hanger My Amazing-Missus made for me. Not only do they cultivate seeds and cuttings, but they give joy and care to everyone who enters their orbit including our GrandKids and their old in-laws; along with plant care tips.

It makes me grateful for the propagators of love and peace and joy throughout our world and culture. Where would we be without them these days.

I'm writing this in my journal right how: Propagate goodness, truth and beauty today.

The words of Jesus from The Gospel of Mark 4:3-9 The Message

“Listen. What do you make of this? A farmer planted seed. As he scattered the seed, some of it fell on the road and birds ate it. Some fell in the gravel; it sprouted quickly but didn’t put down roots, so when the sun came up it withered just as quickly. Some fell in the weeds; as it came up, it was strangled among the weeds and nothing came of it. Some fell on good earth and came up with a flourish, producing a harvest exceeding his wildest dreams.

“Are you listening to this? Really listening?”

SAVE THE DATE

/

The Continental Army was officially formed on June 14, 1775, so June 14, 2025, the Army will be 250 years. That's a milestone worth marking and reflecting on. And apparently, plans are churning to do just that. Word is there will be a parade--the Army's birthday parade--through the center of Washington D.C.

I wish I could remember where I read the details so I could give proper credit, but the notes I made are missing the source. According to the report the parade will include:

28 M1A1 Abrams tanks (at 70 tons each, the heaviest in service)
28 Stryker armored personnel carriers
more than 100 other vehicles
a World War II-era B-25 bomber
6,700 soldiers
50 helicopters
34 horses
two mules; and
a dog.

I love a parade! In fact, it may be the pomp of a parade that first motivated me to want to be a drummer. As a kid I remember standing along the curb looking up Boston Avenue in downtown Tulsa in anxious excitement for the first of the parade to come into sight. But, before seeing that first car carrying the the grand marshall, before you could smell the horses, before any of that you could hear the cadence of the distant drums.

I've been to and marched in many many parades: Christmas parades, Rooster Day parades, Independence day parades, and one presidential inagural parade in D.C. for the infamous Nixon, which, by the way, will be the same parade route as the Army/Trump Birthday parade.

Oh I know, his name won't be on the cake so to speak but I'm sure that since by coindence he shares a birthday with the Army, he will feel celebrated too.

It should be a fine parade. Estimates are the cost will be in the $25 million to $45 million range. "But it could be higher because the Army has promised to fix any city streets that the parade damages, plus the cost of cleanup and police are not yet part of the estimate." I wonder: has DOGE heard about this?

Speaking of memorable points along the Army timeline, remember when Elvis, "King of Rock n Roll", served from 1958-1960? Let's take a look. From Wikipedia: "Before entering the Army, Presley had caused national outrage with his rock and roll music. Many parents, religious leaders, and teachers' groups welcomed his draft into the military. Despite being offered the chance to enlist in Special Services to entertain the troops and live in priority housing, Presley was persuaded by his manager, Colonel Tom Parker, to serve as a regular soldier. This earned him the respect of many of his fellow soldiers and people back in the United States who previously viewed him in a negative light."

Speaking of birthdays: depending on your view of the state of Elvis's aliveness, on January 8, 2026, Elvis will be or would have been 90 years old! How cool would it be to have a parade to commemorate? I'm open to brainstorming what it might look like: lots of Cadillacs, maybe a flyover of an old plane dropping Elvis impersonators out over the parade route, floating under bright parachutes. Maybe everyone could wear blue suede shoes. Floats could include a "Heartbreak Hotel" and another with a jail cell and a choir of recent pardonees singing "Jailhouse Rock". And of course there will be one "Hound Dog".

Although I'm not an Elvis fan, I respect his significant musical legacy and contribution. I do, however, remember his birthday every year. Coincidentally, old Pops here too was born on a January 8th, several years after the birth of Elvis. I know it's not a unique idea, but maybe I could go along for the ride as sort of a birthday 2-fer.

Speaking of psuedo-kings: There's another series of events planned for June 14, 2025. I don't know who's doing the planning but they've come up with a thought-provoking idea.

Maybe Elvis and I don't need the conspicuous consumption of a parade afterall. Remember that one Elvis song? The one with the bridge that said:

People, don't you understand
A child needs a helping hand
Or he'll grow to be an angry young man someday
Take a look at you and me
Are we too blind to see
Do we simply turn our heads
And look the other way?

-- In The Ghetto

Or, here's an idea: maybe we delay gratification for a little more than a year to, oh, let's say, July 4, 2026, and go all out for a party celebrating our Nation's 250th Birthday! We could save the $25 plus million until then and make it the the greatest, most huge party in the history of the world. I realize that steals the sparkle for those who have a June 14 birthday, but maybe if we need add-ons we could do a quick shout out to a few others with July 4 birthdays like: Calvin Coolidge, president #30. He was a conservative, limited government kind of guy. And Bill Withers who wrote songs we love and need like "Lean On Me"; or Nathaniel Hawthorne, who wrote "The Scarlet Letter", a book about sin and shame and repentance and judgement and imposing our morality on others.

July 4th just makes sense. A good party needs fireworks and July 4th is the pinnacle. And, according to the Oklahoma Fireworks Act, codified in Title 68, Section 1621-1635 of the Oklahoma Statutes the law that establishes the legal framework for the sale, possession, and use of fireworks across the state. Consumer fireworks can only be sold and used from June 15 to July 6 and from December 15 to January 2. So, to light a fuse on June 14th for a joint Army/Trump birthday bash would be illegal here in the Sooner state.

July 4th also would be perfect because Hobby Lobby already has all the trappings of a good celebration lining the shelves. Where in the H. E. Double Hockey Sticks are you going to find plates, napkins, banners, gnomes, flags, swizzle sticks, tablecloths, lights, hats, visors, flip-flops and a CD of saxophonist Kenny G playing "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" and "Onward Christian Soldiers" for a June 14 extravaganza?!

Oh well, enough of all that. It's not my call to make. It's his party--he can strut if he wants to--strut if he wants to; you would strut too if it happened to you; ta da dat dat dat.