Cedar Rapids>Dubuque>Car With Total Strangers>O'Hare>Fucking Hell>Eventually NYC

Four years ago today, I embarked on what ended up being a 19-hour, four-airport, one-roadtrip-with-strangers odyssey trying to get to NYC for my 50th birthday. I documented the increasingly infuriating saga on Facebook—to the endless amusement of my family and friends, who literally encouraged to turn it into a book—but I'm too lazy for that so I'm just piling it all here. Please enjoy. Or not.

May 2, 11:21 pm

This weekend’s performance of the Big Birthday Broadway Bash has been delayed while we search for an understudy. Thank you for your patience.

#HowToTurn50 #AndWithholdYourStandingOvationBeforeTheShowEvenStarts


May 3, 12:08 am

Curtain up! My chauffeur parents and I just have a bit of a drive ahead of us.

#HowToTurn50 #AndFinallyExhale


May 3, 4:16 am

My (slightly revised so I want to make sure the tank is full but miraculously still on time) Big Birthday Broadway Bash begins!

#HowToTurn50 #AndLoseAllYourSleep


May 3, 6:34 am

We made it to Dubuque—where the airport is quite modern and cool and the snacks are on a table with a sign that says $1 each and there’s a cardboard box to pay or make change for yourself all on the honor system—and I’m seated on the plane where there are two quite hot men except one of them is literally sitting in a crowd of children so whatever but anyway I’m back on track for my Big Birthday Broadway Bash!

#HowToTurn50 #AndNotStopYawning


May 3, 8:41 am

See this sunny, optimistic smile? It’s the rictus of a man who got up at 3:00 to drive to Dubuque after he had to rebook when his Cedar Rapids flight was canceled ... and then sat on the runway and even back in the airport for TWO FRUSTRATING HOURS because of the fog and is now finally taxiing back to the runway for another attempt.

#HowToTurn50 #AndUseAllYourSwearWords


May 3, 9:33 am

Well THIS is a first.

After sitting in impenetrable fog on the runway, returning to the gate, deplaning, replaning, taxiing back to the runway, and finally revving the engines and accelerating for takeoff ... we abruptly aborted and came SCREAMING to a stop just short of certain fiery death. Because the engine failure light came on. THE ENGINE FAILURE LIGHT. How ridiculous! I’ve been driving with my airbag light on for 10 years and I have never even once experienced certain fiery death.

So here we sit AGAIN at the gate with the honor-system snack table waiting to think of newer, even more thrilling, ways to destroy the joys of turning 50.

On the plus side, I’ve now had the chance to scope out the entirety of the passenger population and I have revised my two-hot-guys body count to four. But one’s wearing a backward baseball cap so I have to kill him. So three.

#HowToTurn50 #AndAlmostPoopYourselfRightOnTheRunway


May 3, 10:05 am

Keep scrolling ...

Keep scrolling ...

Almost there ...

You know what’s awesome about having good bipolar drugs? I’m totally chill in almost every situation.

Of course, I won’t cry at your funeral, but you’ll be dead so FUCK YOU WITH YOUR FUCKING COMPLAINING.

#HowToTurn50 #AndShrugAtEverySetback


May 3, 10:21 am

A post from Mom:

So, I will add a chapter—no, just a little info—to the airplane trip to NYC that still has not happened. Just wanted to share a super foggy photo [note: I cannot find this photo] of the original taxiing to the gate in Dubuque about 6:33 am today. And the airport did not know that the plane did not actually take off from the runway until I called them 90 minutes later and said the AA site said the plane was delayed. And now Jake is in Dubuque and we and the car are back in Cedar Rapids!

May 3, 11:31 am

Well. They did such a good job re-duct-taping the engine to the wing that you can hardly see it. So we’ve now completed our third boarding and I’m in the process of ignoring our third safety demonstration as we speak. It’s now been over 12 hours since I was notified that my 6:06 Cedar Rapids flight was canceled, I got rebooked to a 6:41 flight a hour away in Dubuque, I deplaned not once but twice, I’ve been reassigned to three increasingly later connecting flights, and I first embarked on my first of five (and counting!) treks across that mega-long-ass gangplank (or whatever it’s called). (Seriously. That thing has an Olympic-length lap pool, a Renaissance vanishing point and two time-zone changes.) (Parentheses party!)

But it’s now 11:31 and instead of launching ourselves into the air at our promised 10:45 takeoff time, we’re still connected to that gangplank (or whatever it’s called) like an emotionally needy fetus to its umbilical cord.

Aaaaaaaaaaaand ... we JUST got told that our re-duct-taped engine WON’T EVEN START RUNNING.

This literally is exactly the reason why I didn’t buy tickets to a show tonight.

#HowToTurn50 #AndGetGrayHairsOnYourGrayHairs


May 3, 2:23 pm

See this pretty house? It’s in Galena, which is about a 30-minute drive east of the Dubuque airport. See the side mirror in the corner of the photo? That belongs to a family of four people I just met in line in the Dubuque airport. What could all of this possibly mean?

I’LL TELL YOU WHAT IT MEANS.

After having my original flight canceled and then driving to Dubuque at 4:00 am to catch a different flight, after evacuating the plane for that flight twice for fog and twice because the damn engine fell off, after canceling my tickets to Jimmy Fallon, after TRYING REALLY HARD NOT TO FUCKING SWEAR (oops), my second flight was finally canceled too. OF COURSE. And! There were no more Dubuque flights today. And! There was no time to drive to Cedar Rapids to catch a flight there. And! There was nobody at the car-rental counter anyway. But! There IS an 8:30 flight out of Chicago tonight. And! The nice family in line ahead of me decided to drive their car there to catch it. And! They invited me to tag along.

So here I am. In a car with (hopefully) nice strangers. Who won’t dismember me and feed me to feral she-wolves.

Being 50 is weird.

#HowToTurn50 #AndHopefullyNotBeFedToSheWolves


May 3, 3:05 pm
We have stopped at a McDonald's. I'm hungry. I have to pee. But I'm suddenly obsessively worried that my captors will run to their car and take off without me. So I'm neither peeing in the bathroom nor ordering food at the counter with my back to the door and the car.

#HowToTurn50 #AndLiveInHopefullyIrrationalFear

May 3, 3:59 pm

This fluffy boi is lurking ominously in the general vicinity of O’Hare from my view out the window of my captors’ car.

BRING IT, MOTHER NATURE! Imma get to NYC tonight even if I have to climb on a broom and turn my back to the Western skies. Because everyone deserves a chance to see SpongeBob Squarepants the musical!

#HowToTurn50 #ViaTheIncredibleKindnessOfStrangers


May 3, 5:47 pm
Gary the O'Hare American Airlines ticketing agent is a dick.

Every other American Airlines employee I've encountered today responded to my good spirits and organized, at-the-ready information and mood-lightening corny jokes with nothing but friendly helpfulness.

Let me tell you the reasons you’re a dick, Gary:

• Blah blah blah made-up rules
• Blah blah blah dramatic sighs
• Blah blah blah made up fees
• Blah blah blah putting me in a center seat when my profile says I prefer aisle seats and there’s no way your ticketing system didn’t tell you the back TWO rows of the airplane were empty.

#HowToTurn50 #BlahBlahBlahI'mTalkingToYOUGaryTheDick


May 3, 6:24 pm

I am FINALLY at my O’Hare gate, my third airport after my second canceled flight and two unexpected car rides totaling 500 miles over the last 16 hours. But this flight is two hours earlier than the one I was supposed to be on. So if it gets canceled too, I still have options. BUT I’D BETTER NOT NEED OPTIONS, PEOPLE. I am painfully tired. And after all my soul-crushing travails, American condemned me to a middle seat by the toilets, which my wide shoulders and delicate nose and I hate. But perhaps I’ll be seated in the waifish constipated goblin section. Because OPTIMISM! POSITIVITY! EMACIATING FIBERLESS PLAGUES AMONG THE MAGICAL WOODLAND CREATURES WHO ARE TRAVELING TO NEW YORK TONIGHT!

#HowToTurn50 #ByDrivingToLotsOfAirportsInsteadOfFlyingLikeNormalPeople


May 3, 7:17 pm

Guess what's shut down right now. Just guess.

No, I'll tell you: ALL THE FUCKING NEW YORK AIRPORTS ARE SHUT DOWN RIGHT NOW.

We are currently enjoying life on dimly lit auxiliary power on the O'Hare tarmac. We will sit here until we receive “an update” in an hour and 15 minutes. Go to hell, world.

#HowToTurn50 #WhileSittingOnTarmacAfterTarmacAdNauseam


May 3, 8:31 pm

You know what would make this fucking hell of a day even worse? I’ll tell you exactly what would make this fucking hell of a day even worse:

We literally—LITERALLY!—just got the “Is there a doctor on board?” announcement—yes, apparently it’s a real thing—because someone across the aisle and one row ahead of me is apparently having some kind of seizure. And there are so many people crowding around her that a good four rows of us are trapped in our seats as the whole plane sits trapped on the tarmac subsisting only on dimly lit reserve power.

I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP.

So of course—OF FUCKING COURSE!—the self-absorbed douchebag sitting next to me—who has already TWICE demanded that I get up so he can wander the aisles doing his self-absorbed-douchebag things—suddenly decides that NOW is the time to push our row back into the crowded aisle again so he can wander the plane doing even more of his self-absorbed-and-now-potentially-harmful douchebag things.

ON TOP OF THAT!

I don’t even know what’s up with the prick directly in front of me, but he’s trying to interfere in the doctoring so insistently that the flight attendant has repeatedly—REPEATEDLY!—told him that he needs to stay in his seat and stop demanding to interfere and shut the hell up or—and she literally said this to him—“I’ll have to involve the captain.”

Plus the flight attendants have just confirmed amongst themselves and within my earshot that the gagging smell here in the back of the plane is from the “exploded diaper” someone left in the bathroom.

I am so so SO beyond exhaustion and patience and a capacity for tolerance of self-absorbed trash and even basic happiness right now.

#HowToTurn50 #InThePitsOfHell


May 3, 8:58 pm

Why is my phone still on? Why am I using the same screen grab?

I’ll tell you why my phone is still on PLUSS I'll tell you why I'm using the same screen grab:

We have resolved the medical emergency (something about low blood sugar triggering a panic attack, near as I can tell). We have taxied to the runway. We have dimmed the cabin lights. We have been told to off our electronic devices for takeoff.

WE HAVE ALSO SUDDENLY HEARD THE BLOOD-CURDLING SCREAMS OF A FUCKING CHILD WHO HAS LOCKED HERSELF IN THE BATHROOM AND REFUSES TO COME OUT.

The flight attendants are trying to calm the child through the door with a mix of soothing reassurances underscored with FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING LITTLE BRAT OR SO HELP US WE WILL BURN THIS PLANE TO THE GROUND WITH YOU IN IT AND WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOUR PARENTS WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOUR PARENTS?

Oh, wait: The flight attendants seem to have gotten the door open and (hopefully) stun-gunned the child because all is quiet save for the dulcet tones of their forced soothing reassurances. BUT THE QUESTION REMAINS WHERE THE FUCK ARE THE FUCKING PARENTS.

#HowToTurn50 #TheFirstStepIsToGetYourTubesTied


May 4, 12:07 am

Wheels on the ground, bag collected, Uber arrived, traffic at a brisk crawl! I haven’t been so tired—or so in need of a vigorous tooth-brushing—in as long as I can remember. But my tap shoes and my sense of overwhelming relief (not to mention my carefully selected, casually handsome, still-looking-Jimmy-Fallon-fresh shirt) are here, so bring on the big gay musicals!

After a sound sleep, of course. Preceded by a vigorous tooth-brushing.

#HowToTurn50 #AfterAGoodSleepOfCourse


May 4, 12:42 am

I’M! IN! MANHATTAN!

TAKING! ELEVATOR! SELFIES!

AND! POSSIBLY! FLEXING!

time. for. fucking. bed.

#HowToTurn50 #ImOnlyDoingThisOnce

Spilling some British Airways tea

1. Remember how I joked that the British Airways cabin steward would avoid me at all costs because of my weird hat?
2. I was obviously kidding
3. KIDDING!
4. But
5. BUT!
6. He LITERALLY did exactly that
7. For over eight hours
8. And he made sure I clearly saw what he was up to
9. I was in the window seat of an exit row
10. A rather vulgar, messy, entitled couple had the seats next to mine
11. The cabin steward's jump seat faced us
12. He talked to them at length
13. About everything and nothing
14. But when I tried to join the conversation ...
15. He literally gave me a withering stare and went back to learning fascinating things about the vulgar, messy, entitled couple
16. They ignored me the entire flight as well
17. Except the woman offered me a mint when I sat down
18. I had a mask on
19. So I didn't take this as a hint that my breath made my whole person repellent
20. Then
21. THEN!
22. Cabin Satan started bringing them drinks
23. Without them asking
24. Without him asking
25. We were in steerage where drinks weren't free
26. What's more ...
27. He brought each of them TWO of everything
28. In the course of the first few hours he brought the man two beers, two cans of Coke with two bottles of what I assume were vodka, a red wine and a white wine
29. The woman's alcoholic windfall was very similar
30. And aside from the required distribution of meals, guess the sum total of what he brought me
31. Guess
32. GUESS
33. OK, I'll tell you:
34. ONE SMALL GLASS OF WATER
35. But there's more
36. Because OF COURSE THERE'S MORE
37. The captain and many signs CLEARLY stated that it was the law that we all wear masks the entire time we're on the plane
38. Guess who almost never wore masks
39. JUST GUESS
40. Right: the vulgar, messy entitled couple
41. And guess who never said anything to them about it
42. JUST GUESS
43. Right: Cabin Satan
43. Who was literally face-to-face with them as he sat in his jump seat
44. But there's more
45. Because OF COURSE THERE'S MORE
46. I couldn't figure out how to release the fold-out table from my armrest
47. (There was a well-hidden button, and it turned out that mine was stubbornly stuck)
48. I tried to flag down Cabin Satan for help
49. But he was too busy noticing lint on the ceiling
50. I tried to flag down two other cabin stewards for help
51. Again with that nasty ceiling lint
52. I'd hoped my seatmates with their successfully opened tray tables might notice my confusion and volunteer to help me
53. But at this point I was fully repulsed by them and had no interest in striking up any kind of conversation for any kind of reason
54. All this time, my prepackaged dinner WAS SITTING IN MY LAP
55. And when I finally got my tray table released from its armrest prison and opened it up
56. Guess what happened
57. (This is a hard one)
58. OK, I'll tell you:
59. It wouldn't lie flat
60. It actually tilted toward me
61. And the angle was so steep that my food kept sliding toward my lap and I had to hold it and my bottle of water (which came with the meal and wasn't a benevolent bonus from Cabin Satan) in place with one hand while I tried to eat with the other
62. (It's the same lap where my meal had been sitting while I struggled to open my tray table in the first place)
63. Remember that Carol Burnett airplane sketch where Tim Conway is in no-frills coach where he's hit over and over by small and large indignities while everyone in regular seats is having a great time and nobody notices his struggles or tries to help him and he eventually gets sucked out the window?
64. It was like that
65. But with British accents and vulgar people
66. Then the man took his shoes and socks off
67. Because OF COURSE he did
68. Let's not discuss his toes
69. You're welcome
70. Then a few hours later a different cabin steward came down the aisles
72. He was passing out what sounded like "dusty pretzels"
73. The vulgar, messy, entitled people asked for some and he gave two packages of dusty pretzels to each of them
74. I asked for some and OF COURSE HE GAVE ME JUST ONE
75. It was then that I noticed his barn door was open
76. Because when you're strapped in an airplane seat, your eyes are pretty much at barn-door level
77. So even if you don't want to look, there's no way any barn door--open or closed--will escape your attention
78. Sacred Bro Code requires one bro to notify another bro with the utmost discretion if his barn door is open
79. I always honor this bro code
80. With utmost discretion
81. But guess what I didn't do this time
82. Just guess
83. Right: I DIDN'T TELL HIM
84. TAKE THAT, DUSTY PRETZEL TWINK!
85. I hope you mortified yourself all the way from English soil to Colonial soil
86. I did get lots of reading done though
87. It's not like I had anyone to engage with
88. And I desperately wanted to avert my gaze from Cap'n Vulgartoes
89. Moving on ...
90. My first condo in Chicago was on Sheridan just north of Foster
91. Foster Avenue--I soon found out--was the ground path that incoming planes followed on their way to O'Hare
92. Since it was a lovely, sunny day yesterday and we approached O'Hare rather low, I could totally see my old condo out my window
93. Which gave me a strange thrill
94. Though--let us not forget--I had nobody anywhere near me I could tell
95. I'd left my phone on airplane mode the entire trip so I could purge tons of photos and apps without being tempted to spend 75 hours on TikTok
96. My phone was literally in my lap as we flew over my old condo
97. (The lap that had previously been a food vortex)
98. But I didn't think to take a photo
99. Which would have been kinda cool
100. Though--again, let us not forget--I'd have nobody on the plane to show it to
101. Then
102. THEN!
102. After we landed
103. And we were instructed UNAMBIGUOUSLY to stay in our seats until our section was called
104. The vulgar, messy, entitled couple stood right up and began fishing their things out of the overhead bins
105. Because OF COURSE they did
106. Cap'n Vulgartoes at least finally put his socks and shoes back on though
107. And guess who didn't stop them
108. JUST GUESS
109. Right: Cabin Satan
110. You're getting good at this
111. Apparently they had a fast connection to make
112. They'd never been to O'Hare--or even America--before
113. And even though Cabin Satan assured them they'd make their connection, I knew there was no way on earth they would
114. They had to go through customs
115. Then pick up their luggage
116. Then go through the second half of customs
117. Then find the secret hidden train and take it from international Terminal 5 to any of the domestic terminals
118. The ones that are poorly labeled and confusing to figure out even if you know where you're going
119. (See my 3/29 rant about the horribleness of O'Hare for more examples)
120. Then go through domestic security
121. Which is a bit pain-in-the-buttier than UK security
122. Then invariably walk 72 miles to their gate, which is invariably in Ohio
123. As I said: There was zero chance they'd make their connection
124. But did I at least prepare them for any of this?
125. Maybe offer some general description of the process just to give them a sense of what was ahead of them?
126. And show maturity and compassion since they were vulgar, messy and entitled so they know not what they do?
127 HELL.
128. NO.
130. Cabin Satan tried to say goodbye and thank you to me as I walked past him on my way out
131. But there was lint on the ceiling

Adventures in boarding our plane

1. It’s parked super-way-far-away on the tarmac so we all took alarmingly long bus rides to get to it
2. As my fellow bus passengers and I were waiting to climb the steps from the tarmac to the plane, three occupants of the plane were being all but DRAGGED down the stairs and off the plane amid much shouting and concern to the rest of us.
2. Even if the problem was a mere misunderstanding, it didn’t make for good optics.
3. Yikes.
4. I bought this jaunty tropical-toile bucket hat in Scotland, much to the consternation of my fashion-backward niece.
5. Kids these days.
6. They have no taste.
7. But
8. BUT!
9. The nice desk agent I was so polite to yesterday not only booked me in a posh hotel BUT ALSO PUT ME IN AN EXIT ROW.
10. Which may or may not be that big of a plus.
11. There’s no easy-access place to store my bag of books and goodies.
12. So the bag is stowed above my head and my books are in my lap.
13. And I’ll have a clear view of everyone going to the bathroom.
14. CLARIFICATION: I’ll have a clear view of everyone ENTERING the bathrooms.
15. Not actually USING them.
16. It seemed important to make sure you all understand that.
17. See the disembodied feet and ankles in that second picture?
18. They’re the cabin steward’s.
19. I’ve already managed to ask enough dumb questions that I guarantee he’ll avoid talking to me the rest of the flight.
20. Crazy Americans.
21. When we’re tired, we’re EXTRA befuddled, amirite?
22. That should be printed on our passports.
23. In case it isn’t obvious.
24. The captain just said we’re about to pull away.
25. But from what?
26. WE’RE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE TARMAC.
27. And nothing’s been explained about the forcibly ejected passengers.
29. I’m sure there are HIPAA-ish (HIPPISH?) laws about not telling us information about other passengers.
30. But still: Bad optics = awkward discomfort
31. Anyway.
32. We’re about to pull away from our square of tarmac paint and hit the skies.
33. I HOPE.
34. Peace out.
35. Oh—I accidentally made two 2’s.
36. And I somehow skipped 28.
37. When we’re tired, we’re EXTRA befuddled, amirite?

Heathrow redux

1. Is it possible for a bed to be TOO comfortable?
2. Because I slept in the softness of a mother-kitty hug last night
3. But BLERG am I exhausted
4. It could’ve been the pillows though
5. They were so plump they practically had me sleeping vertically
6. The hotel breakfast was good
7. I gorged myself because I didn’t eat dinner
8. Local customs and regional cuisines may come and go, but watery hotel scrambled eggs transcend all boundaries
8. I also managed to spill a lake of honey on my leg
9. My jeans were already into questionable-cleanliness territory
10. Now there’s no question
11. But there’s totally a dark, sticky stain
12. Not even copious amounts of water can make it go away
13. I might have to launder them in a different country
14. I’m also down to my emergency mask stash
15. The ones that smell like the soap didn’t quite get to them in the wash
16. I have one last N95 mask though
17. But I’m saving it for the plane
18. Where paper masks are required
19. The airports here frustratingly refuse to tell you where your gate is until 60 minutes before boarding
20. And they conveniently leave you waiting in the middle of a giant duty-free mall
21. No Balenciaga earrings for me, thank you
22. I’m not falling for your underhanded retail tricks, Heathrow
23. Oh, look: Armani wingtips!
24. Only £700!
25. I’ll take some in every color, please
26. And I’ll need this £900 HUGO suitcase to carry them on the plane, please
27. I’m clearly too big for London
28. I violently banged my elbows on both sides of the shower this morning when I reached up to shampoo my hair
29. I had to awkwardly tuck my knees under my ample bosom to fit in the seat on the airport shuttle
30. But my shampoo-laundered socks and underwear were dry this morning
31. Dry enough
32. I may complain about chafing later
33. If I can stay awake
34. Because my bed was too comfortable
35. I was kidding about wearing Balenciaga
36. I’m a total Fendi girl
37. Maybe Burberry
38. But only on days where I know I won’t run into anyone important
39. Like the middle of the Heathrow duty-free holding cell
40. Did I mention I’m tired?
41. And that I feel less than fresh?
42. I miss my kitties.
43. Oh look!
44. Gate A10
45. FINALLY
46. I’ll head there just as soon as I buy this Ferragamo scarf
47. KIDDING!
48. I’m Fendi all the way, baby
49. I’m also on my way to Gate A10
50. Just as soon as I point out that I accidentally made two 8’s

The Day That Did Not Go As Planned: A Recap

1. I passed my covid test
2. I’ve had only one before this
3. At the very dawn of the pandemic
4. But look—I’m already off the today-recap track
5. The mandatory covid app wouldn’t upload my test results
6. Because why would it?
7. The electronic signs at Edinburgh Airport, in my experience, do everything in their power to be unhelpful to the point of making you miss your flights
8. I spent a lot of time there today
9. More time than my entire transatlantic flight was supposed to take
10. Yet I’m still on this side of the pond
11. As I previously alluded to
12. (You might not have even noticed I mentioned it)
13. I missed my connecting flight to Chicago
14. And then stood in line at Heathrow for literally two hours waiting to get rebooked
15. But I was clearly a breath of fresh air wafting above the cranky, demanding weeds
16. Because I told the woman at the counter that my schedule was extremely flexible and she could get me home in whatever way was easiest
17. (I’d already told my boss there’s no way I’d make it to work tomorrow anyway, so I was clear to take on whatever the fates dealt me)
18. Plus I promised the rebooking agent a tray of scotcharoos and then flashed a bit of man-boob
18. And not only did she book me to fly out tomorrow morning at a respectable, unrushed time …
19. But I got put up at a swanky, tastefully-foo-foo-gay hotel for the night
20. Seriously
21. It’s so nice I just can’t even
22. It’s the Radisson Blu Edwardian:

23. They’ve clearly invested in its handsomeness using the money they saved by spelling it Blu

24. And I’ve always been an Edwardian guy
25. The Victorians were far too vulgar for me
26. With the wanton hedonism of their hourglass silhouettes and saucy, immodest ankles
27. No, sir
28. Not in THIS household
29. I was raised better than that
30. We were far more chaste and tasteful with our pillowy S-curve bosoms, Evelyn Nesbit virtues, and Gilded Age hubris steaming straight toward the iceberg of obscene divisions of wealth and class and the callous insouciance that unceremoniously condemned the Titanic to a grave at the bottom of the North Atlantic
31. As I said: pure Edwardian class
32. (At least the Titanic got closer to North America than I did today)
33. (too soon?)
34. The lobby here looks like a gentlemen’s hunting lodge that has a fairy godmother
35. Burled walnut paneling
36. Handsome portraits of old-money scions
37. Russet-hued marble burnished to a crisp polish
38. And a massive chandelier of crystal beads that doubles as a drag queen’s tiara on weekends:

39. The lady who rebooked me also got the covid thing figured out and documented

40. She didn’t even look at my test results
41. She just trusted me to tell the truth
42. I’m glad she didn’t ask about my syphilis and consumption tests though
43. That would have gotten awkward
44. It still took me until 7:00 to get in my room
45. We’d landed at 3:30
46. Which adds up to 3 1/2 hours of standing at the rebooking counter and then standing waiting for a shuttle to the hotel and then standing in the hotel check-in line dedicated solely to serving the unwashed airline-delayed masses
47. But I’m HERE
48. There’s a lovely dining room in the lobby
49. It’s the kind that 100% has umlauts and cedillas on its menu
50. I have a dinner voucher
51. But I’m tired
52. And lazy
53. And dressed for the pajama-party comfort I was expecting on my Chicago flight
54. And typing stuff on Facebook feels like all I’m capable of doing at the moment
55. Plus the hotel is MASSIVE
56. It would take another three hours to find my way back to the lobby
57. Plus I’ve been eating like an appalling American all week
58. And I have a breakfast voucher for the morning
59. I mean bręakfäst
60. ’Cause it’s fancy
61. I’d timed my socks and underwear down to the day on this trip
62. Meaning I didn’t account for an additional overnight
63. So a shampoo-laundered pair of socks and a shampoo-laundered pair of underwear are (hopefully by morning) currently drying in the bathroom
64. Of my swanky Edwardian hotel
65. I had to give the help the night off to gather coal to heat their meager Edwardian hovels
66. So I faced the indignity of laundering my unmentionables myself
67. Thankfully nobody knows
68. Nobody
70. One other thing:
71. Our shuttle bus pulled up next to a car at a stoplight on the way to the hotel
72. (The swanky Edwardian hotel)
73. There was a kid in a car seat in the back of the car
74. He started waving to everyone on the bus
75. We all waved back
76. At every stoplight until we went our separate ways
77. It melted the cockles of my cold, black heart
78. Plus it was a welcome antidote to the screaming-banshee airport children I’d spent my day with
79. The little kid giggled
80. We all did too
81. It was nice
82. Last thing:
83. I accidentally made two 18’s on this list
84. And I don’t love you enough to go back and fix it
95. I’m also not going to fix the fact that I just jumped to 95
96. But it’s important that I end on 100
97. It makes me look organized
98. And prolific
99. So good night
100. That’s an even 100
101. Oops

Surviving the Bombing of Pan Am Flight 103

Twenty-three years ago—on the 10th anniversary of the bombing of Pan Am Flight 103—I was invited to write a personal remembrance of the event for the scholarly Journal of Personal & Interpersonal Loss through the psychology department at the University of Iowa. As I sifted through my research and artifacts and memories and emotions, I found I had a lot to say—and the essay ended up being over 2,000 words. I was just hitting my stride as a confident professional writer, and though my emotions and penchant to express myself in extremes have mellowed over the past two decades, I’m still quite proud of what I wrote and how I wrote it. If you care to read a sample, here’s the preamble:

On December 21, 1988, a terrorist bomb blew Pan Am Flight 103 out of the sky over Lockerbie, Scotland, 54 minutes after it took off from London's Heathrow Airport. The explosion sent 259 passengers and crew members tumbling 6 miles to their deaths, killed 11 people on the ground, and created waves of shock and grief that continue to reverberate across the globe. My friend Miriam Wolfe, one of 35 students returning from a semester in London under the auspices of Syracuse University, was on that flight. Her death was the final, jarring event in a traumatic year that had brought me the accidental deaths of four other friends in an Easter plane crash and the breast cancer that would force my mother to endure a mastectomy and painful years of chemotherapy and drug treatments. While it is tempting to canonize the victims of violent disaster, Miriam was different—and inarguably deserving of such hagiography. A tribute written for one of three memorial scholarships established in her honor calls her ‘a rare and gifted young woman who lived life to the fullest; actively worked to change the world for the better; and gave a great deal of love, joy and wisdom to all who knew her.’ Her death yanked me from the comfortable naiveté of my youth and forced me to confront the pain and confusion of the adult world. It destroyed my faith in the inherent good of mankind but showed me how disaster can bring out the best in people. It gave me a nihilistic view of life but forced me to make the most of every moment I have. It made me appreciate the people around me but gave me little tolerance for anyone who wastes my time. And it instilled in me a knee-jerk animus toward religion and nearly all things Middle Eastern. Ultimately, though, Miriam's life and death taught me how to live and love and survive in ways I never thought necessary—or possible.

Excerpted from "Surviving the Bombing of Pan Am Flight 103: The Loss of Innocence and a Dear Friend in an International Tragedy." Journal of Personal & Interpersonal Loss, Vol. 3, No. 1, January–March 1998. Pages 117–134. Publisher: Taylor & Francis.

Oh nose!

Bitch Kitty is sick! She left barf bombs all over the house last night and today she's sneezing all over things we're now reluctant to touch. But kitty sneezes are adorably cute, even if they're coming from a kitty who's hemorrhaging profusely out of every orifice and in the spastic throes of death. A whimsical little sneeze is like a final gift of adorableness to the people standing helplessly around her watching her die.

But back to Bitch Kitty. According to the accredited scholarly journal Everyone Has Syphilis, Bitch Kitty's barfing and adorable sneezing and open hostility toward adult gay men who have so much love to give but no one to give it to are classic symptoms of Profoundly Embarrassing Feline Syphilis That Brings Mortal Shame Upon The Entire Family.

But! There is a cure: Value Size Ultra Mega Hairball Formula Premium Formula Gel. I swear I'm not making that up. It comes in a toothpaste tube and you squirt it on your cat's paw and she fastidiously licks it off and through the wonders of magic and witchcraft—because all cats are witches who are openly hostile toward adult gay men who have so much love to give but no one to give it to—she stops leaving barf bombs all over the house. And it comes in malt flavor, because everyone knows cats prefer malts and drive-in movies over tuna and chicken.

As for the adorable sneezing, we read on the internet—and I swear I'm not making this up either—that you should fill an eye dropper with a gently warmed saline solution and squirt a few drops up the cat's nose while the cat sits calmly and cooperatively as she's basically being waterboarded. Take a moment to look at this picture:

It's a rare and extremely collectible photo of Bitch Kitty hissing and running away but still for one brief nanosecond keeping her hiss aimed in the general direction of my camera, which she does at bag-of-pudding speed (because she's too zaftig to move at lightning speed) every time I enter her field of vision. So guess who in my family would be a lacerated failure at squirting salty water anywhere in the vicinity of Bitch Kitty, much less up her adorably sneezy nose. Just guess. Bitch Kitty LOOOOOOVES my dad, but waterboarding is still waterboarding and my dad is 500 years old and starting to get feeble and Bitch Kitty would open every vein in his body if he tried to waterboard her—even coming from a place of love—and I bet he wouldn't even give us an adorable final sneeze as we stood around helplessly watching him die.

But! The guy at the pet store said there is an alternate solution: Buy a humidifier. Which we did. Let me type that again slowly to make sure you understand it: WE JUST BOUGHT A HUMIDIFIER TO GENTLY MOISTEN THE AIR IN OUR HOME FOR OUR SNEEZY BARFY BITCHY CAT.
In other news, we found proof at the pet store that our country is officially out of plausible, relevant product names. Because we found a product called Stop That!, which I assume is designed to stop kitties from doing whatever "that" is: collapsing the soufflé, ordering too many shoes online, staring at Melania's classy titty pictures ... who knows?

Then! (And I promise I'll end this endless post after this paragraph.) We found the BEST worst name for a product in the whole entire universe: ThunderShirt! Which could be used for superheroes or bodybuilder clothes or storm chasers. But no. It's just for cat anxiety. CAT ANXIETY. The ThunderShirt for Cat Anxiety. Say it 16 times and it's STILL the dumbest use of the coolest name ever to fix an imaginary first-world problem. Like bipolar disorder. Or plain Oreos. Or That.

Art: The Burghers of Calais

(Original French title: Les Bourgeois de Calais)
1889
Auguste Rodin
Impressionism (1872-1892)

The relatively short-lived period of Impressionism in art was as defined by what it wasn't—clear lines, plausible composition, realistic depictions of figures and the space they occupied—as by what it was: impressions of visual perception told through explorations of changing light and color and even through the rough-hewn textures created in paint using varying brush strokes. A radical departure from the longstanding—though always evolving—rigors of academic Realism, the fresh ideas of Impressionism on canvas quickly inspired similar reinterpretations of artistic norms in music, literature and sculpture.

Enter François-Auguste-René Rodin.

Classically trained and well-established in creating representational art, Rodin saw Impressionism's dreamy figure studies and craggy, dimensional textures as a vocabulary he could use to render bold ideas, subjective emotions, and plays of shape and light in sculpture. His raw, turbulent works brought new, profound depth to the revolutionary cacophonies that had so far been constricted to the flat canvases of Impressionistic paintings, and his most riveting use of this complex, muscular multi-dimensional language is in his mighty Burghers of Calais. The sculpture depicts six men walking to their martyrdom to liberate the French town of Calais during the Hundred Years' War. The men are overcome with terror and anguish and resignation and peace all at once, and Rodin sculpted the figures with such a masterful mix of Romantic realism and primitive rawness that you can see and understand their every emotion from your every angle. The piece is enormous in size and exaggerated in scale and arguably unfinished in its rendering, all of which invite you to approach it with your own perspectives, examine it with your own curiosities and appreciate it with your own conclusions.

French law decrees that no more than twelve original casts may be made of any work by Rodin, which means The Burghers of Calais tells its weighty story in museums and university campuses all over Europe and the United States, including a single figure from the piece who stands resolutely at the entrance to the University of Iowa's Boyd Law Building.

I make a point to see my reproduction of the work every summer on my annual pilgrimage to visit friends in Washington, D.C. It stands with other Rodin masterpieces in a relatively austere corner of the sunken sculpture garden behind the Smithsonian's relentlessly round Hirshhorn Museum. I usually stop there on my way to the airport at the end of each visit. I walk around the sculpture a few times to reacquaint myself with the specific details Rodin included—like articulated toes to help propel the walking figures through space—and the specific details he didn't include—like eyeballs to help the figures see where they're going. Then I sit in my same spot on a little concrete ledge to take in the piece in its weighty enormousness, to contemplate the explosive change Rodin and the Impressionists brought to the way we see and understand and interpret art, and to find comfort in the fact that my Burghers will most likely stand caught in their time and this place, waiting for me year after year every time I come to visit them for as long as I live.

Art: Paris Street; Rainy Day

(Original French title: Rue de Paris, temps de pluie)
1877
Gustave Caillebotte
Impressionism (1872-1892)
Art Institute of Chicago

While technically created in the heart of the Impressionist period—which indulged itself in explorations of light, color and brushstroke techniques at the expense of clear representation and plausible perspective—Paris Street; Rainy Day reigns in Impressionism's visual indulgences with cleaner lines, realistic human figures, and vanishing-point perspective that extends almost mathematically from the rectangular cobblestones in the foreground to the ambitiously double confluences of angles at the distant ends of the forked street. To enhance the effect, Gustave Caillebotte paints the figures in gradient levels of focus, creating a photorealistic contrast between the three figures enjoying relative visual clarity in the middle distance, the three (well, two and a half) figures who are too close to stay in complete focus at the front of the painting, and the increasingly-less-defined human shapes receding into the misty distance.

While providing a convenient context for allowing distant figures to fade to gray—along with filling the setting with shimmers of Impressionistic light and reflection—the misty weather in the painting also allows for the curvy shapes of umbrellas and hunched people to provide visual counterpoint to the geometries of the streets and buildings ... plus it gives the figures a range of purposeful movement, whether they're casually dodging raindrops or hurrying to get somewhere dry. The overall effect is a graceful collaboration of shape, energy, atmosphere, physical presence and measured social observation.

Paris Street; Rainy Day greets visitors to the Art Institute of Chicago at the top of the Grand Staircase as they enter the permanent-collection Impressionism galleries. Its rainy ambiance may seem dour, but the choreography of human figures and the multi-directional spatial composition are an apt invitation to explore the museum, intermingle with the other patrons and contemplate even the things that aren't immediately in focus.

All I need is the ... good sense not to be seen in this outfit ever again

This—THIS!—is what I thought was acceptable attire for setting foot in Washington DC's Kennedy Center to see Tyne Daly as Mama Rose in the 1989 pre-Broadway revival of Gypsy. (Non-linear side note: You never forget your first Mama Rose. And while I don't l-o-o-o-o-o-v-e Gypsy like all the other card-carrying-Platinum gays, I still love Tyne Daly as Rose more than any other women I've seen in the role since then. And that includes Patti. Because Patti’s never met a vowel she couldn't chew into a meaty, puddingy, distractingy triphthong.)

Anywho ... THAT OUTFIT ...

Nothing says "I sit down to pee" quite as efficiently as a bow tie on a college kid. I taught myself to tie a bow tie when I was in high school, while all the other kids were doing more useful things like—oh, I don't know—hanging out with each other and forming meaningful friendships. I thought my little Madras plaid bow tie made me look so throwback-non-conformist hip 'n' cool that I went out and bought a bunch more bow ties in all kinds of colors and patterns. Which makes this plaid one my gateway bow tie. One reason I was so good at tying bow ties was those glasses. Their lenses were so expansively huge—like about-to-be-launched Hubble telescope!—that I barely had to bend my neck to look down and see what I was doing. And as we all know, efficiency is the DNA of questionable fashion. You can't see it clearly here, but I also had a coordinating Madras plaid watch band. As in a bow-tie-matching watch band made of sweat-absorbing-and-quickly-gross fabric. BUT THAT'S NOT ALL! I somehow decided it was totally-probably-sexy-cool to wear it with the watch face ON THE INSIDE OF MY WRIST. Because WHO THE HELL DOES THAT? And let's not overlook those voluminous pleated khakis—not that we could ever tear our eyes away from the uncharted galaxies of animal-balloon space they occupied around my wispy little goblin hips. They were from The Gap, see, and I'd had a bit of an inferiority complex as a younger person that—and I am not making this up—made me feel not cool enough to shop at The Gap. I'd literally walk by it at the then-fancy Westdale Mall and feel awkward and panicked and a little bit resentful that I was clearly being judged so harshly by everyone in the store who was clearly looking up and judging me. (Do not fear: My 2021 therapist has been alerted.) Anyway, one fateful day I scrounged up the courage to wince timidly into that Gap and find the men's section (which in the gender-bendy '80s wasn't clearly delineated, which just compounded my feelings of inadequacy) and immediately found these wardrobe-dream pants with all their essential wardrobe-dream details: classic khaki coloring, heavy cotton poplin (a natural fiber! in the '80s! I KNOW!) (also: like every socially awkward fashionista, I knew what poplin was as a young gaylet ... and why it was more laid-back-casual-and-therefore-better than twill) (also: twill is for librarians who aren't allowed to sit with the other librarians at lunch), voluminous pleats, super-dramatic taper and securely tacked ankle-strangling cuffs. All of which equaled TOTAL MEGA COOL-KIDS FASHION. And I'm pretty sure I was wearing my white suede bucks with red fake-rubber soles with them. Because PLEASE BEAT ME UP I'M SUPER '80s GAY.

So let's review:

Face-swallowing glasses + expertly hand-tied, perfectly puckered plaid bow tie + inside-out sweaty watch + pleats with their own ZIP codes + legs tapered like reverse-cowgirl jodhpurs = man who goes to the theater to SING OUT! with his mom.

1. We’re running out of interesting things to put in our post-run selfies.

2. Like, REALLY running out.
3.
4.
5. Meet ... our recycling bin.
6. It’s blue.
7. It’s full of recyclables.
8. It’s by the curb because today is recycling day.
9. Which nicely dovetails into the fact that today is also garbage day.
10. It’s like a two-for-one.
11. Except the bins get emptied and their contents are never seen again. So it’s more like a two-for-none.
12.
13.
14. Usually the things in our weird selfies give me a launching-off point for my weird-ass ramblings that have at least some semblance of conversational value.
15.
16.
17. I just made stupid-dumb jokes about our garbage day instead.
18. Which is also our recycling day.
19. Sigh.
20.
21.
22. It was all-ass FREEZING this morning.
23. And the trail we run on is relentlessly straight.
24. Which makes it a brutally efficient wind tunnel.
25. My fingers are almost throbbing.
26. And I think I ingested a quart of runny-nose snot on our windy-ass, freezing-ass run.
27. Rob and I (but not our absent and probably imaginary friend Scott) joked about turning around at the one-mile mark.
28. I bet we would have done it if one of us had joked just a LITTLE bit harder.
29. But we didn’t.
30. I’m officially glad we ran our planned three-mile distance.
31. I’m also glad I got out of bed and stuck to our commitment to run in the first place.
32.
33.
34. But not really.
35. I JUST POSTED A PICTURE OF OUR DAMN RECYCLING BIN, PEOPLE.
36. It’s blue.
37. Sigh.
38.
39.
40. So.
41. Three miles.
42. 10:55 pace.
43. Half of which was running into an icy wind.
44. Did I mention that quart of runny-nose snot?
45. And people wonder why I’m single.
46. I could really use a nap.
47. And it’s not even 8:00 am yet.
48. But it will be by the time I turn off this word faucet, proofread my unhinged ramblings and post it all.
49. So hello to future-proofreading me!
50. I’m going to leave 51. open for me to say hello back from the future.
51.
52. Shit.

CedaRound: Watch your mouth

Downtown Cedar Rapids was—and still is—a convergence of waterways and railroad tracks. Which—like with many towns—made—and continues to make—it a hub of commerce and manufacturing—along with irritating parentheticals set apart in dashes.

The biggest manufacturing plant in downtown Cedar Rapids today is Quaker Oats, which makes many different brands of cereal but thankfully makes no parenthetical commentary in Facebook posts. As such, the entire downtown area is awash almost daily in an effluvium of cereal smells, some general and some very specific. Today was one of those very specific days. I just drove through downtown Cedar Rapids on my way home from work and as I passed the Quaker Oats plant I was immediately transported to the world of watching Saturday-morning cartoons in my jammies, making a fort out of the couch cushions, and lacerating all the soft tissue in my mouth with spoonful after delicious spoonful of ... Crunch Berries.

Yup. My town smells like Crunch Berries on a regular basis. I hate to brag and yell and gloat, but MY TOWN SMELLS LIKE CRUNCH BERRIES ON A REGULAR BASIS. Your stupid town probably smells like poop or dirt or feet. And if you're having a bad day in Cedar Rapids—like that one time you had to park three whole car lengths away from the door to Hy-Vee—all you have to do is take a quick drive through downtown—with your windows up or down; the magic of Crunch Berries knows no barriers—and just take a few deep breaths. Your Crunch Berries therapy is fast-acting and refreshing and calming ... and FREE. No parentheticals required.

Something nice with swans

Well there are WORSE. THINGS.
Than weeding and deadheading on a Sunday.

 
There are WORSE. THINGS.
Than weeding and deadheading
In your pebbled front-yard garden
As the hot sun beats down on you
And you’re wearing a black T-shirt
That just proves thermodynamics
Make you swelter, sweat and trickle
To the point that you might pass out
In your pebbled front-yard garden
(Oops but I already said that)
And your lilies have stopped blooming
Plus your hostas look anemic
But you’re using your new snippers
That have been a great investment
‘Cause they’re making it so easy
To snip dying and dead plant parts
And please don’t forget the dog poop
Yes you must pick up the dog poop
That has hit the yard like shrapnel
So please watch where you are stepping
Did I mention that I’m schvitzing
In our weedy front rock garden
That Versailles would mock and laugh at
But EXCUSE ME ‘cause I’m trying
Now my forearms started itching
Because weeds are toxic bastards
And they’re sending caustic weed slime
Up my sweaty tired firearms
But I stopped to take a selfie
With my profile facing leftward
Like the lady in that painting
Who was named Dot by Steve Sondheim
In the musical with Lapine
That I’m curiously quoting
As I’m weeding and deadheading
In my pebbled front-yard garden
On a SUN DAAAAAAAY.
On a SUN DAAAAAAAY
In the yard. with.

*Don’t say your name!*

jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaake.

CedaRound: Kingston Square

Incorporated on the west side of the Cedar River as the town of Kingston in 1852 and annexed by Cedar Rapids in 1871, this long-neglected neighborhood is making a slow but gorgeous recovery after drowning in almost 10 feet of water in the 2008 flood.

 
There is a layered boxiness that visually links the architecture in the area, from the 1911 People's Bank Building designed by Louis Sullivan in his fortressy "jewel box" style to the post-war brutalist commercial spaces clad in corrugated concrete to the new mixed-use residential construction profiled with broad crenellations and proud cornices.

 
That boxiness creates a relentless horizontalness to the neighborhood's rooflines and setbacks, and someone somewhere in the neighborhood's recent revitalization decided to trace all that horizontal geometry with simple lines of bright white lights. And the effect at night is at once austere, majestic and stunning. So stunning, in fact, that I go out of my way to drive through the neighborhood every time I'm in the area at night. I've stopped and parked and wandered around with my iPhone a couple times to try and capture the magic, but I could never find the right spot to frame the full expanse of everything I find so beautiful.

 
But I finally captured it a year ago tonight when I discovered I was parked in an ideal location to capture most of it, which—since I've finally accepted that all that grand horizontalness is just too horizontal to squeeze into one picture—is still perfectly breathtaking.

The lights are a small touch, but they beautifully unify a relatively small neighborhood and help make it a smart district set along the river and embedded in our modest but friendly skyline.

CedaRound: Cedar Rapids History Center

The building that for a glorious moment was the architecturally contextual Cedar Rapids History Center was built in 1935 as a Quonset hut encased in industrially horizontal blond brick for the Rapids Chevrolet car dealership, and it stood resolutely as what seemed to be a permanent, demoralizing architectural stain on First Avenue at the edge of downtown until after I was out of college.

It was an exceptionally dreary example of early 20th century prefabricated architecture that was probably seen as austerely noble in its day and was unfortunately built to last well past its visual expiration date a decade later as the architectural world rediscovered the soul-nourishing properties of ornamentation.

So you can imagine how the city aesthetes rejoiced with great jubilation when the building started to be torn down in the 1990s, and then we waited with surprised but hopeful trepidation when we realized that what had brought devastating visual and emotional blight to the city for over half a century was not disappearing entirely but was instead being partially repurposed into delightfully contextual architecture: Ghosts of chipped-away pillars, arcs of corrugated metal and jagged geometries of pre-war brick suddenly stood with beauty, grace and a touch of fun as part of the endlessly clever new Cedar Rapids History Center building. And I quickly learned to stop sighing and looking away every time I drove past it. The new concept was quirky and invigorating and created a meaningful architectural dialogue between antiquated visual efficiencies and Post-Modern plays on scale, material and embellishment.

In 2017, the Cedar Rapids History Center moved to Cedar Rapids' historic 1896 Douglas Mansion—whose adjacent carriage house at 5 Turner Alley was transformed in the 1920s into an apartment and studio by American Gothic painter and Cedar Rapids homeboy Grant Wood—and the History Center building was renovated to become the new Cedar Rapids Day School. I'm kinda sad that the History Center abandoned its delightfully contextual hybrid-architecture home, but I still rejoice with civic pride every time I drive by it.

Movies: Room 237

If you like super-duper-crackpot conspiracy theories presented with neither irony nor shame; violently forced metaphors that leave marks warranting assault charges; relentless fantasias on the numbers 42 and it goes without saying 237; gratuitous reasons to keep showing the clip of the fully naked woman emerging from the Room 237 tub (side note: it the totally cool vintage seafoam-green bathroom); clear and inarguable proof that a stack of papers on a desk looks exactly like an erection to demonstrate the hotel manager's perverse thrill about something or other AND to reinforce the hard (ahem) and fast fact that there are sexual organs hiding IN PLAIN SIGHT in the basic shapes in a carpet pattern; a poster showing a skier that's CLEARLY actually a Minotaur that when paired with a poster of a cowboy on a horse across the room is CLEARLY an indication that the movie is actually about the Holocaust, and an authoritative exegesis based on a rock-solid foundation that Stanley Kubrick staged the moon landing because the guy telling you about it has a friend who's a graphic designer or something who told HIM that it's clearly staged if you know where to look PLUS the letters in ROOM NO. 237 can be rearranged to spell MOON ... then I have a movie for you.

Happy 91st birthday, Stephen Sondheim!

Thank you for redefining musical theater. For redefining music. For redefining theater.

Thank you for composing music that's at once asymmetrical and balanced, halting and fluid, atonal and lush, messy and perfect.

Thank you for finding lyrics that explore the outer limits of rhythm and structure and rhyme, that tell a story or define a character or celebrate a moment or break a heart in sometimes just a handful of words, that always seem fresh, that always seem timeless, that always seem effortless.

Thank you for creating an apotheosis of creative and intellectual order, design, tension, composition, balance, light and harmony.

Thank you for inspiring as only you can an enraptured young writer to think outside his own thoughts, to feel outside his own feelings, to never stop searching for the perfect word or the lyrical phrase or the essential defining idea in a universe of creative entropy, to always make sure he's proud of how he creates and proud of what he writes.

And thank you for the phrase that I rely on almost daily to turn an undefined someday into a compelling now ... to pull me out of inertia and propel me sometimes through a bipolar fog and sometimes just through my own complacency to run a marathon, broaden my perspective, take on a challenging writing project, upgrade to a difficult tap class, find a solution, emerge unscathed or at least unbroken, or some days to just show up.

Careful the things you say; children will listen. And sometimes they'll turn your inspiring lyrics into kick-ass tattoos.

Feel the flow,
Hear what's happening:
We're what's happening!
Long ago
All we had was that funny feeling,
Saying someday we'd send 'em reeling.
Now it looks like we can!
Someday just began ...

Family: Ruthie Bjonerud

Robert, Edna, Neva and now Ruthie Bjonerud were finally reunited three years ago today on the hereafter family farm, where the pastor at Ruthie’s funeral declared that all the cats are nice.

Ruthie was my mother’s cousin and the undisputed keeper of all the family history and lore on the seven-brother-and-two-sister Bjonerud family tree, the diaspora of which came from across the country to reunite at her funeral—probably for the last time—in our easy, loving, treasured geniality to reminisce about Ruthie and catch up with everyone else in our extended Norwegian family. 

Ruthie had been in deteriorating health and had finally agreed to move into the Aase Haugen Home for Lingering Norwegians, where less than a week later she by all accounts died peacefully in her sleep. It’s all anyone could want as far as a way to go, and in her memory her beloved—but now aging, far-flung and busy with our big-city lives—extended family buried her in the Calmar Lutheran Cemetery family plot among the generations of sturdy Norwegian ancestors whose lives in rural northeast Iowa extend back to America’s Civil War. 

And then we—as did those generations before us—gathered at Calmar Lutheran Church for sandwiches and slices of cake prepared by the church ladies and enjoyed the fellowship of family, old memories, new stories and remembrances of the woman who'd spent her life tirelessly, lovingly chronicling it all for us.

So apparently we have a new recliner

My family buys nothing—NOTHING!—more important than a package of socks without first going through the Ten Steps of Painfully Indecisive Covetousness:

1. Oh, look! There’s the thing I’m actively looking to buy and it’s right here in front of me right now so my search is over and I’m going to buy it.
1a. or: Oh, look! There’s something I just stumbled on in a store that two seconds ago I didn’t know existed and now I desperately want it so I’m going to buy it.

2. But am I sure about this? 

3. Maybe I can find a cheaper and/or better version of it somewhere else.

4. But first let me take 72 pictures of it on my phone so I can remind myself in perpetuity that I don’t have it every time I scroll through my photos. 

5. It’s totally worth it to drive to five similar stores scattered across town and then to spend 30 minutes researching it online if I can save five dollars when I inevitably buy it.

6. It goes without saying that it’s also totally worth it to go back to visit it nine or fifteen times at the store where I first saw it, just to be sure I really want it or to see if it goes on sale.

7. But I’m not obsessing about buying it or needlessly delaying this inevitable purchase or anything.

8. OK, two weeks have gone by and my life is empty and chokingly meaningless without it so I’m just going to go buy it.

9. Well, shit. It’s gone.
9a. or: Now that I have it home, I’ve decided I really don’t like it so I’m going to return it.

10. I’m just going to run in to Target for a few quick things.

SO! Imagine my surprise when—mere hours after we realized that we’d probably need to buy an easy-to-use recliner with a tall back for my dad because he’ll have problems sleeping in a flat bed when he comes home from the hospital so we were going to split up and start multiple Step Ones at all the recliner stores in town this afternoon—Mom sent me an urgent text telling me to come to the first recliner store she’d visited because she’d found the perfect recliner and she’d put a hold on it and wanted me to come test it before she bought it. 

Which I did. And then which SHE did. 

Let me type this slowly for you so you can comprehend its tectonic shiftiness: My mother, the High Priestess of the Ten Steps of Painfully Indecisive Covetousness, BOUGHT AN EASY-TO-USE-RECLINER WITH A TALL BACK ON JUST THE FIRST STEP. Without even blinking.

Behold its new-reclinerness:

I’ll give you a moment to lift your jaws up from the shifting tectonic plates beneath you. 

What’s more, our awesome, truck-having neighbor Dan just happened to be free and willing to transport the recliner home for us ... and within 90 minutes start-to-finish we became the proud owners of a new easy-to-use recliner with a tall back. WITH NINE UNUSED STEPS JUST HANGING OUT IN SPACE IN A FOG OF ABANDONMENT AND CONFUSION. But maybe I can sell them individually on Etsy. 

Anyway! I had to do some major furniture shuffling to fit our new easy-to-use recliner with a tall back into our living room, but I think it’s now in a primo spot where Dad can be comfortable and not feeling like he’s jutting out into the room as he entertains visitors. And he has a bunch of medical stuff—in addition to his boombox for his books on tape—that he’ll need to keep near him, so I repurposed some decorative chests to become decorative side tables for him. Plus I cleaned them all with Liquid Gold, which those of us who like our wooden antiques to be alarmingly shiny know takes 17 days to dry. So that’s why I’m posting this artfully composed, judiciously-cropped-so-you-can’t-see-what-a-mess-the-rest-of-the-room-is photo at 7:42 instead of 4:00. 

But doesn’t my dad’s new man-corner look handsome? 

(It’d look mega-more handsome without that butt-ugly quilt and that why-the-hell-do-we-have-a-genuine-oil-painting-of-a-stranger-holding-a-gun-in-our-living-room painting. But rectifying those situations opens a whole new Ten Stages Of Painfully Indecisive Purging process. So let’s all just admire my alarmingly shiny wooden side tables for now.)

Theater: "Sunday," Sunday in the Park with George, Stephen Sondheim

Never has a song captured me on so many levels and left me with goosebumps every time I hear it. Sunday in the Park with George is one of the first shows I ever saw on Broadway, and "Sunday" finishes Act I by bringing together all the characters we've met as individual people as they stand and relocate and adjust as a growing ensemble and ultimately form a living, singing, haunting, as-close-as-humanly-possible re-creation of Georges Seurat's defining painting A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. The score of the entire show is peppered with quick little notes that evoke the peppered-dot painting style of Pointillism, and the dreamy lyrics meander through the endless combinations of colors Pointillist painters used to create light and shade and depth and movement in their work. And the last sung lyrics—"... on an ordinary Sunday!"—stand in gloriously stark contrast to the shimmering, fortissimo, every-possible-note chording in the orchestra that is powerfully, thrillingly anything but normal.