The Blog...

Just to keep things tidy, all blog entries can be found on my website, HERE.

*hugs*

And One Year Later

August 8, 2010, is a day of celebration, and possible introspection, for me. On the one hand, it is my one-year wedding anniversary. On the other, it will mark one year since I have spoken to my father.

There was no fight, no big blow up between us. In fact, I’m not entirely sure why we’re not speaking. I believe we’re in the middle of some bizarre Mexican stand off, neither one of us willing to blink or show weakness. My silence comes from patience, and an ability to shut down emotionally and wait a situation out to its finish. I will not attempt to second-guess my father’s intentions or distance; speculation usually leads to incorrect assessments, and I hope to avoid that. I will simply stick to what I was witness to or told first-hand. Beyond that, all is left to the imagination.

Before I begin, I should point out two important parts to my father’s character: he is both generous, and pragmatic. For the wedding, his checkbook opened immediately, and his endowment was the largest Lydia and I received. That’s saying a lot, as every parent went above and beyond the call of charitable for our wedding expenses. Another example if his giving nature is: a few winters ago, he called out of the blue and told me to go pick out a snow thrower, his treat. Lydia and I had just purchased our first house, and with me being on the road all the time, he didn’t want her stuck shoveling a snowed-in driveway alone. Price was no matter; he wanted us to pick something big and powerful. Regarding my father’s no-nonsense side, I remember the first time I got drunk. The next day I was hung-over beyond decent description; my head was throbbing, my body ached, and my tongue weighed more than an Olson twin. My mother marched me downstairs to face a father’s wrath, expecting him to tear into me for my behavior. Instead, he took one look at me and asked, “So, how do you feel right now?” I’m not sure what answer I was able to muster up, but my dad nodded, said, “Well, that’s what drinking does to you,” and let it go. I didn’t drink again for years.

Those positives on the record, my wedding day unfolded as follows... actually, to be accurate, I should start before the wedding, to give a little back-story. Lydia was a trooper when it came to planning; she took the lion’s share of all responsibilities, and where possible, went homemade over mass-produced in order to save money. Lydia created the wedding-day program, which was the first inkling there could be friction ahead. When trying to decide who to list on the cover—typically the parents—Lydia asked me if I wanted just my biologicals listed, or my parents and their new spouses/girlfriends. Hoping to keep closed that can of worms, I responded, “Just my parents. Keep it simple.” Lydia thought it would hurt my fake dad, Joe, to be left out. Instead of listening to my advice, she called my mother for input. Joe wasn’t home, but my mom agreed: not listing Joe would make him a sad panda.

“Bullshit,” I countered. “Joe is a man, men don’t give a shit about that sort of thing.”

Lydia was un-swayed, and now in a tough position. If we honor Joe, did we list Alice, my dad’s girlfriend? Is there a fine line between listing a spouse vs. a partner, just because one wears a ring? She thought it best to call my dad and ask for his wishes; would he like to see Alice included on the program? My dad appreciated the call, and got bizarrely cryptic.

“If certain people,” he emphasized, meaning his ex-wife and my mother, “are uncomfortable seeing Alice’s name there, you can leave it off. I appreciate the call, because it means a lot to me you’re looking into such things, but I also understand if you have to cater to the emotions of certain people.”

My father’s ability to accentuate the absurd is an interesting one. In his mind, his ex-wife, a woman who rarely spoke of him unless pressed, was somehow going to be offended that: fifteen years after the divorce she had asked for and ten years after her remarriage, seeing my father’s girlfriend’s name on my wedding program would be offensive.

Naturally, my mother hadn’t given any thought to Alice, my dad, or anything else on the program; such worries were all my father’s invention.

Naturally, within moments of that frustrating conversation, my mother called with an update: Joe had gotten home, voiced his opinion, and he didn’t care one way or another if he was listed. Just as I predicted, he had a penis, and therefore shrugged away nonsense.

In Lydia’s mind a quandary now existed, a self-invented mess. The program looked cluttered with the multitude of names on it, but after all the phone calls, she felt obligated to include them all. Ever the caring fiancée, I washed my hands of it and walked away shrugging. Up front I had said to keep it simple, but such advice was unheeded. Neener.

Either way, that laid the foundation of my father’s mindset. He seemed preoccupied with his ex, where she had moved on.
The day before the wedding, my dad told me he was opting out of that evening’s rehearsal ceremony. I was fine with it; the full scope of his duties involved walking down the aisle and sitting in the front row with family, then walking directly to the reception line after all vows had been exchanged. Pretty simple stuff. He met up with everyone at the rehearsal dinner, and from everything I saw all was well there, but then again I was drunk and apparently missed his insulting the Matron of Honor for not being politically aware of her own state’s legislators.

The next phase of alienation took place directly before the wedding. Lydia and I wanted our guests to have as much fun as possible, so we planned a back-to-back wedding/reception; there would be no fucking around for several hours in between the events, where people had to kill time in a small, unknown to them, town. This meant we had to take all our pictures beforehand, and, like the rehearsal, this was something my father was uninterested in. He said he didn’t want to be a part of those proceedings, and would go straight to the ceremony. I’m sure had I pressed him, he would have begrudgingly participated, but if he didn’t want to be in the pictures, I wasn’t going to make an issue of it. Pictures were important to Lydia, not me. Thus, if you look through my wedding album, you will find one picture of my father. It is not a photo of him standing next to or with arms around his son and/or new daughter-in-law, nor is it a posed capture. In the photo, my father is in the background of a candid group-shot; his jaw is square, his eyes are stern. He is watching a slideshow of my childhood play across a screen, and he is apparently unhappy.

All our pictures taken, as the ceremony grew near and everyone made way to their seats, Dad decided against sitting in the front row with the families. When I walked down to take my position at the altar, I saw him sitting half way back, several rows deep among the guests, not up front as one or both ushers had requested he do. Lydia and I didn’t have preordained sides, bride and groom; people were free to sit where they wished. Because of this, Lydia’s therapist happened to end up directly behind my father. At their next session, she mentioned it to Lydia.

“When the couple sat down in front of me, the man said to his girlfriend, ‘I know they want me to sit up front, but I’m not going to play that game.’ I was shocked later when I found out it was Nathan’s dad!”

My father’s comment is important, given an altercation later in the evening.

As the ceremony progressed, there was a point where our minister (powered by the state of Iowa and the Internet, but not Jebus
or any other religious icon) began an introduction to the rose ceremony. Unlike those seen on The Bachelor, our moment was designed to honor our families; we were going to present a rose to those who raised us. Sadly, as the minister waxed philosophic on the meaning of the flower, Lydia looked at me in wide-eyed fear and whispered, “Ohmygod... we left the roses up in the refrigerator!” I did not find this to be that big a deal, and when the words, “And now, Nathan and Lydia will hand out the roses” were spoken, I turned to everyone gathered and shouted, “We forgot ‘em!”

Many people started giggling, until a voice rose above the din; “Maybe you’ll get it right at your next wedding!” My father let his wit get in front of his senses and shouted it over the titters.

I feel I should explain something here. While many people gasped in horror, I rolled my eyes. My father comes to all my comedy shows, and quite often heckles me. I bust his chops, and the audience gets off on our back and forth harassment of one another. So when he volleyed at the wedding, I returned, “Maybe I learned from your fuckups and won’t get divorced!” Everyone laughed again, but most people still seemed a bit uneasy.

The ceremony ended; the wedding party walked down the aisle and up to the reception hall to participate in the receiving line. Everyone save for my father, that is. He never discussed opting out of the receiving line, but at this point it was to be expected. In such a situation you can either make the decision to be angry, or let it go and enjoy your day. Lydia and I let it go. Too many generous friends and family members had made the trek to Iowa for us to be bothered by little things. I was meeting new people, and more importantly, saying hi to friends I didn’t and don’t get to see often enough.

Moving inside for the dinner, all was well. Dad found a table to sit at away from my mother, and I didn’t hear much about him until much later in the evening when the socializing began. At one point, the photographer said she was ready to leave, so Lydia and I made one last-ditch effort to corner my father for a picture, but he ran away in search of leftover pizza for our security guard. I told the photographer not to worry about it and to take off.

As the night wore on, I started hearing little stories about my dad, coming first from an aunt on my mother’s side.
“Your father just said ‘hi’ to me,” she began, laughingly. “He said, ‘Well, I know you’ve been ignoring me since the divorce, so I thought I’d be the bigger person and come over here and say hello.’ I said ‘hi’ back, but in my head couldn’t stop laughing, thinking, ‘Well of course I’ve been ignoring you! You’re not married to my sister anymore, I don’t have to talk to you!’”
I laughed, knowing full well my aunt could take care of herself.

Unfortunately, my dad didn’t limit this approach to those he knew. Lydia’s father, John, got the same speech. John was standing around, enjoying the evening, watching his daughter smile and enjoy what is labeled one of the most important days of a woman’s life, when a stranger walked up to him.

“Hello,” the man started. “I know you’ve been ignoring me, so I wanted to be the bigger person and come over and introduce myself: I’m Nathan’s father.”

John didn’t know what to say, stammered out an introduction, and like a ghost, my father was gone, leaving John stunned by the interaction.

My friend Keith, a professional videographer and editor who was putting together a tape as our wedding present, then pulled me aside.

“What’s up with your dad?” he asked, somewhat irritated.

I laughed, “You have to be more specific. So far today, he’s just been acting normal for him.”

Turns out Keith had been going around and asking people to tape little confessionals for Lydia and I. People were allowed to speak from either their heart, or funny bone, whichever they chose; touching, lighthearted, anything to express how they felt about the day. When approached, my dad met Keith’s query with a terse response and quick departure. I told him not to worry about it, and my uncle Tod stepped in as the father figure wishing the new couple well.

Dad wasn’t entirely negative, though. Towards the end of the night, he showed his amazing ability to sacrifice for the team. He asked if the rental company was going to collect the two hundred chairs from the wedding, or if they needed to be stacked and organized. Sadly, they needed to be stacked and organized, so without hesitation my dad went off to take care of it. I couldn’t allow that to happen alone, so I went with, and my sister’s boyfriend (now fiancée) joined us. In a miserable August heat, the hottest day of the summer, we pulled and stacked chairs until entirely drenched in sweat, as if we had just jumped into water
with our clothes on.

As we began piling up chairs, Dad explained that his comment during the wedding was supposed to be a joke, and that he meant we’d get it right when Lydia and I renewed our vows as a happily married couple. I told him the quip didn’t bother me, and it didn’t for two reasons: (1) it had only made him look bad, and (2) I was used to our exchanges. Unfortunately, after that initial salvo the conversation turned to lecture, and he used the time not to talk of the wedding or any positive aspect of it, but instead used the alone time to inform me of the many different ways my mother was being controlling. He described how she was exuding her power over Lydia, meddling in the wedding just like the Scooby Gang would at the scene of a murder. Considering I knew for a fact Lydia had planned the wedding almost entirely on her own, and actually stood her ground against my mother when my mother heard some of the ideas I was offering—pizza for the meal, saying “fuck” in my welcoming toast—I knew what my father was saying to be entirely untrue.

Yet he persisted.

In his mind, my mother was in control of the invitations, she was allocating money for things that were supposed to be outside her realm of control, like the rehearsal dinner, and many other accusations long gone from my memory. What could have been a nice moment became just another time to hear my dad rail against his ex. Being used to such speeches, I shrugged and stacked the chairs. Just another day with dad was all.

Our reception took place in a large central room, with a kitchen with a wide-open front in the back. When the dancing began, all the lights in the hall went down. This left the kitchen a bright eyesore, as the lights remained on there so the caterers could clean up. At some point several hours into our celebration, I looked up to see my father and fake dad, Joe, in said kitchen. Joe looked alternately exasperated, bored, frustrated, or a combination of all three. My father was rigid; his body posture suggested anger, and he had one arm out with a finger pointed at Joe, as if lecturing.

I rolled my eyes. At my sister’s wedding, I was present when my dad cornered my mom and demanded an apology from her for their marriage and divorce. It was a silly moment, and to my eyes looked like it was being repeated, only now with the “new” man in her life. Something had to be done, and I knew exactly what.

My whole life, I’ve searched out original, interesting people to befriend. Somewhere along my journey, a pudgy fella named Baxter and I bonded. Describing Baxter is difficult, so I'll do my best with one example: Baxter once stunned a physician by being the only person to answer honestly one question during the doctor’s fifteen year career. When asked on the intake form, “Have you ever been with a prostitute,” the doctor checked “no” as Baxter was answering “yes.” The doctor paused.

“Excuse me?” He asked.

“Yes, I’ve been with a prostitute,” Baxter shrugged.

The doctor was dumbfounded. He had to change the intake sheet, having already marred it by incorrectly pre-guessing the patient’s answer.

“Doc,” Baxter continued, “I have more tattoos on my body than women in my past.”

Baxter was an usher at my wedding, and as long as I’ve known him he has never worn pants. Even in the coldest Wisconsin January, Baxter would wear shorts. He even turned down a job offer once, as the position would require him to wear slacks. So when it came time to dress formal for the special occasion, he asked, “Can I wear a kilt?” I didn’t care, and said “sure.”

“It’s a dress kilt,” Baxter assured me.

Under that kilt, on that very day, Baxter declined to wear underwear. As any a man can tell you, a little oxygen up and under the taint feels good in summer, and that’s the path Bax wanted to walk. But he also wanted to go one step further. To make matters interesting, Baxter bought food dye, and before the blessed event took a sponge and gently dyed his penis and ball sac a dark green. This, he explained, would allow him to lift his kilt and say “HULK SMASH” when he was sufficiently drunk.
So, as my dad lectured Joe in the only illuminated area in the whole building, making the event not private but in fact the exact opposite, I decided action had to be taken. The word went out: Find Baxter.

Once he was located, my sister’s boyfriend, a man carrying a very expensive camera, was rustled up and given instructions.

The situation was explained to Bax, who then shook his head at the stupidity of anyone creating drama at a wedding, and set off
to put an end to it.

Baxter walked over to the kitchen, and when the two men didn’t halt their discussion, he shouted, “Hey guys!”
Heads turned, the kilt went up, and a picture was snapped.

Joe started laughing immediately, because how anyone can remain tense when a fat, kilted man is showing you his green penis is beyond me, but somehow my father managed to maintain his composure. Dad gave Baxter a quick “thumbs-up,” then turned right back to Joe and continued his speech.

Baxter waddled off, his best efforts defeated.

After it all ended, I asked Joe what had happened, and in good spirits he shook his head and said he was being lectured on “inappropriate behavior.” This included sitting among the family (Joe wasn’t my father, and shouldn’t have been in the front row), donating money to the cause (same reason), giving a toast at my sister’s wedding (same reason—he’s not her father), and other such silly things. Joe said he mostly let my dad vent, but did take one moment to turn things around. Joe asked my dad how he thought it made Lydia and I feel when they looked up at the ceremony, and he wasn’t sitting with the rest of the family. My dad’s response was, “No one told me I was supposed to sit there.” Sadly, given both ushers told me they tried to steer my dad to the front, combined with the comment Lydia’s therapist had overheard, this was a lie.

Fortunately, Joe has an easy-going attitude and didn’t let the moment ruin his day. Unfortunately, my sister is not always so casual and was tired of our father’s behavior. I was not witness to what happened, but a little while later Dad told me, “Well, your sister just said she hates me, you hate me, everyone hates me, and that she never wants to speak to me again.”

I laughed and shrugged. It was my wedding day, and I was having too good a time to get involved. In fact, of everything I’ve listed so far, not a single event bothered me. I’ve known my dad my whole life, and knew what to anticipate going in. Or so I thought.

One of my groomsmen, Barrett, found me for some alone time while others were dancing. He and my dad are friendly with one another, and Barrett said they had just shared a moment. My dad expressed a bit of sorrow to Barrett, information he was passing on to me to do with what I pleased. The slideshow of my childhood had wounded Dad. He told Barrett that he had many photos of me, and it would have been nice to have been asked to contribute.

I nodded my head, a bit upset with myself. Given his belief my mother was in control of the wedding, including him would have been the appropriate thing to do. I thanked Barrett, and continued celebrating.

The evening eventually ended. We had to be out of the rental space by midnight, so at 11:45 the lights went up and a few close friends and family set about straightening up, that we might avoid a huge cleaning fee. I cannot remember if my dad was there or not; no matter how hard I search my mind I cannot recall when he left, or if goodbyes were made.

Baxter, now nicely drunk, stood on a table and incoherently slurred his “Hulk Smash,” lifting the kilt and disgusting any women left present. A bar was chosen, and a precious few friends and family made their way over to it to finish out the night.
At bar time, Lydia and I waved farewell to our friends and hopped in my car to away to our hotel. As we drove, I told Lydia about my conversation with Barrett, and how even though my dad had acted pretty much as I figured he would, we still should have included him in the picture choosing process.

Lydia grew immediately livid.

“Goddammit!” she yelled. “I emailed him several times asking for pictures, I emailed Alice, and even talked to him once about it! When I asked him, he said we could talk about it later, and then he never responded to any of my emails or messages!”
I wasn’t angry like Lydia was, but I was disappointed in myself. It had been years since I let my dad get to or trick me, yet he had been able to do so that night.

Fortunately, a few minutes later, when we arrived at the hotel, we discovered a wonderful surprise. Lydia and I had Pricelined our room, and had paid $60 for a normally $150 a night stay. At the desk, we were given our key, then took the elevator up to discover we were staying in The Presidential Suite. A tenant at our rental property worked at the hotel, and when she saw our name on the register switched us to the un-reserved room. We entered to find wine, candy, roses, and hearts. It was a damn fine finish to a goddamn decent day.

And it really was a great day. I know it’s a horrible cliché to say so, but it was one of the best days of my life, easily. Having so many friends come out to visit with me was amazing. Old friends, current friends, Internet folk, and people I’ve met doing comedy; it was profoundly touching and great fun. I’ve had people tell me they felt they should have paid admission to attend, and I credit their fun to Lydia. Though a wedding is supposed to be about the bride, she turned that concept on its head and tried to make it about the guests. From having a short ceremony, to throwing the reception immediately following our vows and whatever else you can think of, she buckled down and pretty much planned it all. I could not have asked for a better, more beautiful bride, nor could I have asked for a better partner in the year since.

It’s odd how one day can be a juxtaposition of celebration and stupidity, how two diametrically opposed paths can be created from one event: towards one person, away from another. I didn’t end that day with the thought in my head to stop talking to my father, and we have exchanged a couple emails since then. It’s been maybe five at the most, all small talk with nothing relevant ever being written. He sent me a birthday card; Lydia and I invited he and Alice to our house for Christmas and didn’t hear back, so we sent gifts before the end of December. I think that’s when I finally noticed the fade, when our invitation was put on the back burner and no response to our gifts was given. I realized we hadn’t actually spoken, and somewhere in my mind I thought, “Well, let’s see how far this goes.”

And so it goes.




.

Q & A

I was recently emailed a question: “Do you feel your trips to Iraq and Afghanistan have changed you?”

Here is how I responded:

Regarding your question, wow, it's a tough one. The short answer is yes I do feel changed, the long answer... well, that I will do my best to make coherent, because right now the answer feels like an exploded jigsaw puzzle in my mind.

I think the most profound manner in which I feel different is that I am more calm. While in Afghanistan, I was unlucky enough to attend a ramp ceremony; a soldier was killed while on patrol, and I was allowed to watch his flag-draped casket being loaded onto a plane back to the states. I was witness to a comrade of his, a friend, board the plane next to the casket, and I knew that he was going to stay with the body all the way to its final destination, where he would fold and present the flag to the fallen soldier's family, be it his parents, wife, or the like. Returning to America after that, it's almost difficult to comprehend yelling at a waiter, or being angry by a long checkout line in a supermarket. Sadly, I see it happen almost every day, and I live in the relatively tranquil outpost of Iowa; I remember all too well what it was like when I lived in Los Angeles, and tension was as abundant as sunshine.

While I do feel changed, I do not wear my experiences like a cloak. What I mean by that statement is, I cannot ever bring myself to remind anyone acting inappropriately, "You are aware that as you yell at that driver and give them the finger, a soldier is far from home, his life on the line, right?" I'm not sure it's my place to, and would almost be more condescending than enlightening. I have been blessed by my experiences, and those are mine alone. I do not feel I can force them upon anyone, and trying to instill empathy into another human being is quite difficult unless deftly handled.

I also feel that by having been overseas, I am walking down a path best described by the axiom, "The more you learn, the less you know." I do not act like an expert on Iraq, Afghanistan, either war, or the military in general just because I have been lucky enough to spend time with them. Though the military is an institution, it is comprised of many unique individuals, and they have an immense variance of opinions, beliefs, and ideals. In 2004, I was stunned by the amount of anti-Bush vitriol exiting the mouths of soldiers. At home, I was being told "the military" supported President Bush, and thought Kerry a sissy they would never vote for. The reality of the situation was many soldiers were unhappy with their commander in chief, and had no intention whatsoever of voting for him. What I had been told as absolute truth was turning out to be anything but, and it made me more cautious whenever hearing a blanket statement.

(And hopefully, it also made me less willing to make a blanket statement, too)

To prevent myself from writing a book, I'll stop now. I could probably go on and on, but hopefully this helps answer your question.

If not, feel free to ask more questions, or for me to clarify or expand on anything I've said.

One last note: One day after attending the ramp ceremony mentioned above, I flew to the outpost he had been stationed at. I was scheduled to perform a 10:00 a.m. show, and arrived to find the soldiers had just returned from an overnight, twelve-hour patrol. They were exhausted, and headed to breakfast and bed, in that order. The base commander, however, issued a casual order, saying they really should assemble in the community room (a very tiny living room in a mud hut known as "base headquarters") and participate in the comedy show. I was beyond nervous, knowing I was going to face twenty exhausted eighteen-year old kids who were currently dealing with the loss off a friend, but damn if they didn't make the best audience I've ever performed for. Though they entered with dark circles under their near-shut eyes, after I greeted them and started telling a few jokes, their mouths started so crack smiles, and soon enough a sound known as laughter was emanating throughout the room.

That's something that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

I Have Too Much Time on My Hands

So, a few weeks ago, I wrote this blog:

Please Protect Me...

It's about censorship, fear, and my deciding to post my silly and stupid writings on newspapers that allow readers to do so.

I decided to check in on the newspaper that put my site "under review."

Here's what happened next...

(oh, and to explain: i wrote in to one general "help" email address; different people responded to me, but the chain was never broken. anyone there could have read the entire string and been caught up to speed, had they wanted to be)


Hi, My blog/profile has been "under review" for well over a month, and possibly even two months at this point.

Just wondering how long the process takes to review my profile, and, well, what exactly that means.

Thanks much,

Nathan



Dear Mr. Timmel,

Thank you for contacting The Democrat & Chronicle. Rochester's #1 source for news and information!

We apologize for any inconvenience or misunderstanding. We appreciate your business and would like to help any way we can.

However, we need additional information before we can process your request. If you would be so kind as to reply with your house number, street address and telephone number, it would be much appreciated. It is our goal to make sure we are meeting the needs of our subscribers.


Once I receive your account information, I can better determine what course of action we need to take.

We value your readership and will remain available to address all of your concerns and questions.

Sincerely,
Dawn
Account Specialist
The Rochester Democrat & Chronicle




Hey Dawn, Not sure why you're asking for the information you asked for given my request...

I have a blog/profile at the Democrat & Chronicle.

My log in is xxxxxxxxx

My password is xxxxxxxx

About six weeks ago, it went "under review by our editors," meaning if I posted a blog, no one could read it.

So... Just wondering how long this process is going to take.

Thanks!

:)

nathan




Dear Mr. Timmel,

Thank you for contacting The Democrat & Chronicle. Rochester's #1 source for news and information!

We apologize for any inconvenience or misunderstanding. I have tried entering your information and was able to access your profile. If you have any further questions or concerns, feel free to reply back to this e-mail.

We value your readership and will remain available to address all of your concerns and questions.

Sincerely,
Kristie
Account Specialist
The Rochester Democrat & Chronicle




Hi Kristie, Thanks much for the feedback.

I can access my profile, too.

The problem is, it's "under review," meaning I can access it and tool around, but it is NOT a public profile.

So, still wondering how long it will be "under review."

Thanks!

nathan




Dear Mr. Timmel,

Thank you for contacting The Democrat & Chronicle. Rochester's #1 source for news and information!

I apologize for the difficulty you experienced with our website. I have forward your concern to the appropriate department for review/correction.
Please allow us to take care of this matter promptly. Again, I apologize for any inconvenience that we may have caused you.

Sincerely,

Tresa
Account Specialist
The Rochester Democrat & Chronicle



(Another email arrives 10 minutes later)



Dear Mr. Timmel,

Thank you for contacting The Democrat & Chronicle. Rochester's #1 source for news and information!

I apologize for the inconvenience. It has been reported that your profile has been blocked for inappropriate material. If I can be of further assistance please respond to this email. Again, I apologize for any inconvenience that we may have caused you.

Sincerely,

Tresa
Account Specialist
The Rochester Democrat & Chronicle



Hey Tresa,
Thanks for the heads up.

Not really sure what you mean by "inappropriate material," as I never posted anything inappropriate.

Sure would be nice to have someone shoot me an email explaining where the censorship is coming from, why I'm being censored, and so on.

Simply blocking someone due to a random judgment call seems rather harsh, and, since the word is being tossed around, "inappropriate."

Since my site is listed as "under review," one would hope the editors would have contacted me with their concerns instead of simply blocking all access to the public, who the editors apparently don't feel are qualified to make their own decisions about what is and is not "inappropriate."

Could use some help here, thanks!

Nathan




Dear Nathan Timmel,

Thank you for contacting The Democrat & Chronicle. Rochester's #1 source for news and information!

We apologize for any inconvenience or misunderstanding. I have escalated this matter to the appropriate department for review. Once I receive the updated information regarding the restricted access of your account, I will be able to update you via e-mail. Again, we apologize for any inconvenience and thank you for your patience while we are researching this matter for a resolution.
We value your readership and will remain available to address all of your concerns and questions.

Sincerely,
Brandon
Account Specialist
The Rochester Democrat & Chronicle



(10 minutes later, another email arrives)


Dear Nathan Timmel,

Thank you for contacting The Democrat & Chronicle. Rochester's #1 source for news and information!

Here is the information that you requested regarding why your access has been restricted.

The Managing Editor/Content and Digital Platforms asked that he be blocked after this post:

The Democrat & Chronicle is run by ignorant children.

The site is visited by people of all ages, with links to recent blog posts automatically highlighted on various pages.


Please note that by registering on the site, users accept our Terms of Service. The following sections are pertinent to the blocking of content on the site:

Insert legal mumbo jumbo here, the same as on every site: "We're in charge, we do what we want. If we don't like you, we're going to delete you without warning. You're a stupid jerk for thinking you could ever be good enough for our website." And so on.

We value your readership and will remain available to address all of your concerns and questions.

Sincerely,
Brandon
Account Specialist
The Rochester Democrat & Chronicle





LoL, WOW.

Thanks Brandon!

I had no clue I was dealing with a tightly-wound hyper-Christian with no sense of decency, morals or humor. Now that I do, I can best monitor what I write to conform to those standards, ones that apparently set off no alarms anywhere else in the country. Does the content editor ever leave his/her house, or is the outside world too scary?

:p

Either way, thanks for the heads up.

If I delete that post, will my site go active again?

Nathan



Dear Nathan Timmel,

Thank you for contacting The Democrat & Chronicle. Rochester's #1 source for news and information!

I apologize for the inconvenience. Unfortunately, access has been denied, the Managing Editor/Content and Digital Platform has asked that your profile be blocked after the post expressed below was posted. We are not authorized to reactivate your profile. If I can be of further assistance please respond to this email. Again, I apologize for any inconvenience that we may have caused you.
Sincerely,

Tresa
Account Specialist
The Rochester Democrat & Chronicle




Thanks Tresa! So... as asked, if that post goes away, will my account be reactivated?

Thanks,

Nathan


Dear Nathan Timmel,

Thank you for contacting The Democrat & Chronicle. Rochester's #1 source for news and information!

We apologize for any inconvenience or misunderstanding. At this time your access has been denied. Unfortunately, we will not be able to reactivate your access as you have requested.

Sincerely,
Brandon
Account Specialist



Lol, no misunderstanding here, that's all at your end.

Do you guys even read these emails, or do you just fire off standard but unhelpful stock responses?

It's like I ask question "A," and you respond to question "H," something not even asked.

Makes your tag about being Rochester's #1 source for news and information quite silly.

To Repeat: I have an "inappropriate" post on my blog. If that "inappropriate" post goes away, will my blog be reactivated, or is the Democrat & Chronicle run on a "one strike and you're off forever" business model, where that "one strike" is determined arbitrarily?

Thanks much,

Nathan




Dear Nathan Timmel,

Thank you for contacting The Democrat & Chronicle. Rochester's #1 source for news and information!

Since your access has been denied, regardless if the post goes away, your access is still denied.
Sincerely,
Diane

Account Specialist
The Rochester Democrat & Chronicle




and there you have it.

oh, and for the record?

i still HAVE ACCESS to my blog.

it's just not available for anyone to see.

so, no matter how hard they try, they're still idiots.

:p

I was thirty-six years old the first time I saw my father smile.

The visual hit me so hard I was stunned; I was seeing my father happy. It wasn’t just that he was happy, I was shocked because of the realization I had never seen him that way before. From childhood through my adult years, I had adapted to the idea my father was at his best stoic, or at his worst, morose. Given the tumultuous relationship he had with my mother and the eleven years spent alone after their divorce, to see him interacting while smiling with his new girlfriend, or any woman for that matter, was unheard of.

With a quiet clarity, I understood that in my youth, my dad never looked at me with eyes of indifference, he watched me with a mix fear and caution. As he had been raised in an environment of physical abuse and contempt, he knew he wanted to succeed where his parents had “failed,” so to speak. My dad didn’t want to damage me, as he felt he had been damaged, but didn’t know how to be a father himself. He never learned about the process of parenting through familial absorption, and I had come along much too quickly for him to mentally prepare for the challenge of fatherhood. Instead of raising me hands on, my dad backed off and let me figure everything out on my own, stepping in when he thought necessary.

* * *

Living in Los Angeles kept me fairly unhappy.

At the time, I was pointing fingers and decrying a system I felt kept me down. Looking back, I understand the only thing holding me back, was me; I wasn’t ready to play the Hollywood game. I harbored a simple Midwest naiveté that believed that if you stood on stage and showed a modicum of talent, you’d be recognized; I never once considered any social aspect to the business.

Everything in Hollywood operates on the idea of “heat.” To manufacture heat you have to network, and from almost everything I discovered, networking involved a lot of late night drinking. I’ve always enjoyed being social, but when it comes to the constant wear and tear of hanging out until all hours in the morning just to maintain the “right connections,” I am an absolute failure. Without those connections, nothing happens in Los Angeles.

“Heat” is something that builds around you; it is nothing you can force. For example, were I to approach an agent, look him directly in the eye and say full of confidence, “Hi, I’m Nathan Timmel, and if you sign me on I will get the job done,” the agent would walk away, annoyed at having been disturbed. I was witness to several incidences like this and have given it a shot or two on my own, always with the same result. If that same agent, however, were to sit down at Starbucks and hear two strangers converse, one saying, “I saw this comic, Nathan Timmel, last night. He was pretty funny,” that agent would be all over his phone, screaming at assistants: “Who is this Nathan Timmel I’m hearing about?! Why don’t we have Nathan Timmel on our roster?? Nathan Timmel is the future!” Again, I have observed such interactions.

To keep my ego from being annihilated through rejection, I spent half the year working outside California. I would fly to Madison, Wisconsin, where my mother still lived, and use it as a staging point for comedy clubs scattered across the Midwest. One slow Saturday night on a sojourn through Iowa, only twelve people made comedy their entertainment choice of the evening. Being that Iowa and Wisconsin are neighbors, the instant I finished my set, I walked off the stage and out the door, pausing only to get paid. There was another comic on after me, and I figured it would be better to get a jump on the drive home over hanging out and mingling with the non-crowd of customers. That decision could have been disastrous, if not for the tenacity of one woman in the audience. On that particular Saturday in June an Iowan named Lydia Fine decided she needed to get out of the house and have a laugh. Though I had no way of knowing it at the time, when I left the club before the technical end of the show, she was watching from the audience, and was angered by my disinterest in socializing.

Several days later, I received a MySpace Friend Request. MySpace, for those that don’t know, was a social networking site that was “cool” after Friendster became “lame,” and was “lame” after Facebook became “cool.” Thought as a comedian I probably should have been collecting as many online “friends” as possible, I never blindly accepted requests. I found that too many people out there have their own agenda, and nine-point-nine times out of ten I am entirely uninterested in their marketing attempts. The friend request I received from Iowa, however, had two things going for it: the hometown listed on the woman’s profile was twenty minutes from where I had performed, and the woman herself, the aforementioned Lydia Fine, was stunningly attractive. Or, at least she was on line; I had already discovered that many people altered pictures for publication on the Internet, that they appear much more thin/attractive/desirable than they actually were in person. I fired off a quick note to Lydia, “Nice to meet you. Are you friending me because you were at a show this past weekend?” and that was that.

Until, that is, I received a reply in my mailbox. She had indeed been at a show, and enjoyed what she saw. I responded to her reply, and back and forth we started to sway, each exchange growing in length just a little. One evening I opened up a note to find ten digits awaiting me. Lydia had been to a concert, imbibed her brain with alcohol, and mustered up the courage to ask me to call her. Not wanting to disappoint a (supposedly) beautiful woman, I dialed her up. I didn’t hold on to the number for five days to “play cool,” or pretend I hadn’t received the email until the next day so I wouldn’t seem over eager; I wanted to call, so I did.

Over the course of five hours, we had the most bizarre, no-holds-barred conversation I’d ever had in my life. This wasn’t “So, what kind of movies do you like?” giggling, it was everything-on-the-table honesty. I had never in my life had a first conversation like it. Hell, sometimes I had been in mini-relationships of a few months to a year that never approached the depth to which Lydia was willing to descend. But the thing is, I loved it. She wasn’t trying to impress me, put on airs, or falsify who she was; neither was she laying out her cards in a brash, “take it or leave it” manner. I got the sense she was simply saying, “This is who I am; I am looking for someone to accept me as is.”∗ We finally said our goodnights somewhere in the neighborhood of four in the morning, and as I sat back in my hotel bed to take it all in I wondered, “Who the hell is this woman?”

Lydia was a person whose life was in unfortunate flux; she had recently: started a new job (one which left her in tears on the first day and proceeded to remain unsatisfying for several months), lost her “second-mother” aunt to ovarian cancer, was witness to her eighty-three year old grandfather undergoing surgery for an abdominal aneurysm, broke up with her boyfriend (an event that resulted in him shouting insults at her over the phone for the better part of an hour), started seeing a therapist, gone on depression medications and lost her entire network of after-hours social friends. The last statement is the most important, in terms of how she happened to arrive at the comedy club to see me.

Girls can be exceptionally cruel. In adolescence, they create social cliques that are impossible to breach and are generally lorded over by a single queen. Sometimes, if women do not graduate from the mentality they learned in Junior and Senior High, they will carry this thought process with them into adulthood. In Lydia’s case, she was a small cog in a gear that revolved around recreational volleyball; the controlling force of this social circle was a tiny woman who had a severe Napoleon Complex named Mindy. One frustrated day, Lydia butted heads with Mindy, and as if girls of fourteen and not young women, Mindy put the word out to the group: it’s Lydia or me, choose. Everyone but one friend chose Mindy. Lydia found herself isolated, and entirely alone every weekend.

Several weeks after her banishment from the “in crowd,” word reached Lydia that Mindy was having a gathering. Depression sank in. Everyone Lydia used to hang out with would be there, laughing and having fun, while she would be alone in her condo. Desperately needing to get out of the house and away from that situation, Lydia called Kristine, the one friend who had refused to choose sides in the immature display of behavior by Mindy. Kristine agreed to forgo the party and attend a comedy show with Lydia. So it came to pass, a series of unfortunate events brought Lydia to the comedy club, on the very week out of the year I happened to be in town.

After getting to know one another on line, Lydia and I chose to meet in person; we each wanted to see whether or not the spark we shared via the telephone would translate into in-person chemistry. I was constantly on tour in the Midwest, and was easily able to drive to her tiny town for our date. As I parked out front of her condo, I called to let her know I had arrived. Lydia made her way down three flights of stairs, and as she did so windows lining the front of her building allowed me quick glimpses of this woman I’d agreed to take to dinner. When she finally got to ground level and opened the front door, I thought, “Oh wow. This could be very good.” Lydia was, simply put, stunningly beautiful. Sandy-blonde hair rested gently below her shoulders, she was taller than many Hollywood leading men I had bumped into and she wore a wide, nervous smile. I was smitten almost immediately.

We retreated to her condo, where her new kitten Simon, a gender-confused little fluff of gray, ran in between my ankles as I walked in. During my entire visit, he howled for attention as if the most neglected kitty on the planet. In contrast, Lydia’s full-grown cat, Pandora, was an aloof and skittish creature with brown and black hair speckled with dandruff; she darted into hiding immediately upon my arrival.

While being given the grand tour of her three-bedroom condo, the bookshelf gave me pause. Though littered with much in the way of fiction and business management, the top row contained many offerings on romance and self-reliance. The titles were standard fare, and may as well have screamed, “So You Just Got Dumped,” “Why Your Friends All Left You,” “I’m Isolated and Cry Myself to Sleep,” and “You’re Going to Die Alone.” My brow furrowed slightly, but I wondered if these tomes were helping Lydia be as honest as she was with me. Instead of playing games, the death-knell of any union, she was communicating, openly and honestly. I liked this.

While we talked, Lydia couldn’t stop fidgeting; her nails were nonexistent and looked like they were attacked to the nub regularly. I did my best to put her at ease, but we quickly retreated to a bar so she could get a drink or two in her and relax.

Dinner took place at one of her favorite restaurants; she had the “gourmet” Mac & Cheese, which I thought was simply an excuse to charge $15 for a seventy-nine cent item, and I had a salad that left me less than thrilled. We conversed easily, but after our meal is where everything got interesting.

To explain what happened next, I must offer up some background on who I am as a person: when around most animals, especially little woodland creatures, I lose control of most of my mental functions, which are questionable at best to begin with. I cannot fully explain why I find these mammals so endearing, and it is best to give an example of my mental retardation rather than to try to explain it any further: though I am not proud the action, I once tried to pet a bear. A wild, bear. I was camping, and warned that the local black bears were used to humans and wandered into camp frequently. The Park Ranger told everyone sternly that should we come into contact with one, they were still wild animals and we should make loud noises to scare them off; under no circumstances was anyone to approach them. Naturally, one did come scrounging near my camp for scraps, and he was an adorable little Black Bear. Not a cub, which, given the protective nature of mother bears would have spelled immediate disaster, but a standard-size fluff-ball Black Bear. While most people in the camping area were curious, yet cautious, my first thought was to grab food and attempt to draw him close to me. Now, I say this in full awareness of what I was doing. Did I think the bear was tame, or would let me pet him? No. My mind was at war with itself; I was very calm, but had two internal voices speaking to me. On the one hand, my inner child was saying, “OMG, IT’S A BEAR! LOOK AT ITS LITTLE NUB-TAIL! I WANT TO GRAB HIS EARS AND GIVE HIS HEAD A BIG SCRUFF-SHAKE! WHO’S A BEAR? WHO’S A LITTLE BEAR WITH A LITTLE BEAR BLACK NOSE?” My quieter, more rational and therefore weaker responsible adult voice was calmly relaying the message: “You are a fucking moron. This thing will get near you, get startled, and rip your throat out. It’s a fucking bear, dipshit.” Fortunately for my well being, the bear, though somewhat interested in the idiot making kissy noises at him, eventually wandered off, leaving me to see another day. So, the point of the story is: if I lose my shit and attempt to hug bears, you can only imagine how I am when faced with non-threatening creatures. With that, I return to my first date with Lydia.

As it was a lovely spring day, we decided to take a sunset walk along the Iowa River and burn off a few of the calories we had just ingested. Many other couples were doing the like, and all the little animals living on the banks had crawled out from their homes. We watched squirrels skipping across the path in front of us, and everything was going swimmingly when Lydia nudged me.

“Look at the rabbits!” she whispered, pointing at a large green shrub with three bunnies happily munching clover underneath it.

I could describe what I did, but think an outsider’s perspective would serve best at this point and here turn things over to Lydia:

“Nathan stopped walking, and I turned to see what happened. I was mortified to find he’d dropped my hand and was running toward the rabbit bush, although I’m not sure I would call what he was doing “running,” per se. It was more of a gallop or a scamper, really, but with his arms thrown up loopily over his head. He was shouting, too. “BUNNIES! BUNNIES! LOOK AT THE BUNNIES!”

I stood there dumbfounded, stunned, and profoundly embarrassed. What the hell was he doing? People were looking at us.

“Nathan!” I hissed. “Stop! Get back here!”

He didn’t listen. The bunnies had started bounding away from him and he was giving chase, doing his best to zig as they zagged, and hustle as they bustled. I figured my only hope for saving my reputation was to pull the same trick my mother used to when I’d embarrassed her. She’d simply walk away and pretend she didn’t know me, so I did just that. A few seconds later I could hear him running up behind me, and felt him reach for my hand again. I was calming down a little, and underneath my still-fresh embarrassment, I was hiding a smile. A grown man who chased bunnies? Who was this guy?”

Like with the Black Bear, though an internal logic might tell me it would be best to simply let the bunnies be, quietly enjoying their floppy ears and ever-wiggling noses from afar, it’s all to much for me to process at times and I simply explode in excitement. Though I know it will never happen, I like to pretend that someday I might catch a bunny, and we will frisk through the meadow together, and be friends, and I will hug him and pet him and name him George. Yes, this from a man who tested so well in school he was advanced several grades several times. If that isn’t an indictment of our school system, I don’t know what is.

Thankfully, Lydia was quite forgiving of my idiot’s excursion, and our first date ended up extending from dusk into dawn. Eventually, she rose to leave (very late) for work, and I went my merry way back on the road. As our first date had gone well, it was decided we would have a second, and possibly even a third. I was still touring, so Lydia made plans to spend a getaway weekend with me while I performed in a small, Illinois town. If we were keeping in line with our “hold no secrets” approach to getting to know one another, this was a bold step. After telling her mother she had met someone, “a comedian,” the response had been a cool, “That’s nice, but what does he do for work?” The idea someone could make a living as a comedian hadn’t really crossed Lydia’s mind, but if she was wondering what kind of provider I would be, an eye-opening insight into the world of entertainment was about to take place.

Our weekend trip had me working a club I’d been to many times before, each time as the middle comedian of the show. I always did well there, and my ego told me it was my turn to move up, but I sadly had no fame to my name and wasn’t going to be allowed the top slot. That weekend, the headliner, on a name recognition scale of 0-10, was only a one, and that’s on a good day. As I was a zero, that made him more marketable than me. Unfortunately, he had better management than skills and had been performing for fewer years than I had. In an embarrassing move for the club, I got bigger laughs and more positive audience responses than he did. Every night, while I was on stage, he sat at the bar getting drunk. By the time he grabbed the microphone the man was a slurring, incoherent mess; instead of performing focused bits of comedy, he would meander off down verbal tangents. It was immediately proven he didn’t have enough material to fill his contracted time, because around the thirty minute mark of his set the club would play several tracks off his CD of phone pranks over the house PA system. I thought I had seen unprofessionalism in my time, but was still stunned by the spectacle of it all. I was actually watching people who had turned over their hard earned money to see comedy, watch a man sit on stage, drunk, while his CD played over the sound system.

Lydia was somewhat aghast. She lived and worked in the corporate world, where if you worked hard and built your resume, you were rewarded. Not so, in comedy, where personality and press trump ability almost every time; whether or not you are funny is always less important than whether or not you’ve been on TV.

It doesn’t mean anything to the narrative at hand, but I have yet to be re-booked at the club despite repeated attempts to play there, while I’ve seen the other comic’s name on the calendar several times. Good times.

* * *

Lydia and I dated long distance for the better part of a year. My schedule allowed us to never be separated for more than several weeks at a time, and Lydia was able to make her way to the West Coast a couple times. Cell phones, instant messaging and video chat kept us sane, but as we grew to enjoy one another’s company more and more it was well understood carrying on a long distance relationship wouldn’t work long term. Something had to give.
Being that I was already tired of Los Angeles, and Lydia had a job she (now) liked, was an Iowa girl at heart and uninterested in the grimy cement jungle of Hollywood, it was ultimately decided I would uproot myself and live among the cornfields of the Midwest. I’d like to pretend there was struggle involved in the decision making process, that I wondered whether leaving Hollywood to pursue an artistic dream was wise in the slightest, but I didn’t. I was really more interested in being personally happy than professionally successful, which, like my inability to play the social game in Los Angeles, probably helped stymie my growth there. Overall, I believed Iowa offered much greater opportunities to me.

I wasn’t moving to simply be closer to Lydia; we decided to go all out right away and move in together. I had never lived with a girlfriend before, and Lydia had never lived with a boyfriend, so the arrangement was going to be interesting, but hopefully not too trying. Unfortunately, one of the first situations I encountered was an examination of my own mortality. Growing old is something we rarely imagine happening while in our childhood or teenage years. As kids, we run around wildly, flail our arms like idiots, pick our nose and see adults as boring creatures that have no fun. By eighteen, we are invincible, standing on the hoods of cars tearing down the highway and drinking to blackout status at concerts, passing out in the port-a-potty, pants around our ankles for the duration of the show, waking only at the end of it as huge cannons blast the finale to "For Those About to Rock--*BOOM*--We Salute You," and adults are our enemy.∗

But at some point in our mid-to-late twenties, we start slowing down, looking around and realizing that our best years are probably behind us and that we might want to do something with our lives. If this revelation doesn't strike, it's even more depressing. Anyone above twenty-five still hanging out in a college bar, dressing like they did while in school, is sad in one of two ways: they're either pathetically wearing clothes like the kids of the day and failing miserably, or, possibly worse, still wearing their old outfits, five years out of style and a billion brain cells away from reality.

Being stuck in one phase of your life isn't limited to bars and acting how you did at twenty; you can get stuck in any age. For over fifteen years, my dad wore the same clothes repeatedly. It was as if he had gone shopping one day in his mid-thirties and bought everything he thought he would need for the rest of his existence. Dad would usually be wearing some awkward combination of a ten-year old, K-Mart-style shirt tucked into Sears-brand not-quite-dress, not-quite-casual pants of the same age. This ensemble was worn without a belt, naturally. My father’s lack of style was so humiliating my sister tried to pick his outfits before being seen in public with him.

After my parents divorced, I helped my dad move twice. Once the second time was completed, I vowed never to do so again unless he gave his overflowing closet of clothes and other mounds of junk—dad was a bit of a hoarder—to Goodwill. Thinking about it now, most of what he owned would most likely be rejected by the charitable institution due to age, wear and style anyway. I mean, sometimes beggars can be choosers.

In wardrobe, my dad was stuck somewhere in the late 1970's. Back then, large hair and mustaches were considered a good idea, which lets you know just how wrong that decade was; neither is ever a good idea. Seriously, show me one picture of a pedophile where the man doesn't have a mustache.∗ The point is, dad was considered an embarrassment. So it was to my chagrin that as my life took a turn for the better—in relocating to Iowa and in with Lydia—I found I had been living my own life of blissful incomprehension.

My awakening started simply enough, by packing my entire apartment into one car, and then finding out I was to fit that entire car's contents into approximately 37% of one closet. Not one whole closet, which is what I had been led to understand I’d be receiving, but a fraction of a closet; the remaining 63% was filled with Lydia’s belongings. Little did I know, the female definition of "Emptying a closet" is "Creating just enough space for you to keep a few trinkets, while allowing me to hold on to clothes I no longer fit into but just might once again someday in the future when I start going to the gym."

Luckily, as I unpacked all my belongings, Lydia was right there to help me organize. By "organize," I mean: Give every item of clothing the once over, making either a “someone-just-farted” face, or nonchalantly allowing me to continue to own it. For now.

Our exchanges during this sorting involved pouting, by me, and steadfast, schoolmarm discipline, by Lyds.

"But, I like that shirt," I'd protest.

"Honey," the gentle scolding would begin, "not only is it old and out of style, it's worn and stretched out."

"It's urban outfitters," I'd whine.

"Yes, and they update their clothes several times a year, not several times a century."

Then I would forlornly drop it into the charity pile. This process was repeated until a large hefty bag of clothes I'd just carted all the way across the goddamn country was sitting by the front door.

Fortunately, unlike my dad, while I did lament my lost treasures—and not everything went, I still have some "fine, you can keep that if you promise not to wear it in public" gems I refused to let go of—I have to admit a guilty pleasure at having someone provide a clue for me when it comes to dressing. After the purge came the binge, meaning we did a little "Welcome to the Modern Age" shopping. Though it started with me shooting down nearly everything in existence, such as Polo Shirts, whose collars I promised to wear popped up if forced to buy, eventually we found stylishly "fun" (her word) articles of clothing at a reasonable price.
Lyds was happy, and I was happy. She now had someone on her arm that looks normal until his mouth opened, and I knew I didn’t have to go shopping for at least five years. Heh.

* * *

If moving in with someone that I’d known for less than a year and only dated long-distance sounded like a recipe for disaster, I’d agree. But somehow, Lydia and I gelled. There were a few minor bumps in the road, but nothing that ever seemed overly disastrous.

One difference in our personalities was discovered via the casual nature two people have to have when sharing close quarters. I don't really think of myself as a prude person, nor am I a germophobe. That said, when it comes to stepping out the shower and drying my body, I stop at the crack at the bottom of my back and reach for toilet paper. This tp is for a quick, final dab at my delicate, between-the-cheeks pucker. This action makes Lydia laugh, as she says, "You know it's fresh-clean from the shower you just took, right?" Such things do not matter to me, as maybe it's a psychological quirk, but I still don't appreciate the idea of sticking a toweled finger up in there, then using that same cottony-spot to dry my face the next day.
On the subject of towels: I sometimes wonder if Lydia and I should take two of them to bed for our little liaisons. It would make more sense to clean up afterwards using a towel apiece; our current ritual involves duck-waddling to the bathroom, attached by a single piece of cloth and delicately trying to avoid spilling sputnik on the carpet. Our kitties, from what I’ve been able to tell, find this event quite confusing. Not the sex part, which they seem to watch with a casual disinterest, the look "Can I get fed soon?” across their faces, but the towel-attached shuffle afterwards; that they stare at with uncomprehending eyes. Lydia and I are aware we look quite silly, yet continue the act after each and every, well, act.

For the record, the kitties have their own interesting set of ceremonies that I don't entirely understand. Every morning, Lydia showers before work, and, and especially so in winter, every morning the kitties join her in the bathroom. They jump up onto the counter and enjoy a little steam-sauna to start the day. Upon completion of her cleaning, Lydia opens the curtain to see both staring at her naked body, each relaxed and hydrated. Meanwhile, neither joins me whenever I get around to showering. They could get the same little burst of moisture they seem to enjoy in the morning, but opt not to. Simon, however, always, always, always seems to come running when it's time for me to enjoy a relaxing constitutional. As I rest on the throne, I find a gray kitty rushing in to sit at my feet, stare up at me, and meow until I pet him. When I stand and flush, he then props his front two paws up on the toilet to peer down at the swirling water, his kitty curiosity asking, "Hey, what's going on in here?"

Another adjustment to communal living was in the department of sleeping arrangements. When living quarters combine, you go from having a nice, wide bed for your single whole self, to a space you have to share. Lydia likes to sprawl out, meaning I immediately became an invasive burden to her slumber. I often wake to find body parts littering my person.

At bedtime, I generally fall asleep while she reads whatever it is she's currently using to expand her mind: a book, Time or Fitness, Harlequin Romance Novels... What’s odd is, before co-habitation, I usually had to be completely exhausted in order to sleep. If I wasn’t, I’d just lay wherever I was, thoughts bouncing around my noggin. But something about laying in bed with Lyds makes me relaxed enough to drift off when I’m only nominally tired. I like that. A few months into our co-habitation, she asked, "Do you feel me rest my hand on you when I finally turn out the light?"

Surprised, I responded that I did not.

Lydia informed me that when she sets aside her book and settles in for bed, her first sleep position involved touching me in some way; a rested hand, an arm draped across me, or her head nuzzled into the back of my neck, depending on how I happened to be facing (usually turned away from her light).

Again, I was surprised. I’m usually a fairly light sleeper; for years the easiest way to wake me was to whisper my name. I don’t know why, but I respond to "Nathan" as well as an alarm clock. I found it strange that where a mere murmur usually woke me, manhandling did not. So a couple nights later, I lied. I rolled on to my side while she read, then gradually changed my breathing pattern. I deepened my breaths, slowed them to a most un-hurried pace, and feigned sleep. I’m not sure how long she read, but after the light went off, I felt a warm body nestle up behind me, throw an arm over my side, and let loose all tension from the day.

And I thought, "Goddamn."

And I mean that in the most amazing of ways.

Sleep and scent combine in ways we don’t always realize, and Lydia’s nuzzling ways provided new insight into how we were now relating to one another. When living with another, everything becomes as familiar to your senses as your eyes, sometimes even more so. During a week of performances at the Chicago Improv, I lodged at my friend and fellow comedian Joe Hamilton’s apartment. After the Sunday show I drove home to Iowa and crawled into bed somewhere around two in the morning. Lydia immediately curled up to me, then paused, then pushed back a little.

"You don't smell like you," she said unhappily.

I hadn't thought about it, but there is a certain security in the scent of your lover, a familiarity that you react to unconsciously, and positively. When I moved in, the condo smelled like Lydia; every time I returned to it her scent filled my nostrils and made me feel peace. Returning from Chicago, I smelled like Joe Hamilton’s apartment and guest bedding. It being dark and Lydia being half asleep, she was relying on senses other than sight to relate to me, and the fact I "wasn't me" set off confusion in her.

Thankfully, the situation was rectified the next morning after a shower in which I washed the stench of other off me, and after which I tore off several sheets of toilet paper for my final starfish of drying.

Lydia laughed at me for it and reminded me she herself dries 100% of her body with her towel.

And she wonders why I do the laundry so often.

* * *

As any grade school child can tell you, there is a natural progression to relationships. After you are discovered in a tree, “k-i-s-s-i-n-g,” first comes love, then comes… well, not marriage. The kids skipped a step.

Lydia’s friends had us engaged well before I did; our second Christmas together had them all bundled together and whispering invented gossip into her ear, “He’s going to pop the question! We just know it!” I could only imagine the chagrin they wore when this did not come to pass. “Oooh,” they then justified, “Valentine’s day is coming up!”

What her friends didn’t know was: I was saving up for an engagement ring, I just didn’t want to get engaged in such a cliché manner. Popping the question on a holiday seemed too trite; I wanted my approach to come out of the blue.

Around Valentine’s Day I dropped half the cash necessary to procure Lydia’s dream ring, but didn't tell a single soul. Not because I didn't feel I could trust anyone, it generally never crossed my mind. I wasn’t bursting to share my secret; I was approaching the next stage of my life, and was doing so contentedly.

Eventually, I shared the news with he would be my Best Man, Brian Jones. I told Brian about the ring for two reasons: One, we had been on the phone the better part of an hour and out of things to discuss when he asked, "So, anything else going on?" I started out naturally enough, "Not that I can think of," when it popped right in there: "Oh, wait. I put money down on a ring." It wasn't an announcement, it was an afterthought.

The second reason I told Brian is: he lived almost a thousand miles away in New Orleans. Though he and I carried a friendship all the way back to Jr. High, we rarely saw one another and Lydia had never met him; who the hell would Brain be able to tell that the words could somehow end up in Lydia's ears?

Oh, fate, you fickle, funny fuck.

Two days after I told Brian of my impending bending of the knee, Lydia came home from work, excited: "I’m going to a conference in New Orleans! I'm going to meet your best friend!"

Really?

I mean, really?

The jewelry store had informed me up front it would take four weeks from the order date to have the ring crafted and the stone set, yet somehow Lydia got asked to attend a conference before it would be ready. Suddenly, the one person in the world who Lydia would never meet before I had the chance to surprise her was the one person she would be hanging out with.
Brian had already informed his wife Chris I was gearing up to propose, so when Lydia visited they treaded lightly over certain topics. Apparently one dinner conversation became fairly amusing when Lydia herself brought up the lack of an engagement ring on her left hand, but, Brian and Chris held their tongues, and Lydia returned to Iowa as clueless as ever.

I said I wanted to pop the question in a surprising fashion, and easily decided the best manner of doing so: while she was sleeping. Lydia hates, hates, hates to wake up in the morning. And she hates to be woken up at any time. So, being the kind of fella that I am, a few days after her trip to New Orleans I woke up at three AM and silently stole out of the bedroom. I grabbed a handful of votive candles, fashioned them into a heart on the countertop and lit each one. I positioned the ring in the center of the flames, turned on the stereo, set the song "Open," by Peter Gabriel, on a continuous loop, then returned to the bedroom to nudge away.

"Sweetie," I whispered. "Get up, you have to come see something."

Lydia resisted. She was expectedly groggy, but eventually cracked her sleep-caked eyes just wide enough to see me staring at her with a shit-eating grin.

Normally, such a smile and request meant I wanted to show her something one of the kitties was doing, but not this time.

Not this time.

If it seems somewhat dismissive that I didn't excitedly tell anyone about the impending event, it's because I felt very little in the way of special about the whole thing.

If anything, I felt comfortable. There was no weight upon my shoulders, or worry in my eyes. In fact, it felt like the most natural thing I've ever done.

I’ve said it in the past, but it bears repeating: therapists, friends, family and psychologists will all ask you the wrong question: "Have you ever been in love?"

Of course. Everyone has. Who cares?

What should be asked is: "Have you ever felt loved?"

When you can answer yes, your life will begin to take shape.

And I felt loved.

* * *

I was thirty-six years old the first time I saw my father smile. There are natural milestones in life; we celebrate certain ages due to advancements we make. “I’m sixteen, I can drive!” “I’m eighteen, I can vote!” “I’m twenty-one, I can drink! Well, legally, that is. I’ve been drinking since I was sixteen.”

Thirty-six will be etched in my memory as the age my life finally started to make sense. I had the moment of awareness involving my father, I met Lydia, and somehow granted my mother absolution from sins she had never committed.

A few months after being exposed to my father’s happiness, I was visiting my mother. Out of the blue, she started sobbing. I don’t know what brought it on, but she sat at her kitchen table for several minutes, crying. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and a thick molasses of mucus ran from her nose. Invented guilt sent her into this state of mind, and the words she spoke were so odd I could barely comprehend them.

"I’m sorry," she choked. "I just want you to know I’m sorry. I did the best I could. Your father and I both did the best we could. We were young parents and Ned and I did the best we could in raising you and Amanda. We just didn't know what we were doing, but we tried; we did the best we could. We just did the best we could."

I let out an uncomfortable giggle, a defense mechanism acting as the nervous response to a situation I was ill prepared to witness and too immature to address. I’d long known I was an accident, the first child born to two people not ready for the shotgun's pump, but for the life of me, at that moment, trying to imagine blaming either of my parents for either my existence or life, I was coming up blank. I grew up in a household filled with secrets and cold emotions, affairs and hidden anger, and we moved so often I never learned what maintained friendship was. But I didn’t think any of that was done to punish me.

The self-help lobby of America has latched onto two tools to make people feel "better" about themselves: blame, and invented guilt. The former is for those who like to believe we are not responsible for our own actions, lives and dealings with others. People like that point fingers and invent enemies. Invented guilt is a trickier bit of mischief, and is for those who want to take the weight of the world upon their shoulders. Whether it be their responsibility or not, they believe their life fails to live up to the expectations of others, and thus usually feel the need to apologize for invented misbehaviors.

My mom, for the record, loves self-help books.

A multitude of these betterment books discuss forgiveness, the idea is you need to free others from their transgressions against you while simultaneously asking them to do the like. If you do not, you will remain stuck in your "Spiritual Journey." While I agree with the concept on certain levels, the problem comes when you are asked to forgive not deliberate action taken against you, but something the person created in their own mind. The process becomes a cop out, a tool to first invent blame, and then forgiveness for a transgressionless action. Forgiveness, in such a situation, becomes almost an attack.

While I’ve felt exceedingly unhappy from time to time, even for years on end, and though I’ve even questioned whether or not any of the waking moments ever endured are worth it when added up against either the day to day mundane of pain, I’ve never been so disconnected from reality as to blame others for my lot in life. In any situation, I am ultimately responsible for my own actions. I can be fucked by any relationship, business, romantic or otherwise, but at the end of it, I have to look at my actions, and how I entered into the position to get fucked in the first place. So I don't know that I’ve ever actually uttered the phrase "I forgive you" to anyone, because I’ve either not blamed them their actions, or the offense is one grievous enough not to be exonerated from.

Standing in front of my mother, her sobs weakening in strength and composure getting the best of her again, I may have simply smiled. Not out of tension or an inability to connect mind with mouth, but a smile of situational confusion, one arising from a moment that tickles the heart.

And I explained to mom that I couldn't forgive her.

After all, I’d nothing to blame her for.

The Importance of Being Organic

I remember when Guns N Roses released the albums Use Your Illusion 1 & 2 simultaneously. The first song used for promotion was “You Could Be Mine,” and Hollywood teamed up with the mega-group to make sure that single was prominently displayed in the sure-fire blockbuster summer release, Terminator 2. All the powers that be wanted to make sure album promotion was widespread: “You Could Be Mine” was pushed on radio, in movies, on MTV (back when they played music videos); the promotion machine was churning, and it wanted Guns to bank big for everyone involved. It worked; the song went huge, and both albums sold millions. This despite the fact they were each complete crap.

I didn’t like “You Could Be Mine” within seconds of first hearing it, but couldn’t explain why it struck me as so awful so quickly. Something just sounded off. Back then, I knew little of producers, engineers and recording studios. I couldn’t tell you what Mike Clink did to “Appetite for Destruction” that made it sound so amazing, nor could I verbalize what he then did wrong on both Illusion albums.

Many years later, I read the book, “Blink,” by Malcolm Gladwell. It explained, in detail, the phenomena of knowing something without understanding how we knew it. The idea was: we can instinctively feel something is either true or false; sometimes our senses are so in tune with truth, we can just “know” truth.

Not long after reading “Blink,” I read Slash’s self-titled autobiography. In tedious detail, he described his multi-year struggle with heroin addiction, but in between the lengthy and dull addiction diatribes were gems of stories involving Guns & Roses. Slash spoke of their inception, early success, and most importantly to me, their songwriting process and how it changed over the years. For example: the song “Paradise City” was grown out of a road trip. The group was in a van, having just played one of their first gigs ever, was driving back to Los Angeles and the song just sort of… appeared. They were shouting lyrics and melodies, and when time came to hit the studio, they already had a foundation for what would morph into one of their biggest hits. “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” another enormous success, came about while they jammed one day, everyone noting that something Slash was playing would make for a great opening riff to a song.

I enjoy reading about musicians, because I was in a band for several years. After high school, I first attended the Berklee College of Music, in Boston, Massachusetts, and then transferred to the University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee. It was in Milwaukee I joined with two other students, a singer/guitarist and a drummer, and went about the business of seeing what it would like to make music for a living. We never achieved a great deal of success, but were able to record several songs for a compilation CD, and I promoted those songs as hard as I could. We ended up getting played on several college radio stations across the U.S, charting in many of them.

Our best songs, in my opinion, were written while jamming. We may not have come up with a “Paradise City,” but when messing around at rehearsal, we came up with some pretty fun little progressions that the singer would then write melodies and lyrics around. I enjoyed this method of songwriting, and thought that’s what being in a band was all about. The singer/guitarist disagreed, and quietly yet forcefully eventually stated the case that he was interested in having the drummer and I play songs he had written. He liked the idea of being a singer-songwriter; he wanted to be the Sting or Curt Cobain of the group and teach his songs to the drummer and I, that we may play our parts. The problem in my mind was, and I will argue this until the day I die, is: though Sting may have the writing credit for “Every Breath You Take,” without the iconic Andy Summers guitar line, in no way would it have been a hit. I view music as a collaborative, and the idea of being dictated to did not sit well with me. After several months of frustration, I quit when presented with a song containing the lyric, “You don’t know about divorce; you’d rather ride a foundered horse.”

The singer explained, “A horse that founders has to be put down, so my analogy is that of two people who stay together even though it’s not a good relationship, plodding onward when they shouldn’t be.” I argued in response: “Great, but you still rhymed “divorce” with ‘horse.’”

Returning to Slash’s book: as is well documented today, as the band grew in fame, Axl became more recalcitrant. He was a self-admitted isolationist, and was so as much from the band as the outside world. During the recording sessions for the Use Your Illusion albums, Axl was rarely around; he would show up when the band wasn’t there, listen to what had been recorded and make changes and leave notes as to where the songs should go. In essence, Axl was dictating from afar, controlling the songs without being an active participant in the group process. With but the reading of a few sentences, I flashed back to the first time I heard “You Could Be Mine,” and finally understood why the song sounded wrong from the start; it wasn’t a creative creation, it was a studio construction. Therein lies the difference.

While some people might argue they like certain songs on either Illusion record, no one can say that any song on them matches “Appetite for Destruction.” Plus, everyone knows what happened next; every band member eventually quit, and Axl went off the deep end, spending over fifteen years nitpicking away at the album eventually released as “Chinese Democracy.” That record, as anyone will tell you, is absolutely unlistenable. It is an overproduced, over-thought mess.

Because Axl refused to allow things to simply flow.

And in art, flow is everything.

Go-Go American Education System

Go-Go American Education System

I spent many of my formative years, 7th-12th grade to be exact, in the tiny town of Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. I enjoyed the city so little, that after leaving, I rarely returned. I skipped my five, ten and fifteen year high school reunions, and only went to the twenty to see a friend that lives 934 miles from me.

While I had a good time at the reunion, I was more than a little shocked and surprised by the amount of people who had never left, had never even moved beyond fifty miles of the place they were born. They never traveled the world, or experienced other cultures or styles of thought. Trying my best to be non-judgmental, I found it sad that people could live so isolated. Especially so, considering that the more I interacted with these people post-reunion on Facebook, the more I saw they took physical isolation as an excuse to limit themselves mentally. More and more, I saw disturbing examples of why “small town values,” oft championed as something noble in any election cycle, can be amazingly detrimental when it comes to societal progress.

One case in point came via my friend, “Mary,” who still lives in Oconomowoc. She posted that she visited Milwaukee, and was a little frightened by the traffic. Another woman, “Jane,” responded that she was in Milwaukee once, and got scared when a black kid rode by her car on a bike. Jane also said she hated driving in “Brown Town” because of all the confusing, one-way streets. I do not know Jane, but from what I could see of her profile, she’s in her late 30s and also grew up in Oconomowoc.

My response to Jane’s post was, "Ah, racism and fear. Good times." Her cousin wrote, "Wow. BROWN TOWN? Just because you can't read the street signs doesn’t mean black people are bad.”

Jane responded to us with an overflow of emotion:

"NO I don't believe I said that black people are bad,I don't call Brown Down cuz of the colored,I am NOT a rascist at all[may not be able to spell it],My GPS tells me the st signs doesn't show me where my friend is though!I just dislike Milwaukee + Waukesha+Watertown because of all of their one way roads,I have a GPS to tell me where to go,but my friend was trying to wave to me+I was busy looking at the roads,and I can't see shit at night,and it was CRAZY BUSY so had my glasses on,I'd never survive Madtown too many people,and I NEVER drove to the Bradely Center or any place in Milwaukee by myself.It was Dan,Ashley,and myself+Ash was scared cuz we couldn't find our friend and it took me 15 minutes Yeah I don’t like being lost w/a scared 10 year old in the back seat,I do not know Milwaukee at all.I’d be able to get to a Brewer Game though,I guess when it comes to directions I’m like my Mom-No mean intention’s at all,I figured that would happen,just don’t know the town well,I LOVED the Riverside though.Just can’t drive out there by myself+have to know where my friend is the parking structure doesn’t start+end in the same place..I am not afraid of anybody either!Just said afraid of Milwaukee because I got lost.I’d be scared if I were lost anwhere,and I just panicked. I used to say downtown browntown a LONG time ago,and alot of people say it.I guess I have to watch what I say.I call every down different,I’m sure O-town has it’s bad names as well.GEEZ LAWEEZ people.I am human I had a great time at the Riverside so I am no where near a rascist.”

After navigating my way through that mess of grammatical incoherency, my first response was to rub my eyes, shake my head, and pray the education system of today is better than the one that put a diploma into her unworthy hand. That aside, I do believe the post has a lot of hidden information, and I’m not sure Jane even understood her racist ways. The way she wrote, “I used to say downtown browntown a LONG time ago,” means I think her behavior is something learned in childhood. She honestly might have just been parroting a phrase she heard about Milwaukee, and as she grew up no one ever explained to her, “Yeah, not cool.”

I also don’t think she grasps the influence parents have on their children. Her sentence, "I don't like being lost w/a scared 10 year old in the back seat” exposes this lack of comprehension. Kids are like animals; they sense fear. A ten-year old in the back seat of a car is going to be looking around at the world with wide eyes and curiosity, especially if that kid is from a small town and is now surrounded by big cool buildings. The only way he would be frightened is if the parents were freaking out, and in turn, spreading that fear around. If mom is hysterical because, “OMG I’M ON A ONE WAY STREET, WHAT DO I DO? THERE’S A BLACK KID ON A BIKE!! WHERE’S MY FRIEND???” of course a child is going to pick up on that and grow scared, too. And living in a small town, surrounded by similar thoughts and actions, as he grows older and receives no outside stimulus or a different way of viewing the world… so as you see, so as you become.

Jane eventually posted several more backtracks, and in the end I believed she’s probably not overtly hateful, just unconsciously prejudiced. I’m not sure that’s a good thing, but it is better than the alternative, as others from my hometown outright frighten me. More often than not, their posts are as poorly written as Jane’s, only filled with anger and paranoia. They forcefully proclaim Obama is a socialist, Fox news is the only true source for information, and that the United Nations controls all the federal parks (Yellowstone, Grand Canyon, etc.) we have within the U.S.

Sometimes, but not too often, I challenge their wing nut and non-factual assertions. When I do, their response is generally two lovely words: “Your ignorant.”

Indeed.