The Road Is Home To Maniacs

I am sitting in the passenger seat of our car heading northbound on Interstate 5. We're on the long road home from a family trip to Legoland and the much anticipated San Diego Zoo, both of which featured an array of impressive exhibits and rides that almost now seem like a distant memory when compared against the invasion of mind loss that is trips with our kids. Along with the hugs and laughter, there's the yelling, disciplining, threatening of toy removal and post bedtime binge drinking that have all become staples of our family vacation checklist. Those pictures you often see on Facebook of people basking in the bliss of family unity are almost cruel and just a little bullshit.

I know, because I'm guilty of the same selective advertising. But the truth is, vacations with children, for all intents and purposes, are a fucking mess. In between the joy and wonder of a child's first experience with something are the hours upon hours of brain pillaging episodes where even the sanest of parents must fight tooth and nail to manage. But manage them we do. We've been down this road before. It's like going out with a friend you know is going to get you arrested, or petting a sleeping cat on the belly. The outcome should never be surprising. It's the most expensive type of reality check there is, but we endure it because above all else, they're comprised of moments we'll cherish and remember for the rest of our lives. And as challenging as they may often be, I look forward to them every time. 

Still, writing this in my car, my dad braving the long, barren drive of I5, I question why we continue to do this to ourselves. I'm being dramatic, of course. And my wife will probably say I'm overreacting. But overreacting is a part of parenting, no matter what the situation. A scrape on the knee, a cough, a bloody nose, the mere thought of your child being bullied, or worse, your child becoming one, all drive the hairs through the silver brush. The reaction is a basic impulse. What some parents may feel is perfectly normal, others see as the end of humanity. I'm somewhere in between. But a trip with kids, where the thought of relaxation is the punchline to a sad joke, can be its own version of adult hell. And there I am at the fiery throne kneeling to it every chance I get.

history in the remaking

Last month, Josephine and I took a trip to San Diego with our two boys and my dad. It was to celebrate our son Samuel's 6th birthday, an event that didn't arrive until after we had returned. I picked up a GoPro Hero 5 Session a few days previous to chronicle the trip. As a photographer, I feel I've done a good job capturing crucial moments from my children's lives. But one thing I've failed to commit those memories to is video. Stills capture moments. Video enlivens them. Unlike most footage people share, flash cards of unicorns and rainbows isn't always what you experience. We knew where this road would lead us. With our parent checklist ready, we began.

Our first destination was Legoland, located in beautiful Carlsbad, CA. While awesome, the significance of being trapped in a world meant to appear as if built using an easily detachable brick system was not lost on me. For at times, it acted as a metaphor for the framework of our sanity, and our patience being the very Lego piece stabbing into each other's bare feet. But the boys loved the place. Despite the forum it provided for them to turn into the occasional asshole, so did we. We watched as our raving little ones ran amok with excitement, bringing a whole new level of exhaustion to the playing field. My wife and I, being the mindful 21st century parents we are, had forgotten our son Joseph's stroller at home and made every effort we could to avoid having to carry him. The park only being open from 10am-5pm (on some days) certainly helped. 

The hotel room, following the long and tiring day, was where my wife and I regrouped. As some parents can tell you, this is not possible without alcohol, and we made damn sure our investment was put to use. The battles of putting tired kids to bed is a chore all its own, as you often run into a steel wall at every turn; The zombies grunting at you in a darkened alley as they half ass every single task they're given, all while offering highly intellectual commentary of why you're the worst parents in the world for simply wanting them to shut the fuck up and get some rest. More than once, my sons announced their decision that I was no longer to be loved. But following an exhausting day in the sun and Tango & Cash having just started on AMC, I couldn't give two shits. We lick our wounds, wait for the morning to come, and start again.

It's All A Zoo!

Next on the agenda was the world famous San Diego Zoo, an enormous and beautiful park where my hypocrisy on the subject of caged animals could run free. We didn't quite know what to expect of this place, as neither of us had been there. But as zoos go, it didn't disappoint. One thing a park of this size begs to remind you of is how out of shape you really are. As the day carried on, I felt the bones in my legs spit rust as I walked, with Sammy and Jojo harnessing what felt like a perpetual amount of energy. Ever the animal enthusiasts, they loved every section of this place. It's amazing when you witness your children show genuine excitement about something that actually warrants it. That's a matter of preference, I know. But no matter how hard I tried, I could never echo the enjoyment that went into watching an episode of fucking Caillou. I'd rather sit through a family viewing of Faces Of Death.

Hearing them marvel at the roar of a tiger or the mere sight of an elephant was truly special. I wanted to bottle it up. For every shouting match we refereed, there were moments of pure joy that made it all worth it. This is the very thing we take away from any family trip we embark upon and the understanding that none of this was ever supposed to be easy. It’s during the difficult times where my wife and I have scribbled our most valuable notes. It's how we learn as parents. We steered through an emotional rainfall when our son Joseph was diagnosed with rhabdomyosarcoma in 2014 and at 9 months old, underwent an intensive surgery that prefaced a year long bout with chemotherapy. By comparison, any challenge we face now trying to get them to brush their teeth or return to their beds in the middle of the night is an ink blot on a mural.

My dad accompanying us for the trip meant so much to me, as it emphasized the bond not only of father and son but of grandparents and their impact on our boys. I pondered this for days after we returned home, unpacking what felt like an entire closet of life while shaking the limbs from our bodies. We were back, stationed again in the war room that is our household. Tomorrow, when we wake up, our kids will be older, getting ready for their first dates, graduating from college and starting families of their own. Those are all moments to come. We'll hold on to these for now.

Our sons Samuel (left) and Joseph share a moment in front of the Elliott Smith tribute wall in Los Angeles, CA.

Mediocrity Is Genius

What the hell is happening? This is a question I hear uttered so frequently now. Not only from the mouths of my friends and family, but political figures, writers, celebrities, girl scouts. Much of what we've seen unfold this past month in present day America is unparalleled. But I beg to know how it all started, where the stalk met the fruit of this entire fucking mess. On one hand, our country has always had a fascination with train wrecks. It's the same reason people cause traffic on the freeway, slowing down to browse the tabloids on the side of the road, which in most cases turns out to be nothing more than a minor accident. We all have to watch. And now that a verifiable madman has been given the keys to The White House, we all can.

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Artwork by Devonne Amos

It's as if America has finally premiered season one of a years-in-development reality series for the entire world to watch. And who better a star than an attention-whoring beggar of the national spotlight? I'm not trying to tickle under the arm of despair, but it's hard to feign optimism when it's being bled through the papers daily, with every headline catering more and more to the narrative.

I used to think shows like The Shield (my all time favorite) or The Walking Dead (sometimes) did an okay job of grabbing you early, demanding interest. But this new program seems to be mastering this technique with every passing minute it airs. An over-saturated first season, yes. But it has commanded the world's attention. It's not the velocity of the story's development. It's just the way in which its audience has been triggered to react, both in staunch support of, or as many of the recent protests or memes have indicated, viciously against. And it is not stopping.

But yet I still ask. How the fuck did we get here?

The Past Is Current

When MTV's The Real World debuted in 1992, its creators, aiming to show a side of the network unfamiliar to its audience at the time, invited seven twenty-somethings who had never met before to live together, and record their daily happenings. During the opening credits, the voice of each cast member can be heard saying the now famous: "This is the true story of seven strangers, picked to live in a house, and have their lives taped, to find out what happens when people stop being polite, and start getting real." The genre was slowly learning how to walk but had garnered plenty of attention. It opened a generation's eyes, inviting topics of race and sexuality into discussion. To its viewers, this is how people behaved. And because we saw it with our very eyes, we believed it.

As further seasons aired, phrases like "scripted television" became a common criticism of the platform, while stories of cast members getting evicted due to drug use and violent outbursts arose. It was groundbreaking in how effectively it captured its target audience, bleeding productivity dry for 32 total seasons. Where earlier ones made an attempt to expose its audience to the intricacies of human interaction, the following seasons, as the years and genre progressed, only seemed focused on painting a mural of debauchery and downright buffoonery for its viewers, an approach that some might argue contributed heavily to the birth of the train wreck on-looker we now know.

With the rise of shows like Keeping Up With The Kardashians, and even The Apprentice, which Donald Trump himself hosted for 14 years, reality TV tapped into every artery it could, personalities like the Kardashians continually injecting themselves into the veins of impressionable young adults everywhere. That the occupant of the most powerful seat in the world stemmed from this league of fabrication from which he appears to have no plan to depart is what's so frightening. 1992 brought The Real World, New York into living rooms across the world. 2016 and nearly half the nation's residents created a new series: The Real World, America, a shit show of ungodly proportions. 

Gone are the days of David "Puck" Rainey pestering his roommates with his eccentricities and snot rockets, or the gel-saturated bravado of the entire cast of The Jersey Shore. This is far more dangerous, not to mention embarrassing. Qualities such as intelligence and commonsense seem like foreign concepts to this new commander in chief, with simple questions, no matter how trivial, appearing to challenge him to no end. If the Blu-ray edition were to see its release replete with behind the scenes footage and never before seen interviews, I fear the suicide rate in the country will skyrocket. Every time the President speaks, we're wondering what he might say next. Do we laugh? Do we correct him, if only from the confines of our living rooms?

We're like victims in a horror movie other nations are shouting at the screen to alert. But we've seen the ax from the moment it was forged, handed over to a maniac and swung like a pendulum at our country's values, free speech and, I worry, its credibility. And that's just a portion of it. Whenever someone posts a clip on Facebook of a dude falling down, celebrities making fools of themselves or some dumb cat video I've seen a hundred times, it shares the same meaningless quality of any clip of the President opening his fucking mouth. It shouldn't be this way. We should want to hear what this man has to say, not be entertained by it. We should learn something from it, not feel progress has receded because of it. Is that a light I see at the end of the tunnel, or just the sun eclipsed by an asshole?

Looking for Anything

Social Media has become one of the strongest enablers of reality TV personalities. It not only promotes them, but almost encourages us to embody them ourselves. Our lives are becoming diluted with endless filters, Snapchat and Instagram stories that publicize our every move. Is this what has made the thought of someone like Donald Trump in the White House a reality? Ridiculous, sure. But who knows? I just know I want to. Are we becoming more and more self centered? Are the percentages of people who really just don't give a shit that fucking high? The media reported of a ghastly amount of Americans who didn't even bother showing up at the polls to vote, following an election season that, sadly, was just the opening credits of the reality show we're currently watching, and even more disturbingly, now cast members of.

This past January, I joined my wife and friends for the Women's March in San Jose, CA in support of equality and human rights. What it really meant for me was a fist raised at the tyrannical views of this new leadership, a rejection of the hate and discrimination this White House seems eager to stimulate. This is a subjective view, I'll admit. But the millions of protesters around the world who contributed to this very message are the collective rebellion so many of us need. Now is that time, where people should speak up, stand on the shoulders of strangers and raise a flag. Even though Trump's presidency is still in its infancy, he has gotten far with his rhetoric and falsehoods.

His recent address to Congress, although more grounded than usual, still begs to be dissected, as his overall message still comes from a place of fear-titillating bullshit, where racism, social injustice, and LGBTQ rights are back burner topics. The American Flag bleeds of the lies this man has told in his first month in office. The treatment of media outlets that don't immediately fall to their knees is startling. How the fuck else do we get our information? Do some media organizations fart all over the pages? Sure. I read stupid headlines on Facebook every day, sometimes posted by people I know. But I don't believe that is what keeps this man up at night. What all reputable news organizations should propose is this: "Dear Mr. President. When you stop telling lies about us, we'll stop telling the truth about you." 

But I don't want that. And I'm hoping nobody else does either. We need the media now more than ever. We need the truth. We need Mulder and Scully to set the black oil aside and join the fight. We need presidential Paris Hilton to understand that there are those of us who won't concede to his cabinet of Kaiju. We need the producers of this reality series (everyone who voted for him) to pull the plug on production and rewrite the story. It's a nice dream, a violin-led sonnet to help ease my mind of this dreadful situation. And after that, maybe I'll hand it to Mr. Trump, and thank him for his service. I might even ask him for his autograph. He's a reality TV star by the way. But only if he signs it "Yours falsely, The President." That, I may be able to do.

Red, White and You

To Everyone Affected By The Tantrum Of A Grown Man, A Phony Christian, A Naked Soul, A Spineless Misogynist, A Tiny Handed War Monger, A Pussy Grabbing Demagogue, A Racist Billionaire, A Feather-Haired Bootlicker, A Serial Liar, A Clueless Businessman, An Alternative Fact Spewing Cocksucker, A Wolf In Sheep's Skin, A Pillow Fighting Sycophant, A Draft Dodging Bully, A Disability Mocking Buffoon, A Thesaurus Challenged Homophobe, A Rights Stripping Moron, I Support You. I Stand With You, Behind You, Next To You, In Front Of You. The Corner Is Not Lonely. It Is Cold, It Is Dark. stick your hand out. It Is Rife With Hands That Will Reach Out To Grab it. I will Give You Mine. So Many Of Us Will. Through this fight. This struggle. For You. For Us amidst This Terrible Fucking Nightmare. And When We Awake From It, a Flag and its color will Be Reunited. Its Glow restored. Its Embrace Of Nature, A Heart Running Rampant In a Chest Of Diversity.

It Will Be That Way.

It Has To.

It Will.

New America

People will be talking about this Election for days to come. The reality of the evening seems almost dreamlike. As the results slowly began to reveal themselves, I was sitting on my couch, alone, drinking, because I just didn't know what else to do. I wasn't numb. I just didn't have a point. I've considered many times what this outcome will mean for our country. For my children. I just don't know what that is yet. As I look back, my political allegiances haven't always been clear. When I was younger, I never found myself married to one particular party. I voted for people. Not words. Not even politics. Just ideas. Admittedly, I haven't always been the most informed citizen. There was a time when I didn't even know what NPR was. What the fuck? But I've learned. And I've followed things a bit more purposefully. Carefully.

Tuesday night was a victory for some. Their ideals and values were legitimized by the results of a long and tiring election. To others, like me, it was confusing and just a little bit terrifying. The things this "man" appears to stand for are mind boggling. The reality, however, is that it appealed to a great many people. And that's what's so frightening about the whole thing. Before Election Night, regardless of who the person in front of me supported, the person behind me wanted something else. The person to my left probably did, too. And maybe the person over there. We're surrounded by division every day. And that's fine. Unity is not possible without it. But this is something else. This entire election has done nothing but build a wall within our own home, from which I fear none of us will escape anytime soon. And make no mistake. We will ALL pay for it.

Following the election, as my 5 year old son entered my bedroom, I asked him to lay next to me. Pulled from a maze of knots deep within my stomach, I found the words to explain to him what had happened, what it meant and what it never should. But after a few moments of a mostly uncomfortable exchange, he jumped up and continued playing with his brother. This is a luxury that remains theirs. They won't understand the magnitude of this now. And expressing my horror in front of them falls, unfortunately so, on deaf ears. If they were older, my reaction could incite some sort of meaningful discussion. As far as they know, I just stepped on a fucking lego. And after cursing the paint off the walls, I'm left asking myself where we go from here.

These past few days on social media have summoned a whirlwind of divisive and conflicting views. Though what can be expected from an election fought by such widely derided candidates? I'm not ashamed to share my side. I voted for Hilary Clinton, for many reasons. Above all, because I just couldn't bare to watch someone like Donald Trump, a man who I'm in no way calling a failure at business, or even life, to be the face of our nation and the badge on our country's chest.

We all heard the shit storm he and his campaign unleashed, the endless deflections and excuses that were hurled at us, and the mountain of dirt from which he very successfully climbed free. I believe Hilary Clinton stood for something more than that. And that was enough for me. Has she lied? Was she corrupt or take part in corrupt shit? Possibly. The media is like a ball of yarn that unravels in every direction. It's up to you to pull in the direction you choose.

I never adopted a "lesser of two evils" approach. I believe she would have been good for this country, for women's rights, for my children's. In eight years time, this country had the opportunity to see its first black president followed by its first female one. And that was exciting to me. Clinton's flaws were well documented and at times, glaringly obvious. But experience, qualifications and ambition, among others, are all critical traits a presidential candidate should possess. Or not, as this election has certainly proven. Protests make our voices heard, but it doesn't change the result we now face. This is not to say that we should just concede to the throne and surrender our pussies to the palm of the new order. We can change things. 

We make a difference every day in how we act, how we treat others, how we fight for those who feel their voices have been silenced, or feel don't have one at all. We don't have to burn the flag. We can still represent it. Our new reality is upon us, yes. That much is certain. I've awoken to it 5 times now and have yet to feel my suspension of disbelief surface. Until the day of Donald Trump's inauguration, I feel it will stay like this. That day will either compound that feeling or do wonders and subside it. The latter sounds nice, but I fear I may be sleepwalking among the comatose. Time will tell, but have no illusion. The future may be unknown but it is not indestructible. If you think it can't be chipped away to reveal the one you hoped for, you're wrong. We just have to discover how. Together.

This reminds me of a scene in Back To The Future 2, when Marty arrives at a version of Hill Valley unfamiliar to him, where cars burn on the streets, gangs roam freely, and a gaudy Casino stands in place of the once beloved courthouse. When confronting the Doc, Marty is told that it is the result of an elder Biff Tannen from the future giving his younger self a book of sports statistics throughout history, and instructing him to bet on the winners. Marty, terrified of this alternate hell, suggests stealing the book from Future Biff and just returning to the Hill Valley they remember. The Doc explains that if they go Marty's route, it will be a future born of the hellish universe they're currently in, and says the only way to change history is by going back in time to prevent Young Biff from acquiring the book in the first place. Thus, one of the best middle sequels of all time.

For us, our only option is Marty's way, to continue on in our new reality and make the changes we can. Acceptance of a new leader is not the acceptance of the hate and bigotry many of us have come to expect. There are ways to challenge it. Riots that cause violence and damage to property is not one of them. Although stemming from a very real and understandable anger, it's a selfish act. But a protest for rights, donations to organizations, the continued education of our children can make the difference we seek. Protect your friends and loved ones. Support the LGBTQ community, the rights of Muslim Americans, African Americans, Mexican Americans (a group to which people still don't believe I belong) good things and good people, dogs, cats, an alien fucking species. Just be good. Anything said is easier said than done. So do it. I promise I will, too.

A Constant Orbit

For over 30 years, Nick Cave has given us music unlike anything else in existence. His influences, wide in scope, along with his penchant for story telling have allowed him to build a career saturated in brilliance, heartbreak, victory and loss, the broad strokes of such a commanding visionary exhibited across a musical canvas spanning decades. He created a sound that, like Radiohead (a band that formed well after his debut) could be instantly recognizable, regardless of the genre in which he aimed to explore. Last month, the world welcomed the release his latest album Skeleton Tree, a collection of songs said to have been inspired by his son's unexpected passing last July. Despite some songs having been written before his son's tragic death, they still feels very much connected.

It's an album swathed in heartache, be it that of a grieving father or quite simply a human being living in today's climate, a reality that makes the beauty of the album that much more striking of an accomplishment, like a rose dragged beneath the heel of a boot that still retains its color at the end of the parade. On July 14th, 2015, Nick Cave's son Arthur was walking with a friend in Brighton, England, where he lived with his family. An inquest revealed that he had taken LSD and veered too close to a cliff where he fell to his death sixty feet below. He was 15 years old. I remember reading about the story shortly after it happened. I researched it further over the past few weeks as the album's release ignited a recent surge of interest and noted on almost every review you could find. 

Losing a loved one is devastating enough but I always imagined a musician's take on such a loss to be particularly unique. Not harder. Just different, as the experience would undoubtedly be shared among thousands, emotions swelling within a performance both therapeutic and heartbreaking. I listen to the album and I hear a father in mourning sharing an unspeakable pain and I realize something. No matter what I do, it will always bring me back to that one thing - I am a father, and one day, my children will no longer be with me. I don't deny the morbidity of such a thought. It's not intentional. It just is. Everything revolves around my sons. My heart swells from the thought of them and it's that very image that pulls the fear ashore, prevents it from drowning and stores it safely in the inventory of my worst nightmares.

The media will have us believe that the world is in chaos, and that we are upon a cultural shift unlike anything we've ever experienced. And they may be right. But the command my children have on my thoughts is greater than any possible decline of civilization of which some people feel we are on the verge. There are things in this world far greater than one person, two people even. However those very people that come to mind, to me, are immeasurable. What comforts me is also what fuels the unrest. There will never be a time when I won't put my sons first. But there will always be a time when my deepest fears will abandon captivity and run rampant in what I would hope to still be a relatively young mind.

Parenthood can fuck you up. There's no denying this. I love, I yell, I frustrate, I soothe. It's a cycle that's not without its rewards, but still the root of a great deal of anxiety for me. Arthur Cave's death was the result of a substance I myself have ingested on multiple occasions. And I would be a fool to think that my sons won't at some point in their lives either choose on their own, or even be pressured into experimenting with certain things. As adults, we try things to know why. As children, we try things to know why not. I won't be the first to admit it but close; thinking the worst will do you no fucking good. There was a time in my life when I thought becoming a parent was never in sight. But now, its the only type of eyes I own. And as sad as its collection of songs may seem, there's a beautiful album out there that can tell you why.