The Thrill of Fear

It’s why we tell ghost stories. It’s why we adorn our homes and yards with creepy decorations around Halloween. It’s why we continue to watch spine-tingling scenes in a movie even when we want to hide under a blanket. There’s something thrilling about being afraid. That is, when the stakes are low enough. These days, there are plenty of real things to be afraid of, and I fear that as a result kids today are being denied the thrill that comes from being modestly mischievous.

When I was a burgeoning teenager, there were two houses my friends and I toilet-papered with regularity, both occupied by a classmate named Suzanne. We had nothing against either Suzanne. We weren’t “into” either of them. But their yards had trees, lots and lots of big, glorious trees, practically begging to be layered in fluffy cotton sheets, and we willfully answered the call.

Our preparatory trips to Kmart attracted stares from patrons and cashiers, as my friends and I pooled enough of our money together to purchase 40 or 50 rolls of toilet paper. When I consider the cost of a pack Charmin today, I wonder if this would be a feasible pursuit in 2023, but in 1981, a bunch of 13-year-olds with meager means could buy a lot of toilet paper.

We’d hang out at our buddy John’s house until late at night, spinning records and playing ping-pong. No beers. No smoking. It was pretty innocent stuff. But around 2AM we’d head outside donning dark clothing and prowl across the wonderfully unfenced backyards of Brookfield, Wisconsin, stealthily making our way a half a mile or so to our target house, where we’d launch roll after roll of toilet paper high over tree limbs, draping the maples and oaks in curtains of white while we kept watch for lights flickering on in the occupant’s home. Hearts racing, adrenaline gushing through our veins, we gleefully finished our task and raced back to our home base, careful to remain hidden from the occasional car in the early morning hours.

There came a time when TPing wasn’t enough – we needed to raise the stakes, and raise the stakes we did by adding a pièce de résistance after completing our toilet-papering: a blast of firecrackers and a glaring flare, its red light eerily glowing off the sheets of white toilet paper, elevating what could have been classified as an act of vandalism into a work of art.

If the flash of light and the explosion of gunpowder wasn’t enough to accelerate our hearts and strides, the car that went after us shortly thereafter surely was. Someone was pissed, most likely Suzanne’s father, and – especially in hindsight – understandably so. We had just jolted him from his peaceful slumber in the most abrupt way, causing a panic that I can only imagine.

Oh, but the thrill we felt! It was exhilarating and positively life-affirming. The gleeful charge of dipping our boring suburban toes into danger was unparalleled by anything else happening in our town.

I’ve raised three kids, all of whom are now adults, and I guarantee that none of them were allowed to experience the same sort of adventure that my friends and I had as youths. With yards surrounded by high privacy fences, with motion-detecting lights, video doorbells and security cameras recording our every move, and with the very real possibility that a homeowner could seek vengeance not with a call to the cops but with gunfire, I fear the days of innocent thrilling fun are over.

A shame for our youth, though I suppose not for we adults who are spared the heart-stopping panic of a brick of firecrackers exploding outside our windows. In that sense, we’ve had the best of both worlds.

Sports Fandom May Be Dumb, but I Still Love the Packers and Hate the Vikings

Sports fandom is dumb. There, I said it.

“Stupid to be a sports fan?  What are you talking about?” I can hear some of you say. Sports, after all, is a unifying force among people of disparate backgrounds, a source of excitement, camaraderie and thrilling memories. 

All of the above is true. But why I should be the least bit interested in a team comprised of members I’ve never met, who didn’t grow up in my hometown or anywhere near it and who probably don’t live in my home state in the off-season is a question for the ages. The only thing the Green Bay Packers players and I have in common is the fact that they play in Wisconsin, and I happened to grow up in Wisconsin, even though I haven’t lived there since 1993. If the Packers’ new starting quarter back, Jordan Love, had been drafted by the Cleveland Browns, I wouldn’t care one iota for him. If the Vikings had drafted him, I’d have an unsensible hatred for the man. But because the team I follow happened to spend a controversial first-round draft pick on him back in 2020, I am hoping and praying that he can return the Packers to their rightful place as Super Bowl Champions, maybe not this year, but in time.

At least my unexplainable allegiance to the team is something positive. I get a kick out of rapid fans painting their faces green and gold, tailgating for hours before and – sometimes – hours after a game, and purchasing stock in the ownership of a team that grants them absolutely no rights. I love that stuff! As I write this, I’m glancing above my computer where I showcase rotating Sports Illustrated covers of Packers history, currently one from 1966 and one from 1967, and when I get tired of these covers, I’ll replace them with covers from 1997 and 2011, when my favorite team did the unthinkable and won not one, but two Super Bowls in my lifetime. Prior to 1997, when my twin daughters were still in the womb, the Packers hadn’t won a Super Bowl since I had been in the womb in 1968!

So yes, my fandom may be ridiculous, but at least it’s fun.

It’s the flipside that’s a little unnerving. As illogical as it is for me to find enjoyment in the Packers’ victories, it’s even more ridiculous – and I take no pride in admitting this – that some of my favorite sports moments involve losses of the Minnesota Vikings. Fortunately for me, there has been no shortage of humiliating defeats for this hapless franchise. They’ve provided twisted haters like me with countless collapses that must have led some fans from the north to reconsider their allegiance. It’s been a rough ride for the Vikings. But why should it be that I loathe a team so much that I resort to watching videos of their worst defeats? What is this sick schadenfreude I and so many other sports fans willingly take part in?

It’s silly. It defies all logic. It goes against the good sense I espouse to possess. 

But here’s the reality. When the Packers lose their last game of the season, whether it’s in the regular season or it knocks them out of the playoffs, I invariably watch the following videos, two of which are gloriously called by a very emotional Paul Allen:

1)    Gary Anderson’s missed field goal in the NFC Championship against the Falcons on January 17, 1999.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=52ahDuQPdsw

2)    The Vikings last-second loss to the Cardinals on December 28, 2003, a defeat that knocked them out of the playoffs.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nNwv4GUD8aA

3)    My absolute favorite, Brett Favre doing what Brett Favre does, throwing a pick against the Saints in the NFC Championship on January 27, 2010.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0UUeqvquXZI

Wonderful, wonderful moments. I know. I’m ashamed. But at least I can take solace in the fact that my hatred is shared by many other equally sick Packers fans. WISCOSPORTSWEEKLY – God bless him – posted this lovely top-10 worst Vikings defeats on YouTube just seven months ago, reminding me of some of the moments I’d forgotten about and making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

 And upon reading the video’s accompanying comments from people who have a likeminded and unexplainable revelry for the pain and suffering of others, I feel like for better or for worse, these are my people.

 Go Packers!

(and please note that I’ve documented the heartache sometimes associated with being a Packers fan, as I’m sure Vikings fans will be happy to highlight)

A Neighborhood's Fraying Fabric

Recently scanning through my journal entries from years ago, I was taken with just how many people have passed through my life. Scores and scores of coworkers, bandmates, classmates, neighbors, friends – even family members – who were once cornerstones of my existence, I no longer keep in touch with, not because of any conflict or falling out, but through a gradual decline of contact until there was no contact at all, a sort of relational evanescence. John Lennon wrote of such a phenomenon in the song “In My Life” when he was all of 25 years old, but I’m now 55; the number of people I once knew but no longer know is staggering.  

Making me feel even more uneasy is the change I’ve witnessed recently in my own town and neighborhood. One might be quick to undermine the superficial relationships that we naturally cultivate over time, but their absence can lead to a real sense of loss. When walking my dog to a nearby park, I used to have a 50/50 chance of running into someone I “kinda sorta” knew: Chris who watched Cubs games in the garage, Colleen who could talk my ear off with her banter, Margaret who’s oldest was in my daughter’s grade. Now all of them have moved away, as have several other neighbors who once lived on my street and other friends from my town who’ve opted for greener pastures further out in suburbia, or further still in states like Florida or Colorado.

Gradually, the fabric of the neighborhood as I once knew it is fraying. People who weaved in and out of my life have left dangling threads, and I’m beginning to feel that the ties that bind me to my home of 23 years are becoming looser, leaving me uneasily untethered.

I’m a creature of habit. I like my house and the stuff in it. I like walking the dog and seeing the same people every morning. I like sitting on my front porch with my wife and having familiar neighbors stroll by and say hello. I’d like it even more if my kids lived a few blocks away, stopping by for a quick chat or a Sunday dinner, but this is not to be, as none of my three children even live in the same state as me, much less the same neighborhood.

Carol King once sang, “Doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore?” Very few it seems. And I fear becoming the last old guy on the street who people point to when discussing the history of the neighborhood. “Ask Paul. He’s been here forever.”

One day I may have to make the choice of either relocating simply to move with the times or staying put and becoming lost in time. I wish there was a third option: everyone staying where they are.

That’s Just Like, Your Opinion, Man

The Dude abides in the Coen brothers’ The Big Lebowski, and he also has something to say about opinions. Namely, that opinions are just that – opinions – and not all of them are valid.

Case in point. Last week I had drinks with a few friends, and one of them who’s not really into music said, “Rap isn’t music.”  In my usual diplomatic and courteous way, I went on to lambaste this absurdity before he retorted with “It’s just my opinion.” But I took issue with this comeback for two reasons:

1) He made his statement as if were fact, not an opinion.
2) His opinion isn’t credible because it can be proven false.

On the first point, his utterance sure didn’t sound like an opinion to me. If he had instead said something like “To me, rap isn’t musical,” then that would have been a statement of opinion and entirely legitimate, if not sadly limited. But of course, we all make statements that are meant to be taken as opinions. In my podcast, I’ll often say something like “that guitar solo has no place in this song” or “this song goes on too long.” I don’t preface these statements with “It’s my opinion that…” or “I didn’t like that…” Instead, it’s tacitly implied that what I’m offering is an opinion – it’s one of the premises of the podcast. Now, perhaps I should have been more gracious to my friend and recognized the spirit with which he made his claim, but to me he had crossed a line and was speaking with a level of authority on the matter, as if determining what music is and what music isn’t fell under his jurisdiction.

Here’s what it is, according to one definition:

music (myoo͞′zĭk) noun

1.   The art of arranging sounds in time so as to produce a continuous, unified, and evocative composition, as through melody, harmony, rhythm, and timbre.

Sounds like a definition that includes rap to me.

Which brings me to my second point: the “opinion” that rap isn’t music isn’t credible because it can be completely invalidated based on facts. Rap music does in fact arrange sounds in time to produce a composition, and furthermore, rap ­is a genre now well into its fifth decade that has sold countless records and CDs in music stores, is played on music stations and is viewed live at music venues. If not music, then what would you call it? Poetry with a beat? Come on!

If you’re going to make a controversial claim, you should be able to back it up in some way. Hell, even flat-earthers do this, albeit with ridiculous “facts,” but I’ve never heard a flat-earther say, “It’s just my opinion,” because saying the earth is flat isn’t a statement of opinion; it’s a statement of fact based on faulty data that can be proven false, just as my friend’s “opinion” that rap isn’t music is based on faulty data – probably having to do with a narrow definition that music must contain identifiable melodies that can be reproduced on a tonal instrument like a piano or trumpet. But saying rap isn’t music is like me saying Beethoven’s works aren’t music. I may not like his Eroica Symphony (except I do), but that doesn’t mean it isn’t music. 

And although you can form an opinion about the above, one conclusion can be made unequivocally: The Dude abides.

Reducing Waste from our Lives (part 2)

Yeah, I know. There fate of the world doesn’t rest on how much garbage each of us produces. Fixing climate change will require the will, cooperation and resources of the largest world governments, and that’s not going to happen anytime soon. Still, I want to live the best way I know how, so I strive to make small changes to my lifestyle each year to reduce waste from my life. These days, my wife and I produce less than a tall kitchen bag of waste each week. Not perfect, but not terrible.

I blogged about this topic nine years ago after reading the book, A Zero Waste Lifestyle by Amy Korst, and looking back on it now I realize that I still practice nearly all that I recommended in that post. Since then, I’ve become aware of a few other items that weren’t widely available last decade, so I thought I’d offer a bit of an update for those looking to do more.

Recent inclusions are all about reducing plastic waste:

1) I now use bars of shampoo and conditioner that typically come in small cardboard boxes, similar to bars of soap, rather than large plastic containers. My most-recent purchase is from Anihana, though there are a lot of options. The products themselves are effective; my wife and I have been using them happily for over a year.

2) For many years I’ve wished that laundry detergent came in refillable bottles. This hasn’t come to pass - at least not that I’m aware of - but another option was brought to my attention earlier this year: laundry detergent sheets. These are great. I’ve been using those produced by Kind Laundry for about five months. Sixty loads come in a small box, so they take up almost no space and create almost no waste while still being effective.

3) It would be great if we could return our wine bottles for refills like in some European countries, but barring that option, boxed wine is becoming more in vogue with apparently some very good-tasting wines. I purchased my first box of wine last week after reading an article on the subject. Yes, boxes are still wasteful, but glass bottles produce much more of a carbon footprint, and in the United States only 31% of glass is recycled. A box of wine (3 liters) is the equivalent of four bottles, lasts for 4-6 weeks, and produces far much less waste. I’m not going to give up bottled wines, but I do intend on experimenting with boxed wine for a while to see if I find a variety that really works for me.

Aside from these recent additions, I stand by the following strategies that I’ve been using for over a decade:

1) Use cloth napkins and real dishes, even for outdoor events. I can’t stand using plastic dishware that gets tossed in the garbage after one use.
2) Compost all food-based scraps. This is easy if you have a yard, and it means your garbage is much less messy.
3) Use reusable produce bags as well as grocery bags. People sometimes push back on this, but I’ve been using the same canvas bags for over two decades and my house isn’t inundated with unwanted plastic bags. Produce bags don’t last as long, but are still a worthy investment.
4) Use cut-to-size pieces of washable fleece instead of Swiffer sheets. They work perfectly.
5) Avoid buying liquids like milk, water and soda that come in plastic bottles. Luckily, there are plenty of alternatives today.
6) Eat less meat. This really should be number one. If the entire world became vegetarian, we’d be much better off. I still eat meat, but it’s typically limited to a package of lunch meat and maybe three or four dinners a week. It’s a start.

Nope - none of this is going to save the world, but it isn’t hard to live just a little less wasteful, and to me the personal benefits of less mess and less garbage are worth it.