Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Back at it  

I haven't written a post in about 4 months.  Sorry about that.   However, for some reason there has been an uptick in traffic to my blog. I can see it on my dashboard. Probably just a server in India perusing content for key words but hey it prompted me to sit down and write again.  Such as my writing can be called "writing". Another reason to post now is that the pressure from school has subsided slightly so I thought I could share with you some of the wisdom gleaned from the 2 classes I recently took.

Tongue in cheek.

Last Wednesday was the final exam in my Abnormal Psychology class.  I did not study for it adequately.  I got burned out.  Frankly,  I'm going to have to move to Wayne county because I have already diagnosed everybody within a 45 mile radius.   Here's the gist of Ab Psych: being human makes you crazy.  The kind of crazy that comes from being human...well, folks, it's pretty much incurable. Like in 98% of the cases.  The drugs work but only temporarily and most people comply with medication directives about 22% of the time because side effects from psychotropic drugs are often, well,  unpleasant. Who would of thought that was possible?  Apparently, things that mess with our already delicate minds make us feel even weirder.  Often people go to talk to shrinks only when they're forced to.  The people who have disorders of the mind--even some of the more serious ones--don't even recognize them as problematic.  That was the class in a nutshell for shit's sake.  Talk about depressing.

The class was basically an introduction to the DSM-V which is the diagnostic and statistical manual of psych disorders, 5th edition. A real masterpiece of gloom and doom, if you ask me.  It's the most efficient label maker I've ever seen. If you want to reduce a human being to their diagnosis, then get the DSM out.  Ugh. The teacher was a too-officious and somewhat glib 26 or 27-year-old and, not to be ageist but to be totally ageist, how in the hell is she qualified to teach a class on abnormal psychology at that age?  She don't know shit about "cray" until the girl has had herself some babies. Then we can talk about "Abnormal Psychology." Just sayin.'  Nothing makes a person loonier (and saner) than kids.  The other wonderful gifts that come from raising (or helping to raise) children include the gifts of humility, patience and empathy which seemed lacking in that lecture hall.

Her therapeutic methodology was the strictly Cognitive Behavioral model (CBT).  Not a fan of psychological orthodoxy any more than I am strict adherence to any dogma.   She must've known I felt that way from the first lecture.   When dealing with human emotions and behavior, logic and science only go so far.   Her belief is that it can take you all the way; that behavior is the whole story.  It's a big part of the story but it sure ain't the whole thing.  Science (i.e. big pharma) likes it because you can measure behavior easier than you can feelings and emotions.  If you can measure it, then you can hypothesize about it. If you can hypothesize you can run drug tests. If you can run drug tests on it and the drugs "work" to change the behaviors then you've got yourself a huge rainmaker.  Rainmakers drive more research.   Just talking, doing art therapy, singing, dancing, hugging. Well, there ain't much dough to be made there because it's more art than science--more analog less digital. Fancy human beings being less digital and more analog.   Hyper-pathologizing the normal human struggles inherent in breathing is a great way to make money.   It drives the academic machine to boot.  Everybody loses.

Obviously, with a bent like mine, she and I were not destined to be BFFs.


Anyway, I went into the final with 267.5 points out of a possible 250 at this point. I always front load points when I can.  This is because of my dirty little secret: I tend to crumble under pressure.  I'm like the honey badger in the headlights. Rather than breathe and engage my cortical brain and attempt to show up mentally, I go into Veloceraptor old brain mode or roley poley mode.  Either my eyes glaze over  and I dream of ways to eradicate the offending source of angst or I curl up in a ball and rock back and forth. Typical fear responses.  Not terribly effective. But it turns out I'm not alone. This happens to those of us who have perfectionist tendencies.  BTW, the DSM-V calls this O.C.P.D. or obsessive compulsive personality disorder.  Perfectionism is a thinly disguised response to the anxiety of not being in total control; grief and loss, as well.  It's what most people think of as OCD but it's different. It's a personality disorder not an anxiety disorder.  OCD is the guy who has to "wipe off" the El Camino he sees driving down the road.  Although this kind of disorder makes for great reality TV it very often ends sadly because the sufferers become so severely impaired.

OCPD is Mommy Dearest.  Think the scene: "No more wire hangers!"


Although I think one could've safely diagnosed Joan Crawford by throwing the DSM AT her image on the screen and then looking at which page opened when it hit the floor.   God bless her. I'm sure she did the best she could. 
The other class I took this term was online and taught by Brene Brown, PhD.  It was about general perfectionism and it was an art-based class. It was far more enlightening.  We painted with watercolors and journaled about just showing up in all of our imperfect glory.  Very Kumbaya but in a non-cheesy way. Seriously.  They're running another one after the first of the year.  Here is the link if you think you'd be interested in it:  http://www.oprah.com/own-brene-brown-course/brene-course-bundle-landing.html   It was a great adjunct to the ab psych class.  In fact, I think it was an inoculation against a total ab psych-induced freak-out.

I'm going to stop right now to say that my writing of this post last Tuesday was interrupted by a phone call from the farm where Mr. T now resides.  He had another mild case of colic.  It was cured by a dose of Banamine (which is analogous to Advil) and a giant-sized horse poop plus some extra TLC.  Wouldn't that be great if all of what ails people mentally could be cured with an Advil and trip to the Loo?  The other thing that happened that day was I woke up to a flat tire.  The same flat tire that I just had replaced.   So, yeah, pressure. The day before a final for which I had not studied adequately. Out of my control things. Things that make me stop thinking and start reacting.   It wasn't pretty but THIS TIME I got through it.   I actually took some time to breathe, reflect on what I could control,  tell people how much I appreciated their guidance, help and care and just sit in the uncomfortable space of being an imperfect human who actually needs other peoples' assistance to function.   The whole crappy incident ended up passing rather quickly.   Pardon the equine manure pun.

The cool thing about this whole series of unfortunate events is that now I can re-label myself: I am now "somebody who can operate under pressure."

Next label to deal with: Class troublemaker.

Merry Christmas

Saturday, August 31, 2013

...and Listen so Kids will Talk

The house is too quiet.  It's nearly 2pm and the kids have gone "golfing" with Jeff.  It's the final Saturday of summer and I am truly sad about that.  

You see, I have just recently finished 2 books, How to Talk to Kids so Kids Can Learn and its predecessor How to Talk to Kids So Kids Will Listen and Listen So Kids Will Talk.  These books were both written by the team of authors Faber and Mazlish some 30-odd years ago. They've been updated, re-edited, translated, dog-eared in every library across the globe and reprinted to the tune of well over 4 million copies.  Both books are quite simply: brilliant.

Why am I so sad?  Because I didn't read these at the beginning of the summer. 

As it was, we made it through a largely unstructured 8 weeks in tact and still madly in love with each other, me and my family.   That's way more than I can say about summers past.  Score one for the home team.

But the books...they are so kindhearted and humane.  The premise of the first book as laid out on page 1 of Chapter 1 is "Helping Children Deal with Their Feelings."  Feelings. Not thoughts, not plans, not futures, not skills, not brains, not brothers.  Feelings.  Hm. Sensing a theme here.   The authors state in the afterword that this book is often recommended by many psychologists for adults when they enter therapy. 

I can see why.

In all honesty, I did start to read How to Talk to Kids so Kids will Listen for the first time 4 years ago. But our pediatrician recommended Love and Logic instead.  LL is good. But these books are far better in the ways that I find important: They actually work. 

The bottom of page one and the top of page two are the following phrases originally jotted down by the author during the first parenting workshop she ever took: 

"There is a direct connection between how kids (grown-ups) feel and how they behave."

"When kids (people) feel right, they behave right."

"How do we help them (us) feel right?"

"By accepting their (our) feelings!!" 

(End citation) 

The parentheses are all mine, by the way. 

The reason that this is so hard for many of us parents is that feelings are really inconvenient and they take time to work out.  Many times kids (adults) have no idea how the hell they're feeling and they will resist any attempt by anybody to "fix" them.   Since we're all in such a damn hurry all the time and have so many outside issues to attend to this can get extremely irritating and maddening.  

No worries. The good authors address these very issues beautifully without even a hint of judgment.  They offer their expertise in the most loving environment with a fundamental belief that all involved are doing the very best they can with the tools they have.  Yes, sometimes it's just a God-awful train-wreck and you can't see how some of the vignettes they present could end any other way than the kids as convicted felons.  But those of us who live in the glassier houses, well, I for one, just really appreciate this tone of "we're-all-in-this-together."  

I wasn't going to mention it because it freaks the ever-loving crap out of me, but I'm going to say something about the Atlanta thing and Antoinette Tuff.  I'm just going to say that Antoinette knew everything above. She referred to all the kids in that school as her babies. She told the perp how much she loved him.  She asked how he was feeling. She told him how she was feeling. She did not ask what he was thinking because, as she said, he was thinking about doing a whole lot of bad stuff that morning and she knew it.   

I guess what I mean to say with this is the same thing I mean to say with every post: Feelings are really important; the feelings of children are the most important of all.  

I say this because children grow up to be adults.

I want my kids growing up to be more like Antoinette Tuff and less like Michael Brandon Hill.  

Special thanks to Antoinette Tuff, Adele Faber and Elaine Mazlish.  By practicing the compassionate principles in these books, they have demonstrated that true empathy has fierce and godlike potency for resolving what ails us.  


The entire interview is worth the look but this is a short excerpt.  May we all go forth this school year and beyond with this same love, grace and peace.  Thanks be to God.

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

What do I really need to know?

I am caught between liking technology and really just hating it.  I miss the old days when I would anticipate handwritten letters from my college boyfriend or $5 dollar bills from my Grandma. I would nearly have a heart-attack at the sight of them in a mailbox.

The world moves far too quickly for my brain.  Not your brain, just mine.  I see people who read the news, email, work stuff, craft stuff, fun stuff, sport stuff, kid stuff, fashion stuff all on their phone in the span of like 4 minutes.  They synthesize it all and it actually makes sense. They talk about it. They have smiles on their faces. They don't look as if they were hit by an information train at all.  Like I do.  All this "stuff" puts me into a catatonic state of drooly rocking.  I'm trying to synthesize and glean personal meaning from the influx of data.  But I just realized that 99% of it is meaningless to me on a personal level.  If this information does not help me:

1) clean the kitchen (over and over and over again)
2) keep the kids fed, clothed and off of each other
3) do the laundry
4) service my car
5) shop
6) pay bills or
7) vacuum
8) go graduation card shopping
9) do my banking
10) clean up the excrement of my various dependents

then sh^%, I don't have time for it.  I know that we're all supposed to be well-informed, well-read, well-groomed, well-preserved, well-intentioned, well-dressed, well-meaning, etc. but I'm just over WELLmed.  I have enough on my plate.  How am I supposed to live at a dead run and know everything all at the same time and have an informed opinion about it while being perfectly coiffed, bejeweled, manicured, pedicured and made up? Who am I like Ann B. Davis,  La Femme Nikita and Jason Bourne all rolled into Brooke Burke?

I don't have a wife!! I think I touched on this last summer. Wives are frigging awesome. Don't kid yourselves, guys. You got it good.

If I had a wife, I'd be all those well-things.  Wives make these things possible.  Ah, the patriarchy.  More on that later.

Does anybody else think that there is a limit to what we can process?  What has happened to me is that the meaningful stuff has gotten lost in the noise.   I can't tell if I need to know about Kanye West's North baby or do I need to feed my 7 year old something besides Dominos?

I can't tell if that cute handmade thing on etsy is going to make me #thecoolestmomever or make me look like a total fat-ass wannabe dork.   My authenticity quest is under attack by an onslaught of information!

What is really realz?

What do I need to know?

That's when I look up and pray, 

Lord, what do I really need to know today?

The answer:

You are beloved.  Now go forth and give it away.

Everything else is just noise.

Thursday, July 4, 2013

Sum, Sum Summertime

This is what happens when you don't make a lot of plans.

 The Space for a little Summer Boredom

So I didn't sign my kids up for a single day of camp this summer.  Not one. I may still but I haven't yet.  I figure I have saved gas, obviously camp fees, worry, travel time, having to pack lunches, gym bags, wet bathing suits, lost flip flops and my voice.  Last summer, camp got to feeling a lot like, well,  school.  Every day I'd drag them out of bed and haul them to soccer or swimming.  I'd be yelling, "get in the car!!" with exactly the same degree of irritated meanness that I do during the regular school months.  This makes me hate myself deeply beginning right when I walk back to the truck after dropping them off.  This self-loathing used to fuel my desire to have a glass of wine in the evening to numb my feelings of parental inadequacy.  Then I would fall asleep early and miss reading time (more parental inadequacy) and then I'd wake up early (like the middle of the night). Then I would finally actually fall asleep (like real sleep) again around 3:45 and wake up at 7:45 groggy, angry and ready for my Sisyphus boulder push all over again.  Yeah, so I stopped the wining/whining.

This year I thought who the hell is enriched by this routine?  You see,  midway through last summer (after signing everybody up for camp and actually pre-paying for the discount),  I realized that I would rush them off to camp so that I could come home and vacuum. Whaaat!!!????!! Yeah, nuts. I realized I could get their little tushes behind some hardware and get them making the neat and tidy little lines in the carpet. Hell, if they were Johnny Cash's kid brothers, they'd have been working in a mill for 3 years by now (we skip over the ending of that story, btw).

No need for guilt.

In all seriousness, the kids have so many wonderful toys from their birthdays and Christmases.  The problem is that they never would get to play with them.  During the school year, they're never home in the evening.  We had soccer on Saturday, mass on Sundays, Kumon on Monday/Thursday and martial arts (until that debacle ended in March) on Tuesday and Wednesday.  And this is Kindergarten! What insanity.  Thank goodness we freed up some time when we let go of Tae Kwon Do, or as my brother Marc used to refer to it "Take My Dough."

Anyway, camp. I know, I know. When the kids are home they're underfoot and messing things up--hell who am I kidding? They're breaking things, important things sometimes, let's be clear about that. The only thing is, when they go back to school in the fall, it will feel different for both of us (and I'll have several repair crews in at once to minimize disruption in our newly minted routine). It will be alien to have such stringent schedule after such a lax summer. But for goodness sake!  It's the summer between Kindergarten and First Grade!   We often only understand the meaning of experiences by contrasting them with other opposite experiences.  It seemed like they were running an ultra marathon with no rest stops.  They had no time to synthesize or metabolize what they were learning anywhere. Not at school or any of their "enriching" after school activities.  They, hey who am I kidding? IIIIIII needed the break.  I need to get to know them. The way they move through a day, an evening, a conflict, a boo boo.  I'm burning daylight here! Elliot is going to be 7 in August.  They ain't going to be hanging around Mom (by choice anyway) in a couple of very short years.  Perish the thought.

That space of boredom (right after they get too bored to wreck the drywall anymore) is the crucible of creativity.  I built entire cities including multistory apartments for Barbie and Ken. They had a hand dug, trash-bag-lined, in-ground swimming pool with a diving board made from a sponge and a balsa wood ladder.  Barbie had the latest fashions thanks to my old single socks and some Christmas ribbon.  These times of singularly building this stuff are some of my most vivid and happy childhood memories.  I was allowed to be bored and then allowed the space to figure out how to solve that-- without setting something aflame, of course.  Sometimes my neighbor Lisa would even help. (That is, before we started stealing cigarettes and setting them aflame. Shhh don't tell my parents).

So it's Camp Screaming-Mamasan on the shores of Lake I-don't-Care-Who-Started-It for the Summer of 2013.   We're going on week number 4 and everybody seems pretty stinking bored yet really, really happy.  They're still wild and mostly horribly ill-behaved. I'm often terribly embarrassed by my "parental inadequacy" (never by their cuteness, though).  But, as I have said before, good mothers are really hard to come by these days.  I'm still looking for one to parent my kids (and, of course, provide them with an enriching summer---or not).

I'll be taking applications through the end of this month.

Happy 4th of July everybody.

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Work Hard and Be Nice (to Yourself)

Work Hard and Be Nice (to Yourself)

I was speaking to a beloved family member recently.  We were discussing self-critical talk of the out-loud variety.   I shared that growing up it was never anything that my mother or father said directly TO me that hurt as much as hearing them berate themselves.   Both of my parents are incredibly accomplished, driven and involved.  They asked a lot of themselves which was a great example for us.  So, I'm assuming that the self-critical talk was part of their motivating methodology. I think I started to copy the model they used on themselves much more than use what they were saying directly to me.  Interesting to own that out loud now that I'm a parent.

This beloved family member (I'm lucky to have no other sort) said that her girls recoil in visible pain when she does the same to herself--calls herself stupid or something along those lines--in front of them.  

I have reflected on this conversation for the past week or so.

Why is it that when we call ourselves something horrible (like fat or stupid or lazy--and don't lie to me, I've heard just about everybody say something along these lines to themselves) it has a profoundly negative effect on others?   Maybe 'why?' isn't the right question.  Maybe the right question is 'why don't you just stop that shit right now?!'  'Drop the knife,' as Hafiz says.  Stop turning it on yourself.  Because let's face it,  there is no such thing as 'he's only hurting himself.'

If you can't be nice to you for your own sake, be nice to you for the entire rest of the 7 billion people on the planet's sake.  I posted this yesterday: "Tug on anything at all and you'll find it connected to everything else in the universe." -- John Muir

My Dad used to have this little wooden box with a hinge on it.  The top of it had the words "The Secret to Success" and "open" on it.  When you opened the box it just said "Hard Work!"  The photo above is something that I bought at the hardware store a couple of weeks ago.   I'm always trying to distill wisdom into phrases or sentences that I can easily repeat to myself. Of course, I never remember them because I can't imagine needing to write them down, they're so wise and all, that, like who could ever forget them?  Anyway, I found this little nugget.  It's a variation on my Dad's little success box with 2 caveats.  I like it a lot.

I'm reprinting this excerpt from Hafiz thanks to Heather Kopp at   http://soberboots.com/2013/01/30/tokillwhatyouhate/

Once a young woman asked Hafiz, “What is the sign of someone knowing God?” Hafiz remained silent for a few moments and looked deep into the young person’s eyes, then said, “Dear, they have dropped the knife. They have dropped the cruel knife most so often use upon their tender self and others.” (Ladinsky)





Sunday, June 30, 2013

There are no ordinary days. 

Mr. T. doing his thing on an Extraordinary Evening.


I bet you're wondering how in the wide blue sky am I going to tie up the loose ends of that last schizophrenic rant of a post, dueling voices in the head and all.  I'm not even going to try.  Que sera, sera.  I just hope this post provides some sense of a satisfying resolution and/or a couple of good chuckles.  That's the best I can do today.  I'm running on fumes and I've been crying most of the morning about a childhood cancer called DIPG.  Facebook. What are you gonna do?

So, the voices, yeah. These voices are the disembodied single phrases (or sometimes even soliloquies) that we either heard from others or said to ourselves that somehow got stuck in our craws, if you will.  They sat without an exit or perhaps very little competition and sort of took on momentum and volume.   I think of them as the hand sanitizer of the thought world.  They kill all potential pathogens except .01% of the strongest and most virulent strains. These freaks of nature can then reproduce and spread without the mitigating influence of their natural (and some could say) symbiotic rivals.  Some such that I have wrestled with my entire life include: "I am not good at math," "I'm a flake," "I'm not ____ enough, smart enough, interesting enough, accomplished enough, etc."  BTW, questioning one's fundamental worthiness basically ensures the list will be infinite. 

Do you have any floating around your head like free radicals just tearing the place to shreds?  Do your kids?

Really what perfectionism does is that it shuts out hard work as a strategy for improvement.  So your stuck in sucky town.  Hell,  if you're defeated going in, there ain't no point to killing yourself with a great deal of effort now is there?

I'm just starting to really, deeply and seriously question a lot of information that precludes me from having a nice life.   I'm taking to task a bunch of memes that I carry around.  Like only pretty is good. Only smart is good. Only the best deserve good.   Real crap.  Seriously.  The reason I share this private stuff so freely is that I know I'm not alone (and not just because of all the company inside my head).  I have noticed that as I do this and write about imperfection--in my imperfect and grammatically murderous way---I spark ire (unintentionally) in people who think that I am writing about, to or at them.  I assure you, I am not.  I am writing about my experience of being human, kind of OCD, a little broken, a lot lost---half a bubble off plumb, as they say in the trades.  But I can always tell when I hit a nerve because the critics come out swinging.

So, anyway, when I spark ire of any kind, I always want to first ask myself if I did it subconsciously somewhat intentionally. If the answer is 'no', then I ask, 'what really got at the people?  What was the rub, the sliver, the poke, the irritant? Where did it catch them?'   Most often the reactions happen when I hit people square in the "ordinarys."

The war on ordinary

I want to make it okay for myself and others to just be myself and themselves. I would like to offer up a space to be ordinary.  I know when I read that I think ech ordinary. That sounds like fake vanilla pudding. (But have you ever had fake vanilla pudding with nilla wafers? Delish). Everybody wants to be extraordinary and everybody seems ashamed to be plain.

I saw a beautiful sight last evening in the parking lot at Plum Market. It reminded me that there is no such thing as ordinary, not really.  There were these two women, tallish, big boned, late 50s early 60s.  They were talking by the cart return area out in the middle of the parking lot---really talking intently.  I watched them from my side view mirror before exiting the truck because they were so...so...so incredibly beautiful! Yes I said it.  Two large-boned, heavy set, unadorned, unmade-up women of a-certain-age were stunning and exceedingly compelling to behold.

They both had longish mostly silver hair.  One wore it up, the other down.  One had a skirt and one some capri pants.  One had a turquoise purse, one had broken-in turquoise crocs.  The other had a deep red purse plopped down in the little seat of her cart.  They looked as if they just came out of their respective gardens as they chatted over the one lady's shopping cart.  Perhaps it was about the football sized dahlias they had found at the farmer's market or the day lilies about to bloom.  Only they know the subject.  The color of their clothing coupled with the colors in the sky and the colors in their cheeks told a refreshing story that our culture of boobs, bikinis, billboards and Kardashians so often overlooks or drowns out: The story of ordinary beauty of people going about the ordinary business of ordinary lives.

It hit me that you can't really be extra-ordinary until you master the ordinary.

And that is no mean feat.   

Friday, June 28, 2013

"I wanna go fast!"

And after the earthquake a fire; but the LORD was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice. 1Kings 19:12

I was seized with an acute perfectionist attack recently.  Details on that to follow maybe some other day.  Let’s just say that in the reviewing of this "attack," it struck me that I’m just like Ricky Bobby in the movie "Talladega Nights."  I blame my attack on a bizarre adherence to the (deeply flawed) fundamental precept of the movie:

"If you ain't first, you're last!" 



Ricky's incredibly high, absentee, stock-car racing father slurred this doozy during his dramatic exit from career day at school.   Rather than take this crumb of anti-wisdom as the meaningless, drug-fueled, vacuous, metaphoric rant of a dumbass, Ricky took it to heart and built a life around it--a life that eventually unraveled.  Of course, that's when the movie gets really funny, but I digress.   

So often we take these crumbs of anti-wisdom to heart, we sensitive perfectionists and then we build giant life structures around this misinformation as if it were somehow scientifically absolute.  I'm not really interested in the why.  It's a wholly unsatisfying question, 'why?' with no real answers.  We can't fill in the gaps created in childhood (or the womb for that matter); those that make us susceptible to this kind of error-filled sophistry. We can't therapy our way to "doggone it, people like me!" either.  Trust me on that one. You can only get so far in a shrink's office.  The 100-lb. sacks of grain I have to unload await me in the back of my truck. This is a Higher Power job.  Sorry to those of you offended by the Jesus/God thing. But it's true for me.  That kind of heavy lifting cannot be done by man alone. In my case, I need a "dolly Lama," if you will. 

I'm finally (at 48) learning to first listen to the still small voice inside rather than the voice that tells me "there's a kilo of Colombian Bam-Bam taped to the undercarriage of your '69 Chevelle and I called the cops!" I wasn't always so willing to listen to that quiet, sweet voice.  The still small voice of my childhood was indistinguishable from the myriad other internal critical voices. All were asking me to do things I was too afraid, unprepared or unwilling to do.  

I was paralyzed by nearly all of them.

Reese Bobby, Ricky's dad, is the epitome of the severest, most obtuse, fickle, arbitrary, critical voice inside all of our heads.  This is the voice that will malign a sweet elementary teacher in front of her students.  The voice that belongs to a person who bestows upon his son a beautiful, vintage, muscle car--but puts a cougar in the front seat. The voice that can turn lovely family dinner conversation at Applebee's into a tear-filled run down the double yellow of a two-lane highway on a rainy night.  

When questioned by Ricky about the "first/last" comment during this very scene, Reese just looked at Ricky like he was nuts.  He said, "What are you talking about? That don't make no sense at all. Oh Ricky, I was high! You can be second, third, fourth, hell you can even be fifth!"   The protagonist's emotional scaffold crumbled in that scene.   It's cool because the background music is Steve Earle's "Valentine's Day," one of the saddest songs ever written about addiction and love and the impossibility of it all. 


The thing that struck me about this was that Reese Bobby changed his whole story, changed his mind, changed his ethos without so much as a backward glance or a postcard. He didn't feel compelled to inform his son.  He just let Ricky continue to believe that he had to be first and never nothin' but first so help him God.  That first/last meme burrowed into Ricky Bobby and took root.  It rearranged his molecules and made him different.  Hell, what am I talking about? That same meme burrowed into me and 95% of the women I know and about 75% of the men. The big problem is that our critical voices—like Reese Bobby's--have no conscience.  These voices are unencumbered by social convention so they can slice through a life at will, without regret or responsibility.  Worse, they drown out any contradictory input.

You'll know the critical voice because it's generally sarcastic, funny, cool and sort of alluring.  It sounds very convincing and vaguely philosophical until you actually listen closely to it and realize that it’s full of just pure unadulterated horses**t. 

And it's mean as hell.


(to be continued--maybe)