30 Rock

I cannot wait to watch this show.

Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta...

A real gangsta beep-beep plays her cards right.
A real gangsta beep-beep never runs her blankin’ mouth.
'Cuz real gangsta beep-beeps don’t start fights.

'Cuz gangsta beep-beeps think deep.
Up three-sixty-five a year 24/7.
'Cuz real gangsta beep-beeps don’t sleep.

And all I gotta say to you wannabe, gonna-be, blank-suckin’, beep-eatin' prankstas...

Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta.

Dying Poet's Society

This is a great article... Or whatever.

It kind of makes me want to go back to school. Not so I can become a teacher, but rather a better learner... and then be OK just being an artist in my own mind.

I am an artist [in my own mind], but that's never been good enough for me.

"You take a big risk encouraging your students to be artists, John. When they realize they're not all Rembrandts, Shakespeares, or Mozarts, they'll hate you for it."

That's how I have felt for a long time.

So, I think it'd be good to go back to school... so I can learn to be an OK artist who is just happy to be... an OK artist.

Laughing all the way...

My father died 18 years ago, today. I remember that day as if it were just a few minutes ago. I remember what it looked like, smelled like... felt like. I even remember what I was wearing.

I don't remember what I wore three days ago, or what I had for dinner night-before-last... but 18 years ago is clear.

Time is a funny thing. The essence of time is that it cannot be recaptured for substance. It may very well be imperfectly recanted through the illusion of memory, but each second - once realized - is gone, leaving only pieces of joy, reflection, sadness or decay.

These emotions exist, I think, because they are among the very few things everyone has in common. They're what tie us all together. Therefore, it's easy to deal with all of it because if we're all feeling it, we can all ignore it and pretend it's not there. But memory reminds us, however flawed it may be.

My father wanted the best for me. He hoped for me. Prayed for me. Wished for me things he'd never even dreamed for himself. He loved me. He was my father. I'm still his son. And I am growing up by looking back.

One morning when I was fifteen, I woke up and found a note taped to the outside of my bedroom door. My father had written it some time in the middle of the night… said he was just thinking about me and how hard life must be for an eighth-grader.

My dad was right-handed. He made mention to me on several occasions – while we were playing ball or throwing rocks into a lake – that he’d always wanted to be ambidextrous. He said that most great athletes could "go both ways," and it was something he could never grasp. My dad was not ambidextrous, but he wrote that note with his left hand. It had been several weeks since Lou Gehrig's disease had taken his good arm from him.

The note read:

'Mornin Son,

You are going to have a great day. It's yours, and you can make it anything you want it to be. If the weather calls for rain, decide now that you will enjoy getting wet. If the test score is low, make up your mind that 'it can only get better from here.' If punished unfairly for something, just smile for the many things you've not been caught for... Attitude is everything. Today is not yet anything. Fill it with laughter.

Dad.

I have enjoyed my life thus far. The best parts are still a bit out of focus, but they're coming back to me. Every day. Looking forward, filling it with laughter.

Perspective Schmerspective...

When I was young, I used to hear my father talk about his favorite Peanuts cartoon. I cannot tell you how many times I overheard...

I once read a Peanuts cartoon where Charlie Brown and Lucy are lying on a grassy knoll and Charlie Brown asks Lucy, “Lucy? What do you see when you look at the clouds?” She responds, “Oh, Charlie, I’m glad you asked... Over there I see the Sistine Chapel, where in 1508, Michelangelo was commissioned by Pope Julius II to paint his masterpiece. And that cloud over there looks like the Pennsylvania State House where, in 1776, the Second Continental Congress approved the Declaration of Independence. What do you see, Charlie Brown? What do you see when you look up at the clouds?” A puzzled-looking Charlie responds, “Well, I was gonna say a ducky and a horsy, but I’m not sure anymore.”

I used to think it was pretty funny, but I laughed at my dad's retelling of it, not the cartoon itself. I didn't understand Peanuts humor when I was a kid.

I get it now.

Thoughts and observations on looks and love.

It took a long time for my wife to say "I Love You." For me, it was easy. I'm just that kind of guy. I jump head-first into things before knowing what waits for me at the bottom. Plus, she's pretty. Really pretty. And, therein was her reluctance, I think.

She's been pretty all her life. She's never really had to say the words. Pretty people are a different breed. Charmed? Maybe. More like afflicted. Maybe I just like to think that because I am so mildly attractive.

But pretty people are always teachers' pets — the kids who get called on for all the easy questions...

"What's 2 times 2?"

I was the regular kid in the back... "What's 369 times 7?"

The answer, damn you, Mrs. Harper, is 2,583.

"Pretties" are always the first children chosen for school plays. My wife played "Mary" in her 4th grade theatrical presentation of The First Christmas.

268 miles away, I was in the same play. I was a goat.

Pretty people — the poor things — find it difficult to "feel." They don't have to. They don't get the chance. They’re pulled in every-which-direction imaginable. Strangers come up to them in shopping malls, at swimming pools, museums, restaurants and bars. They never get to start a conversation... unless they are playing a game with other "pretties."

But normal people love ALL pretty people. “Pretties” get to choose.

I think the fact that I'm only average looking (and I've always been simply adequate at just about everything I've done) has turned me into the blubbering "feeler" I am today.

But it took my wife a while.

*****

There are certain things at certain times that have a certain appeal to certain people in not-so-certain ways. These “things” are indescribable, but we all have them. For some, it’s the smell of cut grass. That flirtatious glance from a co-worker. The feeling you get when you walk into a Cathedral for the first time. Wildflowers on the side of the interstate. The taste of Bazooka Bubble Gum. Even the sound of a doorbell or a beep from the microwave.

Some might call it déjà vu. I’m not sure what it is, but it takes you some place else… if only for a split second. I think each of us has something that can somehow speak straight to our hearts — as if that's the language that our heart understands better than any other.

My thing is music. Not all music, mind you, but there’s something about a guitar or a piano and a voice, and the feeling I sometimes get when they compliment one another just right…

Bob Dylan. John Denver. David Wilcox. John Hiatt. Eddie Vedder. Allison Krauss. Paul Simon. John Lennon. Neil Young. Shawn Colvin. Stevie Wonder. Eric Clapton. John Lee Hooker. Eva Cassidy. Sting. Leadbelly. Jimi Hendrix. Nanci Griffith. Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. Ray Charles. Willie Nelson. Muddy Waters. Stevie Ray Vaughan. Hank Williams, Sr...

Even Neil Diamond takes me “there” on occasion.

However silly or irrelevant or embarrassing it may seem. We all have a thing. We’ve all been “there.”

Except for my wife.

She has no “thing,” and she cannot think of a single instance when she’s been taken “there.” I am not certain of whether or not this is true… Perhaps she’s just forgotten about the taste of Bazooka.

No, I don’t blame this on the fact that she’s pretty. It does, however, explain a little about why she had a hard time saying “I Love You”.

But she did. And she does. And I love her back — with every ounce of my heart and every breath of my every day.

Never say never again...

(originally posted 05/10/05)

And then there were 5…

My family grew last week. We went from a very comfortable and evenly-matched, 4, to a very lop-sided and unfair 5.

We used to be a mom and a dad and a sister and a brother. It was perfect. The way God intended. Tit for tat. Click for clack. A him for a her. And a she for a he.

Now, there are three girls and two boys. Three children and two adults. Lots and lots of estrogen and hormones... and two guys who just want to eat chips and watch a baseball game without "someone" screaming or crying or fussing about stuff.

Females are always fussing about… stuff.

But now we are a "real" family. We're complete. And I don't just mean that we are content and fulfilled. That, too, but I'm saying... we're done. Finis. En totem. The end. Buh-bye.

We’re perfect... and all done. The way God intended.

Merrie Cannon Ivey was born on May 4, 2005 at 12:48 PM. She came in weighing 6 pounds, 12 ounces and stretches out to 21 and something-something inches long.

Perfection.

BeautifulSmart Individual
...Perfect.

"Beautiful, Smart, Individual and Perfect..."

I received this email in response to my announcement earlier today. It made me think about some things...

Billy, you and your bride couldn't have anything BUT beautiful, smart, individual and perfect kids. And as a complete failure in the progeny-production department myself, I can only congratulate you on making these wonderful biennial additions to the gene pool. But in consideration of how you are going to send four through four years of college someday, I recommend a smart broker, immediate spring training toward Merit Scholarships for each of them, and a vasectomy for you. Still, you are going to have a heckuva lot of family fun in these 18 and one-half years.

This was my reply...

My oldest daughter is probably our only hope for a Merit Scholarship. She's brilliant. The baby girl is smart, but she's our third so she'll more than likely do drugs. I included my son in the "smart" category out of pity alone. He thinks everything is blue. He thinks the number seven comes after the number four. And he thinks it is necessary to tell people - all people (at Wal-Mart, Applebee's, the swimming pool, Sunday School and beyond) - that he's got a big "penith."

We're pretty worried about him to be honest. He seems to be very good at throwing a baseball and catching a football, so I guess there's hope... but your prayers will be appreciated, nonetheless.

"That sort of thing..."

There’s no easy way to say this out loud, so I thought I’d post a blog and then accept your commiseration throughout the days/weeks/months ahead. I will need your support, prayers, understanding… and beer now more than ever before.

My wife is pregnant.

Yes, this will be number four. No, we were not trying to get pregnant. And, yes, we know what causes this sort of thing. In fact, if anyone asks me the question, “Don’t you guys know what causes that sort of thing?” I might stab you with a pencil. We’ve been asked that question as a reaction to our previous three “announcements” innumerable times, and it is – quite frankly – getting a little old.

Anna Beth, Benjamin and Merrie Cannon are all wonderful kids. They are beautiful, smart, individual and perfect. So, it’s difficult to not be a little bit excited about bringing a new Ivey into the world… we just weren’t counting on it any time soon (at all, really). Let’s just say TROJAN is gonna get a nasty little note from Yours Truly every day for the next 18 ½ years.

*****

“Edwina's insides were a rocky place where my seed could find no purchase.”

Lucky sumbitch.

Big Daddy

I went to the swimming pool with my wife and kids this afternoon. It's the Fourth of July, so I thought it'd be nice. It's also 162 degrees outside, so I thought it'd be... refreshing.

We walked in the gate and every head turned our way. The kids looked so cute, loaded down with towels and floaties and goggles and Sponge Bob innertubes. My wife - who has been coming to the pool every day for seven weeks - looked amazing and tan and put-together... like she belonged in a loungechair, limp-wristingly holding an umbrella drink.

I brought in the rear... And the dimply love handles. And the man-breasts. And the hair-covered mayonaise gut.

What a nightmare. It was all I could do to take off my shirt. I was so frazzled, I jumped in the pool wearing flip-flops. I still had the car keys in my hand, for goodness sakes. All of the other dads sat on the edge of the pool and talked confidently with one another. I stood on my knees in the 3-foot area, pretending to play with my son.

I made my six-year-old bring me a towel when it was time to leave. She met me on the third step holding the towel like a big Mickey Mouse curtain so no one could see her fatty... I mean... daddy.

I got home this afternoon and watched everyone eat an ice cream sandwich. Tonight, I am am going to watch them eat hamburgers and hot dogs. Tomorrow, I'm going to start jogging. And next Fouth of July, I am going to sit on the edge of the pool.

Imagination is more important than knowledge.

Albert Einstein said that. Not me. But I'm glad he said it... For a minute there, I thought I was screwed.

Creativity is beautiful thing. It’s a blank sheet of paper, a blank screen, dead air space and a 35-foot billboard transformed into something magical… Something that excites, incites, unites and invites. It’s inspiring, moving, emotive, funny, gut wrenching and, well, magical.

But “creation” is down-right scary. It’s vulnerability in its purest form. It’s all of our insecurities – and perhaps our inadequacies – exposed for all to see and experience and judge. But that insecurity can also be one of the more powerful motivators in any creative pursuit.

Along with insecurities and vulnerability comes the opportunity to be or become a pioneer… To go where no man, woman or overpaid, big city Creative Director has gone before.

Vulnerability allows us the opportunity to take that blank sheet of paper and create – here it comes – magic.

I am naïve and silly enough to think that everything has the potential to be better – to become great. Without exception, all things can become more than what they currently are or aspire to be. From the best-tasting and lowest calorie beer on the market to the unsigned garage band or singer-songwriter. From the mom-and-pop grocer, to the struggling not-for-profit philanthropy in your community. Even Tiger Woods can be better. It’s all about potential.

Brian Ferren, a three-time Academy Award winner who is now vice president of creative technologies at Walt Disney says, “I’ve never seen a great military leader, political or corporate leader who was not a great storyteller. Telling stories is a core competency in business, although it’s one that we don’t pay enough attention to…”

I imagine telling stories. I imagine other things, too. Important things. Valuable things. I think Mr. Einstein would be proud.

I have a few passions. Now, before the eyes start rolling and the exhales start sighing, please know that I realize “passion” is a word that’s overused in every day life. It has become as meaningless as “I love you” after casual sex – though I’m not quite sure what constitutes casual sex. No socks?

The idea of Passion is meaningless, though, unless it can be applied to real and tangible, definable experiences. I don’t know how to differently describe or categorize the way I feel about writing.

It’s my passion.

American writer, Thomas Merton, believes that “A person knows when he has found his [passion] when he stops thinking about how to live and begins to live… When we are not living up to our true vocation, thought deadens our life, or substitutes itself for life, or gives in to life so that our life drowns out our thinking and stifles the voice of conscience. When we find our vocation – thought and life are one.”

Whoa. Preach on, Tommy!

I believe, with all of my heart, that I need to be writing. In whatever capacity, writing is what I do best. I think about it all of the time. I dream about it. I sit at the kitchen table and at my desk at work and in my car and on the bench at the playground while my kids are running free, un-tethered by a passion of their own… and I do it.

I write all the time. Even when I’m not writing I am creating stories or projecting myself into the lives and loves of others. Sometimes I just make stuff up. Sometimes I don’t even try, but I write nonetheless.

I love to write. I love to open myself to others’ perceptions of me. I love to make people think about their own lives by showing them a little bit of mine. I write about my kids, or my wife, or what I had for dinner last night...

I stray away from the things I do not know. For instance, I have never written anything on the human genome project. I don’t write about Pre-Menstrual Syndrome. I don’t write about the migratory path of the Alaskan Bull Finch.

I write about my other passions: My history. My future. My dreams and goals. Ups and downs. Highs and lows. I write about patio furniture and halogen head lamps and orange juice and politics and God.

There is power in the written word. No matter what the subject, the writer becomes the “end-all” by which the “be-all” is confirmed.

That’s just plain terrifying… and magical.