'I Am The Nina, The Pinta, The Santa Maria, The Noose And The Rapist, The Fields' Overseer, The Agents Of Orange, The Priests Of Hiroshima ...'

Over the past summer, I visited Chicago for the very first time.

So many things I'd never seen. I defined the city through my own perspective of how I see the world. Very different these Chicago people, but not nearly as interesting as me, because I was me and I was from somewhere else.

I was so taken by what I saw, I decided I should plant a South Carolina state flag in the Millennium Park Botanical Garden, fly back home and proclaim to everyone with ears to hear that I had discovered Chicago.

But I thought better of it.

First, come to find out, I had it all wrong.

I thought at first I had landed in Boise, Idaho. People were curious why I kept calling them "Idahoians," but I figured it must be because they were mindless savages who couldn't possibly be content without a discipleship to my religion, my culture, my economic worldview.

Then it really hit me. I came to realize that it comes across as at least mildly retarded to claim you discovered a place where people already lived and had been living for just about ever.

Too bad, though.

They would have closed banks, held amazingly insane car deals and taught children for centuries what a great guy I was for finding this great city -- because, hey, they'd never been there before, either.

Instead, I'll just wish you a Happy Day-To-Mindlessly-Give-Credit-Where-It-Really-Isn't-Due.

The Bunny And The Carpenter

I'm not much for lingering when it's time to put my little boys to sleep.

"Daddy, will you lay down with me?"

Yeah, OK. A little talking, a goodnight prayer and a kiss to seal it. Then I'm done.

Except for tonight.

Tonight I thought I might try to do what I see those perfect dads in those perfect sitcoms do. I just don't make enough effort to be normal enough. I need to. I don't want to give my kids a twitch or something when they grow up.

So, I lay down with my youngest son (he's 3 and his older brother's asleep) who's telling me he wants to hear a story. Every night, every single night, these guys listen to a story on the CD player. That's their thing. That's what they do.

Trying to do that thing I've heard about, I ask if he'd like Daddy tell him a story.

"No," he tells me, unceremoniously.

But I figure he'll get into it once it gets started. I don't even know what I'm going to tell a story about. I just go for it.

---

"Once upon a time, there was a bunny hopping in the woods ..."

Shit. Maybe he's scared of the woods. I am, especially at dark. It's dark now. I don't want him to be scared. I just want to tell him a story about a bunny. Oh well, screw it.

"... and he came upon a carpenter nailing away at some wood."

A carpenter? Where did that come from? Oh God, let me just stick my teeth out like a bunny and make him laugh or something.

"And the bunny said, 'What are you nailing there, Mr. Carpenter'?"

"'Well,'" the carpenter said, "'I'm building a bridge. You see that creek right there? I'm trying to build a bridge so bunnies like you will have a way to cross without getting aaaaaaall wet.'"

"Aww, I don't need any bridge. I'm a bunny, and I hop reeeeeaaaaally high ..."

OK. So this is going to be one of those "Wag Your Finger And Teach Some Kind Of Overly Righteous Lesson In Exercising Patience" story.

"You go ahead if you want to, Mr. Bunny. But I'm telling you, that creek's too ..."

Then my son interrupts me.

"No, Daddy, no! Stop it. I want to listen to stories. Turn the stories on."

"So you don't want to hear my story?"

"No."

"OK. Goodnight."

---

I must say I'm disappointed. I really thought that story had some potential. And I wish I knew how it was going to end. I figure if it's like any of the old "Mother Goose" tales, the bunny meets some horribly humiliating fate.

But really ... it's not like I can keep telling the story to myself.

Or maybe I should record it. Maybe he'll listen to it.

'I'm Sorry'

Before you ask, the answer is "No."

No, Hallmark doesn't make an "I'm-Sorry-For-Stomping-You" card. If you need one, though, it's not copyrighted and we would be happy to photocopy one for you for free.

Tomorrow, my first-born son has to apologize to one of his bestest, mostest favoritest friends.

The two were at recess today, taking a break from the daily grind of first grade. They were playing a game where, apparently, someone is chasing someone who has to be arrested. At least that's the explanation he gave me as I watched him write his apology for throwing his friend to the ground and stomping a mudhole in him.

Now, this kid is not a tattletale wussy boy. My son must have been stomping the shit out of him. In fact, he was. The teacher said as much herself. But he didn't do this with the slightest bit of anger. He has big love in his heart (and, as it appears, hearts in his eyes) for Zachary.

After the speech about "You Wouldn't Like It If" and "We Don't Do Things Just Because We Can," I'm left to think about the lecture I should give myself.

In the end, I am responsible for this.

In his U-8 soccer league, I've taught him to play tough. He's almost the youngest 6 year old on a team stocked with 7 year olds. He starts at center sweeper. He's the only one on the team who grasps the complexities of what it means to see the field and pass the ball at the right time. He enjoys helping someone else score.

After the game, I tell him how proud I am of him for playing smart and unselfish. I tell him he ran hard. Then I tell him, "There's one little thing you could do better, son. It's just that you're still a little too scared of the bigger kids."

And he wants to please me.

This is why he stiff-arms those bigger kids, and the small ones, too. All of them.

This is why he cheats at Madden and slams his controller down on the floor.

This is why he gets upset if he can't beat his brother out of the bath and get dressed first.

This is why he can't think of anything but being a winner.

I've held him down on the bed and told him to fight back as if a bigger kid were on top of him. It took him a while to realize I was serious, that I wanted him to shake off fear and punch me, kick me, whatever it took to not be frozen with surprise.

There's a reason why I do this.

I don't want him to be a victim.

I'm preparing him for what I expect to come.

The funny thing about parenting is, you can't foresee everything that will come. His life isn't my life. And it never will be. Never as susceptible to chaos and fear.

The truth is that he senses my fear for him. He lacks faith. He seeks control.

He's just like me -- and, right now, that's not a good thing.

But he has something going for me that I don't.

He's still capable of picking out a piece of paper with a bunch of flowers on it and drawing pictures of himself and his friend and how he sees their relationship. One with smiles and hearts for eyes and words sounded out in phonics.

Tomorrow, he apologizes to his friend.

And tomorrow I make it better for him.

Mason Jennings

I don't spend a lot of time preaching the virtues of listening to certain artists.

Unlike books/movies/theatre, I never can trust that what I like will be what someone else likes.

Music's more ephemeral, tied to a subconscious accumulation of life experiences.

Trying to describe why you like music is so much different than describing why you like a movie. There's something more tangible about words and visual stimulation. The script and the actors. It's the soundtrack, though, that can almost imperceptibly tie it all altogether.

That said ...

Listen to Mason Jennings.

Why, you ask?

Just because.

You should also listen to the first four Black Sabbath albums.

If you want to. If that's your kind of thing.

I can unearth my internal dialogue to describe why I like the first four Black Sabbath albums, but it always just sounds so uselessly pretentious. Instead, I end up saying something like, "Man, Black Sabbath is the TRUTH!"

Or I just wear a Black Sabbath T-shirt.

I also wear a Mason Jennings T-shirt. The only problem is, nobody knows who he is.

(And I don't mean that in a ... "Oh, What do I like? Shit, man. Mason Jennings. You don't know who he is? I guess you shouldn't be expected to. You have to be ultra-cool to know about somebody who nobody knows about).

I saw him at the Georgia Theatre in Athens this week. There weren't a lot of people (taking the stage a little before midnight on a Tuesday might have played a part). But let me tell you, there was this vibe -- like a thing with the crowd where everyone was feeling Mason's energy and became one and ...

Hold on. Let me puke.

OK.

Now, let me do my best to tell you basically what kind of music he does and why I think it's so special.

Hold on. Let me puke again.

OK. I'm set.

Mason Jennings is a guy from Minnesota with a guitar and a small supporting band and a distinct, fluid voice inflection.

I refuse to use the term "earthy." Shit. This is hard.

OK ... his lyrics are the kind of concise poetry that makes you enjoy hearing how someone can say something in a way that you've never heard it said before -- and somehow end up feeling that there's no other way it could have been said.

He tackles relationships, faith, world events. You know, the whole singer/songwriter deal.

He's kind of a branch of the Jack Johnson/Ben Harper family tree. He's never recorded or toured with them, but he did provide a song for the "Shelter" surf video that Jack Johnson filmed. That got Mason some recognition among the crowd who likes Jack Johnson and Ben Harper (but at the same time isn't sure they should anymore, because everybody seems to know who they are now).

Look, that's the best I can do. Listen to it if you like that kind of music. You have to start with his 1998 self-titled debut, then go to the 2004 "Use Your Voice" CD before listening to the rest of his work. Otherwise, it might not work for you.

If I have to, I'll mail you a burned disc.

Check him out. You know you want to, because you've never heard of him.

And if you don't like it, well, I told you I sucked at this.

A Seat

There are people in this world who, in passing, in just a mere moment, can alter our lives for the rest of our lives.

For both the good and the bad.

Doctors. Priests. Educators.

I think of these people when I find my better tendencies slipping.

But none of them more than the girl on the school bus.

I think of her from time to time. I want to know that she's OK, that she's happy. That life has treated her as well as she treated me.

I think of her whenever I think I should give someone what they've got coming to them (or bestow upon myself what I think I'm entitled to).

I don't know her name, and I never will.

---

In 7th grade, my young life was a disaster.

I could barely function, let alone fend for myself, in society. I had gone from a well-adjusted, popular student excelling in advanced classes just a few years before to being a perpetually ridiculed recluse with no friends, struggling to make D's.

I was weak, a bit overweight. Never a smile on my face.

My stop was the last stop, so I always stepped aboard to a packed school bus. There were still some seats, but the bus driver didn't seem to care much if no one would let me sit down.

It probably offered her some early-morning entertainment, just as it did for the other kids.

I remember seeing those short buses pull up to school with the handicapped kids. I wished to myself that I could ride on one of those instead. Maybe I'd fit in better there. Perhaps I'd get a seat.

One morning, I was late to the bus stop. I saw the bus pulling off. I had on a cheap bookbag loaded with books. As I ran to the bus, the straps broke. The bus stopped. I could hear all the kids laughing at me. My books were scattered all over the pavement and my knee was bleeding. I gathered my books in my arms and climbed aboard.

Everyone was looking at me, pointing, jeering. I didn't know how I was going to stand up for the whole ride to school with all the books in my hands. Every eye I looked into reflected cruelty and hopelessness.

Then, I heard her voice.

It was a deep-timbered voice for a middle-school-aged girl. It had the inflection of the Southern black woman who spends her spare time singing in a Gospel group. Warm and sure and real.

"Come here, baby. You sit next to me."

She slid over next to the window and patted the seat. I sat down next to her.

---

I don't remember the rest.

All I can really conjure up is the pain and embarrassment of it all.

I can remember the confusion, then her voice, then sitting down, then ... nothing else.

That nameless girl didn't make all the pain go away, but she did brand me indelibly with an undeniable truth: It's always a good thing if you can make people feel like they're not all alone.