Early morning storms.

Apparently the storm that has me and my chainsaw reunited grabbed an airplane out of the sky and, like an angry god, threw it to the ground, killing 7 people. Losing the limb that held my tire swing doesn't seem so bad.

Time waits for snowmen.

My Dad came down to visit Tuesday. My Dad is 71 years old, has mild emphysema, and has spent some time in the hospital for random old people trouble. So it is no shock to me that my father is getting old. While he was here, occasionally it seemed something was different about the way Dad was sitting. We were chatting as he sat on the piano bench, facing away from the keyboard and it finally occurred to me. He was sitting on his hands like a little kid. Then, at one point he left his hand in his lap and I saw his hand shake with that palsy that is old age. He's no Michael J. Fox, or anything, he's just 71. But it was still kind of a shock. As I said, Dad has his illnesses and all, but he's still a strong man and no one ever would believe he is as old as he is. Parents get old, I know that. The other day, I actually had an overwhelming urge to be 20 years older and be marrying off my kids and living the old mans life. But this all seems very strange. My Mom still hasn't even retired (she could have, she's just a sucker). When did all this happen?
On the other side of this coin, Dad and I took the kids fishing yesterday. I had been meaning to get out and do this with some of my free time, but Dad being here made me do it. Fishing was really the only constant with Dad when I was a kid. He would take me fishing a few times every summer and would only buy lime mineral water for me to drink. So yesterday we grabbed the rods and went down to the boat landing on the Minnesota River that is a couple miles from my house. Dad didn't catch anything. I didn't even get a nibble. Nick had a few fish playing with his bait, but he's 4 so it was hard for him to set the hook on anything. Here's where it gets weird. Charlie caught a 4 or 5 lb catfish. Seriously. The rod I gave him from my childhood could barely handle the fight. It was too heavy to really land with that rod and no net, so we let it go. I figured that would be enough action for our short trip, but no. Hannah, who casts like a pro by the way, reels in a small mouth bass that must have gone close to 2 lbs. He swallowed the hook, so we brought him home and made some fish chowder out of him for dinner. Seriously. I've never caught any bass in my life. And catfish? I don't even know how to cook them. What a strange, wonderful little trip. It could have lasted forever if I hadn't forgotten the mineral water. We got a little thirsty.

Vacationing near home.

One begins to feel that it's impossible to get away. Especially when there's summer theatre, new jobs, and dogs that don't actually fit in a car. Well here we are camping in a secluded campsite 100 yards into the woods. How does one manage? Well, you drive 12 miles to New Ulm, and on the south edge of town, there is a state park with an awesome manmade swimming pond, the cottonwood river and a little slice of freedom, all close enough to run home, feed the dogs, and grab the swimsuit I forgot.

The people in my living room after my wife goes to bed.

I like to watch late night talk shows for the genuine moments from people who don't suck. The subtle implication there is that many of them do. Rosie Perez is a terrible guest. She's fucking annoying. Many people are just boring morons that may or may not be good actors/athletes/whores, but once in a while, the guest turns out to be someone super fucking entertaining, just as themselves. If Patton Oswalt is the guest, you must watch, if only for the good of the country.

So here's the odd part. So even those bad, dumb, lame, shallow guests can be fun because the host is good at this. That's why they get the job. (Except Carson Daly. Seriously, what the fuck? Even before he ignored the writers strike, thereby making me positive I wouldn't watch 2 seconds of his terrible fucking show, even if his guest list was Jesus, my dead grandfather I never got to meet, and Brooke Burke naked, he was the worst host I could possibly imagine) But David Letterman, Craig Ferguson, Conan O'Brien, these guys will at least mock a bad guest in a quiet little way that makes it worth my time.

So if you are an idiot like me who stays up all goddamn night for no reason, you may know that they replay Oprah late at night. I don't usually watch it unless she's giving away a naked hooker, 'cause Oprah couldn't interview a newspaper, but I was flippin' around the other night and Oprah's guest is DAVID FUCKING LETTERMAN. Letterman's sense of humour is often questionable, but he can interview. This man knows how to steer any lame ass into a relatively entertaining moment. Things bode well for this episode of Name dropping rich lady, but David Letterman answers questions like he's afraid someone might be listening. What the christ does this mean? My faith is shaken. My heart is a little broken. I may never love again. Did you ever write a blog that you didn't know how to end on an entertaining note? I feel a little like David Letterman.

More god. . .

Faith is hard to find sometimes. . .

My dog.

When I saw my friends post about putting her cat to sleep I was reminded of the fact that my dog, Chulain, was also getting old and frail and I would probably post something similar soon. I did not think this soon. This morning I put my dog down and buried him under a shade tree in my grove. He was the best dog I ever owned, and I've had my share. 10 years ago I went to a breeder by Brainerd shortly after buying my first house. At 9weeks old he weighed 33lbs and rode all the way home on my lap. After re-establishing blood flow to my legs I brought him in the house. He used to not let people near Hannah's room when she was sleeping, he scared off car theives on September 11th, 2001, and he loved me no matter what kind of a dick I might be. I miss him already and am glad that he won't have to be in any more pain and suffer the indignity of being too old to do the things dogs do. Rest well.

The barn party that has never in the barn.

Saturday we had our 6th annual "I only see my friends once a year" party. I have always been known as an inattentive friend, but moving to the country and working in an over-active theatre department have only magnified that. So this once a year occasion is always awesome. This year was no exception. Jason Schaefer always comes early and leaves last, or second to last. Jason is not really my friend, he is my brother. He was at the hospital when I was born, we were in the same playpen as infants and no matter what happened, we have never not been close. We always manage to squeeze in a game of golf when he's over and that time is as close to childhood as I ever feel anymore. The two of us outside doing stupid things like drinking alot of beer in the hot sun. Wait, that was me, and we didn't do that when we were kids. Tyler always comes as well, if for a shorter time. He and I met in kindergarten and even through me calling him Optimus Crime when he had a grade school penchant for stealing transformers, we have remained friends. I never fail to be happy to see him with his wonderful family. I was never really sure a girl would date him, much less bear his children. Bob Erickson is another steadfast friend who I have known since the fourth grade. I, more than with any other friend, have given Bob plenty of reasons to not like me, as he is the only poor bastard who lived with me. (That I can still call a friend anyway. . . .) Butch almost never comes. He's a dick. There are more friends and their MANY children who come and we always have a good time that I think about the rest of the year. Thanks everyone for making me feel loved, even though I never call.

I am an artist. I think.

I have always wanted to be an artist. I played the cello for 8 years. I took piano lessons for one year. I have owned a guitar for 20 years (thanks Mom). I have a bachelor's degree in acting. I have written some, and even had a boring essay about my work on a show published in a boring compilation. (you won't be able to find it, since I can't) I have many sketch books full of not very good sketches and I even have a few sculptures of my own creation. Or rather, my mom has them, as I did them when I was in school. All these things are supposedly secondary to the fact that I make my living as a designer in the theatre. I have designed sound for 24 productions, designed the set for 10 and designed lights for a handful. I consider being a technical director an art (many do not, long story) and I have served as technical director for 24 productions. So why is it that I have never really felt that I am an artist? I feel, alternately, like a working man, a father, a jerk and many other normal things, but never an artist. In dark times, this makes me feel like a failure. In lighter times, this makes me feel motivated to create. But it never makes me feel satisfied. When does satisfaction come? I can make the fuck out of a pizza. I was the best delivery driver in Fargo. I was really good at making pig-feed. I can build the hell out of some scenery. But I can't draw. I can't write music. I can't write stories. Having goals is not always a good thing. Just sayin'

4th of July

I'll show you independence.