Pay it Forward

I’d like to take a little time to share something that happened to me today—something nothing short of miraculous.

I was on mile 7 of a 12 mile run this morning, coming up the big hill on Quivira from 119^th on my way to 135^th . I was hurting a lot worse than usual today, to the point where I was getting dizzy and I could feel the chills coming on.

By the time I reached the top of the hill and crossed the street by the KU Edwards Campus, I felt like I was actually going to pass out. That’s not good, considering I didn’t have my cell phone or any identification on me at the time.

I knew if I could just make it to a gas station in the next mile that I could stop and borrow someone’s phone.

I remember saying to myself as I was crossing the street, ‘Lord, what I’d give for a drink.’

This is NOT fabricated. This happened just a few hours ago.

Just 2/10 of a mile later, in my weakest moment, I ran into a cooler in the grass beside the sidewalk in front of Heritage United Methodist Church, stuffed to the brim with cold water bottles. Taped to the cooler was a sign reading, “Quivira Runners/Walkers: Please take one! Have fun and be safe!”

To whoever put that cooler out there this morning, THANK YOU! I know this was just a simple gesture, but for me, it was a miracle in a moment of need.

In all the years I’ve been running, I have NEVER found water set out for the taking, and this act of kindness carried me the rest of the way home.

I’ll let you interpret this story how you’d like, whether it was a gift from God or just coincidence.

I know it’s easy to lose faith in humanity these days. Just turn on the local news for fifteen minutes tonight and you’ll see what I mean—so much pain and suffering.

But today gave me some reassurance that there are good people in this world. And I am convinced to pay it forward as one of them.

For those whose faith might have been tested recently, my message it this: there is good in the world. It will find you, and when it does, be sure to pass it on.

Don't Dump (Coffee) in the Water Fountains, Please

Yesterday afternoon, I was sitting in the foyer of Wescoe Hall at the University of Kansas, waiting for a meeting with my academic adviser. I seated myself in one of three chairs across from a water fountain and vending machine, just a few steps to the left of her office. 

For those that don't know, Wescoe Hall, for all it's accomplishments in the Liberal Arts and Sciences Department, is kinda KU's biggest eyesore on campus. It's one of those buildings that you might mistake for a parking garage. And if you did, no harm no foul. It was a parking garage converted into a Lecture Hall. Yes, at a Division One, Big 12 University. I repeat: the flagship university of the state of Kansas uses a former parking garage to teach the humanities. I thought, maybe, that sequence of events took place vice versa, but what the hell do I know? I'm no architect. 

Being a potential English major and all, you can't but help hearing that "the humanities are down", but a parking garage? Times are tougher than even I could have guessed.

So, there I waited. 5 minutes turned into 10, 10 into 15.

Every now and then, just to kill a little time, I pull out my little notepad out of my drawstring bag and jot down whatever comes to mind. It could be something brilliant or trivial. It's usually the latter. 

Anyways, this little activity helps to keep my mind engaged, giving me the illusion that I'm not being stood-up or ignored. It never changes the fact that I'm possibly being stood-up or ignored, but hey, it's all about how the brain perceives it, right?

(This adviser would never do that, though. She just has a million things to do every day, and I'm just one of them. She is amazing, truly.)

On this particular Tuesday, like a lot of days in the day in the life, not much was going on upstairs in the old noggin. I remembered a few classes that I took in that building, but aside from that, my brain was in complete staycation mode (this is often what state my brain goes into before, during, and immediately after meeting with an academic adviser while we attempt to map out my future).

Fine. I'll just sit back and veg and see if anything hits me right upside instead, I thought.

And that's when a neon orange sign with black lettering introduced itself to me: "Don't Dump Coffee in the Water Fountains, Please."

 

Beautiful Scars

Our bodies are good story-tellers. The lines around our eyes, our lips, and on our foreheads, they tell us and others where we've been and what we've done. The gray hairs tell others we are experienced. The liver spots remind us that we are all mortal.

Old people are beautiful, but it's a different kind of beauty than the one we've grown familiar with.

You won't find our senior citizens waltzing down the red carpet with paparazzi following their every step. It's not that beauty. And that's a good thing. That beauty isn't always beautiful.

Beauty takes on a whole new meaning. Their age is inspiring. Their experience is humbling. Their wisdom, that's what is beautiful.

It's a testament to their endurance. It tells us they have lived and seen death. They have been happy, sad, excited, fearful, strong, and hurt. It tells us they have been human for a long time.

Unfortunately, by and large, wear and tear on the body is considered unattractive in this culture. So much of everything is about looking younger, trimming down, and hiding blemishes.

See, there is a major difference between being healthy and being perfect, and lately, our culture has blurred that line.

Gym memberships and workout plans are good to a certain point, by lowering blood pressure, reducing the risk of heart disease, and making us feel better about ourselves, but when we stumble into vanity and over-indulgence, it can affect our lives and those around us.

From the moment we are conceived, we are trained to be ashamed of our imperfections, rather than to embrace them as something unique to us as individuals.

Creams are used to hide bald spots or give us a fuller hairline, others are used to remove hair in certain places.

Oils and other exotic ointments are sold under the impression that they give us "perfect" skin.

Birthmarks and other discoloring are hidden with gobs of makeup.

The message is the same: you are not quite good enough as you are. Perfection is attainable, though, and if you call right now, you'll get 2 Oils for the price of one. Get that clear, flawless skin you've always dreamed of.

It's a constant battle. Endless visits to the tanning salon, manicures, pedicures.

The way I see it, "inner beauty" is just an overused catch phrase. We'd like to think that inner beauty is what we're all after, but if we could look ourselves honestly in the mirror, most would admit that "outer beauty" is what drives our culture.

This is in the television we watch, the music we listen to, the billboards we read, advertisements, magazines, everywhere. It's ubiquitous.

This isn't necessarily one individual's fault. It spawned from avarice. It is the result of a corrupt system.

How do we throw some sand in the gears? Is that even a possibility? Are we too far submerged in this habit?

I don't think the answer is simple. And it will take a lot of concerned, unified effort. But those in charge of informing and entertaining the public have a huge responsibility.

Instead of beautifying prima-donnas with pretty smiles and wavy hair, let the bulk of our time cover our heroes with crooked teeth, big ears, and undesirable bodies. Give them the lion's share of screen time for their actions and beliefs, not their appearances or unhealthy relationships. Cast the Miley Cyrus' of the world off into the fringes.

It's hard enough as it is for everyday people to face our ideal body images. It's a culture that says that women should have tiny waists, but full chests and backsides. Men should be as brutish and primitive as possible, all the while sporting a perfect smile and full head of hair. It's not realistic, and it's not healthy.

Burn victims are some of the most pitiable people. The experience itself is painful beyond description. Their outwardly appearance is disfigured permanently yet they still feel obligated to meet the standards of today's ideal appearance.

The stigmas take a toll on me, your run of the mill average young guy. I can't even imagine what life would be like through their eyes. Seeing that reflection. A reflection that reminds them what they cannot be no matter how hard they try.

But that reflection is beautiful. Not the beauty we've become familiar with, but a different kind of beauty.

Firefighters, war veterans, and just ordinary good Samaritans doing extraordinary things, these are our most beautiful people.

The scars and grotesque burns are just the bubbling over of compassion and bravery. Inner beauty incarnate.

These are beautiful people. These are beautiful scars. Hear them sing. They are worth listening to.

A Few of My (Many) Qualms with Social Media

This past Friday night I went to a concert geared toward a crowd much younger and more feminine than myself. It was a very emasculating four hours, and by the end of it, I had to do something manly to overcompensate, like eat a Snickers bar or something. But for the most part I enjoyed it and lived to tell about it, so that's good.

My reason/impetus for going in the first place? I couldn't turn down the opportunity to see the young, beautiful, and extremely talented Ariana Grande perform live. Her voice is breathtaking on the radio, and when I learned that she was coming to Kansas City, I knew I couldn't pass up the chance to hear it in person. Even if I had to survive a trio of post-pubescent boys with falsetto voices, shallow, artless lyrics, and biceps the size of a healthy newborn, I'd just bite the bullet, fashion my best fake smile, and countdown to the woman of my dreams.

The moment was fleeting, she sneaked on stage suddenly, and left as quickly as she came. All I know was that goosebumps covered my epidermis for the song's entirety, and I was told by those around me that I lost all control of motor skills and coordination, while drool spilled from the corners of my mouth and onto the pre-teen girl next to me.

As she pranced off stage leaving the crowd in a frenzy, I realized my night had hit its climax.

That is when Emblem3 (heir to the Boy Band throne after One Direction, The Jonas Brothers, and countless others) and 4,256 smart phones made their appearance.

I'm still not sure if I can believe what I saw as the young men walked out on stage. In one, unitary motion, every girl, woman, and homosexual or questioning male, lifted their smart phone above their head and began recording the performance.

All eyes were fixated on the 2x4 screen in front of them, and not on the stage and the pop stars themselves.

After what felt like an eternity of fist pumps, high squeals, and dry-humping the air in front of them (much to the approval of the pro-female, pro-teen crowd) the dreamboats finally skated off the stage. The cell phones returned to their base, in the pocket of their rightful owner.

All the while I couldn't help but be reminded of Angel Boligan's cartoon, El Universal.

I used to assume art imitated reality, but maybe in these days the roles have reversed: reality imitates art.

Hot Chelle Rea didn't help the matter, egging on the audience when it was their turn in the spotlight. "Who wants to be in my picture?" He asked. The crowd exploded like an unscrewed Dr. Pepper would had it been shaken by Thor in the moments after he had recently been denied a bank loan.

"Check out our twitter page after the show if you want to see yourself, Kansas City!"

Light-bulb goes off in my head: this is all just a big marketing ploy. You're all blind.

They lobbed out some bait, and the fish bit... hard.

One of my favorite writers, David Sedaris, made comment on the recording of our lives in his newest release, "Let's Explore Diabetes with Owls." In his essay "Day in, Day Out" Sedaris wrote "it's not lost on me that I'm so busy recording life, I don't have time to really live it. I've become like one of those people I hate, the sort who go to the museum and, instead of looking at the magnificent Brueghel, take a picture of it, reducing it from art to proof. It's not "Look what Brueghel did, painted this masterpiece" but "Look what I did, went to Rotterdam and stood in front of a Brueghel painting!""

Instead of living the performance, these girls recorded it. I'm not blaming them, that's just where we sit today. That is what they are expected to do.

"Climb the mountain not to plant your flag," says David McCullough, Wellesley High School English teacher, in his commencement speech "You are not Special." "But to embrace the challenge, enjoy the air, and behold the view. Climb it so you can see the world, not so the world can see you."

"Go to Paris to be in Paris," he continues, "not to cross it off your list and congratulate yourself for being worldly."

Go to concerts not to so everybody knows you heard magnificent vocals or squeaky beach boys, but to enjoy them.

Facebook checks us in when we go places. It encourages us to post photos and statuses telling of our adventures. It tricks us into thinking that we are closer to people than we ever were just because they are a few clicks (hyperlinks) away. But the truth is that this false sense of proximity is making our ties weaker and weaker. We know less and less about our "friends" because we all constantly monitor and tweak our profiles to give off the image we want to be seen, not the image that is real.

Instagram is all about proof. Proof that you did something or that you are something.

Twitter, even in the naming, gives you the misconstrued idea that people care enough about you that they will "follow" your every thought. The game is to follow as little people, and to have as many followers as humanely possible.

These networks are false realities. They are gradually becoming the real-world, though.

Personal connection is falling by the wayside.

Maybe art is no longer imitating reality. Maybe reality is chasing after art, and were all here to watch it unravel.

An Informal Decree/Plea to Depraved Suburbia

Dearest Friends of Johnson County, USA:

Let me start with this: I dig you. I realize our beloved adolescents need to experiment a little with their new-found freedom. Like a caged animal, the first steps of liberty are always the most aggressive and never the most rational.

I've been there and done that myself. Be it with road trips, the opposite sex, or with that shirtless idiot running on the sidewalk nearby at 11 o'clock at night. Things I'll regret, but things that helped purge the wild out of me. This was good for me and those around in the long run.

So I get it. I understand the whole driving by and calling me names thing while I'm mounting a long hill, short on coordination, but not on effort, with sweat pouring down forehead and onto my wheezing, disfigured face. I would have probably done the same thing to myself a few years back to be quite honest.

It wouldn't be fair for me to put you under a different microscope than the one I had honed in on me back in my heyday.

And to be quite frank about the matter, I actually enjoy the banter and teasing on occasion, so long as the name calling is creative and not too terribly offensive. I'll admit, the very best JOCO hoodlums have made me laugh mid-run a time or two, while screaming profanities and flashing genitalia out what I presume is daddy's SUV. I could be wrong, though. You could have very well footed the bill. Jobless, responsibility free and all.

Even still, your indecent exposure is illegal in this country and most others, and at least frowned upon in a good deal of the rest. I'd suggest saving the "mooning" for special occasions, holidays, etc., if you could.

But I'll also admit: "Run, Faggot" is starting to get just a little old.

Granted, it sure was funny the first fifty times I heard it; I'll give you that. But how about something new for a change? There are plenty of other mindless insults you could blast out your window.

I'm long-winded as usual, but long story short: if all you little privileged, white-collared miscreants want to get together and have a pow wow to come up with a few fresh, new things to call me and my fellow runners, that'd be awful sweet. I know you can do it. And I think we'd all benefit from that gesture.

Please and thanks. On behalf of all JOCO runners young and old, yours truly,

Dan