Day 2 of the New Me

I read a novel over the weekend, brushed my teeth after dinner, and I used a kleenex this afternoon like a civilized person, so that's a start, and I completed an entire poker game without a single swear word. Won fifty bucks, finishing 161st out 3800 in the $3 rebuy. A decent showing, but I made a serious misread on the last hand I played, calling all-in with five times the blind, drawing virtually dead. Some of you don't know what that means, but trust me, it isn't good. Discipline can only take you so far in a poker. Eventually you reach a play where you need blind luck, or luck in the blinds. You hope to wake up with a hand before it reaches that point.

Last night I finished 22nd out of 1900 in a $1 freeze out, so I played respectfully this weekend. I have a day off tomorrow so I will probably play in a couple of events, do some housework, sleep in--my idea of a perfect day.

I got some good news tonight. Roommate Doug called (not friend Doug, the Watch Prince, famous author and notorious Beaver fan) and he told me he's decided to rent the house he found in St. Johns, so his room should be available and thus save me from homelessness or a desperation move. I've grown accustomed to this place and this neighborhood, so it's a real relief to hear I won't have to uproot. This little place is close to the train and grocery store and gym, and just down the street from the Gateway Breakfast House and Chang's Mongolian, and I can find the bathroom in the dark, and the bathroom is clean because I've scrubbed it every weekend for nine weeks. Those things count for a lot, to say nothing of not having to break in new roommates and a new landlord. I'm relieved, provided Richard signs off on our win-win-win solution to everyone's dilemma. Here's hoping he's feeling relaxed and reasonable after his vacation and looks at this in a compassionate way. I hate change, as you know, and I've had my quota for the year. Remember that stress chart, the one that assigned so many points to moving, so many to changing jobs, so many to marital discord? There have been years where I have amassed 900 points in one year, merely by being a stubborn idiot with a quick temper. Fortunately I've mellowed in my old age. Just ask Stephanie.

In my family there is a joke, one of several that come out at holidays and barbeques, about the Newton cuss sentences, a bad habit we acquired from our father. We don't merely swear; when riled we compose these long chains of cuss syntax strung together in really inventive combinations, erupting like little verbal volcanoes. Even my brother Frank, a dapper and gracious man in every respect, can succumb when he drops something heavy on his toe, although his temper probably has the longest leash of any of us.

Temper never really accomplishes anything, and often destroys in an awful way. It's a tempting weakness because it allows us to hold the floor and keep reason and other points of view at bay, but I have to say I'm never anywhere near my best when I get angry. I admire someone who can have an argument without losing sight of what's most important, remembering above all that the people around you are way more important than getting your way. Curiously, one of the best I've ever seen is my son Roger: whether in a conflict with his girl or a friend who hasn't paid his share of the rent, he is logical, cool, and sticks to the issues, making his point and reaching for commonality even when things are the most painful and heated around him. He's really remarkable that way, wise and mature beyond anything he would have learned from me. It's a great joy to reach the age where you can admire your own kids, and feel the enormous gratitude that by the grace of God they have become tremendous and independent people and a joy to know and be around.

Last night Marie and I had a date. I know we have had more reunions and rifts than Sue Ellen and J.R., but last night was one of our best nights ever. She wore a beautiful silk dress and cute shoes, and looked utterly irresistible. We went to dinner at Chang's and saw local Blues legend Norman Sylvester and his band at Clyde's Prime Rib on Sandy Boulevard. The joint was packed and the band was cooking, and Norman's old keyboard player Frankie Redding has recovered from a long illness and joined the band for the last set. Marie and I danced to the man who was playing the night we met, the man whose tender voice and soulful guitar brought us together. The magic was still there, and the magnetism and essence. Attraction we've mastered. Desire and fulfillment we have to burn. Heat and passion radiates from us, and even the Boogie Cat, an old hand in such matters, recognizes it from the stage. He greets us like old friends, and that is an incredible honor. Now the two of us have to learn to get along and conquer our demons and domesticate ourselves. We've fought and made love like alley cats long enough, although every now and then we will still stay out late and growl at the moon.

Three and a Half Ex-Wives Can't Be Wrong: my 79 worst habits, faults and characteristics

The exact number does not matter. Figure one for every year of my life expectancy, and you'd be close. The apostle Paul called himself "the chief of sinners" and "the least of Christians", and if we're being honest, we all have work to do and flaws to account for. I started this list in my head on the way to work, and I thought it might spark conversation, and perhaps balance the tables a little from all the explaining I do here from my own point of view. Some of these are light-hearted and fun, and others are serious deficiencies of character. I'll let you decide which are which, and encourage you to start a list of your own:

I swear too much, particularly on third down or the first tee.

I give myself too many mulligans and still brag about my score.

Even though I know the science completely contradicts it, I frequently employ the five second rule. If it was something I really wanted to eat, I've been known to invoke the thirty second rule. Even if I dropped it twice.

I lose track of time.

I hate the silent treatment, but if I'm upset, it's invariably how I react.

I don't drink enough water.

Sometimes I only brush my teeth in the morning.

I'm a poor sport. I hate to lose, and if I find myself losing I act like an ill-mannered eight year old. Embarrassed at my own behavior, I then become unsociable and spoil the game.

I chafe and bristle, particularly at authority, rules, and obligations. The theme song of my life could at times be the old John Cougar song "When I Fight Authority Authority Always Wins."

I'm too combative. I always have a nemeses, a rival, a quibble or a point.

I rarely go to the doctor or dentist. Right now I have a cyst on my ribcage I've ignored for eight months, and it's grown to the size of a walnut. I'm thinking of taking it out myself. A little Merthiolate and duct tape and I'll be good as new.

Probably a bad idea, because I'm a big baby if injured or sick.

I put my elbows on the table.

I chew my gum like a cow working a cud, usually about five sticks at a time. Fortunately I don't buy gum very often.

I am a notorious hawker of loogies.

I break promises, or discuss social plans and don't follow through. Right now Stephanie is not talking to me because I missed the hot dog-eating contest. I don't care about the hot dog contest but I miss my smart, funny and beautiful daughter.

I tend to think of myself as smarter than I am. But there's a lot I don't know. And If I were so smart, how come I'm not rich, or have a really cool job, like a jet pilot or football coach?

I don't spend enough time with family or friends. I always feel guilty about it, but I keep doing the same damn things.

More swearing.

I start new ideas or projects in a blaze of enthusiasm and then fizzle out.

I occasionally forget to wear socks, or wear white athletic socks with any outfit or shoes.

I stay up way too late.

I eat too fast.

I do the same things day after day and resist change. I hate change. I like things the way they are.

I open packages with my teeth.

I love to read, but any more I can go months without picking up a book, and it's been ages since I read a moving or life-changing book, and there are hundreds and thousands as close as a train ride to Powell's. My thinking and reading chair is the most underused piece of furniture in the house. My computer chair is easily the most overused.

I can hold a grudge 100,000 times longer than I can hold my breath.

I'm too easily swayed but never convinced. I can read an opinion or editorial, whether liberal, conservative, reactionary or lunatic fringe, and think, hey, that sounds pretty good.

I spend too much and save too little and borrow too readily. Like the rest of the country I'm waking up with a terrible hangover and an empty wallet, and I don't know how much is left in my checking account. Inexcusable.

I forget things. Backpacks, keys, phones, gloves, birthdays, manners, resolutions--I'm an equal opportunity forgetter.

I can remember an embarrassing moment forever, however, and the memory of particular embarrassing ones can creep up on me almost for no reason, the slightest nudge or emotional trigger, sending into a powerful spasm of fresh embarrassment. I become almost oblivious to my surroundings, literally reliving the humiliation, and cry out in shame all over again as if I had Tourette's syndrome. People around me think I've flipped, and I have to invent a lame reason for my outburst. I literally can become haunted by moments and reminders of the past. Am I the only one who does this?

If I open a package of crackers or chips, I'm not stopping till I get to the little pieces.

Sometimes I even eat the little pieces.

If something is bothering me I clam up or stuff it and then explode all at once later on, often over something trivial.

I pick my nose.

I use words like cocksure and asinine merely for their syllabic shock value.

I love to eat those partly popped pieces of pop corn, "the old maids," even though I once cracked a tooth on one, a molar. I think the deductible was $750, the most expensive bag of snacks I have ever purchased.

If I was expecting a romantic interlude and something derails the expectation I pout like hell.

More swearing.

I give up too easily and hold on too long.

Though I frequently test it, I underestimate the limits of God's grace. I isolate myself when I need Him most.

I brood, grouse and nitpick.

I say things without thinking.

I feel things without saying them.

I get defensive.

I think too much.

I think too much about myself.

I talk too much about myself.

I beat myself up.

I create lists like these without doing anything about them.

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I don't know how all of this sounds. I hope it hasn't been shocking or depressing. For me it was actually liberating and encouraging, just taking the inventory. Now we can have a clearance sale and remodel the store.

And now I'm going to brush my teeth and go to bed.

Maybe in Heaven There is a River of Cherry Coke

I'm walking two hours a day now, probably six miles or more altogether, so I'm getting plenty of cardio work in my new hiking boots and thermal socks. Already they are thoroughly broken in, and my stride is getting freer and more vigorous. I don't mind walking; I used to walk a lot as a young man, particularly in high school. We lived a few miles from school and I was always playing sports and walking home.

Sometimes people would stop and give me rides, and other times I just kept walking, but I thought nothing of walking for miles. Community College was easily ten miles from our house and I frequently walked home from there. It was easier and more practical than waiting for someone to take care of me. I didn't get my driver's license until the summer after I graduated from high school, didn't feel any urgency to do so until I started dating, and oddly, I didn't really date at all until my senior year. I was a late bloomer, an odd, skinny kid with a constant smile, wanting everyone to like me, covering up a lot of anxiety and family turmoil. The walking dissipated a lot of the nervous energy I was bursting with. I walked, I sang, I prayed. I sorted out my teenaged miseries, in all weathers and every season.

Even the rain doesn't much bother me. It's just wet, and forty minutes of it won't kill you, at least not this close to civilization. Dry clothes at the end of a cold, wet walk are an invigorating comfort. But today there was none of that. It was as mild and pleasant as a late October day gets, just a little crisp. I walked through the golf course and the fairways are lush and green and the leaves of the birch trees have turned a lovely shade of yellow, and walking the seventh fairway I wished I were rich enough to buy the place and play every afternoon. Are there any two colors as lovely as green and yellow, particularly together? They are so soothing to the eye, the colors of peaceful places and perfect autumn afternoons.

I rode the train to 102nd and Burnside and walked a few more blocks to the gym and had a vigorous and satisfying workout, and I decided to reward myself with an ample and pleasant meal. I decided I'd go to the Hometown Buffet, ironically two doors down from the gym, a palace of obesity next to the sanctuary of fitness. Jesus said no man could serve two masters, but I'm a devotee of both leg extensions and unlimited cinnamon rolls, an unabashed celebrant of both these schools of singular faith.

The food at the buffet is surprisingly good. The steaks are hot off the grill, tender, seared and charred perfectly, and I filled two plates with potatoes and onions, green beans, stuffing, corn on the cob and cooked carrots. Simple, good food, hot and comforting. I ate till I was full and stopped still comfortable, washed it down with 3 glasses of cherry coke. In heaven there must be rivers of cherry coke, and everyone has a golf course to walk, and a free afternoon to play it. Maybe in heaven I won't stub my drives off the heel of my three wood, or at least not so often. Here on earth I limited myself to one small cinammon roll and a one-inch square of fudge, and walked home happier than I'd been in months.

As I began my walk home in a light jacket and my new warm winter gloves, it occurred to me that I eat too many meals alone. This is a direct result of my habits and failure to honor friendships and keep my family close, I know, but in the last quarter of my life I want to change this. A meal ought to be enjoyed with conversation. That's the natural state of humankind, the way we were meant to live. I am too solitary, too set in my own habits and stubborn rituals and eggregious independence. We aren't meant to live like that. Over the next few years I have to cultivate some new habits and new associations and join the circle of other people in a more meaningful way, or I will die in despair and regret. I'm not being maudlin: those are the simple facts. We were meant to be connected, to share, to join, to have communion in the deepest sense. In the past most of my best energies for reaching out have been saved for chasing girls. I caught a few, and enjoyed the chase, but there is more to life than chasing girls or a buck. We need to belong, and need to take time to celebrate the belonging, day by day. I'll have to give some thought to this, and devote some energy to making some real change.

It's a blessing to visit with you each evening, and a start toward the best life I can envision. I am grateful you took time.

Tired of Talking

Baby I'm out of breath, we're talkin' our selves to death
And nothing seem to change, maybe it's best if we parted
It's like the blind leading the blind,
We're even further behind than when we started

I'm tired of talkin', guess it's time to go
Baby I'm so confused and feeling a little bruised
When all we do is fight, we can't help but feel down hearted
It's like the blind leading the blind
Even further behind then when we started

I'm tired of talkin', guess it's time to go
Baby I'm out of breath, we're talkin' ourselves to death
And nothing seem to change, maybe it's best if we parted
It's like the blind leading the blind
Even further behind then when we started
I'm tired of talkin', guess it's time to go

the legendary blues guitarist Robben Ford, "Tired of Talking"

I saw Robben Ford years ago at the old Aladdin Theater at the foot of the Ross Island Bridge, and he put on a show worthy of the confluence of three freeways and two rivers, rocking the stage from one end to the other and never letting go of the audience for two solid hours, the whole building rocking and bobbing to every beat. I sat in the next to last row with a sultry blond I was dating at the time and we necked through the entire show. It was a fine time, and thinking of it now is a reminder that passions come and sorrows go, and sooner or later everything passes but the blues remain and justify it all.

I feel justified today, vindicated and sanctified, for no particular reason than I'm still living and still going to work. I earned my pay today and rode the train home, cutting across a field of shin high grass to Cascade Station because somehow walking through the field made the trip more interesting, singing the song above like it was my own. I heard "Tired of Talking" the other day on Pandora.com and I hadn't heard it in a long while and it just seemed like the perfect soundtrack for a point in life where all the talking in the world hadn't done a bit of good.

I have no idea what comes next. I'm not in a particular hurry to find out. I had a fine and simple meal on the bench at the entrance to Fred Meyers, a baked chicken breast, some ciabatta rolls and fresh raspberries and the last fall peach, and now I am in my clean, well-lighted place listening to the symphony number 31 in D major. And that alone is enough loveliness to sustain a man for quite a while. I'm tired of talking, but after a good nap I'll be rested enough for another day. That will do for the time being, just knowing I made it off the mountain in one piece like another survivor I read about.

There was a story on the front page of Yahoo the other day about a 7' 9" center from a school in North Carolina, Kenny George, who had to have a part of his foot amputated because of a staph infection, and now his basketball career is over. His school is going to honor his scholarship, though, and his coach said, “There’s more to Kenny George than basketball. The students at this school think the world of Kenny George outside of basketball. We’re looking forward to him coming back second semester — that’s what he wants to do — and complete his degree. At that point, we’d still like him to be a part of our basketball program and part of this school.”

That's a remarkable story, and a reminder that even the feet on which we walk through empty fields are a miracle of creation and a remarkable blessing, and there isn't anything guaranteed to us: all of our smug pronouncements of self-determination and self sufficiency are a ridiculous conceit. Everything passes. Our memory, our intellect, our physical talents, our wealth, health and prosperity don't last a moment. I hope Kenny George has someone who loves him, and realizes that even though he'll never dunk another basketball he's an all time All American of courage and heart. We all are in our own way. It's remarkable what we risk and endure. It's remarkable the hopes we hold on to, and the sorrows we ignore, to work and to love in this imperfect world.

Buck Up and Snap Out of It, Bucko

I had a really great weekend. Nothing much happened, but that was perfect. I did my laundry, cleaned my room, cleaned the bathroom, napped, played poker and Bowl Bound College Football and went to the gym. Took myself out to breakfast at the Gateway Breakfast House, had the pork chops and 3 scrambled eggs with hash browns and whole wheat toast, a pancake on the side, and had enough food left for a delicious lunch. The hash browns were perfect and the chops were juicy, a perfect antidote for a man's broken heart.

In short, I took good care of myself. I rested and did some of my favorite things. I didn't have much of a social life, but that was by design. Heal the wounds, and time will wound the heels. On Saturday I took myself shopping and bought a thick pair of gloves, a new electric razor, and a can of waterproofing for my gloves, boots, and my favorite Oregon Duck stocking cap Doug and Gretchen got me for Christmas year before last. Now I'm equipped for winter. This morning I read in the Sunday paper about a hiker lost on Mt. Adams for a week. He broke his ankle and had to slide on his butt and crawl, drank his own urine on the last day, ate berries and bugs. It's amazing what a person can endure. It's amazing how easily we give up sometimes, and the small things we think are a big deal.

I spoke with one of my roommates this afternoon and he is thinking of renting a house in St. Johns that he found on Craigslist so I might be saved from homelessness. I was thinking of getting a sharpie pen and a cardboard sign, but I think I'll wait and see how this pans out. Richard called me today and he's back from Mexico on Tuesday. He said everyday was sunny and beautiful and he found a reasonable place to stay, and apartment that rents for a $150 a week in a warm place that has no memory. He went to church in a little neighborhood parish today, and he called just after. "I'm walking down the street with my spanish/english dictionary," he said, "I wish you were here." My brother Mike lives in San Diego, a three wood across the border. I get a fresh 18 days of vacation in January, and if there's nothing shaking before then I might rent a car and warm my winter bones.

A Certain Recipe for Bringing Sadness Onto Yourself

Our story has gotten so convoluted and melodramatic, I hesitate to write about it for fear of looking like a complete fool or boring the hell out of you.

Last night was the one of the loneliest nights of my entire life. I can't remember a time I have ever felt so utterly and entirely desolate, helpless, resourceless, and uncertain. I went to the gym after work, returned to my empty room in this empty house, where I live with three strangers, and played poker till I got tired. I won 71 cents. I called Marie around ten and she didn't answer, and she didn't call me back, and we hadn't spoken since I called her after work. I wondered if she had gone out tonight. My god, I am living a country song. How utterly pathetic.

This week our ever-changing fortunes took a turn for the worse. We were completely unsuccessful finding a new place, and Marie decided she would stay with her daughter for the time being. Monday night she picked me up after work and we spent the evening together, watched the debate together and had dinner, made love. I was on top of the world, and I was on top of the world again Wednesday when she spent the night.

But on Thursday something awful happened. Someone at work made a false report that Marie had been peering into the break room windows Monday afternoon, and that after my shift she and I had had an altercation in the parking lot. Because of our previous trouble she's banned from the property. But nothing in the report was true. Marie sat quietly in the car waiting for me, on the street outside our building off the property, and when she arrived I tapped on the window of the Vista Cruiser and she let me in and we kissed sweetly and drove to Winco.

But lies have almost as much power as the truth, and doubt has almost as much power as faith. The false report did its damage. I got called into the conference room for a talk. Pulled off the floor. Utterly embarrassing. The rumor mill is no doubt churning. I'm a deeply private person (which makes this blog an extraordinary contradiction in terms, but I write it from the perspective I am writing to one person, my closest and most trusted friend, and that's the way I ask you to read it). Being singled out, being asked personal questions and made to explain is very painful to me. They asked me if Marie had been there on Monday. They asked me if she was driving my car. They asked me if I was meeting her for lunch. They told me she'd been peering in the breakroom, and someone had seen us fighting outside. Neither charge was true, but the truth didn't matter. The lie would win. The lie would isolate us and divide us. They told me the company security officer would contact Marie and instruct her a restraining order was in place.

The officer did more than that. He shared the false report with Marie. And he told Marie who had made it. It was one of my coworkers. A woman. He gave her her name. And now Marie is convinced that there was something going on between me and that woman, even though we have no relationship at all, never have, have not done so much as share a cup of coffee or eat lunch. We are cordial in the normal way coworkers are but in no way the least bit intimate.

Doubt and suffering ensued. Cold silence. Tense phone calls. Back and forth, and old suspicions and old pain, and last night, no response. No call, no answer, just four walls and 489th place, a profit of 71 cents, busting out with a pair of jacks, a big stack with ace-king turns an ace with all my chips in the center. The same old story.

I'm in a completely vulnerable and ridiculous position right now. I couldn't feel more foolish or alone. I woke up this morning at seven, even though it's a Saturday, empty and forlorn. I gave Marie my car. The agreement was she could drive it for a few months, until she got on her feet. I did it because I loved her, wanted to show her I would do anything to help her. I gave notice here, because we'd talked about moving in together, being a family again. I wanted to show her I was completely committed to her, giving her all my trust and devotion. I thought I was making that as clear and complete and unwavering as it can possibly be.

I left a sad self-pitying message for her this morning, and an hour has passed and she hasn't answered. I don't want to feel this bad anymore. But how many times have I said that? No car, no wife and no home. That's a pretty ridiculous set of circumstances. How can a grown man make such a mess of things? All I wanted was to love one person and be loved by them. She and I have had some wonderful times together, but our demons always win.

When I finish this entry I'll get on Craigslist and look for a new living space. It will have to be something within 15 blocks of 47th or the light rail line, something with an internet connection, with a reasonable level of privacy, safety and cleanliness. There was so much I liked about this place. The rent was reasonable and the location was good. I liked the neighborhood. The roommates were pleasant and kept to themselves, and my landlord, Richard, was becoming a friend. I genuinely liked him. He was soulful and introspective, and the conversations we had always went to the core of things, more than the obscuring dishonest chitchat with which men usually clutter up their interpersonal lives. We talk so often about sports and food, because we're afraid to look unmanly, afraid to show the doubts, fears or questions we hold inside. We sell each other short.

I love Marie and I always will. But I don't want to feel this bad anymore. I don't want to hurt like this, and wonder where she was last night, or who was buying her drinks. That's a foolish way to live, a certain recipe for bringing sadness onto yourself.

Enduring a losing streak, testing the survival skills

Sometimes, you've got to hunker down and ride it out. I only play once a day, for $2 a game, because the cards are running bad. I lose with aces, kings, jacks, to queen-nine offsuit and gutshot straight draws. Online players love to go all in, and will go all in with way the worst of it, but sometimes the worst of it gets the best of it, and you bust out. It just happens, and for a week or more it happens all the time. You just have to ride it out, wait for it to turn.

In life, I'm up against a similar test. I gave my notice here but Marie and I haven't found a place, and she may stay with her daughter for a longer time. In two weeks I'll be homeless, unless I put something together. Not an impossible situation, but a daunting one. Even in life, sometimes you go all in and bust out.

I have to catch the train now; it's time for work. I'll compose myself, be nice to the customers, go to the gym after work, maybe have a Subway Sandwich for dinner, then hit Craigslist for some new rooms. Around eight I'll deal into a game and see if things go better.

Stumbling Wins and Painful Misunderstandings

On Saturday the Oregon Ducks stumbled and bumbled to an unconvincing win over the third worst team in PAC-10, defeating UCLA 31-24 despite a complete inability to pass the ball on offense or cover the tight end down the middle on defense. Their record is now 5-2, with a bye next week. I'm confident they won't lose to BYE but the rest of the season is in serious doubt: right now the Duck receivers are dropping more balls than they catch. I'm thinking of enrolling in graduate school and coming out of retirement, because I couldn't do any worse.

Enough about the Ducks. As much as I love them, they are woeful and dismal right now, probably the worst 5-2 team in the country given the relative ease of their early schedule. I'm not sure they could beat Gustavus Aldophus if forced to play all aerial. Remember "all aerial" from our playground days? It was my favorite kind of football. Everybody's eligible. You can't even rush the quarterback for 3 Mississippis. The Ducks should play some all aerial during the bye week, and find out if anyone on the roster can catch the football. But enough about the Ducks.

My personal life is equally woeful and dismal. Our latest misunderstanding is about a Bud Light key chain and going to a sports bar to watch the game with Doug. The details are unimportant. The key chain was given to me by my sister along with a tee shirt, promotional items offered as a thank you for working the beer stand during the Ross Coleman events, but somehow its origin got miscontrued and terrible tension ensued. Our communication is no better than the Ducks' passing game or pass defense.

But enough about the Ducks. And enough about me. I'll go away until I have something more interesting to say.

Dry Socks and Unexpected Kindness: we're richer than we think

The most useless thing we can do is to worry about what might happen or how bad things might get. What if I lose my job, my car, my house? What if my wife leaves me or the kids get sick? Any of those things, or all of them, can happen. When or if they do, you deal with it. You move on. You do the next thing.

Things are uncertain and the news is full of portents. The treasury has a hot shot graduate from the Wharton school of business, a 35-year-old wunderkind with a background in aerospace engineering before he got his MBA. "It's the same thing, really," he told the Associated Press, "It's all about problem solving and stabilizing a system." He used to work on giant telescopes, devising systems to keep them in focus. Today Great Britain nationalized several banks and the Dow plunged below 9000, its lowest level in five years, losing over 600 points in a single day. The nation's retirement accounts have lost over two trillion dollars in value. Retail sales are plunging. Ford Motor Company is on a credit watch.

I haven't lost my job yet, and my credit card companies haven't called or written to demand all their money. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried. This is all beyond my understanding. I've seen the photographs at the beginning of "Seabiscuit", the breadlines and the forlorn faces. I remember history class, and a five-year period when no one could find work. I have no idea what it all really means, or how bad it could be. But it doesn't sound good.

At my job this time of the month they send out collection notices and past due account warnings, and there are far more of them than usual, and the voices on the phone are noticeably more tense, more pleading. Some of them are quick to anger over suspensions or restart fees. I understand their difficulty but I have to follow the rules: past 89 days, account suspended, $12 fee to restart--$35 in Beaverton. It stinks. It's hard for everyone. But that's the way it is. I have to be careful. All of our calls are recorded and any one could be monitored for quality, and I don't want to offend anyone. But I can't sugarcoat it either. I have to charge the fee.

In the past I've talked harshly about my job, spoken in not very mature or appreciative terms about it. I've always bristled at authority and been my own worst enemy that way. Last Friday though, my boss did a very nice thing for me. I'd ridden my bike to work that day and it broke down on the way. I had to park it by the side of the road and walk. (Another lesson: although it pays to economize, it never pays to buy cheap. Quality pays for itself and sometimes a bargain never stops costing you money.) It was a mile and half or so further to work and I was 20 minutes late, missing the morning meeting. I emailed her around 10 and told her I needed to retrace my route at lunch and retrieve the bike, and I didn't know quite how long it would take to do it. She emailed me back and said, no problem, I'll give you a ride. And my boss took time out of her lunch break, her 35 minute lunch break, to help me retrieve my broken bike. I haven't had good luck with bikes this year, but it's another area where I haven't made good decisions.

I've badmouthed the company a dozen times, often without much justification, but for her to do that, on her own time and without me asking, was a remarkable kindness, a remarkable, personal effort. I got the chain unjammed and made it back on time, and would certainly have been late otherwise. It was refreshing to find that level of consideration and kindness in the work place. It surprised me. I was a little ashamed of myself.

I'm not close to anyone at work. I don't socialize much and I keep to myself, read the paper at break, take my lunches in the quiet room. I work mostly with women and younger people, and I don't have much in common with them. I'm polite but not really personable, and there are a few people I avoid altogether. A woman who laughed at me when I was having difficulty. Another who got all huffy when I tried to ask her a question. I'm not mean to them; I just ignore them. I don't want trouble. I take my 60-90 phone calls and go home. I try to follow the rules and be polite to the customers. But it isn't an easy job. People get emotional over the garbage collection and problems with their bill or service, and they can make it nasty or personal. I try to speak in a calm tone of voice and say please and thank you, but sometimes that isn't enough. I've messed up a few times. The other day I checked the Metro database to check a boundary, and the database said it was another hauler. The caller insisted it was us, but I told him, I'm sorry, it's definitely someone else. It turned out the database was wrong, and I got a failing grade for the call, because I "should have used other resources." They didn't fire me, though, and no one stole my bike. So I guess I was lucky twice.

I don't know how lucky any of us will be in the coming months. Today was a good day though. I ate well, slept well and had some clean, dry socks to change into when I got home. I caught the train to the Gateway station and walked from there, had a big smoked turkey sandwich with swiss cheese. Marie came over for a few minutes, only a few minutes, because she and her kids are driving to Crescent City this weekend for her mother's birthday and some celebrations for recent birthdays. Grandbaby Brice is 3, Camden is two. Little kid birthdays are probably my favorite of family celebrations. They are unfailingly joyous and a true miracle, the deepest of blessings.

Marie lent me back the Vista Cruiser for the next few days. They rented a van for the trip, so the whole crew could fit in one vehicle. I'll visit the fine young man and Doug; I can't afford a trip to Selah, although Ethan is crawling now and I want to see them all. Maybe tonight or tomorrow I'll win some money. Lord knows I'm due. I'm up only $11 for the month so far. I'm making correct decisions for the most part, but the outcomes haven't been favorable. A leading poker writer named Steve Badger says, "income from poker is not made in a linear way" and I've always found that to be true. You go along a few units up or a few units down, and then a day comes along where the decisions are easier and the opportunities flow. Our country could use a day like that.

No Room at the Inn

Marie and I have had some credit problems in the past, so our housing search is complicated. With the mortgage and credit crunch, there is a shortage of rental units, and landlords are becoming more restrictive and selective in their rental practices, with many now requiring first and last months rent up front and a deposit, about $1600 to move in. It happens that with the sale of the car, my deposit from my current place, and a week's paychecks we can raise this amount. but it's still a fair amount of money for "the working poor." I guess that's technically what we are, although it's terribly morbid to use the words in a sentence.

I've already given my notice for this place, so in three weeks I could be quite literally homeless. I'm a little nervous about it. I'm not sure what to do except prayer and worry about it once a day for an hour. In the meantime I've got to catch the train for work.

Going carless is a bit of an adjustment. It's a sacrifice I have readily and willingly made for the one I love, but I'm getting a lot more exercise, and I have to think ahead a lot more than I'm used to in getting to work on time and getting from place to place. For the winter I'll have to invest in some water proof hiking boots, some stocking caps for my bald head, lined leather gloves, and wool socks. I'm not a winter person. I don't like to be cold and wet. I'd much rather it be 95 than 35, remembering the bad old days when I used to be a trashman, up at five every morning lugging cans in the dark. One morning a rat jumped out of dumpster and ran up my sweatshirt and jumped over my shoulder, a huge brown Norway rat, fast as lightning with beady yellow eyes, about half the size of a house cat. Another morning a serial killer offered me a job in construction. He drove a dark-colored Impala with a big trunk, followed me across town for three stops, from the Greek Cusina to a downtown park to the bowling alley, then offered me the job. It was four in the morning. "I have a job," I told him, in my most unfriendly don't-mess-with-me-voice. He drove away. I read about him in the newspaper a few weeks later. I'm not being melodramatic; it was the same guy, the same M.O. He was crusing Old Town early in the morning, offering transients a job, then hauling them out to the Eastern Oregon desert to bludgeon them. One of my many brushes with death.

I believe in guardian angels. There have been too many coincidences in my life, too many moments that nothing should have saved me from my own stupidity or lack of awareness. When my brother and I were boys we watched a movie about the French Resistance, and the next day on the back 40 of the farm we tried to make Molotov cocktails. We stood right over the bottles, rags and gasoline, trying to light them with matches. Yeah, we were country boys, full of sass and ignorance. Nothing lit. Not a single flame or fume. I have no idea why, except it wasn't my time. We told the story to my mother years later at Christmas, and she shuddered in agony, just knowing how awful it should have been, her two precious boys burned to death or disfigured for life. No earthly force could account for the grace that kept us from the certain physics of gasoline, glass and matches, but something did.

Another time as a young man, just out of high school and full of depression and recklessness, I drove the old road from Willamette to West Linn at 80 miles an hour, a bottle of Miller beer wedged in my lap, and went around a corner and a bump and hydroplaned, completely lost control of the car. On one side of the road there is a stand of trees and a sheer dropoff to the Willamette River. On the other is an 80-foot high face of rock. I hit the rock wall and the grey Chevy Chevette flipped over, rolled twice and landed on its top. I crawled through the driver's side window, utterly senseless and without a scratch. I walked to the police station to report it and a cop on duty gave me a ride home. I bought an old Ford pickup a month or two later. Something slower and sturdier. This was a year or two before Stephanie was born.

I've had my adventures and misadventures in life. I've been without a car before and I've slept in one for a few weeks. I haven't had a conventional life, and at times it has been downright bizarre, usually of my own making. I spent six weeks in a mental hospital for bipolar disorder in 1993. There's a lot I haven't told you, and some of it might shock you or cause you to turn away in disgust. But that's the way it is. As I try to tell the rest of the story I'll try not to do so in such a jarring way. This morning I woke up sweating at five a.m., realizing we had an early morning meeting and in three weeks I wouldn't have a place to live unless I did something right away or learned to pray more faithful prayers, and it brought back a flood of the old memories, misadventures, and calamities. I have a big heart, I guess, but not much sense. But then again, that gives me a big edge in the writing game, doesn't it? Lots more to tell.

The whole country is waking up sweating. The morning news and the front page of Yahoo are filled with little dispatches of alarm, record losses on Wall Street and emergency drops of the prime interest rate, accompanied by stricken photos of floor traders and political leaders gathered around a podium. The presidential candidates debated last night and blamed each other for the crisis, predicting that the policies of the other would lead to certain ruin and a repeat of history.

My point is, I've faced despair before, and sorrow and neglect and ruin and desperation. You can endure anything, and the worst and most uncertain times are not unbearable, just interesting and a challenge. It's what you do next that matters. It's where you choose to turn.

Losses, Wins, and Remembrances

On Saturday the Oregon Ducks laid an egg in the Los Angeles Coliseum and waddled to a devastating 44-10 loss to the USC Trojans, 44-10. Thoroughly dominated, smacked backwards and passed silly, Oregon lost to a better team with better coaching and a better game plan.

The game started well for the Ducks. They took the opening kickoff and drove for a touchdown with a brilliant mix of runs and passes, going for it on fourth down to sustain the drive, taking a Trojan penalty for running in to the kicker on a successful field goal try and cashing in when Jeremiah Johnson squirted in from the two for a 7-0 lead. They held SC to a field goal on the Trojan's first possession, recovered a Mark Sanchez fumble and kicked a field goal to lead 10-3 after one quarter.

The rest of the game was all USC, and agonizing for me. I dream Duck football year round, follow the news about recruiting and spring practice and player development. I have an eight-inch "O" sticker on the trunk of my car. I wear an Oregon tee shirt every other day, and will probably one day die of heart attack screaming at a missed tackle. But I watched the game with a sinking sense of inevitability. They were overmatched, outplayed and outcoached. The defense was predictable and inept. USC marched down the field and made first down after first down, with long pass plays to wide-open receivers and dazzling cutback runs. The Trojan defense swarmed over the Duck running game and harrassed inexperience third-string quarterback Jeremiah Masoli. The hosts scored 41 unanswered points, and the visitors had a long plane ride home.

Now 4-2 for the season and 2-1 in conference, Oregon has a home game with UCLA next weekend, and the test will be whether they respond with pride and determination or fold. The home crowd will be raucous and eager for a recovery, knowing the team can still go to a bowl and even compete for a share of the conference title, but in the words of the immortal Joaquin Andujar, all of sports can be summed up in just one little word, "youneverknow." I'll grieve the loss for three days, then start thinking and reading about UCLA and a fresh opportunity. Imagine if I gave all that time and energy to a more worthwhile interest.

Yesterday I met an old football player. I was walking home under the overcast skies from breakfast at The Gateway Breakfast House, and across Weidler street a stooped, kindly looking man shouted out to me, holding an umbrella in two hands. There are several retirement homes in my neighborhood, and the residents often take their morning walks along the strip, although there is far too much traffic there. They would do better to head north through the neighborhood where there are parks and schools and quiet streets. I suppose they like being where there is more activity and more to see.

I couldn't hear what he was saying in the traffic, but he was holding the umbrella out like he needed help of some kind, so I cut across the street to find out what he wanted. It was a black umbrella covered with yellow smiley faces, and the man held it out to me. "I can't work the thing. I can't get it closed," he said. He was small and frail, covered with age spots. His eyes were rheumy but he had a kind smile.

We walked along and he told me some of his story. His name was John and he grew up in the Carolinas. "I'm older than you," he said. "I'm 91 years old." He had two daughters, one of them is 62. "She lives out that way, I can't remember the name of the town but it starts with a C." He pointed toward the Columbia Gorge. "Corbett?" I suggested. "No, that's not it." Cascade Locks? "No. My other daughter lives other that way. I go over to the main street there and take the bus. The lent me this umbrella the other day at the Kings Omelettes, and I'm bringing it back, but it won't close."

We walked along. He didn't hand me the umbrella and I didn't reach for it. I sensed he wanted company more than umbrella maintenance. I told him my name was Dale and I lived down the street on a 106th. He told me he grew up near Greenville, the oldest of seven children, that his father died when he was 13 and they went to an orphanage.

"They treated us pretty good there. I played football and I won a scholarship to Ogelthorpe University. A full ride, the whole deal."

What position did you play? I asked.

"Oh, I was in the backfield."

"Do you still watch football?"

"I do, but back then I was crazy about it. After that I went to flight school. I was in that war we had, in the Pacific."

"World War Two. Do you go to flight school in Alabama?"

John still had a slight drawl in his voice, a quiet way of speaking, genuine and charming. "Noooo, it was there in Geor-gia."

We talked a little longer and came to the parking lot of Kings Omelettes. "I have to leave you now," he said.

I told him it had been nice talking to him and wished him a good day. The old football player shuffled his bent body and stuck umbrella across the parking lot of Kings. I wonder if in Heaven he'll be allowed to run and score touchdowns again. I can't imagine what that is truly like, or what it is like to reach the age where you can remember 13 but can't remember where your daughter lives. It will happen to us all. Treat your daughters well, so they will come and find you.

Catching Up on Viewer Mail

When I started the blog I had modest goals: I wanted to be a famous writer, and I wanted to change the world. Of course none of that happened, but what did happen was marvelous. Every day, or at least most every day, I get to write, and I get these marvelous responses from some wonderful people. The blog has become a virtual corner coffee shop where we get together and chat a few minutes. If you don't normally read the comments below each post I encourage you to do so, because the FOBs make contributions that are touching and insightful and funny.

It has been a joy to open up my email and find, in addition to the all-caps pronouncements that I've won an Irish lottery for which I never bought a ticket, or someone with a polysyllabic last name and an official-sounding title needs my help transferring a fortune from some remote corner of the world to my bank account, there is a hug or a hearty handshake from someone I just love being around. Earlier this week in a fit of blueness, which overcomes me sometimes, I mused aloud with discouragement and reflected that I may have to give up writing this picking of the navel lint, but I realize I couldn't possibly: it's a daily love letter to my drop dead gorgeous wife, my smart funny beautiful daughter, and my clever wise insightful interesting closest friends. How could I give all that up, close the doors on a bar where everyone knows your name, and all your personal business?

This will be a marvelous weekend, for no other reason other than it's the weekend. I encourage you to sleep in late and make love to your spouse. Brush your teeth, take a hot shower together, have a banana and a cup of cocoa in bed, snuggle and kiss a while and smooch fervently until all you want to do is couple with the one person who lights your fire and knocks your socks off. Be fruitful and multiply your joy. It's a great part of why God put you on this earth. The kids just want to watch cartoons anyway. Follow up your illicit tryst with a soothing delicious 40-minute snooze. The exact number of minutes do not matter. Then pile everyone into the family truckster for a large, celebratory family breakfast at your favorite spot. Stephanie knows a cafe in Yakima that would be just be perfect. There's one in every town, where the hashbrowns are crisp and fluffy and made from real potatoes, the pancakes are light and perfectly turned and the bacon is thick with bacon goodness. This is Saturday morning. You can work out later. In my neighborhood the spot is the Gateway Breakfast House. If you are ever out this way you can call me on my T-Immobile phone, the number is 503-560-1354. That's right, I just published my phone number. It's more important to me that you have it than if some idiot does. If someone calls I don't want to talk to I can just hang up. And T-Immobile will probably drop the call anyway.

My one and only true love is across town this morning lugging a grocery cart, but in another month or so we'll be back to our own delicious rituals and routines. One of the great joys of having a partner is having a partner in crime, the stolen moments you share, the adventures and escapades you carve out of the ordinary drudge of the day. It's marvelous to be around someone you just enjoy more than anyone else, who shares your quirky sense of humor and loves being around you. All of you know what I mean, because you are caring, alive, interesting and interested people, or you wouldn't be coming back every day. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. As Brad from Eugene wrote,

In these uncertain times, when so many of us are necessarily focused on our bank accounts, 401(k) balances and job prospects, we would do well to remember the rest of the line:

"Buy it and never count the cost,
for a breath of ecstasy,
Give all you have been, or could be."

In other words: Life is short. Live the love you feel.

It's not likely that the blog will make me a famous writer or change the world. But it has brought me something better: a few minutes a day with all of you.

The Keys to Success

We had a misunderstanding on Monday (my fault) but we ironed it out and today Marie sold the purple bomb, the 1998 Neon with leaky exhaust and creaky brakes and rickety engine for $950, which sounds awful except for the fact we paid only $500 for it originally, drove it for a year and half, never put a dime into it and nearly doubled our money at the end. Easily the best deal I have ever made on a car, or for that matter, most any financial transaction. After three years of payments I'm still upside down in the Vista Cruiser, for example. You live and learn. Or, more accurately in my case, live fast and learn slow. My friend Doug, who made a pile of money in the '70s, '80s and '90s giving people retirement planning and financial advice and co-authored the book The 7 Secrets of Financial Success : How to Apply Time-Tested Principles to Create, Manage, and Build Personal Wealth has often told me that cars are the biggest mistake people make financially: we tie up huge chunks of our monthly cash flow servicing a debt on a hunk of metal that depreciates the moment we drive it off the lot. Last winter he and I went to a Blazer game together and afterward we stopped at the Red Lion at Lloyd Center for a glass of wine and he told me a story. "I would meet with couples," he said, "Intelligent and successful people, and they would ask me, 'how can we plan for our retirement, how can we do a better job of managing our money' and I'd look out to their driveway and see they were probably leasing two cars, say a BMW and a Lexus, and these two status symbols, after gas, insurance, lease payments and maintenance, were tying up $2000 a month or more of their monthly income, money they had no hope of recovering." I'm paraphrasing here, probably badly after several months, but you get the idea: America's love affair with the automobile has gone a long way toward putting us in the mess we're in, both individually and as a society. We spend too much, and the one of the biggest single things we spend on is our cars.

This has turned into a 2-day rant, and I didn't mean it that way. I love the Vista Cruiser, and I've spent many happy hours behind the wheel, cruising to Selah or Crescent City or Angel's Rest. I love the eight-inch high Oregon Duck "O" decal on the trunk and its sleek white lines, the way it makes even an old geezer like me look cool. I'm grateful to the God who made me that I was blessed with a good job and could buy it, and that it has been dependable and reliable and not a bit of trouble. But I swear by all that is holy it will be the last "expensive" (and I fully realize expensive is a relative term) car that I buy, and the last large car payment I will ever have. As Marie and I struggle to reunite our family and work through our misunderstandings and fears, I am making a silent commitment to myself: I am going to make better choices, face reality, and unclog this incredible burden of bad debt and bad decisions. We have no cash flow and no future until I do. Money can't buy happiness, that's certain, but the lack of money and fear and anxiety and stress over money can make it almost impossible to even think of happiness: you wind up giving too much energy to worry, fear and uncertainty.

Don't misunderstand--I am not a materialistic person. I'm a big believer in simple joys and a modest life, and I have absolutely no desire to be rich. Honestly, none. In most ways I consider myself already to BE rich. I eat well, sleep peacefully and I am intimate with the sexiest woman on earth. How rich would anyone want to be? And I'm not obsessed with possessions: tonight I gave Marie the keys to the Vista Cruiser, and I rode the train home. She can have the car as long as she needs it, and we'll use the money we got from hers to get our new place.

There's a lot of talk in the news about bailouts and foreclosures and impending crises, and smarter men and women than me will sort all that out. The Senate reportedly took a large step in that direction today. Of course only history will show whether it was the correct one. But I'm a huge believer in individual responsibility and personal choice: I didn't get where I am by accident, and I won't get where I want to go without a plan. And you won't either.

Whatever happens, to the economy or the country or our jobs or our bank accounts, Marie and I have reflected long and hard. We have talked, and argued, and struggled forward and fell back and struggled forward, and we are sure of one thing:

We are better together than we are apart.

Trouble may come. Trials will come, and good luck and bad, toothaches, headaches, illnesses, windfalls, promotions and layoffs, triumphs and tragedies, but after all we have suffered and celebrated, we know in our deepest heart we belong together, and need each other, and life is richer and better and more hopeful when we have each other to hold and to talk to and depend on.

So we're taking the $950 and this week's pay checks and we're applying for an apartment near the central Max station in Beaverton, a ten-minute walk from Austin's school. We'll pack in our furniture and hang our pictures and make hot dogs and macaroni and cheese, light candles and open an eight dollar bottle of wine and call it a celebration, a new chapter in an unfolding story of faith, hope and possibility. That first bite of macaroni will be the most delicious bite of food I have ever tasted, because we have worked so hard and endured so much to make it possible.

After work tonight I drove across town and gave Marie the keys to the Vista Cruiser. We met at the tattoo parlor. Austin was getting a little nose stud for her birthday. Not something I would do, but it looked cute when it was done, and it was lovely to see the pride she felt and at her new-found expression of femininity and independence.

I had a little trouble finding the place. "It's near Tom's restaurant," Marie told me over the phone, "On Canyon Road." I parked at the restaurant and got out to look for it on foot, because I hate searching for someplace unfamiliar behind the wheel. It's too easy to lose track of the traffic around you. The cafe was empty now. They don't serve dinner there; it closes at two like a true cafe. The breakfasts aren't bad but the Big Bear Diner up the street is heavenly.

I walked several blocks in the wrong direction, past a nail salon. No, that wasn't it. A floor covering shop, a tv repair, no tattoo parlor. I went around the block and down again, circled back. Then I heard a voice, faint in the traffic on Canyon Road. "Dale!" Where was she? Up ahead I only saw a Mexican Restaurant and a battery and alternator store. I heard her again but I just wasn't sure where. Neither my eyes or my ears are as sharp as they used to be. I looked this way and that, still couldn't find her. Finally there was a young man up the street wearing a cap backwards, holding one of those signs on a long wood stake with a placard, the kind you always see for furniture liquidations and such. This one was for the pawn shop just off the main drag. He got my attention and pointed across the street, first with his free arm and then his sign and then with a nod of his head. A demonstrative guy, clearly well-suited for his job. There was Marie, up the block and across the street. The tattoo parlor was set back. I jogged across on a break in traffic and made my way to her. She was wearing snug blue jeans and sleeveless black v-neck blouse and her blond curls were flowing loose about her shoulders.

She never looked more lovely and more radiant. We looked into one another's eyes and we knew. We were doing the right thing. It was time, and we were giving everything we had to each other and sharing every decision. I stayed a while and saw the new adornment, and we talked about the possible new location and the small news of the day. I hugged the girls good-bye and walked over to the train.

When I got home there was a package at my door. I'd ordered a new phone from T-Immobile, the worst service company in the entire United States. The phone had arrived, just as promised, ensuring I would have to pay my $150 a month phone bill for another two years. They failed to ship me a new sim card, however, so I still can't use the phone or receive phone calls. I'll have to make another trip to the store, and no doubt they'll charge me $25 for a new sim card.

But not even T-Immobile could ruin a day a great as this one. I sent Marie a good night email, won $5 in the poker game and checked Rob Moseley's Duck blog for the latest updates. And tomorrow is Friday.

Getting back in back in shape

I popped a button on a pair of pants today, a sure sign I should probably work out a little harder and eat a little less. They say your metabolism slows down every seven years. I think mine has taken a nose dive. I remember as young man I could eat a mixing bowl of mashed potatoes and a quart of ice cream and I weighed 165 lbs dripping wet. I think my left leg weighs that much now. I went to the gym tonight, and had a Subway sandwich for dinner without mayonnaise or cheese, so I should be in shape in a couple of days.

What's not in shape is my finances. Like the entire country I need to go on a credit diet. I have way too much debt. The dumbest decision I ever made, other than marrying my third ex-wife, who could throw a conniption fit if a child jostled an imitation Tiffany lamp, was buying the Vista Cruiser. No working man should have a $400 car payment. It was absolutely ridiculous decision, utterly crippling and illogical. I've done a good job and made all the payments on time, but there are about 33 to go. I bought the car for our first date, to impress a girl. A thoroughly romantic and foolish thing for a grown man to do. But it was the best first date in history, driving that pretty blonde girl in the moonlight with the top down. What's six years of an exorbitant car payment next to that? A poet once wrote, "spend all you have for loveliness." I'm not sure which poet anymore, though I used to know. In the words of the immortal Casey Stengel, you could look it up.