A few months back, we decided to have a family portrait taken at the Sears studio in Fargo. We had done this once before and we were determined not to have a stressful experience this time around. Determination isn’t everything.

The shoot itself went well, but our photographer was stressed and it showed. She spoke of how tight their schedule was and how overbooked they were, so I expected that after the photos were taken we could choose a package and be on our way.

We wandered the appliance and electronics areas of the West Acres Sears for some time, then returned for our speedy checkout. I took off with the boy while Nelly and baby endured an endless cross-selling spiel that ignored our carefully planned budget. Nelly held the line, but the tantrum clock was ticking just a few hundred yards away as Dylan’s demands took on a dangerous creativity. “I need the snack with the baseball dinosaur!”

It was too late for a clean getaway. He boxed my ears, our brisk pace and urgent siren parted the shoppers as I carried him toward the photographer’s. Nelly met me with a sympathetic look and the car keys and we were soon safe in the parking lot. “What took so long?” I demanded when the ladies finally showed up.

Our saleswoman/photographer would not take no for an answer and had the nerve to tell my wife that any rating less than an “8” on her satisfaction survey wouldn’t count. We will not be going back to Sears portrait studio.

A few weeks later a professional photographer that Janelle knows socially asked if Julia could be her baby model and a beautiful shoot took place at the Plains Art Museum in downtown Fargo with none of the time and economic pressure of the Sears experience. Please click this link for the pictures.

I used to think it would be silly to pay an independent professional photographer when coupons for Sears come in the mail every few months advertising a cheap and easy experience. Now I know better. When someone looks great in the medium of photography she is photogenic, as the image exceeds the reality. Next time I will seek the unphotogenic. Maybe you should too.

Here’s the deal: busking (sidewalk entertaining for money) is protected as a form of free speech unless a local ordinance restricts that right.  In the downtown zone of Fargo, an ordinance exists and a permit is required if one intends to collect tips.

I have exactly one hour of experience busking for cash, and half the time I was wearing a mask.  The restrictions on sidewalk entertaining were lifted several years ago for a Downtowner event, so I juggled for an hour near Dempsey’s Pub.  I made exactly ten dollars, enjoyed myself for the most part, and maybe even made a little girl’s day.  Hey, $10 an hour is not bad when doing something you love.

Now that summer is nearly upon us, the urge to go pro as a juggler is overwhelming.  I sent a few emails, made a few calls, and ended up at City Hall paying a fee to obtain my Downtown Sidewalk Entertainer’s Permit.  My contact cheerfully marched me around the building from cubicle to cubicle, crossing every “t” and dotting each “i”.  After sitting for a smiling mug shot, my badge was printed and I was offered a tasty treat, “Sucker?” asked my host. The lolly was accepted and I was off on my bicycle to practice in Island Park.

So now I’ve got to actually get out there and do it.  Scary.  Although I practice my contact juggling in parks and have performed several times for small groups, I suspect that sidewalk performance is a horse of a different color.  Wish me luck!

The receding Red River of the North allowed Dylan and I to go on a radventure today, whoo-hoo!   The boy chose the jogger stroller over the bicycle trailer and we set off toward the toll bridge in north Moorhead, hoping but not knowing that the bridge would be open and the trails clear on the Fargo side of the river.  We have had to adjust our daily range a bit to accomodate Baby Julia, but when it is just the guys we are still able to put some miles on.

At Bridgeview park we played a bit on the slides and equipment then walked toward the river.  Nature wasted no time presenting herself as we engaged in a standoff with five deer resting near the water.  Despite the excessive volume of Dylan’s voice (“But I want to talk, Daddy!”), the deer stayed still for quite a while, watching us watching them.

We also engaged in a grisly game of safari gone awry, pretending that a metal culvert surrounded by tall grass was a lion and that a snowsuit stranded in a tree by floodwaters was a guy the lion “got”.  Back at home the boy cheerfully strips down to his underwear, announcing that he is Mowgli and that I am Baloo (the underwear is his loincloth you see), but now that the pretend lion “got” the guy in the tree, he decided the village was safer than the jungle and we hiked back up to the playground.  Our next stop was at a garage sale where a young woman and her family were trying to sell a few things in preparation for a move.  Some free coffee, five minutes, and four dollars later we took off with a fedora and a portable music stand.  Garage sales are fun.

The trails were clear on the North Dakota side of the river, so we wound our way through the Oak Grove neighborhood, emerging at the edge of downtown Fargo, then crossing back to the Minnesota side for a brief stop at the Hjemkomst Center.  The main reason we stopped was to use the bathroom, but we were also granted a brief peek at the famous Viking ship and a chance to explain that the U.S. flag is red white and blue, while the Norwegian flag is red blue and white.

The highly cultural bathroom break reminded me to research my nagging suspicion that the bathrooms on our public golf courses open several months before those of our public parks.  Of course, golfers help to subsidize their privilege to pee indoors with their greens fees, perhaps the solution is to charge the families with young children and the homeless who gather in Davy park a similar fee so they can enjoy the miracle of plumbing as well.

Dylan fell silent as we jogger strolled home, almost but not quite falling asleep.  I am thankful that the river did not crest as high this year, and that the trails near the Red are accessible so early in this beautiful spring season.  I am also thankful that political will has risen along with floodwaters, and long term flood protection is poised to win an epic battle against tax aversion.  The greening of our public spaces is wonderful, as are the shocks of rhubarb and chives growing in our own backyard.  As the Red recedes, it amazes me how quickly nature adapts to the new situation on the ground.  Each spring is a chance to begin again, to correct course by acknowledging the true costs of our choices and the true value of our lives.

Black is metal, black is tough, black shows that I’m man enough.

Don’t even try, ‘cuz nothing hurts me, rouse me and I’ll show no mercy.

Dyed black hair says “I don’t care” (while caring greatly that you stare).

Spiked wristbands, black nail-tipped hands, darker than your average man.

What happens when the world it changes?

Resumes and bills to pay, rebel symbols put away,

Black another of life’s stages.

Whoo-hoo, we did it!  Janelle challenged us to lose 10% of our mass by June 1 and we made it way ahead of schedule (my wife hit her goal weeks ago).  Janelley urged me to submit the Decimation Diet concept to the Minnesota IdeaOpen’s challenge on addressing obesity, so now I not only weigh 10% less, but also have a shot at winning $500 for us and 15k for our community if the idea wins.

The Decimation Diet was such a good idea that we have been using the concept in other areas of our lives.  Warmer weather means we can walk or bike at least 10% of the time, decimating our tailpipe emissions and helping to keep the weight off at the same time.  Who doesn’t like a two for one?  Spring cleaning has turned into systematic de-cluttering as we decimate the “stuff” in our house including clothing, dishes, books, and furniture.  Thinking about what makes the cut and what goes out the door is like shining a spotlight on our lives.  Is it possible to part with several thousand baseball cards in defiance of childhood sentimentality?  What about clothes I really like but are too big for the new me, is saving them a setup for overeating recidivism?

Who knows, if this idea catches fire the definition of the word “decimate” might even swing back to the original reduction by 10% rather than a synonym for “obliterated”.  A Daddy can dream, can’t he?

Baby Bottle Blues

When I woke up this morning, up from a dream,

Little Baby Julia was starting to scream.

Baby Julia, what do you need?  Baby Julia,

I’m begging you please.

Try to understand I am just a man, baby.

I can’t breastfeed but I can…

–

Well I keep offering the bottle but she still says no,

Momma comes home and she’s raring to go

Baby Julia, what do you know?  Baby Julia,

you’re running the show.

My little tiny baby is a real pretty lady,

Baby Julia, what do you know? Well I know…

–

When I woke up this morning, what should I see?

Little Baby Julia was smiling at me.

Baby Julia, glory be, Baby Julia, now you eat food like me.

I’ve got no use for these baby bottle blues.

I said I’ve got no use for these baby bottle blues!

Have you ever seen those crazy parkour videos online? Parkour athletes are the people who run up walls, jump off of buildings, and move with amazing speed and agility from point A to point B in three dimensional space. Practitioners of the art are known as traceurs, literally “tracing” a path (say from the living room to the basement) over and over, building up speed and efficiency until they appear to be flying and rolling and generally moving like a ninja.

Dylan Brandon is now three years old and I have learned that if attention is not paid to a toddler, it is going to cost you.  At the same time it is impossible to always be right by his side when there is laundry to be done, food to be prepared, and guitar to be played.  By combining the principles of parkour with my own ideas on mindful alacrity, I am becoming more adept at juggling competing priorities.  Let’s say the boy is watching The Jungle Book in the basement when Julia starts crying on the second floor. I identify Julia as the top priority then sprint up the stairs in the most efficient (and safe) manner possible. Once baby girl is secured, I trace the same path in reverse altering my level of risk taking due to carrying the cutie. These techniques work great in the kitchen as well, where I practice efficiency of movement by combining trips to the garbage, sink, or refrigerator and save time by not trying to do too many things at once.

Practicing parkour engages one’s brain in assessing at any given moment what is most important, then using one’s body to act swiftly when action is required.  By committing to a discipline of mindful alacrity, there is no need to second guess the small stuff.  If I am having difficulty deciding what is most important or what to do next, I recite my priorities: my self, my children, my wife, my house, my self.  Take a deep breath, decide what most needs doing, then do it to the best of your ability.  Now go jump off a building.

I recently attended my second A Woman’s Perspective (AWP) event at the Hjemkomst Center in Moorhead, and woman am I glad I made it!  Having been the sole male presence in several women’s history classes in college, there was no conflict in my mind in attending an event celebrating women and their artistic interpretations on the themes of work and play, themes which resonate in my own life. That being said, I may have been the only male under age 50 in the audience.

This event was well orchestrated compared to the one I attended last year, clicking right along from original music to poetry to a fashion show featuring creatively constructed aprons to dance performances with a feel good drum session for those who wanted to participate thrown in at the end.  How could I resist?

The overall experience was playful, vibrant, and sacred. Strong emotions were shown by nearly all of the performers: sorrow, joy, nervousness, and crabbiness (“How am I supposed to follow that?” complained an elderly poet peering over the lectern after a rousing Broadway style piano and vocal piece). Admission was free with a food or monetary donation encouraged, and the artwork lining the walls alone was worth the price of a few cans of tuna, beans, and a stick of deodorant (personal care item donations were also accepted). Although I did not partake, a simple soup line was offered to acknowledge that not all women have access to the material luxuries we often take for granted.

I heard several references to men this year, and the overall tone seemed more inclusive with one of the performers making reference to women who weld and men who cook, reassuring me that there are women feminists who appreciate the efforts of their male counterparts. I felt more welcome as a forward thinking man, and the event reinforced my current belief that the key to completing the struggle for women’s rights involves direct action on the part of men. To quote one of my first dispatches for the High Plains Reader, “The glass ceiling will be blown off the penthouse when male CEO’s start taking three years off to raise their children, and twenty-something men work nights and weekends so that their wives can pursue their career goals.” I look forward to performing a contact juggling piece at next year’s event if the AWP will have me.