Rob Krabbe's Blog: From a Krabbe Desk, page 4

The Pirate's Lament

from The Fading Silence, by Rob Krabbe, a novel to be released late 2012

© 2012 Rob Krabbe, NoonAtNight Publications

 

close yet far, tis coming when,

the horizons climb up whilst

night's darkness falls and hells

fury stabs through, again.

 

the roiling sea, so wild and true,

close yet far, and death's green,

not blue, the color of graves

turned open, and empty tombs.

 

ye be sure and thee may too, purses

and coins the strumpet saves;

yet trumpet and lute plays like

dolphins upon the tossing waves.

 

nymphs dance and sea turtles troll

along the undertow and these old

men of the sea roll on and on,

and call to me heart, and soul.

 

this, me lad, shall the foundry

of thy soul, press both treasure

and fodder of hope and long years;

yes, tis true and closer 'een further.

 

For the sight of that kindly old sun's sharpest

rays, can lift the heart of a bad many days.

and if thy countenance, peering, settle upon

me brow, mighty sun, mayest thee do so,

cajoling these old dusty bones, with

a song of, mayhem, dance and rum.

 

So then settle down, like the glint

of the moon on me gold's eight,

and that ray of light, and a pint,

and a good run, then I shouldst

think meself a right lucky pirate!

 

 

“The Fading Silence” (bits from chapter one)

From the Novel “The Fading Silence -a post-apocalyptic story of a boy and his dog“  bits of chapter one – by Rob Krabbe

. . . Burning man, Black Canyon Nevada itself, had no more of an “anarchist community” than Tinley Park and just like its mentor, was the once in a lifetime socially acceptable place for all types of artistic expression.  People were dressed in everything from three piece suites to nothing, and no one seemed to notice the difference.

Then the trumpeter’s call:  Famed lead singer of “The Elite,” a glamorous transvestite named Concertina, took the mike and winked at Garcia Garcia, who for the first time since the event started had come into the concert along the front technical ramparts with a newspaper “press pass.” He used the one ticket he had left that he could not sell.

Concertina’s voice was warmed up and fully shriek-ready, “Quake in fear, my royal dear, because we’re here, we’re queer, and we are ready… to… ROOOOOOOOOOOOCK!” The Elite slammed into their groove, and the crowd went wild as the “Balls of the Belle” the Elite’s energetic dance crew burst onto the stage with color, flashing laser enhanced rhinestones and really, really big hair, to an explosive and deafening dance groove.

The robo lights blasted into furious and blinding animated power.  The “Elite” had evolved into one of the most beloved regional novelty bands, known for having a modicum of musical talent but especially powerful dance grooves, and a great production designer. The hallmark of Elite, was glitter, glamour and glitz.  There was more showmanship and hair mousse in this one group of wonderfully coifed and clad drag queens, (although they referred to themselves as “trans-species”) than any other band in the business, straight gay or otherwise.  They were the ultimate rock and roll “fluffer.”  They were party central, and could whip up a crowd in nine seconds flat, and take them anywhere.  They were contract killers.

The Elite had played the gay bars at first, but soon found it had a following that included all the denominations; gay, straight, crossover, under-over, the musically not-so-serious, to the bi-curious, and tri-furious. The first few years, they were known as a novelty act, but later recognized even outside the region as just a really fun band, with ok music, and really nice girls, who were also incidentally men.

At that moment, the crowd was at its peak, heated up, roiled and boiled, ready to explode with fever for more, after a twelve-song set and many very well timed costume changes.  Concertina pulled her dress up over her head and as the British say, got her “kit off,” throwing her costume at the front row of rockers, who ate it up, one man literally.   Then tossed the remaining articles of clothing as fast as she could whip them off, right before God, and man, and immediately before the police came to arrest her, reached down and proved once and for all that she was indeed a he but only by a very small margin, of which she was delightfully and oddly proud.

As security guards stormed onto the stage, the now fully naked Concertina threw herself off of the stage and crowd surfed.  Hand after hand passed her, body part after body part, laughing hysterically along the heaving audience, giggling and jiggling her way along until a particularly drunk segment of the crowd dropped her, laughing hysterically, onto the grass.  The police covered her with a blanket and carried her away, to an ovation, never before seen at Tinley Park. Of course, they carried her all the way and outside the gates to her waiting car and let her go, as the plan had called for, presumably to come back into the concert to the VIP box that had been agreed on and stocked with many delightful eatable wonders and a small horde of friends and fanatic fans.

The Elite, and the effervescent Concertina, had accomplished the assigned task with their usual magnificence, grace and style. They had coalesced and lit up the crowd beyond control, for the evening’s main concert event.  A few minutes later the rest of her band was ushered into the concert box to enjoy the feast.

The band the audience had truly come to see, the Jake Collins Band was assembling in the green room, just off the main stage.  The members varied from the slightly nervous (Jake) and the not so nervous but slightly or more than slightly drunk (Drummer Dave) the nonchalant but deeply and secretly hysterical keyboardist Stevie O, all the way to the ready to vomit all of his French fries in a spray of self preservation, laughter and Coca-Cola, Guitarist Jeff “the Murph” Murphy.

Underneath the idealistic Zen of the temporary population, and after a day and a half of great rock and roll, was a dish made of moods, lives, stories, laid down stresses, fighting of illnesses, partying, insanity, teen rebellion, old angst revived, and underneath all of that was the ultimate “buzz,” which “The Elite,” had brought to a full blaze.

Finally the stage went completely dark, the crowd exploded in a cacophony of cheers and applause.  The announcer adopted his monster-truck-gravely-1990s retro-world wrestling federation rock and roll voice, and began his introduction of The Jake Collins Band, the crowd exploded over and over after each couple of words, into an earth shattering frenzy.  The announcer fired up by 2.5 million watts of glorious power, had to wait several times for the crowd to give him room to continue.

A lighting tech leaned over to one of the spot operators, and said, “man, this is going to be off the main-chain.”

“You are not kidding dude.” His partner warmed up his spotlight with the shutters closed but ready.

From the moment “JCB” snuck onto the dark stage, escorted by their crew.  Plugged in, pampered by stage techs, like astronauts being strapped into the command capsule.  The audience went insane, they could sense that the band was getting into place, even on the dark stage.  The crowd started clapping. The rhythm began slow and increased in tempo and strength, as if to encourage the band to forego any more preparation or delay and play some “damned rock and roll.”

The crowd stayed insane for the next two hours; screaming, thunderous, and deafening applause filled the amphitheater.  Almost louder than the band played, the rhythmic jumping, whistling, clapping and pounding echoed all the way across the lake from Kenosha to Kalamazoo.

The “boys” seized the stage, as a conquering army takes a hill.  Years of horrible clubs, dives, head banging, beer-bottle throwing, music at parties, and the “paying-your-dues gigs” had finally paid off.  Now they would celebrate with the orgy of appreciation their devoted fans would offer them.

The JCB was in perfect form; the energy of the crowd injecting them.  Everything went almost perfectly for the two-hour concert.  The band apparently had not been watching the clock, because the third hour now was half way over, and the crowd had only gotten more energetic as they continued to rock.  Finally, the show, before they knew it, was almost history in the books.  Jake looked over at his guitarist, who was drenched in sweat, and smiled in disbelief.  Jeff smiled back equally amazed.  They had wanted this kind of stardom all of their young lives and now here they were.  They had been announced off stage twice and now were ready for the final encore. Jake shook his head, nodding the signal to his drummer.  Drummer Dave kicked into the next and last song, settling into the opening pattern – the richest and fattest groove of the night.

As the groove was laid down, Dave whipped a drum stick high into the air, spinning, and grabbed another stick out of his stick-bag-sling, neatly slung like a quiver of arrows on the side of the floor tom.  The stick spun in the air, completed its arch and started its descent.   Then without any effort, the new stick smashed a tom run, and then was launched like a knife across the stage at lightning speed, Dave’s signature move.  He somehow snatched the spinning stick out of the air, and the flying stick sped past Jake, within an inch of his eyes, and stuck into the mesh on the side-fill-monitor to the left of Jake’s front stage position.  Jake laughed, and Drummer Dave winked at him.  Jake had known Dave since high school and there was no one better with a drumstick, whether beating out a groove or surgically throwing into a target.

One night in particular, Dave had placed a well aimed drum mallet into the forehead of a fan, who had downed several drinks too many, and was accosting a female sound crew member at a show at the Oasis in downtown Hollywood.  Dave put the guy out, in perfect meter and didn’t miss a single beat.  The Oasis, was a meat grinder.  The kind of club that started off the evening with a general low rumble brawl, and got violent from there.  The kind of place the band had cut its teeth on the first couple years.

The drums in full groove, the laser light show finale exploded into light waves dancing around the drums and drum stage.  Soon the bass, offered by Ray-Ray, rif’d in and joined the drums.  This next bit was where Jake’s band shined.  They were great showmen, but they were better at just being “kick-ass rockers,” as the last issue of Rock Magazine had said, “It is as if they have one powerful heart beat, in one deep-ass rhythm.

The boys liked to call this kind of groove, a “deep pocket” groove, or “kick ass deep pocket groove” like loose big pockets in comfortable jeans.  Their music had been called “Zen Rock,” a term originally coined by a famous music critic named David Shimmer, re-invented in the write up from the release party of the album the JCB was touring now.

“The Murph” was then unleashed to lay down the guitar back-groove “crunch”, of the century. As he did, the already massive rhythms became even fatter and deeper, drawing musical blood, like a deep arterial gash.  It was the kind of groove that pounded you on the chest like a ball peen hammer, and tore itself into you.  Even your heartbeat had no choice but to adjust to the tempo of the groove. It couldn’t have been a better hand off.  The band built the foundation to the lyric.  Jake’s job was to make love to the audience through the microphone as if each audience member was the only one in the room.

He felt the need building . . . a sexual hunger, the need to let escape, the first words.  It was no wonder that performing, when it was right, was described in sexual terms, Jake smiled, as Jake allowed the rhythms being laid down to bring him to the place he wanted to be—and to bring the audience to the place he knew they needed to be.  The crowd held its breath, waiting for the first words.  Jake’s ability to transport an audience was legendary.

Jake stepped up to the microphone, and looked at the faces in the first few rows. Then he closed his eyes and swayed a bit with the groove.

     This is the moment . . . I know

     I can see it deep . . . in you

     That’s the place . . . we’ll go

     Until I scream . . . in you

     Cry . . . in you

     Until I die . . . in you,

     FOREVER.

The audience, breathing in unison, short of breath. Jake continued,

     No choice . . . no will

     you and I . . . untill

     I lay you down . . .

     and I hold . . . my . . . breath

     . . . in you

Completely hypnotized; male, female, all joined in unity.  No tragedy and no pain.  Escape from life, fear, everything.  A moment away from struggles and stresses, jobs and problems—every man, woman, child, brought falling into the soul of the song.

The chorus next,

Take a thousand years

     Take my soul

     Take my tears

     Make me whole

     Give you all of me

     All my life

     For this moment

    

     Take a thousand years

     Take my soul

     Take my tears

     Make me whole

     Give you all of me

     All my life

     Forever

An instrumental break was coming, and a drum rif followed by a razor cut guitar solo, ripping open the wound and tearing away what was left of the defenses.  The guitar raked over the crowd, leaving them gasping.

Then a crazy tom run, down from the high can,  traveling, pushing through the cross toms to the floor, leading to the moment to end all drum rifs when suddenly, unexpected to the audience, there was an planned explosion timed by a tech-sideman, on the cross-snare hit, triggering massive pyro-techniques and lighting effects.  At that very second, when the blast charges fired, blinding, deafening explosions, Drummer Dave’s cross snare against the rim of the giant brass snare-drum, a “rim shot” like a freaking cannon stopped all the hearts in the room.  It was ear splitting loud and amplified through the sound system, almost broke eardrums.  The explosives timed to the exact same moment, the lasers flashed, the “light cannons” aimed right at the audience fired, blinding the already deaf.  It took seven computers, working twenty banks of dozens of relays relays, all on split-second time, triggered by Dave’s rim shot, and a couple of 12 dollar an hour side techs hit the final cue – a complete sound and lighting black out at the very second of the explosions.

The lights . . . out.

The band . . . silent.

The Techs holding their breath for fear their breathing could be heard.  One tech even shut off his board light, for fear he was being lit up like a Christmas Tree.   The kind of total effect, and detail oriented planning that had given the band that extra something.

That final drum crack . . . reverberated and echoed through the amphitheater, out of the park and into the streets, bouncing off buildings, street signs, bill boards and echoing and ebbing for miles. The crowds collective gasp was audible throughout the amphitheater. The sheer drama of it was incredible.

Stunned, everyone held their breath, waiting for what was next.

Then something even more stunning happened, unexpected to everyone.  The deafening silence, and wonderful darkness from that beautiful dramatic musical break, in that glorious song . . .

 

Stayed.

 

 

"The Fading Silence" (bits from chapter one)

From the Novel "The Fading Silence -a post-apocalyptic story of a boy and his dog"  bits of chapter one – by Rob Krabbe

. . . Burning man, Black Canyon Nevada itself, had no more of an "anarchist community" than Tinley Park and just like its mentor, was the once in a lifetime socially acceptable place for all types of artistic expression.  People were dressed in everything from three piece suites to nothing, and no one seemed to notice the difference.

Then the trumpeter's call:  Famed lead singer of "The Elite," a glamorous transvestite named Concertina, took the mike and winked at Garcia Garcia, who for the first time since the event started had come into the concert along the front technical ramparts with a newspaper "press pass." He used the one ticket he had left that he could not sell.

Concertina's voice was warmed up and fully shriek-ready, "Quake in fear, my royal dear, because we're here, we're queer, and we are ready… to… ROOOOOOOOOOOOCK!" The Elite slammed into their groove, and the crowd went wild as the "Balls of the Belle" the Elite's energetic dance crew burst onto the stage with color, flashing laser enhanced rhinestones and really, really big hair, to an explosive and deafening dance groove.

The robo lights blasted into furious and blinding animated power.  The "Elite" had evolved into one of the most beloved regional novelty bands, known for having a modicum of musical talent but especially powerful dance grooves, and a great production designer. The hallmark of Elite, was glitter, glamour and glitz.  There was more showmanship and hair mousse in this one group of wonderfully coifed and clad drag queens, (although they referred to themselves as "trans-species") than any other band in the business, straight gay or otherwise.  They were the ultimate rock and roll "fluffer."  They were party central, and could whip up a crowd in nine seconds flat, and take them anywhere.  They were contract killers.

The Elite had played the gay bars at first, but soon found it had a following that included all the denominations; gay, straight, crossover, under-over, the musically not-so-serious, to the bi-curious, and tri-furious. The first few years, they were known as a novelty act, but later recognized even outside the region as just a really fun band, with ok music, and really nice girls, who were also incidentally men.

At that moment, the crowd was at its peak, heated up, roiled and boiled, ready to explode with fever for more, after a twelve-song set and many very well timed costume changes.  Concertina pulled her dress up over her head and as the British say, got her "kit off," throwing her costume at the front row of rockers, who ate it up, one man literally.   Then tossed the remaining articles of clothing as fast as she could whip them off, right before God, and man, and immediately before the police came to arrest her, reached down and proved once and for all that she was indeed a he but only by a very small margin, of which she was delightfully and oddly proud.

As security guards stormed onto the stage, the now fully naked Concertina threw herself off of the stage and crowd surfed.  Hand after hand passed her, body part after body part, laughing hysterically along the heaving audience, giggling and jiggling her way along until a particularly drunk segment of the crowd dropped her, laughing hysterically, onto the grass.  The police covered her with a blanket and carried her away, to an ovation, never before seen at Tinley Park. Of course, they carried her all the way and outside the gates to her waiting car and let her go, as the plan had called for, presumably to come back into the concert to the VIP box that had been agreed on and stocked with many delightful eatable wonders and a small horde of friends and fanatic fans.

The Elite, and the effervescent Concertina, had accomplished the assigned task with their usual magnificence, grace and style. They had coalesced and lit up the crowd beyond control, for the evening's main concert event.  A few minutes later the rest of her band was ushered into the concert box to enjoy the feast.

The band the audience had truly come to see, the Jake Collins Band was assembling in the green room, just off the main stage.  The members varied from the slightly nervous (Jake) and the not so nervous but slightly or more than slightly drunk (Drummer Dave) the nonchalant but deeply and secretly hysterical keyboardist Stevie O, all the way to the ready to vomit all of his French fries in a spray of self preservation, laughter and Coca-Cola, Guitarist Jeff "the Murph" Murphy.

Underneath the idealistic Zen of the temporary population, and after a day and a half of great rock and roll, was a dish made of moods, lives, stories, laid down stresses, fighting of illnesses, partying, insanity, teen rebellion, old angst revived, and underneath all of that was the ultimate "buzz," which "The Elite," had brought to a full blaze.

Finally the stage went completely dark, the crowd exploded in a cacophony of cheers and applause.  The announcer adopted his monster-truck-gravely-1990s retro-world wrestling federation rock and roll voice, and began his introduction of The Jake Collins Band, the crowd exploded over and over after each couple of words, into an earth shattering frenzy.  The announcer fired up by 2.5 million watts of glorious power, had to wait several times for the crowd to give him room to continue.

A lighting tech leaned over to one of the spot operators, and said, "man, this is going to be off the main-chain."

"You are not kidding dude." His partner warmed up his spotlight with the shutters closed but ready.

From the moment "JCB" snuck onto the dark stage, escorted by their crew.  Plugged in, pampered by stage techs, like astronauts being strapped into the command capsule.  The audience went insane, they could sense that the band was getting into place, even on the dark stage.  The crowd started clapping. The rhythm began slow and increased in tempo and strength, as if to encourage the band to forego any more preparation or delay and play some "damned rock and roll."

The crowd stayed insane for the next two hours; screaming, thunderous, and deafening applause filled the amphitheater.  Almost louder than the band played, the rhythmic jumping, whistling, clapping and pounding echoed all the way across the lake from Kenosha to Kalamazoo.

The "boys" seized the stage, as a conquering army takes a hill.  Years of horrible clubs, dives, head banging, beer-bottle throwing, music at parties, and the "paying-your-dues gigs" had finally paid off.  Now they would celebrate with the orgy of appreciation their devoted fans would offer them.

The JCB was in perfect form; the energy of the crowd injecting them.  Everything went almost perfectly for the two-hour concert.  The band apparently had not been watching the clock, because the third hour now was half way over, and the crowd had only gotten more energetic as they continued to rock.  Finally, the show, before they knew it, was almost history in the books.  Jake looked over at his guitarist, who was drenched in sweat, and smiled in disbelief.  Jeff smiled back equally amazed.  They had wanted this kind of stardom all of their young lives and now here they were.  They had been announced off stage twice and now were ready for the final encore. Jake shook his head, nodding the signal to his drummer.  Drummer Dave kicked into the next and last song, settling into the opening pattern – the richest and fattest groove of the night.

As the groove was laid down, Dave whipped a drum stick high into the air, spinning, and grabbed another stick out of his stick-bag-sling, neatly slung like a quiver of arrows on the side of the floor tom.  The stick spun in the air, completed its arch and started its descent.   Then without any effort, the new stick smashed a tom run, and then was launched like a knife across the stage at lightning speed, Dave's signature move.  He somehow snatched the spinning stick out of the air, and the flying stick sped past Jake, within an inch of his eyes, and stuck into the mesh on the side-fill-monitor to the left of Jake's front stage position.  Jake laughed, and Drummer Dave winked at him.  Jake had known Dave since high school and there was no one better with a drumstick, whether beating out a groove or surgically throwing into a target.

One night in particular, Dave had placed a well aimed drum mallet into the forehead of a fan, who had downed several drinks too many, and was accosting a female sound crew member at a show at the Oasis in downtown Hollywood.  Dave put the guy out, in perfect meter and didn't miss a single beat.  The Oasis, was a meat grinder.  The kind of club that started off the evening with a general low rumble brawl, and got violent from there.  The kind of place the band had cut its teeth on the first couple years.

The drums in full groove, the laser light show finale exploded into light waves dancing around the drums and drum stage.  Soon the bass, offered by Ray-Ray, rif'd in and joined the drums.  This next bit was where Jake's band shined.  They were great showmen, but they were better at just being "kick-ass rockers," as the last issue of Rock Magazine had said, "It is as if they have one powerful heart beat, in one deep-ass rhythm.

The boys liked to call this kind of groove, a "deep pocket" groove, or "kick ass deep pocket groove" like loose big pockets in comfortable jeans.  Their music had been called "Zen Rock," a term originally coined by a famous music critic named David Shimmer, re-invented in the write up from the release party of the album the JCB was touring now.

"The Murph" was then unleashed to lay down the guitar back-groove "crunch", of the century. As he did, the already massive rhythms became even fatter and deeper, drawing musical blood, like a deep arterial gash.  It was the kind of groove that pounded you on the chest like a ball peen hammer, and tore itself into you.  Even your heartbeat had no choice but to adjust to the tempo of the groove. It couldn't have been a better hand off.  The band built the foundation to the lyric.  Jake's job was to make love to the audience through the microphone as if each audience member was the only one in the room.

He felt the need building . . . a sexual hunger, the need to let escape, the first words.  It was no wonder that performing, when it was right, was described in sexual terms, Jake smiled, as Jake allowed the rhythms being laid down to bring him to the place he wanted to be—and to bring the audience to the place he knew they needed to be.  The crowd held its breath, waiting for the first words.  Jake's ability to transport an audience was legendary.

Jake stepped up to the microphone, and looked at the faces in the first few rows. Then he closed his eyes and swayed a bit with the groove.

     This is the moment . . . I know

     I can see it deep . . . in you

     That's the place . . . we'll go

     Until I scream . . . in you

     Cry . . . in you

     Until I die . . . in you,

     FOREVER.

The audience, breathing in unison, short of breath. Jake continued,

     No choice . . . no will

     you and I . . . untill

     I lay you down . . .

     and I hold . . . my . . . breath

     . . . in you

Completely hypnotized; male, female, all joined in unity.  No tragedy and no pain.  Escape from life, fear, everything.  A moment away from struggles and stresses, jobs and problems—every man, woman, child, brought falling into the soul of the song.

The chorus next,

Take a thousand years

     Take my soul

     Take my tears

     Make me whole

     Give you all of me

     All my life

     For this moment

    

     Take a thousand years

     Take my soul

     Take my tears

     Make me whole

     Give you all of me

     All my life

     Forever

An instrumental break was coming, and a drum rif followed by a razor cut guitar solo, ripping open the wound and tearing away what was left of the defenses.  The guitar raked over the crowd, leaving them gasping.

Then a crazy tom run, down from the high can,  traveling, pushing through the cross toms to the floor, leading to the moment to end all drum rifs when suddenly, unexpected to the audience, there was an planned explosion timed by a tech-sideman, on the cross-snare hit, triggering massive pyro-techniques and lighting effects.  At that very second, when the blast charges fired, blinding, deafening explosions, Drummer Dave's cross snare against the rim of the giant brass snare-drum, a "rim shot" like a freaking cannon stopped all the hearts in the room.  It was ear splitting loud and amplified through the sound system, almost broke eardrums.  The explosives timed to the exact same moment, the lasers flashed, the "light cannons" aimed right at the audience fired, blinding the already deaf.  It took seven computers, working twenty banks of dozens of relays relays, all on split-second time, triggered by Dave's rim shot, and a couple of 12 dollar an hour side techs hit the final cue – a complete sound and lighting black out at the very second of the explosions.

The lights . . . out.

The band . . . silent.

The Techs holding their breath for fear their breathing could be heard.  One tech even shut off his board light, for fear he was being lit up like a Christmas Tree.   The kind of total effect, and detail oriented planning that had given the band that extra something.

That final drum crack . . . reverberated and echoed through the amphitheater, out of the park and into the streets, bouncing off buildings, street signs, bill boards and echoing and ebbing for miles. The crowds collective gasp was audible throughout the amphitheater. The sheer drama of it was incredible.

Stunned, everyone held their breath, waiting for what was next.

Then something even more stunning happened, unexpected to everyone.  The deafening silence, and wonderful darkness from that beautiful dramatic musical break, in that glorious song . . .

 

Stayed.

 

 

Something More

© 2012 Rob Krabbe – NoonAtNight Music

There's got to be something more than this,

More than just this emptiness.

There's got to be something more than this,

More than just reasons, or your purposes.

This life and all it has to give.

All that I can take and all I'll live.

More than what I see, through the tears.

More than just the journey through the years.

The legacy won't mean much in the silence.

This struggle just to get to the horizon.

The soul that never dreams or plans or schemes;

There's got to be something more than this waiting through the night.

If quitting is all there is, when they pull the final curtain.

Fading like a silence into the past, and nothing lasts,

Then my everything, my everything, everything: echoes far behind me

What the hell would you care if I just faded away?

What the hell would you care if I just faded away?

There's got to be something more than this,

More than just this emptiness.

There's got to be something more than this

More than just reasons, or your purposes.

Irony, Parenting, and Other Synonyms

I love irony.  Irony is entertaining.  I mean, I get it that we were created with a deeply felt spiritual longing and yet a far easier to achieve physical orgasm.  See?  Ironic.  Spirit/body conflict.

Plato understood.  Carl Jung understood.  Its fun for the whole family.

Like when someone very young asks, "How do I really know if I am in love?"  A wise person will simply explode into uncontrollable laughter before answering that question with the simple rule, "if you have to ask, you are not."  Or a young couple is waiting to get married until they are "ready," or even better, "ready to have kids."  See?  Fun with Irony.

One of my favorites:  When I was a young man, and there was a baby on the way, I asked a friend, "What can you tell me about parenting? You have been successful, and I want to learn."  He said something to me that I have often repeated, now that Melissa and I are about done with parenting, to others, and found it very satisfying, and adding humorous value to my life.  The subtext will become clear later, but it is simply this that he said to me: "There is no way to be prepared for kids."  Simply put.  There are no tricks.  No tips that work for everyone.  No magic bullet.  Don't read any books.  Dr. Spock knew nothing.  Ignore any advice you get, because only people who don't really know, will give it.

There is no good class to take.  You don't have to be any special kind of idiot to have children, and then, there is nothing that really works to raise them. Ok, ok, . . . except maybe just love your kids, and pray a lot."  I was very disappointed.  He and his wife seemed to have such perfect kids and I wanted some inside information.  Years later, I came to understand on a different level what he was doing.  He was lying, and accepting a reality.

From the moment I fully knew that one is never really ready financially or otherwise for children, I was open to a new and wonderful wisdom: "Percieved readiness at all, for anything, enters a person into its own kind of foolishness."   Think about how one becomes pregnant in fact.  Its actually quite funny.  Irony again.  (Now those who struggle trying to get pregnant, please forgive me this moment.  My thoughts and prayers are with you.)  But for most, whether one is ready or not is irrelevant, one simply, in a moment of stupid human physicality, hangs around longer than one should. Frankly, if you're me, this one is the only reality.  You see, I had some pretty high ideals, thoughts and standards, and a plan. Didn't we all?  But we are human, which is shorthand, for ironically and foolishly over complicated.  Great thinking and complex cerebral functioning goes right out the window, when  somebody rubs our heads, and honestly it just feels so much better than rubbing our own heads, we become blathering idiots for a moment and ready or not, one hesitation too many and [blam]-family.

So, plans to the side for a moment, a person deals with the new reality.  And then we ask a friend who has seen some success in parenting, "What do we do now? Please help us!"  And we get the answer that has been passed down from generation to generation.  There is no help.  Nothing works.

So now we have covered how much being ready to have children entered into my thinking, directly before our first conception (what a funny word, conception).

I felt it was not fair that my friend refused to impart his wisdom.  Certainly he had learned something to share.  To all of you who are not parents yet, I am about to break the rules and the code of silence that has existed for years.  It's true that whatever you do, your children are in God's hands for the most part.  For those of you who are not believers . . . well . . . uh . . . you are just as screwed as the rest of us, maybe even more.  Just remember the following truth: no matter what you do: Good things happen to bad people; bad things happen to good people.  Sometimes people change for no reason.  Sometimes people don't ever change, even though they would have been much better off changing. Reasons don't matter, and usually don't enter into the equation of anything meaningful in human dynamics.  And above logic, foolishness always prevails. It goes on and gets worse, so that's enough for now.

At fifty years old I can share this.  I will be drummed out of the core but, I don't really care so much.  It wasn't that my friend could not have given me great advice on child rearing.  It wasn't true that there were no real skills that one could learn.  Actually he could have shared some really great things with us that would have helped.  You become a much better parent right about the time you are done with it.  In fact if we practiced first, on dummy kids (who says we don't?) we would get good at it before we had the real ones. Kind of like a first car.  You know very well you have been told about changing the oil, but until you blow up your first engine and have to pay for it, you don't learn to do it.  My friend?  Sure, he and his wife had some skills with kids, once they learned the "hard way."  He simply and in a very nasty and ornery way, chose not to share. 

The great adult conspiracy! That's why.  Passed onto him by his parents.  See, no one helped him, and because no one helped his father and mother; for generations it has been a heck of a lot more fun to sit back and watch everyone go through the same crap as you had to go through.  It makes us feel better about the stupid things we did.  This, of course started with Adam and Eve, when Cain beat a little too much crap out of Able, and has existed since then.  To be fair, the best birth control in the world would be an accurate appraisal of what parenting really is:  The best and worst decision of your life.

But, I am breaking the chain!  I will share a select seven truths. A list of things that I have learned while raising children.  I am getting hate mail already, and I have not even posted this yet.  You can take these or leave them.  I won't write a book because it would still be, a very short list of things that will or won't work, and nothing more.  These things just worked for us.  That's all I am saying.  Don't sue me when they don't work, use your own God given brain, and besides I don't have anything for you to get in a settlement, that my children haven't already spent (the real truth).  We still had heart break, disappointments, made mistakes, had successes and failures like everyone else.  We also ended up with the most rewarding experiences and the greatest adult friends in our children now, even though for a while it was a toss up.

Maybe if we pass this stuff along, then the next generation will add to them, and we can break this generational and intentional curse, right about the time the end of the world comes.

1)     The Event Application:  Make a form that kids have to fill out for everything they want permission to do.  It should have contact information, dates, transportation details, supervision details. Require them to write down all aspects of whatever the event is, who is also going, what time they will be back or need picking up, and what the expected outcome will be.  For fun, make them turn it in in triplicate.  And reiterate in print at the bottom of the page above the signatures, what your rules are.  Here is the most important thing:  Permission is only granted and only valid when the user has obtained valid signatures from both parents.  Then never, never sign one.  Believe me, mostly, the times they will go to the trouble to fill this baby out, is for the things that you would have said no to anyway.  And when you forget, and you will, they can't tell you, you said yes without a signature.  Genius.

2)     The Friend Application: similar to above, make a form that potential friends, anything more than acquaintances, must fill out and submit before being allowed to hang out or be involved in any way with your children after school hours.  (It is just a fact that you can't have any effect on who they hang out with during school, so your best bet there, is to limit the time and risk of contact at school by making sure you pick them up on time.)  Then at the bottom, have a place for the applicant friend's parents to sign and waive any liability for knowing your children.

3)     Accept the following as simple fact, and a condition of raising children:  You can assume that your children will do things and act and speak in a way that you would not recognize if you were to see them out of your own parental or home context.  You should just get over that right now.  I am not saying it is inevitable . . . ok, yes I am.

4)     It is a commonly accepted fact that all sets of human parents produce at least one bad child per litter.  One that is less smart, less talented, or shows less potential.  Out of a litter of two to seven or more, one will be inferior.  Let your children know of this reality from the day they are born.  But never, under any circumstances, ever, let your children know which child this is.

5)     Have one current and consistent punishment for all crimes.  Consistency in discipline and drawing behavioral lines around your children from day one, is one of the most important rules in parenting, possibly second only to loving them unconditionally (seriously).  Know this: rules exist.  In life, later, they will exist, even if they did not in your home.  If they have had no experience with them, they will not respect rules as adults either, and you will end up visiting them by pressing your face against the glass, and speaking through a telephone that smells like three day old beer, until a really apathetic individual says "times up."  My children had a bedtime until they were . . . actually they still do, and one is married.  My seniors in high school still had to go to bed by a certain time.  Why?  Because I'm old and need my sleep.  It doesn't hurt them either and their teachers will thank you.  Of course, discipline in the home has two sides, as we alluded to before.  Infractions will happen with most rules, and with all children.  The punishment will need to change, and be altered based on the severity of the crime and the age of the children.  You don't want to send a 19 year old to the "time out chair" as this will be less effective than taking away the cell phone etc.  In fact my 15 year old would love to be sent to "time out."  IMPORTANT:  punishment should be levied without anger and without hesitation, after two warnings.  Count: "That's one, Johnny, stop lighting your sister on fire."  Then go back to what you were doing.  Trust me, he will light his sister up again.  So, dispassionately say "that's two, Johnny, stop lighting your sister one fire." And then the last and very important part, without which, the other two steps are silly and a waste of time, and power.  "That's three, you are on a time out Johnny."  Implement punishment.  Always and firmly. No anger.  Then make Johnny vacuum up his sister. No leniency.  No hesitation.  No early parole.  No change.  No grace.  Always count, and always go from one to three in order, by way of two.  Do not skip one and go straight to two because you're irritated, or want the behavior to stop before the inevitable three count, thinking you will suffer less or save time.  Always count to three and then on three levy the penalty with no lessoning of the enforcement or any emotional expression what-so-ever.  Your children will check the fenses for weak spots period.  Show them there are none.

6)     Teach your children to be good and polite citizens by being good and polite citizens.  Apologize humbly when you screw up, and you will.  One thing I learned though that adds more entertainment value to the experience: When you have wronged your child, gotten angry or treated them with disrespect somehow or a lack of attention to some stupid little thing that mattered to them but did not to you (naturally). Apologize to them, but importantly, not always for the thing you did, sometimes apologize for something that did not even happen.  It will keep them off balance, and the confused look on their faces is very entertaining.  Warning:  after age seventy you might want to avoid using this latter technique, as it will tend to give people the reason they needed to stick you away somewhere.

7)     The most important thing, and it matters most of all.  Don't have kids.  If you cannot start the day loving them and faking interest in the silly things that are important to kids, and end the day still loving them, when they smell and eat all the pop tarts.  If you can't make them feel important, even when you know in your heart they may never be. Just don't have kids. If you're worried your life will change: don't have kids.  If you're worried that you will be inconvenienced or won't be able to do the things you love all the time anymore, won't be able to just get up and go out to dinner, do what you want . . . don't have kids. If you ever want to have sex again, and not be heard through the walls: don't have kids.  See?  Irony.

And as usual, we are back to where we started; you won't really always have a choice.  It's very hard to raise kids, but it's much harder to leave the party in time.  That's code for: very easy to get pregnant.  Irony again.  Aside from those few who would be really great parents but struggle to have children, for the most part it is ironically easy to have children.  You just have to do something you really, really like doing!  For most men you only have to do it for a couple minutes, and it's something that's really hard, almost impossible to stop until you're already too late.  Then like it or not, you're in the club, ready or not.

That's really about it.  Next post I will be talking about the wisdom of screwing up your own credit really badly, and on purpose, to avoid identification theft.

P.S. I was going to post on Valentines day, but found a better thought than the one I had at the time,  ata blog I sometimes read. http://vickybeeching.com/blog/why-i-struggle-with-valentines-day/trackback/

Activia, and Politics

by Rob Krabbe

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, on infinitum.  Ok, well not really, but some days just plain feel that way.  I sit drinking a nice Brazilian Cerrito, full bodied roast,. Pressed into a strong pot of morning coffee, and I ponder how long it takes, when one begins eating "Activia," to feel as regular as Jamie Lee Curtis?  She sure as heck looks regular and she does claim as such in the commercials.  I mean, do I need to keep track?  Or will it just dawn on me at some point that I became regular?

Here is a thought, maybe I could put up a calendar, and circle my days.  Red highlighters; no, brown and yellow.  Or a number 1 for one thing and  . . . it could  be called my "crappy calendar."  Butt, I already have one of those; it is my work calendar.  Then again, with irregularity, some days it is  work, so maybe they need to be one in the same.  It is in the spirit of this thought that I decide to keep track of my bowel movements on the same calendar as I keep track of my jobs and clients.  This decided, I move on to other thoughts today.

I have another decision plaguing me, that it would seem has much more importance in my life.  The campaign for president in full swing, or will be soon.  The primary is about over, and there will be delegates and commercials, posters, signs on lawns, and a republican candidate chosen, and then, full on, I will know—we all will know that it is officially a campaign season.  So, do I, for the first time in my fifty year plus life, get excited, and involved in the right which is mine, and every American's, to be an integral part of our political system? Or do I enter a television fast, again, and ignore the entire thing until someone decides for me, who will lead our country in the next four years?  I know there is a right answer here.  Yet, I am a registered "disgruntled" party member.  It is not my right to babble on continuously about the election, and the crappy (calendar again) candidates, the "lesser of several evils," or the seeming existential apathy which comes much easier than believing that I can make any kind of difference in the outcome, by really involving myself in the input.

I believe it is a solemn duty.  Men and women died for our freedoms.  Suffered and died for our right to elect our own government.  Did they die for our right to be apathetic, and choose not to be involved?  I stagger back, chagrined.  Hey, I think so, but the common banter about town is not.  I mean, unpopular as that may well be, I believe that registering as a member of the "Disillusionment Party," is also my right.  But isn't there an implied need to shut the hell up, and not complain, when things don't go my way in Washington, if I refuse to be part of the process?  Can I really vote, by not voting?  Can I say, no,  to voting for someone, or a straight ticket vote; or even knowing what my ticket is, just because there are no other candidates or ideas I like less or more?

I am in the midst of this internal controversial dialog when suddenly I need to go.  I mean really, I need to go. Quickly too, and mark my calendar.  Saved by the . . . bell.  Thank you Jamie Lee Curtis, wherever you are!

Somehow I end this discussion with the understanding that it is wholly appropriate, that "one" is the reason I get distracted from "another."

Weltschmerz and the Golden Rule

by Melissa Krabbe

It's been said that Generation Y is the apathetic generation.  I don't know if that's really true, but maybe we, like they, are suffering from:

weltschmerz  \VELT-shmairts\   noun, often capitalized

 1 : mental depression or apathy caused by comparison of the actual state of the world with an ideal state[1]

This morning my husband announced that if someone were to ask him what party he is registered to vote under that he'd have to answer, "I'm in the disillusioned party."  I imagine he's not alone in that.  Like many this time of year, we are using the mute button on the television much more than usual to avoid listening to all the campaign ads.  I suppose the polls show that all the mudslinging works, but considering how much we're all complaining about it, you'd think they'd try something else.  On the other hand, maybe in our current post-Christian state, we actually think mudslinging is ok?

Ron Paul, in response to Gingrich in one of the South Carolina debates, suggested that we should do unto others as we would have them do to us.[2]  Of course he's right in that, and maybe our weltschmerz comes from wishing that were how we we're all behaving.  It's what we're preaching from our pulpits, or at least what we should be preaching.  But Ron Paul got booed for suggesting that this golden rule could be applied to foreign policy.  Sure, being nice isn't always fun, but isn't it still the right thing to do?

I'm not suggesting we should all be running around hugging everyone and everything, even bare naked penguins, although yesterday was National Penguin Awareness Day[3] …but maybe it's time to be the country that's known for being Christian because we're so good at helping each other out and being respectful of each other.  Isn't that what our mothers taught us?  Our campaigns would sure be different, and maybe the rest of the world wouldn't be so anti-American after awhile.

Sorry, I got off in a little bit of weltschmerz.

[1] http://www.merriam-webster.com/ January 21, 2012

[2] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lP04NnGa4gA&feature=youtu.be; Matthew 7:12

[3] http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/01/20/national-penguin-awareness-day_n_811785.html#s227117&title=march_of_the

There is Still Time

© 2012 Rob Krabbe

There is still time.

I look into her face,

my eyes drill deep.

I'm burning, and blurry;

tired and weary, and

it's an endless road.

Oh yes though, I travel

the path, blinking away

the sand and fire to go

where I have to go.

One by one, by one,

the minutes tick away.

Into the melancholy.

My foolish old heart

hopes, and I sing, because

hope is what there is today.

Her hands, so small and thin;

she dances and spins,

breathes, breaths,

. . . breaths.

There is time, sure,

but there is love, so I

lay back and breathe too,

close my eyes and breathe.

And I've heard this before,

And now it's like a new birth.

A pristine moment, a morning

walk in the cool, mountain air:

Without joy.

Without anger.

Without hope.

Without love,

breathing is nothing but a clock.

Captain Evil

His spitting sounded like "thud" without the "d." Boots scraping on the concrete. His heels leather but hard as if they were steel plated. Whip crack, spit, scrape, scrape, scrape; whip crack, spit, scrape, scrape, scrape. On infinitum. From distant to passing by, his wind flapped coat tails like a flag trailing him. A black flag with no skull and cross bones.

His dark almost colorless eyes dart ahead to find the next victim. He walks as if in slow motion, enjoying the momentum of steady unstoppable power.

A moth on a big green maple leaf, floating there on the end of a low branch that just drifted over the sidewalk. Hands like lightning, Whip crack, spit, scrape, scrape, scrape. The moth blown apart into moth pieces floating in all directions, shredded leaf still attached but done for.

The brood-ish chuckle sounded like evil with no energy to boast, as he watched a moth wing float past. Whip crack, spit, scrape, scrape, scrape. The moth wing snapped into dust. His accuracy with his weapon of choice was perfect.

"Man, I'm good," he said in a forced gravelly voice.

His search for nothing in particular through the streets continued. The image he portrayed was so dark and cloudy that even his shadow was lighter than he.

He felt invincible and powerful. He was in control. No one could stop him from his evil plan of taking over the world now. Extra evil laughter thrust from the depth of his soul into the early morning air and echoed through the quiet neighborhood.

"Jimmy!"

Crap. Why couldn't he have a moment's peace?

"Jimmy… there you are young man, is that you? You get back upstairs and untie your sister. We have told you a hundred times, when you tie up your sister, and then lose interest, don't leave her tied up for us to release. Its not fair."

"Yes, dad." Jimmy lowered his hat almost over his eyes, deflated, and skulked towards the house. Whip crack, spit, scrape, scrape, scrape (with less gusto). A bit of paint blown to smithereens, from the fence in front of his house at the crack of his whip. Jimmy's dad rolled his eyes. He watched as his son began to pretend to sneak into the house like a secret agent, holding an imaginary pistol in the "kill shot" position stretched out in front of him.

"That boy," he said to himself, as he walked towards his front door shaking his head. He chuckled as he kicked the neighbors dog high into the air, the poor dog yelping as it flew across the fence back into its own yard, bouncing off the big oak tree in his neighbors yard. "I just don't spend enough time with that boy. "

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Thanksgiving 2011

I am thinking this morning, as I sip my coffee, that I take a lot for granted. The usual list flashes across my mind's eye: wife, kids, now a grandchild, home, church, food, parents living near, friends, other family, you know, the list I rattle off when praying a daily time with God kind of prayer.

While I am considering these blessings, and I have indeed been blessed, suddenly I see something else. I was flooded with a list of things too long to type here on my Blackberry without causing cramps in my thumbs. Funny I date myself with the word "type." Also funny I use more fingers texting than using a computer key board. How does that work?

I am suddenly confronted with a new list. And not the second list where I would think of all the ways others in the world have less than we Americans, and how we should be very thankful for the blessings we have here, and mindful of ways to share what God has blessed us with.

No, the extreme nature in my sudden awareness was far more humbling and less likely to occur on a normal day.

Here are just a smattering of the thoughts flooding my mind: titled, "things I am thankful for that are not held against me." This is a self atonement list. Not as maudlin or negative as it seems either.

Ok— I am a bit of a jerk and yet the people in my life give me grace. I listen far too little and talk far too much, and yet mostly my circle of friends and family listen with patience and credit my nodding and smiling with paying attention. I get irritable for mostly self involved reasons or none at all, especially with my kids, who are the best PEOPLE god could have blessed me with as children. I am often not a perfect husband to a far better wife and life partner, who loves me when no one should. I have fears and worries in the face of a grace giving and needs-providing generous and faithful God.

The list of things I am forgiven for by God and by people in my life is long and would be depressing in a self torturing kind of way, except that I am left with a an overall feeling of being loved in spite of my flaws. And…they are a generous lot. And . . . I have known and continue to know unconditional love.

So I feel truly thankful and then I am left with the active response of my heart in light of this epiphany. I feel like trying to be less of a jerk, listen more to others, have more faith, and lay my worries down, and the list goes on.

Thanksgiving this year, 2011, I am thankful for all I have been freely given yes, but also and more importantly for all I have been freely forgiven. That is my "deeper than it sounds" reflection today.

I wish you all a wonderful holiday, Merry Christmas, Happy Near Year, all of it! And a happy and grace filled Thanksgiving!

Peace!

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