Personal

… not to be bitter, spiteful, and all that.

It’s not working very well.

You see, I poured my guts into the book. It was more than a personal act of returning to my first love. It was a statement about the artists. Their music matters. Their ministry matters. But above all else, they matter.

I knew throughout it’d be a tough one to sell. No money for advertising or promotional campaigns. I would have to rely on social media and word of mouth, working them hard. I also knew I would have to do my utmost to try and make the rounds of radio and television talking about the book.

I’ve done so.

And in the course of doing so rediscovered something I should have known, but stupid little naive me deluded himself into believing wouldn’t happen this time.

The polite version is how Paul put it in Philippians: “For everyone looks out for his own interests, not those of Jesus Christ.”

The not-so polite version is that with very, very few exceptions (God bless you Mike Rimmer and Rich Buhler) the powers that be in any channel of media — print, radio, television, online — who freely claim allegiance to Christ as part of their persona fundamentally don’t give a shit about anyone or anything that doesn’t line their pocketbook while furthering their agenda.

Which is how much can they be in the limelight.

And how many tongue baths they can get from their followers.

Oh, they talk a great game. “Look at me! I’m the champion of the little guy!”

They’re especially fond of the “look at me” part while mouthing how they champion the little guy.

Well, I’m the little guy.

Who wants to bring attention to followers of Jesus who spent years putting the whole of their heart and soul into obeying His command to them by making music and ministering… with the reward of being repeatedly kicked in the teeth by the very ones who should have been completely supporting them.

Guess what?

They’re still kicking them in the teeth.

And I don’t like it.

These people are fat ass flaming hypocrites. They claim to be doing the Lord’s work while in fact they serve nothing but their own self-interests and no one but themselves.

Champion the little guy? Oh hell no. They can’t be bothered.

Hey, ignore me all you want. I’m used to it. Don’t like it, but I deal with it. I know I’m not welcome in your circles because I don’t play the mutual admiration society game. No sense in me complaining about it. Better to do the right thing and be shunned for it than any possible alternative.

But read the book and be humbled by the presence of true servants of Jesus.

And if you can spare ten seconds from pushing your latest piece of piffle, mind mentioning my book so people can be genuinely blessed?

Silly question. Of course you mind. It’s not about you. It’s about Jesus.

Which, if you think about it, is the truth.

It’s not about you.

It’s about Jesus.

Okay, I’m done ranting now.

And one of these days I’ll actually get caught up!

As those of you who’ve made it through to the afterword of God’s Not Dead (And Neither Are We) know, a few years ago I had surgery on my left arm to alleviate ulnar nerve entrapment, this going along with carpal tunnel surgery on my left hand. The latter condition was primarily due to the former, although the uncounted thousands of hours I’ve spent tapping away at computer keyboards over the decades certainly contributed. One of these days I’ll need to have the right hand sliced and diced in a similar fashion. But I digress; back to the left I go (that’s physically, not politically).

The primary symptom of ulnar nerve entrapment is weakening of the affected arm in general and the hand connected to said arm in particular. This leads to attempting to compensate whenever working with the hand in question by squeezing tighter, longer and harder than would normally be the case. Now, combine that with the thousands of hours spent in the days of my youth and after playing guitar, thus constantly using my hand fretting the strings… you get the idea.

What wound up happening was that an additional symptom of ulnar nerve entrapment, this being the numbing of the little finger on up through the other digits whenever any kind of additional pressure was placed on the nerve via such moments in time as, say, tensing up due to stress — not that I would ever do such a thing (brief pause here for gales of derisive laughter before continuing) — began cropping up. I had endured brief spells of this since high school, but now it was setting in for the long haul with symptoms lasting several weeks at a time. Feeling left out of the fun, the carpal tunnel decided it wanted some attention, thus grabbing a stiletto and having at it. I tried my best to convince the stabbing pains to merge with the numbness just a couple of inches away so as to form a more palatable union of mere pain, but no soap. No relief, either. Off to the doctor, who set up an appointment with a specialist who expertly wielded the nerve conduction probes. The look of shock on her face the moment she made the first test and said this was one of the worst cases she had ever seen was something to behold. Hardly comforting, but it did explain much.

In the preceding few years I had gradually stopped playing guitar, enough so to the point where more than once I considered selling my dust collectors and being done with it. The reason wasn’t the nerve damage, at least not initially. I had learned how to deal with that to a point. Rather, it was frustration over never having “made it” as a musician coupled with admittance why this was. I was a decent songwriter, but not great. I was a passable guitarist and singer, but no great shakes. Finally and most important, I had frittered away two decades plus daydreaming about appearing on the stage instead of actually getting off my happy self and working toward that goal. To play now was little more than an embittering reminder of my own failure. So I stopped.

This allowed what little strength I had in my left hand to rapidly dissipate, so much so that on those few occasions when I did attempt to make music I discovered I was unable to so much as push the string down on the fret. Any string. On any fret. A sobering discovery. It was bad enough that I wouldn’t play guitar. Now I couldn’t.

I pulled out the couple of cassettes I had laying around documenting assorted home recording sessions, filed them under nostalgia, and thought even more about selling my equipment. Why have hanging around the house stuff I couldn’t use? Why keep mementos of what never was and would never be?

Never did get rid of any of it, though.

Why?

Somewhere inside, deep inside, I wanted to play again. Not for the sake of futile dreams, but for the sake of playing itself and the sense of peace it brought doing my best to speak God’s language. In short, the reason I had started playing in the first place, which somewhere along the line had been misplaced in favor of misguided pursuit of the spotlight.

After the surgery, which the doctor informed me was more complicated than he had originally anticipated (so that’s why I had a scar that would make a MMA fighter blanch) , I didn’t think about playing again much. Frankly, I was petrified of re-injuring the now repaired area and having to go though it all again. Finally, a few months later I screwed my courage to the sticking place, opened a case, and pulled out a guitar.

I could play.

Not well, to be certain; the rust was thicker than on a mothballed battleship. But I had the ability to play. Which was, after all, the idea.

Oddly enough, I didn’t start playing regularly again. Or perhaps not that oddly; I was a busy blogging bee at the time, and shortly thereafter the book’s initial spark came into existence. It became the priority, and any time spent not working on it was drenched with guilt. My music would have to wait.

It’s pretty much done waiting. I’m playing regularly again. Be it the folk music I grew up loving whenever I grab my acoustic or reflective blues-flavored rock/power pop on electric, it’s becoming a nightly habit to shut everything else off and play. I wouldn’t dream of taking myself out in my current playing shape and attempting to perform anywhere; give me a minimum of three months intensive practice first. But it’s my music, and when I’m playing I feel tremendous peace.

I like that.

I’ve been playing guitar a lot the past couple of days.

It’s a good thing.

More on this tomorrow.

Sometimes the words don’t come easily.

Sometimes not at all.

There is a measure of sorrow in my heart as I look at the world in which I live. So many things I don’t understand; so many things I wish to change but can’t.

I find myself staring at the computer screen, trying to make sense of it all and trying to put the words into proper order. Sometimes they flow with ease. Sometimes… not. Yet I carry on regardless.

The anger I feel over the way things are is tempered by remembrances of my own failings in life. Can I justify being upset over being lied to when I myself have told lies? Can I justify disappointment over those who fail to do what they have promised when I myself have done the same? Not really. Yet the hurt remains.

Sometimes in prayer I ask why things are the way they are. Why the depression; why the inability to break through as a writer. The former, as best I can tell, is to remind me of my total dependence on God for all things. The latter? A mixture of things. Refusal to become that which I profess to oppose, primarily. And I’m not easy to work with. Too stubborn in my ways; too prone to call it as I see it without regard for how laying low opinion-wise is the ticket for success. Or being so utterly obnoxious people let you into the club without knowing the secret handshake for the sole reason it’s the only way to shut you up.

Then again, isn’t one thank you for the book more valuable than one hundred thousand site visits a day to catch my latest political rant? The world is stuffed to the gills with pundits. Very few of us call out to those who were once part of the faithful but have since drifted away “come home.” Very few of us directly tell the artists who gave so much for seemingly so little that someone still appreciates and cares enough to remind all of what the artists did and why. You can’t put a price on that.

It doesn’t pay the bills, though.

I desperately need a rest, a vacation, a rejuvenation.

I want to believe it’ll be all right.

I’m tired of praying “Lord I believe; help me in my unbelief.”

I need peace. Desperately.

And so I pray. And try to write.

Sometimes the words don’t come easily.

Sometimes not at all.

… but the blogger is barely able to register a whisper tonight.  Try it again tomorrow.

Ten years.

Really.  Ten years.

I remember that first Father’s Day without you, ten years ago.  It was hell.  Now they still hurt.  But that’s okay.  It’s supposed to hurt.  Comes with that being human thing.

Hurting helps us become more loving, more understanding.  More appreciative of what we have, because we know what it’s like to not have.  More aware of the eternal picture, more in awe of our Lord.  You used to have to drag me and my siblings to church each Sunday.  Now I can’t thank you enough, just as I can’t thank you enough for having taught me all these things.  You’re still teaching me all these things.

The book’s done.  I’m pretty sure you would have liked it.  Mom said you’d probably turn into a sentimental bag of mush at the last chapter.  Maybe.  Strange how the toughest man I’ve ever known could also be that way, yet you were.  I’ve picked up on the latter; working on the former.  Your toughness was forged by struggling to merely survive the Great Depression, then fighting in World War Two and Korea.  Being a cubicle warrior doesn’t quite measure up as a learning experience.  But it’s all I’ve got.

Come to think of it, I’ve picked up on quite a bit of what you handed down to me, father to son.  Still root for Notre Dame.  Still love sports.  Still enjoy making people laugh.  I wouldn’t have minded if you wouldn’t have passed on the hypertension and ulnar nerve entrapment.  But it’s a package deal.

You’re still the greatest man I’ve ever known.  I believe it will always be that way.  You were wise; a genuine intellectual.  Yet you were never afraid to get your hands dirty.  You were an engineer back when it meant whipping out the slide rule and physically building the machinery.  I’m more the creative sort, in my own fashion.  You could do that too, though.  Even if you were somewhat tone-deaf as a singer.

Love you, Dad.  See you again when it’s time.

When is it going to stop being so f’n hard for me to write anything?

I start.  I stop.  I start again.  I get distracted.  I spend hours doing nothing but surfing the Net or listening to music or watching videos.  Anything but writing.

I have idea upon idea tumbling through my head begging to get out.  Yet the moment I start trying to get them out, the process comes to a screeching halt.

And I don’t know why.

Is it depression?  Frustration?

Or is God trying to tell me something?  That I’m not writing what he wants me to write?

If that’s the case, how I wish I knew what it was He wants me to communicate.  Because I don’t know.

I honestly don’t know.

All I know is this sucks.  Big time.

And I hope it ends very, very soon.

(Cross-posted from my NASCAR blog.  Adapted from a 2007 podcast.)

This coming weekend finds NASCAR at Texas Motor Speedway.  For those unfamiliar with the sport, a bit of info.  Texas is one of the dreaded “cookie cutter” tracks, a large (mile and a half long) relatively flat track perfectly suited for open wheel cars but terrible for NASCAR in terms of producing genuine racing action.  For NASCAR, the most recent race there notwithstanding short tracks such as Bristol Motor Speedway are where it’s at.  They are where stock car racing was born and to this day is at its best.

My most vivid memory of Bristol doesn’t involve someone bumping and running, or comments about just trying to rattle his cage a little, or any such thing.  It doesn’t involve a race at all.  In fact, there couldn’t have been any racing at the time.  It was raining.

Because of the way Bristol was built, unlike most every other track there is no tunnel going underneath it which someone trying to enter the track can use to get into the infield area.  Instead, part of the outside wall is a gate, so to get in or out you have to open it and drive across the track to get anywhere.  This means all the team’s haulers, the eighteen-wheel trucks that carry the race cars and equipment to each track, have to do this.

From this is where my memory comes, watching the film clip of a rainy day at the track and one lone hauler getting ready to leave.  There was something different this time, though.  Even though it wasn’t race day, and even though it was raining, the flagman was standing in his position at the start/finish line.  And as the hauler crossed the start/finish line on its way to the exit gate, the flagman waved the checkered flag.

It was April first, 1993.  But it wasn’t an April Fools Day joke.

In fact, it wasn’t a joke at all.

The trailer was for Alan Kulwicki’s car.  He wouldn’t be racing that weekend, or any other weekend.

He was dead.  He and three others were killed that day in a light plane crash while on their way to the track.

On April Fools’ Day.

The day my favorite driver died.

If you were to ask a hundred race fans why a certain driver is their favorite, you’d get a hundred different responses.  Some would say their driving style.  Other would say their personality.  Still others would their looks, and there’s nothing wrong with that, really.  Whatever the reason or reasons might be, when a race fan settles on a driver, it’s settled.  They’re a fan for life, no matter what.  Their driver.  Their guy, or in a few cases gal.  But usually guy.  Actually, more than that.

Their man.

When I first started regularly watching NASCAR in the late ‘80s after a life that in terms of racing had been spent absorbing almost nothing but Indy cars, other than Richard Petty I had no idea who any of the drivers were.  Obviously this couldn’t last if I was going to start watching this series week in and week out, for without some kind of investment in terms of having someone to root for I would quickly lose interest.  So, I started learning about the different people involved as best I could given how resources were much more severely limited than is the case today, especially in my corner of the left coast.

Gradually, one driver came into focus as the one who most captured my attention.  He was decidedly different from the stereotype of the Southern good ol’ boy driver.  This one could be described as a cerebral cheesehead, an outsider from Wisconsin of all places who in neither accent nor speech sounded one bit like the other drivers he was running with.  Definitely an outsider, and a bit of a loner; someone determined to do things his way without compromise.  I could relate to that.  Later on I learned we shared a devout Catholic faith.  This only added to the attachment.  The matter was settled.  I’d found my driver.

I’d found my man.

I followed him through the subsequent years, rooting him on from my perch in front of the television in my living room.  I nervously sweated it out during that period of time when he was in-between sponsors and running out of his own pocket until it seemed he would be unable to run any more, breathing a huge sigh of relief when the Hooters restaurant chain came on board.  I freely admit I had no idea what it was about, as there wasn’t a Hooters to be found in California until several years later.  Had I known it would have seen incongruous, a devout Catholic sponsored by a string of dining establishments where the primary attraction was breasts without the word chicken directly in front.  Then again, not really.  We can be a rather freewheeling bunch.  But I digress.

I emotionally rolled back and forth throughout the 1992 season, hoping he could win the championship that seemed oh so close but figuring he was out of the title chase until he made a mad dash at season’s end, closing the points gap during the last few races.  How I remember the final race of the season at Atlanta, briefly noticing the new kid in the rainbow-painted car but mostly hoping against hope that neither the announcers nor my driver had miscounted the number of laps led he needed to lead in order to win the title.  And when he did win, celebrating with that crazy Polish victory lap and then giving a rambling speech upon being told he was indeed the champion… oh, how sweet the joy.

My driver had won.

My man.

He was a most unusual stock car champion, a man who was in so many ways my doppelgänger.  Determined beyond words, he was a curious mix of someone who was almost chronically insecure while at the same time also supremely confident in his own knowledge and abilities.  He could and would lash out at those around him for failing to perform in accordance with his demand for the same level of perfection he demanded from himself, yet he was also a gentle, loving soul.  He was who he was, at times a maddening paradox but always at his core a man of principle, faith, and unyielding effort toward the goal he had at long last achieved — the championship.

My man had achieved his goal.

My man.

Then came 1993.

As it turned out, a most unkind year.

I remember my wife saying to me the evening of that April first had I heard the news.  No, what news?  She silently handed me the paper, and there it was in greasy black and white, buried deep in the sports pages indifferent to anything not homegrown.

Race car driver killed in plane crash

I honestly don’t remember exactly what I did immediately after I read the story.  I know after a while I went into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, trying to figure out how I should react.  Thoughts of could I watch racing again ran through my head.  It wasn’t that I had never seen drivers die before; I remember all too clearly watching Swede Savage’s horrible accident in the 1973 Indianapolis 500 that shortly thereafter cost him his life.  But this… this was all so wrong.  A plane crash.  A freaking plane crash.  My favorite driver was gone, and I didn’t know what to do.

My man was gone.

The relationship between driver and athlete doesn’t end when the athlete no longer competes.  Memories and mementos are cherished.  The occasional story about what they’re doing now is seized upon and savored.  Perhaps there’s a sports card and memorabilia show somewhere nearby where they’re signing autographs for which you gladly pay the fee for a signature, a smile, perhaps a handshake and photograph.  You never stop being a fan.  The one you rooted for all those years?  They’re still there for you.  How could it be any other way?  Not possible.

They’re your man.

Mine was gone.

Eventually the initial shock wore off.  I cautiously adopted as my new favorite driver the kid in the rainbow-painted car, a decision whose wisdom has been proven right time and again in the following years.  But it’s never been the same.  It can’t be.  No matter how fervently I root for Jeff Gordon, and I do without apology, he wasn’t my first favorite driver.  No one can take Alan Kulwicki’s place.  No one.

He was my man.

Someone once asked me which of all the diecast cars I own is my most valuable.  They were surprised when I said I had no idea as far as cash value went, but I knew which was the most valuable to me.  It’s that 1992 Ford Thunderbird, white with orange markings, bearing the number seven.  The resale value?  Not much, as far as I know.  But the value to me?  They don’t print bills with enough zeros on them to measure its true value.  It’s my favorite driver’s car.  It’s the car he won a championship with.

It’s my man’s car.

How can you put a price on that?

So whenever the spring race at Bristol rolls around, I think about that film clip of a lone hauler in the rain.  I think about all the time I spent cheering in front of my television set.  But most of all, I think about Alan Kulwicki.  My first favorite NASCAR driver.

My man.

Gone sixteen years today.

I still miss him.

[video http://www.diecast-dude.com/gac/golden_earring_going_to_the_run.flv nolink]