Happy 36th

I just turned 36 a week ago. It was a milestone birthday for me. You see, I’ve now outlived my biological father. He died at 35, and for years, the thought of turning the very age at which he passed was not a welcome one for me. So much so, in fact, I often found myself wishing I could fast forward to my 36^th birthday, so I could just be done with it all. I know this may seem odd to you, but truth be told, we all wrestle with certain oddities that, if left unchecked, can shape our realities. And for years, this was my pet oddity.

Now, let me be clear on something. I am a profound lover of Jesus Christ, and over the years I have learned to trust Him in this area of my life. I have honestly experienced monumental victory over a fear of death that once haunted me. Even so, 35, for me, was always the final battle. And I knew that it would have to be fought. So I just wanted it over and done with.

But now that it is, I am struck with remorse over a life that was not allowed to live in the present, because of its preoccupation with the future. In other words, I spent so much energy wanting time to pass that I didn’t make the most of the time that I had. Now that I’m 36, I can hear the clock ticking, and the question that is being asked of me is “what will you do with the time you've been given?”

We’re all going to die. That is inevitable. But how many of us truly live? How many of us really enjoy life? Savor its fragrances, bask in it’s warm hues and rich tones, dance to its rythms? How many of us are lucid enough to recognize the preciousness of the gift of life that we've received? At 36, I am hit with the reality that I only get one go round on the carousel, and I’ve missed too much of the ride. I’ve wasted opportunities, avoided uncomfortable situations, shunned risk and surrounded myself with people and things that make me feel safe. But I’m done with safe. It’s now time to live, and live with intention.

What’s in your heart? What do you want to do with your life? Who do you want to be? What is your dream? What do you want to be said about you when they lay your lifeless body to rest? These are the questions I’m now asking myself, and I encourage you to do the same.

As a follower of Jesus, I know that our dreams were given to us by God Himself. And the greatest act of worship to the God of creation is to chase those dreams down with fearless abandonment.

We each have the opportunity to write our own eulogies, and I’m now in the process of thinking about what I want mine to say.

For those of you who are wondering, yes this is the funny guy’s blog, but it’s been hijacked by a profound thinker. The funny guy will be back in time for the next blog.

English Good

I had to work the day after the day after Christmas, which in itself is a hardship. And given the circumstances, I’m sure anyone could have had an ‘off day’. I certainly did, and I haven’t been able to let go of it yet.

My 12th grade English teacher came into the bank. I hadn’t seen her in 17 and a half years. Many things can change in a 17 and a half year period, however she is not one of them. In my younger days, I called her the pit bull because of her stern demeanor and her hulk-like forearms. I had forgotten this, but it all came back to me the instant I saw her again. She embraced me with her burly arms as she greeted me. It was a good hug, but not one you’d expect from an elderly woman. We briefly exchanged pleasantries. Then I asked her about my son, who now attends my alma matter, where she holds an administrative position. And this is where I collapsed.

“Oh, he’s wonderful,” she said as her expression moved from pit bull to grandma. “We don’t have any trouble out of him. He’s a good student and he’s so smart, especially in math. Just like his daddy.” And like a jolt of lightning out of the clear blue, it hit me. My English teacher was insinuating that I was no good in English. Oh sure, to the average person, it sounds as if I was being complimented. But I am no average person (see the genius article below). I can read between the lines. I could hear what she was saying, loud and clear: “You must have been smart in math, because you sure as heck sucked at English.”

I protested, “Actually, Isaac is very verbal, just like me.” And this is where the train wreck occurred. I panicked. I literally couldn’t construct a linear thought from that point. Ever try to convince someone you’re good at something while failing to do the very thing you’re bragging about? I stuttered. My sentences ran on. I dangled my participles. I even ended a sentence with a preposition. I could see the doubt in her eye, and I should have just ended the conversation there. But I didn’t. I went on. Out of desperation, I began a ‘no really’ tirade of nonsense as I desperately tried to convince her of my verbal proficiency. I’m not sure exactly what I said, but as I look back, I remember it this way: “me good English. Me want to write book. Isaac too book write yes. English good. Ben good too.”

The conversation eventually collapsed, and we parted ways. As we did, I detected a slight twinkle in her eye. Only it wasn’t a feel good twinkle. It was more like an ‘I told you so twinkle’. In the course of just 10 minutes, I had convinced us both that I am math smart.

And After the 6th Blog, I Rested

I’m young. I know this to be true, despite the fact that sometimes I ache when I get up in the morning. Oh sure, I’m now officially in my late 30’s, but relatively speaking, I’m still very much young and spry. I say this because I still have my boyish good looks, and I can also hold my own on the tennis court (at least against the senior citizens that I often find myself playing with). However, like most young people I know, I sometimes have a problem biting off more than I can chew.

When I began this blog some 2 months ago, I had big plans for it. Very big plans. This was to be my ticket to stardom – a guaranteed means of connecting my talent with those who would value it enough to pay. I know that I have what it takes to be a literary star, and this blog was all about exposure. I was confident that, after a few brilliant posts, my subscriber list would explode in population size - enough so to make the state of Texas blush. I was on my way to becoming a pop culture sensation, all thanks to this blog, and at some point, some national blogging syndicate would sign me to a multi-year, multi-million dollar contract. I would never have to work another day in my life. It was a brilliantly concocted, fail-safe plan. After all, if I could get my material on the internet, I was guaranteed success – they don’t just let any old fool onto the world wide web.

Ah, but the best laid plans of mice and men…

What I hadn’t counted on was the x factor. As in, I have x-hausted all of my creative resources on just 6 blogs and I only have 3 subscribers… how x-cruciating!

And as quickly as it began, the dream started to sputter. I soon found myself in the throes of a mild state of semi-depression, having completely lost the desire to blog. As a result, I was lost. What's a fish without water? What's pepperoni without pizza? What's Brad without Angelina? What’s a writer when there’s nothing to write about?

In my state of lostness, I sought escape. I considered turning to alcohol to take the edge off the pain, but my Christian faith demands that I not take too much pleasure there. I thought about burying myself in my career, but as I’ve eluded to in other posts, the IT officer at the Bank of Edison doesn’t really have enough work to cover the mandated 32 hours a week, let alone a substantial burial. So in desperation, my thoughts turned darker, and I considered ending it all. And just when I was on the verge of announcing the death of my blog, it hit me. Even God found it necessary to take a breather from time to time. After all, He rested on the 7^th day, so why shouldn’t I take some much needed R&R after my 6^th blog.

What can I tell you friends? It worked. I've now rediscovered my love for blogging. I’m in the saddle once more, and I have lots to blog about. So, while I’m still confident that the million-dollar contract is soon in coming, I’m now writing for the sheer joy of blogging alone.

So eat up, 'Blah, Blah, Blog' fans… ‘cause in the words of the late great George Costanza, “I’m back baby!”

A Night To Remember

Yesterday was a big day for the Dismukes household. A very big day. November 20, 2008 will go down in the annals of the Dismukes family history as one of the greatest days in the month of November, 2008 - just ahead of the day that I hung out with the Masons and nearly ate myself into a sugar induced coma and right behind (I predict) Thanksgiving Day itself. No, we weren’t celebrating Universal Children’s Day or even African Industrialization Day (though it was tempting). No sir. November 20 for the Dismukes family was all about college football. The 7-3 Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets played host to the #23 Miami Hurricanes in a Thursday night clash at Bobby Dodd Stadium in Atlanta, GA, and no Dismukes in my family was about to miss out.

The 2 older kids got to sit out a day of school for the big event, which instantly put this day among the grand occasions of holidays, teacher work days and the chicken pox. We began the 3 hour trek northward to the ATL at around 10 in the morning. While all members of the family were present, we were not all at 100 percent. Abby was still hanging on to a cold, and I was recovering from a stomach bug that had manifested the day before. Never you worry, however. Nothing keeps a Dismukes from enjoying Georgia Tech football. I simply popped a half dozen or so Immodium and we all drove northward for the big event.

The forecast for the evening called for a steady breeze of arctic cold temperatures, so we stopped along the way to buy some thermal underwear for everyone. As we pulled into the parking lot of Dick’s Sporting Goods, my son made an unwise decision. He used the store’s name to his advantage and made several crude jokes before he could be reached with a backhand. But the fascination for anatomy didn’t end in the parking lot. Once inside, he yanked down the pants of a sporty mannequin to see if he was anatomically correct. Then while waiting in the checkout line, he grabbed a couple of nearby oversized Koosh balls, which he used to pretend that he had ‘boobies’. After a few snickers from nearby onlookers, I administered another backhand.

We left Dick’s and headed up to the Tech campus. We arrived at around 3:00. The plan was to meet up with 2 old college buddies of mine, along with their families, and spend the afternoon tail-gaiting and visiting with old friends. We parked in the parking lot of the world famous Varsity – world’s largest drive-in restaurant – just blocks away from the beautiful downtown campus. We were the first to arrive, so we took our time getting our things together. Yes… I said ‘things’. When I was young and single, going to a ball game required only that I wear clothes. Now that I have kids, going to a game requires diaper bags, coats, snacks, crayons, extra clothes, sippie cups, pacifiers, seat cushions, and a football. We loaded ourselves up like pack mules, locked the car doors, grabbed the kids and began the walk to campus. After several minutes it dawned on me. We had left the most precious item in the car – the tickets. We headed back. Eventually we found them tucked up under the center console, but for a few minutes, I was panicked.

Having arrived on campus so early for a 7:30 game, we were able to claim our ground relatively easy. I threw the football with the kids until our friends arrived. Within an hour and a half, everyone was there, catching up, eating, and enjoying the on campus festivities. As the band assembled on the lawn in front of the Student Center, we all went closer for a listen. With my 2-year old daughter in hand, I made my way closer and waded through a flock of female Tech cheerleaders. I noticed that they didn’t appear manish as they did back when I was in school. No sir, these girls were actually cute. They all gawked at my daughter and smiled at me as we passed by. A thought hit me, “I finally have the attention of some cute cheerleaders and I can’t do a darn thing about it.” The thought passed quickly as the kids played football while we listened to the band. The Ramblin’ Wreck (a historical Georgia Tech icon picture above) drove by and the kids were quickly in hot pursuit. Isaac and Emily both touched it and swore they would never wash their hands again. I was proud of them. At twilight, we looked up in the sky and caught a glimpse of the Space Shuttle Endeavor as it orbited the Earth with 3 Georgia Tech graduates on board. It was a profound moment.

We caught the band once more at the library, then joined them as they marched ‘down the hill’ towards the stadium. The kids were eating it up – every moment of it. As we reached the stadium, we said our good-byes to friends and headed for our seats. It was cold – very cold. But we were warmed from the inside out by something greater – a severe butt-whipping by the Yellow Jackets over Thug U. That and the fact that we were in the midst of another wonderful family trip.

Sometimes being a Dismukes is hard business – like when people mispronounce your name, or when they make jokes about mucous and then laugh as if it were an original thought, or at a family reunion when there’s hardly anybody there (unlike the Smith or Jones family reunions where they must pack out entire football stadiums). But not last night. No sir, last night was a night for the Dismukes – one we’ll be talking about for days.

A Genius in the Making

The other day, I was in my back yard when I spotted my neighbors coming out of their house. I quickly darted behind the rapidly deteriorating tool shed behind my house before they could spot me, and I watched them through the ever widening cracks in the building’s siding. As they got into their SUV and drove out of sight, it dawned on me that there’s something wrong with the picture in which I then found myself. After all, it’s not every day that you hear of a 35 year old man spying on his neighbors in broad daylight. Then it hit me. I wasn’t spying. I was avoiding.

I was instantly ashamed. Then I thought of all the times I’ve avoided people over the course of my 35 years. I have actually become quite good at it. From fake stomach aches to made up schedule conflicts to the age-old excuse of “I was going to go, but I fell asleep” I’ve avoided lots of potentially uncomfortable situations over the course of my young life. Take for instance, my chance encounter with an old high school classmate, which took place just a few weeks ago. I hadn’t seen Ray in almost 18 years. I was in Target with my daughter. We were shopping for men’s toiletries, when I looked up and discovered a face that just 18 years earlier had been covered in the most horrible acne you’d ever hope to see. Now clean shaven and acne free, Ray had all the signs of a model citizen, and I should have approached him. I didn’t. Instead, Emily and I spent the next 30 minutes dodging in and out of the aisles like cockroaches in a recently lit room, hoping that he wouldn’t spot us. Actually… I was hoping. Poor Emily was as confused as she was dizzy from all of our back tracking. She couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t just go say ‘hey’ to my old friend.

At first glance, such antisocial behavior can be a little troubling. After all, many criminals get their start by spying on their neighbors and dodging old friends at Target. However, I’d like to offer an alternative explanation. My anti-social tendencies are less a sign of criminal element and more an indication of genius… ness.

Schopenhauer postulated that true geniuses are almost always anti-social. One of the reasons for this is the simple fact that a genius can’t find intellectual stimulation in others, so he’s forced to choose instead his own company. Another cause for the observed behavior is the fact that geniuses often see the world in a different light than others – so it becomes necessary for them to ‘break away’ from the widely accepted views of the masses by refusing to conform to their social bonds.

Now, I’m not exactly sure who Schopenhauer is, but he makes a very compelling case. After all, I’ve always rather enjoyed my own company and many times, I find myself laughing out loud at my own internal dialogue. Other people, for the most part, just aren’t that interesting, and many times I fake laugh at their jokes just to get them to go away. Sometimes this backfires – like when I become so bored that I quit listening, then I fake laugh as they’re telling me about the death of a loved one. Of course, because I’ve quit listening, they’re the only ones who truly feel uncomfortable, so it’s not all bad.

At this point in my argument, you may be thinking, “what other signs of genius-ness have you demonstrated?” I’ve never developed an atomic bomb. I didn’t paint ‘The Last Supper’ or compose Sonatas at the age of 4. I don’t hold the patent to the light bulb or the computer. When I was 8, I did manage to build a house for my dog Skipper. I framed out the sides using 1x6’s, which took a long time. I was only 8. So when it came time to putting a roof on, I opted for the quick and easy route of buying a sheet of poster board and gluing it to the frame. I painted the whole thing baby blue, except for the top, which was a neon yellow sheet of poster board. Skipper was too scared of the house’s unnatural color that he never once went inside. My brother took one look at it and said, “nice job, genius.” And while I’m sure he meant well, I’m not sure that dog house qualifies me for genius status.

But I’m convinced that one day I will do something great. One day I will invent something. Or perhaps I’ll sculpt something beautiful. Or maybe I’ll become President of the US or start a multi-level marketing company. Until then, however, I’m a genius waiting to happen. I show all the signs. I’m truly an Einstein in the making.

Thanksgiving - The Forgotten Holiday

It's that time of year again. The post-Halloween sugar rush has come crashing down upon us and already store-fronts across the nation are littered with the debris of Christmas commercialism. Their blinking lights and neon Santas herald the dawning of another "Holiday Season" a good month and a half ahead of the most sacred day in the religion of materialism. Ironic, isn't it? Christmas is supposed to be about the birth of the Messiah who was so humble, even in his long anticipated arrival on planet Earth, that only a few earthy shephers and a stable full of smelly animals were allowed to participate in his welcoming party. Yet these days we kick off the celebration a month and a half early with all the discretion of a drunk monkey and invite everyone to come but the Messiah. Life is good here in bizarro world, isn't it? But this rant isn't about Christmas. No... that one will come later. This rant is about the forgotten holiday - Thanksgiving.

Poor Thanksgiving had the unfortunate assignment of being nestled between the 2 most self-indulgent of all holidays. And because of this unfortunate position, Thanksgiving is the holiday that nobody pays much attention to. Oh sure, we all just love turkey (which, if that's true, why do we only eat it on Thanksgiving?), but holidays shouldn't be identified with a bird. It's degrading. My wife once asked me what our marriage meant to me. I froze. I said the first thing that came to my mind, "home-cooked meals and unlimited sex." Didn't take me long to realize that wasn't the answer she was looking for. And yet, if you polled 100 people and asked them what Thanksgiving was all about, the vast majority of them would mention turkey. Thanksgiving is the red-headed step child of holidays.

And I know a thing or 2 about being a red-headed stepchild. I just so happens that I am a stepchild and yes, my hair is reddish-brown. I come from a family that was very similar to the Brady Bunch - only we didn't have a live-in maid and, to my knowledge, none of my brothers and sisters made out with each other "off camera". I was the youngest of 7 and often the forgotten one. I remember one Sunday, when I was 5, walking outside the church after the morning service where I spotted my parents and all my brothers and sisters sitting in our station wagon as it pulled out of the parking lot, headed for home. I was devastated. I cried violently as I noticed that one of my punk brothers was actually waving at me as the car sped by. I'm not so sure how far into Sunday dinner they got, but at some point the light went off and someone noticed that I wasn't there. Of course not - I was sitting on the church steps with a Sunday School teacher who was ready to call Child Protective Services. They eventually came back for me, but their point had been made.

You'd think that once would be enough. But you'd be wrong. A few months later, my mom and dad decided to take the whole family to a high-school football game. And so they did. Must have been a terribly exciting game too, because it was half-time before they noticed that I wasn't there! Once again, I had been left behind, only this time, no Sunday School teacher's shoulder to cry on.

And so I write this blog with strong emotional ties to the forgotten holiday. Like Thanksgiving, I too am a victim of cruel and heartless people who take perverse pleasure in destroying any fantasies one might have experiencing joy and love. Like Thanksgiving, I know the pain that comes from the blows dealt by the calloused and indifferent. And yet, like Thanksgiving, I find myself coming back for more... year in and year out... holding desperately to the belief that one day they'll come around... one day they'll appreciate me for who I am. Yes Thanksgiving... I too have played the part of the fool. And that's why... this year... I'm your biggest fan.

Thanksgiving... if you were a kid... I'd never leave you at church. And Thanksgiving, I'd take you to any football game you wanted to go see, and I'd make sure you saw the whole game... not just half of it. This year, Thanksgiving... is about you. We'll do what you want. If you'd rather have ham than turkey... then by all that is holy, we will eat ham! We'll show those no-good, flashy holiday lovin' people a thing or two. And if they give us grief, then we'll play for keeps. See... I know a guy who knows a guy... and I'm just sayin... if it comes to it, Thanksgiving... there's ways of dealing with those who stand in our way. I'm gonna make you a star, Thanksgiving. I'm gonna make people like you. You stick with me, pal... and everything's gonna be just fine.

Making Up For Lost Time

Today is Halloween, a holiday that evokes bittersweet emotions in me. Like every kid in America, I was a youngster who loved candy. Still do, in fact. But as a child growing up in a home of which some might call “overly sensitive to anything not blatantly Christian”, I was denied the pleasures of trick-or-treating, based on the belief (held only by my parents, mind you) that anyone and everyone who has ever participated in the Druidic ritual of going door to door in search of candy (which HAS to be the devil’s bidding, since Jesus obviously never even ATE candy) would forever be damned.

And as if this weren’t bad enough, one year my parents decided to make converts of all the little “heathens” who did not see things our way. So they passed out tracks that told of Halloween’s satanic roots. Oddly enough, almost all of these little “heathens” attended our church, where my mom taught the kids’ Sunday School class, a fact that was somehow lost on her on All Hallow’s Eve. These evil kids needed a good scarin’ to see the error of their ways. Not a bad scarin’, mind you. Not the Halloween kind of scarin’ that comes from free-thinking, hippie kids runnin’ around in their wolfman suits and demon masks. No way – fear is evil. They needed the good kind of scarin’ - the kind that comes through knowing that Halloween was started by the Druids who, like the Masons, would drink your blood if you didn’t give them candy.

Yes, I was one of those kids. October 31st was the loneliest day of the year for me.
Now that I’m grown, with kids of my own, I’ve been able to assess the extent of the damage inflicted upon me by my parents. Halloween is a celebration of candy, and I was given a lemon to suck on. So, as any normal, red-blooded American parent, I’m now living vicariously through my children. My strategy for this Halloween was simple: find the biggest neighborhood with the biggest houses, arm my kids with pillow cases and tell them not to come home until they’re filled to the brim (do pillow cases have brims?) with candy.

Since we live in a town that has less than 3000 residents, this year’s trick-or-treating has been relocated to my brother’s neighborhood in Atlanta. The kids think they’re visiting cousins, but they’re actually carrying out my Halloween redemption plan. We’ve rehearsed their instructions over and over. Pillowcases full, don’t come home with anything less. Don’t accept apples, rasins, carrot-sticks or any other ‘alternative treat’. If you see a “Halloween is Evil” track, turn and run – don’t ask questions… don’t accept it… just turn and run. Chocolate is the object of desire, but we’ll also accept bubble gum, blow-pops, twizzlers and anything from the Wonka family. Once the candy is harvested, it will be presented to Dad who will evoke the privilege of Prima Nocta (first night) by having his way with the candy. Afterwards, everyone will be rewarded in accordance with his or her ability to meet quota.

This Halloween could possibly go a long way in atoning for the sins of Halloween past.

My Saturday Plans

This Saturday, I will venture into the unknown. This Saturday, I risk life and limb to hang out with a group of shady characters, because once again, I couldn’t say no. This Saturday, I will volunteer my time helping with a Child Identification Program sponsored by none other than our local coven of Masons here in Southwest GA.

That's right - the Masons - those mysterious, Satanic, shape-shifting, reptilian humanoids who built the Pyramids, Stonehenge, the Eiffel Tower and the bridge over the River Kwai. The very ilk to which we owe such unexplainable phenomena as the JFK assassination, the Roswell sightings, the Apollo Moon landings, Chia pets and the mysterious omission of the orange from the Froot of the Loom brand. They say every President we’ve ever had, with the exception of Jimmy Carter, was a Mason. On a side note, it’s really saying something when your Presidency sucks so bad that even Satanists won’t claim you. Maybe the explanation for his continued boneheaded political involvement is that he’s still trying to prove that he’s worthy of Masonic acceptance. But I digress. Point is, Masons, according to legend, are power-hungry, Satan worshipping beasts, bent on total World domination.

So why would I, the father of 3 small children, lay it all on the line to hang out with a bunch of fire-breathing dragons? Because I was beguiled by one of their smooth-talking brethren. When asked to help by “brother Calvin” (name changed to protect the brotherhood of the Masons), I found myself slipping in and out of consciousness. His words dripped off his cloven tongue like honey from the comb and sounded like the sweet, melodious song of the harpies. The more he spoke, the more I became enticed and intrigued. My resolve melted away and I soon found myself a willing vessel through which he could do his bidding. “Yes master,” I said, “anything you say master!” The room began to spin and I went into a trance. I experienced flashes of light and colors I had never seen before. There were mirrors on the ceiling… pink champagne on ice. And then he said 'We are all just prisoners here, of our own device.' And in the master's chambers, they gathered for the feast. They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast. Last thing I remember, I was running for the door. I had to find the passage back to the place I was before. 'Relax,' said the night man, 'We are programmed to receive. You can check-out any time you like, but you can never leave!

I woke with a start as he slithered out of my office and into the night air. I was shaking from a cold sweat as I realized I had just been bewitched by a Mason. I had given away 6 hours of my life (note the number ‘6’ – only a crocodilian Mason would ask for 6 hours!). And so… this Saturday… instead of sitting at home watching Georgia Tech and Florida State in 50 inches of high definition, I will be hangin’ with the Masons.