Weather or not

June 8, 2009


Weather, by nature, changes. It is constantly changing. Even in areas where the weather seems stable and constant, it’s not – it’s simply in a range that is more comfortable, staying clear of the extremes that we can’t help but notice.

Weather, by nature, is also unpredictable – especially in a city like Sioux Falls, where we experience nose-hair freezing lows and egg-boiling highs. It’s not uncommon to see snow in early May, or to be hit with a sudden heat wave in November.

Which brings me to wonder how, after a week of beautiful days, the collective mind of Sioux Falls can explode over the idea of rain.

It’s enough to send Kerrie into a frantic search for earmuffs. She hears it doubly – as the average age of a workplace grows, I suspect the percentage of weather-based conversation grows proportionately.

It works like this. When there’s space to fill, you talk about the weather. And when the weather is anything less than perfect – which is always, despite everyone’s understanding that weather is fluid and constantly changing – you complain about the weather.

Today, even though the rain has gone, people still complain.

From my window, I can tell it’s not a bright sunny day. I know it’s not 80 degrees.

But it’s not raining anymore. It’s actually kind of a nice day.

We don’t live in Siberia, or the deserts of Africa. Hell, we don’t even live in St. Cloud, where winter lasts 8 months. We get the best of both worlds, with the understanding that we also get the worst of both.

So can we stop complaining about the weather?

Please?

Tags: Annoyances, Sioux Falls |

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Another Finals, finally

June 4, 2009


One unfortunate side effect to our quest to save money by ditching cable is that my love affair with NBA basketball gets relegated to the nether regions of the schedule.

During the regular season, it’s only a Sunday afternoon indulgence. Through the first round of the playoffs, only one in sixteen games seem to make their way to the big three. And once the Conference Finals have started, basketball has disappeared from my life altogether (not including the Internet).

But here we stand, staring down the barrel of yet another NBA Finals. An NBA Finals that can be summed up as David vs. Goliath, that is, if David was a giant and his only weakness was that no one knew who the hell he is.

I expect this to be a long, tough and physical Finals. Tougher than last year, and (unfortunately) probably more exciting. As a fresh-faced Boston fan, it’s my contractual obligation to root against the Lakers. But barring a sudden rule change that allowed the Celtics to sneak into the Finals without actually winning anything worthwhile, there isn’t another team I’d rather root for than the Orlando Magic.

I was 16 when Orlando last made the Finals. There, they faced off against a Houston Rockets team that had already won a title the year before. By butting up against an established power, an Orlando team – featuring a fresh Shaquille O’Neal and blossoming Nick Anderson – sought to prove themselves against a league superpower.

They were underdogs. They had no chance.

And despite the fact that they knocked my Pacers out of the playoffs just a round or two earlier, I couldn’t help but root for them.

It was my conference, after all. My Eastern Conference. My pride was at stake – best be beaten by the team that won it all, right? Best be a footnote in the championship recap video, rather than missing entirely from it altogether.

This year is very much the same. Orlando knocked Boston out. Dwight Howard plays the part of Shaquille O’Neal, Rashard Lewis acts as Nick Anderson. And Kobe Bryant stands in the way – a star with three rings, a sure fire Hall of Famer, a man looking to cement his legacy, to prove that the three-peat in the early 00’s wasn’t a fluke. That he can do this himself, without the big man he once stood next to.

That big man. Shaquille O’Neal. Who brings this analogy back full circle. Who was able to win a title without Kobe. That big man, who knows what Dwight Howard is going through, understands, because he was in that position – facing up not only the best team remaining, but his own insecurity in reaching the Finals at such an early age.

Dwight would do well to ask Lebron James what it means to get to the Finals before you’ve even been able to live up to the hype. Maybe he already did. After all, he’s already gone Cleveland to get here.

No one expects the Magic to win this thing. No one wanted this match-up. We’re missing Lebron vs. Kobe. Or Lebron vs. Carmello. Hell, we’re missing a rematch of last year’s Finals.

Instead, we’re looking at something we didn’t expect. A team that has come into its own earlier than we thought they would. A manchild that’s just seconds away from becoming the biggest thing in the league. Both literally and metaphorically. And he’s going against a perfect foil. Kobe: the anti-Michael Jordan; blessed with so much talent yet none of the approachability, Lex Luther to Superman, respected yet hated.

These metaphorical side stories have been happening for the past four rounds. But I’ve missed them all, only picking up the static from the Internet and text messages.

My Amazing happened all through second hand sources.

Until now. The Finals start tonight. And I’ve got a date with another year of basketball history.

Tags: Basketball, Boston Celtics, Sports |

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Not quite ready

June 1, 2009


Okay. I’ll admit it.

I’m not ready for this baby.

Whoa, whoa. Before your “fear of commitment” sirens start flashing and you start pointing your golden finger of justice in my direction, know that I am, indeed, excited for this baby.

I am thrilled, actually. I know I’ve been quiet on the subject, but I’m simply ecstatic. Nervous, yes – nervous to finally meet him, to welcome a boy into the world, to know that everything wonderful that Sierra has brought to our lives is about to be hectically heaped upon us once again, despite being in the midst of another parenting chapter at the same time.

I’m proud, too. Proud to have this opportunity, to marvel at how Sierra has grown and learned and become such a great little person, and proud to have the chance in helping Baby Boy Vilhauer do the same. The honor of doing so, even.

But I’m not ready.

Not when it comes to preparedness. Not when it comes to having all of our ducks in a row.

Not when it comes to timing.

No, considering the change in scenarios, and compared with Sierra’s relatively muted arrival, Baby Boy is entering life with a jarring bang, chaos surrounding him. Where last time we were preparing day by day for the arrival of a not-yet-determined child, this time we’re lucky to have noticed the process at all. We’ve found ourselves waist-deep in full-term concerns.

We haven’t unpacked. We only just cleared out a room. We’re still adapting to a new home, to the whirlwind of summer invitations, to the advancements of close friends.

Sierra is only slightly aware of what’s to come, and at times I fear we’re in the same boat.

From a period of contentment to an unassailable feeling of anxiety.

I suppose we’re doing this the way you’re supposed to. Full on, with all surprises intact. An adventure in adding life – one we’ll always remember.

Still, without a doubt, we’re not ready for this baby.

Of course, by saying that, I realize that, when it comes down to it, we’ve been ready since the beginning.

Tags: Isaac, Sierra, Vilhauer |

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Creative momentum

May 27, 2009


When things are going good, from a creative standpoint, they typically continue to go good. One thing leads to another, and before long you’ve spilled out several great things in a matter of days. It’s the nature of creativity – it feeds off of itself.

In all things creative, momentum drives us from average to heady.

When I encounter these peaks of momentum, I cherish them. Like anyone who considers themselves part of the creative industry – whether a freelance artist or a copy slinger – I understand the fragility of creative momentum. It’s easy to rest when you’re at that peak, to coast for a while as your mind continues to work. But you pay for it later.

Oh, man. Do you pay for it later.

Let’s quickly define something. By “creativity,” I’m talking about the act of creating something original. Not just thinking quirkily, but – in my case - actually writing something, or photographing something.

Thanks to our recent move and a lack of opportunity, the past month has seen my creative momentum hit a screeching halt. It’s hit the bottom, begun on the next hill in earnest, and rolled backward, resting finally in a valley of uninspired funk. Some call it a rut. I call it a chasm.

Some may find solace in this. It has certainly brought me back to earth. During those times when I have convinced myself that there is such a thing as creative talent, that it’s not simply a tweak of perspective and is an honest skill (and trust me, despite my sarcastic leanings otherwise, I rarely feel confident enough to claim a heightened creative talent) it’s humbling to find myself at the bottom again.

Struggling for ideas. As if creativity was something you had to work at.

And there’s the rub. Even the most creative people have to work at this. Even those to whom writing – or photography, design, music, acting – come naturally.

In fact, the people who work the hardest at being creative are the people who are the most successful at it.

They’re successful because they never stop trying. During their downtime, they stay creative. They continue thinking. They continue working. They are always working.

Charging up the same hill. Gaining speed to overcome the troughs. Continuously thinking harder to maintain the momentum of creativity, to gain speed, to leave the uninspired moments behind.

For me, it’s one blog post, a handful of pictures, and a few projects for work. Nothing amazing. But at least I can say I’m finally beginning the climb out of this chasm.

Again. And certainly not for the last time.

Tags: On..., Photography, Writing |

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The most dangerous job

May 22, 2009


Looking at my hands, palms down, from left to right…

Two healing scars on my left thumb. One from trying to open a paint can with a screwdriver, the other from a vicious cardboard cut while taping a box.

One recovering scab on my right thumb, from a door frame that had seemingly popped out of the woodwork.

One cut on the pad of my right pointer finger, picked up from the edge of a plastic pasta salad container. This one hurt the worst.

A series of rough patches of skin on the top of my right ring finger. Dry weather, constant scrapes and a lack of upkeep over the past two weeks are the culprits.

A gash on my right pinkie, thanks to getting in between the fence and our dog, who was getting a little too uptight while meeting the neighbor dogs.

Add to this the aches, bruises, scrapes and pains that accompanied the move, and I can’t imagine anything more dangerous than being a professional mover.

Tags: Home |

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On moving

May 17, 2009


I haven’t written anything in a while, and I have a lot to say.

You’ll have to forgive me. It’s been three days since we said goodbye to our first home.

And I can’t help but be surprised how much I miss it.

Though we spent the past two and a half months working to buy and sell a home, the move crept up on us. Despite the culmination of events – events that led us from desperate to frantic to endlessly busy in just a few weeks – I am still shocked by how empty our house could become, how it happened so fast, how I was completely unprepared to let go.

How, despite spending months trying to get rid of it, I still wished we could have made it work out. Stay a little longer. Hang out one last time.

It took two trucks and a handful of eager movers to completely gut our house. When it was finished, I walked from room to room, snapping pictures of my favorite features, taking it all in – as empty and clean as when we moved in, with little change aside from seven years worth of wear.

Kerrie shed a few tears. But I kept myself insulated from it, fearing that I’d shed the same tears. I looked forward, not behind; blinded by anticipation, I did what I could to grind out the hours. I unpacked the house several times in my sleep. I imagined where things would go, what I could do, what surprises were in store.

But that last night, I couldn’t help myself. “Here I am,” I thought. “My last night in my first home.”

Our first home. Where we planned our marriage. Brought home a dog. Trained a dog. Nursed little nips from a dog. We got married and bought cars and became adults. We formed our careers though several hiccups. I began writing in the dormer. I began reading again in the dormer. I learned about my new job in the dormer and privately celebrated in the dormer.

It was Sierra’s first home. Our first child. Her first steps, first words, first teeth, first joys and pains. She learned how to be a person in that house. She fell into our lives in that house.

There are a handful of things I’ll always remember. The creaky floors outside of Sierra’s room. The nights sitting in a rocking chair, with only the glaring light of the hall illuminating my book as I lulled Sierra to sleep. The night I listened to John Edwards and Dick Cheney as they debated in the summer of 2004. And the night I watched the first politician I truly believed in elected President four years later.

A lot of life was lived in those walls. But I’m thankful for one thing: the first years in that house were something Kerrie and I had to ourselves. They are memories we hold closely, memories that only we can claim. And likewise, that house is something that we can share with Sierra – a reminder of the days before our family had become four, something special that Sierra gets to remember, to her ability, in the upcoming years.

This new house begins a new chapter. In a few weeks, baby boy will be born. Life will get more complicated, will require more time and more space. And with our new home, we have it. It’s the perfect marking point for what we had and what we are about to become.

We are lucky. We found a house we wanted, put our house on the market, and were lucky enough to still snag it months later. We were able to make it quick. Harried, but painless. We were able to find people to help us – people who we thank for all eternity, from our families to our friends, from our Realtor Briana to the kind souls who owned our home before we moved in.

I miss the old house. But I love this one just as much. And once I come to grips with the idea that my memories are still around, despite the new location, I’ll slowly forget about what we had and focus on only what we have.

All of our stuff is here. It’s strewn across the house, scattered throughout each room like beads of mercury, dispersing in every direction, seeking level ground, but it’s here all the same.

And room by room, things are looking more comfortable. More like what we left behind. More like home.

Really, it’s already there. We’re here. We’ll continue to grow here, will celebrate new lives and new milestones.

This is our new base. Our new home. All that’s changed is the location.

Tags: Career, Friends, Home, Isaac, On..., Vilhauer |

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Print is dead, long live print

May 11, 2009


Sorry, everyone. I don’t meant to get all Old Man Vilhauer on you.

But can we stop the ongoing “Print is Dead” argument?

Print isn’t – and never will be – dead. It may not be in first place. It may not even be the social norm. But there will always be a part of us – most of us, that is; those of us who aren’t robots – that will long for something more durable, something tangible we can flip through, something we can dog-ear and drop hastily into our pocket, on the side of the bed.

I am positive that magazines and newspapers in their current state will continue to decline. We may be forced to pay more for these services. Quick information is too convenient and too easily accessed to wait for, so magazines will focus on features and other long-form writing.

But books aren’t in danger. Not yet. So let’s not try to raise warning flags because we’re looking for something to scream about.

Things will change, but print will still be around for a long time.

After all. We’ve all got electric heat. But who doesn’t love a campfire?

Tags: Books, Literature, Writing |

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