jonathan friesen

Thinking Teen

We adults bust our brains trying to think teen, then some teen comes along, splats emotion all over the page, and makes us think, what are we doing?

I just read a page so powerful, so right, it almost made me want to give up writing for YA. It wasn't pretty or polished or perfect. But it was so real it made me hurt. And it was written by a thirteen year old. 

I don't say that condescendingly. I say it with wonder--and envy. I bet it came naturally. I bet it just flowed out of their life onto the page. I'm quite sure they didn't think, hmm. How would a teen react here?

Well, back to my work. I have a deadline and I need to start thinking teen. 

Socialism and Soybeans

So in Minnesota, we have this government run health care plan. My private insurance premiums are high, and I wondered what it would take for my kids to qualify. Turns out I made too much money last year. The lady's advice?

"Listen, here's what you do, what I tell people to do. Don't work so hard this year. If you report less income, your kids will qualify, and the savings will be considerable. So just take it easy this year."

She's serious. Welcome to the new welfare State.

I will pass on a fact, rather a statistic, I heard today. This came from one reliable analyst, but it is easy to check, so do with it what you will. For the first time in our history, a majority of individuals will pay exactly $0 in Federal Income Tax. 51%, if the stat is correct. This group is filled with people who will receive back in rebates more than they paid in and those who paid in nothing at all. This is now over half of voting America. 

The others? The wealthier 49% as of this year will pay for 100% of the entire American load. All Federal programs. All the tax burden now falls on a minority. The majority of non-payers can now effectively decide how much the minority should pay to support them. Money earned to better your family's lot is now taken from you and divided among hundreds of millions. It is the new America.

But this did not startle me as much as soybeans. I will tell you again, that I am a vegetarian. In fact, a vegan. Gasp! I've had my share of soy food. But only today did I think about what I've purchased. Soy milk, soy baby-formula, soy ice-cream, soy burgers, soy chicken patties, soy tamales, soy bologna, soy hot dogs, soy pizza, soy chili, soy eggs, soy cheese, horrors, the list goes on. Soy is like the stem cell of foods. It can become anything.

And the truly terrifying--it TASTES like anything. Soy wieners taste like bad wieners. Soy chicken strips like bad Mac and Dons. Does that not terrify? What is it about the morphing bean that can take on the look of anything, taste like anything, BE anything?

I do not know. But if the government gets a hold of this fact, we are in grave danger. First the incentive to work hard is removed, we are all equalized, and what can be next but the slow removal of individual and unique foods from the supermarkets. Enter the soybean. Sure, it will TASTE like we are free, but in every bag and can will be the same thing--the soybean. 

51% of America won't mind at all.

Interrupted

It’s not the feeling of craziness that gets you, it’s the opposite. That wiggling thought that you just might be sane, that you may be the only person in the world who sees it clear. That’s the hard part, because if it is true, you’re completely alone.

Is that arrogant? Possibly. Is that lonely? Definitely. 

Sorry, all. I was about to blog when a character popped into my mind. Didn't want to lose her voice or her world view so I quickly scribbled it out. Ignore it. Or don't. 

Now I can't remember what I was going to blog about. Such is life. 

Drivel

If my stats are correct, up to one hundred fine people read my drivel each day. Perhaps they are relatives--I know for a fact one is. (Hey Mom, how are you?) But I can't account for the other ninety-nine.

You are a mystery to me--strangers I do not know and have not seen. We are wholly disconnected, save by my silly little stories that serve no cosmic purpose. I blog some drivel, you read my drivel as you drink coffee or sit at your desk, all is right with the world.

Moreover, a host of you are lifers. You come back every day. Don't be alarmed, I don't know where you come from, Salt Lake City or Swaziland, but this nifty pie chart tells me scores of repeaters knock on my door. This is very kind. And disconcerting. I feel a certain responsibility to write something of importance. I mean, there may be thousands of miles between us--you've come a long way! You deserve more than drivel. You deserve, well, substance. Something to ponder.

I've been looking at blogs lately. Most, like mine, rarely earn a comment (how can you comment on drivel?) So here is my deep thought for the day. Ready?

Liberty is more important than equality.

There you have it. Mom, what do you think? 

16

Today, I had a breakthrough.  

My boy is a soccer fanatic (that's not the breakthrough). He plays and practices and practices some more. Evidence of his passion is in every room--a busted lamp in the living room, a picture with shattered glass in the formal dining room, hallways without light bulbs, the list goes on.

I sometimes wonder if I'm doing the right thing by watching him methodically destroy my home, but when I see him smile and remember this house will only hold him for eighteen years or so, I feel good.

So today, he was juggling, which in soccer simply means kicking or heading or bouncing the ball into the air with your thigh. Only rule? Same as juggling. The ball can't hit the ground. Last year when I realized his love for this sport was tilting toward an obsession, I decided I better pick it up too. At least a little of it. I chose juggling. Each day when he goes into the basement to practice moves and destroy my home, I head down with him, grab one of the other five soccer balls resting down there, and try to juggle.

At first, it was brutal. It was fall and we were outside and one bounce off my thigh sent that ball cruising away from me. He picked up the deal quick. Really quick. Irritatingly quick. But I did not quit. No sir. Minnesota winter may force me into the basement, but I would not be destroyed. 

And today. The magical, miracle that was today. Today I gently dropped the ball onto my right thigh. Bounce. Up gently, it landed on my left. Bounce. Then it happened.

Bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce, (my, but my heart pounded right about here) bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce. Count'em. Sixteen thigh bounces. Me. The big guy. The slow learning, never-give-upping dad.

My son stared. Glared. He knew what I knew. I'm on his heels. No more slacking in the juggling category. I'm days away from twenty, thirty, the sky's my limit. 

So son, if you're reading this, which you aren't because you're all of seven and don't have internet privileges, keep bouncing. The old guy hasn't lost it yet.

My Fear Boycott

I admit it. I've become what I once thought ridiculous. I am hooked on the news. Not televised--no time for that. Not radio. Signals are spotty where I live. No, I'm hooked on internet snippets.

The Worst is Yet to Come

Economists Expect Downturn to Intensify

Stimulus--Likely We'll Never Know if it Worked

Foreclosures Up.

And my personal favorite: Obama Says If We Don't Act, Economy May Never Recover. 

Right.

Anyway, my point. My Yahoo snippets are now Fear plugs, intended not to inform, but to make me feel. Feel afraid. I'm thinking somehow the depression drug companies must have a hand in the newsroom. Read the snippets, get the prescription. 

I can't afford depression meds., after all, I'm mired in an economic downturn that I'll never recover from. So I've another solution. I am officially boycotting Fear. It won't have the impact of India's boycott of British salt, or the colonies boycott of British Tea. But for me it will. For me it may just be the healthiest thing I've done in years. 

Every time I read a gloom and doom, I will go find my wife or one of my kids and tell them how grateful I am for something. Anything. If I can't find them, I'll go straight to God and tell Him. I'm going to bet the farm that gratitude and fear can't coexist, at least not in the same moment. And if this turns habit forming, so much the better. My Fear boycott will last two weeks, starting now. I'll let you know how it all turns out.

Slow People

I heard this talk show host talking to an author about a book she had written. The premise: the world is divided into two kinds of people, cleanies and messies. And the two usually find each other and marry. If you're a cleany, you have to swallow a few tough truths. The first: your messy probably will never change. The second: he (notice the specifically chosen pronoun) is not trying to make you miserable. And last: he actually doesn't PREFER a messy home, in fact, odds are he LIKES it clean. This last one is incomprehensible to my wi--I mean the people the writer of this book was talking about.

Well, to her theory of clean and messy people, I offer my observation. There are fast people and slow people. Now this is probably not profound. You likely already know this. But I want to say that this is much deeper than preference, which is what I--I mean other people who suffer from slowness are often accused of. I can imagine, not from experience mind you, what a slow person must hear regularly. 

"How long are you going to stay in there?" "Do you have any idea what time it is?" If I had a nickel for every time I've--I mean, I bet slow people have had to endure those words, I'd probably be rich. I think slowness is genetic, right alongside blue eyes and freckles. Yep. Slow. Look in a newborn nursery. Half fast, half slow. And they'll probably find each other and marry.

Then the issue will become really noticeable. The fasty will move twice as fast, a whirling blur of motion and efficiency, just to show the slowy how slow he really is. The slowy will drag even more to make the fasty look as ridiculously driven as she is. At least, I can imagine that dynamic occurring. The poor kids, caught in the middle of this pace war will eventually default to their proper place. Probably it will be two versus three, at least it is in our ho--some homes I know about.

Yes, I need to say in defense of slow people, we--they really mean no harm. The multi-task button was never installed, fifth gear was never standard on the model, and the word "eventually" just rolls of the tongue. But I bet they really sometimes wish they were fasties. I bet they sometimes marvel at how much a fasty can get done if she puts her mind to it. I'm sure slowies aren't trying to irritate when they move even pokier.

At least I bet that's true of some.

Freedom

Been thinking lately about freedom. Maybe it's because I starting to feel the presence of government in so much of my life. In my investments, in my debts, in my medical records--the list goes on.

But as far as I can tell, I still have the freedom to think as I please. I would like to add speak, but political correctness is alive and well, so I'll stick with thinking. 

As long as that remains, I will be free. All around me I see it, I saw it clearly in my last school visit, students exercising their freedom. Their freedom to express, to experience. I also saw a more frightening freedom, a freedom from.

Somewhere I think we messed this up. Somewhere in our passing on this country's awesome freedoms. The message became, "You are free from action. You are free from restriction. Free from responsibility." Sad really. Free from isn't freedom at all. It's the worse kind of slavery. People everywhere slaves to themselves. And we don't know how to change the message back. We don't know how to get it through that the only kind of freedom that's truly liberating is a freedom to. A freedom to act. Freedom to assume responsibility.

So we break away from traditions and call it progress and end up with a generation passionate and untethered. After all, who are we to tell them right or wrong? How dare we speak of evil and good? What a bunch of hypocrites we are, assuming we know something of truth and speaking it in love. Cripes, we might offend somebody. We'd certainly trample on their freedoms.

God help us.

Little Sounds

Every once in a while, the three kids choose to have a slumber party in the upstairs living room. It goes amazingly well, given age differentials, so we let it happen. My wife and I quickly retreat--hey, it's time alone--but not tonight. It was a tiring day for Wendy, and I got home late, so I'm sitting here at the kitchen table looking out at the slumber party, now reduced to simply slumber.

And every few minutes, one of those kids will make a sound. A noise. A little one. A rolling over her; a lip smack; even a giggle. They're all happy little noises. Noises that sound content. I can't see their faces in the dark, but I bet they look content too. Little happy content faces.

That's quite a deal, isn't it? I mean today was rough on a lot of fronts, but to go to sleep listening to happy sleeping noises from little people--that's just pretty special. And I don't take it for granted. Because some nights are rough. There's sickness and sadness and all sort of other nesses that mess up their nice little sounds.

But not tonight. Tonight they are content. And I am too. Goodnight.

Artichoke

"What are these things?"

The cashier at our small town grocery twisted my bag of artichokes around, looked underneath, then back to me.

"Artichokes," I said.

She eyed them carefully, as if they posed a threat, which wasn't far off the mark as you'll soon see.

"Member how much they were?"

"Yep. Two for four dollars. I have four there." 

Poor young girl. Those artichokes had her hypnotized. She kept turning them around and around. They were alien vegetables, and she was transfixed.

I broke the spell. "But be careful. They're pokey, and if your not careful--"

"_________!" She spoke a word here, and two other cashiers came running.

"_________!" Same word, a bit softer. She sucked her finger where the artichoke attacked her. I gathered the fallen chokes and gently rebagged them while her friends attended to her wound.

"I'm sorry about that," I said. "These guys really bite."

"I'm bleeding! And it still hurts."

"Yeah, tell you what. Ring me up and I'll take these fellas home and give them a talking to."

"I'm off." The gal walked away, just walked away. Her friend took her spot and eyed my chokes. "Those poked her?"

"Yep."

"What are they?"

I realized that I was no closer to my car than I had been five minutes previous. I wasn't in the mood to start over.

"You know, I don't really need these artichokes. My wife's waiting on me."

"So what do you want me to do with them." She stares at the bag.

"Some stock person can reshelve them, right?"

She flicks the light off on aisle number three. "You've done enough damage. Shelve them yourself"

A minute later I'm walking back into produce, taking my beautiful artichokes out of the plastic bag, and placing them back on the shelf. I'm rehearsing my speech. Yes, I know you wanted artichokes, but they wouldn't let me buy them. I did get to shelve them, if that counts.

Amazing how much trouble a little vegetable (or is it a fruit) can cause a man. My saga didn't impress my lovely, who has asked me to stop at the store tomorrow and buy them again. Valentine's Day around the corner and all, I think I'll buy her a rose, get all my thorny purchases out of the way at the same time. The things I do for love.