the day i discovered fire

and the whole world was asleep when the fire started.

here, in my heart. here, in my journal. here, on my blog. here, in the middle of the night when nobody was even listening. not my wife, my students, my twitter followers, my daughter. nobody. 

the fire was burning before any of them. 

they woke up and only saw the smoke. they coughed and cried and stared and roasted marshmallows. but my eyes were the only eyes that burned. my hair was the only hair that smelled of smoke. and the ashes on my hands. you could never see the ashes on my hands.

but no, you've been there for it all, you said. you bought the matches, you subscribed to the newspaper, you even have a little ash on your hands. you tried to tell me that you were the one who discovered fire. 

but you didn't discover fire. i did. 

i found it burning inside my chest when i was a little boy. before my parents split up and before the dog bit me. i tried to show everyone i knew, but it was too bright. i tried to tell them about it, but it was too loud. i tried to get them to feel it, but it was too hot. it was always too hot.

i've been melting people since the 80's. and i ain't about to stop now. 

Shopping List

• Pepsi (12-pack)
• Water (Arrowhead)
• Cinnamon Toast Crunch (2-pack from Costco)
• Patience
• More time with my kids (at parks)
• Time away from my kids (at the movies)
• White bread
• Stand-up comedy on Netflix
• An iPhone I can afford (*doesn't exist)
• Sunshine (but I'm in the shade)
• Something to do (meaningful)
• Nothing to do
• Paperbacks
• Feelings of peace (in my heart and stomach and fibers)
• A new pen (G2 or better)
• A fannypack
• Retweets (and favorites, I guess)
• A haircut (fresh and clean)
• Laughter
• A made bed (soft sheets and not too many pillows)
• Peace and quiet
• A writing contest (submissions in one month)
• Ambition
• Desire
• Yearning
• Hope
• Danger
• A game 7 in the NBA Finals
• Respect (find out what it means to me)
• Blog comments
• Hot dogs (and buns, duh)
• More Pepsi (just in case)
• Popsicles
• Root Beer for Root Beer Freezes
• Plain White T-Shirt (XL)
• New socks (Black)
• Old books from the D.I.
• An oil change
• A metaphorical oil change
• Time to read Harry Potter with my kids (we're on the first one)
• Love
• Rice Krispie Treats (homemade)
• Cafe Rio Dressing
• A good interest rate on my student loans
• A conversation with my dad
• Milk (1%)

letters about lifeguards

I don't know exactly why I got into this. But I'm into this. And I'm afraid there's no getting out. 

I carry a whistle in my fanny pack. Along with sunscreen and Gatorade. Sometimes there's candy. Sometimes there's not. I've been burned too many times and I'm sure Cancer or some other disease is just waiting around the corner. 

It's not just a job, it's a career. It's a lifestyle. 

My mom went to a fortune teller when I was 13 years old. The fortune teller told her that I would pull a drowning boy from water and that I would spend the rest of my life trying to save people. This meant I was supposed to become a paramedic or a lifeguard. I became a teacher.

Fortune tellers don't lie. 

No matter what you choose to do with your life, it probably won't go how you plan. That's the way the game works. Lawyers got into it to find the truth, but they're too busy looking for technicalities. Doctors got into it to heal people, but they're too busy checking insurance cards. Police Officers got into it for the chase, but they're too busy filling out paperwork. 

Which leaves Lifeguards and Teachers. We work opposite seasons, but we have more in common than you think. 

We both got into it for the kids. For the water. For the summers. Parents relied on us and children ignored us. We made less than we should've, but everyone thought we had it easy. Every summer added another five years to our faces. 

We both had big plans. We got into it for the right reasons. It was noble. It was inspiring. But we spent more time blowing our whistles, telling kids to stop running than we ever did diving in and saving people. 

We'll spend the next offseason wondering if we're doing what we're supposed to. We'll tell ourselves that something else will come up, but it never will. 

Then some random Thursday, a girl with short blonde hair will thank us, and we'll decide to do it all over again. 

Sometimes it rains in summer and sometimes it never stops raining

Happiness is boring.

I know it's the goal. It's what we think about every night before we go to sleep. It's why God put us here and it's why most of us go to school. 

But who here knows what she really looks like? 

We know she has soft curls and bright eyes. We know she needs a song before she goes to sleep and we know her favorite drink. We love her because she laughs at all our jokes and misses us when we go on business trips. We feel like we've known her forever and we have old love letters to prove it. 

But she's gonna cheat on you, bro. Believe me. And that shit's gonna hurt. 

Which means you're going to have to make a decision this Tuesday afternoon and almost every Tuesday afternoon for the rest of your life. You'll have a picture of her on your desk, but she won't answer the phone when you call. 

Pictures of Us

I think I fell in love with her yearbook photo first. 

So that can't be real love, right? Yearbook photos don't talk to you, they don't laugh at your jokes, they don't fill your contact case with contact solution sometimes, they don't cook you breakfast, they don't take care of you, and they definitely don't kiss back. 

I'm looking for an iTunes playlist to explain all of this. 

We are never as young as we look in old photographs. We are never as old as we feel in the morning. We are never as happy as we pretend we are and we are never as depressed as we are with the blinds closed. 

Our grandparents will die and we'll go through their old love letters and try to piece it all together. The dust will cloud the whole story, but it was never really about them anyway. It was always about us. We read our older sisters' diaries looking for our name. We read blogs looking for ourselves. We go through photographs ignoring sunsets and beautiful animals, because we just want to see pictures of us.

The emotional piano music plays in the background of our lives, but only when we listen for it. I am a hopeless romantic who is full of hope. But I wonder what song I'd be singing right now if we never ended up together. 

It was 1997 yesterday and it's 1997 today and I hope that will be 1997 forever. 

The Big Question

I swear, most of you already graduated, so I guess I'm just a little confused. 

You realize you're not getting a grade for this, right? 

This #summerblogs series wasn't really advertised. It started as an afterthought, and now 50 people have signed up. I'm just trying to figure it out. Everyone is everywhere, and sometimes that just freaks me out a little. I don't go to Seven Peaks anymore because the lines are too long (but really, I'm tired of you seeing me with my shirt off). 

This is me hoping the bridge we're all on doesn't collapse. 

Today is the first day of summer vacation, according to my 8-year-old. Saturday and Sunday were just the weekend. And now it all begins. You writers were all gung-ho about writing and the optimist in me was inspired. 

But if you really knew me, you'd know that I'm not an optimist. My prediction: at least 15 more people sign up by the first day of summer, but then half of you sputter out by the end. 

Because the old men told it like this: Paris was rainier and lonelier than you expected. Right now, the sun is out and the cafes are playing your favorite song and the waiters are bringing your refills before you even ask for them. But all that will change tomorrow. And you're left wondering if you're writing for yourself or for the comments. 

Which is really the question on all of our minds. On all of our lips. In all of our hearts. 

I still don't know the answer. 

SpongeBrooke SwearPants

The truth is, my daughter said her first F-word today.

I laughed. My wife gasped. If that doesn't sum up our family, I don't know what does. 

I feel like I need to explain. My daughter is 4. She doesn't go around dropping F-bombs. That's not how we raised her. (But she cries when her brother takes her football and she farts all the time, and that's not how we raised her either.) We were watching Ferris Bueller's Day Off. (It's PG-13, and none of our kids are 13 yet. I know, stop judging.) And Edward Rooney was walking around the house and called Ferris a little effer. 

And my daughter is a sponge. 

Just for the record, I'm not really counting today's bomb. My daughter had no idea what she said. One day she'll slam the door and put her hands in her head and really say it. 

My wife will gasp. 

I just hope I don't laugh.