Rambling Josh

Dawn and I have been empty nesters for a whole two weeks now, but it feels closer to forever since all of us were occupying the same space in life. I’ve been told “it’ll get better” by parents that have been there, but like the well-meaning people that tell you “you’re going to miss it” when you’re young family has you tattered around the edges, it’s of little comfort.

Maybe I don’t want it to get better. Maybe I hope that I will always miss it. Maybe I hope that tears will always well up a bit when reminders of that stretch of time present themselves. There are reminders everywhere, and they present themselves often, but that doesn’t mean my cheeks are doomed to perpetual tracks of mascara.

The emotional response to the reminders littered about is varied. Pride, joy, delight, a smirk, a smile, and yes, a tear on occasion. I don’t know if this will always be the case. If I’ve learned anything raising two kids, is that there is a lot I didn’t, and still don’t know. I suppose life would be a bit boring if we did know it all. We’d all want to be politicians.

If we knew exactly what would bring us meaning, would it be as meaningful? I think we can mindfully pursue it, but it’ll grab ahold of us on its own accord. I often think I know what I need, but more and more, I realize that I am often mistaken. So it goes.

That’s sort of the overarching theme of parenthood…often mistaken. Often mistaken, but generally, always well meaning. We’re only human (most of us).

Speaking of humans, it seems that each of the changes brought about over the years, from the day they were born to the day they ditched us in pursuit of adulthood (or at least freedom from the oppression of the adults in their “hood”), have made me a better human.

Not better than anyone else, but better than I was. Even if that “better” is not all that great, it’s still better, and better is good…or at least better.

I ask the college students in my classroom to have a bit of compassion for the oppressive tyrants they’ve left behind. To go easy on those rudderless helicopters that are spinning around a warehouse full of plastic trophies, photographs, dusty Lincoln Logs, and mounds of Disney VHS tapes. I assume their not listening, the wounds from their hard fought fight for freedom are still too fresh. They’re not listening now, but perhaps they’ll hear me later.

Yes, we miss the kids. We miss them, and mope around a bit from time to time, but we knew this was part of the deal. Well, we knew of it, now we know about it. The nest isn’t completely empty. We’re still here, and we look forward to the kids stopping by from time to time to fill us in on all the goings-on in their lives.

Just be sure to knock first. Feathers are optional in an empty nest.

It seems that when we read headlines, and sometimes even the corresponding article lingering hopefully below the headline, we are drawn to those that support what we believe or want to believe. Confirmation bias is difficult to overcome, and oft times it is operating quietly under the surface unbeknownst to the conscious portion of our monkey brain.

The other day I spied the headline “The Psychological Importance of Wasting Time” and felt a twinge of delight. I felt another delightful twinge when the article went on to dispel the “inbox zero” campaign that reared its ugly head a few years ago. The crux of “inbox zero” is just as the name implies…be sure your email inbox is at zero at the end of each day.

I tried this for a few days. It appealed to my anal retentive side, but apparently my procrastinator side is a bully and shut down the whole experiment. So, now I’m back to having mounds of emails in my inbox, and I don’t care, and finding an article that supported my not caring confirmed that I shouldn’t care.

Did I look for articles that supported the “inbox zero” movement? No, I had my answer, and I liked it. I also had time to waste, as my psychological wellbeing is important. Often questionable, but important just the same. If you intentionally waste time are you really wasting time? On the flipside, if you spontaneously waste time, who is to say what would have occurred in that timeframe would have been productive?

When I was a kid I had a whoopee-cushion, oh how I delighted in slipping it under couch cushions. Hours of fun. Well my brother, Jarvis, decided that simply sitting on my whoopee-cushion wasn’t enough. He never thought enough-was-enough. He jumped high in the air to get optimal whoopee out of my cushion.

The cushion made a noise, but not the noise that is music to the male species ears, it made a “popping” noise. A popping noise followed by my brother rolling off the deflated whoopee cushion clutching the backside of his Tough Skin jeans in pain. At least the whoopee-cushions last gasp was a good one.

That whoopee-cushion and I had had some good times together, and I wasn’t about to walk away from it now in its time of need. Once so full of life, it lay crumpled and lifeless, with a gaping hole in its hull. We had to move fast if there was to be any hope.

We hopped on our CoastKing bicycles and headed north to the Wheatland Oil Company. I knew the owner, LeOtis Olney, had patched a tire for my dad, I knew inner tubes are rubber, I knew whoopee-cushions are rubber, I knew LeOtis was my only hope.

I brought in the lifeless whoopee-cushion, and asked LeOtis if he could patch it. He smiled and said, “Let’s see what we can do.” We stood and intently watched as LeOtis took time out of his day to patch a whoopee-cushion. I guess that’s the beauty of growing up in a small town. Everyone goes above and beyond to help one another out…even if it may appear to be a waste of time.

LeOtis may have wasted some of his time that day, but he saved a whoopee-cushion, and he made an impression on a young boy that has lasted over 30 years. Thanks LeOtis, and thanks Lignite. They say it takes a village to raise an idiot…you did a fine job.

Time is odd. People are odd. The blink of time each of us get to breathe in and breathe out in the company of others attempting to do the same is life. Like the previously mentioned time and people, life is odd as well, but you all new that.

Hopefully you also know that if the breathe-in-and-breathe-out thing ceases to occur you should think (or even exclaim loudly into a telephone with a 911 operator at the other end), “That’s an odd way to try and keep living. I think this person needs help.”

We all need a little help from time-to-time. I once read that being helped makes us feel happy, and helping, although it doesn’t always make us happy in the immediate, lends meaning to our lives in the long run. Makes sense from a parent’s point of view.

Raising kids is no picnic, but when they grow up and leave you alone you feel like something meaningful might have occurred. There are plenty of picnics going on when you’re raising kids, avoid them, they won’t be a picnic. They will be you attempting to balance soggy paper plates in hurricane winds full of food your kids won’t eat because the potato salad touched the Jell-O.

Apparently the person that coined the phrase about something “not being a picnic” never took kids to a picnic, or was one of those psychopaths that says “yes” when the hostess at a restaurant says, “we have room on the patio if you would like to sit outside”.

These people should be avoided, or at the very least, not allowed to interact with the hostess at a restaurant with an option for outdoor dining (a.k.a. a picnic). I don’t have a problem with outdoor dining if it is in the dead of night, there isn’t a swamp forming at my seated parts, and I can’t spit queso blanco on a passing or parked car from my chair. I don’t feel as though those are unreasonable criteria for an outdoor dining experience.

A “dining experience”. Not sure I’ve ever had one of those. I’ve dined a time or two, I’ve had my fair share of experiences, but have these paths crossed? I suppose every single thing that occurs to us as we’re busy breathing in and out could qualify as an experience. Some good. Some bad. Some memorable. Some forgettable. Each lending meaning to the other.

Last year I made the proclamation that I was hanging up my cleats and putting my baseball career out of its misery. Turns out I lied. Actually, I didn’t lie, I was coerced into playing by my son, and teammate, Jackson. I’ve witnessed a steady decline in the opportunities for “play” with my son over the past nineteen years of his breathing in and out so I said “yes”, or at least I didn’t say “no”.

After each game, the physical discomfort expressed by my 46-year-old muscles attempting to do what they did many moons ago, didn’t make me very happy, but the season as a whole was meaningful.

I’ve driven Jackson to many practices and games over the years, but this year I rode with him, and I could feel a shift occur in who we are to each other. I will always be his dad, and he will always be my son, but the meaning of that relationship is evolving.

He may not be happy when it evolves into him changing my shorts, but perhaps he’ll find some meaning in lending his padre a hand…perhaps. Life is odd. So it goes.

I’m not much of a believer in “signs”, as it seems to me that we can contrive whatever meaning suits us from whatever it may be that we decide to take as a sign. I’m not talking about traffic signs, signs warning of rattlesnakes or falling coconuts, those are generally to be believed and leave little room for individual interpretation.

Regardless if you believe or not, the laws of gravity and a falling coconut may conspire to render you unconscious. Making things easier for the rattlesnake. Coconuts and rattlesnakes have been in cahoots for years. Snakes, and sticks masquerading as such, give me the willies. Poisonous, harmless, dead…all equal in the level of the willies they produce.

Evolutionary biologist say that the fear response us human types have when surprised by a snake has been well honed over the millions of millennia to help us help ourselves from getting dead. Getting dead makes reproduction difficult, so most of us are the descendants of human types that were able to avoid getting dead from snake bites by screaming and fleeing, generally simultaneously.

Simultaneous screaming and fleeing, with arms overhead, chimp-style. My suspicion is that chimps began running around like this to mock us, their misfit cousins. Those eccentric uprights with human pattern baldness who had lost much of their tree climbing ability, but gained the ability to text, and whine about mosquitos and ill-fitting shoes. So it goes.

In a display of the ultimate example of revenge being a dish better served cold, we waited a few million years and launched one of them into space. Ham the Astrochimp paid for the ego bruising transgressions of his ancestors. The species who laughs last laughs hardest.

On a recent road trip with my former good friend Paul (see last Ramblings column), we were in the middle of Kansas looking for a place to eat. As we rolled westward, I went a Googling to find out what food sources were on our horizon. Hays, Kansas, was coming our way, and there was a highly-rated restaurant known for its burgers and all-day breakfast. I’m a sucker for all-day breakfast, but on further inquiry Google said the place was closed on Sundays.

This particular day was indeed a Sunday, and after further Google attempts, it seemed that except for a sushi restaurant, the citizens of Hays have to fend for themselves on Sundays. I like sushi, but sushi in the middle of Kansas seemed like a bit of a figurative, and possibly literal, crap-shoot. Hunger clouded our judgement, and we set the navigation system to sushi.

The navigation system new better, and took us on some backroad route where we encountered several large “Road Closed” signs blocking the route between us and possible intestinal doom. We attempted to follow the “Detour” signs, but lost the trail. Not unusual for us. Despite these “signs” we were bound and determined to hunt down this evasive sushi. Dead fish shouldn’t be that difficult to hunt.

We stopped to try and figure out where we were, when what should appear, but the burger and all-day breakfast restaurant that Google said was closed. Google lied. Must be a bunch of vengeful chimps running that joint.

Signs…dumb luck…coincident…? I suppose that’s up to each of us to determine for ourselves. We determined that the burger and omelet hit the spot, and contently continued our way west into the Kansas sunset…a sure sign that another day was coming to a close. Get the most out of each one you’re given. Word on the street is that this Planet of the Apes thing is gaining traction, and we have a lot to answer for.

I spent a month in Huron, South Dakota, one week…last week actually. I think it was last week anyway, it felt like one very, very long day. I arrived Sunday, and lost track of my whereabouts amongst the days of the week sometime Monday. I felt like that spinning icon that we spend so much time staring at on our computer screens.

A few months back my former good friend Paul, asked if I wanted to help him provide sports medicine services for the National Junior High Finals Rodeo. Seven days, thirteen performances, over 1,200 contestants aged 12 to 14 from 45 of our nation’s states, and the countries of Australia, Canada, and Mexico. Sure, why not. Why not? I didn’t know the “why not” then, I do now. So it goes.

The days were comprised of breakfast at the Coney Island Cafe, a performance at 9:00 in the morning, lunch at Manolis Grocery, sitting around, milling about, a performance at 7:00 in the evening, and then back to the hotel to plead with Captain Morgan to help us forget the day. Forget everything but breakfast and lunch anyway, they were our havens of serenity amongst some pleasant locals we came to enjoy the company of.

Other than playing baseball there a few times in college, I had never spent much time in Huron, and came away with new perspective of the town. A town, like many other towns of its size and location, trying not to lose itself and those that inhabit it to the larger cities.

There are conveniences that come with living in a large city, conveniences that those that have always lived in a large city may not recognize as conveniences, but as common necessities. Necessities that keep their lives moving comfortably along, and allow them to do what they want when they want. Huron might lack some of these conveniences, but I found it had the necessities one who grew up in a small town can appreciate.

The necessity of a connection with people and businesses that appreciate you for more than just the money you spend in their establishments. It’s a mutual appreciation of time. Time spent satisfying the curiosity you both have of one another’s worlds. Curiosity that is generally genuine, or at least genuinely polite. Time is a convenience that many of these people have seen pass them and their town by. Time they know very well that they can’t get back as they face the necessity of moving forward.

The city of Huron will host this rodeo again next summer, and looking back on the month-long week, I’ll probably give it another go next year. Not because I can’t get enough rodeo, more than enough of that was had, but because misery is said to be less miserable with company. I suppose that depends on the company, and Paul’s pretty good company to be miserable with.

Happy Independence Day. Enjoy the conveniences living in this country allows and the necessities it provides.

To celebrate and commemorate endings and beginnings, something out of the ordinary is generally in order. Our family decided on a European graduation vacation to mark our ends and our beginnings. The kids graduating from various levels of academia, and my wife and myself graduating from being fully responsible for the trajectory they take their lives from here on out.

We’re not completely washing our hands of them, the dirt and grime one acquires in the trenches of parenthood can never be completely scrubbed away. A little two-seat convertible may not cure post-traumatic parenting disorder, but it’s worth a try, and the wind rustling the hair in my ears might dull the voices in my head.

The voices that continually make me question if I did the best I could as a parent. Could I have did more for them? Could I have prepared them better to face the challenges adult life is going to throw their way? So it goes.

For those of you that failed geography, there is a bit of distance between Rapid City South Dakota and London England. A distance that required various planes, trains, and automobiles to traverse. A distance that required a lot of time and a lot of patience.

I am generally a patient person, but my patience was tested as we were herded into the cattle carrier portion of the airplane referred to as “economy-class”. I failed this test. My angst was not aimed at my family, but after being placated by as many complimentary drinks as the airlines will allow the commoners in economy-class to consume, I humbly apologized to them for my brief fall from grace.

While poorly suppressing their amusement with my angry battle with the overhead compartment, they forgave me. For the record, I won…sort of.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if they didn’t parade you through the luxury-class section on your way to the poop deck. It’s as if the airline is teasing you. “Look at how cozy and content these people are that are not you. Take a good look. Maybe if you had worked a little harder in life you could afford one of these seats instead of the milk crate you get to sit on for the next ten hours.”

How many people intentionally share a bit of “travel gas” as they are herded through first-class just to let them folks know what life is like in the rear? Just curious.

London has a lot to take in, and there are a lot of people taking it in. It was a bit much for small town folks like my wife and I, but the kids didn’t seem to mind the hustle, bustle, bus fumes, and general chaos. If you’re looking for “Jolly Old England”, it’s not in London.

Once our sentence in London was up, we rented a car and drove to Dolgellau Wales. Actually, we drove there once I was able to break free from the maze surrounding Heathrow airport. A task not made any easier by having to drive from the right-side of the vehicle on the right-side of the road. Two rights that made for much wrong.

Why Dolgellau? In 1707, at the age of 24, my 8th-Great Grandfather, Thomas Ellis, was the first of my ancestors to leave Dolgellau in search of a brighter future in America. He was of the Quaker faith, and apparently the King of England didn’t care much for the Society of Friends, so they flipped the king a hearty salute and sailed into the sunset.

Dolgellau was peaceful and scenic, the perfect place to unwind all that London wound up. I wanted to see what Thomas had left behind. See what he thought of when he thought of home. I’m not sure why this was important or meaningful to me, but it was. It felt like a way to thank Thomas.

It was an enjoyable trip, and an experience I’m thankful we were able to take in as a family. Something to look back on as we move forward.

It was a busy spring for the Ellis family. College graduation for our daughter, state tennis tournament and high school graduation for our son. Many ends, many lasts, many emotions, and much anticipation as to what’s next.

What’s next for our children as they move beyond the relatively safe and structured existences they’ve inhabited for so long? What’s next for my wife and I as we find more and more time left unscheduled with our children’s events? Empty nesters? Isn’t that for old people?

All this seemed so far away for so long, and now, here it is. It all creeps up on you…like ill-fitting underwear, and like such, sometimes you can discreetly wiggle your way out of the discomfort, but often times you have to get your hands dirty.

Our son, Jackson, has been able to wiggle his way out of the various discomforts that come along with being a teenager and a high school student-athlete, and now it’s time for him to get his hands dirty. The adult advice has been plentiful, and even his car has been issuing him a daily reminder that “OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR”.

Some of those objects that he’s been able to maintain some distance from are now beside him, and they have questions. Questions that only he can answer. We all want the best for our children, we want to see them answer these questions, walk confidently into a bright future, and live a life of purpose and meaning. Is that too much to ask?

Long before the first breath of air was breathed into the “Congratulations Graduate” balloons, Jackson has been fielding the usual questions from the curious and well-meaning adults that want the best for him. Now that the last breath of air has leaked from those balloons, I’m not sure if he’s any closer to answering those questions.

I know he cares and I know it is weighing heavy on his mind, as it is on the minds of many that walked across the stage and into the unknown this spring. What I do know is that he is a genuinely kind and caring person, a gentleman. A humble and good person that may be hesitant to believe that he has the ability to walk confidently into a bright future and live a life of purpose and meaning.

How does one find purpose and meaning in life? Can you find it? Does it need to find you? How does a young person that has had much of their purpose and meaning defined for them the first 18-years of their life create their own definition? Difficult questions.

I suppose the answers lie within and without. We need time within ourselves to explore and discover what the world without needs from us. Often times we also need to change our location in the world to awaken that within that we never knew existed. Who we are, or want to be, sometimes can’t be found where we are. You never know which station you’ll find the music your life can dance to.

It has been said that we don’t find a vocation, a vocation finds us. A calling that finds, and eventually, defines a part of who we are and who our piece of the world needs us to be.

I keep glancing in my son’s mirrors hoping that some of these answers, these objects, are getting closer, but I have to remind myself that what appears to me doesn’t matter. They are not my mirrors, they are not my questions, and nobody likes a backseat driver.

Take the wheel son, and no matter how heavily “Are we there yet?” weights on our minds, your mom and dad will try to relax and enjoy the ride.

About five years ago I took our daughter to Montana State University in Bozeman for a campus visit to see if it might be the kind of place she would like to attend to move a bit closer to that person she wanted to be. It didn’t take long that day for me to feel that it was that kind of place. A feeling confirmed by Sierra about ten minutes into the visit when she turned to me and said, “We don’t have to visit any other colleges Dad, this is where I want to go.”

Go she did. She went to that place, and each year we watched her move a bit closer to that person she wanted to be. Not a different person than she was, but a person that was a bit stronger, a bit more confident, a bit more of all the good she’s always been.

A person that embraces the unknown and rambles through life with ever present wonder and curiosity. A person that holds great reserves of empathy and kindness for all those she encounters along the way. A person to be proud of. A person that went to that place with a dream has moved herself a step closer to her reality.

We had the pleasure of watching Sierra graduate from MSU on Saturday May 5th with a Bachelor of Arts in Film & Photography. The night before graduation we saw her and her film, “Kimmy for Dinner” be nominated for and take home several awards at The Tracy’s, MSU’s version of the Oscars. The creative talent and rambunctious exuberance of these young people is truly inspiring and a joy to behold.

Throughout the weekend thoughts of the past drifted amongst the present. A little girl smiling at me from the backseat of a passing car as she allowed her hand to drift lazily in the breeze, a child alternating between swinging and walking, as they moved giggling down the sidewalk supported at arm’s length between the grasp of each parent.

Simple moments. Moments I have been a part of many times with our children. Moments that don’t seem all that long ago. Moments that are gone, but not forgotten, mingle with the present moments and remind me of where we’ve been and hint at where we might be going. Where we’ve been and where we are is a good place. Where we’re going remains to be seen.

This place was a good place for Sierra. Where she’s going remains to be seen, but wherever it is it will be better because of her.

A young woman smiling from the driver’s seat waves her hand in the breeze, the hands she grasped as a little girl wave back.

“Did that make you feel better?” I have good news backed by actual scientific research conducted by actual scientist type people on actual live people, much like yourself…I assume. The next time you’re strolling around the friendly confines of your home barefoot and you step on a well-placed Lego or stub your toe on the stool that’s sitting two inches further away from the kitchen island than normal you can answer, “YES, actually it does make me feel better”, through gritted teeth, to the smirking source of the question.

Often time’s science supports the obvious and lends reason, logic, and varying levels of proof to what we’ve always suspected to be true. It provides data and language that gives structure and form to the abstract intuition we’ve never really questioned.

So the next time your mowing the lawn and you bang your head on the tree branch you were going to cut off the last time you mowed around that tree and banged your head, know that science fully supports the word or words that reflexively come out of your mouth as you clutch your melon with one hand and fling your sunglasses against the side of the garden shed in a fit of rage with the other. So I’ve heard.

Just in case mister-know-it-all Alex Trebek asks, “coprolalia” is the medical term for involuntary swearing. It comes from the Greek words “kopros” (feces) and “lalia” (to talk).

I recently read an interesting book “Swearing Is Good for You: The Amazing Science of Bad Language” by Emma Byrne, where she amusingly reports on research that indicates that “swearing helps us bear pain, work together, and communicate emotions.”

Interestingly, the research also supports what I’ve always suspected, “fake” swear words don’t cut it. It seems that the “Jiminy Christopher” my potty-mouthed wife lets fly occasionally in exasperation does little for her exasperation, but quite a lot for my entertainment…which is probably quite exasperating.

This doesn’t mean that the real McCoy’s of your blue streak go-to list should be slung about willy-nilly. As Ms. Byrne puts it in her book, “swearing is like mustard; a great ingredient but a lousy meal.” Many moons ago when I was a college baseball player the team got lectured by an umpire who wasn’t particularly fond of our use of the English language. We had made the mistake of making a meal out of it, but in our defense he was a lousy umpire. So it goes.

The next day at practice our coach, a colorful guy who possessed a lovely sarcastic wit, and once quipped to one of my teammates after he got thrown out at third base trying in vain to stretch a double into a triple, “Nice slide. You looked like a monkey falling out of tree” said, “Fellas, if swearing helped us win ballgames we’d practice it. I was in the Navy, I could teach you a few you haven’t heard yet.”

Well Coach, research indicates that although it probably wouldn’t help us win ballgames, it did help us bear the pain of getting rooked by an umpire that was apparently in the latter stages of macular degeneration. Besides, the coach started it when he loudly suggested that the umpire “turn around and use his good eye”.

Swearers are reported to be an honest lot. The research says so…I swear.

I was looking forward to spring, but I guess the Daisy Dukes will have to wait until summer. A few days back, a balmy 60 degrees if memory serves me, I walked by our exhausted snow shovel, that’s been standing at the ready by our back door for the past 16 months of winter, and foolishly thought that maybe it was safe to hang it in the shed for some well-earned R&R.

Then superstition crept in and reminded me that that was akin to flipping Old Man Winter the bird, and Old Man Winter doesn’t like getting the bird flipped in his direction. As I stand in our drive-way, pausing to lean on the previously mentioned snow shovel, and revel in the glorious winter majesty being pushed on me from above, I realize that Old Man Winter pays no heed to the silly snow shovel superstitions of those foolish enough to live north of Florida.

So I put my Daisy Dukes on under my snow pants, flipped him and his winter majesty the bird, coveted my neighbors snow blower for a moment (she’s a beauty), and went back to the dancing polar bear routine. Bouncing back and forth between the boundaries of our driveway before someone drives on it and I have to wait until August for the snow packed tracks to soften enough to be chiseled off.

Speaking of Old Man Winter, well old men anyway, there was some interesting research conducted in the 1970s that attempted to turn back time (before Cher’s attempt). The researcher put about eight men, who were in their 70s, in an environment that was setup to mimic the 1950s. Music, books, magazines, newspapers, photos, television programs…an all-out blast into their past.

The men were told not to reminisce about the 1950s they were surrounded by, but to speak of the by-gone era in present terms, and act as they would have then. These men stayed in this 1950s time capsule for a week, and the results were pretty interesting. Some that came in leaning on a cane for assistance, walked out a week later leaving their canes behind, while others engaged in a game of touch football.

In general, their overall physical and mental feelings of well-being improved markedly in a brief period of time travel. I don’t think anything “magical” occurred during this week, The Ed Sullivan shows black-and-white rays didn’t teleport the subjects through some mystical hula hoop porthole.

I’m not a scientist, white lab coats wash out my complexion, but I think that the only “magic” that happened was between the time travelers ears. A switch was thrown that set forth the flow of thoughts and feelings from a time when they probably had a much more well-defined sense of self, a sense of meaning, a sense of purpose. Apparently sense is important…try not to lose it.

Our environment plays a big part in influencing our thoughts and behavior. Maybe the home improvement channels should back off and leave us and our wood paneling and shag carpet alone. They could become personal improvement channels. You pick the era, they “unmodel” your home to match that era, and you get to enjoy thoughts and feelings of youthful exuberance while you admire your bowling trophies and witty ashtray collection.

I forgot to mention…the researcher also made sure that there weren’t any mirrors in the throwback setting. Apparently, mirrors have the power to knock time travel off the rails and make for a rocky re-entry into reality. A sort of krypton that strips away illusions of mullets and firm fitting skin and brings youth to its arthritic knees. So it goes.

“Goodbye grey sky, hello blue, there’s nothing can hold me when I hold you….” Sure Fonzie…shut up and grab a shovel.