The Educational Value of Fine Arts, or Man! that play was expensive

Keeping Hamilton's flame

Us Troxels just enjoyed the heck out of Broadway hit play Hamilton a couple days ago, with some killer seats in the 12th row. It was great to be "in the room where it happened," but even better when you're close enough to see facial expressions of these actors, and see the spittle exit the mouth when belting out a song. Well, not so much.

This musical exceeded expectations, which is saying a lot given its popularity, and we've anticipated seeing it for a long time. Lots of laughing, incredible talent, compelling story, and some folks were in near sobs during a couple more tender moments. And I am secure enough in my manhood to comment on the choreography- Holy Cow!

Some of the neat takeaways for me was an increased love of country, heightened interest in knowing more about the birth of this great nation, and appreciation for the founding fathers. The story of America is embodied in this play. Stay young, scrappy and hungry!

I had decided to read Chernow's biography on Hamilton, upon which the play is based. I got 150 pages into that and bailed . . . it read too much like a 700-page textbook. Now I am racing through it. If only I had Lin Manuel-Miranda for high school history.

From Hamilton, my kids now know a little more about early American events and historical figures than before, which illustrates how the arts can educate. This was a play and a civics lesson. The play stays pretty darn true to events as outlined in Chernow's book. Although during one part when Thomas Jefferson was claiming authorship, Tracy leaned over and said, "He stole that from John Locke." Educational information presented in such an entertaining way is powerful.

Seeing American history play out in hip hop was cool. What would really be cool would be to get an all Asian cast of The Color Purple. Kidding! Tracy and I enjoyed this one, and even more so the make up of the audience. That was the first time I had seen people talking back at the stage!

Last month, we saw The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, which in a very clever way, taught us about people with autism. Who would think that it would be as cool as it was? My whole family enjoyed it, and Tracy said it was probably one of her top 5 plays of all time. The experience can't be adequately explained.

A couple years ago, Tracy and I saw Next to Normal, which was about how mental illness can ravage a family. The topic was illustrated in a heart-wrenching yet instructive way, and made me look at mental illness much differently. (In my kid's terminology, "I was like, daaang.")  There were a lot of red eyes coming out both at intermission and at the end.

Tracy and I saw a play called The Last Confession a couple years ago, which detailed the events around the death of Pope John Paul I. That provided wonderful insight into many of the wonderful things, and controversial things, within the Vatican, in a respectful manner. Even though I am not a Catholic, I remember watching with interest

And lastly, who can forget Spamalot, and the accurate portrayal of medieval life by Monty Python on stage?

I go to see plays to laugh, to be entertained and to escape; but it is also pretty cool when you leave a little smarter than before.

Now, if we can only get the casts to stop hitting me up for donations right after the bows . . .

Didn't I just drop a boatload of money on tickets to watch the play? 

I have heard it say that the arts can provoke, inspire, disturb, and even offend.  Blah blah blah. I just want to have an enjoyable evening out with my wife, and if I leave a bit smarter, all the better!

My Uncle Willie: Roses in December

Willie John Otineru - This picture hangs on my wall

After my parents and my angel grandma, the earliest memories I have are of my Uncle Willie. He was only nine when I was born, so part of his teenage years were spent letting this punk kid hang around him, even with a girlfriend or buddies.

There is no shortage of stories about my Uncle, funny or otherwise. Like for instance, once he had a dog. Named Bitch. Yes, it was technically a female dog, but it was funny watching my dad play with her in the backyard, calling her, "Itch" or "Witch" so as not to offend. Or when my wife upon meeting him for the first time at our reception, accidentally looked right into a kiss, catching her square on the mouth! (No one kissed me at the Utah reception.)

Or the time when I was a kid and he was asleep on the floor, I thought it would be interesting to know if putting my stinky foot near his nose would wake him up. It did, and a nanosecond later I was airborne!

Sadly, he passed away 10 years ago, but he still remains relevant in my life. He made me feel important, and what kid doesn't need that?

It was my blessing, and burden, to speak at his funeral . . . and I cannot remember ever feeling so emotionally wiped out after that service.

Below is the text of my talk:

My Uncle Willie
February 26, 2007

I read of a man who stood to speak
at the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
from the beginning...to the end.

He noted that first came the date of her birth
and spoke of the following date with tears,
but he said what mattered most of all
was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time
that she spent alive on earth...
and now only those who loved her
know what that little line is worth.
(The Dash, by Linda Ellis, versus 1-3)

These verses are from the poem, The Dash, by Linda Ellis.  I am John Troxel, Willie’s nephew. . . and probably his whitest blood relative. I will take just a few minutes telling you about what that dash has meant to me.  My Uncle Willie was at all times Superman, Saint, Friend, and Family.

Willie was Superman
Imagine being related to Superman. Uncle Willie was the man of steel of my youth, leaping tall buildings, faster than a speeding locomotive, and all that stuff.  Part of what makes his passing so difficult is the idea that Big Willie was really not bullet proof.

His health had been compromised for some time, but I never saw him as anything less than the strapping young man with a heart as big as all outdoors.

I absolutely loved going to his football games, to watch that big red tank with a 48 on the front and a gold lid... Hearing the announcer describe another touchdown by Willie "oh-TIN-erooo?"  His on field heroics were witnessed by many, but to me he was much more than a meathead, and I love meatheads. As a kid, there was my mom, my dad, my Grandma, and my uncle Willie.

Arguing over which quarter is closer.

Willie was a Saint
Not in the conventional sense. Whenever I talk about my Grandma, I always describe her as a saint. If a saint is someone who is kind, caring, bears adversity with optimism, has a smile for strangers, makes others feel special, then he qualifies.

I even heard him pray. Once.

One year on the day before Christmas, he took me and my brother Neil hiking in the hills behind Mugu Rock. There are a lot of loose rocks in those canyons, and one of them opened up a pretty good gash on Neil’s head. We were still a ways above PCH, but Willie picked up Neil and sprinted down through areas where I had to slide on my butt. Driving around looking for medical attention, I heard Willie LOUDLY praying out of one side of his mouth while out of the other side, lamenting about what his sister was going to do to him. (My mom?) He got Neil to the hospital on base, with a police escort, and after a few stitches Neil was no worse for the wear. That night, as we were opening presents, listening to the same record we played every year, Mamacita, Donde Esta Santa Claus, he received a gift from his sister: a gift-wrapped first aid kit.

With Uncle Willie, I always felt that I was a favorite, and I believe others felt similarly. He was like Grandma, they both had a gift to make people feel uniquely special. Part of Grandma’s goodness was allowing all her grandkids to “believe” that they were her favorite, but if you want to know who was really her favorite, come talk to me afterwards.

Lisa rubbing some feet!

Willie and Grandma both were made of the glue that bound our family together.

Willie was a Friend
He was larger than life, and attracted many into his orbit.  People didn’t stand in his shadow, they basked in his light.  Whenever I speak to Hueneme grads from the 70s, I ask if they knew my Uncle Willie, and they all didn't just know him, but they were his friends. The BMOC always had time for the wallflowers. A friend of mine, Andy Gibson, is an assistant football coach at St. Bonaventure, and there was a big game last season. I’d previously asked Gibby if it were ok if my uncle and I could watch from the sidelines, and he said to call him on his cell when we got there. When we walked on the field, Gibby exclaimed, “Your uncle is Big Willie!?!?” He gave him a hug and made a such big fuss that Willie said later was a little “embarrassing,” but we know he ate it up.

Fun with bungee cords

I think it is appropriate to recognize friends who have gone well beyond the call of duty.  I am grateful that Willie had Bob and Pete, who are both here.  A friend in need is a friend indeed.

Willie was the Epitome of "Family"
If you were a friend, you were family.  Not just his family, but all of ours. As a kid, I remembered Bob, Joe, Sam, Tom and many others who never needed to knock. Compared to those old guys I am still a kid. But Willie's friends were our family.

He had some interesting ways to take care of a smart aleck nephew, my sister Lisa mentioned one last night. (Being required to stand in one place forever.) I found out one day how effective a roll of athletic tape can be in shutting up a snot nosed kid. I remember Grandma only mildly protested. (It turns out "Shut me up" is not the proper response to "Shut up.")

His girls were the apples of his eye. Willie had earlier expressed to me the same thing he told Lisa, that they were the best things he ever did. The best of him are in them.

I think Beth and Jennie are safe here.

When he moved back down here from San Francisco, the unity among his family needed some improvement. Back then he mentioned to me his concerns about family members not getting along. That was, and is, AND IS, a priority of his. We honor him by loving each other.

While scanning photographs, many of which you see on the screens, I took a photo out of a frame that I am certain was placed and last handled by his mother, my Grandma. I considered what I held to be sacred. Scottish author James Barrie said, "God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December." I also hold my memories of Willie as sacred.

There is profound sadness in his absence, but great satisfaction that his suffering ended, and tremendous joy that he is reunited with Grandma, Henry and Bucky.

Hanging out at 835 Spruce Street with my mom, me, Uncle David and Grandpa

My Uncle Willie- Superman, Saint, Friend and Family.

 - Today, thoughts of Uncle Willie make me smile, like roses in December.

The Joy of Owning a Prius

A few years ago, I was driving all over creation for work and to officiate wrestling, and I thought it would be a good idea to save a few bucks and get a more economical car. For a while, it was pretty cool to go 500 miles on 10 gallons. But there were some other benefits too.

You know how BMWs tend to make some people drive like, well, BMW drivers? The same phenomenon happens with the Prius.

When I bought one, I immediately became a different driver. Firstly, it was to save gas.  I wanted to see how good a mileage I could get, so I would drive slowly and cautiously. I never bolted from a stop light. If there was a chance to let someone go first, I would. I never would zoom in front of someone in a hurry. That started because I was driving a Prius.

Then I noticed that I was naturally a less aggressive driver. I became polite for the sake of being polite.  I am happy to wave people in front of me who are trying to merge. I am a nicer driver. That is an example of the physical preceding the mental.

Something similar happened when I bought new shoes.  I went into the Rockport store and wanted to get some shoes that were comfortable, so I got the Rock Cove hiking shoe with Kinetic Air Circulator technology.  And all of a sudden I felt like I wanted to move my feet.  There was a spring in my step, and I wanted to almost run.  I say "almost" because I hate running so much that I hate people who run.

But I found it interesting that putting these shoes on my feet changed my attitude immediately.

So, being in an absolutely position of authority, I have FIVE rules for Prius ownership.

1: Make sure you are married. A Prius may attract a lot of things, but chicks ain't one of them.
2: Don't pay for the nicer rims. Seriously, this isn't a car that needs high performance anodized rims with Pirelli tires. If anything, get some Goodyear Assurance with 80k mile warranty and fuggedaboutit.
3. Be content. This is not the Bullitt Mustang, it is simply transportation. Emasculating, maybe, but it will get you from Point A to Point B. And is masculinity really tired to a car? (Femininity, yes . . .)
4. Be aware. You are driving the equivalent of a minivan, so you will be cut off. Often. And not just by BMW drivers.
5. Rewrite song lyrics and sing out. It works!
 - My Toyota Prius does one-eight-five, I lost my license and now I don't drive
 - Prius Sally . . . all you want to do is ride, Sally, ride
 - Little Red Prius, baby you're much too fast
 - She was sitting cross-legged on the hood of a Prius
 - I met all my wives in traffic jams, there's something women like about a Prius man
 - The list goes on and on

So, go get a Prius. In fact, I will sell you mine. I want another truck.

Star Spangled Awesome

About 10 years ago, Tracy and I took Courtney back to Washington, D.C., on a trip that was just wonderful. She was in 8th grade, and we were considering sending her on one of those school sponsored trips. After pricing it out, we found that we all could go for not that much more, and it remains one of Courtney's favorite childhood memories.

As we were touring the American History Museum at the Smithsonian Institute, we came across the very flag that flew at Fort McHenry, which Francis Scott Key saw in twilight's last gleaming, and again in dawn's early light. I did not expect to see that there, and was unaware that it was even at the museum, so it was with the sense of awe that I approached the room where the flag was being displayed. There was a feeling of reverence in there. People actually spoke in hushed voices. I absolutely loved being next to that flag.

I enjoy hearing our nation's anthem. Every time. I have attended the Olympics and have listened respectfully when the anthems of other countries are played to honor their champions. But who can forget Usain Bolt, one of the best sprinters in history, stopping an interview while the Star Spangled Banner was played during a medal ceremony?

The day I became a fan of Usain Bolt.

Today, I find myself getting tired of hearing about the treatment of our national anthem, from hard lining rednecks to free speech bleeding hearts to sportscasters, politicians, and teachers at my kid's school.

Kaepernick, thanks a lot, dude, for "advancing the public dialogue."

Here's the thing with Kap. If he had moves like Jagger, then the guy would have a contract. Team owners tend to overlook a host of sins for players who help them win, and this would be no different . . . but I digress.

The Cleveland Browns recently had 12 players opt to kneel during the song, and their employer recognized and supported their freedom of speech choices. I wonder, if any of those 12 had ever been presented with a folded flag, would they still not stand? Also, I'd bet dollars to donuts that all those guys already had contracts sewn up.

The Browns' regular season opener is on September 10, and they asked that local emergency response personnel show up to hold a giant flag, stretched across the field, during the playing of the national anthem. The police and other related unions opted out, citing they didn't want to support an organization that supported its employees' choice to not stand for the anthem.

And so it goes.

Why do we continue to have it sung at sporting events? When else it is sung?  There have been some excellent singings of that song, who can forget Whitney Houston at the '88 Super Bowl? And also some Rosanning . . . but while I love hearing it, I am not certain it is a good idea to continue to have it performed at athletic contests.

Courtney wrote an article for her high school newspaper a few years ago called, "The Pledge of Annoyance," referencing the frequency and appropriateness of reciting the "Pledge of Allegiance." Eight years later I think I am seeing her point.

Just like the government should probably get out of the marriage business, we should consider the appropriate circumstances for the playing of the Star Spangled Banner. Its treatment should be honorable, and if not, then the event doesn't deserve it.

Our National Anthem deserves better. We could learn a lesson from this kid:

"And the star spangled banner, in triumph shall wave,

O'er the home of the free, and the land of the brave."