13 Months o' Music

After attending the fantastic performance of world-famous bluesman Robert Cray last evening at Jesse Hall on the MU campus, I stopped to reflect upon the incredible series of shows I've been lucky enough to see in the past year or so. It started last fall with a show at the Blue Note featuring singer/songwriters Robert Earl Keene and Todd Snyder. Then at the Roots'n' Blues festival in Columbia, I got to see blues legend Booker T and rockabilly phenom Junior Brown.

This past spring, Bethany scored tickets to see the greatest blues singer of all time: Mr. B.B. King at Jesse Hall. At this year's Roots 'n'Blues, I took Alex to his first concert to see Anders Osborne, a New Orleans-based blues guitarist whom I had seen several years eariler in St. Louis (which I ranked at that time as the single best concert I had ever been to.)

Last night's show took the cake though. On Friday, Bethany received an email offer for half-price tickets to see Robert Cray. We jumped at the chance and when we arrived at the ticket window to redeem our coupon one-half hour prior to the start of the show, we nabbed two tickets in the center section--in the fourth row! And the blues legend did not disappoint.

If you are unfamiliar with any of the artists I just mentioned, do yourself a favor and check them out. All have at least a little bit of the blues in them. A couple have a lot. A couple have an alternative country twang. A couple have some jazzy undertones. All are incredible musicians and entertainers.

CDs are great, iPods are pretty neat, but watching a live show featuring your favorite artist can't be beat. So take out your earbuds, get together with a couple buds, have a few Buds, and go see a concert. You'll be glad you did.

It's a Girl!

Many of you out there have already heard the news: I'm gonna be a daddy again! This time, to a precious six year old girl from Daqing City, China. Found abandoned on a sidewalk on April 7th, 2004 with her umbillical cord still attached, she was taken to a hospital where doctors determined that she had probably been born the previous day.

No one can say for sure why she was abandoned by her biological parents, but simply being born female in a society that favors male heirs was the likely reason. Many times in these cases, the mother wants to keep her baby girl, but her family will pressure her to abandon the child and try again for a boy. The reason for this is quite simple. In China, a boy will eventually take care of his parents when he grows up while girls have to take care of their husband's parents. Who will take care of a girl's aging parents? No one. So in a country where each family is only allowed to have one child, boys are in high demand. What happens if you have a girl? You drop the child off in a public place and hope she is discovered before succumbing to the elements or starvation. Then you go home and try to give your husband a son.

The girl found abandoned that day was brought to an orphanage where she was soon diagnosed with cerebral palsy. As she grew up, she struggled to walk, but her personality and mental development was as normal as any child's. Eventually, she had two achilles operations to make it easier for her to walk and it is reported that today she is able to get around on her own, albeit slowly. Despite having lived with this disability and without a family to love her for the first six years of her life, she has become a smiling, talkative, and typical six-year-old girl. The resilience of children amazes me.

We spotted Tian Tian's photo on the website of our adoption agency months and months ago. As we have been filling out forms, getting background checks done, and having our entire lives scrutinized for our homestudy, we have been keeping an eye on this beautiful girl on the Waiting Children (special needs) list. We were selfishly hoping that no other family would apply for her before our paperwork was completed because we knew that she belonged with us. Fate agreed apparently, and yesterday we were informed that the officials in China approved us for adopting our little girl. We are overjoyed of course.

"Tian Tian" means "more and more" which seems pretty appropriate. We feel more and more connected to her every day. Our home has become filled with more and more love as we have filled it with more and more kids. The joy in my heart grows more and more as I share my life with my growing family. Hopefully, Tian Tian will love us more and more as she gets to know us. With Bethany's therapy skills, our daughter will become more and more independent as she learns to overcome her physical obstacles. More and more, I feel like I am the luckiest man who ever lived.

More and more, I am convinced that I was born to be a dad. I'm not the best at it, but I'm not the worst either. I can't tell you how much I've looked forward to being wrapped around a daughter's little finger. When Bethany and I first started thinking about adoption five years ago, we wanted a girl. Then Truman came along and happily altered that plan. But before we found him, I had bought a Chinese tea set as a birthday gift for my mom. I told her how much I looked forward to watching her have tea parties with her granddaughter some day. Unfortunately, that day will never come, but you can bet that my daughter and I will drink from that tea set as soon as we have the chance and have a toast to Nonna. Somewhere, my mom will say, "Ya done good, son. Ya done good."

As usual, she'll be right.

Outdoors and Offline

Well, the oppressive heat and humidity of summer have finally passed and my favorite time of year is here. The crispness of the air in Fall instantly sparks memories ranging from trick-or-treating to tailgating to bonfires to hayrides to watching the World Series. It is also birthday season in the Naughton family with Bethany, Truman, Alex, and I all having our birthdays within a span of 33 days. Plus, on November 3rd we'll celebrate Truman's "Gotcha Day" followed in a few weeks by Thanksgiving, which is perhaps my favorite holiday of all. I love Fall.

Today's weather, and the forcast for the next two weeks, makes me feel so alive. I'll be celebrating that feeling by spending a good portion of my time outdoors and offline. If you need me, you know where to find me. In Autumn, the virtual world of facebook just won't cut it. It's back to the real world for me. (Minus the working for a living and paying taxes thing of course.)

39: An Odd Birthday

On my birthday, September 25th, I went to a birthday party--for two four-year-olds. I watched them blow out candles on a birthday cake. I watched them open presents. I sang "Happy Birthday" to them. Then I supressed the urge to scream at the top of my lungs, "But today isn't even their birthday! Today is my freakin' birthday!" But I knew no one would care. It's hard to compete with four-year-olds.

Is it selfish of me to want my actual birthday to be about me? The "birthday" boy (Truman) was enjoying his second birthday party of the week while the "birthday" girl (Rebecca Barnes) was enjoying her third--both on MY birthday! Did the parents and grandparents (or my own wife and kids) stop to acknowledge me on my special day? Of course not. Did it hurt a little? Can I say yes?

But when you get to be 39 years old, people expect you to handle this type of slight maturely. Don't these people know me? Mature? I don't think so. Mature describes wines, not Naughtons. Therefore, I have decided to have a birthday do-over. I will start preparations now for a belated birthday bash to make every four-year-old in Missouri jealous. I'm gonna have a cake, ice cream, pony rides, and a Disney princesses theme. I'll hire a clown, or a stripper, or a mime. Fun will be had--in my honor! Stay tuned, peeps. I'm thinking a bonfire, or a party on the porch, or both (will have a garden hose at the ready.)

Stay tuned, and Happy Birthday to me!

500

Ladies and gentlemen, you are reading my 500th blog post. While that accomplishment may not compare to Hank Aaron's 755 home runs or the number of times Larry King has been married, I still think it is noteworthy. While many of my older posts are painfully awkward and many others are barely readable, some are of a high enough quality that revised versions have made their way into my book Naked Snow Angels. But how did it all begin?

My friend Paul Shields started his own blog back in 2004 and immediately I recognized the potential of this new medium. Paul held photo contests, haiku contests, and provided his friends with a means to exchange witty barbs--almost always at his expense. The result was comedy gold. Paul even wrote some original songs using material gleaned from reader contributions to his blog. (He now has a fan page on facebook and on myspace under his stage name of "Paul & the Violent Farmers" which you should check out--when children are not in the room.)

If you go back through the archives of my blog, you will see the evolution of a writer from a blogger to a bona fide author. At times I have written angry tirades, humorous observations, and melancholy lamentations. I've dabbled in philosophy, politics, satire, and sports. If you have some free time, I welcome you to go back to the beginning and re-live this writing journey with me. The payoff? You will have a unique perspective of Travis Naughton the author when my book finally gets published. Naked Snow Angels is a reflection and culmination of all of the different forms my blog has taken over the years. I now have two final chapters outlined that are ready to be written in order to complete my manuscript. Hopefully, it will be published sometime in 2011. When I'm internationally famous and you see me on TV during Oprah's final season, you'll be able to say, "I've been reading that incredibly handsome young man's work since he was a blogger. Now he's a celebrity and I want to have his babies." (Men, you may say, "I'd like to have a frothy, malted beverage with that handsome and clever fellow!")

Thank you for all your support and encouragement over the years. My readers and fans, afterall, are the ones who are really to blame for unleashing me upon the literary world. Just wait'll Oprah gets a load o' me!

While the Cat's Away...

Contrary to popular opinion, I was not naked all four days that Bethany and the boys were enjoying their long Labor Day weekend in Michigan. I was nude on no more than, like two days, not four. (Including some quality outside time spent talking to the Centurylink help desk on the phone while standing on the porch sipping coffee in my "business very, very casual" attire.)

Instead of being lazy, as was expected, I spent most of my time checking off "To-Dos" from a massive, twelve item list. I cleaned out our pole barn/garage, filling my truck bed twice with trash. It took over six hours to finish the job. I drove one load of garbage to the dump and set the other on the curb. (We'll see if they pick it up this week.) I scrubbed our vinyl-siding to rid it of a few years worth of mildew and grime. That took three or so hours. I mowed our yard and my mother-in-law's yard. That was about three hours. I purchased--as a surprise to my wife--a new screen door and installed it myself over the course of about three or four hours. I bought and assembled the new book case my beautiful bride wanted for our living room as Bethany's birthday present. I did laundry. I did the dishes. I cleaned the boys' toy room and their bedroom. I got Centurylink to finally come out to our house and fix our DSL (hopefully for the last time.) And I helped my friend Rob get his Ford Bronco going again and followed him as he drove it back to his house after an extended period in which it sat beside our barn gathering dust and accumulating an impressive collection of mosses and lichens. A rolling Ford gathers no moss.

As you can see, I've been a busy boy. It will take a few days to recover from all that manual labor, and then I'll dig in for the final push to finish writing my book. But for now, chillin' in the recliner is in my immediate future. (And possibly some gratuitous nudity.)

Pussy Magnet

For a guy allergic to cats, there never seems to be a shortage of them in my life. Despite the fact that exposure to cat dander triggers potentially life threatening asthma attacks in yours truly, I can't get away from the walking fur balls. A litany of bewhiskered feline drifters comes calling at our house fairly regularly. A few years ago, one that we named Jager had a litter of kittens, all of which we later had spayed and neutered. Two of this family remain, a female named Boots and her brother Gray-Ray. (Jager, and my favorite of the litter Cletus, disappeared into the woods surrounding our house and never returned.) This sibling pair is tolerable, if not actually quite loveable for outdoor, semi-wild cats. Periodically, a loner will swing by and try to "take over the pride" through bullying and intimidation. One such cat, a male we called Blackbeard due to the black "soul patch" on his chin--and the fact that he was a marauding pirate of a cat bent on stealing the "booty" in the food bowl on our front porch--took a ride in the country with me not once, but twice before he finally took the hint that he was not welcome here.

Another drifter has made himself a permanent fixture recently. A handsome white cat with a black toupee and matching tail, Steve (as named by Alex) is here to stay. Our dogs have tried to run him off, as have I, but to no avail. Alas, I have given up. He is fairly nice and although Boots hates him, Gray-Ray doesn't seem to mind him much. Steve is a remarkable cat. The other day, I saw him take a dump in the yard that was so big it could have been mistaken for one of our St. Bernard's landmines. He didn't bury it like most cats, either. No sandbox, mulch pile, or any effort to conceal it whatsoever. No sir, he was proud of that pile. It almost looked like it could have been human. I imagined what my neighbors might have thought had they heard me yelling, "For god sakes, Steve! Don't shit in the yard. I just mowed!"

I think all pets should have human names. Yesterday I saw that cat stalking a mourning dove in the driveway. I threw open the kitchen window and shouted, "Steve! Don't you eat that bird!" Think of the fun you can have shouting at a crowded dog park, "Keith! Quit licking yourself!" Or, "Stop sticking your ass in Keith's face, Joyce!" When people ask me for tips on naming their pets or children, I always advise them to pick a name that they won't be embarrassed to yell in anger in a public place. Of course, our St. Bernard's name is Princess, which can be a little awkward when she's doing something like, say, chasing a helpless puppy at a local park. "Princess, no! Don't eat that Yorkie! Bad Princess!"

I hope that Steve will the last wayward cat to stumble across our homestead. But I doubt that will be the case. Alex is already planning to name the next one Bob. Let's see: "Bob! You pissed on my patio chair didn't you?!" Yeah, the neighbors will have a field day with that.

Twenty Years

In May of 1990, some 250 or so young people graduated from Hannibal High School. However, our commencement took place in the wrong decade. We were children of the 1980s. We listened to Guns'n'Roses, Duran Duran, and Young MC. We wore acid-washed jeans, parachute pants, and in some unfortunate cases--leg warmers. (Not me!) Girls' hair rocked bangs big enough to shroud archeological treasures. Boys sported the timeless "mullet" (business in front, party in the back.) We witnessed the fall of the Berlin Wall, the Iran-Contra Affair, and the advent of the personal computer. Our beloved St. Louis Cardinals made three World Series appearances during the decade. Our red-headed stepchild of a sports franchise, the St. Louis football Cardinals flew west to Arizona. It took 18 years for anyone to notice that they were gone.

Last weekend, the class of '90 held its 2o year reunion back in that "white town drowsing" on the banks of the Mississippi River. Several of us toured the high school building before the official festivities and heavy drinking commenced on Saturday evening. Memories that had long since faded into oblivion were made suddenly vivid again as I showed my family the "Senior Star" that adorned the floor in the main foyer of the building. I laughed as I recalled making my brother Blake and other freshmen polish the star with toothbrushes as a rite of massage that I hope hasn't been since banned as a form of "hazing." Our tour group explored the three floors of the building with a child-like enthusiasm that none of us remembered having twenty years prior. Nostalgia isn't a strong enough word for what we felt. It was more like stepping into a time machine and being transported back to 1990 for a few glorious minutes. It was, in short, pretty damned cool.

But of course, seeing old classmates that evening was the real reason for coming home to Hannibal. I saw, embraced, and laughed with people I have known since I first came to town in 1980. That's right--I've maintained some close friendships for thirty years now. That's pretty damned cool, too. The capacity for human beings to instantly rekindle decades-old friendships after years of being out of contact with one another amazes me. I can't convey with words how much it meant to me to be reunited with so many very dear friends after so many years apart. (I would call you all out by name right now, but there are far too many of you to list here.) Which helped me come to a wonderful realization: I am truly blessed to have so many good friends. As time and distance isolated us from one another since the glory days, it would have been understandable to feel more like aquaintances rather than real friends upon seeing each other again. But not so for the class of '90. Real friends have the ability to pick up right where they left off--even after twenty years of not being in touch. Two decades apart is nothing that a few shots of Jagermeister can't fix.

I just want to thank the organizers of our reunion for their hard work in throwing this shin-dig together. Dawn Tate Weber, Shelly Taylor Bode, Lisa Sheffield Pemberton, Amanda McBride Brown, Lori Landrum Mueller, Matt Kirby, and everyone else who contributed to the weekend's success: THANK YOU!!! And, thank you to all of my very good friends who made me laugh so much that I woke up in the middle of the night with back spasms. (Hey, we are getting a little older, you know.)

Long live the members of the class of '90. But just in case our livers can't hold out much longer, let's get together again sooner rather than later.

Fourteen Years

Aside from the births of Barack Obama, Jeff Gordon, and Bill Herrin, August 4th is truly a special day to me because on that date in 1996, a certain girl from the big town of New London, Missouri entered into a legally binding contract to love me forever--for better or for worse. Poor Bethany. Was she duped? Hoodwinked? Deceived? Bribed? Blackmailed? Bamboozled? I choose to invoke my Fifth Amendment Right to not answer these questions.

One does have to question Bethany's judgment though. Why would an apparently smart and obviously attractive young woman agree to marry me? She's tall, fit, and sexy while I am none of those things. Why would she settle for me, when she clearly could have done much, much better? Was she dropped on her head as a child? Her standard answer to the question of 'why?' is, "I was drunk." She lies.

For better or for worse. Lately, she would probably label life with me with the latter. My astute wife has pointed out that since I've become a "real writer" I've begun acting like one. She's noticed that I'm moody and prone to angry outbursts of late. I reply with, "Yes, but what's new about that?" Nevertheless, she is stuck with me, so she makes the best of it I guess.

To my wife, I would like to publicly say thank you for putting up with me for fourteen years. I don't deserve someone as good as you. That isn't to say I don't deserve to be loved--just perhaps loved by a crack whore or a woman with three teeth and an affinity for chaw. Yet here you are, still with me after having had ample time to come to your senses--or sober-up. If your mom did drop you on your head, then remind me to thank her for that.

I love you, Mrs. Naughton, more than a moody writer could ever put into words. Happy anniversary.

I love it when a plan comes together

After just a few days of making revisions, my original manuscript for Naked Snow Angels is barely recognizable. I have become so consumed with writing this new version that I spent nearly twelve hours working on it yesterday alone. But as I lay in bed last night, more and more ideas kept popping into my mind, causing me to toss and turn until about 4:00am when I finally decided to get out of bed and get my thoughts down on paper. I grabbed my notebook, plotted out the second half of the book including a new ending, and went back to bed in time to watch the sun rise through our bedroom window.

This book has taken over my life. I know my kids need more attention from me, but I rationalize away any guilt for their neglect by reminding myself that I have been staying at home with them for over two years now. They could probably use a break from me for a little while. When Bethany asks, "When are you gonna get off that computer and spend some time with your family?" I remind her that if I ever sell this book, the royalty checks will be my first contribution to our finances since May 2008. "Well then quit talking to me and get back to work!"

Yes dear.

Book Report

I am happy to report to my many tens of fans that after a lengthy delay, progress on my book Naked Snow Angels is coming along quite nicely. After the first draft of the manuscript was completed back in the waning days of winter, I set aside the work and put it out of my mind for awhile in order to be able to attack it from a fresh perspective later. As spring and the beginning of summer came and went, I struggled to find the ideal format for telling my story. This week, I finally made a breakthrough.

You may recall from my past updates that when I first decided to write a book, I grappled with the notion of writing a purely fictional novel. (I have two unfinished manuscripts saved on my hard drive that will likely never see the light of day.) Somehow, a novel felt contrived and artificial, so I gave up the idea--for now. Next, I attempted to compile a collection of essays gleaned from my blog and from the two aborted novels. The result was a mish-mash of disconnect that left me scratching my head searching for any rhyme or reason to my yammerings. Eventually I came to realize that by re-ordering my essays, what I had actually written was really a pretty decent memoir. However, I wasn't comfortable with the notion of a 38 year old, relatively unknown person writing his life's story. It seemed like a bit of a stretch to believe anyone would want to read it. As an acquaintance once quipped when I told her I was writing my memoir, "Honey, you haven't been alive long enough. That'll be one short story."

My immediate response was, "I've done a lot of livin' in 38 years." My more reasoned response has taken up until this week to formulate. I have begun re-writing my "memoir" in a completely new way. To my knowledge, a book has never been written in the manner that I have decided upon, so if I'm right, I am currently writing a truly original style of book. Of course I can't tell you what that style is just yet. Suffice it to say, of the myriad variations of memoirs, biographies, and autobiographies that have ever been written, I have found no examples using the exact device that I have implemented for my book. There are a few books out there that are somewhat similar, but I believe I've come up with a novel twist (pun intended).

So stay tuned, my loyal followers. Your devotion and patience will be rewarded soon. I expect to have the manuscript completed by the end of summer and will then begin the process of trying to get it published. Any help you can provide in that department would be greatly appreciated.

An open letter to our house

Dear Mr. (or Mrs.) House,

I can't help but notice that you seem to be mad at us. What exactly did we do to deserve such rude treatment from you? For starters, you decided that we don't need air conditioning during this most unpleasantly hot and humid Missouri summer. In my humble opinion, the Naughtons have done nothing to you that would justify cooking us alive within your walls. Rude. Second, you sabotaged the clothes dryer, forcing us to hang-up our damp unmentionables out of doors in the stifling heat. That's plain mean. Next, you cracked the shower head in our bathroom, making it almost impossible to take a cooling shower in a vain effort to stave off heat stroke after hanging laundry all day. All of these things are inconvenient, uncalled for, and ill-timed. But they fail to get under my skin to the extent that your latest effort has. You broke the Internet.

Every day during the past week, you have severed my ties to the outside world from the hours of 10:00am through 6:00pm. I don't know how you managed to accomplish this, but somehow you've made it to where I have no Internet connection for those same eight hours every single day. It is bad enough that I have to sweat, do laundry outside, and take baths instead of showers, but now you've decided to monkey with my best distraction from all of your needless destruction. House, you and I have had a pretty good run up until this year. Oh sure, I remember when you maimed the furnace on a sub-freezing night a few years ago and when you thought it would be funny to make the exhaust fan in the bathroom stop working just when the lingering stench of a partially digested Big Mac extra value meal desperately needed to be removed from the stagnant confines of your smallest room, but lately--you've really been trying my patience.

If I promise to paint the three rooms Bethany has been wanting to get "made-over" for the past five years, will you promise to stop making my life difficult? If we clean out your gutters, will you quit messing with the Internet? I think we've been pretty decent occupants over the years, don't you? We've replaced your worn carpet with hardwood floors. We've repainted three rooms. We landscaped around you and mow your yard regularly. We vacuum, scrub your siding, and even wash your windows once a decade or so. What more do you want from us? We'll be bringing another child from China home to live with us in the next year or so, filling another of your cozy rooms. Do you think you could help us save the money for the adoption by not destroying every appliance we own? Speaking of appliances, we replaced your aging fridge and stove a couple years back as well as the old washer and dryer, or did you already forget that? Please, big fella, give us a break okay? If you choose to keep doing things the hard way, we can play that game. I could unleash the full destructive power of two young Naughton boys on you. Trust me, ask the houses from my youth: you don't want that.

Think it over. And do the right thing.

Sincerely,
Travis "The Man of the House" Naughton

Brother Travis

Don't laugh, but today I became a legal, ordained minister of the Universal Life Church. Okay, go ahead and laugh if you want, but it's no joke. The ULC explicitly frowns upon becoming ordained as a joke. I read that somewhere on their web page. However, the mission of my ministry will be to promote and encourage laughter, which will help make people happy, which will in turn help make the world a better place. Naive? Maybe. I can hear you snickering as you read this. And that's perfectly fine with me. That's the whole idea.

After witnessing my friends Troy and Anita getting hitched by their mutual friend The Right Reverend Brandi Woolery (a beautiful soul who became ordained for the sole purpose of officiating their ceremony) I became intrigued by the idea of becoming a minister. After some soul searching and Internet surfing, I decided to take the plunge. The ULC has two specific reasons for being: To promote freedom of (and/or from) religion and to always do that which is right. They will ordain anyone from any denomination including Christians, Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, Pagans, Atheists, etc. And they do it for free. The idea is to encourage people to feel free to practice (or not practice) their religion of choice without fear or shame. And we all know I have no shame.

By now you must be asking yourself, "What denomination is this wacko going to align himself with?" Well, the simple answer is none of the above. I have a working knowledge of several of the world's religions and have yet to find one that has satisfied my lifelong quest to make sense of my existence. Having a degree in philosophy, I have come to the conclusion that no single religion has all the answers. Each offers something of spiritual value to anyone who can stay awake during their weekly services, but none are absolutely right (or wrong.) Therefore, I think the world needs a new "religion" if you will. That's where I come in.

Welcoming believers and non-believers from every walk of life, the "ministry" I am creating will be focused on making the world a better place through laughter. (I know, it's not much different from what I've been doing up to this point of my life.) There are a few distinct differences though. As an ordained minister, I will legally be able to perform wedding ceremonies, baptisms, funerals, and even exorcisms! So I've got that going for me.

Why? For one thing, I think it will be really fun to call myself the Right Reverend Travis or Brother Travis, or whatever title I am willing to pay ULC twenty bucks to put on my certificate. For a little more, I could call myself Dr. Naughton, but somehow I think that would really piss off my brother who paid dearly for his doctorate from Stanford. Also, I can see all of my friends laughing and smiling and shaking their heads in disbelief every time they think of me being a minister--and that makes me happy. Really, the only goal I have is to make my friends laugh and hopefully they will take that laughter with them wherever they go and spread it around like the flu or herpes maybe.

Anyway, I thought you would be amused to know that your friend Travis Naughton is a now bona fide man of the cloth (well, some or other kind of cloth.) I am leaning toward calling myself Brother Travis or Brother T, but you can call me whatever you like, as long as there's a smile on your face. That's why I'm here.

Stay at Home Writer

*I wrote the following essay as a sample of what I am capable of as a newspaper/magazine columnist. Feel free to forward this and my contact info to any publishers or editors you may know. My wife would appreciate it if I could generate some income this decade.

Moments ago, I sat down to write an essay about the ups and downs of pet ownership. I was feeling inspired (and a slight stinging sensation) after having my hand bitten—again—by our pet bird Chi-Chi, a parakeet who apparently didn’t get the memo about not biting the hand that feeds him. I had just typed the title to this future masterpiece when I was interrupted by the ear-splitting screams of righteous indignation coming from my three-year-old son Truman—a phenomenon more common than parakeet pecks and often much more painful. I set aside my laptop, meted out some swift justice to Tru and his older brother Alex (the party who frequently claims to be the victim, but more often than not is the victimizer), and settled back into my work station/easy chair to resume writing. But the moment was gone. The pain from the bird-bite had dissipated, as did my inspiration to write about my feathered and furry friends. I’ll admit that I was tempted to pack it in and postpone writing until the boys’ bedtime, but I decided instead to write this piece about a day in the life of a writer/stay at home dad.

Just while I was typing the above paragraph, several distractions occurred that would derail most professional writers. The phone rang while I was responding to yet another domestic dispute, causing me to threaten Truman with a great deal of bodily discomfort if he refused to cease his screeching long enough for me to say, “Hello.” As I greeted the caller, he resumed his caterwauling, which forced me to repeat my initial cordial “hello” with a more irritated one. The caller turned out to be a telemarketer, a fact that removed any guilt I may have had for sounding particularly rude. She wanted me to pass along a message to my wife Bethany that her eyeglass prescription was now expired and that she should come in to get new glasses as soon as possible. First of all, I didn’t know glasses had an expiration date. Do they get all brown and mushy like bananas or are they no longer legally valid after two years like, say, a driver’s license? I was tempted to ask the caller these questions, but opted instead for the old stand-by, “I’ve got a screaming kid here. You understand. Have a nice day.” Click. Minutes later, another squabble ensued as did another phone call—this time from Bethany, who was “just checking in to see how everything was going.” I kept my response short and sweet, which she correctly interpreted as “It sounds like you’re busy.” She was right of course. She usually is. Oops, I mean she always is.

Although my kids can derail the creativity train that runs within me at the drop of a hat, or the taking of a toy, they provide me with a wealth of material to write about—if ever I can find the time. Take this morning for example. I was drifting in and out of sleepyland at about eight o’ clock, dreaming about peeing in the Pope’s Jacuzzi (I wish I was making this up, but it is unfathomably true) when I heard the toilet lid go up in the master bathroom. I pried open an eye in time to see Tru getting on the potty like a big boy. I was pleased to notice him dabbing a stray droplet or two off the rim with a square of toilet paper. What a conscientious little fella! When he finished, I instructed him to get a clean pair of underwear from his room, which he set out to do without argument. I was a proud papa.

Moments later, Tru returned to inform me that he couldn’t find any underwear in his dresser, and so I begrudgingly crawled out of bed—an unheard of act for a dad who is accustomed to staying in bed and “watching” TV with his kids in the early morning hours (until Sesame Street is over at the very least.) I dug up a pair of skivvies that were as yet unpacked from a bag of clean laundry following a week’s vacation and put them on my curiously smelly child. No sooner had I pulled up the Thomas the Train tighty-whities, than I spotted the source of the offending odor. An instantly recognizable brown streak was making its way from Truman’s nether-region to his ankles. I sprang into action, fully awake, putting aside all thoughts of how I would explain to the Pope why his hot tub was defiled and ran at a dead sprint with filthy child in hand to the bathroom.

Upon re-entry into the bathroom, I flipped on the light. The horror! My first thought was something along the lines of how relieved the Pope would be that I didn’t do that to his Jacuzzi. Poo was everywhere, and I don’t mean the Winnie-the-Pooh sheets, jammies, and toys that were scattered about the house. Real, non-Disney poo. I set Tru on his feet in the middle of the room and like a CSI detective, I began to piece together what had happened. Judging by the brown streak on the side of the tub, Tru must have leaned against it as he stripped off his diaper, which was protruding from the trashcan like a brown and white flag of surrender. From there, the trail led to the toilet where it became apparent that the boy had not been dabbing a few drops of pee that errantly landed on the rim. If only. Instead, as he hoisted himself up to the seat, he very obviously smeared a British Petroleum sized slick all over the commode.
I peeled off his fresh underwear only to find that it was—not so fresh anymore. I began to clean up the bathroom fixtures while my patient but stinky child stood motionless and eerily emotionless in the middle of the floor. He seemed to be completely unaffected by the whole affair, unlike his father who was alternately gagging and holding his breath while depleting the disappointingly limited supply of wet wipes in a vain effort to remove the now tacky substance from the boy’s, well, boy parts. The only remaining course of action was a hasty shower, one that left no time for proper preparation or the securing of a washcloth. That unfortunate fact left me no choice but to use soap, water, and my bare hands to extricate the thoroughly stuck-on poo from Truman’s little “peanut butt” as his mama calls it—a cute name for a portion of his personage that was anything but cute at that moment.

After some serious scrubbing, Tru was his old self again. I sent him back to watch his cartoons while I took a shower that I hoped was hot enough to sterilize my hands and burn away the nauseating memories from my mind. I guess I only succeeded on one of those fronts. And for that I’m somewhat glad. Without these types of experiences to draw upon, I would have very little to write about. Oh, I could make stuff up and call myself a novelist, but in regards to my life I’ve found that the truth is much more entertaining than fiction.

Fun in the Sun

Having retired for the second time just over two years ago, I am living the dream. Of course I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. You may remember that I formally declared the first summer of my retirement as the Summer of Travis. But the summer of 2010 is making a strong play for the title. In the past month, I have gone fishing many times, spent a lot of time with my boys, and visited friends and family in Colorado, Philly, KC, St. Lou, and most recently the Riveria Maya in Mexico.

This was my second vacation south of the border since 2005 and proved to be just as much fun as the first. I drank muchas tequilas, toured Mayan ruins, spent an afternoon zip-lining (including one run hanging upside down), and laughed myself to tears too many times to count. Accompanied by my beautiful wife, John & Kristen Briscoe, and Grant & Brenda Barnes, I had one of the best weeks of recreation and brain cell culling in my life. And I made some new friends in Mexico, both American and Mexican that I'll never forget. Grant and John accused me of developing a "bromance" with a bartender named Rodolfo who plied me with Don Julio shots throughout our stay. They may be right. We exchanged email addresses and I am thinking very seriously of asking him to become my first Mayan facebook friend.

The Summer of Travis version 2.0 continues next weekend with a reunion of the families who adopted kids through our agency, Children's Hope International. Also, next month will be my 20 year high school reunion, although I contend that most of my friends have failed to mature mentally past an eighth grade level. Both of these reunions will be fun--in very different ways of course. Hopefully I will see you at one of these events, but if not, don't be surprised if you hear a knock on your door at three in the morning followed by, "It's Travis Naughton. Remember me? I was the captian of our co-ed naked bingo team. I think. Let me in please. It's the Summer of Travis! And I gotta pee."

Good Medicine

If ever you find yourself so overwhelmed with the responsibilites, boredom, and/or chaos of being a stay-at-home parent, then I recommend taking a few days off to reconnect with your former, pre-parental self. Last weekend I did just that.

One of my very best friends in the universe, Troy Lepper, and his best gal Anita (a muy caliente Latina that Troy affectionately calls "Brown Sugar") got hitched in the scenic but chilly mountains of northern Colorado. I was blessed with the opportunity to attend said nuptials sans familia. Bethany agreed to take some time off from work to spend a long weekend with the kids while I was given a rare furlough from my incarceration at the Hartsburg Sanitorium. My friend Rob Scott accompanied me on the epic road trip to Ft. Collins in anticipation of a three day wedding celebration that we were certain would rank as one of the most fun of all time. We were not disappointed.

On Thursday evening, Troy and Anita held a backyard movie night at their home for thirty or so of their favorite people. Apparently, Rob and I qualified. Everyone let their hair down, enjoyed various intoxicants, and laughed until it hurt. The highlight of the evening was an unforgettable burlesque show performed by a very close friend of the happy couple named Lady Ginger Licious, a lovely and unique woman I had had the pleasure of meeting once before.

Friday night involved a fantastic rehearsal dinner at the mountain resort that played host to the wedding festivities. Troy convinced several members of his family that Rob and I were a gay couple, and we enjoyed keeping them guessing for the rest of the weekend. (If you don't know Rob, I'll tell you that he is about 6'4", 240 pounds to my 5'7" 147. An odd couple if there ever was one.)

Saturday was the big day, and I have to say it was one of the neatest ceremonies that I had ever attended. Troy and Anita's good friend Brandi procured a ministerial certification from the ad in the back of "Rolling Stone" magazine and officiated the ceremony as the Right Reverend Brandi Wine. Spirit wands were waved by members of the audience as a blessing of the union. The bride wore a stunning white gown with a rainbow patterned bow tied around her waist which looked absolutely perfect. The bride and groom shook their groove thing while exchanging vows that included the promise to "love, honor, and get funky" with their counterpart for as long as they both shall live.

The reception featured great toasts by the best man Steve "The Fonz" Winkler and the maid of honor/burlesque dancer Ginger. Troy thanked the wedding guests for sharing the big weekend with him and Anita and his speech left the crowd both laughing and crying. As I mingled with the other guests, I realized I had made several new friends over the course of the all-too-brief weekend. Brandi and Ginger are two of them as well as a couple named Billy and Leigh. I spent a lot of time visiting with old friends Ben and Steve and got to know their wives Tara and Rachael quite well. They are now officially friends of mine, too.

Last weekend was just what the doctor ordered for me. I had been feeling quite impatient, quick-tempered, and exhausted by the never-ending responsibility of my job as a stay-at-home dad. But spending a three day weekend with dear friends made all of my stress melt away and now I feel like a new man (for the time being anyway.) This unique group of friends has the ability to lift my spirits unlike any other circle of friends I have had. Each of them is a very positive person who lives life to the fullest while marching to the beat of their own drum. They remind me that it is okay to be myself and not worry about looking or sounding foolish. Troy especially has been a colossal influence in my life and has helped me through many a rough patch during my younger, self-destructive years.

Troy is more than a friend. As I told him after his wedding, he is the big brother I never had. I am the oldest of four kids in my family, Troy is the youngest of four in his. A few years older than me, I think he considers me the younger brother he never had. Sharing the same height and build, the same first initial, the same hair color, the same tastes in music, and at one point a blues show on Mizzou's college radio station, we have a lot in common. Not the least of which is a love of life and a love for one another that was once again, over the course of three days in Colorado, reaffirmed.

Congrats Dr. & Mrs. Lepper, and much love to you both. Stay funky.

Memorial Day

In Thurdsay's online edition of the Columbia Daily Tribune, a reader posted the following comment; "I always admitted that "W" was a bungler and truly wished we had a better speaker to put forth the conservative ideals that most true Americans hold dear."

I responded with the following:

Most TRUE Americans hold conservatives ideals dear? So if I am not a conservative then I am not a TRUE American? There is the TRUE problem facing our country today. Why can't we have an intelligent debate about issues without questioning each other's patriotism or love of country? I voted for Obama, as did the majority of voters in the last election. Therefore, I don't see how it's possible that "most true Americans" hold dear the values of conservativism.

I am a true American. I support your right to question my patriotism, even if it makes me angry. I support your right to cling too tightly to the belief that yours is the only correct point of view, although in my opinion you couldn't be more wrong. But I do ask you, with all due respect, to please refrain from insinuating that people in this country who disagree with you are not true Americans.

My great grandfather fought for America in WWI. My grandfather in WWII. My father in Vietnam. They fought to preserve your right to say incendiary things like proclaiming that you, and not their own descendant, are a true American. I hope that you and every true American remembers my ancestors' service to this great country of ours this Memorial Day.

As for this liberal, yet TRUE as they come American, I say thank you to all of the men and women who have fought, been injured, or died so that I can have the opportunity to sit here sipping my coffee, typing on my computer, and listening to my kids playing in the next room--a pretty damn good life if you ask me.

I'm Still Alive

Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I have been taking a writing hiatus following the completion of the first draft of my book Naked Snow Angels. I needed to step away from the demands of finding something creative to say on a daily basis, and so yes, I must admit that I have been spending way too much time on the mindless distraction that is Facebook.

All the cold and rainy weather we have had for the past few months has caused me to slide into a very unsatisfying rut of checking email, checking facebook, reading the online version of the newspaper, and searching online listings for classic cars for sale that I cannot afford. Well folks, the sun has come out today, and I am feeling frisky.

Four or five more cups of coffee and I may be ready to start revising my book. I am not sure whether to change it from a non-fiction memoir to a novel, a collection of short stories, or a collection of humorous essays, but I'm pretty sure it will be quite changed in version 2.0. Stay tuned for further updates and excerpts.

And thank you for remaining my loyal and patient fans.

WWII in HD

Last night, I stayed up till two in the morning watching most of the WWII in HD marathon on the History Channel. I had seen most of these episodes the first time they ran, but this time I got to watch them all back-to-back. I couldn't turn it off.

My first thought after watching the series was that most people under the age of 30 probably don't have a living family member who fought in WWII. For these young people, the war is just another chapter in their history books at school. That is why this program should be required viewing in every high school history class. It makes the abstract concepts of world-wide warfare, genocide, and self-sacrifice very real.

I feel so indebted to my grandfathers and great uncles who fought in World War Two. Aldace Naughton, Jr served in the Pacific Theater while James Everett Naughton, his cousin, fought in the Battle of the Bulge against the Nazis. My mom's father, Robert Keller served in the Pacific, too, though I am not as familiar with his history. Part of me wants to know more about their experiences, but another part of me is afraid to know what these men saw during their tours of duty. I owe my life and my freedom to these great men. We all do.

I hope free people everywhere are aware that were it not for the incredible sacrifices of "The Greatest Generation" our world would be a very different place today. Can you fathom what life would be like on our planet if the Allies had lost the war? An estimated 70 million people died during the six years of WWII, half of them civilians. Imagine how many more would have perished had the Nazis and Japanese won. When we play with our i-phones and nintendos, listen to gangster rap and heavy metal, and tolerate baseball and football players going on strike because their $100 million contracts are never enough, shouldn't we stop for a moment to reflect upon what our grandfathers who froze to death in foxholes in France or were burned alive on Tarawa would think of our shallow, self-indulgences?

The next time you start to complain about the way the boy at the store bagged your groceries or the apparent shortage of foam in your Starbucks latte, think about the millions of men who were conscripted into the military, taken from their families, and thrown in front of a Japanese or German pillbox full of machine guns. Whenever you start to whine about how unfair it is that someone at work gets a better office or parking space than you, think about the men who were assigned to storm the beaches of Normandy or Okinawa, who knew that they may never see their wives or children again. When you get impatient waiting in the emergency room to see a doctor about your sprained ankle, think about the field nurses who held the hands of thousands of young men as they bled to death after being blown to pieces by exploding mortars.

The men and women who served in WWII are true heroes. Tiger Woods was never a hero. It amuses me how many people tuned in to watch his mea culpa press conference. I don't care how many strippers he was with. I don't care how far he can hit a golf ball. There are men and women in Iraq and Afghanistan getting killed or maimed everyday who don't even get a mention in the news for the sacrifices they've made. I wonder how our WWII vets, the few that are still with us, can tolerate living in a society that is so shallow and so oblivious to what really matters in the world. Freedom. Family. Love. Those things matter.

Next time you see an 85 year old, thank him or her for saving the world. Thank them for what you have and the life you live. We owe them everything. Absolutely everything.

Ice, Ice Baby

Photos of the boys enjoying a frozen waterfall in our woods.

Revisionist History

"Naked Snow Angels" is one step closer to completion. I just finished the first revision of my manuscript and will be heading to Kinko's to print a couple copies off. I will send these to a couple of people whom I trust to edit and critique my book. This makes me more anxious than writing the 25 chapter, 262 page manuscript in the first place.

This book is more than the story of my life--writing it has become my life's work. I have realized after years of bouncing around from one job to another and never feeling satisfied with any particular occupation, that I just hadn't stumbled upon what I was really cut out to be--a writer. It isn't that I'm allergic to good old fashioned hard work or that I'm just extremely lazy. It turns out that some people are butchers, some are salesmen, some are groundskeepers, and some are writers.

I think the book I have created is actually pretty damn good. The process has been very interesting as the manuscript has evolved from a novel, to a collection of random essays, and finally into cohesive memoir that while not written in a strictly chronological order, flows naturally from start to finish. There are stories from my childhood, adolescence, young adulthood, and my life as a husband and father. I've included a good balance of humorous, cringe worthy, poignant, and enlightening material that I think will leave the reader looking forward to my next book.

And I have several more books in me. At first, I wasn't sure that I had enough material to write one full-length book, but now I know that the wealth of experiences that I have to draw story ideas from is virtually limitless. The question now becomes, will anyone in the publishing world take a chance and buy my book? After making my final revisions, hopefully in the next few weeks, I will start sending out queries to literary agents and editors in the hope that someone in New York City will give an old country boy a shot.

Thanks for your support and stay tuned for further updates.

Good Lookin'

I realize that I haven't posted new photos of the boys lately, so here you go. They're almost as good looking as their old man, don't you think?

I'm Gonna Live!

After two EKGs, an ultrasound, a stress test, and bloodwork, it has been determined by a bona fide cardiologist that my irregular heart beat is nothing to worry about and that I am perfectly healthy.

"Your bloodwork came back absolutely perfect. It is exactly what you want to see in a man your age. I couldn't be more pleased with the results," the good doctor said.

"Great," my wife sighed. "Now I have to hear about how perfect you are for the next year or so."

She's just jealous because I eat like a human garbage disposal, rarely exercise, and manage to keep my cholesterol levels perfect.

"Don't hate me because I'm beautiful- and healthy."

At Last

I started to write a novel way back in 2005. I muddled through the first four chapters until I realized that the awkward work of fiction could never be completed. I began a second novel in 2008 that had great potential, but suffered the same problem as the first: it was forced, contrived, and not very good.

Today, I just completed authoring my first book. I gave up on the idea of a fictional version of my life's story because in my case, the truth is way more entertaining than fiction. My non-fiction collection of humorous and sometimes poignant essays combine to form a memoir of sorts, although I am hesitant to use that term to describe the book. Rather, I compare it to a music album. Each song is strong enough to stand on its own, but when played in order on a full-length record, they combine to create a cohesive volume of work. Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon" album is a good example of what I mean. Any particular song on that album is a hit. But when you play the entire record from start to finish, you discover a masterpiece.

My book may not be a masterpiece, but it is the culmination of a lifetime of mistakes, adventures, highs, and lows that when written about in this form, combine to become my greatest creative achievement. My life's story is tragic and triumphant. It is disturbing at times and inspiring at others. The reader will want to slap me one minute and hug me the next. My hope is that it will entertain and enlighten whomever is brave or bored enough to read it.

So keep an eye open and watch for "Naked Snow Angels" to come to a bookstore near you; hopefully in the not-so-distant future. And thank you for all of the encouragement you have given me throughout this process and throughout my life.

Almost There

I just finished writing my 21st chapter. 219 pages and 70,000+ words. I think I've got another three chapters to go and then I will be done with the first draft of "Naked Snow Angels." I have edited as I've added new chapters, so I don't think the revision process will be too lengthy. Hopefully, I will have a finished manuscript ready to submit to publishers within a few weeks.

My family is rooting for me. The boys have been feeling a little neglected lately and Bethany no doubt feels that the house chores are being neglected, too. So the sooner I get this book done and things get back to normal, the better.

Stay tuned...

The End is Near

I just finished writing the 19th chapter of my book. I know I shouldn't get hung-up on page counts, but I am at 189 so far with at least four or five more chapters to go. So I'm feeling pretty good about my progress. Word count: 61,500+.

Let's get the buzz going on the internet right now. Hopefully, by the time I submit my manuscript, publishers will be fighting each other for the chance to buy "Naked Snow Angels" by Travis A. Naughton. (Free autographs to all my friends when you buy your copy!)

Silly Me

I'm new to the field of "legitimate" writing. My third attempt to pen a full-length book is progressing nicely, but I was beginning to become concerned about the relatively small amount of completed pages I had produced compared to my total word count. This morning I re-read the chapter on submitting a manuscript in my copy of "Getting Your Book Published For Dummies." Turns out, I should have been double spacing my type-written pages all along.

I am happy to report that I have written 19 chapters, 54,000+ words, and 167 standard format pages. Now we're gettin' somewhere!

Snow Honey

After Bethany and Alex left for work and school this morning, Truman and I settled back under the covers to watch cartoons and get a little more rest. Within two minutes, the phone rang.
"Hello?"
"I'm stuck in the stupid driveway in a stupid snowdrift and now we're going to be late," my lovely wife said with a tinge of rage in her voice.
"Oh, okay. Just give me a minute," I replied while shaking the sleep from my brain in an effort to comprehend what she was saying. I hung up the phone and walked to the kitchen window. I looked outside, but saw no van in the driveway. Confused, I called Bethany back.
"Hello?" It was Alex.
"Hey buddy. Let me talk to Mommy."
"She said to ask what you want."
"I want to know where you guys are. I don't see you in the driveway."
"We're stuck on the hill in the snow."
"Tell Mommy I need to talk to her please."
"She said she's busy."
"Too busy to talk to me? Tell her I have to talk to her right now."
"What do you want?" my sweet-natured bride began. "I'm trying to dig this van out and the gas light came on and now you're bothering me..."
"You called me, remember?"
"Well I don't have time to talk right now and I'm pissed off."
"I can tell. But I just wanted to know where you are so I could come pull you out with the truck."
"Oh. We're on the hill by the mailboxes. When I couldn't make it up on the first try I backed down for another run but went off the road into a pile of snow."
"I'll be right there." Truman and I scrambled to get dressed and jumped in the truck. I spotted the van on the gravel road at the end of our steep driveway. I parked and approached the vehicle and its distressed driver with caution.
"Thanks for coming to pull us out," Bethany said sheepishly.
"No problem. In the future, when you call someone to say you're stuck in the snow and they call back to find out exactly where you are because they are willing, early on a cold morning, to root around in the snow and come pull you out, you should probably take the call instead of insisting that you're too busy to talk and making the nine year old tell your would-be rescuer to ask, 'What does he want? and 'Tell him I can't talk right now'. Okay sweetie?"
"Okay." And then my beautiful wife smiled and laughed at herself, and I hooked the chain to her van and pulled it right up the hill. "Thank you. I love you."
My pleasure.

50,000 words

Seventeen chapters, 88 pages, and 50,000 words are "in the book" so to speak. Thank goodness for coffee.

Book Progress

After taking a hiatus from writing during the holidays, I have jumped back in with both feet. I have now finished sixteen essays (chapters) and have written 45,000 words on 81 pages. With this progress, I am starting to see light at the end of the tunnel. I expect to write about 8 to 10 more essays before I am willing to call it done.

Does anyone know anybody in publishing?

New Year's Resolution

I am getting old. Or so my wife and children keep telling me. They delight in pointing out each new grey hair found on my head. They make comments about my beer belly. But they also sincerely worry about my health, specifically my cardio-vascular fitness. Some families are known for their philanthropic work. Others for their success in athletics. Mine is known for having heart conditions. My grandfather had a heart attack and a quadruple bypass. My dad had a heart attack and a stint inserted into an artery. His brother just died of a heart attack on Christmas Eve. My brother Blake and I both have irregular heartbeats that lead to fatigue and a general feeling of "I'm not a doctor, but it seems like a bad thing when my heart stops beating dozens of times per day." To my knowledge, due to heart problems, no Naughton man has blown out more than 65 candles on his birthday cake. So, I think my wife may be right to worry.

My New Year's Resolution is to take care of my heart. I will try to eat more fruits and vegetables, not eat as much fried foods, and limit my alcoholic consumption to anti-oxidant rich dark beers and red wines (in moderation of course.) I'll start taking a heart-wise multi-vitamin as well. I will try to exercise more often. I have been walking on our treadmill several times per week lately and will add cycling to the mix when the weather warms up. Maybe I'll start hitting the punching bag once in a while, too, just to remind it who's boss. Finally, the best exercise for my pumper is to love my family will all of my heart. That should be the easy part I think.

Happy New Year!