Driving home from work. Hungry as hell and wanting some dinner pretty fierce. Clutch rocking on the disc player. The above lyrical phrase kicks in. I mentally digest it, chuckle, and walk in to my comfortable midwest home to greet my lovely wife, my hyper-active two year old son, and then I promptly proceed to take the trash out. It was Thursday night.

Taking the trash out took on a whole new meaning. First of all, trash in general has taking on much greater meaning for me in the past year on account of my son, Griffin Thorp. He is absoultely obsessed with garbage trucks, trash, and the task of taking the trash out. He screams and throws tantrums if I don't let him help me take the trash out. Every Friday morning, the boy wakes up as soon as he hears the garbage truck and he runs out to the door to watch it. His favorite toy of course is a garbage truck, complete with the contingent garbage man figure stock with a mustache and a mullet. Tremendous.

Anyway, back to the Thursday night trash epiphany. I don't know what Neil of Clutch was trying to illustrate or refer to with the lyrical phrase that grabbed me, but then again, I'm not sure if there is ANYONE who ever knows what he is REALLY talking about. It's irrelevent, because all that matters is what it made me think about. I thought about all the disciplined tasks, chores, and monotonous duties that make up the very fabric of my life and how I display dedication, committment, and love to my family as a result. Seriously. Changing diapers, raking leaves, staying up late to do the bills, financial sacrifices, sacrificing free time, working 60+ hours a week, regularly being deprived of sleep involuntarily, etc, etc. All these things, I know, are similar to most people with or without a family. Everyone has responsibilties. Everyone has people they care about that they do things for. I'm not saying my life is anything special -- but that's just it -- it is special simply because it ain't special. What the hell am I talking about? I'll put it to you. Real love is displayed in ways that don't seem special, aren't sublime, aren't showy, aren't marked with a high price tag, and aren't loud and noticeable. Real love -- special love -- don't look so special. Real, special love is taking out the trash every Thursday night. It is consistent, predictable, and it rids one of what is filthy in order to preserve that which is not. It is mundane, often difficult and taxing, no fun, but has to be done, and everyone is the better because it gets done. That's what real love looks like. Don't give in to all the other versions of love, that are, well, trash. Keep it real.

-- THORP, 04/06/03

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