That's right, pitchers and catchers have reported to Spring Training! That means Opening Day is around the corner, and summer very shortly after. Aren't you excited?
I make no secret about my Yankee fandom. I like to think it's one of my most endearing qualities. But this isn't a post about being a Yankee fan. Spring Training also means that softball season is about to start out here, but this isn't a post about that either.
No, this is a post about connection.
Every year, millions of fans of the 30 MLB teams prepare themselves for a summer of various levels of commitment to the idea that their team can win a title. Some fans will watch every game, most won't. Some fans will attend every home game, most won't. But on some level, everyone will have at least some interest in their hometown team. On some level people care. And on some level, people hope for the kind of unity victory brings.
I know this is true of all sports, but for some reason, it feels more true about baseball. And I think I know why.
Football, the players wear masks. Their careers tend to be short. And in most of those careers, teams that don't win out don't stay together very long. Basketball, the average length of time one player stays with one team is about five years. Baseball, however, teams are kept together for years, decades in some cases, and even the teams that don't stay completely together, there's never a wholesale turnover. There's continuity. And while the Yankees win most of the time, most teams spend at least some time being competitive. And you can always trace a link from one team's great player to its next through less than three degrees of separation. And it's something you can link directly back to your childhood. It's something I appreciate more now as I'm now so much closer to 40 than I am to 20.
For instance, one of my favorite players retired a couple of years ago, Derek Jeter. He came up to the majors in 1996, when I was turning 18 and going to college and drooling over college girls. 1996 was also the first Yankee championship of my lifetime. The year before Jeter came up, Don Mattingly -- longtime Yankee first baseman and the player I grew up idolizing -- played his final season in a career that started when I was three. He played most of his career on a team that had all-time base stealing champion Rickey Henderson and fellow Hall-of-Famer Dave Winfield. Winfield was brought to the Yankees in 1981 to anchor an outfield that featured Reggie Jackson, who was a member of the 1978 World Series Championship team that won when I was about two weeks old. And right there, I've just charted my entire life through one team. That is not a terribly rare occurrence.
It's a shame that the appreciation for baseball seems to be declining because that connection is declining. Connection with a home, with a city, with something that's not only bigger than you, but something that you can agree upon with your neighbor at a ballpark regardless of your station in life, your religious beliefs or even your attitudes about race. Two guys at Yankee Stadium wearing Yankee jerseys are both Yankee fans, and together for the three hours at the ballpark. They share a drink, they share triumph and defeat, they share opinions on which players suck. At the end it's over, and they go back to their respective lives, homes and differences of various levels, but in those few hours they were family of a sort.
They say baseball is something that's inherited, that fathers pass on to sons (or mothers to sons, or fathers to daughters, mothers to daughters, whatever). If I ever have kids and I can pass on an appreciation for baseball and all the commonalities fans have with one another, all the things we share at the ballpark, and how we directly connect one player to the next, and one moment to the next, I will have honestly done my part to make the world a better place.
Unless the little crumb snatcher turns out to be a Red Sox fan.
Powerball is at $1.3 billion for Wednesday's drawing, and if you're like me, you've got most of it spent already, what with the homes you would buy and friends and family you would help or avoid. Some would see the world, others would invest in a solid gold bathtub (because, you know, gold is a stable investment). And I would love for you all to comment on what you would do in the comments section down below.
Personally, I would send all my inner circle an email to go to the airport at a specific time. There would be a ticket waiting for them. And we would go on one EPIC adventure. After that was done, though, it would be time to make that money work for me. I may be crazy, and I'm definitely not a finance guy, but here's what I would do.
First, I would move my family (brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces) to one place, where we would own a block off homes, or a cul-de-sac or something. Thomas Town would be born.
Next, I would set up my nephews and nieces with independent million dollar trust funds, untouchable until they turn 21.
I would section off an enormous amount to simply accrue interest.
I would then start Thomas Holdings, Ltd as a way to allot the money in a manner that it would never be completely depleted. This company would be the way I did real estate back home (more on that later), do an entertainment startup, or any number of ventures that two or three hundred million would allow. I would have the holding company pay me and my family a salary (to at least give the illusion that there should be some degree of responsibility for one's own money) and live.
The real estate thing is a big deal to me, as it would be my way of giving back to my hometown. I'm from Brooklyn, NY (as most of you know), and grew up in Flatbush, one of the neighborhood that is at the center of the big gentrification issues going on back home. While it may be all Starbucks and hipster now, when I was there it was affordable, low-to-middle income housing (the 'hood). Some of my greatest friendships were forged there, some of my best memories happened there, and some of the best stories that can't be told start and end there. If you go to my closest circle of friends and say the words "Silencio del Gato," they will smile, laugh... and bite the cyanide pill in their teeth to avoid revealing secrets (we take that seriously). But I digress.
New York as a whole, Brooklyn in particular, has become inaccessible for the most part to the low-to-middle income citizen, despite that being the vast majority of the city. Ask any one of the five co-workers sharing a two-bedroom, 950 sq. ft. apartment in Bed-Stuy or Sunset Park, and paying a grand. Each. What I would do is, starting with the block I grew up on, buy some of the older buildings, renovate them, and rent them out to low-to-middle income families. Not the projects, but actual livable apartments. With reasonable square footage. That didn't demand 75% of your earnings to simply keep a roof over your head. There are some that would regard this as a bleeding-heart fantasy devoid of any business sense, but I disagree. Yes, can cater to the high-end and make large sums of money, but there are more people two or three tiers down than there are at the top, and that is a huge market in NYC. With a little less than a billion dollars in the bank, profit wouldn't be my primary motivation, but it would generate income nonetheless.
It's a billion-dollar fantasy that makes me smile. And if my $20 pulls that in and makes that fantasy a reality, how cool would that be?
But hey, it's the lottery. I might as well ask Santa Claus to make that happen.
Feel free to comment with your daydreams and money wishes. Cheers!
Side note: I'd be remiss if I didn't give a shout out to the late David Bowie. Along with Madonna, he was the master of innovation and reinvention, both stylistically and musically. You've gotta hand it to a man who managed to stay relevant since the mid-70s. RIP, Mr. Bowie.
I'm sure that doesn't make me unique or ground breaking. I'm sure quite a lot of writers have at least some background music going when they create. Music helps clear the mind in some instances and can be very beneficial to just about any activity that requires focus. But part of my process is that I score my own work. For instance, my last published novel, The Favorite, had a soundtrack that was one part driving hip-hop (down and dirty to power the fight scenes), one part 90's East Coast Gangsta Rap (for the more criminal scenes), and one part Emo Rock (for the reflective moments).
Some of the music I used to write The Favorite
That mix of music helped me direct scenes and make more sense emotionally of the movie that played out in my head. The music helped me express what was going on beneath the narrative, and even if that stuff never makes it onto a page, anything I can do to better understand my characters as they navigate the world and problems I placed them in is a worthwhile enterprise.
But that was a general soundtrack, toying with the idea of writing to music. Since then I've settled on using certain songs on repeat to write certain scenes. In my current work-in-progress, titled Open (for the time being), a man and his wife have an ugly confrontation after they catch each other cheating. That confrontation explodes in dish-shattering, fridge shaking sex in their kitchen, where they lose themselves in the heat of the moment. The song that played (on loop) while I wrote it?
Yep, that's right. Come Together by the Beatles. Besides the pun, it seemed to fit the mood perfectly, given their circumstances. No shortage of irony, I guess.
I've taken the approach one step further for my next project, a vigilante crime story called Urban Legend. I've crafted individual soundtracks for the protagonist, antagonist and "sidekick" characters. I'm using the individual character songs to form a mood when I'm scene building and these characters have to interact. I'm using songs like "I Am," by Eminem, "Animal I Have Become," by Three Days Grace, and "(Rock) Superstar" by Cypress Hill. This is an experiment that may cause more trouble than not but the easy way is not the way to grow. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?
Anyway, where do my fellow writers stand on using music to set the tone on their writing? How do you use it? Comment here or on Facebook.
I was going to post a review of a novel a friend of mine wrote. I was going to post what this actually is: musings about the anniversary of my Dad's death. But I couldn't do it. My Dad's death in particular, I couldn't write about last week. It's so much deeper than just his passing.
That event kicked in motion what's been the most interesting year of my life.
My dad died and I had to take out a loan on the car I had just paid off. I needed the money for a last minute flight to , New York. I used the remainder to publish The Favorite. I started learning valuable skills which I can and will use throughout my writing career (marketing skills, speaking skills, etc.). And ultimately, I fulfilled a dream my dad had for me.
I remember a car ride when I was in my early teens with my dad and my brother. I forget what started it, but I do remember, vividly, him talking about picking something and being good at it. "Even if it's a bank robber," he said, "find something you love and keep doing it.". I'll be honest, when he said those words, even for years after, I can't say I was applying them on purpose. They didn't inspire me to do what I wanted to. Lately though, I've been thinking about him, a lot. I suppose it's natural, his passing is still relatively fresh. And I don't know why, but those words in particular, from a random day in New York more than 20 years ago bubbled up to the surface.
I'm doing what I love. And I won't stop.
My Dad's last great gift to me was the means to accomplish a dream, and the means to take a very wild ride.
My girlfriend wrote a lovely essay about summer on her blog. She mentioned awesome things like sunshine and your favorite ice cream (Peanut Butter Explosion from ColdStone Creamery, if you were wondering). The point she was trying to make, in my opinion, that for some reason, be it the sunshine or the heat, or the fact that it was ingrained in us since we were all children to do so, is that summer is usually the time we take the foot off the gas and kind of coast. We're more inspired to do things for ourselves that are geared toward pure joy. For me, that's always been sports.
Growing up in New York, we may not have had as much access to greenery that my friends in the Northwest do. We didn't go fishing or swimming in the creek (because honestly, that might kill you), we didn't go hiking through the woods, but what we did was make use of our environment. Fire escape rungs became makeshift basketball hoops and one-way streets and alleys became makeshift football fields. Before we were allowed to head to the further out parks where blacktop courts and open meadows became our arenas of play (and even after, on days when we lacked the funds or the time) we dominated our blocks, then took our talents to other blocks in the neighborhood. And we enjoyed ourselves.
This summer, as I have for the last five summers since I moved out here, I played rec league softball with a team called the Shakrz. It tends to be the high point of my summer these days, because it brings me back to when I was a teenager and played with my friends. Am I particularly good? Hell no! But it's fun And I enjoy these people. We wrapped up our season this past weekend in a tournament where our best moment was a thrilling 14-13 win in extra innings.
Fun moment with the team. Photo by Amy Hill.
And just like that, we look up and the summer is almost over. God, that sucks. You look up and smile as you realize the roses smelled sweet, the heat that licked your skin left its indelible mark, and that there was never enough sunblock. You think of the sand between your toes and the picnic blanket you have in your trunk and you smile wistfully as fall approaches. You keep in mind one thing that will get you through the cold dark months ahead.
Don't get me wrong, I take time to go places. I take time to be sick. I go back to New York at least once a year. But very rarely do I ever unplug, go off the grid like I have the last couple of weeks. I mean, I was still connected at my father's funeral last year.
The last couple of weeks, I've been off. No day job, no writing, very little in the way of shameless self-promotion. I needed a break. It's not even like I went anywhere of importance: I rediscovered my liver, and went on a local boat cruise; went to Pike Place Market with my girlfriend; sat on my butt and watched the All-Star Game. There was a fun picnic and a beach day where I had an unfortunate skin reaction to lake water (itchy, itchy, itchy!!!). And I have to say, there's definitely something to this whole vacation thing.
The last time I took this much time off, I went to the Dominican Republic for a week or so and had a blast. There's a story in there about how my brothers and I were mistaken for members of the 2012 Super Bowl Champion New York Giants, which I will happily recount another day. I can't begin to tell you how relaxed I felt afterwards, except that I feel the same way now.
There is something to be said about recharging your batteries, putting yourself on airplane mode, so to speak. A couple of weeks away and I'm ready to get back to the grind of the paying job and the fun of writing. I'm ready to get the rest of this year going.
It's no secret: I'm a big fan of summer. All my favorite things are summer things. All my favorite activities are summer activities. And not just any summer, either. City summer, the kind I haven't been a part of in half a decade. Once the weather gets warm, everything about life I find worthwhile starts to happen.
Back home, summer meant kids. After June 22, schools were out and all the kids in the city ran rampant around town. To some that means playing in creeks and woods and what have you. To me, it was no curfew, football in the streets (I had a mean arm once) until you couldn't see the ball. It was basketball from noon 'til dusk, or later if the court was near a streetlamp. It meant movie hopping from one summer flick to another, sneaking around ushers and cameras to turn a matinee ticket into an all-day film festival.
It meant the Mister Softer Ice Cream trucks, whose distinct jingle could be heard from blocks away like an approaching T-Rex. On the hottest of those summer days, that jingle meant relief was coming and sprinkles were free. It meant the Spanish dude selling Icees on the corner of Church and Flatbush Avenues, and how with a little hustle and the guts to stand the heat, you could turn a 20-pound block of ice and some syrups into shaved ice treats, happy kids, and money.
It meant baseball, and who didn't love baseball? It was the middle of the season and the pennant races were either really starting to get interesting, or really getting out of hand (I'm a Yankee fan, guess which end I usually saw?), and we waited in anticipation of the Home Run Derby. It meant work for some, play for others.
As adolescence set in, summer meant exposed midriffs and cut-off shorts. It meant teased hair and bikinis. It meant sundresses. It meant sweat making every inch of fabric, no matter how thin, stick strategically to bronzed skin. It meant girls in their late teens and early 20's knowing full well they had me and my hormones in the palms of their hands. As an adult summer meant late nights chasing women and thrills, fueled by drink and dance. It meant that even if the temperature cooled slightly, the streets were just as hot as they were in the daytime. It meant watching the transformation as women traded in their business wear for outfits that were less confining to their bodies and attitudes.
It meant thunderstorms. It meant that just before one would hit, the air would be heavy with a certain energy, thick with humidity and heavy with expectation. When it was over, the air was cool and light and if you were outside, you were happily drenched and enjoyed a powerful lightshow full of sound and fury.
It meant Coney Island and the rides that, even though you had been on them a million times, you still once in a while ponied up that $5 for one more go at the Cyclone or the Zipper.
It meant not having a backyard pool, but having a fire hydrant and a hollowed out tin can. It meant skelly in the streets, and if you're from Brooklyn or the Bronx and I have to explain that to you, you need to put the video games down, son, and get out more. (For my Canadian friends, think curling, only with bottlecaps on asphalt.)
Summertime was eight short weeks of wide open possibility, that always seemed to last forever until it was almost over. And even though as a working man I never had summers off, there's still a conditioned mind-shift that you anticipate in late May, starts in earnest late June, winds down around Labor Day and ends around the first day of school.
I decided on a little facelift, within the confines of my web design ability. Meaning I looked at the Settings tab to see what Google would let a novice like me do. So the color palette has been brightened, and it looks kind of like a sunny day. Because, you know, Under The Sun.
It was either that or change the name to "Through The Black." Which some people might think to be racist.
***
When I decided that writing was what I was going to eventually do with my life, I had this vision in my head of it being not unlike the creative writing and journalism classes I took throughout high school and college. Publishers, intellectuals, professors and high school English teachers alike would laud and praise my work, it would be consumed by the masses in quantities unheard of, and I would not only achieve fame and fortune but I would usher in a new era of world peace. And I'd have groupies at coffee shop readings, because Sean Connery in Finding Forrester said so.
As an adult, the reality was a bit different. My first novel was rejected out of hand by two dozen publishers, big and small, often without any word that they'd even opened the proposal. The nerve of them, I thought, impeding my path to wealth and glory with their small-mindedness. I chose to self-publish.
In the early 2000's, just before Kindle existed, conversations about publishing went like this:
"Oh, I published my novel?"
"Oh, really? Congratulations!"
"Yeah. I self-published."
"Oh, really. Congratulations?"
There were a lot of things that an arrogant 25 year-old tried to do. First off, I decided that the traditional publishing model was broken. After doing several hundred hours of very focused searching (the Internet is wonderful for giving you an unbiased base for your bias), I came to the conclusion that the only people making money anymore from publishing were the publishers and the very big name authors, the Dan Browns and Tom Clancys, and unknown writers like myself had little to no shot of breaking in. The big publishers wouldn't look at you unless you had an agent, and an agent very likely avoided you unless and until you had a deal (I kept one of my agency rejection letters that actually said I should think of them when I secure a deal with a publisher). I looked at self-publishing -- through iUniverse (as shady as they are, they are useful for what they're useful for)-- as the only way to unleash my genius upon the world. And The Fab 5 was born. I completed my book, had my name in print, and all I had to do was sit back and wait for my money to roll in. My landlord at the time wasn't as fond of the idea and recommended I keep my day job.
With time and distance I realized The Fab 5 wasn't going to make me money. I was an unknown who hadn't promoted my work at all and had no clue how to do so. There are life reasons for that I won't get into right now, but anyway. It was a slap in the face; how could all of those English teachers been wrong?
Fast forward some years, and I've adjusted my expectations. The Favorite is enjoying a modicum of success, which for me now means more people dig it than not. And one of the things I've realized is that I have to constantly promote, constantly remind, constantly pitch and sell. And the truth is, as much of a hassle as it can be, I kind of enjoy it.
I was right about a few things. The traditional publishing model is broken. It is reliant on the idea that the big publishers are the gatekeepers of inclusion into some sort of artsy-fartsy literary club, and the only way to have any sort of legitimacy is by begging for their approval (I had an iUniverse employee refer to self-publishing as the "minor leagues"). Technology has made them the keyholders to a vacant, dilapidated and overpriced apartment building in a really crappy neighborhood. Yeah, you could live there, but for the same amount of hassle you could live somewhere else and have more money.
This past weekend I had the wonderful pleasure of doing a book signing at Page 2 Books in Burien, WA, an event that coincided with their official grand opening.
First off, let me say the store is gorgeous. Well laid out, tons of natural light, hardwood floors (a deep seated and well programmed favorite from my days in NYC), it had a combination of new book smell and pine. The owners, Jenny Cole and Bill Virgin, were both friendly and easy to talk to, and their love of books and of their store simply flowed off them. Bill chatted me up several times over the three hours I was there, about writing, about boxing, about New York, and I enjoyed the conversation. The saleswoman on the floor, Cathy, also took time out of her break to chat me up, and plied the conversation with homemade cookies (yeah, I gained three pounds).
I chatted up several of the adventurous and curious customers Bill and Jenny directed my way (sidebar: thanks for that. I have a hard time standing up and saying "over here!"). A woman named Elizabeth talked to me for at least half an hour, about boxing, about her friends from Mexico, about some of her own adventures. I found myself quite enjoying it!
I spoke with a couple who lived in Queens for a year. I spoke with a young man who wanted to train to box. And I spoke to a guy who worked at a nearby model train shop (which, sadly, I was unable to find after the event was over. Pity. That would have been interesting...). All in all I had a blast!
Back to the title of this post, that signing was the culmination of years and years of dreaming and hard work. When I was in my early 20's and living in New York (and for quite some time after) I would wander into the nearest bookstore, head over to the part of the fiction rack where my book would be and stare at that spot for most of my lunch break. Three years ago, with the help of a good friend, I bought a button-down shirt, specifically for the purpose of wearing it to my first book signing (Okay, yeah, I'm a little nuts. So sue me.) Similarly, I get the impression that Bill and Jenny's love of books, of language and literature, drove them to purchase their store.
To them I just want to say, thank you for being part of my dream, and for allowing me into yours.
Last week the founder of the Westboro Baptist Church, Fred Phelps, passed away. He was 84. If by some chance you're not sure where you've heard either name -- bless your media-avoiding little heart -- the Westboro Baptist Church is the group that pickets funerals and other public events with signs that say "GOD HATES F*GS" or "OBAMA IS THE DEVIL," or other such aggressively ignorant spiel. His death was met with reactions from the public that ranged from apathetic and disinterested to gleeful celebration.
And rightfully so. Anyone that turns the message of love and peace that most religious denominations claim to project into a message of intolerance, hatred and fear deserves nothing less than to have their passing go un-celebrated. In my opinion, he should occupy the same fiery cell block as Adolf Hitler, Saddam Hussein, Tim McVeigh and so on. I say this as an atheist, not believing in hell or heaven. However...
The man DID have a family. Someone loved him enough to bear his 13 children (even though he reportedly beat them all, wife included), and that means one of two things: either everyone involved in that little twisted slice of Americana is seriously delusional and disconnected with reality, or there was something privately redeemable about the man, in his past or present. I'm an optimist, I choose the latter. He was a civil rights lawyer once, after all, and helped Kansas strike down the Jim Crow laws. Irony knows no bounds.
Now, I'm not saying we excuse his hypocrisy or forgive the hate in his message. But maybe we should curb our enthusiasm in regards to his passing. Hate nay begets hate, and we should let this particular brand of hatred die with the man.
I'm not a believer, but I have read the Bible (and parts of the Qur'an, Torah, and other religious texts. I can't-- and won't-- quote scripture but everything I've read says that the supposed supreme being -- God, Jehovah, Allah, Life, the Universe, or whatever you want to call it-- doesn't hate anyone.
I made a promise to myself that when the book came out, when I would start to promote, I would tone down the political stuff that came out of my head and ended up in my blog. I would tone down my comments on racism, I would stop spreading my unsolicited liberal opinion. I made the conscious decision to make no comment on perceived injustice in this country, in the news, in any viewpoint. I'm a fiction writer, not a political journalist. I stopped watching the news, interested myself only in the sports pages.
Unsuprisingly, I've had very little to write in this blog for quite some time.
Then came the Jordan Davis trial.
I heard that Michael Dunn was convicted of everything but murder 1, to the outrage of most. I didn't understand why, so I read up on the trial. Horror crept into my mind. We've got another Stand Your Ground case.
Short version: White dude drunkenly tells SUV full of black kids to turn their rap music down. Black kids politely (maybe not so politely) tell him where to go. Drunk white dude goes thinks someone is pointing a shotgun at him, goes back to his own car, grabs a gun and caps off 10 times into the SUV. Nine shots hit, one kid dies.
It makes me want to puke writing it.
I'm not even going to talk about the verdict. That is it's own animal. I'm going to rant for a second on the horrific racial injustice inherent in the murder and the racist nature of the SYG law in and of itself. It speaks to an era we convinced ourselves ended when Martin Luther King Jr. marched on Washington. It speaks of a mindset people declared over with the election of President Obama. The idea that you can blast someone when you feel threatened is not universal. Those kids in the car were threatened. If they produced a weapon and shot Mr. Dunn, would there be any doubt as to the treatment they would receive in the legal system and in the media? There would be referendum on the violence inherent in rap music, a call to arms to stop this scourge to our youth, and oh yeah, those kids would ALL be put away for life. Trayvon Martin was shot dead in his own neighborhood because a white guy, who we now know is batsh** crazy, saw his hoodie and decided he was a threat, and for half a minute people blamed the hoodie.
I think we can agree that a law is unjust if it is not or cannot be applied evenly, which was the driving force behind eliminating the "Separate, but Equal" thinking behind the Jim Crow laws. The Stand Your Ground laws are of the same ilk. It punishes people for being Black, assigns a threat level to being Black, makes it okay for citizens fearing a phantom menace to police you for being Black, and to what end? So that we'll tip our caps to every white person walking by and greet them with a "Good mornin' suh" to put them at ease? So that we'll keep to "our own" neighborhoods with people who look like us and therefore stay where we're supposed to be?
If you've never met me or spoken to me, I'm a threatening looking Black guy -- 6'4", 260 pounds give or take. I like wearing hoodies. I like rap music. Have I signed my own death warrant? Like the quote says, "There ain't much I can do about being big and Black at the same time."
Last night, a friend of mine made me feel like a grown-up.
I hadn't seen him in a while, so there were of course pleasantries exchanged as well as the updates as to what we've been doing with ourselves. He congratulated me on the book and asked me how it was doing, to which I honestly have no earthly idea. He then told me his young daughter wants to be a writer, wants to pursue a career in writing, and what should he as a father tell her.
Now, I have no clue what qualifies me as someone to give advice on how to be a writer. I have an unfinished degree in journalism, wrote one unsuccessful novel, and another one that may or may not do better. My blog has a grand total of 6 followers (change that, please, and subscribe). But he's a friend, and I tell him what I was told in high school. "You want to be a writer? Write. Read. And Write."
A day later, I had a little more time to think about it, and I want to give this addendum to that little nugget of advice.
Take writing classes. Creative writing, journalism, English composition. Any class that gives you a different experience and feel on the craft, do it.
Read. A lot. Read anything you can get your hands on, and finish it. Even if it's terrible. ESPECIALLY if it's terrible.
Keep a journal. Not only does it give you great practice in organizing your thoughts, but it makes you used to writing every day, makes writing second nature.
This last bit is important as anything. Read what you want to write, and write what you want to read. Writing is one of those things that you should do because you love it. Not for the acclaim. Especially not for money (spoiler alert: there isn't a lot for most of us at first). Rejection is part of the game, no matter what you write. Your work should make you happy before you parade it to the world. If you write something you would read, your enthusiasm will carry you through.
Writing has been an extremely rewarding thing for me. It's gotten me through some tough times mentally and emotionally, it's chronicled my greatest moments and memories. And if someone can benefit from that experience, then that's what I have to share.
It kind of came to me as I stepped out of the shower and stepped onto my bathroom scale.
That used to be a ritual I had before I went anywhere. My day would begin (or end, considering I work nights) with me getting home from the gym, showering, and taking a step on the scale, being proud that a workout ended in a slowly but surely shrinking number. This ghost of my routine kicked in at the end of its cycle and I stepped on the scale without doing all the previous stuff, and the number I saw reminded me of it.
I haven't been to the gym -- not consistently, anyway -- in quite a while.
People are slaves to routine, followers of habit. They do what they do with repetition, as the repetition is comfortable. It's why bad habits are so hard to break; they become hardwired into our daily lives until our bodies and minds crave it. Creative types -- artists and writers for instance -- are even more susceptible to habits, both good and bad, as they drive how and what we create. I thought about that as well as I dried off and sucked in my gut as I looked in the mirror. I've lost all my good habits.
I haven't written -- not consistently, anyway -- in quite a while.
We all have our reasons for this, of course, and some of them are even valid. Good habits, for instance, are invariably the ones that are more difficult and more of an investment in time, and sometimes changing life situations -- good and/or bad -- make it tough to keep good habits. Or sometimes we get lazy, as bad habits are easier, more instantly gratifying, and creep in when we least expect it. Either way, whatever the reasons or excuses, the problem comes down to one thing: discipline.
My life situation has changed a bit. I find myself less willing to engage in the high-energy, cardio-intensive routine of early-morning basketball two to three days a week, and more willing to spend that time in bed. I end up talking myself out of my workouts as I drag my feet to get to the gym. I'm completely unwilling to go for a run in the midst of the recent (and absolutely, insanely bitter) cold snap. I find myself writing less, and I give myself reasons like "Gotta promote the novel," or "Don't have time right now.". Or, if I'm being truthful, the reasons are "I don't feel like it," or "I'm not in the headspace to produce anything good."
Damn that. No more excuses. Life is passing us by as we fill the days with stuff we should have done and reasons why we didn't do them. Our bad habits are killing us. My bad habits are killing me. Not with any disease or anything, but with malaise and missed opportunity. The game is not called because of cold. We -- I -- just have to find the find the discipline, to create the good habits, that restores the natural order of things.
And with that, I reveal the number I saw. 271.
I say this a lot, but now I'm saying it publicly over the internet, which will hold me accountable. I will reduce that number by 30 in the coming months. It's going to take planning, hard work, and discipline.
The other thing, the writing? Well, something must be done about that too. At the beginning of the year, I set forth an unreachable goal: to write a million words of fiction. I know the goal is insanely difficult, but I set it with the idea that if I try and don't make it, I'll stilt have done an unbelievable amount of work. So far, my word count isn't all that impressive. I'm going to take a NaNoWriMo-style approach and try to generate 1200 words a day of fiction. Yeah, I'll be well short of my million-word mandate, but the point wasn't a million words, the point was forging the discipline to transition into a writing career.
Warning: Graphic content follows. Words and video are in this blog that are nowhere near appropriate for most people to see, say or hear in public.
I'm not a Seahawks fan, but people are way overreacting to Richard Sherman's post-game interview. He made a fantastic, game-winning, send-your-team-to-the-Super-Bowl play, and immediately after was interviewed about a play he made on a player he didn't like. The response has ranged from finger-wagging to just plain shameful.
Before I get into the meat of this post, let's start with the source, in my opinion, of the problem.
In 1996, Chris Rock's HBO special, Bring The Pain, famously and hilariously makes the distinction between black people and "niggas." I'm a fan of Chris Rock. At the time, it was kinda-sorta more acceptable for black people to refer to other black people as "nigga," or "my nigga." The rationale was that we took something that was meant to demean and turned it into a insider thing of respect. Looking back, that was stupid. But that's not the point.
Chris Rock's famous rant about "niggas" made a specific distinction between "undesirable elements" and normal black people, and through that distinction made it okay for people to use the word who had no business using the words, and using it for its original purpose to boot. I got into several conversations with my more melanin-deprived friends on the East Coast in the months and years immediately following that HBO special that went something like this: "I fucking hate niggers, they're lazy and unmotivated and steal my stuff and my girl. Not you though, you're cool."
No.
Just because Chris Rock said it doesn't make it okay for you to say it.
So, flash forward 18 years. Richard Sherman makes his play. He has his interview. Then, on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, comes the internet response.
"
Whoa, white dude. WTF?
For the record, Richard Sherman went to Stanford. As in, Ivy League. And he was a 3.9 student. Which means, even by the Chris Rock definition, he's not.
By no means is this okay. The N-word isn't cool. You don't legitimize your "down" ness by spouting it off at every turn. And there is no distinction. We're black people, African-American, not niggers. You don't distinguish, you demean. Especially when you call someone who's done things, and is doing things, that you can't. Such as go from a 3.9 at Stanford to the best cornerback in the NFL.
So, I spent much of the summer radio silent on this blog, poking my head out only once or twice to call for men to better to the women in our lives and so on. It's not like I stopped writing, or stopped caring, I just got busy. This has been a very interesting summer on a lot of levels, and while I usually don't talk too much about personal life details all that often, I'll get nice and personal right about now.
My summer began with the grand adventure of dating. Those of you who know me best know how much I hate the dance of getting to know someone, and pretending to be the sexy version of myself so that I can have the privilege of buying dinner and paying for a movie so that maybe, sometime down the road, we can possibly have sex at some point (Yes, that IS sarcasm, but it's bleak out there). I was reminded that things tend to work out better when I don't try to be the sexy version of me, or the smart version of me, or whatever version I think someone will like. I tried being myself, a move I haven't done in a few years. The result? I get to hang out with an amazing girl on a regular basis. We're sappy and cute and disgusting -- in public, no less -- and it's kind of cool. Don't get me wrong, if I were to watch a couple like that from a distance I would probably projectile vomit all over the place (I'm a hypocrite. I'm also probably bigger than you.) but it IS nice to be so comfortable with someone you don't really worry about what the rest of the world thinks about it.
Midway through the summer, my brother and his wife announced that they are expecting a baby (everyone after me... awwwww). And then then world got like, hormonally crazy. People I knew are dropping babies like crazy. I haven't seen an epidemic like this since my days in the Diamond District! (Seriously, don't drink the water.) In a few days, a wonderful couple I met through my brother are expecting their own bundle of joy, and after the story I heard about the kid's sonogram pose, I acquired the nickname rights and hereby dub the soon-to-arrive person "L'il Baby Cool Breeze." I also expect to not hear from those parents until the kid is 6 with that nickname.
Of course, no story worth living is completely happy, and toward the end of the summer I said goodbye to my father. Without airing business, I will say that while we weren't as close as I would have liked to be (and I take a portion of the responsibility for that), I loved him, respected him, and will miss him dearly. I hope he was proud of his children, because we all turned out pretty damn good.
The positive to that story is in several parts; number one, it reunited my family under one roof for the first time in a while. Six boys, two girls, with spouses and children and baby bumps all over the place. It was chaos. I was in heaven. Secondly, my brother took my dad's SUV in order to have a vehicle to drive their kid around in (sidebar: newborns live the life. They get valet service, chauffeur service, room service, free rent, AND they get adored for it. It's their world, we're just living in it.). He's living in Louisville, Kentucky now, one of those places that no one ever thought any of us would move to on purpose, and he's happy there. Go figure. Anyway, getting the car there meant one thing: Road Trip! I logged my first ever road trip, getting to see Pittsburgh and pass through some very pretty country on the East Coast. Definitely one of my better memories. Lastly, my father's death made it necessary to do something I was looking at doing anyway. Last minute flights are expensive, so in order to do the flight back to New York, I had to take a loan. But since I was going to take a loan out to publish anyway, I did that. My next novel, The Favorite, should be out by the end of the year!
This summer has been a big one for me. I can't think of one that's had this many stories in it worth telling, and summer don't end until the Yankees are done playing, so who knows what more can happen? If the Yankees make the playoffs though, I'm going to be hard to deal with.
I don't have any children of my own (and there are those that would argue that being a very good thing). My oldest niece, however, I'm very protective of. I have been since the day she was brought home from the hospital. She's kind of like the hybrid of the child I don't want right now and the little sister I never had. So, in the hybrid role of what I perceived to be one of the (many) major male role models in her life, I issued the half-joking decree that any unfortunate lad that tried to date her would have to get past me. You know, as screening, to make sure their intentions were pure. And if they weren't... well, somebody gonna get-a hurt real bad. "I'm trying to protect you from guys like me," I said. "And I'm one of the good ones."
I told her this because I distrusted the intentions of anyone she would meet, largely because I'm a guy, and even at my best my intentions with dates are always slightly dishonorable. (Even my current girlfriend, who will no doubt at some point read this, and with whom I was on my best behavior, my ulterior motives could be construed as slightly dishonorable). Some guys are hardwired to be douchebags, and even the best of us can have somewhat asshole tendencies.
I joke all the time that I would likely be the father polishing the shotgun, or challenging my daughter's unsuspecting date to Russian Roulette, or some other violent, crazy act that would dissuade said unlucky boy from trying anything stupid, lest he suffer my Biblical-type wrath. I was only half joking.
Until, that is, I read this article, where the author, a father, tells his daughter to go, experience, make the mistakes, get laid, and oh yeah, trust guys, because he's a good man and raised his daughter right. The quote in particular that got me was this one:
It doesn’t lessen you to give someone else pleasure. It doesn’t degrade you to have some of your own. And anyone who implies otherwise is a man who probably thinks very poorly of women underneath the surface.
I don't think poorly of women; quite the contrary, I think women, in all their mystery and splendor and varying states of sanity are generally amazing creatures, capable of being incredibly strong and vulnerable in ways men simply cannot (I'm referring, of course, to the child bearing thing. Ouch.). So I thought about it, and realized something. Men make statements like mine all the time. We remember the kind of boys we were and cringe at the thought of our daughters, our sisters, our nieces bringing someone like us home. But the fault isn't entirely the potential suitors, who want to get laid, or the teenaged girls, whose minds are a swirl of hormones and approval ratings. It's on us. The male role models. The ones who these young girls are looking at and looking up to from the moment they get home from the hospital. The fathers, the brothers, the uncles, we are their first taste of love from a man, and everyone who follows is eerily similar to that.
So we need to be better.
We need to be the example of what to bring home for dinner. You don't want your daughter to bring home a thug? Don't be a thug. You want your daughter to bring home a smarter dude? Read to her when she's a kid. Want your daughter to seek someone loving and attentive? Spend time with her before she's sent off to school. Make her feel safe if you want her to seek someone protective.
Now for those men out there who have sons, this pertains to you as well. You don't want your boy to be like you. You always want him to be a better man, to do what you do well as a man (provide, protect, team member or what have you) and you want him to do it better. So I implore you, please teach your sons too.
Don't let him be the kid that my future daughter makes me have to shoot.
We've all been there before, when we're faced with that daunting difficult, sometimes unpleasant task that has to be done. It's staring you in the face and waiting to be tackled. The sheer enormity of the thing is enough to keep you busy for an entire weekend, or leave you sore for a couple of days.
And then you just remembered that load of laundry that needed to be done, because there's no way you can do this without your favorite green boxers.
So you do six loads of laundry, your green boxers are among the last to be cleaned and dried. You take a shower so that you can be clean when you change into your boxers and when you're done your bathroom routine, your task is still there, waiting for you, demanding its due.
Oh crud, is that the time? I gotta get to the Post Office before it closes!
You hop in your car, take the freeway the one exit to the Post Office, wait in line for twenty minutes to get to the counter and ask for a book of stamps. Because, you know, the stamp dispenser won't take your debit card. You get your stamps, drive back the way you came, park your car and get ready to do your task. You roll up your sleeves and as you're about to jump in, you realize that you forgot to stop at Walmart to get Peanut Butter M &M's. It's essential; not having Peanut Butter M & M's damns this task to failure, and the notion that you were about to get started without them is sheer lunacy in and of itself.
So you get in your car, drive to Walmart and grab a bag of Peanut Butter M &M's, and while you're at it, some tortilla chips and salsa. You stop at the electronics section and stare mindlessly at the Hi-def TV's that are infinitely better than the brand new one you got last Friday. You drag yourself away from the continually running loop of Finding Nemo and head toward the register, picking up a box of Raisin Bran on the way.
You pull into your driveway, get inside and put your stuff away, leaving out the delectable sweets you went out specifically to purchase. As you nosh on the smooth peanut butter and chocolate candy and prepare to finally begin that arduous task, your cell phone rings. It's your buddy, dying to recount the details of the date he went on with that buxom, triple-jointed hot-dog vendor girl he met while drunk three Saturdays ago. You listen intently, absorbing every sordid detail and making the appropriate insensitive commentary about his new object of affection, and congratulating him on meeting the future mother of his children.
You hang up and no sooner do you head toward the vicinity of this daunting task, your phone rings again. It's your girlfriend, offering an evening of... well you don't know what because you're in the car again before she has a chance to finish. And as you drive to your uncertain fate, you debate whether or not you tell this story to the people this task would have mattered to.
Or.
Do you say "I'm sorry I haven't written in my blog lately. I've been busy. I promise, I'll make time to write in it more. "
The news that NBA center Jason Collins is gay is about six hours old at this point.
This is of course a major deal in professional sports, as he is the first active male professional athlete in a major sport to come out. There has been talk of NFL players coming out in the near future, and now that Collins has done so the way has been paved for other athletes in pro sports to do so. The resounding outpouring of support he's gotten from the NBA community at-large is impressive and shows that the league has come a long way since the insensitive commentary of Tim Hardaway some years ago. Collins is a widely respected player in the league, and is viewed as a locker room leader and all-around great teammate. And you know what? Good for him. I can't imagine what it was like for him living a lie, having to behave like he thought professional athletes should to maintain some image. From a human standpoint, I'm happy for the brother to have finally publicly acknowledged who he is.
And yet...
Before the Jason Collins news broke, odds are if you were asked who Jason Collins was, unless you were a hardcore hoop-head, the answer would have been "Who?" I'm a hardcore hoop-head, and my response was, "He's still playing?" He's been described by his own GM, right after the announcement, as a "utility big," someone who is somewhere between 11th and 15th on the depth chart. His career averages of 3.6 points and 3.8 rebounds doesn't scream "upper-echelon player." He's played 12 years for six teams and is a free agent this year. He's 34 years old, which in NBA terms is like 65. To be blunt, his recent career has seen him be a bench player for a bad team. As much of an important step as this announcement is for that community, Jason Collins has unfortunately branded himself as a "gay ballplayer" as opposed to a "ballplayer who's gay."
When Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier decades ago, the concern was whether he was the "right guy--" talented enough, humble enough, respectable enough -- to legitimize the black athlete. Jason Collins is not Jackie Robinson, at least not in the respect that he's an elite player. He's on the downswing of a long but unremarkable career. Collins is a Stamford educated man. That is to say, he's not an idiot. I'm sure as an athlete and as a businessman, he has to have come to grips with what this could mean for his career going into his free agent year. And while I agree with Charles Barkley in that it's nobody's business who he sleeps with, putting this into the public eye makes it a public conversation, and unfortunately part of the talks in terms of continuing his career. Big picture: it's a blip, and not because it should be a blip, but because Jason Collins isn't Kobe Bryant, LeBron James, Carmelo Anthony, or Dwyane Wade.
Now, I sincerely hope that this is the first step to this FINALLY not being a big deal anymore, the way being a black athlete, entertainer or executive is not a big deal anymore. I hope that this announcement inspires an athlete of more clout to step up and embrace who he is, which in turn inspires more people to embrace who they are, and finally encourages the rest of us -- forces the rest of us -- to accept who they are.
At the suggestion of a co-worker, I went to a local bar to check out a show featuring bands from around Bellingham. It was a Thursday, and I didn't have anything else to do, so I went. Three bands played: two metal bands, one of whom I didn't stay for (metal isn't my thing, I'm sorry) and one band that was a little different: TripMadam. The 45 minute set they played was quite good in my opinion, and by looking at the crowd I wasn't alone in my opinion. They were easily the stars of the show. When I found out that a band this good was unsigned, I had to get them for a Declarations of Independence profile.
TripMadam is Jared Fox (J-Fox) as lead vocalist and rhythm guiatrist, Taylor (T-Slammer) Galley on guitar and backing vocals, Mike Honeycutt on bass and Ryan Holland on drums. The band's been around for four years and they've developed quite a local following. Known for they're solid songwriting and crowd interaction, they tend to leave a trail of cheering, impressed fans in their wake. The band is a sort of rock/metal/grunge hybrid calling themselves a sort of "Alice in Chains with a twist of lemon." They compare their style to bands like 3 Days Grace, Staind and SlipKnot.
TripMadam was founded in 2009 by J-Fox and Ryan, along with Aaron Kirby (currently of Amish warfare) and Bryce Irwin (Black Beast Revival). "Aaron and I had been friends for a long time," Jared explains, "and we said, screw it, let's try to find a couple other guys. We've been in several bands so we knew tons of musicians. We were fortunate to meet Ryan, and we started jamming and everying just clicked."
While Ryan and Jared had based their participation in TripMadam on an old friendship, Mike Honeycutt found his way into the band through sheer luck. "Before (TripMadam) I was on kind of a musical hiatus, and then it was like, 'hey we need a bass player.'" He bought new equipment and joined the band on a Thursday in August of 2012. And the new bass player was immediately put to work. "I learned enough music to played a show that Monday," he said. "It's been like a rocket from there."
TripMadam's newest addition joined in November of 2012, as Taylor Galley was added after co-founder Aaron Kirby departed to focus on other projects. "I had been in two bands with Jared before and Jared did a lot of the songwriting for those projects. when I auditioned, I was familiar with a lot of the songs." That familiarity has worked well to his advantage, and he's eager to make his mark on the band's sound. "I'm more into heavier metal and stuff, but I;m trying to think outside the box with TripMadam." ("Not trying to," Jared deadpans, "I'm making you.")
TripMadam defines itself by it's high goals and the hard work that goes into attaining them. "We don't want to just be a garage band," Jared says. "We want to be that next level, so we treat everything with professionalism. We show up early, we stay late, we make sure that wherever we're playing, anyone who's throwing it on gets the proper thanks and appreciation for having us there. we put on a show and when we leave, we leave a great taste in their mouth." The shows that TripMadam puts on tend to be fan-focused affairs. While they have primarily played small, local venues, they have used the limited space to get up close and personal with their fans. A show that stands out in Taylor's mind was at a bar called Tubbs. "This bar could only hold maybe 60 or so people. We had it pretty packed, but the thing is there's no real stage. since we like to participate with our audience so much, what was fun about that show was that we got to walk into the crowd while people were having their drinks and play to them personally."
Manager Paul Sullivan also likes their up-close-and-personal style. "The first show where I was excited to see them was at the GLOW," he says. "To actually watch Mikey and Taylor and Jared rock out on their guitars, they were playing on the dance floor and people were all around them. The crowd was feeding off them and they were feeding off the crowd. It was beautiful to watch." To Mike and Jared, their show at the Underground last December, where I saw them, was their finest to date. "It was 400, 500 people," Jared says. "They had us between two metal bands, and we had the crowd interacting with our songs, even people who never heard us. I had earplugs in and I could still hear them. Merchandizing coordinator Ashley Lee thinks this is the band's big appeal. "(TripMadam) is so much fun to watch. They give off this energy that draws the crowd in. It drew me in, and it's so much fun to watch."
In my time interviewing the band, the one thing that became apparent to me was the way they interacted, very much like a family. This bond was forged on a recent road trip to San Diego: where the average group of friends might have been at each other's throats on the 20 hour drive each way, TripMadam was on a mission. "We went down the coast to sell the band," Jared recounts, "let people know who we are and let them know the Northwest is gonna come down there and kick your ass, let them know that we're still doing great music." The family approach even comes through in songwriting. "It starts with an idea, you know. It could be a riff that I'm writing, or a song Taylor's writing, or something Mike says 'come here and check this out,' and we start playing and put the pieces together, then we hand it off to Ryan, and he makes it jell together."
The family approach extends to the team surrounding the band, from managers Kimm Davis and Paul Sullivan (Paul jokes "She always says she got the band in the divorce.") to the minds behind the merchandizing, Ashley Lee and Ruby Huizenga, and even to the former bandmates and their new projects. "Anyone who's been in TripMadam was a part of the family -- they still are part of the family. We jusst don't see each other as much because we're off to bigger and better things with our own projects." One of those projects is Amish Warfare, headed by former backing guitarist Aaron Kirby. "They're a lot of fun to watch, kind of like a punky version of KISS," Jared says. Taylor adds with a laugh "They're the kind of band that can do a punk version of Britney spears and have everyone dancing to it."
The band's best days are ahead of them, as the future includes a West Coast Tour and even a contribution of two songs and score pieces to a film soundtrack, "The Last Fall of Ashes." The band contributes the title track, "Ashes," and another song, "And I Know." And like everything else for a do-it-yourself artist, this came about through being in the right place at the right time with the right people. Jared met the director of the film through a chance encounter with a mutual friend. After auditioning, he gave Jared the script also he could write a song and a score piece. "At that point in time, I was going through chaotic stuff in my life, with my wife. when i read the script it was like, verbatim, everything I had gone through with her and our situation. It's a tragic love story, it really is and it really connected with me." after viewing some clips to the film, Jared wrote "Ashes" for the film. "It kind of came to me, lyrics were just pouring out."
The other song the band contributed to the film is "And I Know," for which they filmed a video. "We did three days of shooting in eight hours," Jared says. "And it was freezing fucking cold." And in keeping with the DIY nature of the band, they called in a few favors to shoot the video. "It was done by a couple of really good friends. They took exactly what I was talking about, and put it in the video."
TripMadam has ambitious plans to tour this fall, somewhere between October and December, with plans to expand their fanbase beyond the Northwest. Planned stops include San Diego, Phoenix, Albuquerque and Colorado Springs.
It's the story we all are told as kids, how in this country, we have the opportunity to take our talents and make something of ourselves, create a better life, and get wealthy doing exactly what we want to do. We hear about it from the top a lot, from the people who have already made it. What about the rest of us?
As an independent author, I know that between the starting from nothing and the becoming something, there's a lot of grinding in the middle. A lot of paid dues. A lot of separation from the pack. A lot of figuring out which way is your way. To be honest, the stories of the people trying to make it is a lot more interesting than the ones of those that already did. You never hear the stories from the middle, but maybe we should.
I will be taking it upon myself to find these stories and tell them, partly as shameless self-promotion and partly as a way to get the word out on people who are doing it themselves and meeting varying levels of success. That's the inspiration for us all, isn't it?
So, look for "Declarations of Independence," profiles of independent artist, authors, designers, businessmen and women. People who started with a passion and a good idea and turning a dream into reality. And if any of you are out there and wanting to have your story told, contact me on Facebook or at frankcthomas@hotmail.com.
.jpg)
