What We Leave Behind

It may just be me, but 2016 was rough on the celebrity crowd.

It seemed like, for the last 52 weeks, two or three names of people I’d known by watching on TV, through reading their books, or listened to on the radio at some point were crossed off the list.  Upwards of 200 well-known names were removed including, most recently, Carrie Fisher, and her mother, Debbie Reynolds.

I hope that’s the most recent, at least.

At any rate, over the last few months, I’ve been thinking about the Future.  Not about flying cars or moon colonies or what have you, but about if or why I’ll be mourned when I’m gone (I’m not sick, mind you).

Will people remember that I wrote?

Will people remember that I was close with my family?

Will people remember me as someone who tried?

Will people remember me at all?

I think we celebrate people who left legacies behind – tangible evidence of their existence – because by celebrating that, touching that, we matter.  And we all get caught up in the legacy we leave behind, be it our children, a great work of art, a great discovery, or some political achievement, because we want to matter to the world around us.

The celebrities who have died this year – while no more tragic than anyone else’s death – left something behind in their varied works.  We honor how that work made us feel.

And to the countless regular people who died this year, people we knew and loved, people we observed casually in passing, we are their legacy, for they have touched us as well.

As we close out 2016, let us try to remember that we are all connected and we all affect everything we come across.

Safe travels.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 2 -- Your Earliest

Last month I did a 30-day writing challenge.  I posted about it in my last post.  Writing prompts were given and it made me think of writing in ways I hadn't before.  Some of it was good, some of it not.  Some of it was deeply personal.  I'm going to share some of my favorites.

#2: My Earliest Memory

My earliest memory comes from July of 1983.  I was four and change.  I sat in the bedroom that was partitioned off for my brothers.  We lived in a pre-war apartment building in Brooklyn, so we had the space to cram four boys into half a bedroom.

I was watching WPIX 11, New York's local independent station at the time, and home of the New York Yankees.  Stuff happened that I didn't understand until much later in life.  The game was honestly boring to me.  Then this happened:

 

 

 

 

 

It was weird, like a light went on in my still forming head.  This game was cool. Anything that could make grownups act like this was beyond cool.  And that day, I became a Yankee fan.

 

 

Reviews: Ex-Heroes, Ex-Patriots

Hey all!

Still doing the GoodReads reading challenge, and now to review books 3 and 4 on my list, both from the Ex-Heroes series by Peter Clines. 

Ex-Heroes

One part Avengers, one part Dawn of the Dead, sprinkle a little of The Warriors in there and you have Ex-Heroes, an entertaining novel that clips along at a rapid pace. Two years after civilization fell, Los Angeles became split into two communities: The Mount, a converted movie studio lot watched over by a mismatched team of super heroes-- The Mighty Dragon (glides, invulnerable, breathes fire), Cerberus (scientist in a giant armored suit), Gorgon (vampire stare), Zzzap (living electric dynamo) One part Avengers, one part Dawn of the Dead, sprinkle a little of The Warriors in there and you have Ex-Heroes, an entertaining novel that clips along at a rapid pace. Two years after civilization fell, Los Angeles became split into two communities: The Mount, a converted movie studio lot watched over by a mismatched team of super heroes-- The Mighty Dragon (glides, invulnerable, breathes fire), Cerberus (scientist in a giant armored suit), Gorgon (vampire stare), Zzzap (living electric dynamo) Regeneration (heals himself and others) and Stealth (genius billionaire fashion model turned ninja)-- and the Seventeen, an LA gang that seeks to expand its turf in this new world order. Between the two groups lies the rest of LA's 5 million residents, all dead, all walking. But things get a little more weird when the zombies -- the ex-humans-- start talking. And making demands. I like superheroes and I like some zombie stuff, so of course I liked this book. It screams of an idea that's too good to pass up, a "why didn't I think of this?" sensibility. There are some small issues to be sure regarding an improperly reflected diversity in the city of Angels, but overall this was a very enjoyable read. 4 stars (out of 5) Ex-Patriots I gotta say, this has been plenty of fun! Ex-Patriots, the second book in the Ex-Heroes series, continues a couple of months after where Ex-Heroes left off. The super powered heroes of The Mount -- a community of zombie apocalypse survivors in L.A. -- are recovering from their war with the Seventeens, a street gang in the city who had their own survivor community and were led by Peasy, a man with the ability to control the zombies. They are contacted by the remnants of the US military, an enhance I gotta say, this has been plenty of fun! Ex-Patriots, the second book in the Ex-Heroes series, continues a couple of months after where Ex-Heroes left off. The super powered heroes of The Mount -- a community of zombie apocalypse survivors in L.A. -- are recovering from their war with the Seventeens, a street gang in the city who had their own survivor community and were led by Peasy, a man with the ability to control the zombies. They are contacted by the remnants of the US military, an enhanced soldier project called Krypton, led by Captain Freedom (actually his name) and Agent John Smith of DHS and DARPA. After agreeing to visit their base outside of Yuma, Arizona, the heroes find that there is more going on than they were led to believe, complete with a mad scientist and a small army of zombie soldiers. Yes, it was predictable, but it was an extremely fun read, if for no other reason than the fact that I'm a big comic-book nerd. The action clips along at a frenetic pace and there aren't any lulls. And two books in, Zombies vs. Superheroes still holds up as a concept. 3.5 stars (out of 5)

My Nerd Is Showing

The week before Halloween was Bellingham Comic-Con.

You hear a lot about the top-tier shows, like the ones in New York (NYCC) or San Diego (SDCC) or Seattle (ECCC -- EC for Emerald City).  Those last for three or four days, are packed wall-to-wall with celebrities touting movies and cartoons and all kinds of nerd paraphernalia.  These events are big and loud and well-publicized, as well as expensive and exclusive.

Bellingham Comic-Con is one of my favorite things about the town I live in.  Sure, it's not big and flashy like its big-city cousins.  IGN has never and likely will never set foot in there, and you're crazy if you think you're gonna see footage from the new Star Wars movies.  What it does have is passionate locals, be it the guys at Reset Games who sell retro video games (even though they admittedly weren't there this year -- FAIL), or the local comic book sellers who bring in boxes of current and classic comics to help fill out your collection, or the toy vendors.  It has creative local artists and writers, passionate about their work.  It has one or two famous artists who have worked with major comic publishers (Savage Dragon's Erik Larson and creator of Carnage, Randy Emberlin are regulars), and talented indies who are trying to break out.  And this year, it
had this guy:

YES.  That is a dancing Deadpool.  There are very few things that bring the awesome more than this.  Except maybe, this.

Dancing Deadpool leading a conga line around the convention center.  Yup, that happened.

There was honestly so much cool stuff there, stuff that people wouldn't have been able to access in NYC without either a press pass or paying through the nose.  For a small donation I was able to take these pics:

A blind dog dressed as an Ewok.

The most badass Jedi since Sam Jackson

Hero of the Rebellion

I'm not downing NYCC.  I'd like to go one day.  That said... this is still pretty freakin cool.

June 21.

Father's Day is upon us again.

I give a shout out to all the dads I know, the good ones, the bad ones, and mine.

First off, to the good ones I know, like my brothers.  Keep on keepin' on.  I want to be just like you when i grow up.

To the bad ones: Try harder.  Keep your daughters off the pole and your sons out of prison.

To my dad: I miss you.  You were hilariously funny, and your children still recount your stories when we get together.  You were strong willed, and stubborn to a fault, but you believed what you believed without apology.  You were proud of your children, and we did you proud.  I miss talking to you about things like the Yankees and the Knicks, which you loved passionately.  When we couldn't talk about much else, we always had that.  You did the best you could with what you had, and it's taken me nearly two years after you've departed to understand that, to accept that.

 

To my father, I hope to continue to do you proud.  Rest well.

The Final Season

Now for something less angry and more... bittersweet.

A legend of my own time has announced this is his final go-round with the Yankees.

Derek Jeter, shortstop, #2, Yankee captain has announced that this is his final season, that he rides off into the sunset (and likely the Hall of Fame) after the 2014 season.  I'm sad, I admit it.  Jeter may not be the flashiest player, or the one with the biggest power numbers, but what he did on the field, what he has meant for baseball, echoes something that the last 20 or so years have meant in my life.

Consistency.

Every season you could pencil Derek Jeter in for a batting average at or near .300, between 10 and 20 home runs, 70-90 RBIs, and 185-200 hits.  Every year.  Like clockwork.  These are not easy numbers to achieve, and yet he did it with such quiet regularity that when it didn't happen, and he had an average ballplayer's year, the sky was falling, and reporters heralded his demise as eminent.

Jeter was -- is -- a winner.  And beyond that, he's smart enough to understand what it means to be a star.  It's why you've heard nothing negative about him off the field.  Arrive, play the game, go home, repeat.  On top of that, he did it with the biggest media draw in the biggest media market.  New York is a baseball-crazy city to the point where even the most ignorant to the sport has a cursory knowledge at least of what's going on.  New York is a celebrity driven media market to the point where we know which restaurants certain stars will dine in.  And Derek Jeter has consistently remained in the spotlight but not of the spotlight.  An ESPN reporter described this feat as like "surviving in Chernobyl, and then emerging as the healthiest person to have ever lived."

Consistency.

I turned 18 the year Derek Jeter won the AL Rookie of the Year in 1996.  It was the first championship I had the pleasure of enjoying (I was only a few days old in '78 when the Yanks won.  The Mets in '86? Well, they're the Mets, it doesn't count.) and really kicked off my formative years.  My twenties were played out with Yankee championships in the backdrop, and I enjoyed the wonders of the twenties: youth and awareness being at equal levels for the only time in your life.  I equate the career of this man, the one great player whose career I had the pleasure of closely following as a fan, as a link to those wonderful days of being young and dumb, energetic and impetuous, and the championships as a metaphor for my own perceived invincibility.  I loved being in my 20's in New York City.  I loved my life.  The only person I would have traded with at the time is Derek Jeter.  After all, as fun as it was for me, I didn't date supermodels, nor did I have multiple millions in the bank.

As that link to my young adulthood fades off, I find that I'm suddenly facing the realization that I'm not 20 something anymore.  Don't get me wrong, I'm happy with my age, my life and so on, but that time is gone forever, and only exists as memories -- stories that through retelling are elevated to legend.

Much like the career of one Derek Jeter.

So as this nascent baseball season gets underway, I thank Mr. Jeter, much like I thanked his teammate Mariano Rivera last year, for providing an excellent backdrop to an awesome story.

Sidebar:  I want to be in my hometown for Jeter's final home game at Yankee Stadium, I don't care if I have to Kickstarter that thing...

MLK Day and Richard Sherman (or, Just Because Chris Rock Said It...)

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.

Wow.  Speechless.  Stay classy, dude.

You can see the rest here.

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.

Chris Rock was wrong.

"Urban Legend" Research Blog, Part 2:

In my last post about my progress for my "Urban Legend" project, I delved into what it took to look like a hero, the protective gear a real-world hero would need to tame the streets of a mid-major American city.  Now we leave defense and go straight to the offense.  How do we beat the snot out of evildoers?  The way my masked hero deals out violent retribution says a lot about his personality, his state of mind.

I spoke at length with Renshi Desmond L. Diaz about the subject for two reasons -- one, he's my go-to martial arts expert (5th dan Goju-Ryu), and two, he's my nephew.  To fight crime on the streets of my unnamed city, he suggested Krav Maga.

Krav Maga is unique in that it's designed to be taught and learned quickly.  It's blunt strikes and counter-heavy nature was intended to make ordinary citizens into effective fighters for the conscripted war effort.  The Israelis train their soldiers in Krav Maga, and when you consider that 2 years military service is required of every citizen, you don't want to meet too many Israelis in dark alleys.



In the recent "Batman" movies, Krav Maga is the style Bruce Wayne uses to dole out brutal justice on the streets of Gotham.  These days, Krav Maga is more widely used, taught to military and law enforcement alike, which is perfect for my "could-be-anybody" vigilante.

I also asked my nephew what weapons my hero would need to carry and he broke it down in three words: blades, staves, and guns.  Personally, I don't want to have my hero carrying guns as it doesn't fit the personality I want for this guy, but as for blades, I like the karambit.

The karambit is a Filipino weapon that was originally used for raking roots and threshing plants.  In proper hands it is possibly the deadliest knife available.  The curved blade was inspired by the claws of big cats (tigers, panthers, lions and such).  It's lightweight, easy to conceal, and as shown by the video possesses a certain degree of up close and personal bad-assery.  Batman would be proud.

As staves go, I like escrima sticks.  A friend of mine trains with them and his giddy approval is contagious.  Again, they go with the easy to conceal, easy to carry, and in the proper hands, can be a gleeful tool of attitude adjustment.

So the personality I'm seeking to craft for my hero is one of an up-close killer of killers, one who deals with these people in a manner suggests that they have done something to him personally.  And who knows, maybe they have...

Changing of the Guard

I've been in deep thought since the recent death of my father.

One of the things I keep thinking about is how my childhood is really, officially over.  I know, I'm almost 35, my childhood should have been over almost two decades ago.  I'm not talking about being grown up, I'm talking about not having the previous generation available for guidance.

And such is the circle of life, I guess.  Every generation tries to teach the next through guidance and absence, through lessons and examples both good and bad.  They try to teach how to be.  How to be a provider, or how not to be one.  How to be responsible for a life, or how not to be.  How to gain or lose respect.  And while they're around and able, they're a valuable resource to have in your back pocket.  They are a valuable sounding board, they are your biggest cheerleaders, they believe in you without reason, or at the barest minimum give you a continuing example of what you either want or don't want.  Once they're gone or infirm, or to a lesser extent relocated, the time for theory is over.  The responsibility is not of the teacher anymore to teach us, but of the student to apply what we have learned and to infer what the proper course of action.  Training is over.  The keys to the world are bequeathed to us.

My father was a flawed man, as we all are, but at his core he was a good man.  While he was never as much a presence in my life as either one of us would have liked, I do feel the absence.  I have learned all the lessons I can from him in regards to how to be a man, and how to balance pride and humility, joy and pain, success and failure.  My brothers and I can only hope to apply the lessons learned from this man's life to our children when the time comes.

And in doing so, prepare the world for its next keyholders.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

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.

Better.

I'd like to begin this with a little story.

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.

"Urban Legend" Research Blog, Part I: So You Want To Be A Hero...

So I've decided to write about a vigilante hero.

An idea popped into my head borne of my lifelong love of comic books.  You see, when I was sixteen, me and a group of like-minded friends formed Fallout Studios and Magic Pencil Comics.  If you've never heard of either of those, you're excused.  It was a year-long creative project that frequently devolved into marathon video game sessions (Damn you, Virtua Fighter!).  But there were good ideas in that collaboration, several good ideas in fact, and if our sixteen year-old selves lived in the digital age of now, I firmly believe our ideas and digital distribution would make us wealthy teenagers.  Oh well.

Back to the point.  I decided to research how you could practically be a superhero.  This is part one of those results, which is looking the part and being protected.  Seattle has Phoenix Jones, and if you look at his getup, well, Bruce Wayne he's not.  Shockingly, you can play dress-up as a hero for cheaper than you would expect, and the protective gear you would need is pretty common.  Several sports -- major ones at that -- have protective equipment that has evolved from the need to protect the wearer from the impact of abnormally large men moving nearly at freeway speeds, while still being able to maintain mobility and range of motion.  The drawback?  Play hero in the winter or you'll likely die of heat stroke.

First thing's first... the underlayer.

This Nike Padded shirt is obviously football gear.  Dense foam around the rib area helps cushion the compound impact of a 260+ pound man wearing pads and a steel helmet launching himself into your own pads.  The padding makes it less likely to break your ribs in that event.  It's probably a little less useful for stabbing and small arms fire, but there's a solution for that I'll be getting to.  Anyway, this shirt goes for about $80

The Combat Hyper String Girdle, also by Nike ($80), seamlessly adds padding to the all-important kidney area, and when combined with the shirt, extends protective padding through most of your important soft bits.  It also protects the thighs, home of wonderful things like your femoral artery.  While it may not be so good against knives and small arms fire, (a) it's better than nothing and (b) most people trying to kill you will be aiming for your exposed and unprotected chest.

Which brings us to the next logical thing: how to stop bullets.  The Executive Travel Vest ($899) is a Kevlar suit vest, designed for bodyguards and VIPs, designed to stop small arms fire.  Lightweight, breathable, flexible, it allows the wearer to walk around as if he's not wearing a bullet-resistant vest.  It doesn't offer much against knives or assault weapons, but how many criminals have access to AR-15's anyway.  Yes, that was sarcasm.

Football also provides us with Stainless Steel Shoulder Pads ($300), which in this combination, theoretically should take care of the stabbing, shooting problem.  On top of that, it adds an imposing, bad ass figure to said vigilante hero. They don't need to be spiked -- this isn't a Raiders game after all -- but if they can stop prevent a linebacker who runs a 4.6-40 from crushing you with an impact equivalent to being hit by an SUV, they can stop a bullet or a knife.  They naturally have a chest protection element, and allow athletes to move around, so this is of course a natural fit.

You're going to want to protect your joints and Reebok makes elbow and knee pads for hockey that fit the bill.  Lightweight and sturdy plastic protect your elbows and knees from bone jarring impact with the ground... or some punk's face.





Now the one element in a crime fighter's protective gear that is absolutely indispensable is that it has to look cool and menacing at the same time.  To round out the gear and add the cool, menacing factor, we turn to motorcycle equipment.  The Icon Chapter 1000 jacket ($699) is heavy duty leather designed to protect the upper body from road rash in the event of a crash.  Motorcycle jackets also have protective padding in the elbows for the same reason.   And that brings us to the final element in this experiment...

Now what better way to conceal your identity and protect your head than a motorcycle helmet?


There are drawbacks to this get up, of course.  I'll get into that next time, as well as how I'd modify the gear to help mitigate the drawbacks.

Sound and Fury

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.

Declarations of Independence

It's the American Dream, really.

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.

Cheers!

Public Service Announcement

This is a message in two parts.  Part one is positive.  Part two is a call to arms.

We are all possessed of something special.  We all have something that sets us apart.  It's not necessarily physical, although some of us are athletic, or tall, or beautiful.  It is not necessarily mental, even though some of us are intelligent or creative.  It is not necessarily social, although some of us are funny, charming or charismatic.  It may be all of these things or none.  But we all have the ability to change the world.

At the lowest common denominator, life is made of impact ripples.  One thing impacts another, which impacts another and more until we inexorably feel the impact, big or small in return.  It's a greasy frictionless pool table with no pockets.  And everyone -- EVERYONE -- is capable of setting something in motion.  Everyone is special.  Whether you impact one person or a thousand, you make an impact.  And because of your existence, your direct or indirect impact, someone's life has been altered.  We would all do well to keep this in mind when we question our place in the world.

Part two.

I am not alone in thinking that I am not meant to be simply a cog in the great machine.  I am not just a little part who keeps spinning until worn to nothing, then replaced and discarded.  I am not alone in this.

We have the power, you, me, all of us, to remove ourselves from the machine, to become more than just parts.  We have the ability to do it ourselves and/or with others.  We have passions that will elevate us from the machine, even if we are not entirely sure what they are or how to properly use them.

I encourage you, writers, thinkers, creators, artists, athletes... step outside the machine.  Let us create our own machine.  Let us fulfill our destinies.

The Caller (short story)

Hey all...

This is the first short story I've written in a number of years.  I had considered selling it on Kindle or something, but the process is simply too complicated right this second.  There are so many hoops to jump through.  Sigh.  So instead, I will share this story with you, free of charge, right here.  I present to you, "The Caller."

The Caller

Franklyn C. Thomas

    “This is Midnight Hour on WVYR radio, New York, and I’m your host John Benson.”  The deejay’s voice was smooth and laid back, like a weed or cognac buzz, and blended well with the rainy summer night.  “Guess what, y’all?  It’s Friday night, and time for another ‘Fess Up Friday’ on the Midnight Hour, and you know what that means.  For all of you out there who decided to stay in on this nasty Friday night, I’m your conscience.  I’m your priest, I’m your pusher, and I’m your reflection.  So anyone who has something to get off their chest, give us a call at 718-917-WVYR.”  John took a sip of his black coffee, no sugar, and saw a couple of lines light up on the telephone.  “And who do we have tonight, Rosie?”

     Rosie, the pretty, light-skinned woman in the booth with John looked at the computer display that had the name of all the pre-screened callers – or for the cowards, the name they wanted to be called on air – and what they had to say.  “We have Juliette,” she said in a smooth, jazz singer’s voice, registering a perfect C with every word, “and she’s confessing about Spring Break to her parents.”

John flipped on the speakerphone.  “Go ahead, Juliette,” he said in his best soothing voice, calmly sipping his coffee, “What have you got to confess?”

     “Well,” the caller began with a slight Southern twang to her high pitched voice, “this year for Spring Break, I told my parents and my boyfriend I was going to Miami with the girls.”

      “Did you?”

      “No,” she sighed.  “I went to Jamaica, with a couple of dudes I know from school.”  She took another sigh and hesitated for a second.  “We partied a lot, and you know, one thing led to another, and…”

     “Juliette?” John asked.  “Did you cheat on your boyfriend?”

     Juliette was silent on the other line for a moment.  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “I want him to know that.  I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

     “Is he listening?”

     “I don’t know.  I hope so.”  She took a deep breath.  “I made a mistake,” she said, sounding more relieved.  “I just wanted him to know and hopefully forgive me. Thanks a lot.”  And with that, she hung up the phone.

     “Well, there we go.  Juliette wants to apologize to her Romeo for her indiscretions, and hopes he will forgive her.”  John paused to take another sip of coffee.  “For those of you tuning in, this is John Benson on WVYR radio, 940 on your AM dial in New York, 12:08 AM on the Midnight Hour.  Who’s up next, Rosie?”

     John looked up to Rosie in the production booth.  Her normally cool demeanor was gone as she seemed agitated and distraught.  That’s odd, John thought.  Rosie doesn’t usually clam up like that.

     “We… we have Paul,” she finally said, after a too-long-for-radio silence.  “And he’s confessing to…”  Rosie looked like she was about to break down.

     Without missing a beat, John pressed the button for line 2.  “Go ahead, Paul,” John said.  “We’re listening.”

     “Uh, hello, John.”  Paul’s voice came across shaky and nervous, and was unusually high for a man’s voice.  He can’t be any more than 25, judging from the voice, John thought. 

     Paul took a deep sigh.  “First time caller, long-time listener.”  There was a slight slur in his voice, barely noticeable but definitely there.  “I’m gonna confess something to you, John.”  He sighed again, exhaled deeply.  Wind swirled in the background, and the sound of rain came over the radio like static.

     “Paul,” John said, “where are you?  There’s a lot of static there.”

     “I’m on the roof of my apartment building.  I’m going to jump, but first, I want to confess.  I’ve killed.”

John’s heart jumped into his throat, and threatened to crawl out of his mouth, before he managed to swallow it as well as the urge to say “oh shit.”  He glanced up at Rosie, who still had the terrified and dumbfounded look on her face.  He covered the mic and mouthed call the cops to her.

     “What happened, Paul?” John said after two or three seconds.  “Who did you kill?”

     “I’ve killed, John,” Paul repeated.  “I’ve killed a lot.  I’ve killed dozens of men, women, and children.  Especially children.”

     A chill crept up John’s spine as he heard this.  “By killed, do you mean…”  He hesitated, trying to find a better word than murder.  “Did you commit a crime, Paul?”

     Paul was silent for a moment.

     “Paul?  Are you there?”

     “They shouldn’t have been there,” Paul whimpered, “and I killed them.  I had a good reason, but every time I think about, it don’t seem like that good a reason.”  Paul sniffled a bit.  “I don’t know what to do.”

     “Paul, calm down.  Take me through it slowly.  When did all this happen?”

     “Two years ago,” he said, and choked up.  His breathing was heavy on the line.  

     “It’s okay, Paul,” John said.  “No judgments here.”

     “Two years ago, I was on deployment in Afghanistan.”

     John exhaled low and deep.  “You’re a soldier,” he said.

     “Yes.  A Marine.  Well, I used to be.”  He took another deep breath.  “It was my last day, John, my last day.  I had done three tours, and after they got bin Laden, they started sending us home.  My unit had been embedded for eighteen months, scouring caves for that son of a bitch. Oh!”  Paul cleared his throat.  “Can I-can I say that on the air?”

     John laughed slightly.  “That’s our problem, not yours.  We’re on a four-second delay.”  Paul breathed another deep breath and John leaned back in his seat.  “Please keep going.”

     “After they killed him, God bless those guys, we were called back.  There was no more need for our unit, so we were directed back to Kandahar, and waiting to be sent back home.”  Paul choked up a bit, cleared his throat.  “It’s a beautiful night out, John,” he said.  The slur in his voice was more noticeable now, and John realized his caller was still drinking.

     “Yes it is,” he said.  “What are we having tonight?”

     There was a pause on the other line, and the noises of the street came through loud and clear.  “Single malt, aged 25 years.  My dad gave it to me when I got back.  Tastes like shit, but it’s better than the stuff we had on the base.”  Another pause on the line, and John imagined Paul taking another gulp.  “I was never a scotch drinker, though.”

     “I hear it’s an acquired taste.”  The noise in the background intensified and sirens came through the speakers, mingled in with the raindrops and the rest of the summertime road noise.

     “Are those sirens?”

     “It’s New York at 12:25 in the morning, Paul,” John said.  “Of course those are sirens.”  Paul laughed.  “so what happened?”

     “I was in Afghanistan for eighteen months, John.  Didn’t see any combat, never fired my gun.  There was a war going on, and I was like a bystander.”  Another pause, another swig.  “My unit and I, we were the lucky ones.  One day this kid comes by, a little girl, maybe nine years old.”  Paul stopped again and could be heard sobbing on the air.  He took a breath to compose himself.  “This happened all the time, you know.  Local kids from the city and the villages visiting the base.  It’s not all like what you see on the news, they don’t all hate us.  So this little girl wanders onto the base, and no one pays her any mind until we here a man’s voice yell out ‘Allah Akhbar!’  I was standing maybe, twenty feet from her, and she exploded.”  The sobs were rolling now and Paul didn’t even attempt to hide them.  John felt a tear roll down his cheek as well.

     “Suicide bombing,” John said.

     “It was a little girl,” Paul said.  “Next thing I know, there’s gunfire and before the dust settled four of the ten guys in my unit were dead.  I took one to the arm, one to the calf.  Me and my CO Joe Ryker take cover in the base, we look out and…”  Paul sobbed and hissed through his teeth.  Sirens in the background grew louder.  “Why are there so many sirens going off?” Paul asked.

     “Don’t worry about them,” John said.  “I need you with me, Paul.”

     “Oh, jeez, are they here for me?”  Paul’s breathing grew ragged and heavy.  “They’re coming for me, aren’t they?”

     “Calm down, Paul.”  Some of the smooth went out of John’s voice.  “We don’t want you to do anything rash.  No one’s coming to get you.  Talk to me, man, just keep talking.”  John felt his heart race as he heard nothing but street noise and sirens from the other end.  “Paul,’ he said, more urgently, “are you still there?”

     Ragged breath could be heard through the speakers.  “Yes,” Paul said, panting.  “Yes, I’m here.”  He took a couple more short breaths.  “What’s happening?  Why are there cops here?  Why are there paramedics here?”

     “Sir, stand back from the edge!”  The voice was amplified by a bullhorn and was scrambled by the cell phone’s tiny mic.  It came over the speakers in the booth tinny and distorted.

     “Paul?” John’s voice caught in his throat.  “Paul, what’s going on? Talk to me.”

     “Th-there’s cops,” the young man said.  “Ambulances.” Two short breaths.  “Shit. Did you call the cops?”

     “Paul, you’re on a live radio broadcast, using a cell phone, and you opened with the fact that you killed people and wanted to kill yourself.”  John let that sink in for a moment while he tried to find the right words to avoid telling a lie.  “The police coming to you was inevitable.”

     Over the speaker was a loud bang that sounded like the door to the roof being kicked open.  Yelling came through the speakers and an authoritative voice was clearly heard saying “Sir, step away from the ledge and put your hands on your head.”

     “Paul, are you there?” John said.  None of the cognac buzz remained in his voice and he gripped the microphone in the booth.  “Paul!  Paul, listen to me, no one thinks you’re a killer.  You’re a soldier.  You’re a hero.  Finish your story and the police will understand!”

     “No!” Paul shouted.  “They were kids!  The ones shooting at us were kids from the village, young kids, eleven, twelve, thirteen years old!  Children!”  Paul was openly sobbing into his phone, and by now the sirens had been turned off.  “They sent children in after us.  And we killed them!  Me.  Joe Ryker.  A couple of other guys who were lucky and weren't really hurt.  We shot them all.

     “There was this one kid who saw his friends die.  He looked sick, like he was about to vomit.”  Paul’s voice dimmed to barely above a sobbing whisper.  “He dropped his rifle and got to his knees.  Put his hands up, said ‘surrender’ in English.  I heard it.  I understood it.  I put a bullet in his head anyway.”

     Silence came over the speaker.  The sound of sobbing, of breathing, of sirens and city noise was on mute for a long moment.  “Paul?  Paul, are you there?”

     “They sent me home the next day.”  His voice was unsteady and he sniffled after he spoke.  “There was no investigation.  No inquiry.  They gave us medals.  Freaking Purple Heart.  Every night for the last two years I’ve seen that kid.  Every damn night.  I see him look at me with those big, brown, scared eyes.  I hear him surrender in that shaky voice.  And I… I…”  The line was quiet except for a sniffle every few seconds. 

     “Paul?” John said.  “Listen to me.  You did what you had to do.  It was do or die.  You or them.  Heat of combat.”

     “No!  That’s bull, John!  That boy didn’t have to die!  I shouldn’t have to live with that!  It’s too much!”

     “No one gets out of something like that clean,” John said.  He tried to not shout over his caller, tried to control his voice.  “Not you as a soldier, not us as a country.  That sort of thing changes you.  We don’t blame you, Paul.  You are a hero.”  John took a deep breath to compose himself.  “And don’t let anyone tell you different.  Everything you had to do over there for us, for you, we forgive you.”

     “You can’t forgive me.  You’re in no position to forgive me.”

     “You have a family, Paul?”

     Three more quick breaths came over the line, followed by a long one.  “I was married.  We have a little boy.  She left me.  I couldn’t talk to them, they would never understand, and there’s no way I want my boy to be like me.”

     “Think they forgive you?”

     “They say they do.  But how can they?  How can I ask them to live with this?”

     “How can you ask them not to?”

     A few sobs made their way over the line and died down slowly.  “Did you ever serve, John?”

     “No, sir,” John said.

     A few more sobs came over the line.  “Then-then you can never understand.”  Silence came over the line, then distant shouting.  John heard a cop in that roof yell out “Sir!  Sir! Step away from the ledge!  Sir!”

     “Paul!” John shouted.  “No, don’t do it!”

     The yelling faded and a whooshing sound came over the line.  With a final static smash, the line went dead.

     John shot up from his seat and leaned in close to the microphone.  “Paul!  Paul!  Are you there?  Can you hear me?  Paul!”

     “The call… failed,” Rosie said from the booth.  Tears filled her red-rimmed eyes.  “We can’t seem to get a connection.”

     “Call him back!” John said, pointing at Rosie in the production room.  “Get him back on the line!”

Rosie’s shaky hands dialed the number that just called, and immediately the call went to voice mail.  “Hey this is Paul, leave a message.”

     “No!” John shouted.  He slumped back into his seat.  “No.”  He looked over his shoulder at the red “ON AIR” light and shook his head.  He took a deep breath, pulled up to the microphone and cleared his throat.  “We, uh-“ he wiped a couple of tears from his eyes and cleared his throat again.  “On behalf of WVYR, we would like to apologize to our listeners for that exchange, and we would like to extend our deepest condolences to, uh, the family of Paul.  I’m sorry, we don’t have his last name.”  He took a couple more deep breaths.  “So this is John Benson on ‘Fess Up Friday, and I’m here to say that if you need to confess, to talk tonight, I’m listening.  I’m here.”  The smooth had returned to his voice just in time for the sign-off, and he switched his microphone off.

Copyright 2013 Franklyn C. Thomas

Who The (Hell) Do You Think You Are?!

It's been a while.

I haven't written in this thing for a while, part self-promotion tool, part political platform, part self-discovery item, for a very simple reason: I thought I had run out of worthwhile things to say.  For someone who not only prides himself on the ability to use words to make a point, but thinks that this ability will directly impact and influence his future, this represents a sizable crisis of faith.

Ordinarily, especially in a political cycle rife with causes worth championing, I would have no shortage of opinion on either of the Presidential candidates, or the completely screwed-up times we live in.  I would offer up a cautionary tale of where we were headed as a society.  I didn't, not because I had a shortage of opinion.  This summer I let the thought creep into my head that I had a shortage of qualification.

More accurately, I asked myself the hard question "Who am I?"

If you want to split hairs, the words "the f***" might have appeared in that question somewhere.

We all have these times, I've noticed, where we wonder what business we have doing what we're doing.  Even the most confident, bold, and ambitious of us stop and look around as ask ourselves what in the blue hell we did to get here and what in the world we are exactly trying to accomplish.  This past summer I privately questioned a lot of things about myself as a writer, as an intellectual, and as a man.

Who the (hell) am I to have an opinion on politics?  These things are bigger than me.
Who the (hell) am I to expect to be taken seriously as a writer?  Serious writers don't self-publish.
Who the (hell) am I to think I have a chance at success?  Successful people have a lot more going for them.

Well, for starters, I am a citizen.  Not just an American citizen.  That is simply my nationality.  I am a member of the 7 billion-strong global community, where as small as my voice is on the grander scale of things, it still matters.  The policies put forth by the people who represent me to the country and to the world are of great importance, and I have a right and a responsibility to make my voice heard in that process.  I am represented by a group of people who will marginalize me and people like me at their convenience unless we make it impossible to do so, and the way to do that is to pay attention, absorb the information, form an opinion, and join the debate.

I expect to be taken seriously as a writer simply because I take myself seriously as a writer.  It's impossible to take someone seriously who doesn't present themselves as serious.  And you don't do that by screaming at the top of your lungs "Hey, I'm a writer, take me seriously."  You learn the craft.  You evolve your style.  you ignore the nay-sayers, and when they ask you if you're still doing that, you shrug and say "well, yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

As for success, well, I came to realize that there are two components: vision and drive.  Know what you want to the point that you can see it, and go get it.  Chase it like it were the most important thing in the world to you.  Never stop.  Sure, the successful people have something going for them that I may not yet: success.  But effort is the catalyst.  See it.  Get it.  Every success story has a beginning.

As the calendar turns to October, I find my faith renewed and my resolve strengthened.  I will use my voice. I will be more serious about my writing.  I will succeed.  These things are well within the scope of ability.

To anyone out there suffering a crisis of faith, and who finds themselves asking that question "Who the (hell) am I to..."  the answer is simple.  You are the author of your success story.  And today is chapter one.

Can we all get along?

That question has been repeated so many times, played for laughs and effect in so many situations over the last 20 years that people forget it was once not only a legitimate question, but an impassioned plea for peace.  Or at least for a return to the time where the hatred wasn't so open and destructive.

I thought about that question today, as I found out that Rodney King, the man who asked it, was found dead at the bottom of a swimming pool this past Sunday.  I thought about the question itself, the time it was asked, the circumstances behind it, and if 20 years later, we are any closer to an answer.

For those of you that don't know, Rodney King was the face of police brutality -- specifically against Black men-- in the early 90's.  The full story is that he was drunk, driving, and in violation of parole.  But when police caught him, they unleashed a massive beatdown, hitting him 50 times with batons and fists, and all of this was caught on a camcorder.  The four officers involved were acquitted of wrongdoing in a jury trial, and the result was Los Angeles burning in a three day-long riot, in which 55 people were killed.  As a result, Mr. King was asked by various media outlets for an interview, and he responded with his famous question, "Can't we all get along?"

I find it ironic, looking back, that the victim in all this was asked to be the healing agent, to call off the dogs so to speak.

It's a shame in any day and age that a question of whether or not individual members of a "civilized" society could get along without killing each other even comes up.  And it's an even greater shame when 20 years later, the answer to that question is still up in the air.  Can we all just get along?  I mean, in general, we all want the same things -- a place to call home, people with whom we can relate, a measure of comfort.  Can't we all work together to achieve our individual dreams?  Can we not cannibalize each other?  Can the color of our skin -- or differences therein -- not be a barrier to accomplishing these shared goals?

The disturbing thing behind this question is that although the answer should be - and in a perfect world, would be - a resounding yes, it's not.  It's not a resounding "no" either, which does instill some hope, but not nearly enough.  Rodney King's death underscores the failed realization of a dream, that while not quite as ambitious or moving or unifying as that other King Dream, is tragically unfulfilled.  Rodney King died in a world that was not entirely dissimilar to the world he lived in.  True, the President is Black, and there are more mixed children running around now than in anyone's memory.  However, the attitudes, the stereotypes, the training hasn't changed much.  I get cross-eyed looks from the police in this little tiny town I now reside in.

So what do we do about it? Can we all just... you know... get along?

Lost In Expectation

Two years ago, one of the boldest, oddest, trippiest shows ever to grace a TV screen aired its final episode.  and as with the series itself, that episode was in and of itself one of the most polarizing events on television.  I'm talking, of course, about Lost.  There are people who get it, and many, many more people who don't.  My personal belief is that the show was a very bold social experiment about faith.

Lost, over six years, asks of its viewers an escalating suspension of disbelief.  48 people survive a plane crash on a desert island.  Sure.  But this island isn't quite so deserted.  Okay.  And the island is the home of some peculiar science experiments, including a doomsday EMP button. And the Other people on this island have a particular interest in a young boy.  Hmm, okay...  This Other group also don't want these people
to leave the Island, for fear of worse people coming to the Island, which has special healing properties if you are "worthy." So they move the Island.  And then there's time traveling.  And a visit to the afterlife.

Trying to explain the events of Lost is impossible without sounding like a blithering idiot.  It's kind of like trying to explain religion, ANY religion, to someone listening to only the words you say empirically.  Try, for instance, to listen to Catholic dogma with no emotional investment, just as words and as stories, and you'll get what I mean.  It's faith, attachment, that gives all of these events context and meaning, and the producers of the show very smartly presented the mystery and wonder of the Island and the castaways and asked us to do with it as we pleased.  Over time, faith was lost as some people I knew simply couldn't wrap their heads around it, or could no longer suspend disbelief.  Someone close to me referred to the show as an overly dramatic "Gilligan's Island."  But over time, people were rewarded with... whatever they were rewarded with as the show and its resolution meant something different to and touched something unique in everyone who watched it.  To me, it felt like a 118 hour movie, and by the middle of it, I realized that the movie wasn't about the Island, or the Others, or any of the insane and madcap stuff happening on it, but it was about the people.  These amazing adventurers that the show focused on, these wonderfully, ordinarily complex and flawed people that were placed in an over-the-top series of scenarios, and simply tried to cope.  These characters were people who were unable to be in the moment, to fully appreciate the mirales going on around them, the danger that they were in, and one the person who did, who could, seemed crazy for half
the show's run.  The more we found out about these people the more we rooted for them, rooted against them, believed in them.  Felt sadness when they died.  Felt joy in their successes.  One of my favorite moments in the show was when Jack revived Charlie after he was strung up from a tree.  I honestly pumped my fist and cheered.

Two years later I re-watched the show, beginning to end.  All the episodes I loved and hated.   I walked away, knowing from the beginning how it would end, with a sense that the creators of the show -- JJ Abrams, Damon Lindelof, Carlton Cuse, et al -- crafted this brilliant, moving, wondrous exploration of faith and hope and wonder, of good and evil, of forgiveness and regret, and of destiny.  All of these are relatable themes as we all struggle to find our place in this world, regardless of age, race, ability, or situation.

To date, Lost is my favorite show of all time.  The only thing I found to be unbelievable was that there were THAT many impossibly attractive people on one flight.  I fly.  Regularly.  I've never been on a flight with one hot woman, much less with a hot fugitive chick, a hot pregnant chick, a hot rich chick and a hot Korean chick.  And what WAS the deal with that island...

Role Model (repost)

Found this digging through some of my old writing.  It is surprisingly still relevant.



Who do you celebrate; the man or the athlete? 

Men (and women) are flawed, make mistakes and poor decisions, have to validate their choices, their very existence to themselves and loved ones. Athletes are these impossibly heroic superbeings, perfect in form and physique, whose talents and feats elevate them to a place of near godhood. 

Who do you celebrate? 

Tiger Woods is the greatest golfer the world has ever known. He is the elite athlete in a sport that traditionally shunned men and women like him. He is the most marketable name in the pantheon of marketable names. He is the epitome of what can happen if you work long and hard at a particular skill, of the success that can be attained through perseverance. He is a hero. 

Tiger Woods is a wealthy and powerful individual with a family, who, it has been revealed, acted as wealthy and powerful men do. He had mistresses. Several mistresses. Who acted like the mistresses of wealthy and powerful men do. They kept the secret until the secret came out. Tiger Woods betrayed his wife and children. He is the villain. 

Alex Rodriguez may go down as the greatest baseball player since George Herman Ruth. He admitted to cheating, to artificially enhancing his body for three years to boost his stats and make the people love him more. He is the ultimate douchebag. 

Alex Rodriguez is a father/was a husband. He admitted to cheating, many women on many road trips. He was divorced, taken to the cleaners, lost. He has found love again. He is the ultimate reclamation project. 

Derek Jeter is the face of the most popular and successful franchise in sports. He has numerous personal accolades, several world championships. Plays the game "the right way," and his peers have gone on record to say they would lose faith in the game, in sports, if it ever came out he was cheating the game. He is the ultimate idol. 

Derek Jeter is a wealthy young guy living in New York City. He has a vast multitude of women at his disposal, from entertainers to beauty queens. He is the ultimate player. 

The question is, who do we want our children to be like? The athlete or the man? Here's the kicker, the answer is none of the above. We wnt our children to be OUR heroes, live the lives we never could, be all that we could not be. Succeed where we failed. All in the name of wanting the best. 

So here's to all the children, our role models. And all the parents, our devoted fans.