There have been only a few “Where were
you?” moments in my lifetime.
9/11.
President Obama’s inauguration.
These are the watershed moments in my lifetime, events that changed my
perception of the world. And eight years
after the last one, another inauguration is poised to do that yet again.
Say hello to President Trump.
I’m going to make this as non-partisan
and non-political as I can. This is a “Where
were you?” moment. It is the end of an
historic presidency with one of the most universally-beloved public figures in
recent history, and the beginning of a new one, with someone who is one of the
most divisive figures in recent history.
It is a history-making moment in ways that are too numerous to
count. And while I will not watch the
actual ceremony, nor will I watch the ball afterwards, I will be entirely cognizant
of where I am when he takes the oath of office, whether I’m taking a nap, or
making a sandwich.
However, I encourage you all to be aware
of where you are, because for better or worse, the world you live in is going
to change. It may not change all at
once, or even in ways that are immediately noticeable, but change is most
definitely imminent. And we should all
be aware of not just where we are, but what we’re doing and how we got there.
I remember when I was in high school,
and I talked to someone who remembered where they were when Kennedy was
assassinated. I remember talking to
people who remembered where they were when Reagan got shot. Hell, I remember where I was when the
Notorious B.I.G. was murdered. And I’m
sure we all remember the events in our lives leading up to and immediately following
the first tower impact, as well as what we were doing when Barack Obama took
the oath of office.
This is one more of those times.
Take stock of where you are and what you’re
doing, because you’re going to want to tell your children about this. This is going to be historic.
So, Bellingham has just emerged from a week-and-a-half long deep freeze, complete with snow and ice, barely drive-able roads, and requisite traffic accidents.
Is it weird that I was made homesick?
New York is one of the great winter cities in the country. Yes, I am biased a bit, but hear me out. New York has earned a reputation for being a rough place, filled with blunt, rude people who will run you over if you get in their way. It's a crucible that takes the weak-minded, undisciplined, and poor and either forge them into something stronger, or kills them under the weight and pressure of living there. Some of that rep is justified, some isn't. It's not up to me to sift through which is which.
However, for the six weeks between Thanksgiving and New Year's Eve, the city softens a bit. Maybe it's the brainwashing from all the holiday music that yo hear from every place that has a speaker, but for that time, it never seemed as bad. People were generally nicer to one another. Kindness was seen on the surface. As people geared up for the season, you could see it, feel it, a particular and unique kind of spirit.
It's the same as in small towns, when you see a kid's face light up as they meet Santa (TM) for the first time. The big city is no different. The Salvation Army still rings bells at every street corner, and people still drop their spare change into the big red pots. Lights are strung up from every lamppost, intersections are made more festive. Storefronts put up amazing displays. And while NYC does it on an entirely different scale...
... it's still Christmas. Or Hanukkah. Or whatever you want to call it.
Don't get me wrong, New York in the dead of winter offers bone-chilling temperatures, schizophrenic weather patterns, and sometimes a kind of bleak that there isn't a word for, but for those six weeks, that specific time of year, it doesn't seem half bad.
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.
Paulo Coelho comes to me well-recommended. I'm told The Alchemist is a life-changing book and Aleph is captivating. Maybe I should have started with one of those.
I can't say I loved Adultery. It wasn't terrible, and this is a virtue of Paulo Coelho being everything as a writer I was told he would be. His style is accessible and conversational. You can blow through large chunks of text while sipping a coffee or a beer and you're never left grasping at what happened. However this story, while well told, wasn't terribly compelling.
Adultery is the running inner monologue of a woman in her 30's who has everything she can ask for -- perfect children, a husband who adores her, a fulfilling career, the ability to flit about the world at a whim -- and yet is terribly unhappy, largely because she chooses to be. She inexplicably one day blows a politician (who happens to be the ex-boyfriend from high school that she was so into that she fantasized about him constantly through her adolescence), and that kick-starts a vicious cycle self-hatred and bad decision-making, all while her doting husband tries desperately to help her find her way of whatever depression and melancholy she happens to be in.
I find characters who do the super-entitled pity party ("woe is me, I have everything) to be grating, especially when they narrate the story, as in Adultery and Douglas Brunt's Ghosts of Manhattan. It's hard to empathize with them as a reader because for me at least, it's impossible to understand them, especially when at the end, they haven't changed very much because their lives are so insular, so perfect, they're not required to. Adultery's narrator, Linda, almost ruins two marriages -- her own and her lover's -- and never has to face the consequences. She's spared the humbling embarrassment of having to say she cheated, while putting her lover in a position to lie to his wife's face. At the end of the day, her relationship with her husband somehow ends up stronger because she realizes that she has it all and decides it's not a prison. I mean... come on. Reading this calls up some advice my dad once gave me: the worst thing you can give a woman is everything she wants.
I will say this: Paulo Coelho's style is everything it's cracked up to be.
Pros: Easy Read, crackling style Cons: Whiny narrator, no significant character change at the end.
Another day in Brooklyn started with the gym and no other particular agenda. Ahh, that is the life. I knew I wanted to hang with my niece, and that I wanted to go to Coney Island. She, however, wanted to get a pedicure first. I sometimes forget that she's 24 now, and the condition of her hands and feet are important tools in attracting men that my brothers and I would later intimidate. Recalling that I very recently (and accidentally) shredded my girlfriend's sheets with my feet, I elected to join her. It was relaxing, and right after we made our way to the train to Coney Island.
My niece and I went to the same high school, twelve or so years apart. As we passed it on the train, we both fondly remembered some of the neighborhood's food options, largely consisting of bagels and pizza that I can confirm are simply much better in Brooklyn than anywhere else. It's the tap water. After that, we watched as the Q train pulled up past Brighton Beach and the iconic Parachute Jump came into view at Stillwell Avenue. Welcome to Coney Island.
I hadn't been to Coney Island since 2008. Know what? That's too far to start in the story.
I'm a contradiction: I'm terrified of heights, but I love roller coasters. I grew up with one of the most famous ones in the world in my own backyard, so to speak. I last went to Coney Island in 2008 with a good friend of mine, and while the rides mostly sucked, the corn dogs were tasty and the log flume ride wasn't so bad (okay, okay, I screamed like a little girl and it was caught on camera). But it was Coney Island, Astroland as it was called then, and it's heyday was well, well past. Before that afternoon, I hadn't been to a real theme park, on a real roller coaster since 2004 or so.
A couple of years ago, Astroland closed and the area was almost completely razed except for the three landmarked spots: the Parachute Jump, the Wonder Wheel, and the world-famous Cyclone. In its place was Luna Park, with upgraded and updated rides and attractions. There were two that caught my eye: the Soarin' Eagle ride, and the New Thunderbolt.
My niece accompanied me to Luna Park, and it's nice to hang out with her as an adult. She had been like a little sister for so long, it was interesting and refreshing to finally interact with her as an adult and a peer instead of as a really smart kid. I kept that in mind as I watched her descend into a terrified mess on the Wonder Wheel. To be fair I wasn't much better. It's a 94 year-old Ferris Wheel with selected cars that swing on a track. We were on a swinging car. I won't pretend like I was brave, but I couldn't panic the way I wanted because my niece was freaking out (Jesus, take the wheel, and such).
So after five minutes of protracted circular terror, I decided to venture on to the Thunderbolt. Coney Island was going to be an abbreviated visit this time as we were meeting friends for drinks later that evening. I had to decide between the Thunderbolt and the Soarin' Eagle, and the Thunderbolt looked interesting. To me, at least; my niece decided that she would sit this one out.
Remember what I said about her being really smart?
From a distance, the Thunderbolt looked interesting. It had a 90 degree initial ascent and a 90 degree initial descent, and loops and twists and the like. There had been a couple of steel coasters in Coney Island's past, but they were mostly designed to scare seven year-olds. I assumed the Thunderbolt was just a cool-looking continuation of this design sensibility.
Then I got up close and saw the thing got up to about 120 feet. And it moved along at a pretty good clip.
Still though, I thought, this is New York City, where in the past a coaster of sufficient size and speed to actually be a thrill ride couldn't exist alongside the Cyclone, simply for reasons of not enough real estate. How bad could it possibly be?
Spoiler alert: bad. Very, very bad.
The thing about a 90 degree ascent is that the car pointed straight up. You were basically on your back, looking straight up. The chain pulley towed the car straight up. Most roller coasters drag out the terror with a gradual incline. Even the legendary Cyclone, whose terror is based in its age and its composition (90+ years, made of wood, I believe it's the oldest wooden coaster still standing in the US) only had an initial drop of 58.1 degrees, and that drop was 85 feet. Not this nightmare. Nope, the Thunderbolt would not delay gratification. It went. Straight. Up. After the hump, it went straight down.
Allegedly. I had my eyes closed on the drop.
There were twists and turns and zero gravity sensations abound, and when it was over, all I could muster were a vacant stare and a constant drone of "Oh $#!7. It went straight up." My niece, the smart one, laughed.
Afterward, we grabbed a quick bite to eat. Neither of us had much in the way of food, and it was a long train ride to Park Slope, where we would meet old friends of mine for food and drink. She had a knish, and I had a funnel cake. Bits of happy all around.
A day that started in Brooklyn, went past the World Trade Center, cruised through North Jersey, and ended in Brooklyn.
Ah, it's much less dramatic than all that, but I did get a really good shot on my phone.
That is a picture of the Fulton Transit Hub with 1 WTC in the background. Shot with a Droid Phone, only in New York.
So let's recap.
I spent the morning at breakfast with my sister and my niece, catching up over coffee and IHOP, expressing our differences of opinion regarding sugar vs. substitutes, organic food vs. non-organic and the appropriateness of singing in public. If I'm being honest, there was no difference of opinion on that last one. Singing in public is always a good idea. We chatted and laughed and talked about all manner of fun things. I realized I hadn't had the chance to catch up with these two in any real manner in months. The last couple of days had I had focused my energies inward, and because of my schedule and the three hour time difference, I'm never able to catch them on the phone for any real length of time. These two women are among my favorite people. After breakfast and a long walk, my niece went to work and I went to sleep. I've slept more in the last three days than I have in the last three months.
After my morning/afternoon nap, I arranged to meet with my longtime friend from college, Sara, who I haven't seen since my father's passing a couple of summers back. On the way to meet her I got to take the Subway into Manhattan. For as long as I can remember, I've always loved the New York Subway. Not the cost of it, of course, $2.75 is railway robbery. But it is beautifully efficient as a people mover. I made it a point to take the train to Cortlandt Street, first time I had been at that station in more than a decade. Cortlandt was one of the more heavily damaged stations in the aftermath of 9/11, and Hurricane Sandy a couple of years ago didn't do it any favors either. It was shuttered for several years until the completion of the Fulton Transit Hub. The World Trade Center was complete when I was last in town, but not open, so it was all kinds of cool to see people going in and out for work or what have you. If I wasn't on the clock I would have ponied up the money to check out the observatory. Oh well...
From there it was a trip on the PATH train to Hoboken. I've never been to Hoboken. Imagine my surprise when I stepped out of the station to find a city that seemed...
... well, a lot like Downtown Brooklyn. Great views of the skyline. Awesome seaside park. Vibrant, energetic, young. It was cool. I went to the W Hotel and hung out at the bar, engaging a couple of locals in a conversation about what's wrong with baseball while I waited for my friend to arrive. It was entertaining.
Here's a little backstory: Sara is one of my oldest and dearest friends, having long ago earned herself a spot on the bullet list, the short list of people for whom I would take a bullet, largely because they wouldn't put me in a position to do so. She was the first fan of my writing, which is what made me think "I can do this," instead of pushing for a more stable/prestigious/boring career in criminal justice. She's been a stable friend throughout the three major deaths my family has dealt with. I attended her wedding and congratulated her very loudly at the birth of each of her three children. She has stated that my atheism is the only reason I'm not her kids' godfather, which is fine. My Brando impersonation is terrible. I'm guh make youa offa you can't refuse...
We had a drink and caught each other up on the events of our lives. She was happy for me and my relationship, I made googley noises at pictures of her soon-to-be one-year old. She asked about my mom, my grandma, and my family, I asked about hers. She was supposed to be planning her kid's birthday party but her husband let her off the hook to hang out with me. I said he should have got his ass out here too. We laughed and talked and enjoyed company like we did 20 years ago in school. Then we realized how old we both were. 20 years. We are nothing like the kids we were back then.
We laughed loudly and reminisced wildly, recalling some of the misadventures we had as teenagers and young adults. Her son Noel accelerated her maturation into a grown-up, whereas I'm just now getting my feet wet in the adulthood arena. After a couple of hours and a brief tour of Hoboken (birthplace of Frank Sinatra, apparently), we parted company, and I headed back to my city.
Back in NYC, and eager to erase the Jersey funk off me (sorry, Jersey is still Jersey), I walked a couple of blocks around the World Trade Center area to find the one thing I had been searching for the last six years I've been in Washington... a good slice of pizza. My vacation goals are easily attained, aren't they? Pizza is supposed to be cheese and sauce and perhaps some form of cow, pig, or chicken product. The dough is to be made with mineral-heavy New York tap water (otherwise known as wau-tuh. My New York tongue returns!), not whatever it is they put on it or in it on the West Coast. It's not supposed to have anything artisanal or soy or low-fat. Dough, sauce, cheese, meat. In that order. The pizza place I went to, whose name I can't remember but is right next to the New York Dolls Gentlemen's Club, had two sausage slices that I claimed as my own (I was willing to do it Ariana Grande-style by licking the damn thing). Three long but well-spent minutes in the oven later, and I was snarfing down hot pizza while making sounds like I was really enjoying a lap dance. I even took the long way back, so I could enjoy my slices in pizza... I mean peace.
Wow, that was a baaaaad joke.
This week, I'm learning something about being home. It's not so much the place I miss. Don't get me wrong, the place is awesome, and I definitely miss it some. No, it's the people I miss. People I associate with these places.
Tomorrow is the last full day before I take off to London. Maybe I'll finally make it to Coney Island.
I spent the morning with my niece in the gym. My sister had gotten there after work, and had been there earlier than us. She was on the way out as we were on the way in (sidebar: working out agrees with her. She looks great!). An hour and a half later, my niece and I navigated public transit back to Canarsie. I missed the subway, I have to say.
The two of them had events in their schedule to do, so I made myself busy for a few hours (read: slept) until it was time to visit good friends of mine, Jesse and Stephanie.
I have known these two for a the better part of a decade. They're one of the most perfectly matched couples I've ever met. Their daughter is an incredibly cute child who has an addiction to a children's show I've never heard of before today, and whose theme song I will never be able to get out of my head. I haven't seen them since Stephanie came to my father's funeral. I've always enjoyed their company as they are funny, smart, opinionated and fun-loving. They play games, enjoy a beer, and love life and each other. It's quite awesome, actually.
Last year they moved from Lower Manhattan to Brooklyn, as many couples of a certain age tend to do these days. They moved to Fort Greene, which in my youth was very much the 'hood. My, how that has changed.
After a couple of hours bs'ing on their patio (and that time went QUICK) we went to a little restaurant on Greene Avenue called Prospect. They had recommended it highly and as I said to Jesse, for the first time ever, I deferred to someone's superior knowledge of Brooklyn. Food was phenomenal, and we sat and ate on the patio seating area..
As we ate we chatted more. It had been two years since I had seen either of them, there was catching up to do, there was exchange of humor, there was the expression of hope that Bernie Sanders would win the presidency, and the plan for seeking political asylum in Canada if Donald Trump won. I told them about my girlfriend who was at that moment, probably, doing something incredibly cool on a camel and how strange it was for me to be with the same woman for as long as I have.
After dinner we had dessert (I won't bore you with the details as to what, but just know that it was fantastic and awesome) and more conversation, talking about Marvel movies and Star Wars. It was food and drink and the rambling old friends make when they haven't been in each other's company in far too long.
Six hours and 2800 calories after I arrived, we said our goodbyes and made a plan to hang out again before I went back to Bellingham.
Two takeaways: first, good friends are an awesome thing, and one should absolutely never take them for granted. Secondly, Fort Greene has really changed from what I remember. Putting aside the fact that I very likely couldn't afford to live there anymore, the change is profoundly positive.
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.
Okay, so a day after the US was eliminated from the World Cup, it's time to take a quick look back at what it did.
Despite what Ann Coulter said, it kind of reinforced the commonality of all Americans. No matter our walk of life, political alignment, ethnic background, or religious slant, we all supported our team. We all chanted. We all watched.
We all gave props to Tim Howard for his gutsy performance against Belgium.
The beauty of it all was that we did so without hesitation, without consideration of whether the person chanting next to us was pro-choice or not, without worrying about the confrontation between creationism and evolution. We did so without the worry about whether or not climate change was real.
For the first time in a long time, it wasn't the 1% versus the 99%. It was the USA against the World.
Maybe it was because we were such huge underdogs, and everyone loves underdogs. Maybe it's because secretly, some part of our evolving national identity loves soccer as much as NFL or baseball. But for some reason, we were all believers. And it's even lasted after we've lost.
We need to hold on to this feeling of unity. Moments like this, where even an embattled President and his supporters and rivals are all on the same page in support of our country, are too precious to allow to pass. And they should happen much more often than every four years.
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.
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.
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...
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."
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.
Over the last seven years, Christopher Moore has become one of my favorite authors. To
date, he has published 13 novels and counting. I own every one, and it's his second, Coyote Blue, that ranks among my favorites. Equal parts love story and supernatural
comedy, Moore shows off his unique talent for putting the ordinary guy through an
extraordinary paranormal wringer.
Coyote Blue follows Sam Hunter, a California insurance salesman who has all the
trappings of the good life as well as a closely guarded secret: he's really Samson
Hunts Alone, a member of the Crow tribe who ran away from home after accidentally
killing a cop. his life is turned completely inside out when he meets the stunning
flower-child, Calliope Kincaid and -- immediately after -- the Native-American
trickster god Coyote. The chance encounter with Calliope leads Sam on an unlikely road
trip across the American West with the trickster at his side as he chases his newfound
love back toward his childhood home and the past he ran away from.
Right away, you see that Moore has a much tighter grasp on his characters than he did
in his debut. Whereas Practical Demonkeeping's Augustus Brine (who is mentioned in a
cameo) acted as a lens through which we observed the inhabitants of Pine Cove, Sam
Hunter is undoubtedly the star of the show. This is his journey and it makes for a
much more intimate story as we watch him grow as a person over the course of his
adventure. We watch his priorities shift and we watch him accept a part of himself
long thought buried. The secondary characters, Coyote -- an immature immortal god --
and Calliope -- who starts out as the free-loving counterpart to Sam's very grounded
life -- both go through journeys of their own, but neither one is as compelling as that
of the lead character. His growth is fantastic and quite relateable.
Coyote Blue is Christopher Moore refining the very distinct voice we saw flashes of in Practical Demonkeeping. It's alternatively funny and heartwarming and always fun.
Highly recommended.
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.
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.
Former mayor Ed Koch died of congestive heart failure late last night at the age of 88. Mayor Koch was the mayor when I was really young, and I don't remember much about his time as mayor. I do, however, remember the man's persona. He was a New Yorker, for all that it implies. Unabashed, unashamed love of the city. An air of kindness with a little edge of... well, New York. It's an undefinable quantity, and one that I always admired. The man was worldly, likely from his time serving in World War II, as well as local, due to being a Bronx product.
The city at the time Mayor Koch presided was much different than it is now. It was a grittier city in the 80s, defined by the excess on Wall Street on one end, and the crack-cocaine epidemic in the inner-city on the other. It was a dirtier, more abrasive city, but it was also more real. That city, that time, is what earned New York it's enduring reputation as being a take-no-shit city, as opposed to this barely recognizable, extremely overpriced tourist destination. The old New York is a city that people could afford and live in, and that city is one i would never have left.
There has been new legislation put to the House floor regarding violence in video games.
*sigh*
Weeks ago, after the Sandy Hook tragedy, there was a call to at least have a conversation about some of the things involved that led to Adam Lanza taking a gun to an elementary school. The NRA said they would add something meaningful to the debate.
They didn't.
Instead of blaming the proliferation of assault weapons in this country, the NRA heaped blame on our violent tastes in entertainment, video games and movies to be specific. In the same breath, he suggested arming our teachers, but let's stick with one thing at a time.
Fact: Violence is pervasive in our entertainment culture. We see too many movies -- and, yes, video games -- that make gunplay cool. The neighborhood movie theater in Flatbush, where I grew up, closed in 1999, a week after the premiere of The Matrix prompted some knuckleheads to shoot up the movie theater. No one to my knowledge was hurt, but it wasn't exactly common knowledge either. There could be reasons behind that, but I'll save that for another rant. The makers of Call Of Duty pump out a new version of the game every year, and that is met with fanfare, and long lines of people camping out to be first to buy. There are very few statements I agree with from the NRA regarding the debate; the nod to our culture of violence is it.
The issue at hand, though, is whether restricting violence in video games is the answer. As of 1994, in the wake of the Mortal Kombat hullabaloo, game developers were submitting games to the ESRB, a self-regulating board who would determine the level of maturity or objectiveness in the content of the game, and assign a corresponding rating. Games with violent or other adult content are emblazoned with a giant "M" for mature. It is then the responsibility of the consumer to either buy the game or not buy the game. If the consumer is a parent, then they make the decision to buy or not buy the game based on the appropriate rating for their child. The new legislation mentioned at the top of the blog makes submission to the ESRB mandatory, and game ratings enforced by monetary penalty: sell a game to someone of inappropriate age, get a $5,000 fine. I agree with this as well.
What I don't agree with is the notion that real-world violence stems from video game violence. Since the majority of gamers are under 18, and most likely have games bought for them as gifts by their loving parents, shouldn't it be the responsibility of the parent to (a) screen the game for content inappropriate (by reading the label) and/or (b) educate their children to the difference between fantasy (on screen) and reality (off screen). If we fear our children are being brainwashed into being killers by these damn video games, then undo the brainwashing by stating that the game is just that... a game. It's not real. It's not how people should act in a civilized society. Failing that, the prudent thing to do is DON'T BUY THESE GAMES FOR KIDS!!! Make them wait until they can buy it for themselves, by either getting a job and learning about the real world, or saving up for it and learning about the real world.
Restricting violence in a video game is a band-aid. It is at best a stopgap measure to address a byproduct of the problem. The bigger problem is that it's still easier to get a gun than it is to get a drivers license. The issue is still that you can get an automatic weapon at Walmart. The biggest issue in my mind stems from the changing dynamic of the American family. But that's the subject of another rant.
