It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year...

That's right, pitchers and catchers have reported to Spring Training!  That means Opening Day is around the corner, and summer very shortly after.  Aren't you excited?



I make no secret about my Yankee fandom.  I like to think it's one of my most endearing qualities.  But this isn't a post about being a Yankee fan.  Spring Training also means that softball season is about to start out here, but this isn't a post about that either.

No, this is a post about connection.

Every year, millions of fans of the 30 MLB teams prepare themselves for a summer of various levels of commitment to the idea that their team can win a title.  Some fans will watch every game, most won't.  Some fans will attend every home game, most won't.  But on some level, everyone will have at least some interest in their hometown team.  On some level people care.  And on some level, people hope for the kind of unity victory brings.

I know this is true of all sports, but for some reason, it feels more true about baseball.  And I think I know why.

Football, the players wear masks.  Their careers tend to be short.  And in most of those careers, teams that don't win out don't stay together very long.  Basketball, the average length of time one player stays with one team is about five years.  Baseball, however, teams are kept together for years, decades in some cases, and even the teams that don't stay completely together, there's never a wholesale turnover.  There's continuity.  And while the Yankees win most of the time, most teams spend at least some time being competitive.  And you can always trace a link from one team's great player to its next through less than three degrees of separation.  And it's something you can link directly back to your childhood.  It's something I appreciate more now as I'm now so much closer to 40 than I am to 20.

For instance, one of my favorite players retired a couple of years ago, Derek Jeter.  He came up to the majors in 1996, when I was turning 18 and going to college and drooling over college girls.  1996 was also the first Yankee championship of my lifetime.  The year before Jeter came up, Don Mattingly -- longtime Yankee first baseman and the player I grew up idolizing -- played his final season in a career that started when I was three.  He played most of his career on a team that had all-time base stealing champion Rickey Henderson and fellow Hall-of-Famer Dave Winfield.  Winfield was brought to the Yankees in 1981 to anchor an outfield that featured Reggie Jackson, who was a member of the 1978 World Series Championship team that won when I was about two weeks old.  And right there, I've just charted my entire life through one team.  That is not a terribly rare occurrence.

It's a shame that the appreciation for baseball seems to be declining because that connection is declining.  Connection with a home, with a city, with something that's not only bigger than you, but something that you can agree upon with your neighbor at a ballpark regardless of your station in life, your religious beliefs or even your attitudes about race.  Two guys at Yankee Stadium wearing Yankee jerseys are both Yankee fans, and together for the three hours at the ballpark.  They share a drink, they share triumph and defeat, they share opinions on which players suck.  At the end it's over, and they go back to their respective lives, homes and differences of various levels, but in those few hours they were family of a sort.

They say baseball is something that's inherited, that fathers pass on to sons (or mothers to sons, or fathers to daughters, mothers to daughters, whatever).  If I ever have kids and I can pass on an appreciation for baseball and all the commonalities fans have with one another, all the things we share at the ballpark, and how we directly connect one player to the next, and one moment to the next, I will have honestly done my part to make the world a better place.

Unless the little crumb snatcher turns out to be a Red Sox fan.

Stuff I Read in 2015

For the last couple of years, I joined Goodreads.com's reading challenge, where you set out to read a certain amount of books in a year and then try to get through them all.  In 2015, I tried to do 12, but managed to finish 11 (the last one, Telegraph Avenue by Michael Chabon, I just was too tired in December to get through).  I picked a few books by favorite authors, some by people that I've never read.  Some were surprisingly bad, others were better than I expected, and one was The Martian.

So today, let's give you the rundown of what I read last year, listed alphabetically.

52-Pickup by Elmore Leonard:  I read Get Shorty and Be Cool when I was in my early 20's and decided I was a fan of Elmore Leonard.  I named one of my characters in my most recent novel in his honor (Dutch).  I started this book expecting it to be an awesomely gritty crime story.  Instead, I found it to be horribly dated, what with the free-flowing racial slurs and very outdated sensibilities.  It was written in the 70's though, so I won't say he had lost touch, but the book definitely did not age well.  2 stars.

Beautiful You by Chuck Palahniuk: Palahniuk is another favorite of mine, having read six or seven of his books, including Fight Club and Choke.  Beautiful You is the story of a woman who is made to be the guinea pig for a new generation of sex toy designed by a powerful businessman that has disastrous side effects up to and including death.  These sex toys have turned women all over the world into masturbation addicts, and only the guinea pic, through mastery of her own sexuality, has a chance of stopping his plan for world domination.  It's a well-written, off the wall story that I had a ton of fun with.  4 stars.

The Dead Run by Adam Mansbach:  Yes, the Go The Fuck To Sleep guy.  I liked another book of his (Rage is Back) and gave The Dead Run a look.  I'm glad I did.  In it, Mansbach weaves together a noir/supernatural tale that weaves together a smuggling story with a cult worshiping an immortal Incan priest.  What really impressed me more than anything is that it seems Mansbach has a deep respect for ancient myths and legends regarding older cultures, and sprinkles that stuff liberally in the last two books of his I read (Rage is Back also had a mystic aspect to it, along with deep roots in B-boy culture.  Another day though...).  It was a great thrill ride and quite a compelling page-turner.  Adam Mansbach is more than a gimmick children's writer.  4 stars.

Debbie Doesn't Do It Anymore by Walter Mosley:  I have a Walter Mosley book that I haven't gotten around to reading, but when I saw the premise to this one, I had to pick it up.  Porn mega-star Debbie Dare retires after the death of her cheating, abusive, porn-producer husband dies and finds herself burdened with the enormous debt her husband incurred to various LA lowlifes.  In addition to figuring that out, she must reconcile with her family, his family, and the son she had when she was a teenager.  It's a great setup, but it never quite got past "simmer" for me.  I found myself engrossed enough to read it in a day and a half, but never quite got the payoff I was looking for.  Not bad, but not great either.  3 stars.

The Dragon Factory by Jonathan Maberry:  Book Two in his Joe Ledger series, of which I had read one and three and loved.  The Dragon Factory features Joe Ledger and his DMS team pursuing a group of geneticists descended from Josef Mengele, who have created genetically engineered mythological creatures (dragons, unicorns, etc) for hunters sport... and to create an unstoppable army of fearsome potential to rule the world after a virus clears out all who do not fit the Nazi ideal of the Master Race.  Yeah, I know, completely off the walls, batshit crazy.  But wow, was this a fun action movie of a read.  4 stars.

Freaky Deaky by Elmore Leonard:  My second Elmore Leonard book of 2015 led me to realize that I'm not as big a fan of his as I thought.  Which is a shame.  He follows two ex-hippie bombers as they try to extort a million dollars from someone they ran with back in the day, and the detective trying to stop them.  Fairly bland, very dated.  But I got through it in a day.  3 stars.

Ghosts of Manhattan by Douglas Brunt:  Well-written story about a guy working at Bear Stearns at the the onset of the 2008 financial crisis... well-written in the sense that the story was well told.  The protagonist, however, a very wealthy trader who is suddenly having a crisis of conscience with his lifestyle (oh, no, the hooker and blow life has too many hookers and too much blow... woe is me) rang completely hollow with me.  I found him to be completely unlikable and his "struggle" didn't seem to be much of one at all.  Liked the story, hated the storyteller.  3 stars.

The Martian by Andy Weir:  The first manned mission to Mars leaves a man stranded on the surface after a freak dust storm, and he has to "science the shit out of this" to survive the estimated 600+ days it will take to wait for rescue.  Brilliant and compelling, science-fiction close enough to realistic with an ease of access akin to Bill Nye The Science Guy.  Thoroughly engrossing, we see the hero, Mark Watney, use science and humor to keep himself alive, hopeful and sane, alone on a barren planet, presumed dead, and billions of miles from home.  Can't say enough good things about this.  Read it.  Now.  5 stars.

Monster by A. Lee Martinez:  I underestimated this one going in, thinking it was kind of kiddie-fluff.  Mistake.  This turned out to be a solid supernatural read about a color-changing monster hunter and his paper-man sidekick, protecting a normal human from the magical forces trying to get to her.  I'm not usually into fantasy stuff, but this was pretty fun to read.  4 stars.

Secondhand Souls by Christopher Moore: The latest by my current favorite author, Secondhand Souls is the sequel to A Dirty Job. The sequel finds a resurrected Charlie Asher and his friends Lily, Audrey,  retired detective Alphonse Rivera and Minty Fresh, once again battle the mythical Morrigan for the souls of the recently departed in San Francisco while their new master, Minty's cousin Lemon Fresh seeks to ascend (or descend) and become a new god of Death.  I'm a massive fan of Christopher Moore, and A Dirty Job was the first book of his that I read, so naturally Secondhand Souls was incredibly fun for me.  If you haven't read the earlier book, then very little of it will makes sense to you at first.  But I think you'll still enjoy it as Moore's engaging and riotously funny style gets you over that hump.  4 stars.

The Serpent of Venice by Christopher Moore:  This sequel to Fool puts Pocket the Jester in Italy as he finds himself in the middle of Shakespeare's Othello, and with old friends and a new pet sea serpent, seeks to stop a coup.  I wasn't as big a fan of Fool as I was of Christopher Moore's other stuff, but it wasn't bad.  It was original and funny.  This is kind of like the joke you love and makes you smile, but you've heard it before so you don't enjoy it quite so much.  3 stars.

There you go.  11 books, one year.  Not bad, but this year, let's see if I can do more...

Anxiety and the Lucky Bounce

My brother is a sleep tech, just like I am in my normal life.

In the sleep lab we get all sorts of people from all walks of life.  My brother, fifteen states away, stumbled onto an editor.  Not just any editor, though, one who has worked on NYT bestsellers.  And he convinced this person to take a look at my writing.

Happiness ensued, followed immediately by nervousness.  All I have to show is the first few chapters of the rough draft of my novel.  It's a first draft and therefore is supposed to suck, but what if it sucks sucks?  I've been working on this for the last four years, and as any writer knows, that first moment showing it to someone outside your circle, well, it makes your sphincter pucker.

This person is busy, and the feedback won't be coming for quite some time, but she has already been invaluable.  First she gave me some advice -- don't publish your first three novels.  Write them, shelve them, return to them after you've written some more and polished your craft.  It was great advice, I just wish I'd heard it ten years ago.  My first two attempts at novel writing are already published.  Might as well steer into the skid.

The Fab 5, available on Amazon

Second, she asked me to critically think about what went wrong on my first two efforts.  That was hard, admitting my own mistakes.  The Fab 5 was a good concept undone by a touch of arrogance.  I didn't listen to anybody who said anything negative about it.  I didn't hire an editor and thought I could do it myself.  I used the f-word A LOT. I didn't understand what it took to self-publish and was shocked about how much I had to do myself.  It was a rude awakening.

The Favorite, also available on Amazon

The Favorite took some of the lessons I learned and applied the knowledge.  I started with writing a stronger story, hired an editor, and tried my best to shamelessly self-promote.  The problem is I wasn't very good at the last part.  Also, sports novels are a tough sell to people who aren't sports fans.  But hey, there were less f's given.  (bad pun, sorry.)

 I'm nervous as to what this person will say about my current work.  It's like sending your four year-old to preschool for the first time.  But hey, the kid may prove to be a genius.

Or at least, worth selling.

Age of Fitness

I'm finding that the unfortunate reality that I was warned about has come to pass.  It's hard to stay fit in your 30's.

Time was, maybe 10 years ago, I'd gain 10 or 20 pounds in the winter, then lose it in the summer plus five.  Summers in New York were hot and there was stuff to do, like copious amounts of basketball.  Beer made me sweat, not fat. And I could party all night on Sunday and do Monday with three or four hours sleep.  Those were the days. Now, I have to watch what I eat and how much, I have to do crazy intense workouts, I have to force myself to sleep (well, force is a strong word).  If I drink, I'm useless for two or three days after.  And I find myself fixated on my weight more than I ever have been at any point of my life (264, if you're asking).  I'm concerned of a family history of diabetes and high blood pressure, and I just want to get older and not feel like shit.

As my birthday came and went, I took a look at some of my habits and am actively trying to change them.

Diet:  I love sugar.  It's awesome and tasty and makes everything better.  I'm good about most of my diet, eating greenery and fruits and quinoa and stuff.  If you had known me five years ago, you know that this is a big deal.  I'm doing my best to cut baked goods out (goodbye, donuts and cinnamon rolls and anything delicious from Starbucks) and anything with added sugar.  I'm trying to limit bread to one slice per day with breakfast.  I want to not be lazy and juice more (I have a head not kale in my fridge that I should probably get to before it walks out).

Exercise: It's difficult to split time between writing, working a full time and per diem job, and having any kind of life.  Working out is one more thing to do that eats up time.  I hate to say it like that, but a fact is a fact.  As we get older, it gets harder to divvy up the time.  I don't even have kids yet and it's this difficult.  Or maybe I'm just lazy sometimes.  If it's important, you'll find a way, if it's not you'll find an excuse.  Sporadically, my excuse is I don't have the time, or I need to sleep, or I'll do it tomorrow.  That's got to stop.  This is important.

Sleep: Considering I work in sleep medicine when I'm not writing, I should know the importance of good solid sleep.  I don't get nearly enough of it and for no good reason.  Like I said, I don't even have kids.  I have got to force myself into bed when I get home, and I've got to stay there for at least seven hours.

I have a beard going right now because I promised myself I'd keep it until I got myself below 250 labs.  Now that I'm putting this out into the ether, I'd better get to it.

*** Quick Hits ***

NBA season starts in a couple of weeks.  To all my friends who are basketball fans, allow me to put in this piece of information:

The Knicks will be AT LEAST the #6 seed in the East this season.

I could cite their much improved defense, or the personnel moves that have players tailored to the offensive system they run.  I could talk about how underrated Robin Lopez is.  But I won't.

I'll just say 6 or better.

***

Went to Barnes and Noble today and decided to teach myself more about my craft.  I've been writing fiction for about 20 years now, published for 10, but I stilt want to learn more, hone my skills more, and be a better writer.  I'm starting with industry magazines (for probably the least glamorous industry on the planet.  I mean seriously...), but I'll work myself up to online seminars, going over stuff in the library.  I love what I do, so it couldn't hurt...

Abroad (Vacation, Day Six: Heathrow Airport and Patcham, England, 8/9/2015)

I don't like flying.

I especially don't like flying in a middle seat, behind people who like to recline their seats.  That happened on the way to New York from Seattle, and the thought gave me anxiety.  I've done long flights before, Seattle to New York is a 6 hour jaunt.

Ah, but a Trans-Atlantic flight, that's a whole other ball of wax.

Imagine if you will, flying in a scenario where, though you didn't go first-class, you're still treated like something resembling a human being.  They feed you without bleeding your credit card dry.  They offer you booze. There's legroom.  And the movie is free and recent.

Imagine going from steerage to the top deck of the Titanic.  Only the turbulence didn't land you in the ocean.

So after a sleepless red-eye flight that had me watch Avengers 2 (loved it, no surprise there) and Furious 7 ((liked it, a little shocked at that), I landed at Heathrow Airport an hour a head of expected arrival.  And yes, my eyes were quite red.  What was 1 AM for me New York time was 6 AM GMT, and even though I work nights and am usually up late, a week in New York on vacation time changed all that, and my body clock was thrown for a loop.  Jetlag was saying some mean things to my mind and body.  It was a conversation that went like this:

It's 1:00 AM.  So I'm awake.  But the sun's out.  So... I'm asleep.  But I'm on vacation, so I'm awake.  But it's 1:00 AM.  So I'm asleep.  But it's only 10:00 PM in Seattle.   So I'm at work?  Wait, what?

Soldier on, I did.  I navigated my way through slow moving travelers and customs to get to the National Express bus that would deliver me an hour and a half away to Patcham, and to my girlfriend's dad's house.  We passed some beautiful countryside along the way.  I'm guessing.  I was in and out of sleep on that bus, unable to get comfortable and too tired to care.  I was definitely not aware of my surroundings and quite glad I walked off that bus with everything I brought on it.

It's 8:30 AM when I get off the bus at the Black Lion Pub, which is where my girlfriend's cousin was supposed to meet me... an hour from now.  I had no cell service in England, and with no Wi-Fi nearby I had no way of letting anyone know I got in early.  So what was a guy to do?  I asked a couple of people on the street which was I was supposed to go.  It turns out my destination was maybe three blocks away, easily traversable, even with luggage.  I knocked on the door, and her dad opens like my arrival at that minute was expected.

Rose had gotten there less than 12 hours before and was finishing up in the shower when I got there.  Or maybe just starting.  Jetlag was messing with my brain and the exact order of events is still fuzzy a month later.  Either way I wasn't supposed to be there just yet and she was surprised to see me. The house was buzzing with life at that hour of the morning; it seems that they boarded international students here.  When I arrived one was on the way out, a Belgian girl named Anise to whom I briefly was introduced as she left;  an Italian guy name Massimo who I didn't see again that whole week; and a Middle Eastern boy named Abdullah.  He was interesting, more on him later in the week.

I hope I'm getting the names right.  If I'm not, I'll edit and update.

Breakfast was either just served or ready to be.  I can't remember if I ate because jetlag and weeks-late posting.  But I do remember being told that people were coming over later for a party.  I was shown to the bedroom Rose and I would share that week (double beds, don't get any ideas) and Rose and I exchanged brief conversation about our respective vacations to this point.  She said she needed a showed and I laid back in bed just to get off my feet.  And check my eyelids for holes.

And then it was 2:00.

They'd let me sleep some because I'd been so obviously exhausted, but the party was about to start, people were due over in about half an hour and it was time to go, go, go!  After a moment where I called my mom on Skype (I promised her I would) and took down some information on some family she has in England, the first of the guests arrived.

The party filled up over the next hour and an assortment of cousins streamed in, some with young (and loud and energetic) children.  I remember asking for forgiveness in advance in case I started babbling.  Jetlag and all that.  The ones that stand out to me were Sophie, Danielle and Jade.  Sophie and Danielle both had children (massive, massive respect to them for that).  I remember the madcap introductions, followed by game playing in the backyard and a genuine good time.  I remember temporarily soothing a newborn with my stellar singing voice.  And I remember succumbing to fatigue and jetlag at about 10:00 PM.

So for a first day in a foreign country, it felt shockingly like home.  How does that happen?

Not These Fools Again, Part 2 (Vacation Day Five: Marine Park, Brooklyn, NYC and JFK airport: 8/8/2015)

I'm a little late for posting.  Sorry about that.  Where was I...?

Oh, right.

After a night of revelry and memories and drinks and bro-hugs, I was due to fly to London the next evening.  I was to meet my girlfriend's father and cousins who for two years, I have heard plenty about.  However, there was still a bit of unfinished business.

My friends were the inspiration for my first novel.  We're a tight-knit crew that can number anywhere between 4 and 12 depending on the day.  Well, this beautifully warm Brooklyn Saturday morning, there were to be four of us, Eric, Mikey, LeAnder and myself.  We used to gather together and hang out all the time.  The awkward times of childhood were spent with these guys,

I made my way across Brooklyn to LeAnder's place.  He still lived in the old neighborhood, and it was the closest I felt to actually being home since forever.  I hadn't spoken to him in quite some time, life getting in the way and all that, but it was like we never missed a beat. Thirty years of friendship will do that.  He caught me up on the happenings in the old neighborhood, who died, who moved and such.

Mikey drove up from North Carolina to join us.  He'd been there for the last few years, having grown weary of the crucible that is New York City.  Obviously, I can't blame him.  We had a few jokes, the three of us, and after a quick detour to Modell's to buy a basketball, we were off to Marine Park to meet up with Eric and do something we hadn't done in forever.  Playground ball, king of the court style.

Well, eventually.  We were all various degrees of rusty.  I hadn't played in a few weeks, and the rest of those guys hadn't played in much longer.  Eric was recovering from knee injuries.  LeAnder hadn't touched his ball shoes in the last two summers.  Mikey hadn't been on a basketball court in who knows how long.  We decided to warm up with a game of Utah.  Short explanation: one-on-all, score by fives, first to 100 wins.  We rarely ever made it to 100 when we played together back in the day because there were usually enough people on the sideline waiting to play, and we usually looked good enough on the court to make people think we'd play a good game.

Not the case this time.  This time, we all looked old.

It took me about 20 minutes to get my wind up, but the rest of my friends never quite got there.  LeAnder used to be the best all-around athlete of all of us, and he was gassed.  Eric used to be an And-1 quality street point guard, but his knee problems kept him from getting into second gear.  And Mikey, who used to be Mr. Indestructible, hurt his back before we even finished.  It used to be we'd display our skills bad get a game from the stragglers.  Today, we were just a bunch of old guys.  We laughed at that.

I called next for a game on another court for those of us that were able to play.  Mikey was incapacitated, but the Eric and Lee were good to go.  We picked up a fourth and we gave it a good go, but we lost 13-9.  And then we left.  On the way home we remarked about how we went from 6 hours a day on the court in the summer to one-and-done.

Our next stop in the nostalgia tour was our favorite Chinese restaurant, Cam Tak Express on Flatbush Avenue and Cortelyou Road.  It had long ago earned legendary status for being something kids like us could afford on a five-dollar bill, as well as for the Garlic Chicken.  They don't capitalize it on the menu, but dammit, it needs to be immortalized.  We went and we ordered Garlic Chicken and Pork Fried Rice.  It was greasy and crispy and spicy and bad for us, but dammit, we were all thrilled.

We lingered in the restaurant as long as we could but we couldn't escape the reality that this little reunion had to end soon.  I had a plane to catch, people had responsibilities.  Mikey was kind enough to give me a lift to my sister's and then to the airport, prolonging our chat, but all good things must come to an end.

All that was left was a  seven hour flight to London.

Not These Fools Again, Part 1 (Vacation, Day four part 2: Park Slope, Brooklyn, NYC)

Nyilah and I were running late.

We were supposed to meet up with my friend Kevin at a bar called Dram Shop.  I had put out a blast on Facebook, signaling people he and I both knew to join us there.  Unfortunately, due to the last minute nature of the activity, no one he and I used to work with were able to make it.  And because of my aging phone's declining battery, I was unable to keep up on Facebook with whomever could.  I knew Kev would be there though, it was his idea.  Kevin is one of the people that inspired my first novel, The Fab 5.  We had known each other a good 22 years, had worked together at various places.  He is one of the absolute funniest people I've ever met, and easily a highly ranked person on my bullet list.

The train from Coney Island had a few delays, adding 30 minutes to a 40 minute trip.  When we finally got to the bar, Kevin was nowhere to be found.  He elected to wait for us at another bar, but joined us fairly quickly once we arrived.  We picked out a booth and ordered our drinks.  Nyilah had a vodka tonic, and I only remember that because I had never been in a bar with my niece before.  So strange, having a drink with this girl I watched grow up.  Kev thought so too; it was evident when the two of them got into discussion on a topic of shared interest: music.  My niece went to school for music management, and Kev is a drummer in a band that's about to release their first studio album, as well as a producer.  I observed and intermittently participated in this conversation for the better part of an hour over drinks and appetizers.  By the way, if you're ever in Park Slope, Dram Shop has amazing wings and burgers.

After an hour we were joined by Eric, who's tangentially related to me.  He's the younger brother of my oldest nephew by my oldest sister, though neither of them has the same mother.  Through the family connection alone, he's on the bullet list, but even without that he's one of the most stand-up people I've known.  If you're in with him, everyone you know is in with him.  He's loud and brash and quick-witted, and VERY New York.  I say that as one of the highest compliments.  Eric was at my dad's funeral, which says a lot as to how close he is with my family.  Once he joined our table, it was a party.  After E got over the initial shock of Nyilah being 24 and able to drink, he treated her like part of the group, that is to say totally indifferent to the fact that she was a she.  Ah, the stories we told.

We talked a lot about playing football in the park, especially about two games in particular (more on that later).  We talked a lot about prank wars.  We talked a lot about being in my old apartment and playing cards or dominoes throughout the night.  And a lot about old girlfriends.  Periodically I would look up at my niece and realize that, holy crap, she shouldn't be hearing this, only to find her cracking up at the stories we told.  And we were loud enough that the wait staff couldn't help but laugh at our stories.

A giant shadow passed over our table and said "wassup, fellas" in a voice that was familiar, but deepened by age.  I looked up to see Vachel, a guy I literally watched grow up.  His sister went to Erasmus Hall High School with my brother, and we became friends through that, even though he was several years younger than me.  He's always been a big kid, built like an offensive lineman.  We hadn't spoken in quite some time as life gets in the way occasionally, but he had gotten married a few years back and had his first child late last year.  Both situations agreed with him.

When he got to our table the stories only got raunchier.  We again referenced football.  Two games in particular -- the game where I got hurt (where, as Kevin put it, the group tried to carry my big ass to the hospital) and the legendary "Ninja Please" game, where after some trash talking by a friend in absentia, my normally mild-mannered self responded with a high-pitched "What?! Ninja Please!"

I didn't say "ninja."

We drank for a few hours, remembering our childhoods and the time we spent together in those formative years.  We reflected on the people who couldn't make it out that night, and definitely agreed we needed to make an effort to get together more frequently.  However, responsibility crept up on my friends as time went on and while they didn't want to leave, they weren't on vacation.  We got outside and puttered around a bit before Vachel had to get back to his family, Kevin had work to do and Eric had to return the car he borrowed.  We agreed to barbecue at Vachel's place when I came back to town in a week.  After all, I had a plane to catch the next day.

It Went Straight. Up. (Vacation, Day four part 1: Coney Island, Brooklyn, NYC)

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.

Retrospective on The Fab 5

I have a confession to make.

Over the last three or four years I've been distancing myself from my first novel, The Fab 5.  I had what I thought was a good reason.  My grandmother, 84 years old at the time, read it.

The Fab 5.  Available on Amazon and B&N.

I never intended for her to read it.  I didn't write it for her.  And it never occurred to me for even a half a second that she would.  It's a street-flavored basketball story following five lifelong friends from Flatbush.  So when I wrote about some of the realities of living in a neighborhood not too dissimilar from the one in which I grew up, there was a heavy dose of, shall we say, colorful language.

                         Castillo’s face went purple, and I swear I saw steam come out of his ears. “Yo,

                   f*** you, you b****-a** monkey n****!”

                          Shiver stood up straight, shocked by the comment. He got right in between

                   Jay and Castillo, getting nearly nose-to-nose with him. “What did you say?”

                   Shiver said, as angry as I had ever seen him.

                          Jay forced his way back in between Shiver and Castillo, and forced them both

                    back. He held Shiver back, and turned to face the Puerto Rican kid. “F*** it,” he

                    said with a heavy sigh. “Get your squad together, Miguel.” Shiver stopped resisting,

                    and joined the four of us in a shocked look at Jay. “If it’s gonna shut his little

                    punk a** up, then fine, let’s beat him again.”

                         Castillo smiled as he walked past Jay. “Don’t go nowhere,” he said as he

                   walked toward the other side of the park. As he walked past Shiver, he said under

                   his breath, “B**** n****.”

And so on.  That is from page 18.  While some people were able to relate to and even appreciate the authenticity of the language -- if you grew up in a rougher neighborhood in New York, I suppose you would too -- I had some friends tell me they created the first literary drinking game in history for every time I swore in that book.  

Up until that point, the only book my grandmother had ever read was the Bible.  Sure, she read newspapers and magazines and such, but The Bible was all she read that came in a hardcover or paperback.  For the record, she still has both.  She had never read a novel.  

Until her youngest grandson gave her a signed copy of The Fab 5.

So several weeks later, when I did my good grandson thing and visited her after work, she looked at me sternly through her glasses like she always did and said in a thick Jamaican accent, "I read your book, Franklyn."  And suddenly every cuss word I wrote, every questionable situation I conceived flooded my head.  I mean, I referred to a certain female character in the five most unflattering ways you could in one line.  (I guess the fact that no word in that line was more than five letters can be considered impressive, if you squint one eye.)

My mouth hit the ground.   "You read it?!  Jeez, Mama, you weren't actually supposed to read the thing!"  I composed myself and cleared my throat.  "So what'd you think?"

She turned her attention to the word search puzzle she was doing and let the question hang for a while.  "I liked it," she said, I'm sure to be polite.  "Too many bad words though."

And just like that, my enthusiasm for promoting my first novel kind of tanked.  I was embarrassed that my grandmother read it.  There's no way there's a market for this thing, I thought.  And that was that.

Fast-forward to 2014.  I'm scrolling through Netflix and stumble across a documentary by Bobbito Garcia called Doin' It In the Park, which followed the streetball scene in the five boroughs, and suddenly I realize exactly how wrong I was.  Bobbito's respect for the sport that I played and loved was oozing from the film, and I saw elements of my book -- the gamesmanship, the competition, the trash-talking, the court culture and such-- played out in reality and motion.

I realized then that The Fab 5 did have value, and did have a market.  Was it perfect?  Not by any means. It's not even my best work; my second novel is leaps and bounds better, and all writers criticize their previous projects.  But it was an accurate depiction of what my world was like at 16, 17, and 18.  You had the park.  You had your crew.  You had a ball.

I may be more actively promoting my current novel, The Favorite, but my earlier work is (in my very humble and obviously biased opinion) very much worth the read.

And keep a bottle of Jack nearby in case you want to play the drinking game.

Stay-cation Daze

I don't usually take vacations.

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.

I'm back.

"It's... it's a cookbook!"

Ah, the Fourth of July.

Independence Day.  A where we celebrate our love for our country, where we celebrate the signing of the Declaration of Independence.  It is a day that is marked by time-honored celebration, where we indulge our love for the things that are so incredibly American.  Such as:

Recreational explosives.

Meat.

Apple pie.

Baseball.

And Twilight Zone Marathons.

Since I was a kid, I had a fascination for reruns of The Twilight Zone. Summer nights routinely had me staying up late to watch the episodes at 2 and 3 in the morning on WPIX.  That was back before the CW ran it, back before the WB ran it.  I could watch that show anytime, anywhere.  To date there isn't an episode of the original 1956 series that I haven't seen at least once.

Imagine my glee when, at 10 years old, WPIX announced the first 12-hour Twilight Zone marathon.  It's rare on a summer day when a kid wants to stay inside, especially in a New York City summer with no air conditioning.  But on that first 4th of July marathon, I wasn't going anywhere.  Up at 7 to watch "Time Enough at Last," done at 7 with "Monsters Are Due On Maple Street."  I became familiar with old actors unburdened from classic roles, like Burgess Meredith not playing Mick from Rocky, or William Shatner as someone other than James T. Kirk.  Jack Klugman was not Oscar Madison (The Odd Couple), and he was alongside Jonathan Winters.

Mostly though, the draw for me was the storytelling.  A lot of my early writing hinged heavily on slightly supernatural plots, science fiction and twist endings, and that is all stuff I attribute to watching this genius show.  It's creator, Rod Serling, was one of the master storytellers of his day.  His writing credit appears on such classic episodes as "I Shot An Arrow Into The Air," and his iconic deadpan delivery of the shows monologues are hallmarks of that show.  A lot of that found its way into my writing as a teenager and some still filters through today.

As a matter of fact, the title of this post, if you are uninitiated, is one of the series most quoted lines, from the episode "To Serve Man."

So, I leave you today, to visit a dimension not of sight or sound, but of mind. A dimension where the only limits we know are the limits of imagination.  A dimension called...

Summer in the City

It's no secret: I'm a big fan of summer.  All my favorite things are summer things.  All my favorite activities are summer activities.  And not just any summer, either.  City summer, the kind I haven't been a part of in half a decade.  Once the weather gets warm, everything about life I find worthwhile starts to happen.

Back home, summer meant kids.  After June 22, schools were out and all the kids in the city ran rampant around town.  To some that means playing in creeks and woods and what have you.  To me, it was no curfew, football in the streets (I had a mean arm once) until you couldn't see the ball.  It was basketball from noon 'til dusk, or later if the court was near a streetlamp.  It meant movie hopping from one summer flick to another, sneaking around ushers and cameras to turn a matinee ticket into an all-day film festival.

It meant the Mister Softer Ice Cream trucks, whose distinct jingle could be heard from blocks away like an approaching T-Rex.  On the hottest of those summer days, that jingle meant relief was coming and sprinkles were free.  It meant the Spanish dude selling Icees on the corner of Church and Flatbush Avenues, and how with a little hustle and the guts to stand the heat, you could turn a 20-pound block of ice and some syrups into shaved ice treats, happy kids, and money.

It meant baseball, and who didn't love baseball? It was the middle of the season and the pennant races were either really starting to get interesting, or really getting out of hand (I'm a Yankee fan, guess which end I usually saw?), and we waited in anticipation of the Home Run Derby.  It meant work for some, play for others.

As adolescence set in, summer meant exposed midriffs and cut-off shorts.  It meant teased hair and bikinis.  It meant sundresses.  It meant sweat making every inch of fabric, no matter how thin, stick strategically to bronzed skin.  It meant girls in their late teens and early 20's knowing full well they had me and my hormones in the palms of their hands.  As an adult summer meant late nights chasing women and thrills, fueled by drink and dance.  It meant that even if the temperature cooled slightly, the streets were just as hot as they were in the daytime.  It meant watching the transformation as women traded in their business wear for outfits that were less confining to their bodies and attitudes.

It meant thunderstorms.  It meant that just before one would hit, the air would be heavy with a certain energy, thick with humidity and heavy with expectation.  When it was over, the air was cool and light and if you were outside,  you were happily drenched and enjoyed a powerful lightshow full of sound and fury.

It meant Coney Island and the rides that, even though you had been on them a million times, you still once in a while ponied up that $5 for one more go at the Cyclone or the Zipper. 

It meant not having a backyard pool, but having a fire hydrant and a hollowed out tin can.  It meant skelly in the streets, and if you're from Brooklyn or the Bronx and I have to explain that to you, you need to put the video games down, son, and get out more.  (For my Canadian friends, think curling, only with bottlecaps on asphalt.)

Summertime was eight short weeks of wide open possibility, that always seemed to last forever until it was almost over.  And even though as a working man I never had summers off, there's still a conditioned mind-shift that you anticipate in late May, starts in earnest late June, winds down around Labor Day and ends around the first day of school.

I still love Summer.  Let the games begin.

Including The Sun/The Dream and The Reality

First of all, yes, this is the same blog.

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. 

Discipline

It kind of came to me as I stepped out of the shower and stepped onto my bathroom scale.

That used to be a ritual I had before I went anywhere. My day would begin (or end, considering I work nights) with me getting home from the gym, showering, and taking a step on the scale, being proud that a workout ended in a slowly but surely shrinking number.  This ghost of my routine kicked in at the end of its cycle and I stepped on the scale without doing all the previous stuff, and the number I saw reminded me of it.

I haven't been to the gym -- not consistently, anyway -- in quite a while.

People are slaves to routine, followers of habit.  They do what they do with repetition, as the repetition is comfortable.  It's why bad habits are so hard to break; they become hardwired into our daily lives until our bodies and minds crave it.  Creative types -- artists and writers for instance -- are even more susceptible to habits, both good and bad, as they drive how and what we create.  I thought about that as well as I dried off and sucked in my gut as I looked in the mirror.  I've lost all my good habits.

I haven't written -- not consistently, anyway -- in quite a while.

We all have our reasons for this, of course, and some of them are even valid.  Good habits, for instance, are invariably the ones that are more difficult and more of an investment in time, and sometimes changing life situations -- good and/or bad -- make it tough to keep good habits.  Or sometimes we get lazy, as bad habits are easier, more instantly gratifying, and creep in when we least expect it.  Either way, whatever the reasons or excuses, the problem comes down to one thing: discipline.

My life situation has changed a bit.  I find myself less willing to engage in the high-energy, cardio-intensive routine of early-morning basketball two to three days a week, and more willing to spend that time in bed.  I end up talking myself out of my workouts as I drag my feet to get to the gym.  I'm completely unwilling to go for a run in the midst of the recent (and absolutely, insanely bitter) cold snap.  I find myself writing less, and I give myself reasons like "Gotta promote the novel," or "Don't have time right now.". Or, if I'm being truthful, the reasons are "I don't feel like it," or "I'm not in the headspace to produce anything good."

Damn that.  No more excuses.  Life is passing us by as we fill the days with stuff we should have done and reasons why we didn't do them.  Our bad habits are killing us.  My bad habits are killing me.  Not with any disease or anything, but with malaise and missed opportunity.  The game is not called because of cold.  We -- I -- just have to find the find the discipline, to create the good habits, that restores the natural order of things.

And with that, I reveal the number I saw. 271.

I say this a lot, but now I'm saying it publicly over the internet, which will hold me accountable.  I will reduce that number by 30 in the coming months.  It's going to take planning, hard work, and discipline.

The other thing, the writing?  Well, something must be done about that too.  At the beginning of the year, I set forth an unreachable goal: to write a million words of fiction.  I know the goal is insanely difficult, but I set it with the idea that if I try and don't make it, I'll stilt have done an unbelievable amount of work.  So far, my word count isn't all that impressive.  I'm going to take a NaNoWriMo-style approach and try to generate 1200 words a day of fiction.  Yeah, I'll be well short of my million-word mandate, but the point wasn't a million words, the point was forging the discipline to transition into a writing career.

And I trust the internet to hold me accountable.

Laughably shameless

First of all, I'd like to very belatedly wish you all a happy new year.  I've been so busy the last couple of weeks that I haven't had a spare moment to write in this blog.  For those of you who don't know, my new novel, The Favorite recently became available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble and I've been shamelessly plugging it for all who can see and hear.  Seriously.  Shamelessly.  It's embarrassing.

I mean, really, how many of my friends didn't know this was coming?  I've only been talking about my novel, The Favorite, self-published with the help of iUniverse, Inc. for six, seven months now?  You had to believe that at some point, I would release my novel, The Favorite, available wherever books are sold online so I could finally stop talking about it. 

Anyway, the thing I've learned about this whole experience: I'm really bad at advertising.

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 Things To Do.

We've all been there before, when we're faced with that daunting difficult, sometimes unpleasant task that has to be done.  It's staring you in the face and waiting to be tackled.  The sheer enormity of the thing is enough to keep you busy for an entire weekend, or leave you sore for a couple of days.

And then you just remembered that load of laundry that needed to be done, because there's no way you can do this without your favorite green boxers.

So you do six loads of laundry, your green boxers are among the last to be cleaned and dried.  You take a shower so that you can be clean when you change into your boxers and when you're done your bathroom routine, your task is still there, waiting for you, demanding its due.

Oh crud, is that the time?  I gotta get to the Post Office before it closes!

You hop in your car, take the freeway the one exit to the Post Office, wait in line for twenty minutes to get to the counter and ask for a book of stamps.  Because, you know, the stamp dispenser won't take your debit card.  You get your stamps, drive back the way you came, park your car and get ready to do your task.  You roll up your sleeves and as you're about to jump in, you realize that you forgot to stop at Walmart to get Peanut Butter M &M's.  It's essential; not having Peanut Butter M & M's damns this task to failure, and the notion that you were about to get started without them is sheer lunacy in and of itself.

So you get in your car, drive to Walmart and grab a bag of Peanut Butter M &M's, and while you're at it, some tortilla chips and salsa.  You stop at the electronics section and stare mindlessly at the Hi-def TV's that are infinitely better than the brand new one you got last Friday.  You drag yourself away from the continually running loop of Finding Nemo and head toward the register, picking up a box of Raisin Bran on the way.

You pull into your driveway, get inside and put your stuff away, leaving out the delectable sweets you went out specifically to purchase.  As you nosh on the smooth peanut butter and chocolate candy and prepare to finally begin that arduous task, your cell phone rings.  It's your buddy, dying to recount the details of the date he went on with that buxom, triple-jointed hot-dog vendor girl he met while drunk three Saturdays ago.  You listen intently, absorbing every sordid detail and making the appropriate insensitive commentary about his new object of affection, and congratulating him on meeting the future mother of his children.

You hang up and no sooner do you head toward the vicinity of this daunting task, your phone rings again.  It's your girlfriend, offering an evening of... well you don't know what because you're in the car again before she has a chance to finish.  And as you drive to your uncertain fate, you debate whether or not you tell this story to the people this task would have mattered to.

Or.

Do you say "I'm sorry I haven't written in my blog lately. I've been busy.   I promise, I'll make time to write in it more. "

Future Past

I've been asked a few very interesting time-travel questions lately.

The first one I was asked was, given the choice, would I rather (a) go back to 1999 and be 21 again, with full possession of the knowledge and experience I've acquired in the intervening years or (b) be 21 now in this day and age.

Tough question.

When I was 21, I thought I was mature for my age.  In reality, not so much.  I worked full-time and I lived at home, but my education had stalled and I partied way, way too much.  I had a ton of tools to make adulthood so much easier and I squandered most of them.  I had a great, great time and I don't regret any of it, but I could have made my life so much easier. That knowledge is irreplaceable, the experience is completely invaluable.

But being 21 now would be fun.

Being 21 now would mean that I would be more proficient in the technology of today, that many adults sometimes struggle with.  I would be able to enjoy the music of today the way young people do, instead of being this old and crotchety guy who rails on and on about how the music today is silly.  I would be able to have access to an amazing group of people, a generation or two behind me, who have grown up in the world that I have inherited and such.

I think I'd rather go back.

Way back in 1999, I did and saw some amazing things.  They may not have been extraordinary, but they were definitely life defining.   It would be amazing to see all the people I had in my life back then, meet some of them again for the first time.  And going back would allow me to correct the mistakes I made, like being smarter about money and school, or inventing Facebook.  It would be great to go back armed with the knowledge of who and what would be a waste of my time.  I wonder if I'm alone in this thought.

The second question was What would your 17 year-old self think of you now?

I'd like to think that me from half a lifetime ago would be amazed at what he would become.  But I'm probably wrong; my 17 year-old self had lots of ideas that were simply different from the way the world works.  I expected to be successful at 17, not quite realizing the hard work that goes with it.  I thought I'd be working for the New York Daily News, not even close to realizing that the print newspaper industry was going to be circling the drain at this point.  At 17, I expected to be married by 34.  All I can say to that is "oops, sorry dude."

Anyway, I ask these questions of all of you.  Please, sound off in the comments section. Would you choose to be (legal drinking age) now for the first time or back when you originally were knowing what you know now?  And what would the self that's half your age think of you now?

Benediction (short post)

Okay, so it's the closing hours of... well everything.  The Mayans, who couldn't predict their end at the hands of the Conquistadors, foretold that the world will end sometime in the next 24 hours.  Of course, this is nonsense, but let's assume for a second that they're right, and all my efforts to save the world (basically drinking and partying) fail.  I'm not worried about how it'll happen, or what it'll be like.  I'm worried about dying and not getting to say what I have to say.  The most important thing I'll ever say, ever again.

I love you.

And you.  You too, over there in the back.  All of you.  Even you, right there.  All the family, the friends I've had, the loves, the haters, the critics and the supporters.  I love each and every last one of you.  More than any of you can possibly realize.  The experience of knowing you, of being in the presence of your words and emotions, good and bad, has shaped me into who I am and who I've tried to be.  Even if I haven't spoken to you in years, or we just talked yesterday.

I'm going to do everything I can to save us (read: party and drink).  In the event I'm not successful, you should know this.  And if I am successful...

Th world as we know it should end.  The hatred should be replaced with love.  The apathy should be exchanged for compassion.  Division should be countered by unity.  There's more that we have in common than we have different.  Remember that.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a world to save.

Commercialized Christmas Values

The other night while I was getting a patient ready for bed, she flipped the channel on the TV to one of those Hallmark Movie Channel Christmas flicks.  You know the ones, the overly sappy love story with the slightly religious feel-good message about change, growth and the meaning of the holiday and life in general.  Secretly, I kinda like 'em.  Laugh if you want, just keep in mind that I'm likely bigger than you.

Anyway, in this movie there's this horrible shrew of a woman who rails against the commercialization of Christmas, saying how much better she is and her family is than that, how they spend Christmas on missions in Mexico or Botswana, or some other poor nation doing good deeds, and how dare this school have her daughter join a choir and sing songs.  Christmas is about the love of Christ, she said.  It was a particularly annoying diatribe that did what it was probably supposed to do.

While watching this, the brain/mouth filter switches off and I launch into my own speech about the commercialization of Christmas.  The fact is, people like stuff. Especially in wrapping paper.  There's the act of unwrapping stuff which makes people feel good and makes people feel like the person that went through all the trouble of putting it together really cared.  Christmas is supposed to be about love, about togetherness, about letting the people around you know how invaluable they are to you, regardless of your religious affiliation.  That is why we give the gifts, why we sing the songs and roast the chestnuts and drink the eggnog.  Well, that and because eggnog is awesome.

I know that the original intent is to celebrate the birth of Christ, but when did they have pine trees in the desert?  I think we should embrace the spirit of what Christmas has become, where we open stuff in pretty paper from people who took the time and care and effort to wrap it.  Where we eat terrible fruitcake, and gingerbread cookies because they make us feel good and connected to the people around us.  Where we stuff our faces and tell good stories with family and friends that we may or may not see for another year  Where for one day, and by extension the six week stretch that precedes it, we're not so focused on our differences, but our commonalities.

And then, as I finished the set-up on my patient, I realized I said this out loud.  She looks at me and smiles, and says "You should write that down."

Embrace your family.  Your friends.  Have a drink.  Smile, laugh and sing songs.  Enjoy shredding that wrapping paper.  It is one of the few pure joys we have.  Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and Happy Festivus to us all!