What We Leave Behind

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

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

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

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

Will people remember that I wrote?

Will people remember that I was close with my family?

Will people remember me as someone who tried?

Will people remember me at all?

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

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

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

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

Safe travels.

Other Than Politics...

In light of the season, I scoured some old writing and found this interesting bit.  Originally Posted December 1, 2009.


A friend posted that she wanted to know what true love is. 

It's a question I've often asked myself, and shied away from very scary answers. I came up with clever commentary ("If I can love you like i love family and still want to sleep with you") and funny analogies ("If I can love a woman the way I love the Yankees..."), even bad movie quotes (True love is the soul recognizing its counterpoint in another) but the truth is, I never really thought about it. Until, that is, another friend reminded me of the origin of love.

Yourself.

The love you feel when you look in the mirror should be absolute, despite the zits and the morning breath, the crusty eyes and the five pounds that won't go away. One should look at oneself in the mirror and smile, for you've already seen your best ally, the person who should be looking out for you the most in the world. You should be your own reset button, and when the world seems jacked beyond belief, you should look to you to re-center. You are the star of your own single camera show. Just please, stop yourself before tweaking your own nipples.

Now once you can identify that love within yourself, if you can recognize the love of self within someone else, and still have space to love that person, and that person still has space to love you, THAT is true love.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 2 -- Your Earliest

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

#2: My Earliest Memory

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

Back in the Mud (Vacation, day one: Brooklyn NYC)

So I'm on vacation.

I had been looking forward to it for the last little while.  I had been working my butt off for the last month specifically so I could do this.  I haven't had a proper vacation in far too long.  My girlfriend decided earlier this year that she wanted to go to Morocco.

I decided to go home to New York.

And while she's having an absolute ball in Morocco, experiencing the people and the culture up close and personal, I'm re-immersing myself in my hometown.

And she and I will meet up in London and exchange vacation stories.

Here's how my day one went.

After working all night on Sunday and traveling all day and night Monday, I arrived at JFK Airport on Tuesday morning, having spent six hours cramped in a middle seat behind the guy who wanted to explore the range of his seat back, next to a mid-20s woman who thought my arm made a great pillow, and next to a guy who would not stop man-spreading.  I hate flying while tall. 

I got to my sister's home, which serves as home base for this week, and hung out with my niece who has most of the week off from work.  We went for a run.

And periodically during the day, I slept.  Like a rock. A week of saying "no sleep til Brooklyn," and when I get there, I sleep.  Mission accomplished.

Today, while my girlfriend was camel riding in the desert, I did a whole lot of not much.  And I loved every relaxing second of it.  This is the first time I've been back home without an agenda: no sick parent to see, no funeral to attend, no birthday celebration, no guided touring.  This part of my vacation is about reconnecting with family and old friends.

Don't get me wrong, I have a plan in place to hit Coney Island (I haven't seen it since the redo), catch a Yankee game while the Red Sox are in town, get drunk with various combinations of friends, and even hit the playground basketball scene I haven't been around in seven years.  But for today, I slept.  It'll make for a boring story when I see my lady in London (more on that in a later post), but there's something to be said about being home and sleeping.

Can't wait for tomorrow!

It Takes A Strong Woman To Raise A Neighborhood

Last night, I had a chat with a patient, like I always do.

Every night I chat with my patients in an effort to keep them calm, comfortable and focused on something other than the time it takes to put so many wires on them for a sleep study.  Usually, I'll talk about them: where they're from, what they do, their family and so on.  Sometimes, I talk about myself: the move from New York to Bellingham, being a Yankee fan in Mariners country, that I'm a writer, or how I got into sleep disorder treatment.

Last night, I talked for half an hour about my family, specifically my grandmother.

My grandmother at her 88th birthday.  She hasn't changed.

My grandmother is 95 years young.  If you've ever met her, young is absolutely the right way to say it.  When we were  kids, she lived with us.  My mom did the single mother thing and while that was an impressive and Herculean undertaking that I can't be grateful enough for, it's nearly impossible to do with seven children without some form of co-parenting.  My grandmother has been directly involved in our growth and raising since well before I was born.  She served as secret-keeper, disciplinarian, security guard, chef.  She told stories, offered guidance, encouraged moral values.  She got us out of bed (usually against our will) and made sure we got to school on time.  She helped guide my six older siblings and me to a strong work ethic and a sense of right and wrong.  And if the story stopped there, I'm sure all of you would be singing her praises.

What if I told you that she didn't stop there?

Starting from my earliest memories in the mid 1980's, my grandmother ran something of an impromptu day-care form our apartment. Flatbush was a working-class, Caribbean immigrant neighborhood back then.  New parents who simply had to return to work to make ends meet would drop children off at our apartment in the morning and come get them after work.  These children were young, some just a few weeks old, and my grandmother would care for them as she cared for us.  They would be in our apartment every day from the time they were little until their first day of school, with my grandmother charging a generously small fee ($50 a week, if I remember correctly).  And after their first day of school, those children would often end up in our apartment until their parents got home from work.

Now, no story is completely happy.  While most of those kids would go on to be normal, functioning members of society, some of them fell victim to the trappings of a bad neighborhood.  Some of them got involved with bad people who did messed-up things.  But they would see my grandmother in the street and they would stand up straight, smile a smile they likely forgot how, and politely say "Good morning, Mama, how are you today?" like they were the kids she remembered them as.  Respect, from people you wouldn't have expected it from.

My grandmother is 95 years young and thankfully still going strong.  While she can't lift children the way she used to and she can't chase around toddlers the way she'd want to, she still loves children.  I think they keep her young.  She's been telling me since my mid-20's that she's waiting around for me to have kids, that she wants to see my kids.  I tell her the same thing every time.

"Keep waiting.  I like having you here."

One Year Later

I had every intention of posting last week.

I was going to post a review of a novel a friend of mine wrote.  I was going to post what this actually is: musings about the anniversary of my Dad's death.  But I couldn't do it.  My Dad's death in particular, I couldn't write about last week.  It's so much deeper than just his passing.

That event kicked in motion what's been the most interesting year of my life.

My dad died and I had to take out a loan on the car I had just paid off.  I needed the money for a last minute flight to , New York.  I used the remainder to publish The Favorite.  I started learning valuable skills which I can and will use throughout my writing career (marketing skills, speaking skills, etc.). And ultimately, I fulfilled a dream my dad had for me.

I remember a car ride when I was in my early teens with my dad and my brother.  I forget what started it, but I do remember, vividly, him talking about picking something and being good at it.  "Even if it's a bank robber," he said, "find something you love and keep doing it.". I'll be honest, when he said those words, even for years after, I can't say I was applying them on purpose.  They didn't inspire me to do what I wanted to.  Lately though, I've been thinking about him, a lot.  I suppose it's natural, his passing is still relatively fresh.  And I don't know why, but those words in particular, from a random day in New York more than 20 years ago bubbled up to the surface.

I'm doing what I love.  And I won't stop.

My Dad's last great gift to me was the means to accomplish a dream, and the means to take a very wild ride.

"Protect Everyone Smaller Than You"

Robin Williams passed away yesterday at 63 from an apparent suicide.

I was initially not going to comment on this, to write about it, because I didn't want to be seen as jumping on the bandwagon.  How silly of me.  Expression of grief and loss as a community and a species is not bandwagon jumping.

It goes without saying I was, and remain, a huge fan of Robin Williams' work.  He was a great comic, a great comedian, and an even better character actor.  I watched reruns of Mork & Mindy as a kid.  It was very far ahead of its time.  He's remembered for the roles that made us feel good (Mrs. Doubtfire, Good Morning Vietnam, Dead Poets' Society, Good Will Hunting), but there are two of his movies in particular that are appointment viewing.

Hook was amazing in updating the Peter Pan story, to the point where in my mind, Peter Pan and Robin Williams are one and the same.  It's the kind of casting that is a complete no-brainer, and left an indelible mark on my life.  I have made an effort, actually, to live my life according to one line he delivers toward the end of the movie, where he tells the Lost Boys to "protect everyone smaller than you."  (The smallest Lost Boy then asks him "Who do I protect?" and he says "Neverbugs.  Little ones.")

And then there's the creepy store attendant he plays ingeniously in One Hour Photo.  If you haven't seen it, I won't ruin it for you.

Much will be made about the demons he faced, about depression as mental illness, and about suicide.  Perhaps that's something to write about later.  But today we light a candle for one of the best our species had to offer.  And wherever he is now, we can be sure he's entertaining the hell out of them.

Rest in Peace, Mr. Williams.  The world has lost an irreplaceable spark of madness.

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...

Dreams Do Come True!

This past weekend I had the wonderful pleasure of doing a book signing at Page 2 Books in Burien, WA, an event that coincided with their official grand opening.

First off, let me say the store is gorgeous.  Well laid out, tons of natural light, hardwood floors (a deep seated and well programmed favorite from my days in NYC), it had a combination of new book smell and pine.  The owners, Jenny Cole and Bill Virgin, were both friendly and easy to talk to, and their love of books and of their store simply flowed off them.  Bill chatted me up several times over the three hours I was there, about writing, about boxing, about New York, and I enjoyed the conversation.  The saleswoman on the floor, Cathy, also took time out of her break to chat me up, and plied the conversation with homemade cookies (yeah, I gained three pounds).

I chatted up several of the adventurous and curious customers Bill and Jenny directed my way (sidebar: thanks for that.  I have a hard time standing up and saying "over here!").  A woman named Elizabeth talked to me for at least half an hour, about boxing, about her friends from Mexico, about some of her own adventures.  I found myself quite enjoying it!

I spoke with a couple who lived in Queens for a year.  I spoke with a young man who wanted to train to box.  And I spoke to a guy who worked at a nearby model train shop (which, sadly, I was unable to find after the event was over.  Pity. That would have been interesting...).  All in all I had a blast!

Back to the title of this post, that signing was the culmination of years and years of dreaming and hard work.  When I was in my early 20's and living in New York (and for quite some time after) I would wander into the nearest bookstore, head over to the part of the fiction rack where my book would be and stare at that spot for most of my lunch break.  Three years ago, with the help of a good friend, I bought a button-down shirt, specifically for the purpose of wearing it to my first book signing (Okay, yeah, I'm a little nuts.  So sue me.) Similarly, I get the impression that Bill and Jenny's love of books, of language and literature, drove them to purchase their store.

To them I just want to say, thank you for being part of my dream, and for allowing me into yours.