Lessons From My 23 Year Old Self

I recently discovered something I wrote exactly 6 years ago yesterday. It's reminded me of more than a few things, and along with what I recently write, makes me believe that the time is now. For everything...

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I am not sure where this is heading. Please forgive the wandering, please forget the rest. I want to introduce you all to a guy that I am only recently beginning to meet. Myself.

I am a very confused man. Sure, I know which direction cars come from, know that the hot water is on the left, heck I even how to keep score in tennis. But that stuff comes easy to me.

I remember all the lessons I learned. They were taught by magical and majestic people, like mom, dad, and Mr. Rogers. Big Bird. Sometimes the even came from Easy Reader or Gary Gnews. I remember that no gnews is good gnews without Gary Gnews. Like I said, those lesson were easy.

One day I woke up and everything was differernt. My friends no longer found friday night basketball sessions exciting. Math had letters in it. Girls were fun to be around. I could touch the ground when I was on a swingset.

That last one hurt the most. All of a sudden one day, out of the blue, there it was right beneath me. The ground. everyone told me it had alwasy been there. But it never seemed so close. How little did I know.

You know I got my first true lesson in life that day. As you get older you can't let your feet drag. You gotta keep them moving. If you ever wanna go anywhere in life that's the way it has to be. Life moves itself, but it won't move you. Life will make you grow taller, it'll make you gain weight, but it won't push you onward.

And life moved on, and I moved on, and one day baseball wasn't fun anymore. Like puberty it didn't happen all at once, just a little at a time. There is nothing more frightening to a 10 year old then pitching with the bases loaded in the bottom of the 6th. And nothing scars worse than being sweared at by the other teams parents. Pressure becomes an old friend to us as we grow older, but I think it first introduced itself to me 60 feet 6 inches from being a loser.

I look back at myself and think that A 10 year old is a fascinating thing. It's too young for the US Senate, too young for NBA ball, and too young to control its own destiny. Unfortunately, It is not too young to know right from wrong and thus we suffer another lesson in life. A 10 year old on the mound is cursed for no other reason but the difference in our uniform. No, it is not an introduction to racism, sexism, or homophobia. But then again, how different is it? Any way you look at it, you are being judged for something that is beyond your control and should not define you. And you must learn to accept that. Pretty heavy for someone who still hasn't seen an R rated movie, huh?

So life continues and you find yourself at a party, unsupervised, for the first time. A 13 year olds hormones can be erratic. Similar to how Saddam Hussein behaved in some ways. No matter how irrational or ill timed, no matter how costly or how destructive, hormones go on the offensive. And thus we have no defense in this war. It is all first strike. So when someone suggests Spin the Bottle its a race to chug the rest of the Jolt and position yourself strategically.

Bottles turn and turn and sometimes they even land on you. One day one of the people beside you might be the captain of the cheerleaders or the class president...or maybe it'll land on a person who will always be remembered for chewing on crayons. It is the luck of the draw and you begin to realize that life is often nothing more than chance.

And in those moments comes an introduction to lust. Lust is the next lesson, not love. No matter how you slice it, the people that spoke of love in the 8th grade are the people who became parents in th 10th grade. Some would toss the word about frivolously, as if is was just marker on a craftpaper valentine. The word love is a weapon wielded by teenagers with a limited arsenal. And yet, its funny how much damage one very small pistol can make.

As this game of lust progressed, some found themselves in closets, etc. Lust is about proving yourself. Nothing more. It is about conquering inner demons (insecurity), outer demons (peer pressure), and universal demons (hormones). So we make out with people we don't care about. We are left with great stories for our friends. A bit of confidence for the future. And without blue balls. That is all lust accomplishes in the present. And in the future, what of lust? How we deal in lust is a matter of how we choose to gamble, for the moment we succumb to the thoughts that occupy us so, we make a wager between mind and body over who we are and where the future lies.

And so on and so forth into High School. Chemistry class...Experimentation. Beer, Liquor, Pot, Acid, Shrooms, PCP, Crystal Meth, Whip its, Crackers, etc. Just how experimental are you? In the name of science, where do you draw the line? And where do you draw others line? Getting drunk is cool...but people who get stoned are fucked up. Stoners rock, but trippers are wack. Who made you so judgemental? You sit on the beach philosophizing about this with my friend, til he decides to climb the lifeguards stand. When he reaches the top step of the ladder he stumbles and falls. Hard. And you say nothing. He laughes. Life goes on. He was messed, he did something stupid. He was sober and tripped. How big a difference is there between clumsiness and drug abuse?

We are all different sizes...like ladders. Some of us have more steps than others. It doesn't make those people better, it just means they have more steps. Some people only have a beer step. Some have beer and alcohol. Some have pot. And so on. And so lesson comes from when we reach our top step. Cause you should never, ever stand on the top step of a ladder. And if you must, then make sure someone holds the ladder. They may be your only safety net.

And then college. You learn many lessons there. For me, I learned that on 1st and goal, run towards James Fallon. This can be interpretted many ways. It also means that you should stain your carpet with champaign. It means you should punch holes in walls and glass objects. You should wind up over the toilet heaving. You should date lesbians and hook up with friends. You should leave 25 page papers til the last second. And you should walk like Bernie from "weekend at Bernie's" at least once a year.

This lesson is so simple we should have learned it when we were 6. Don't be afraid to make mistakes. Trust me, you'll learn from them, and they'll give you some great memories to boot. Mistakes are not failures, not flaws, and not fuck ups. Well maybe fuckups. Mistakes are the way that we keep ourselves in check. To build a meaningful life, the best tool under your belt is the knowledge we gain from mistakes.

And now. 23 years old. Let me describe myself to you. I am a paradox.

I am the winds off the ocean on a May evening. Cool enough to calm you, warm enough to keep you comfortable. I am the surprise X-mas gift that your parents stuck behind the couch. I surprise you when you least expect it, yet you didn't actually think the gifts were done before I was found, did you? I am the 90 Fleer Sosa that you'll find one day in a shoebox. Most never thought to put it aside, but those who did won't find one with bent corners.

23 years old. A learned man. Tries not to drag his feet. Realizes life's hardships, knows the difference between love and lust, an expert ladder climber, but isn't afraid to make mistakes. A learned man who is still learning.

Full of hope in the heart, full of doubt in the mouth. Understanding to women, not of women. Willing to mix alcohol, but won't smoke up anymore cause its bad for you.

The paradox that is me will always exist. Its an asset, I think.

So why did I begin this? Boredom? Confusion? A need for expression? A feeling that those out there might agree? All great answers. Or maybe the reason is simply the one thing to always keep in mind about life. The one lesson to remember.

There aren't answers for everything. Get used to it.

Dreams and Paychecks

Coloring in my latest Star Wars coloring book, intent on staying within the lines, but failing miserably, my grandfather asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. Brash and unaware of the genetic and emotional limitations born of Jewish heritage, I announced that I would play first base for the Mets. The next day, coloring in that same book, my grandfather asked me to tell my grandmother what I wanted to be when I grew up. Brash and unaware of the impending asthmatic conditions I would eventually succumb to, I proudly stated that I would become a firefighter. The following day, clearing seeing a pattern here, my grandfather asked me again what I wanted to be when I grew up. Brash and unaware of how little they were paid, but fascinated by the bright color yellow that I had been using to color Chewbacca, I announced that one day I would be a taxi driver.

Twenty odd years later and I'm about as decisive about what I want to when I grow up as that brash little boy with the 64 box of Crayola crayons and the dreams to match.

So here I am at a career crossroads, without a map, without directions, and feeling like the light on my gas tank is flashing. But how did I get here?

It took a great deal of thought to realize that I got lost through simple miscommunication. You see, for the most part I've driven along this thing called life with the car on cruise control. But every once in a while, I'll buck the philosophical faux-paus that my gender has put forth, that one cannot be lost if they do not ask for directions. So anyways, I'll be driving along, with the turn fast approaching, and I'll ask if I need to turn left. Whoever is riding shotgun in this analogy will say right, meaning correct. I'll then turn right and get just a little bit more lost.

And that pretty much sums up how well I've handled my so-called career to date. I leave the directions to someone else, I misunderstand where I need to go, and I make impulsive and incorrect decisions. It's really a wonder I haven't hit someone. And you can take that literally and figuratively.

So with another job frustration, another disappointment, and the prospect of yet another soul searching staring me in the face, I've begun to try and find myself. Again. Man, I tell you, if this keeps up, I'm going to lo-jack myself.

So why now? How did I get here?

I find that I've become too easily defined by what I do, and less by who I am. In some cultures it is actually quite rude to ask one what they do for a living, for it implies that their worth is dicated by their job. As I live in America where rudeness is a freedom granted to us by the Bill of Rights, or by God, depending upon which political party is in power, I am often forced to confront the awkwardness of answering that question. After much practice lately, I've managed to keep my answers to either:

a) I work in non-profit (This makes me seem altruistic, idealistic, and many other -istics that are admirable in the eyes of popular perception.)
b) I work in non-profit, but I do freelance writing on the side (This makes me seem just as altruistic and such, as well as showing my energetic and creative side to those who know the truth about the fact that slackers hide in unions and non-profits.)
c) Ooh, are those mini hot dogs? (While this might make me seem hungry and focused solely on the hors-d'oeurves, it deflects attention masterfully because let's be honest when you see the mini hot dogs, nothing else is really matters anymore right?)

It seems so obvious that we are worth more than what we do to pay the bills, but I think I get caught up in the game of comparative jobs and salaries with my friends too much. I think we all do. But shouldn't we be above this kind of behavior? At this point in our lives, aren't we more mature? Aren't we above this? Having come to this realization, I vow to now answer that question with one of the following:

a) I am currently evaluating my mission in life, knowing that despite my current state of unemployment, I am happily married to the love of my life and enjoying more sex than I could possibly imagine. Why don't you have a girlfriend?
b) With the incredible support of the love of my life, I recently left an unsatisfying job and am currently writing my first novel. I also work out 5 times a week. Why are you so fat and lazy?
c) Ooh, are those mini hot dogs? (Hey, if they're there the line still works.)

But going on the offensive still won't help me address the problem that I can't seem to put my finger on. And getting beyond my own insecurities about how people view me is not enough.

I need to come to terms with my own inability to view the trapping of my life. Like most, I've viewed the idea that dollars make sense, in that the more I make, the more successful I must be. In addition, I've come to view praise for my work as the ultimate validation of my choice of careers. This is a very slippery slope to encounter because the fact that one is talented has absolutely no baring on whether they enjoy what they do. When you combine the two it is a volatile mix, as while failure at what you desire to achieve is bad, success at what you don't desire is downright dangerous.

How did I arrive at where I am today? Competence in lazy environments that apparently have an overabundance of money to throw at people who can only summon up surface interest in heir jobs. Ah, America land of the free, home of the naïve.

Recently, I found myself at Barnes & Nobles, enjoying a nice gingerbread latte from Starbucks and wandering through the self-help section. I was thinking to myself, what should I do with my life, when the answer appeared to be staring me right in the face. The book was called, What Should I Do With My Life? I walked on by thinking, I wish I could get a sign from God, when all of a sudden I had an amazing impulse to turn around.

I had left my coffee behind.

That is when it all clicked and I realized that I should take heed of this obvious heavenly hint, so I purchased the book, and thanked my stars that I was not standing in the horror section. I also began thinking about how awesome it would be to win the lottery. 28 10 1 7 9 88. I'm expected big things on Wednesday.

Now, as for the book, Po Bronson's What Should I Do with My Life? records several people's epiphanic experiences of uprooting themselves from unsatisfactory careers and starting over. It is so pitch perfect that it made my skin crawl at times, but I think that Bronson hit home hardest when he described what he called, "The Brilliant Masses."

Now before you think I'm getting all full of myself, thinking I'm brilliant and stuff, keep in mind all of what I've accomplished in my life. Keep in mind that I somehow convinced a woman way too good for me to marry me. Keep in mind that I have a 60inch flat panel HD TV. And keep in mind that I did all of this without the cream or the clear. Then once you've done this, just give me the benefit of the doubt since I wrote so much already.

“The Brilliant Masses are composed of nothing less than the many great people of our generation, the bright, the talented, the intelligent, the resourceful, and the creative - far too many of whom are operating at quarter speed, unsure of their place in the World, contributing far too little to the productive engine of modern civilization, still feeling like observers, all feeling like they haven't come close to living up to their potential."

Sounded pretty darn close to how I was feeling when I first read it. Especially when I began to think about where my place in the productive engine of our society is. You see, since my entry to the real world, I've worked in two places, commercial production and non-profit fund-raising. This means everything that I have accomplished since college is tied to selling products that you don't need to you and guilting you into donating money to those in need. It was at this point that I realized that I may, in fact, be the most highly organized person in the history of mankind who is responsible for cluttering other people's lives. But wait it gets better.

"The Brilliant Masses are mostly intellectually motivated, so if they cross over and get involved, their commitment is conditioned on being respected, and on a minimum of unnecessary idiocy, and on winning/succeeding. They like being cerebral. In their tribes it's cool."

Of everything he wrote, this not only touched, it almost severed the greatest nerve with me. Every choice I've made has been intellectually motivated, even if they were not thought through with at a third grade level or above. My problem is that rather than seek out the problems that I want to solve, I've lost myself in challenges that others have deemed my involvement necessary. With a minimum of exaggeration, I will share that every workplace I have ever been a member of has turned to me as either a vital cog, or in some extreme cases, as a savior. And while one might assume that this kind of ego stroking comes with respect, I can assure you that that is not the case. In fact, the driving force behind every workplace problem that I have encountered is that excellence leads to a conditioned level of high expectance, which for some unbelievable reason seems to lead to being taken for granted, and thus to a massive level of idiocy and disrespect.

Reading this I began to wonder why, if I thought of myself as such a cerebral person, I tended to be led more often by my heart than by my head. I realized that the absence of passion in my life has led my actions to be dictated by logic. That is why I find it more logical to make money doing something that I hate than to take a chance on an unknown urge of some romanticized dream. This is why I wind up in places for brief, yet extended periods of time, working hard and successfully, and burning out rapidly. This is why I find myself continually lost, as I feel with my heart and I lead with my head.

This is probably also why I am much better at helping my friend's with their love lives than I ever was with my own.

I realize now that my working life has become so devoid of passion, as to numb me into believing that I have no other choices. I realize that my successes should be a small indicator of just how much promise a future that I desire cold hold and not an indictment of where I should remain. I realize that turning 29 does not make me too old to seek out a dream, even one that hasn't been dreamt yet. And that the thought of turning 30 while dwelling on that same fact seems too frightening a concept to accept.

In his book, Bronson continues to say:

"Being guided by the heart is almost never something an intellectually motivated person chooses to do. It's something that is thrust upon them, usually by something painful."

Once again I find myself guided by my heart, despite my heads best attempts. Perhaps this situation was born of the pain of a job's disrespect, perhaps it was born of the stress of shouldering expectations that seem so enormous, or perhaps this was born of my own selfish desire to find reason and mission, and not simply a job.

So how did I get here? I got here because it took me 29 years to realize that my grandfather never laughed at what I wanted to be when I grew up. He saw a little boy who drew outside the lines and had dreams that matched. He never laughed at that boy and neither should I.

2004 Holiday Tale

Last year I wrote a holiday tale in honor of my mixed up religious ways and the way my father dealt with them. The truth is that my mother didn't confuse me any less about Christmas, Hannukah, and my birthday, so this year's tale is in her honor...

Once upon a time there was an endearing little boy whose questions equally charmed and bewildered everyone, especially his mother, for there was nothing in knowledge or possession that she would not have give to the child.

Hovering beneath her on a December morning, the child greeted his mother with the usual devilish curiosity in his eyes.

“Mommy, why do we light the Menorah on Hanukkah?” the young boy questioned.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, the mother knelt beside his son and said,” Hanukkah is a time when we celebrate our Jewish heritage. The holiday is a celebration of our ancestors’ triumph over religious persecution and their rededication of the holy Temple in Jerusalem. This is where they relit the eternal light using the only holy oil they could find and although there was only enough oil for the light to burn for one day, it miraculously burned for eight days and eight nights. Today we celebrate Hanukkah for eight days by lighting candles in a menorah every night and commemorating this eight-day miracle.”

“Mommy, why do we decorate that fichus tree in the kitchen with tinsel and styro-foam balls every Christmas?”

Observing that the boy was confused by his family’s tradition of observing both holidays, the mother knelt down beside the boy to help him understand.

“Christmas was created by our Christian friends and, though we do not share their religion, our family has taken to celebrating with them many of their customs and traditions, like Santa Claus, exchanging gifts with family, and singing carols to our neighbors. Since your father would like to do this without overstepping delicate religious boundaries, we have our own special kind of Christmas tree.”

“Mom, why do we have my birthday cake for me?”

The mother paused to choose her words carefully, trying to sidestep a conversation she felt her son was not ready for.

“Son your birthday is a wondrous reminder of when you came into our lives. The cake is a symbol that marks this celebration, much like the Menorah for Hanukah and the tree for Christmas.

The boy nodded, but didn’t seem quite satisfied with all of his answers. Finally he tugged on his mother’s sleeve and greeted her with a final question.

“Mommy, why do you put menorah candles on my birthday cake and have it with Christmas dinner?

“Robby, you were born on December 28th. You must learn to deal with it.”

And thus the tradition of celebrating everything at once would be born…

The Curse of Chango

The story varies from person to person. Everyone agrees that it occurred after the 2000 Subway Series, shortly after yet another Yankee championship, their fourth in five years. Some say it may have been spurred on when over zealous Yankee fans taunted the wrong group of Mets fans. Some say it took place in a basement on Roosevelt Avenue, where Chango, the God of Thunder, was summoned amongst sacrificial chickens and Santeria candles. Still others point to the story of a Jamaican voodoo priestess whose hex began when she was arrested for attempting to steal dirt from the pitcher’s mound of Yankee Stadium on Halloween night 2000. Regardless of which story you point to, there is more than a little belief that the newest curse in Major League Baseball is alive and well somewhere around 161st Street in the Bronx.

Yankees fans tend to scoff at the idea of this curse, fearing it no more than they do the Mets themselves. But with the latest turn of events, including the worst collapse and greatest choke in Major League Baseball history, shortly followed by a World Series Championship by their arch-nemesis, the Boston Red Sox, those in Pinstripes, and those who support them, might do well to start believing.

In early 2001 the curse was in its infancy, still whispered about by confident Mets fans, and dismissed by just about everyone else. On November 4, 2001 the tide began to turn. The Yankees went into the ninth inning with a 2-1 lead and Mariano Rivera on the mound, usually a recipe for postseason success. But with a charge from the broken bat of Luis Gonzalez and a little help from the heavens above, a soft liner reached just beyond Jeter's grasp and Jay Bell scored to give the Diamondbacks a 3-2 win for their 1st World Series victory. Some say the hit was a fluke, a freakish occurrence that could never be duplicated. Others, still mostly in Queens, knew better, and left fruit baskets outside Shea as a tribute of thankfulness to Chango.

2002 found the curse gaining steam in the ALDS against the Angels. Entering the playoffs yet again as the best team in baseball, the Yankees thought that they would make quick work of the wild card Angels. They thought wrong. Only twice in their storied history had they given up a 5 run lead in the playoffs and never before had they lost back to back leads beyond the 8th inning in a playoff series. Both of those statistics, as well as the Yankees themselves, were put to rest though, behind phenom Francisco Rodriguez and the dreaded Rally Monkey. Yet again, gifts of thanks were bestowed upon Chango by Met faithful, who were quite aware that the Spanish translation of monkey is Chango.

Soon the curse began gaining some steam, and with the Yankee's 2003 series shortfall against the Marlins, it went national. Fresh off of defeating the Cubs with fierce determination and some help from another well-known curse, the Marlins faithful, full of Hispanic pride, and led by Ivan Rodriguez, Luis Castillo, Juan Encarnacion, played with a confidence they betrayed their experience. Scraping out runs, these players jumped all over the favorite Yankees and brought jubilance not only to Miami, but back to Queens as well. The ju-ju was now on and the word was out. The Yankees would never win another Series until the Gods over Flushing were appeased.

This year brought another whirlwind season in the Bronx, another 100 wins, another division title, and another showdown with the rival Red Sox. Victims of the Curse of the Bambino for 86 years, these Sox, self-proclaimed idiots, played without regard, sometimes for sanity, sometimes for health, and always without regard for history. 86 years proved to be enough, so after spotting the Yankees a long thought to be unbeatable 3-0 lead in a best of 7 series, the Sox went about tearing out the hearts of Yankees fans pitch by bloody pitch. The collapse of the Yankees will be spoken of for a seemingly eternal time to come, as it came without warning or precedence, and humiliated the storied franchise in a manner that had never before been seen. This was not merely shocking, not simply embarrassing, this was a display of ineptitude on a scale of historical proportion. This was an event that could only have occurred when curses collide. Here was a perfect storm of destruction and demoltion, on one side the destruction of the Red Sox long held belief of inadequacy, on the other the demolition of the myth of the unbeatable Yankees.

It si said that 'Payback is a bitch' and more than a few think that a form of divine justice would be served by a prolonged Yankees curse of say, 86 years, which while rivaling that of the Red Sox, more importantly pays homage to 1986, a time when it was the Mets, not the men in pinstripes, that owned New York. And while we are not certain just how strong this curse is, or just how long it may indeed last, we can all agree after witnessing the events of the past 4 years that it is out there. We cannot dispute that Chango is alive and well and watching over all who pay tribute to both his power, and to the pride of those in blue and orange.

The curse is dead, long live the new curse. The Curse of Chango.

An Exceptional Case of Bad Timing

I am cursed with an exceptional case of bad timing.

Creatively speaking, I feel as if I have had several great ideas over the years. I can say this because I have a habit of turning around just after completing something and seeing someone beat me to the publication of it. I'm not bold enough to state that this is not a case of stolen ideas, but I have to add that with each example, this grows weirder.

The most blatant case came my freshman year in college. For my freshman seminar, back in 1994, I wrote a thesis paper entitled, "Die Hard on a Bus," comparing Speed to the Bruce Willis franchise and making parallels to other "Die Hard on a ____" films that took place on planes, trains, boats, etc. In a class where original ideas were often exposed as anything but, my professor drew attention to my paper for its creativity and conceptual thought. That is why it was most disturbing to see an identical article, with the EXACT same criteria mentioned, in Cinescape Magazine three months later.

It was two years later, after reading an article about the first cloned sheep, Dolly, that I wrote my first screenpay, entited "Original Sin." Though I basically disowned this script, fearing that it was too cheesy, I was soon surprised to see Arnold in The 6th Day a few years later. Was I surprised to see a movie about cloning? Not one bit. I was however a bit surprised to see a film featuring the same action sequence featuring identical, missing part humor.

The next example hit me harder, if only because it really sidetracked an idea of mine. After laboring for 6 months on a follow up screenplay, the true Civil War tales of Joshua Chamberlin, I was hurt to see that Ted Turner put Gods & Generals on the fast track. I was well aware of his earlier Gettysberg when I began, but this tale was never on the horizon when I started. This is not to say that two similar true stories cannot exist simultaneously. But again, the timing sucked ass, since everyone and their mother mentioned the other movie when I discussed mine.

Now, I could make mention of other examples, but I'll simply fast forward to Friday's USA Today and "The Team a Horror Writer Could Love."

Yes, a mere two days after writing my thoughts about being a writer and being a Red Sox fan comes an article about Stephen King and his new book, "Faithful."

And I quote...

Novelist John Cheever once said, "All literary men are Red Sox fans." To which King adds, "All literary men are not baseball fans." But he agrees that writers who like baseball should like the Red Sox, "because they know in their hearts that books are lost causes."

I won't exaggerate because much of the article is devoted stickly to the lives of the writers, King and Stewart O'Nan. Still, I can't say that it didn't deflate me quite a bit to see arguments made that were similar to work that came straight from my heart, yet published by another.

Then again, I can flip the argument and say great minds think alike, couldn't I? I just need to think quicker I suppose.

A Uniter, Not a Divider

It concerns me that I am surrounded by so much divisiveness. One must only look at the latest electoral map to see the “Two Americas” that John Edwards speaks of. The Red States and the Blue States. North and South. Rural and Urban. City, Country, and Suburb. I will now attempt to speak to none of this and direct you simply to the state of New Jersey, which while it is as torn apart as the rest of the country by such national divisiveness, also suffers from a case of instate strife.

I mention this because I was called a Benny today.

Now if one were to dissect the origin of the word "Benny" they might find that it has many different meanings. If you ask a polite local from South Jersey, they might tell you something quite benign, such as "Back in the older days, they used to be a train line called the Benny that went from New York to Belmar and all of the shore points."

The truth, as I have now discovered, is that Benny stands for people coming from Bayonne, Elizabeth, Newark, and New York. I, currently living in New York, despite being raised in North Jersey, qualify as just such a Benny.

Now the truth is that I grew up in Bergen County, New Jersey and only visited Point Pleasant to a) have sex with my girlfriend when her folks were away, b) have sex at the beach when my girlfriend’s parents were home, and c) have sex with my girlfriend quietly when her parents were in the next room. This would properly mean that, as far as being a visitor to the beaches, I have always been a Benny and simply never known it.

On the surface I can accept this. One cannot change who they are or where they are from. One cannot hide the truth or have it both ways, unless I suppose, they are running for President. Then anything goes.

Unfortunately the underlying connotation behind being a Benny is not quite that simple. The argument would be that a Benny is characterized as one who comes down to the Jersey Shore to rent, trash the place, make lots of noise, and leave on Labor Day. Ultimately Bennys are viewed similarly to Rickey Henderson in a MLB clubhouse; pretentious invaders upsetting an otherwise peaceful existence.

Having never done that, and having never really like the way Ricky always referred to himself in the third person, I am more than slightly offended.

Now, I cannot dispute the fact that Benny’s do exist, nor can I say that people have the right to disparage them for their behavior. But we must be more careful about our classifications in the future. To call anyone that doesn’t live at a Shore Point a Benny would water down the meaning and impact, making the phrase hold as much weight as Winner of the Popular Vote or Yankees 27th World Championship.

I am trying to be a uniter, not a divider here, so I ask New Jersey to be more selective when disparaging those who do not tread softly on their sands. I ask Jerseyites who feel that they are actually street smart (everyone thinks they are, 1 out of 27.6 by my calculations actually are) to remember how they felt when New Yorkers greeted them in Washington Square Park with a curse word and a mugging. I ask Jerseyites who are greeted as the “Bride and Tunnel” crowd to think about how that makes them feel.

We must work together to unite this sacred swampland that we all call home.

Art of Immeasurable Brilliance

 

It occurred to me late last night that my writing career is on life support. It was a 'Jerry Maguire' type moment, waking up in a cold sweat, hands shaking, the perpetual motion of life seemingly faster than usual. Fortunately, in tossing this over and over in my head, I was able to put my finger on the problem at hand.

I am not a Red Sox fan.

The fact that two such different ideas, that I’m a failure as a writer and that I don’t root for the Boston Red Sox, could be associated may confuse many of you, but I can assure you that my theory is not unfounded.

Some might dispute this claim by stating the obvious, such as the fact that I work long hours that don’t leave much time for personal writing, that I often lack the focus necessary to completely commit to an idea, or that I’ve spent much of my career outside of the literary profession, thus making it harder to break in. Some of you may even go so far as to psychoanalyze me and say that the only thing holding me back is my own fear of failure.

I feel that that is neither here, nor there. That’s just crazy talk.

John Cheever once declared that, "all literary men are Red Sox fans,” and there are facts to back this statement up. For instance, I could mention how many noted authors and journalists list the Red Sox as their favorite team. If I was to do this I would begin my list with names like Stephen King, John Updike, and William Faulkner. If I chose an obvious path, I could even list some of the best sports journalists of the past and present, people like Peter Gammons, whose reporting evokes classic baseball erudition, or ESPN’s Bill Simmons, whose use of humor and irony tackles the modern sports world in an all together unique fashion.

With evidence this strong we must rule out coincidence as a factor. There must be a reason why so many eloquent professionals root for the same team. And examination of each individual might aid in our search, but I chose to instead focus on the similar underlying motivators for each.

The best writing often conveys an intense understanding of the human condition. Without that, a writer could never grasp the depths that human emotions can fall to anymore than they could dream of the heights that we all aspire to. Successful authors write best from what they know and it is the experiences that shape them that often spur on their most creative leaps. Unfortunately, lives lead by such men and women are often fraught with pain and anguish, and the literary journeys that they undergo often stem from the ill-fates of their own lives. The evidence for this fills every volume around us, whether they be in the words of James Joyce or Mark Twain (whose last name it should be noted was actually Clemens).

Of course, one need only turn to the tragic end that befell one of the master’s of conveying the human spirit, Ernest Hemingway, to understand the how depressed one whose work is tied to the complexity of humanity often becomes. I could continue, but to list those with artistic merit who have met an untimely end would be an exercise in exhaustion. Needless to say, Sylvia Plath did not stick her head in the oven while trying pull out her latest batch of brownies.

And so it becomes obvious that a full understanding of the human condition, which along with it brings a deeper view into the human soul, can only be accomplished by someone who shares a familiarity with pain and suffering. And thus a theory is born.

Had we experienced a World Series win from the Sox since 1918, the history of this storied organization might read more like that of many others, and we might be more inclined to think of the moments granted us great Teddy Ballgame and his magical .406 season, Yaz’ and the last Triple Crown in MLB baseball history, or the mastery of the mound shown in the Cy Young seasons of Clemens and Pedro.

But the Sox have not won a Series, and so those memories are obscured, as we choose to focus on the continued eulogy of No No Nanette and the ill-fated Ruth deal, Bucky Dent and the Green Monster, the ball rolling through Buckner’s legs, and Aaron ‘$%#!’ Boone.

Enduring these hardships, season after season, undoubtedly shapes men of great talent. The Red Sox are the trampled dreams of the proletariots. The Red Sox are the mighty whale that eludes our capture. The Red Sox are the great love that we never realize. And with each passing collapse, we feel great pain, and with each collapse we discover art of immeasurable brilliance.

Though I’m not a Red Sox fan, I’ve had my Red Sox moments. I’m sitting underneath a gorgeous cherry blossom tree on a breezy spring day. I’m holding my love in my arms one moment, then suddenly she pulls back to speak of the outcast classmate she slept with the night before. The one she is leaving me for. I’m the failure of Mike Torrez.

Years later, I’m friends with a woman of incredible passion who draws me into her web. She is bi-sexual, but declares devotion only to me. I know that being with her is wrong. That this can only end badly. And yet I am convinced to trust her. And soon she leaves me. For a woman. I am the foolishness of John McNamara.

I sit at my desk each day, at once feeling less and less sensation in my body, and yet more and more pain in my soul. I am not writing. I am not doing what I am meant to do, yet I excuse my fear as practicality, taking in another paycheck, all in the name of escape. Time continues to pass and the only change I sense is the metamorphosis of my dream of into an overwhelming nightmare. I watch and I do nothing to stop the onslaught. I am the inevitability of Grady Little.

And yet despite this, I am not a Red Sox fan. I now am forced to wonder if the sum of my Red Sox moments is enough to propel me to literary excellence. I’m forced to consider the possibility that my only chance might be to sacrifice my own beliefs, and my dedication to the Mets, in order to accomplish my dreams. I feel as if my only chance is to declare myself faithful and dedicated to a lost cause, which in turn might actually aid in my attempt to accomplish a lost cause. It is a type of Catch-22, whose irony is could only be multiplied greater by the fact that Bill Buckner once wore number 22.

And so, I greet this year’s playoffs hesitantly, torn between rooting for the Red Sox and rooting for a greater understanding of the pain and anguish is at the heart of the human condition. And it is here that I forge an understanding worthy of a magnum opus. I realize the cruel irony that ultimately what I root for, in both cases, is one and the same.

Political Abstract

Cheney stated last night that Kerry voted 98 times to raise taxes. FactCheck.org clearly states that nearly half were not for tax increases per se and that many others were on procedural motions that passed practicaly unopposed.

It's a problem that statistics make for great soundbites because they can also be manipulated to serves any purpose. I'm not going to start researching the numbers, but hypothetically speaking, what if Edwards had shot back, well yes, Kerry voted 98 times to raise taxes, but he votes 498 times not to raise taxes. Had he said that, where would the public be left? What would mean more to people? Or would everything be rendered meaningless?

Obviously statistics can suport a good argument, for instance an anti-war stance undoubtably should mention that The United States as of yesterday has had 1,061 deaths and 7,730 wounded in Iraq. That statement makes for a powerful argument because it quantifies the anger we feel.

But if its not too much to ask the American public for, try looking beyond the numbers at the same situation. Think about Cheney's forceful stance on how Edwards didn't include Iraqi casualties, as if their contributions didn't count. Edwards stammered briefly, seeking a proper and promopostional response. Unfortunately, he didn't realize an interesting fact, which is that this administration doesn't even bother to count the casualties or injuries for the Iraqi people. Now who do you think is disrespecting the people more?

So we're left with two ways to view the situation.

Non-numerically, we can say that an administration that is so morally bankrupt as to not even bother to weigh the sacrifices made by the very people they are trying to free does not belong in office anymore.

Or we can say that as of 2001, there are 0 United States Presidents that respect the sacrifices being made by the people of Iraq.

Resolve is the New Ignorance

Amazingly, every poll that I have read about last night's debate has Kerry having decisively won it, with most margins in the 60/40 range.

Yet, in early electoral polls the only change was the Kerry helped shore up his base. In other words, last night Kerry helped win what he already won. While it's a step in the right direction for Kerry, it frightens me that after last night's display minds were not changed.

The biggest argument against Kerry has been his 'indecisiveness.' This is the weapon of mass distraction that gets thrown around by the Republican Party as proof of why Kerry would make an inadequate Commander-in-Chief. Problem is, even if you ask any informed Republican, this is completely a BS argument. The whole flip-flop argument is based on the notion that once a decision is made we should never go back on it. For instance, initially we were not going to enter WWII, as it did not concern us. So by that logic, we should never have let the new information that about 6 million people were being killed, or a little thing like Pearl harbor change our mind. You might say that my logic is narrow minded, BUT THAT'S THE POINT!!! Changing your mind based on new information should be encouraged, not shunned.

Unfortunately, the base for Bush's support is not interested in making informed decisions. They apparently share Bush's 'Resolve,' which apparently is Republican slang for 'Ignorance.'

 

Lost On A Road That Needs Repaving...

The other night there was a special on HBO entitled, "Nine Innings from Ground Zero." It was an excellently compiled documentary dealing mostly with how baseball helped heal the nation, but more specifically, how it helped heal New York after 9/11. I highly recommend it, despite the fact that it was incredibly hard to watch, still only three years later.

Watching it, I wasn't thinking about the two America's we finally recognize light years after we should have. I wasn't thinking about my job security. And I wasn't thinking about the war raging in Irag right now.

I was thinking about those days. I was thinking about how time stopped being fluid then. How the idea of motion, or of forward momentum, seemed to have stopped when the Towers, the Pentagon, and an isolated field began to burn. I dare any of us to revisit that time in our mind and not get lost amid anger, fear, and sorrow. This is not something to be ashamed of, and yet, I think that feeling lies at the root of our problem.

The country experienced an event it could not understand, rationalize, or come to grips with. The most civilized, technological, and 'self-proclaimed' moral society was devastated and there were, are, and will never be an explanation that will suffice to any of us left behind.

Time never continued after that day. We never moved on. We've spent three years searching for answers that no Commission Report will ever hold. And the government, right or wrong, has gone on the defensive.

Some might argue that we've gone on the offensive, waging war in places that might stir up trouble in the future. Rooting our enemies out of holes and caves. I beg to differ.

I think, right or wrong, on some level we have lashed out at visible, weak opponents to try and re-create some sense of power and authority. We have antogonized at times when diplomacy was needed because we needed to reclaim our status as a World power. We stopped focusing on the constant upkeep of the foundation we had built and started paying attention only to protecting what was left.

America was not founded by people that were satisfied simply by protecting their land from attack. It was founded by people who looked at the land they had claimed as there own and said, "We need a school to educate our young, we need houses of worship where anyone can be free to pray to whomever they want, we need a place where we can sell our goods and trade our services to provide for our family, and once we have all of that." The funny thing is that once we had all that, consciously and unconsciously we also built up the strength to protect all that I mentioned. We had intelligent and educated political and business leaders raised in our own schools who valued the idea of a democracy built not only upon the differences between us, but the respect we all need to have for those differences.

This is how a society not only builds itself up, but maintains itself. It is how we once took the road to prosperity and why we are now lost on that same road.

On September 10th, we went to sleep with a world we all sensed we could control. On September 11th, we woke up to a world that we could make no sense of. I think that many people don't realize that yet. I think that much of our country believes that the only way to regain our lost innocence is by fighting, literally, to regain what once was.

In the end, I think you need to remain idealistic. I know how that sounds, and trust me, I see all the signs surrounding us that beg me not to be optimistic. Still, here we are, a group of a dozen or so, engaging in healthy, spirited, political and ideological debate. The post 9/11 world is recognized by different people and different communities in different ways. Nobody in Nebraska can know how I felt as I fled the city that day anymore than I can know how it feels to have farming subsidies cut because more money went to NYC's homeland security budget.

In the end, I find myself more idealistic than I think I've ever been. I know how that sounds, and trust me, I see all the signs surrounding me that beg me not to be so optimistic. Still, what other choice can be made? I could continue and draw the lines for you, but they are right in front of you everywhere you turn these days. Angry liberals. Angry conservatives. Angry moderates. All with only one thing in common. Anger.

I'm tired of sitting by and debating what's right and what's wrong with young, vibrant, educated people who have different beliefs, but share one common, and devastating, opinion. That there is no one left to believe in. It sickens me.

Still, maybe, just maybe if we continue the right debate (economic, health care, defense, education) and ignore the sensationalistic (Vietnam, Flip Floping) we can all find a common ground that gets us back on track. I guess what it boils down to is that I find hope simply in the fact that there are people out there right now, at this very moment, discussing this, not only with me, but with others. Don't stop doing that. You never know whose mind you mind change.