To Be a Writer

The gentleman sitting across from me in the loud bar had the friendly, open look so foreign in Newport Beach. It was a combination of invitation and frank curiosity mingled with the reserved politeness that indicated Midwestern values. He was possibly 20 years my senior, yet his eyes were young and unblemished by the casual cynicism that so marks locals.

The long communal table at which we sat was loaded with men doing business in groups of two or three, women seeking a chance to meet men with money, couples on dates who chose this venue as a means of deferring intimacy while retaining some form of attractiveness. It was a semi-dark room that was private the way only loud public places can be- their very noise and controlled uproar providing a barrier against the kind of full attention that often strips away quiet thoughts and impressions.

The gentleman made a sweeping gesture and asked, "Crazy, isn't it?"

I nodded, trying not to appear supercilious, knowing my t-shirt and jeans made me appear to be above the people who had to dress up to go to work.

"Newport Beach," I replied, "This is pretty usual."

With that the conversation began in earnest. We discussed professions (he was an engineer, I was a public relations professional), goals, life stories, and interests in the way that men do when finding kindred spirits.

As the conversation swung back to professions, he asked about current clients after telling me about some of his ongoing work. I explained that I was in the bar to meet with one of my clients, and my jotting of notes was more for pleasure than work.

"Oh. You're a writer, then?" His tone was complimentary as he continued, "My son is in school studying to be a writer. " The pride in his voice was well-earned, I imagined.

It is always a source of fascination for me when I hear about people going to school to learn to be a writer. In some ways, it makes sense, as peer review and respectful critiques are excellent methods to sharpen one's writing. Journalism majors have a whole host of professional ethics questions to cover that can only be addressed in a classroom environment. And, technical writing is a field that deserves special attention, with all of its attendant risks and requirements. So, I asked what his son was looking to do as a writer.

"He's studying creative writing," beamed this proud Kansas papa.

I nodded, striving to keep my thoughts from escaping. My filter is a bit faulty sometimes, and I had no wish of offending this kind gent. Then, he went and blew that all to hell.

"So, do you have any suggestions for him?"

Oh boy.This will not end well, thought I.

After all, I am from the school of thought that says great (fiction) writers are people who have lived other lives. From Hemingway to Conrad, Dostoevsky to Martel, the strongest writers come from disparate backgrounds wherein classical (read: MFAs) education played little role. Wander the NY Times Bestseller lists and often enough, the books and stories selling in the hundreds of thousands are written by men and women who had entirely separate careers before submitting a single story.

There are too many possible reasons to conjecture upon. From the realism that only life experience can grant in developing plausible characters, to the deep background necessary to understanding potential plot elements (think Grisham and his legal thrillers), to even the lessons in love that only those who experience or witness workplace romances can achieve, living is the most important thing any aspiring writer can do.

I explained all of this to my older friend, and urged him to suggest to his son a separate calling in life. Or at least, an education that required educating, rather than an education that required refining. A great writer is necessarily like a great artist. While others may inspire, contribute, and offer encouragement or feedback, the true writer simply writes from a well of creativity and experience. When this is not so, the written word is flat, stale, or, that worst of all worlds for a creative writer, unbelievable.

As we parted, he shook my hand and asked about my own creative work. Would it someday be published?

I looked him squarely in the eye and said, "I've got a little more living to do."

Twittering and, If Not Loving It, Accepting It

It had been quite the battle. In fact, in some ways, some could claim that it was a struggle for the soul. The lone holdout against the overwhelming surge of 2.0 superiority was doing a bang-up job of intransigence. Newspapers held greater esteem than the electronic medium. Books were still made of paper and held with a cherished appreciation most reserve for children.

And then, somehow, someway, this writer returned to his Twitter feed. He had started the account in 2008 (was there even an Internet, then?) for some work with an ad agency with which he was partnering, and then promptly ignored it. After all, who wants to read the stream of consciousness thoughts of a generation of people who don't put much thought into where they eat, let alone what they write?

But, a casual remark in a Facebook posting gave impetus to try. And as addicts worldwide can attest, giving something a 'try' is the first step in being hooked, lined, and sinkered. And such it is. I Tweet. Then read something really clever from a celebrity, and in my meager sense of modesty, I reTweet it, rather than reply. After all, who wants to hear from an aspiring writer, thinks I? Once I've reached 1M+ followers, then I'll start hitting the Reply button when Simmons makes an idiotic statement.

Then, Sutter posted something comedic to which I inadvertently Replied. And he replied! Gods! Even people who create stuff I love are responding! Now, I am completely in. I'm sending in my money as Tammy Faye goes rolling off in a new Cadillac. I'm drinking the Kool-aid and going back for seconds.

Next up, I find a super project for aspiring writers. It's a vibrant new community, and I could be a beta member. Of course, sign me up! More credit. More writing. More, more, more. My capacity to consume and regurgitate is being taxed. But, there's never enough.

Sure, Twitter is safe. So is cocaine.

Presidential Idiocy

During the 1870s and 1890s, multiple federal laws were passed outlawing polygamy. The LDS Church's practice of plural marriage had been a thorn in the relationship between the much-maligned fledgling faith and the US government for 40 years, engendering a military occupation, and the installation of a puppet government. The Federal government viewed polygamy as general immorality that could be legislated against. While the Constitution of the United States has always protected religious freedom and the practice of plural marriage was singularly a 'Mormon faith' phenomenon, the US government deemed then that no amount of religiosity could justify plural marriage (and continues to do so today). Which makes the current atmosphere of religion vs. culture vs. the law of the land in regards to Islam so frightening and ultimately disheartening for any serious student of human behavior.

The recent example of the New Jersey judge who interpreted the religious law of Sharia to be of greater value than that of the law of the land is stunning (http://www.jihadwatch.org/2010/07/sharia-in-new-jersey-muslim-husband-rapes-wife-judge-sees-no-sexual-assault-because-husbands-religio.html) and while the appellate court overturned this idiot's ruling, it opens the door to scary prospects. What about female mutilation? Honor killings? Stoning for Sharia-forbidden crimes? At what point is the line drawn between freedom from religious persecution, and respect for the most basic of human rights assured in the Constitution?

In point of fact, this question of human rights versus religious freedom has become a presidential affair, only with the president choosing a disconcertingly wrong side. (Note: I am using an absolute. This is beyond question or doubt.) The debate in which Mr Obama has so unwisely plunged is in regards to a proposed $100 million mosque to be built at Ground Zero. (http://english.aljazeera.net/news/americas/2010/08/201081422058404426.html)His defense was faulty, "I believe Muslims have the same right to practice their religion as anyone else in the country." There are more than 100 mosques in New York city at present. Muslims aren't hard-pressed to find a place to practice their religion.

What's more, Mr Obama went on to chatter about an unshakable commitment to religion because of our Americanism, or some such drivel. Unfortunately for his fatuous assertion that a mosque at Ground Zero will be a symbol of healing, this unshakable commitment runs headlong into one of the key assertions of the Declaration of Independence, one of the most important documents in human history, which predated the Constitution by some 11 years. "We find these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. (italics added)"

Wherein there is religious freedom, or more importantly, the right to do anything one wishes as long as one's religion countenances it, listed? In fact, as in the example of the Mormons and their plural marriage, the government has the right to place strictures on religious activity. Instead, the phrase "pursuit of happiness" catches the eye. This, then, is the keystone to understanding Mr Obama's failure to grasp the cause of anger for many Americans when he chose to endorse this mosque proposal. He ignored a greater precept for a lesser one. The one American whose sole responsibility is to "preserve, uphold, and protect" the Constitution of the United States chose to overlook a core principle in the drafting of the Constitution to make political hay.

Almost 3,000 people died in the 9/11 attacks. The entire city was in mourning, Jew, Hindu, Christian, Muslim alike. This event rippled across the country. If one simply assumed that every person that died had at least 100 people who knew them, either personally or professionally, this is an impact of 300,000. Add in a 'Six Degrees of Separation' dynamic, and this number can leap to 1.8M. And this number doesn't begin to truly capture the effect on the country and her citizens. While the 800,000 Muslims in New York would possibly benefit from the access to (yet another) mosque in the city, it is guaranteed that the 1.8 million who were directly affected by the events of 9/11 would have a thumb in their collective eye, a constant reminder of the most painful of national tragedies, and a symbol of Islam, the religion twisted to the point of martyrdom and mass murder.

This obelisk of pain would be a continual obstacle to this principle of the "pursuit of Happiness." How can one be expected to move on, heal, and begin to pursue happiness when there is a daily physical monument to the most emotionally traumatic event in one's life? Mr Obama had best bone up on his Constitution, his history, and his grasp on the American psyche, as this endorsement could prove to be the albatross to his reelection bid in 2 years. Of course, then again, he could just let the Mormons go back to multiple wives.

Back to the Grind

Dear. Good. Holy. God. I'm back working in restaurants. It could be worse, I realize. I could be back to trash collecting, sewage pump cleaning, or gay porn. But there is something terribly, terribly wrong with me serving people. It's not that the job is difficult. Certainly, it can be for some folks. I just did it for so long that there is no longer a whole lot of challenge. (In fact, the challenge I give myself now is to see how close to the line I can step. You know, the line that keeps you employed? Yeah, that line.) The more I consider the whole thing, the more it occurs to me that the reason it makes so little sense for me to be in the service industry is that, well, you see, I dislike people.

Oh sure, as individuals, people are great. One by one, people are fascinating, intricate, and funny creatures. Even the perceptibly boring ones can provide moments of distraction, if nothing else. No, it definitely is not a situation where I am a misanthropist. I just don't like people. People who need to impress their friends with their knowledge (which most often comes close to what most industry employees learn by their 2nd year), people who love to laugh too loudly at jokes that aren't funny, and people who like to belittle service workers because they make so much more than the service workers all have a special ring in hell devoted to them.

People who think 15% is above and beyond the call of duty, who think tips is an acronym for To Insure Prompt Service, who think incorrectly prepared food is the server's fault, and people who think Sunday afternoon is the right time to dine are all beginners who make the job so much worse than it need be. And wine buyers who sniff the cork, who don't bother smelling their wine before tasting it, and who attempt to return a wine because they don't like it are all guilty of an idiocy that goes far beyond the trite "the customer is always right".

No, I say, the customer is not always right. It is perfectly reasonable to return a wine that is cooked or corked. It is not reasonable to return a wine that a guest does not care for, because, frankly, it's the customer's responsibility to know what he or she likes. Tantamount to returning a rainbow trout to the kitchen because it is too fishy, this type of action incenses industry workers and shows a lack of respect for the process, the traditions, and the sense of fair play.

Immensely pleasurable are those guests who know the role of guest. Those who imbibe in the atmosphere of low lighting, the murmur of pleasurable company, and the feel of heavy silverware are the best kinds of guests. These are they who swirl their wine aggressively and inhale with half their face in the bowl of the wine glass. When these people lift their heads, eyes half-closed, and faces blank in ecstasy, there is never a question. These professional guests most often will make eye contact, nod at the server, and gesture to their table mates. These are the people that I love, respect, and appreciate serving.

These guests dine on Tuesday nights or, at most, Thursday nights because they know these are nights where service is at its best and restaurants are at their operational peaks. These guests are meticulous in their orders, and never ask, "Are you sure you can remember all this?" These guests understand that sometimes the people next to them who arrived later might be served first, especially if that table is eating pasta, and their own table is enjoying a Chateaubriand.

Gratuity to these guests is a word whose etymology hearkens a likeness to 'gratitude'. These guests don't look at a bill to determine the service quality. These guests will tip 30% or higher and think nothing of it. Not because of any great personal worth, but more because a server's performance has genuinely earned it. Guests like these recognize effort, professionalism, and quality. Unsurprisingly, these are those people who drive expensive vehicles that may be a few years old. They know how to spend their money with their whole being, heart, mind, and soul.

These guests are modest in their conversation, intelligent in their intercourse, and quiet in their comport. Their humor is understated and tactful, rarely offensive or demeaning. Their opinions are interesting, and they are the folks who offer a glass to their server. Education to these guests is a lifelong process; the server is yet another source of information. Disagreements with their service staff are always light-hearted and playful. The line of respect is never crossed with this guest. These are guests who fascinate me and make my job worth the paltry sum I earn.

For me these are guests for whom I can only challenge myself to be the best possible service worker I can. These guests are people I hope to impress and for whom I hope to provide an unforgettable dining experience. Every time I serve these people, I set the line that I must leap a little bit higher, to see just how far my experience and instinct can take me. These moments make this job tough, because I make it so. It's at these times I am glad I don't collect trash or clean pumps, and I'm always glad I don't do gay porn. I realize it could always be worse. By dear good holy God.

Inspired by Three Clicks

Inspiration comes from so many varied sources. It can be found in the words of a coworker or client, the whispers of a lover, or the visuals in a mirror. The writing of heroes, enemies, madmen, and saints all can ignite a spark to change. From the decision to try a new hobby to determining a significant life change is in order, inspiration is never minuscule. True inspiration arrives with a force of enthusiasm that is both exciting and intimidating. It's serious stuff, this thing inspiration, and with that gravitas comes the responsibility to act.

The motivation to change and initiate a new way of thinking and being often hits as a result of outside factors. For Banks Lee, the inability to lock a roller coaster shoulder restraint due to his weight was the catalyst to reshape his life. Having peaked at over 300 pounds, he realized that the the thrill of riding an amusement park attraction paled in comparison to the ability to do so, and the freedom inherent in a healthier weight. He set a goal for his weight, has started blogging about his efforts, is more health conscious about his diet and is now walking and swimming daily.

Banks' approach has the hallmarks of what will be a successful life change. It is focused, well-defined, and (importantly) noteworthy. Inspired change can almost be expressed as an algebraic formula:

I + (E x G)(W x S)/C = Degree of permanence of the affected change.

Where I = inspiration, E = enthusiasm, G = goals, W = effort involved, S = support, and C = conditions that serve to resist change and embrace the status quo.

In Banks Lee's example, it can be shown that his failure to be able to ride the coaster (I) provided him the motivation (E) to lose enough weight (G) in order to lock the restraints down and take the ride. As such, he is exercising and eating more properly (W), has started a blog where he receives a constant stream of well-wishes and advice on weight loss (S). Where he faces his biggest challenge is that his current place of employment (C) is through Disney at the M&M's park, named after the chocolate candies. Which is an incredibly big condition, seeing as diet is a crucial part of weight loss.

Inspiration is a rarity in the human experience in that it is both mechanical and organic. It is mechanical in that it results from a process, whether that be a process of events or thoughts, and it is organic because that process is impossible to presage. Inspiration can be maddening because the process leading to it is only visible in retrospect. One cannot walk out the front door and decide to be inspired. And chasing inspiration is akin to falling asleep with fingers crossed and hoping for a certain dream. It's herding cats, writ large.

What's more, inspiration is never a continuance, rather the ignition of the new. The phrase, "I was inspired to keep doing what I was doing," is either ridiculous or the utterance of a feeble mind. Inspiration begins unforeseen ways of being and thinking. These new ways of thought and act can be uncomfortable, stretch us as people, and give us increased opportunities to fail spectacularly. But when we succeed?

Ahh, when we succeed, the success is doubly sweet. The nectar of achievement is tooth-achingly saccharine when it is through personal inspiration. The young adult who graduates college because it has been parentally-driven can in no way grasp the glory for a retiree who walks a college campus for exercise, only to uncover a lifelong dream and to return for a degree. What is more is that those who are inspired, have followed the formula above and succeeded actually find themselves more open to future inspiration. After all, self-affirming results are behavior cementers.

The student who decides to stop sleeping in late in the morning in order to study more, immediately sees an increase in mental acuity and better grades. What better affirmation of positive change? When Banks finally snaps the shoulder bars down and takes his ride, will he exit the coaster and head directly for the churro stand? Doubtful. When coupled with hard work and the right elements, inspiration can make any change possible. The important part is keeping ourselves open to it.

P90X and The Change

The infomercials made me want to pick up the phone. Their production values were stellar. The graphics and visuals were effective. And they did not come across as cheese. But, like so many people, I decided against listening to the little voice in my head.

12 days ago, my roommate asked if I would like to join her and one of our neighbors to work out. Since we have a very stocked weight room in our complex that I use regularly, I gracefully turned her down. She persisted (thank goodness), and I discovered that the program they were using was P90X.

It has been a life-changing 10 days already. I drink far less alcohol (the bottle of vodka in the freezer is going to be lonely for a long time), have stopped smoking entirely (and don't miss it at all), sleep more soundly (and apparently without snoring), and am ready to drop and give 50 push-ups at a moment's notice. We are using the 'Lean' program and I am already seeing physical changes.

In the last 10 days, I haven't lost a pound. In fact, if anything, I may have gained a pound. However, my waist is already slimmer. My shoulders are already broader. My chest is already deeper. And my back is already wider. Everything a man is looking for in his body is happening, and happening rapidly. (My legs have always been good. Now, my calves look like diamonds and my thighs look like well-defined watermelons.)

Most importantly, I WANT to eat properly now. I do not miss the fast food. I do not miss the beer. It would kill me to miss a workout because I am walking around as high as a kite from the endorphins being constantly released. In fact, I am already starting to think "2-a-days" with running and/or lifting to cross train. And I am passionate again.

The fire is lit. Big thanks to Tony H. and the BeachBody folks.

Dear John (Meyer),

You, sir, are an idiot. No, not for the whole 'N' word thing, because let us all be honest for a moment, most men under the age of 40 have at one time or another called a buddy by that, regardless of race.

Sorry, rap music, you commercialized it, and in so doing, desensitized most of us of the age to have listened to you back when you were, you know, relevant. So, white, black, Asian, Aleutian, you name it, guys of a certain age and social standing (ie, not running for an office, nor working for a police/fire department) have used the 'N' word.

Strangely enough (now, apologies to the Black Caucus, the inestimable Revs. Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, etc), now it's a term of collegial respect. Most white guys I know have as much if not more respect for black guys who are as hard working and successful as they. And here's where I'm going to be classist, not racist. The main reason they have that respect? Because, well, you see, how do I put this? Brothers are cooler.

Not because successful brothers have overcome more to get to where they are. (Thanks Cosby Show! You totally screwed my opinion of the "Black Plight.") Really, it's because black guys are cooler. They get away with more in fashion, are most often better natural athletes, and dance better than white guys. Granted, these are sweeping stereotypes, but when I get labeled an obvious Italian because I'm a good cook, passionate individual, and like nice shoes, I take the stereotype in a complimentary fashion.

So, black guys, take note: The white folk think you all are damn cool.

No, my John Meyer note is this:

John, you were dating Jennifer Aniston and ended it. You, sir, are obviously an idiot.

Headlines 2/9/10

Some really quick thoughts from the news, world of entertainment, sports, and business:

People need to treat Palin like a non-terminal STD. Just accept she's here to stay, rub some salve on her, and she'll fade away. At least for a while.

The global warming folks are looking worse and worse:

• The Indian government is no longer buying in on their claims and openly challenging their statements.
• The Danish are pissed at the IPCC (the UN's panel on climate change) for saying the country is more than 50% below sea level. It's actually 20%.
• The claims that the glaciers are going to be gone in 25 years is based a popular UK magazine article with no scientific basis whatsoever. Even worse, the claim in the article was for the glaciers to be gone by 2350, not 2035. WTF???
• The survey stations in the US used to collect data to determine greenhouse gas emissions and temperature increases are supposed to be tightly regulated in their placement. And independent review has found that only 11% of the existing stations fall into those regulations. The rest are close to heat sources, exhaust vents, or cooling areas. Not exactly unbiased science.

Michael Jackson's father claiming that his son was 'murdered' is fairly accurate in his claim. He effectively killed his son almost 50 years ago and created a golem instead.

LaToya's insistence to get to the bottom of Michael's murder and the claim that there were more involved in the 'plot' to kill her brother than just the nefarious doctor is ludicrous. Most obviously, what would having Michael die on his watch do for the doctor??? Will people be lining up to be seen by the guy who inadvertently killed MJ?

How much more does Nancy Kerrigan have to endure? The poor girl deserves some peace and privacy, and it appears to be further away than ever.

While Fox News is open about its rightist agenda and bias, CNN makes one laugh with the attempts to be nonpartisan. Just checking the way many of their polls are phrased, the bias is apparent.

No one has yet had the ability to explain how government spending MORE money cuts back on deficits and spurs the economy. Isn't the money the government spends really just MY money? Taken by the government?

While no Bush apologist, it has to be pointed out that none of the big media players have ridden Obama for calling Corps men "corpsemen" not once, or twice, but three times during a recent breakfast. Had it been Bush, it would have been Leno's leading joke and Jon Stewart's running gag for a month. Maybe a commander-in-chief with zero military experience is not necessarily a good thing. And maybe there IS a big blind spot in the media.

The California Legislature is moving from ineffective to laughable in the recent round of efforts to reign in spending and pension-related problems. This in addition to the multitude of problems regarding prisons, water management, and budget shortfalls to last well into the foreseeable decade.

The Dow is currently surging. Do not believe the hype. This too shall pass. What is more, until the government adjusts the Nanny state mentality of entitlements just for surviving to a particular age, the economy will stagnate at an increasing pace.

China spends almost the same percentage of their GDP on educating their youth as the US does on taking care of its elderly. Start studying Mandarin now.

Google is taking on Facebook. Good luck to Facebook. Get ready to be MySpaced.

Forward, Ever Forward

Having been almost 5 months since a posting, it appears said writer has been somewhat lax in his duties as a 'blogger.' While no one has leveled any accusations, that could more likely be ascribed to a distinct lack of readers than anything else. Which, if one is not pushing one's blog, it all kinda makes sense.

Regardless, since last posting (yes, a post about gaming) the business has been good. New clients, new workloads, and new projects keep me fired up. After all, it requires creativity, passion, and interest to make these things sell, and more importantly, effective. Herein lies the challenge, however:

When a client is required to execute certain elements in order for a campaign to be successful, and the client does not do so, it is apparently easy to blame the "PR guy" for the lack of follow-through. Didn't really see that coming, quite frankly. Maybe more because of the client than the fact that repeatedly this has been my experience with clients. After all, they can flake and blame and then withhold pay, accolades, or even continued business. Meanwhile the good "PR guy" simply absorbs the blows.

This is why I consider finishing my novels and pushing my writing career. Tougher route, but infinitely more rewarding, it appears.

10 man OS /phail

Ugh, nothing worse than poorly running an instance. Actually, scratch that. There is something worse. Agreeing to a run when the gear is knowingly not high enough sucks far more.

Getting a PST from someone from a previously successful Heroic run asking if I wanted to join for 10 Man OS. Now, with buffs, et al, I'm only pushing 1500 tops. Nowhere near high enough. Fortunately, the other healer is another shaman, only he's pretty geared. We burn through the trash, no problem, get to the first mini boss.

The entire raid wipes saves myself, the other shaman and the pally offtank (who was in my group). The fight continues for minutes, I mean, minutes, a long damn time. Eventually, we go down, with that bastard rocking 6%. Come back and knock it out, no problem.

Well, there was a problem, and that was the entire raid complaining about the heals. Now, I'm no pro, but I do know that when something encircles me and is a flashing blue color, and looks unhealthy, that maybe I should step out of it. Unfortunately, the raid is expecting to just stand still and to be healed through it all. No one move, no no. "The shamans will just keep the main tank up and heal the rest of the raid at the same time."

Then, they bitch and moan. "What's wrong with the fail heals?" "Shamans are supposed to be the best healers." And, "Why can't they jesus beam the raid?"

We see where this is going. The other shammy and I are whispering back and forth. The dude who invited me is asking what's wrong and that the heals need to "speed up." Uhm, sure, I was dragging in those last fights. We were kicking back, sipping margaritas and laughing while you morons were dying.

So, the next trash uses Rain of Fire and melee has to move when it starts. Of course, they wipe because everyone expects to be healed through it all . . .

Ugh.

The Slender Margins

For 30 years without the savior who pried you from loss
Adopting a family that held thorns and roses in equal parts
Ignoring the tenets, skating on mores, and firing your own boss
It's impossible to tell someone what you meant in our hearts

Thank god it's over and that you have the break you deserved
I hope you find him there and that it all will now be clear
After a lifetime of letdown, hope for you was fully interred
Can't imagine seeing them all again and you not shedding a tear

We continue on, wondering why we failed and succeeded
The wall remains unbreeched, and we remain broken on it
The lies that protected us also forced us to be unbelieving
I sit and work through the years backwards, soaking in it
And yet, it still remains untenable.
Someday we'll sit beneath the shade, and you can tell me all.

That Day

On the road. 7 am. Listening to one of my favorite CDs when the phone rings.

"Is your TV on," asks my boss, Director of Operations for our little international startup healthcare firm.

"No, why someone get shot," I laugh with the ignorant machismo of the uninitiated.

"The company's done." The line goes dead.

Switch the audio from disc to KROQ. My normal irritation with morning DJs as soon as the tone of Kevin's voice hits me. Somber. Shocked. Nigh-hysterical.

"It could be anybody, I just don't understand, I mean, who could do something like this. . ." his words are no longer in his typical coherent syntax, rather he seems to be trying to assimilate an unforgivable reality into a carefully structured world through the medium of the sound of his own voice. Car crash survivors are much the same. People babble when nervous systems are on overload as a means of reinforcing their own existence.

The car drives itself to Claire's. At the time, my closest friend, confidant, and Grand Marnier cohort. She opens the door, eyes brimming.

Hand in hand, we silently walk into the living room and watch the replays of the jets colliding with the buildings. Tears fall unabashedly until shirtfronts are soaked. Today is one day where recriminations will find no hold and all tongues are silenced.

'Dear god, those buildings won't last,' ran headlong from my subconscious until it exploded, unwittingly and unwillingly from my mouth. Claire looks at me. I walk to the liquor cabinet as television ground crews capture the sights and sounds of people leaping from 90+ stories to their deaths rather than burning. Hell of a choice to have to make.

The collapse starts, the implosion is improbable, impossible, inadmissable. People running, screaming, hiding, covered in the ash of their fellow human beings, striving to make sense of it all. Claire and I are clinging for dear life and dearer sanity to each other, sobbing, wanting to look away, to ignore, and to find some coward's exit from the hell of it. But, we can't. We drink to forget.

Hours later, or maybe minutes later, my family calls. No one go to downtown LA today. Who knows what these crazy bastards will do next? We commiserate over a cousin who was visiting Gotham with her husband, and whose itinerary called for a WTC visit that very morning. No word as of yet. Like all others this horrid day, we pray. No atheists in foxholes, no agnostics on this day.

Later, we hear the details, the truth comes out, the story is told, and blame is placed. Many of Middle Eastern lineage openly decry the attacks. Shame that they feel the need. Sikhs and East Indians in many places are treated as though they've had a hand. Shame that our country felt the need.

For a week, tears wait in the wings. The cousin is fine, decided to spend the morning in bed. Thanks be to a loving God. The death toll climbs. Workers sift. The horror slowly subsides.
The scar is there, but the pain still remains. Who knew we could ever hurt this way?

Meeting Alexandria

The crowd is fun, upbeat, and joyfully sad. While we hug, Lindsey tearfully tells me Alex is here. She points out Alex's husband, strong, smiling, with a heart rent asunder. There is her father, whose pain is only evident in his eyes. There is Joss, who's done more than can be imagined to create an intimate, melancholy, and spiritually fulfilling experience that will remind friends old of, and introduce friends new to Alex.

The band plays, feet tap, heads bob, and a vibe embraces the group. Then an acoustic guitar, Joss dancing a dance of life. A life vibrant, filled with amazing people, as only amazing people can themselves attract, and a life herein shortened unnaturally. Her tall, beautiful, blonde figure stretching, flowing, ebbing, and finding structures to hug, and ultimately cease against. It's hard to recognize the physical pulchritude, when the soul speaks so loudly.

At first, I'm an interloper. A crude voyeur into serenity only the intimacy of dear friends, an avatar of someone of value. Suddenly, the gears -click- and I am here. And am embraced. The slides begin, and a life runs before me. A father to a beautiful daughter myself, the tears flow. I am suddenly robbed.

As we all are.

Stop the Society, I Wanna Get Off

Just when we get to a point where no more can possibly strike us as insane:

1. Britney Spears loses custody of her kids. AND IT'S ON THE NEWS. Why does our culture care about her? A good friend was partying with her the night before the Emmy's and declared, "Wow, she looks even worse in person. Her breasts have apparently been replaced by flapjacks."

2. OJ Simpson makes like the Cincinnati Bengals organization (http://sport.monstersandcritics.com/nfl/article_1183059.php/Cincinnati_Bengals_2006_Training_Camp_Preview all on his own. Unbelievable. I think the guy might go on a three state rape spree, start printing counterfeit money, and take up dog-fighting, just to complete his transformation to career criminal. Has anyone checked the man's VCR? He may be pirating videos in his spare time

3. James Spader (!) beats James Gandolfini for an Emmy. The only way this could have shocked me more is if he'd actually physically beaten Gandolfini for the Emmy. I'm not TV guy, but Jesus, I don't live in a closet, either.

What blows the mind is how all of these items are hot-point issues. I mean, the NFL is facing a scandal that is growing by leaps and bounds (http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=easterbrook/070918&sportCat=nfl&lpos=spotlight&lid=tab1pos1) which means women nationwide may have their husbands back on Sundays in just a few years, the former Fed chair who is widely regarded as the architect of the greatest economic surge in American history indicates a recession a 1 in 3 possibility http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/09/18/fed.interest.rates.ap/index.html?iref=newssearch, and AlQaeda now is targeting comedians http://www.cnn.com/2007/WORLD/meast/09/15/qaeda.cartoon.ap/index.html, and all our media clowns focus on are the lifestyles of the inane?

I think we've jumped the shark as a society. Now excuse me while I go watch 14 hours of reality TV.

The Quickening

When I came to, I was free-falling. Some portion of my besotted psyche somehow knew that while this wasn't a healthy state, it was a natural one for me. Being weightless is phenomenal, although the only way to achieve it is to plummet. L'Amour said that the space a man takes up in the world is equivalent to a finger in a pond, and that once it's withdrawn, the pond barely notices. Maybe I've been testing his theory.

The most difficult hurdle the vain can clear in the path of self-destruction is the hard cost of dying. It's tough to be a pretty corpse when it's self-inflicted. Plus, the struggle, O the struggle!, of balancing love for others with a good, strong apathy for self. Someone said that love for others is impossible when love for one's self is absent, but the truly gifted can pull it off. So, instead of packing up and leaving immediately, I chose this slow road that would lead to a life worth dying to avoid.

It's offensive now, this journey I'd undertaken. Waking up from somnambulence is akin to the morning after the fever breaks. Energy courses through the skin, power radiates from the eyes, and fire burns incessantly in the soul. (How great are my hackneyed phrases? And here I'd committed to stop being boring.) Each day is a gift from the universe, it seems. Music makes more sense, love seems more deeply mysterious, life appears more complex and simple.

A spirit broken can mend.

Hollywood Hilarity and Total Trainwrecks

So, the roomie has an event entertainment business. It has to do with Clowns and being Around. (It’s possible there would be copyright infringement issues, or that libel could be pointed this way with this post, so let’s just say it’s some combination of the two words.) He asked what yrs truly was up to on Saturday last.

I shrugged. "Nada. Maybe some volleyball. You know, just get some exercise in, finish unpacking because I’m clearing my storage unit on Friday morning."

"Cool, want to do an event with me? I need someone to drive the train," he said with the air of one not sharing the whole story.

Fast forward to Friday, unpacking the storage unit, and combining/condensing/consolidating 13 rubbermaid 64 gallon plastic containers and a ZGallerie (shameless plugs, send me my check) footlocker/chest/coffeetable, and then loading them all into a Jeep Cherokee took it a little bit out of me. Then, when I arrive back at the house and unload everything, the roommate has his trackless train in the front yard, sanding, painting, and re-fiberglassing.

He looked over as I carried 75 pound containers into the house. "Ready to get to work?"

I coulda and maybe shoulda smacked him then and there.

What followed was 7 hours of painting, loading a riding lawnmower into a truck, using Bondo for the first time (a truly disgusting substance used for patching holes in fiberglass), sanding, painting, and throwing heavy equipment around more. Note to readers: avoid fiberglass splinters. They f-king hurt.

Then, Friday night out with the boys. G-lamp, vodka, vodka, vodka, followed by Taco Bell beef and potato burritox4. Sleep at 2 am. Knocking on the door at 5:30 am. Pure pain.
The rest of Saturday morning was a blur of trying to put an innertube on a tubeless tire (note to readers: don’t do this. It’s stupid.), loading said riding lawnmower into truck bed, trolley cars into trailer, and discovering that the bounce house he owns is totally filthy. Caked with dried mud from recent rains, there was no way on God’s green Earth that the client for this little production number will accept it as is.

We’re late. Of course. The event coordinator only has my number. My phone is blowing up. We arrange for a bounce house to be delivered at 11:00. It’s 9:45 when we place the order. The warehouse for said rental is in Santa Fe Springs. The client is in Bel Air. You can do the travel time math.

We show up at the client’s location. The event coordinator, a pretty, mid-to-late 20’s brunette with a New Zealand accent is relieved, not happy, to see us. And we then scout the location.
Bad times. The riding lawnmower will have to through the doorway to the backyard, and the locomotive "body" that fits over the mower will have to go over the doorway, which includes hopping up onto a garage, carrying said body over the rooftop and then lowering it to waiting hands below. This baby is fiberglass and big, so it takes at least two men to move it.

But wait. It gets better.

After the doorway fiasco, there is a hedge with 28 inches of clearance through which we have to fit mower, the two train cars, our cotton candy cart, and ice cream cart. The locomotive body will not, repeat not, fit in this gap. As my buddy put it most succinctly, if crudely, "It’s like black d*ck and Asian p*ssy."

We eventually made it happen amidst copious amounts of sweating, straining, and cursing, and in so doing, got a round of applause from the production crew who were filming the whole thing, as we were bringing the train in to work an event for a celebrity kid’s birthday party, and mom and dad have a reality show that’s in its 3rd season.

The rental bounce didn’t show up until 2:00. The event coordinator was damn near tears. And my roommate did balloon animals for the kids while my buddy and I took turns driving a smoking, coughing, and sputtering lawnmower with a train body and cars following it around a backyard basketball court trussed up to look like a railway.

Overall, it was an okay day for me. Horrific for my roomie’s business. But okay for me. Aside from when the party was over. Then it was time to push the damn thing back through, up, and over the hedge, garage rooftop, and onto the trailer and truckbed. When the event coordinator approaches you and says, "Oh my God, I feel so sorry for you guys having to take that train back through there," it’s indicative of the herculean task before you. But, we did it.

Oh, and although we spent all day driving the damn train around without a hitch, when it came time to get the celeb’s kid on it for the money shot, the f-king thing broke down. Just awesome.

12 Months and Counting

Thinking about Alexandria today. It's been 12 months since the plane went down and she moved on. In one of the ironic twists that makes life so unbearable sometimes, it had been a few weeks previous that I'd seen her pic on Linds' fridge, and asked, "Who's THAT?" in that tone that indicates a strong desire to be introduced as quickly as possible with the highest recommendations available.

She laughed at the time, told me it was her friend Alex, and that she was married. I'd meet her husband a few months later at Alex's life celebration, this intelligent, brawny, and just shredded shell of a happy man, struggling to deal with losing what must have felt like the winning ticket of the lottery of the Universe. Despite all of that, I envied him. Anyone who knows anything about Alex would envy him.

I was in San Diego, opening a restaurant, dealing with some mild depression issues of my own when I attended the memorial, and wrote the blog "Meeting Alex." Guess it could be said her timing was horrible and perfect. That night tore open a dam strong as papier mache. She lived a life that can't really be captured in photos, words, or MySpace pages. The strongest testament to who she is, is the love her friends still espouse, the inspiration she remains for them.

Seeing someone loved and celebrated like that just took my breath. It crushed me. SHE crushed me. From that moment on, I was somnambulistic. It was just a matter of time until something, somehow, happened. And it did. A few weeks later, I'd end an 85 hour workweek with the (underline-italicize-bold-all-caps) STUPID decision to go out with some of the boys before driving home. Which lead to falling asleep at 75 miles an hour, waking up at 45 miles an hour, airborne on the side of the road.

Which lead to the realization that something was seriously WRONG. Wrong line of work, wrong dreams, wrong lifestyle, wrong approach to love and life, wrong everything. Each month following was a new revelation, a new deconstruction in order to make way for something stronger and more permanent. No more restaurants, bars, lounges, pubs, or private party bartending. No more bartending, period.

It's unclear how much it all has to do with the events of 12 months ago. How much inspiration she was is unclear. Or how much of a stomach punch it was to realize how seriously screwed up my way of doing things was compared to hers is unclear. What is clear is that the night I met her and her friends, I admired and appreciated them all. And felt the leper amongst the whole, the unwashed amongst the clean, the dandelion in the tulips. How do we measure the effects of people in our lives? Is there some litmus test that can exactly determine the weight of love, support, and example?

12 months ago, Derek and I were sitting on a porch, sipping on 40s and smoking at 10 in the morning. Today the only chemical in the bloodstream is caffeine. 12 months ago, I ignored my true self, waiting for something to happen. Today the only waiting I do is for my clients' approval on my writing and creativity. 12 months ago, I had no idea how to reach. Today I can't stop.

A glorious morning, with the light breeze that is a constant for this house, resting on the southern ridge of the Laguna Canyon, clear blue skies, and temperatures that hover in the mid-70's belied the news awaiting me on opening this morning's Orange County Register.

It had been my pleasure and great amusement to meet Brad Dillahunty six months ago. At the time, I'd been struck by the idea that the kid had to be on some form of speed. His method of talking was fast, the ideas that flowed were always a combination of depth, humor, and succinct intellect. And always rapid fire, as if he were a reincarnation of an early 80's Robin Williams, only without the constant voice changes.

This fine, glorious morning, I opened the paper and saw a picture of Brad with his life dates as captions. Last week, after being part of a surf camp in San Diego, Brad lost his life in an car crash. He was a 24 year old passenger in a vehicle being driven by a 51 year old man, whom police suspect was under the influence. Of course, cosmic justice being skewed as it so often is in these instances, the older man survived the accident, and Bradley is lost to us.

Over time since our initial meeting, Brad's nature came to be more evident. He was a guy who was creative, musical, loving, and wickedly smart. What's more, he had an understanding that his flame burned too brightly. He admitted to me that he knew certain aspects of his life didn't lend themselves to longevity, yet he felt comfortable that like so many other artists, his lot was to make as great an impact in as short a time as possible.

He responded to Taoism, often asking about the nature of paradox, how good needed evil as much as darkness needed light. He was struck by the honesty of learning to do nothing and thereby leave nothing undone. Although quick to cling to the joys of this world, he always was striving to connect to the energy of the universe in deeper and broader ways. I looked forward to being his friend as he matured, and was anxious to see how he would continue to impact his world, and grow within his place in it.

Brad's gone now. Where his spirit has found sanctuary is not mine to guess. I thank all that is Holy that I met him, that I experienced his rich humor, his ancient soul, and his trust. And it warms my heart to know that even briefly we could connect, and that he counted me as a true friend.

Farewell, my brother. In time, we'll surf the skies.

Luck and the Shooter's Bounce

Ever know those people? You know, THOSE people. The ones who seem to get all the breaks, the people for whom Lady Luck seems to have a soft spot in her fickle heart? Seemingly, they waltz through life, carelessly exploring exciting professional opportunity after another, dating one incredibly beautiful, intelligent, and caring person after another, having amazing kids with few problems of any consequence, and connecting with outstanding people in all walks of life, left and right.

It got me to thinking, and thinking about basketball of all things. Considering those people, who get all the bounces, if you will, and how the effect of a 'shooter's bounce' works.

In basketball, if there are those unfamiliar with the sport, the idea is to throw (shoot) the ball through an iron ring from which a net is suspended (the hoop) in order to score points. This can be a modestly challenging endeavor, particularly when similarly or greater vertically-blessed individuals are striving to keep one from accomplishing the aforementioned goal. (Pedantic? Yes. Fun to write? Definitely.)

A shooter's bounce is what players refer to the ball bouncing around the rim, or taking what appears to be an unlikely bounce, only to softly fall in. Spectators and neophyte players often call such shots "lucky," but in truth they are the result of a player taking a shot that he or she has worked on, repeatedly in practice and battle tested in heated games, a shot in which the player has so much confidence, and such innate and acute awareness that he or she knows just how much pressure to apply to his or her fingertips so that even if they are slightly off the mark, the ball will still fall.

This same principle applies in life. The good things happen to the people who have the diligence to work on those things in which they believe passionately, the tools, skills and talents that kept them sane through their most brutal conflicts, and the confidence that they have "put in the work" and paid the necessary price to perform, even when all around them crumbles like pillars of sand in heavy tides.

And while no life goes unmarred, nor is devoid of toil and hardship, those people, the "Golden Children" in the family escape unscathed because of their faith in themselves and their efforts to be prepared, awake, aware, and alert.Mayhap luck is happenstance, but I believe it far more often earned.

Being A Dad

Remember life before your driver's license? I mean, you know there was a time when you couldn't drive, and you may even be able to recall moments when you had to sit in the backseat or shotgun, which if you hadn't called, fisticuffs were likely between you and your siblings.
But odds are, you don't remember what it was like. Those feelings of those times, gone from the memory storage and retrieval bank, fog on a California summer morning, dissipated by midday.

So it is to be a parent. Well, an actively involved one, that is. I remember that there was a time when I didn't have my daughter, but good Lord, I can't remember what it was like. She's so much a part of my every day's decisions, whether in advance and smartly, or in retrospect and regretfully, she's always there.

What's more is that this love expands. Mothers probably don't experience it as strongly. After all, their love is the penultimate expression from Moment 1. And I doubt fathers who get to spend every day with their children get to feel this blossoming deep within the chest as their children grow.

Kennedi every day becomes an amazing person exponentially. As though somehow she can just double in her overwhelming awesomeness just by going to sleep and waking up the next day. There is no way to even begin to describe her, either. People ask and the only words to escape my mouth are, "She's just such a great person. I'm excited to see what she does in her life."

In the past 3 months, she's gone to Europe with the Young Ambassadors with a group of 40 kids and 4 adult leaders (none of which were named "Mom" or "Dad") and every time I talked to her over there, she was giggling with her roommates. Nothing, and I mean nothing in this world puts a more complete sense of peace in a man's being than hearing his child laugh uncontrollably with other kids her age.

When she returned, her leaders told her mom and I that they were so impressed with her selflessness, maturity, and good natured spirit. And we were humbled that our little girl was someone much greater than ourselves.

One of my best friends recently revealed that he and his wife are pregnant. I almost teared up as I hugged him and told him, "Now, your life really starts."

Being a Dad is about the best damn thing a guy can be when he does it right.