12.11.10

How do you balance confidence with arrogance? It is incredibly hard to define the minute differences between the two, because there are men who carry themselves with such confidence that it is impossible to not respect them, yet someone of almost identical carry and presence will come across as the latter. The streams of both run rampant where I am...and I dont think either are intentional, for most times, a person seems to be able to exist within a constant flux of the two. We blend back and forth between being men of extreme confidence in our abilities...and dudes who dont know when to say when, and just calm down and remember that we're in the real world, not in our land of hairy chests and mustaches.

That last bit of that last sentence won't make sense to everyone.

But it's still an issue that I personally take quite seriously. I will openly admit that in most cases, especially from an outsider's perspective...I'm quite arrogant. And tonight, as we stood in a loud circle of conversations battling to rise to the top of the noise level, I made a point that...every single one of us here is entire full of ourselves. If we werent...we wouldn't be here. And I was immediately echoed...dude, anyone who thinks they can do what they can do is either a fucking idiot...or thinks he is the hardest dude of all time...I sure as hell did...well, at least before all this...now I just think I'm stupid. And that's both a point of pride for me, and at the same time, I recognize it as a fault.
Were the Spartans arrogant? I bring it up because I find myself so often relating to them...seeking answers to my deepest fears or doubts of myself in what they stood for. I believe that from an outsider's perspective, they absolutely were...but I think that if you were to ask the average hoplite, he would reply..."I am not arrogant, I just know I am going to win." Confidence. Or is that arrogance? Confidence says I believe I can win arrogance says You should't even try me. Yet that is what we say...and we are, at the end of the day, however you want to spin it, outwardly...humble.
We are humble. We are quiet, and we are silent. I prefer it that way, as hypocritical as it may seem writing about it now. But at the same time, I'll still readily tell my friends...I'm pretty sure I am the least accomplished person in my family. Joel has never found a situation in which he did not immediately rise to the top, and I'm pretty sure Laura hasn't ever had a problem in all her years of school. Dad continues to have a Midas touch with business, my mom recently recieved a district award for teacher of the year...it goes on...my extended family is full of people who push beyond the flock and become a person of either high identity within their field, or are the person in charge and making the decisions.
Where I am...that's my job...it's what I'm apparently, hopefully...good at. In eighteen years, if I'm still in this community, well then, yeah, I guess you could say I've finally lived up to the family potential.
But goddamnit, am I arrogant...dispite all my intentions. What makes it hard, is that, were I to seek guidance from someone with more experience than me...I believe I'd only run into the same catch 22 that I find myself in already. Some would say...Look where you are, look you are going to be...fuck yeah...put your chin up, chest out, and let people know that you're the alpha male...whereas, others would say...it doesnt matter what they know, because they never will...all that matters is that YOU know. Or maybe I'm just wrong...and I have no fucking idea...that's highly likely.
But when striving for an identity, as I feel that we all are in my group of friends here...god, you need to know. Am I being arrogant, or am I just realizing my potential...or more importantly, my role in society?
The fact is, we are the minority. I am a part of a select few. A modern Spartan. A fledgling Spartan, for sure...but I intend to come back with my shield, or on it nonetheless. We here right now...haha, well, at the present, we have been left in the best and worst case scenario to be seen. No supervision...30 of us...probably 20 of those among my closer friends, and thus, what I would describe as no less than pipe hitting mother fuckers who dont know how to hold back, how to stop, how to control themselves...unless someone has already given them a playing field in which to say in bounds. And while we may all know, deep down, that we know our boundaries...it's still akin to putting a room full of pyros together, then setting a box of matches in the middle of it all...and telling them...seriously, try and be careful. God help us all.
And I suppose, that's sort of a hint towards the answer that I've been pushing for. Alone, we tend to be subtle...I know that I, and in hearing opinions and experiences of my buddies, we dont like to talk about ourselves. We do, in all actuallity, strive to be humble...because in all reality, when we step away from where we are...it really is hard to feel all that significant when compared to our friends and families. In comparison, we dont make nearly as much money...we dont get vacations...and very few of us have a feeling of general security when it comes to our lives. We are always anxious. That's a tough thing to deal with every day...whether or not any of my buddys would ever admit it.
But man, throw us together...send us out...and see what happens. Put TWO of us together...and we simultaneously build eachother up to the point where I'm fairly certain I'd take one buddy at random and say, "Drop me into Hell...we're goood." And that transfers to the bars, it transfers to life. Four of us walk into a bar, and the testosterone level rises 400%. It's what makes us who we are...and it's something which we are constantly, constantly monitering. Whether I think that is a good thing or not...isn't necessarily my place to say. But I will not hesitate to say, I don't believe any Spartan warrior ever walked into a bar and felt like he should control himself if provoked.
So here we are...smoking hand rolled cigarettes, pumping through our own individual bottles of whiskey, smoothing out our mustaches, and getting ready for a night on the town...a town entirely unsuited to house us. God help us all. But I tell ya what...I couldn't pick a tougher group of dudes to go out with.

11.30.10

Chances are, when said done
Who'll be the lucky ones?
We'll make it all the way
Though you say I could be your answer
Nothing lasts forever
No matter how it feels today

Chances are...we'll find a new equation
Chances rolled away from me
Chances are...all they hope to be

Don't get me wrong, I never say never
Cause though love can't change the weather
No act of god could pull me away from you
I'm just a realistic man,
A bottle filled will shells and sand
Afraid to look beyond what I could lose
When it comes to you

Though I'd see us through
Chances are, we'll find two destination
Chances rolled away from me
Still, chances are, more than expections
But possiblities

Eight to five, or two to one
lay your money on the sun
Until you crash, what havce you done
is there a better bet than love?
What you are is what you bring
You've gotta cry before you sing

Chances are...our hope's torn up pages
Maybe this time...
Chances are, we'll be the combination
Chances come in clarity
Chances are waiting to be taken

And i can see...

Chances are the fascination
Chances won't escape from me
Chances are only what we make them

And all I need.


-Courtesy of Five for Fighting

11.24.10

We all have our calling. Sometimes it manifests itself through a profession or a career, othertimes it is merely a hobby only enjoyed by ourselves and the select few people with whom we share it. Nonetheless, many spend most of their lives in the pursuit of finding exactly what it is that makes them tick.
I myself, in my short time of navigating what is the broad field of adult life, have changed roads many times. I've pictured myself in so many different uniforms and workplaces, even I can hardly keep track of it all. I've pushed the limits of what is acceptable for a person to do before people finally say, "What the fuck are you doing with your life?", and I've pursued things that in most poeple's minds were probably a bad bet. In fact, I've made so many poor wagers with my life that I can honestly say I'm fairly comfortable being in a situation that has very little hope of ever coming through. But that's who I am, and I am mostly positive that I'll spend the rest of my life chasing ideas that most poeple would push the side as idle fantasies.
The fact is, our lives change as we chase them. For people who find it odd for me to view life as something to 'chase', I in turn question their motivations. Who wouldn't want to wake up with something to do? And by something to do, I dont mean your laundry list, I mean a real solid pursuit that day in, day out, requires your constant attention to what you are doing to better your situation and ability to achieve it. It can be as large as how you're going to make sure the business you are building from scratch can find the air to breathe and succeed, to staying up til 3 in the morning grading papers and lesson plannin, as my mom is prone to do.
I look back at my past pursuits and lament that I never gave them the time that they deserved, for in all actuallity, all of my "callings" have most times been little more than whimsical plans that required ideal, to perfect situations and circumstances. But when I look at my daily "laundry lists" now, I think back to what I could have accomplished if I had the same drive before as I do now. Although, I think in many ways, back then, those ideas were what they were: fantasies...and where I am now, is a reality...and a realization of myself.
I'm where I want to be. I know that now. The past few months have been somewhat of a struggle for me. Away from work, when talking to a friend or family, in between my periods of gushing to them about how rewarding my job was, how hopeful I was for what was to come...I was greatly disturbed by a lack of intrinsic motivation. A year is a long time to spend in flux. Constantly assaulted, constantly challenged (at times in a completely unsalvagable situation, but in retrospect, they were geared to be so), and constantly asked, "Are you really meant to be here?"
That's a hard question to ask yourself, and I belive, that when someone is to truly take on their motivations and goals...when we trulyIn short...I was fed up, and fucking tired of constantly wondering what the hell my purpose in life was. I needed a challenge...I needed something to do. Well, needless to say, I found it. It's been a road of extreme highs, and even lower lows. Regardless, for every great milestone I passed, in the end, after it sank in and dissapeared to what was to come next, I would inevitably end up struggling for motivation. Waking up became a chore, doing the little things felt nearly backbreaking in getting them done. I came to see this pursuit as little more than a job...and while it beat the hell out of any job I'd ever had before...it was still a job. And guess what...jobs suck.
Then things progressed to the land of "Shit's not gonna hit the fan anymore, so relax and learn"...and still I struggled. My days were easier than they'd been in almost two years, and all I did was complain. It wasn't mindless bitching, but it was sure as hell not the kind of talk I needed to be putting out. What made it worse, was that I was waking up every day telling myself...you're going to do better today, you're going to leave this pussy ass attitude behind. But I just couldnt shake it. If it involved my own personal pursuits, my small couple hours of alone time to work out and get after it the way I wanted to, I welcomed it with open arms. The second I felt that someone was infringing on my freetime, I'd lose my temper. To the point where things as little as Gena checking up on me, making sure I was taking care of the things we drastically needed to do...I'd lose it again, and try to fall away.
I fell into old habits, albeit, with a little up to date tempering. I'd get home, do everything that I needed to do for immediate future, and set about to getting myself drunk. It's easier being drunk, at least for me. Not in a alchoholic mindset, just in a...let the world slip away, and I'll worry about myself for a while. In short, I was starting to question myself. Was I really where I had wanted to be? I thought it would be different...and it just wasn't. I've been miles away from all of the stable things in my life....Gena...my dog...my family...my close friends. I climbed the mountain, only to find that on the other side...there was no true release, no sense of accomplishment...no nothing. Just a pat on the back that was expected, but I never got a chance to stop and take it all in.
Well, I've done it. Whether it was the plane ride, being surrounded by white capped mountains, being back in cold weather that feels like home (and Christmas), my ability to finally look at the guys next to me as future teammates, brothers in arms, guys I'd give my life for, and without thought, trust them to guard it in turn...it's come down to the broader perspective of things to fall down on me. I'm finally seeing the purpose of it all.
I can say that twenty four hours ago, I was sitting in 30 degree water, up to my neck, waiting for my buddy to give me the OK. Watching the shoreline, looking for movement, trying to be as small as possible...and then ascending up the beach, searching for the closest patch of shrubbery or cover. Then, with my buddy watching my back, weaving in and out of trees, working my way around buildings, and once satisfied, returning to the surf....meeting the guy in charge and having him ask me, "We good?"
"Oh, we're golden." I replied with a smile.
I've found a purpose. A calling? Maybe. I still secretly hope my 'calling' may be writing books that blow peoples minds wide open. But, when I look back at my life, at the ideals I've held since childhood, I have to admit...that if this isn't my calling...it's at the very least, a huge realization of what I was made to do.
I love being here...and I love my job. I love the constant pursuit of perfection, and I love that I'm allowed to bitch now and again about it, and still get the job done. This job drives me and fuels me, even when I'm at my lowest motivation level. It's intoxicating, and to make it worse, the guys who are in charge of transfering one generation's knowledge down to mine...they're the coolest sons of bitches on the planet...and they make it impossible not to get obsessive over it.
It's opened my eyes, and changed my perspectives on alot of things. I used to think that people who didn't pursue the most 'out there' goals and professions were just lazy, or uncreative. Now, I've come to realize that everything, no matter what you do...if you're getting paid for it, eventually, it's just gonna be a job. But no matter what your job is...be good at it. That's what I've decided. Find your calling...find what makes you tick...and pursue it. Settling is never an option. That's what people do when they don't have the imagination that is required to be great.
You can spend your life bitching about what the poeple above you make you do...or you can constantly push to become one of those people, and change the system. Everything can be improved, everything can be sharpened to near perfection. Find what you are passionate about...and put every ounce of effort you have into it. From my own experience, when you do that, even if you don't achieve the level you were going for, you're going to find what you're looking for.

11.13.10

God, I've missed country music. Where did it go? Growing up it was mostly Garth Brooks...whose lyrics to "Friends in Low Places" went far over my ten-year-old head, and I to this day, remember what I thought he was trying to say...but hey, when the cows have been seen, they've been seen. Throw in a little Jimmy Buffet, John Michael Montgomery, and a select few others...and that was my childhood. As I grew into my teens, it wasnt so "cool" to like country anymore, which to this day, fucking blows my mind...and reminds me how much of an upper class, white bread, money laden school I went to. Nonetheless, we found eachother again...in my freshman year of college. Thus began Doug and I's yearly effort of putting together the "perfect" summer country mix.
Try and deny it if you want, but if you give it a chance, a great country mix will make ANY summer day instantly better. Hell, it makes any SUNNY day better. I will admit, while I may listen to it year round, I dont go crazy with country during the fall or winter. Those are months more suited to somewhat more somber artists.
But during the summer...who can deny the songs of drinking, friendship, youth, lost youth, family, friends, and humanity? It's the sounds of our average joe lives.
Now, I feel that I fairly openly tend to live my life through songs...or more, relate it to them. Anyone who knows me well has probably spent an uncomfortable five minutes in the car as "Texas", by the Damnwells came on, as i lapsed into silence...and if you're up on my current trends, you've experienced my channeling of girl power and headbanging to "King of Anything"...because, hell, music is what sparks my imagination, and I am more than happy living through every great song I come across.
But man...how great is Tim McGraw? When I was ten, "Indian Outlaw" got me all kinds of pumped up, and "Dont Take the Girl" inspired me to daydream of falling in love with some weekly crush and growing up into whatever type of man I thought I'd be, living the life and love I pictured I'd be living. And having written that sentence, I'm happy to say, I think I'm somewhere in the vicinity of being my boyhood hero...finally, took long enough.
Tim McGraw brought me up when it comes to my realistic versions of life and love, which is I think both unique and important...because, admittedly, many of my favorite love/lost love songs are somewhat unrealistic, or at the very least, incredibly melodramatic...and far from what the average person is going to be thinking and feeling in a love affair. The guy keeps it simple without being plain, and he is able to take small emotions and give them weight. I dont listen to Tim McGraw because I want something deep and artistic...I listen to him because I want to immediately relate.
So as I grew up, and as I said earlier, took a brief sojourn away from the land of McGraw (and listened to, admittedly, music that I am still too embarassed to admit to), he was always there in the background, just waiting for me to mature a bit...right around the time that the man would put out some of the most soul defining that I doubt many artists could ever come close to.
In college, Doug and I listened to "Set This Circus Down" on near repeat. It was more or less and unspoken rule that if you were to make a summer cd...you better goddamn well have at least five Tim McGraw songs on it. "That's Why God Made Mexico" appealed to our vagabond spirit, and we've tapped shots of whiskey making silent promises to follow the rules of that song should our lives ever take a dive for the deep end. "Cowboy in Me" took over the radio for at least a week in our cars, and to this day, I'm gonna throw that song out as a defense for any of my less desirable actions...and I'm pretty sure any man that's worth his weight would do the same.
Tim McGraw sings for the guys...and that's why chicks love him. He's been behind some of the greatest love songs, meant quite openly for wives, or at least, someone especially special...and hell, I'll openly admit to crafting a bit of what kind of love affair I want to be a part of based off of his music. What part of "I need you" can be denied...by a guy or girl? If the line..."I wanna drink that shot of whiskey, I wanna smoke that cigarette...you know, some cowboys like me go out like that...so I need you." doesnt make you immediately think (if you're a guy) YES...god, I hope I'm that tough one day, or (if your'e a girl) GOD YES...I hope my man is that tough one day...and that I'm that important to him...then, jesus, you're not human.
He brought the heavy with "Drugs or Jesus" and it worked. "Live Like You Were Dying"...well, shit, if that doesnt make you want to do something with your life, then there's no hope for you. "My Next Thirty Years" has become my unofficial anthem of the next five years of my life. I've grown up with the guy, I respect the guy, and I love the hell out of his music.
Which brings me to the all time favorite: "Teluride" There are very few favorite songs of mine which bring the heat quite so effectively as this one. It is at once a song you can sing to with the windows down, and listen to quietly alone. Once, it was the picture perfect ideal of what I wanted to do with myself. I was twenty one, about as aimless as a person could be, and the prospect of packing up my truck with a couple bags of clothes and taking off out west to find love sounded like a hell of a good idea. Not good enough, say, to actually DO it...but good enough to sit around drunk and spout off drunken fantasy ideals of how I was going to live my life...which if you ask me, is pretty awesome cowboy chitchat talk. "Teluride" did it for me...and still does. Hands down, one of my favorite songs.
So, to end this and get back to my drinking and youtube music video watching, I'm gonna go ahead and tell you: if you dont like Tim McGraw, then I dont like you (unless you're my wife, in which case, you're just dead damn wrong). And while I may think that San Deigo generally looks like a shanty town...did they film "City of God" here? I have to admit...I was driving in my new POS truck the other day, listening to some country radio with the windows down, arm hanging out, radio up, my sunglasses on...and I realized...holy shit, I'm in the land of endless summer.
So yeah, it's time to make a new country CD. And guess what...it's gonna be awesome. Stand by for the whole lineup...but I'd recommend pulling out a notebook and pen when I put this one out...cause you're gonna want to be a part of this one.

By the way...I'm more or less losing my mind over Sugarland's song and video for "Stuck like Glue." Check it out. If you're tough, that is.


"My next thirty years will be the best years of my life
Raise a little family and hang out with my wife
Spend precious moments with the ones that I hold dear
Make up for lost time here...in my next thirty years."

10.31.10

Maybe next Christmas, she used to say
We'll find a new life and we'll both run away
Maybe next Christmas, I wont be with him
Maybe next Christmas, we can start fresh again

Maybe next Christmas, we'll have reaped what we've sewn
And maybe next christmas we'll have paid what we owe
Maybe next Christmas, we won't be afraid
And maybe next Christmas, we'll both be okay

But you can't pull the truth out of thin air
You can't manufacture what aint there
And maybe next Christmas, we'll be by a fire
Well, maybe next Christmas, you won't be a liar

Maybe next Christmas, I'll be in your arms
With the scent of the evergreens pushing us strong
Maybe next Christmas I'll finally get to see
You wearing that dress that you bought just for me

Maybe next Christmas, you'll be by my side
Relentlessly prove to me that I'm worth the fight
And maybe next Christmas, I'll have more to say
Than I gave you everything, and you gave me away

But you can't pull the truth out of thin air
You can't manufacture what aint there
And maybe next christmas you wont be thinking
That I'm just a criminal and you're still a queen


-Courtesy of Matthew Mayfield

10.24.10

Goddamnit. Did I spell that right? Nonetheless, goddamnit. Here's the deal...I'm gonna lose a few man points for this one...but I gave Glee a chance. Yes, I gave into what is quite possibly the most "gay" show on television these days...and I use "gay" in the most liberal sense possible. (I feel like I've just entered an area that can really be miscontrued and convoluted *did I spell either one of those right?* So let's get it straight. I have no problem with gay people. In fact, I enjoy the theatre, I love the concept of Broadway, and frankly, while I may not go out of my way to hang out with them, some of the more interesting people I've worked with have been some of the most flamboyantly queer people in the world...and god help me, I thought it was pretty fuckin awesome. And you know, for anybody out there who wants to judge someone based on what happens in the bedroom...If I were ever to be judged by what has ever gone on in my wife and I's bed...well, you had better damn well hope you're not a puritan. (and to anyone out there who just covered your mouth and thought 'Oh my god, he just said that!'....lets be real...your bedroom trysts probably dont belong in the Bible either, so let's not be judgemental, okay?)
SO...after all that rambling and trying to set up what I was going to write and argue about...let me continue on with this fabulously long and tiring lead-in to what will most likely be, in the end, not much more than a single paragraphs worth of actual I'd like to think of myself as a fairly well rounded guy. There arent many subjects I cant hold a conversation on, there arent many political or social viewpoints for which I dont hold an understanding or at least a basis for which to argue against, and when it comes to 'pop culture', I'd like to think that I'm not only current, but I hold a fairly open (but restrictive, if that's possible) mind when it comes to what I'll enjoy, listen to, or respect. For example...I dont necessarily listen to...let's say, Outcast, but I will say, I can admit that they're talented....(they're still together, right?). Either way, I'll keep pretending to believe that I'm 'up' on things.
So...apparently the show Glee has had more songs on the top 100 than the Beatles. I honestly didnt know that that was possible...or that the Beatles were so amazingly popular. Whatever, kill me. Either way, if someone is that popular in my time...I'm gonna check it out. That is, unless I'm more than aware that the source of this prestigious honor rides on the back of a TV show that is about highschoolers (ugh) who are in a 'glee club' (double ugh...cause I was once invited to be a part of one...thankfully, the inner girl in me was quiet that day and I kept playing football) , and they sing a bunch of famous people's songs.
Do I have a problem with that? No, not at all. In fact, if you ever wish to experience true 'glee club' joy, then go ahead and youtube the predatory wasp of the pallisades is out to get us! by the Penny Loafers, and I hope you enjoy yourself as much as I do every time I listen to it. No, it is not as grandiose or as stimulating as Sufjan Stevens (the original artist/writer), but it is an excellent example of what incredibly tallented singers can do without an instrument. They take a song that is complex and layered in multitudes of variations, and they make it work. I can respect that...in fact, I can enjoy it. In some ways, it makes the song more powerful in certain aspects.
So, when I came across the latest version of Esquire, and saw that the two main chicks of Glee were not only in it, in their underwear....but that they were in fact, quite unarguably hot....I was faily sold on the whole idea. (You can imagine my surprise, when I got to watch the show that the brunette was actually only 'kinda' hot in the show...after being so convincing in the magazine spread...I'm not gonna lie, it actually made me like her more cause I realized they ugged her up for the show...and she's actually a hot, crazy, expressionist just dying to show her inner freak.....which not so coincidentally, is quite like my wife...) Yeah, we're apart alot, I miss her....so I tend to project her personality, however little she may have in common with fictional characters, on the girls I see on TV. But if she's reading this, and you are too...in my defense, if you watch How I Met Your Mother...and you know Gena...try and tell me she isnt Lilly almost to the fuckin tee...
Sorry, I'm rambling. But I'm also drunk....so now, re-read all this and admire the spelling and grammer skills I have at my fingertips even while intoxicated. Either way, as I said before...I have predictably rambled my way through this entire writing exercise and have come to the point where I will say no more or less than 3 to 5 sentences that actuall support or present an argument.
'GLEE' IS CHEAP.
That's right, it's cheap. If you think that what they sing on that show is in any way an original, creative, or talented take on any of the songs that they cover...you are not a music lover or enthusiast....you are simply a moron. The girls in the show are pitchy....they hide it by changing notes whenever they're supposed to hold a solid high note. Listen to the "Bohemian Rhapsody" they did, and tell me that they came even close to repricating his voice, and I'll call you a goddamn liar. Or how 'bout Imagine? I dont even like that song, and I was insulted by their execution of it. Singing like you're on American Idol doesn't make you suddenly a great perfoming artist. In fact, if you look at the history of who has been successful as a result of that show...none of those singers have ever been 'pitchy' by definition (by which, I mean, instead of ever having to hold a single note and demonstrate your ability to actually sing, you instead, fluctuate between several different pitches, like you're a goddamn blues singer trying to do Bon Jovi). I absolutely cannot stand this goddamn show...and it bothers the living hell out of me that America is apparently in love with it.
There are truly amazing singers out there. In fact, if you believe it or not, there's amazing SONGWRITERS out there...I'm serious, people actually write their own songs nowadays. Glee needs to widen their perspective. There are some truly amazing and soul touching songs being written right now that are so much more culturally and socially relevant, not to mention, more attainable singing-wise for their lead vocalists.
Alex Dezen wrote:

If your voice was a siren, with nothing left to sing
Oh, down below broken skylines,
I'm still here listening...

And somehow Glee is covering "Toxic" by Britney Spears....and sadly, that's probably their best cover to date. Please, there are so many current, amazingly talented bands and artists out there. Damn, The Killers are just begging to have an entire Broadway production be made for their music alone. There is so much talent out there waiting to be actually exposed. And further...I realize that you need singers who can act...but please, dont substitude poor singing ability for someone who can read the most predictable and basic storylines aloud.

So...that's my issue for the week. I've had much more for past weeks. But hey, I'm a busy guy. Things have been going great for me...I've finally readed a point where I can take a deep breath and appreciate where I am and what I've been through. Thanks for sticking with me, if you're one of those people. Other than that...I'm out! If you're reading this....share it with the world, will ya? If not this, at least Saturday Night...you know it's funny, you know it's good...if you dont think so...why are you reading this?




I said, I'd hang and swap cliches all night...but I'm not in love with you.



and Holy Shit...I made it this far, without putting forth my entire argument which I meant to actually put forth. I want to see Glee cover "Constantine" by Something Corporate. He executes that song perfectly...it's a solid ten minutes of heartbreak and amazing song writing...and goddamnit, I'd like to see a show which I underestimate impress me for once. I think I'm owed it...and I think that people who have not yet fallen in love with this song at some point in their life deserve it. And if you dont know what I'm talking about....go check it out, cause, admittedly, I dont think the writers for gleehave found my blog yet. Maybe they have...but prob not.

06.13.10

It was hard to not feel like a bit of an ass when, after trading phone calls disrupted by the relentless wind that perpetually haunts the coast here, Gena's hair dryer, and our general luck of never seeming to have a clear phone connection to talk through, Gena said off-handedly, "Well, I called my dad today, for you know..."

"For what?" I asked, immediately feeling like there was something I had missed.

"It's Father's Day." She laughed at me, already knowing my answer to her question, "Haven't you called your dad?"

Well shit. "No, I guess I should."

"You think I should get him something? From both of us?"

"Yeah, that'd be good."

"I was thinking of just getting him some beer."

I smiled, "Yeah, that sounds good."

So, calling my dad is on my list of things to do today, and I must say, it's probably the only thing on that list that doesn't feel like an obligation. Not that I worry it's going to hurt his feelings if I dont, we talk regularly enough, in fact, he's probably more up to date on my life and times here than just about anyone.

As I finished the mile and a half hike into town, and well into my exquisitely delicious breakfast at Clayton's, I fell into an on-going contemplation on a topic which I have wanted to write about for some time. Its basis was forged in the reading of David Gemmell's Sword in the Storm, followed by my own writing of a short story I titled Beautiful World, and my own aspirations and thoughts on what makes not only a good man, but a good father, and a good mentor. This idea, I've come to define as The Big Man.

David Gemmell's original Big Man was his character, Ruathain. A hulking celtic warrior who took it upon himself to raise his dead best friend's son, and rear him to unstoppable, uncontrollable, hell-raising manhood. Ruathain was a collossus of tempered fury on the battlefield, a virtual well of wisdom in terms of everything involving the pursuit of manhood, a loving father, and a devoted husband. Everyone, including his own wife, referred to him as The Big Man. It was a moment in both my emotional and literary growth that found root in my subconscious, and has since grown into one of the absolutes in my firm set of beliefs. Everyone needs a Big Man, and all men should strive to be one.

My own iconic image of The Big Man centers, as most of my masculine ideals do, on John Wayne. Growing up, he was my ultimate fictional hero, and still is, only he has some company now. When I think of The Big Man, I picture John Wayne, standing with his back to me on some hill, a campfire before him, silouetting his massive frame, head half turned enough to see his profile, a cigarette dangling from his weathered lips, cowboy hat pulled low, jacket collar pulled up high, his enormous hands buried in his pockets. What he is contemplating, I'm not sure, but I know it to be a myriad of things; the world beyond and what it offers, some lost love waiting for him beyond the horizon, the men out there who need a good ass kicking, and me, standing anxiously behind him. He half turns towards me as if to ask, So...you gonna saddle up with me?

Growing up, I was surrouned by proverbial Big Men, both literally (my dad is the shortest of the men in his family by a few inches, and he's a solid six feet), and figuratively. My grandfather is an enormous man, a college basketball star, a football and basketball powerhouse in the Army, and well into his adult life, lived about as hard as a man could live...starting his days at dawn, working all day in a solid manly job at a brewery, and partied his nights away, all the while being a good enough dad to raise three sons with good, tough heads on their shoulders. His larger than life presence and hulking frame are exceeded only by his ability to weave a good yarn. He's proud of himself, and he's proud of the things he's done, and he'll talk your ear off if you let him. At my sister's graduation, he held all of my friends in near rapture as he recounted the legends and lessons he's gathered in his life. He'll at once tell you a story so near to a tall-tale that you're sure he's pumping himself up for you, and end it with a self depreciating anecdote that lets you know he's a man who both takes himself none too seriously, but has a strong sense of self identity and humility. He's the original Big Man of my family, and conveniently bears a strong resemblance to John Wayne. There's little wonder as to why he was my hero growing up.

My uncles and dad are three guys that simply couldn't be more diverse in terms of interests and directions of life. My uncle Mike is a virtual template of all things manly. He's huge, with shoulders nearly as wide as he is tall, works twelve to fourteen hour days as an independent contracter, where throughout his career, he has worked almost entirely alone. When he's not building houses, he's out on a horse hunting. Growing up, he was almost unapproachable simply because he was so obviously many of the things I was not. I had no knowledge of wood, horses, or guns, and he wore cowboy boots at all times. In my eyes, he was the last living cowboy...and judging by the way he watches Lonesome Dove alone in the dark seemingly once a week, he'd give everything in his life to be just that. My dad has often said Mike was born in the wrong century, and I whole heartedly agree. He'd be much more at home living the life of a Texas Ranger in the Old West, living off what his horse and gun could provide him.

My dad was the direct opposite of Mike growing up. Books and games of strategy were his world, and thank god, because if not for him, I'd be quite a boring person. But despite his bookworm personality, he was a pretty solid athlete. Tough as nails as a wrestler, actually. When I hear his stories of what he would do to make weight, running around the gym in full sweats while everyone else enjoyed lunch, I know that at his age, I would never have had the self discipline to do that. In fact, I know it for a fact. I tried wrestling. It was miserable. Being good at wrestling requires a good deal of self control and self reliance. To face off against another person, one on one, with no teammates to rely on is pretty intense. I was much more comfortable on the football field, where if I made a mistake at defensive end, there was hopefully a hard nosed linebacker coming through to fix it. Nonetheless, there are many laughs and smiles at family gatherings when stories of my dad going fishing with Mike, and spending the time reading a book, most of the time not even bothering to put bait on his line.

My Uncle Dave, the youngest of the brothers, was a late bloomer. He was well under six feet tall up to the point of graduating high school, and then managed to explode up to a solid 6'4. He became a powerhouse of a volleyball player in college, and has continued to work out until his legs were the size of tree trunks. Being the youngest, he seemed to model himself off both his brothers equally. He's a die hard fisherman, nearly out-reads my dad (which I've found to be impossible, no matter how hard I try), taught himself carpentry, and is a school principle. I can only imagine how hulking and intimidating he must be if you are to fuck up in his school. The men in my family share a glare that can make your blood run cold (which they got from my grandmother, who is still one of the more formidable people I've ever met).

I've grown up in a family of Big Men. Big Men who are to a tee, almost entirely ruled by their wives...and I'm proud to say I've mostly followed suit. Whether intentionally or not, all of them have raised kids who are mentally tough, independent, and very aware of themselves and their identities...although, I'm probably a bit of a wild card, as I change identities like a girl changes clothes. Nonetheless, I'd still say that I've got my bearings on who I am better than most people.

Which brings me in the end, to a full appreciation of who my dad is, and the way he's raised me and my siblings. Despite working heavily most of his life, I was never short on "Dad Time". He brought me into his worlds of fantasy games and books, and his appreciation for a good war movie. I met all my fictional heroes and phillosophies through my dad, and learned a healthy respect for war and the men who fight it. Whether he meant to or not, he firmly established my desire and need to be a fighter, and as I managed to butt heads with nearly every person who ever saw things anything but my way through life, he's been a tireless mentor to me, acting as both a sounding board, and as a brick wall when I needed it.

He is, in all actuality, the toughest man I know. It started with something as simple as working two jobs to put both him and my mom through college, to when his at the time, best friend and boss hired someone else for a position my dad would have owned, he said fuck off, and moved us all to Ohio to start his own compnay. With some of the monumental set backs he's had the misfortune to befall him, I've never seen him waver in his beliefs or ability to maintain his place in our family as a fixture of solidarity. He has always provided a feeling of security in our family, and while being a shrewd businessman, has never wavered in taking his own calculated risks which most people would not dare to attempt financially. The times I've heard him raise his voice to a yell are few and far between, yet I've also found myself in his iron grip when I've crossed whatever lines he has placed. As I've grown into adulthood, I find myself appreciating more and more what kind of man he is. He's one of the few good men left, who will offer you sage advice while also never daring to tell you how to live your life. Whether it's in Joel's clear-charted course of financial success and well being, or my own wild escapes into the world of adventure and death-defiance, he's our most trusted mentor, and I know that to my sister, he is her ultimate guardian. Toughness is not something my dad portrays, it's something he silently carries and has demonstrated time and time again, and I feel that through him, I've found my own center of power. I hope that I too can face down all the demons of life as competantly as he has.

So, happy Father's Day, Dad. You're a Big Man.

02.11.09 (David Gemmell tribute)

I came across an old book today. A book which I have read religiously at least once a year since I was probably 15. I had been looking for a new book at the bookstore, and hadn't quite yet opened up to the possibility that there were more than two good authors in the world. I remember I was dispairing, and was resolving to just go home and re-read the books I knew I would love. It seemed every book I picked up was by an out of date, archaic author, or by some chick (women are generally not good writers, at least, in my opinion. Disagree with me if you like, and if you take it personally, my bad. It's my opinion, and I'm entitled to it).

At last, my dad walked up, picked up a random book (which by chance, happened to be a best seller), and handed it to me. "Read this. It looks good." He was right. There was a grey bearded old man the size of an ogre, wielding an enormous axe, cutting through a bunch of what could only be bad guys. It was written by a man I'd never heard of before, David Gemmell. It had a simple, straight forwardly ambiguous title: LEGEND. Fuck yeah, I bought it.

I went home and poured through that book faster than I think I've ever read a book on a first read. It was about an invincible army descending upon a mostly undefended fortress, and the men who fought to hold the walls. Every character that graced those pages was refreshingly real and unique...they were men with real emotions, real values, and real doubts about their own ability to look death in the eye.

There was Rek, the self-doubting and terrified rogue-turned-warrior, soon to be called "the Earl Bronze"(yes, that's awesome). There was Hogun, the Legion commander, the only officer who stayed with his men to try and fight for the fortress, knowing full well he was going to die doing so. And on the other end of the spectrum, there was the farmer Gilead, who fought for no other reason than it seemed like a good idea, and he hated farming. But above all of them...there was Druss. He stood eight feet off the page...he dominated every sentence and paragraph. I had never read anything like it...I'd never read about that kind of a hero before. The kind of fictional hero who would laugh at any guy Tolkien ever thought up in his head...the kind of guy who would have looked ridiculously too tough to possibly not survive the movie 300. To tough, so untouchable, with a straight forward code of ethics...oh yeah, and he was 60 years old. Half of the book you read about him cutting through a crowd of men, and then later, how bad he threw out his shoulder or knee in doing so. Druss was tough on a level I did not know existed (even fictionally).

So today, although I just read it last fall, I put it on my nightstand, and will probably spend the next four hours reading it tonight. The main reason being...David Gemmell. Over the past, what, ten years, I've read every one of his 30 something books, most of them repeatedly. Mostly because you just can't get much more word for word value out of a book. The man wrote barely 300 page novels which are always to the point, and they carry a similar plot line: a doubting young man gets pushed into a world of violence where death is almost certain, and along comes a grizzled, old, beaten down warrior to show him the ways of killing. The young man will meet a hot, crazy chick who likes killing too...and they take out some seriously bad dudes. Obviously I'm dumbing it down a bit...but when you get down to the core of what makes Gemmell's books so good...it's their simplicity. What makes them work, and what makes them so important to me...are all the different levels of morals and ethics which Gemmell thought to be important in terms of what it means to be a man. They are books that every young man should read in his defining years.

He died recently, a few years ago. I remember feeling like a true hero of mine had passed...as if Druss had really, finally died. I've always felt like the men in his stories are representations of himself...or at least, idealized versions. The men in his stories were what he thought a man should be: tough, uncrompromising, loyal, tough, infinitely faithful to the love of his life, tough, and did I mention...Tough. As. Fucking. Nails.

But perhaps the best story I've ever read by David Gemmell was an article he wrote for some random fiction magazine. In it, he told the story (in far more words than I'll use here) of a young boy who lived in London after WWII, whose single mother was what some people would call "loose" (which was probably akin to being the average 8th grade girl now days). Anyways, the kid was often teased and beaten up, was a huge wimp, and spent most nights terrified of the "vampires" that lived in the darkness.

Alas, one day, the kid got fed up with being bullied all the time, and punched one of his bullies in the face. The victim's dad decided to chase him down, corner him in an alley, and threaten to kick his ass...which probably would have happened...if not for a huge hand clamping down on the man's shirt. The huge newcomer picked up the other man easily, looked him in the eye, and said...

"Why are you pickng on that kid?"

"He...he was bulling my kid, B-B-Bill."

"Well, I was just on a walk with that boy's mom. How bout you get the fuck out of here and dont ever touch the boy again."

"Sure thing. Sorry, Bill."

Obviously, the kid in the story was David Gemmell. Thye man in the story was his step dad, Bill, whom Gemmell says used as the basis for Druss. A year or so later, while still kid, young David Gemmell woke up from a nightmare to find his step dad sitting next to him (probably looking tough as nails).

"What's wrong, son?"

"I'm scared of vampires. There was a vampire in here."

"Yeah, I know. But I broke that fucker's neck. I won't have vampires running around my house." (take that Twilight fans).

Gemmell says that after that night, he never stayed awake in fear of vampires again. In fact, he grew into a hell of a badas himself. He was 6'5, got kicked out of high school for starting a gambling ring, worked as a bouncer, and eventually ended up in journalism, where we worked until he got cancer and decided to write a book...Legend. Obviously he didn't die at that point, he was too tough. But getting back to why that story is my favorite, it's because it contains the line which I think best describes what kind of guy I want to be...and what kind of man Gemmell expected himself to be, and others as well.

He said that the world needs men like Bill. That there's always going to be the need for shepherds to tend the flock, to defend the world from wolves. They're men who are larger than life, won't back down to anything, and will defend what they believe in to the death. They're true heroes. They are, as he put it, Men who know how to deal with vampires.

Yeah, that's awesome.

I grew up with men of violence. I understand men of violence. It means that when I write action scenes and when I have violent characters, I have a very strong feel for it.

-David Gemmell

06.06.10

It's been almost a week since I last had Gena in my arms, and I'm feeling the effects quite keenly. Knowing that it will be weeks and months until I get that ache sated makes the emptiness more acute. Leave it to me to find a way to separate myself from her after I spent years trying to find someone who wanted to be there all the time. July and August will be the worst, as I'll be completely separated from my phone, computer, and other necessities of getting my Genaveve fix. It's going to be a long summer.

I got word I'd be allowed to head back to Ohio for the long weekend about three days before the last plane took off. I immediately regretted telling her I may get it off and ruined the chance to surprise her, but in the end, just hearing her freak out on the other end of the line when I called and told her it was a definite filled my soul with enough joy to make up for it.

I took the red eye to Philadelphia and got little to no sleep, since I had the luck of being placed right next to the bathroom, where there seemed to be a constant line of people. I think the people on that plane broke a record for most bathroom usage. By the time I got to Philly, I had been up for 28 hours, nothing new to me after what I've been through, but still enough to leave me sprawled out on the floor by the gate to my next flight with a spare t-shirt draped over my face. I'm sure I got some stares, but at this point, I can pass out on concrete with a helmet as a pillow (which I do on a daily basis).

When I finally set foot in Columbus, whatever burnt out feelings I had evaporated as I anxiously watched car after car come around the bend of the passenger pick up lane. I about ripped open the door to her car, and immediately went about trying to slip my hands through every inch of her clothes, and smothered her in more kisses than even her beautiful lips could take.

"Why are you wearing clothes?" I mumbled between kisses.

"I was in public! You want me to walk around naked?" She laughed.

I thought it over and with much resignation replied, "I guess not."

Not that it mattered, it was a problem solved quite quickly and easily within moments of walking into our little one bedroom apartment. The rest of the weekend was spent never taking my eyes and hands off her for more than a moment, as we visited my parents, brother, and my three closest buddies from college.

It amazes me how happy she has made me. After going so long dying for someone to share all the intricacies of my life with, finding her has proven to be an on going adventure of emotions and discoveries of the joys of true intimacy.

We met at a party, friends of friends who shared a duplex-style house on Capital's campus. It was my first summer completely out of school and football, and as stated before, I had little to no idea where I was going or what I was going to do about the mess I had made of things. But, I had come to two conclusions: I was done waiting for Christen to sort things out, and I was going to do something with my life that fulfilled me in all the ways I desired...whatever that ended up being.

Joel was at the time still in football, and that kept me in touch with most of my football buddies, and Nick's house was the spot most of us picked to either party our asses off, or pre-game for our future destination, and inevitably end up at for a late night post-party. The girls next door were often there, although most of them had boyfriends, and those that didn't hadn't caught my eye...in fact, for that entire summer, I can't think of a single girl making me stop in my tracks. Then Gena walked in.

She was beautiful, hot, sexy, every word I'd ever used to describe a girl who caught my eye, and more. She had an edge, and she had attitude...and she seemed absolutely indifferent to me (I now know from her, that when she saw me she thought: you were so handsome, I literally had to catch my breath...then figured you either had a girlfriend or had an STD). That's my Genaveve for ya.

With her huge, bright eyes, thick golden-red hair, and tanned, toned legs, it was impossible for me to keep my eyes off her. Like I said, she paid little attention to me. Instead, she was loud and wild, fast with the shots (reserved for she and her friends alone), with a constant smile, and a laugh that was infectious and loaded with fun.

I immediately had to find out who she was, and much to my disappointment, Nick told me she went to Ohio State, and wasn't sure if she was single. We drank for a while, and I tried my best to not be creepy and get caught staring at her.

We eventually made our way to a party down the street, hosted by some football guys, which was the first big bash of the school year, as it was still a week before classes started. Initially, upon hearing about it, Joel, Doug and I thought it sounded like a pretty good chance to hit on some new freshman chicks who knew nothing about me, and thus, carried no pre-conceived notions of what I was all about. Now though, was I watched her walk in front of me, I could do little more but nudge Joel and raise an eyebrow at him, which he returned with a nod. Gena was out-of-this-world hot, and everyone who knew me knew that my mind was made up for the night.

The party ended up being something of a let down for me. For the first time, I felt incredibly old, and inevitably ended up wondering if the eighteen year old girls and sophomore football guys wondered what my old ass was still doing hanging around. Suddenly, I realized I had moved past the college scene, and as I walked in the house and saw Gena looking at me, I wondered if she was thinking the same thing (a funny side note, she asked her friends earlier in the night who the "older guys", ala, Me and Doug, were).

After having waited in line at the kegs for at least a half hour, I had given up on the chances of finding a beer, and was anxious to round up Joel, Doug, and Nick to head back to where we had beer of our own, and I could drown my sorrows. I found Nick and told him as much, but he clearly didn't understand, he had been able to get beer just fine, and was talking to a pretty girl I didn't recognize, and wasn't even close to being ready to leave. A little pissed off, I saw Gena standing with her friends, actually looking like she too wondered what the hell she was doing at a party where she knew no one. With nothing to lose, I walked up and did my best to be charming. She at least took pity on me and gave me one of her beers, a huge gesture, considering how scarce the stuff was at this party. We made small talk, and I mostly resorted to talking to Jaimie, her one friend I knew well enough to talk to, and I felt at the time that she was mostly blowing me off, or at least, definitely not interested.

When we finally returned to Nick's, she hung around for a few minutes, then headed off with a couple friends to someone else's house that she knew. I watched her walk away, turned to Joel, and said with much regret, "Well there she goes...I'll probably never see her again."

I about lost my mind when, a few weeks later, back at Nick's, early into the drinking night, he mentioned to me that Gena was coming over again. I immediately felt some relief that I had dressed the part to impress, a button up shirt, I'd cleaned myself up in the past weeks, cut my hair and trimmed up the beard, and had my boots on. I always did well with my boots on. When she finally showed up, the familiarity of having been around each other before (and a better head start on the beer) made it much easier for me to approach her and talk to her...and much to my delight, she was finally receptive, and much to my further delight, she was flirtatious. I was in heaven, and regrettably, I immediately made up my mind to take her home with me...which she still teases me for to this day.

I learned she had just moved to Columbus, after transferring to from OU to pursue an art education major, a program OU had recently dropped. I really should write a thank you note to OU one day. Why she was interested in me is beyond me. I made little secret to being recently flunked out, working at a restaurant, and I also had the unfortunate luck of telling a not-so-appropriate story about another girl while she was in the room listening. How she forgave me for that, I'll never know. I hung around later than I should have, and while I did realize she'd never go home with me that night, I tried my best to get her to give in. In the end, I went home, and once again said something to Joel along the lines of, "Oh well, it was worth a shot."

But that wouldn't be it for me. I'd lost her twice already, and it wasn't going to happen again. The next day I made it my mission to track her down, and as much of a loser move it may have been, found her on Facebook, and sent her a message that was as obnoxious as possible, and asked her out...and for whatever reason, she said yes. A couple days later, we went to lunch at Olive Garden. It was my first real date in a few years, and I had a blast just sitting there talking to her. She was awesome...funny, so pretty it made me feel lucky just to have her there with me, and had two must-haves: a love of art and music. It was impossible not to like her. When the date ended, I held back on the goodbye-kiss, as I wasn't sure if we were there yet.

The next night, unable to get her off my mind, bored and lonely, sitting in front of the tv having a couple drinks, I texted her. The reply I got was...My apartment is full of smoke...is that bad? I went on to learn that she had gone out with friends, got the idea to make chicken nuggets...and fell asleep as they cooked, then burned, then filled her place with smoke. I told her yeah, it's probably not too good, especially considering she was feeling light headed. So, with a bit of luck (or bad luck on her side), I picked her up and took her to my place so she could sleep on my couch. I gave her a blanket, and gave her the last first kiss I ever plan on giving. I still view that night as a pivotal one in my life...things with her could have very easily gone another way, and she might have gone the way of the rest of the girls and friends I've had and lost in my life. But I remember going to bed thinking to myself I could get used to having her here like this.

The last almost three years of getting to know Gena has been a life changing and exciting adventure. She is the first and only for me in many ways, and while I may have fought it for far longer than I should have, her constant presence in my life has given me direction and clarity for the first time. Because of her, I no longer wonder what the hell I'm going to do with my life, now I'm actively planning. The security that she has provided me is incomparable to any other solidarity any other person has ever given me, including my family. How and why she's managed to stick around as I've unveiled my long list of faults, demons, and doubts about myself and my life is a testament to her own strength and determination to see things through with me...for which I'll be forever greatful.

I miss her every moment of every day, and in many cases, thinking about her was the only thing that has gotten me through some of the insanely near-impossible trials I have faced down in this past year. I'm not sure that I could have done this alone, and don't want to know where I'd be had she not almost killed herself via chicken nuggets. I should really write Tyson a thank you note some day.

I'm calling you to say that I'm gonna be
Anywhere you want, tonight and forever
I'm coming home to take, take us both apart
Put us back like one, and bleed together
I'm calling you to say that I'm gonna stay
Wrapped 'round your heart for time and weather
I'll never live...I'll never die...without you

-The Damnwells, Tonight and Forever

06.03.10

Some guy, somewhere, has some pretty big boots to fill.

We are all replaceable aren't we? Whether through the fault of movies, books, music, or just the need to be more important than we may actually be...we all hope that we are irreplaceable to the people we care about. Very few relationships in life last. Best friends, first loves...they always seem like it's going to last.

I can't count how many times I have looked at the people around me and thought to myself...these are the people, the friends, the relationships that will last me through my life. Today, I don't keep in touch with my best friends from high school...aside from Doug. The guys with whom I spent six years goofing off in locker rooms, from seventh grade to graduation, walking out onto the big field on a friday night, sweating even when we were just sophomores and most likely wouldn't get to play much more than a series or two...and the guys who I hugged and cried with in the cold at Thomas Worthington when that great ride ended three years later.

That was the last time I saw my first real love as well. We had broken up a few months earlier, and I had not yet gotten over my first real broken heart. But she hugged me through my soaked pads, kissed my cheek, and told me not to cry. I thought she was the one...she thought I was way too intense. She was right, but when I look back, it was worth it. I moped around for a year after her. Ran away to a school I shouldn't have even been interested in, trying to distance myself from Columbus, where there was still some lingering hurt left over. We never did much more than talk here and there after that night. Now, I have no idea what I was so upset about. I hear she's married now...or engaged...or something happy like that. Pretty sure to an Air Force guy...gag me.

When it stopped hurting, I don't really remember. Those feelings of heartbreak and abandonment were erased through bong hits and beer. My best friend was my roomate, Matt, and we partied like we didn't have class (we never went anyways), and we were the guys who everyone wanted to know where we were going, what we were up to. It was gratifying, it was great, and I don't regret any of it. I made friends there who I thought I would be friends with forever. I don't even remember most of their names now. I haven't talked to Matt in over three years. I hear he's married, or engaged, and settling into a nice suburban life. How boring.

When I think of the friends and girlfriends I've ditched throughout the years, I realize how easily I move on from things and people. I've always seemed to enjoy the weather of leavetaking. Whether it's being good on the rebound, complete detatchment, or just what everyone else does...doesn't really matter in the long run. Some guy, somewhere, has some pretty big boots to fill. Does he? Everyone has always seemed to do just fine without me. In fact, they all seem to radically accelerate their lives afterwards. Maybe I'm the guy who inspires you to get a move on with your life...how lucky am I?

But if we all patch up, move on, and enter new friendships and phases of life...how can we ever feel truly important to eachother? I know old friends who hear something about me probably react the same way I do when I hear about them...I shrug, and say good or bad for them, and continue with what I was doing. The fact that he and I once planned on living next door to eachother, putting our kids in the same little leagues, and marrying our sons and daughters off to eachother...that doesn't really matter anymore. No more than the fact that when I was seventeen, I made a promise to love a girl forever and planned to make babies for years on end. God how terrifying would that be? I definitely have some sort of guardian angel. But what if we don't move on? What if it's impossible? That no matter what we do, where we go, what we pursue...there's always that nagging voice in the back of our heads, or that sinking feeling in your heart, that's telling you this time...your shoes just won't ever be filled again. I've had that before. I think I'll have it again. I know I have it now with Gena...there will never be another for me, and I know that I recieve the same promise in return. I think that there are people in my life that will be there forever. Maybe I'll be right this time. Maybe not. At least I'll have my Genaveve.

He knew her and so himself, for in truth he had never known himself. And she knew him and so herself, for although she had always known herself she had never been able to recognize it until now.

-Italo Calvino, The Baron in the Trees

05.27.10

We drove most of the way lost in the sounds of Mike Dunn and the Kings of New England, who is among, if not the "king" of roadtrip music. The conversations that found their way out were all of the laughing kind, and we wore our sunglasses like badges that said today's our day off. It was the kind of day that you mostly forget, but that reasserts itself in your memory every time you hear a certain song. Paper Candy now carries this memory for me.
At the time, I was not what most people would call a "happy" person. I'd recently recieved a letter from Capital that said, Please do not come back. You are a terrible student, and you embarass us. Whatever shape football had left me in was just about out the window, in fact, I'd later go home, look at the pictures of me from that trip, and think to myself...I need to get back in shape. I was the picture perfection of melodramatic, and was mostly in the business of getting drunk and railing at the world in one way or another.
The best thing I had going for me was a crappy job where I made no money, but one which introduced me to two of the best friends I'd ever have; a couple of knock your socks off handsome, strapping, tall, real manly men...Andrew and Michael. There was also the always interesting Rob, and white trash Jesse, and The Babe. we worked together pretty much every day, and it lead to a pretty interesting summer. We were all a bunch of borderline alchoholics who didn't know how to do much more than get shitfaced and cause problems somewhere.
But this wasn't that kind of a trip. I was driving, Andrew rode shotgun. We both wore silver aviators like we invented the look. Joel stretched out across the back with Booch. We drove the whole two and a half hours with the windows down and the radio up, lost in thoughts of jetskiing, an upcoming Damnwells concert, and the beers we'd be drinking soon.
We spent all day out on the lake. Doug and I took turns trying to see how close we could get to killing ourselves on the jetskis, and everbody else did their best to imitate us. We got drunk and sobered up probably three times each, then drove to Cleveland, saw the Damnwells for probably the last time in a few years, and left the place with bleeding eardrums, full hearts, and a Jameson drunk thanks to Ted being (as always) way too generous of a rock star.
It was a day to remember...and I hope I always will. Luckily, I've got Mike Dunn and the Kings of New England on my ipod to remind me anytime I forget. I'll remember puking out the side of the car on the way home, after making it to within ten minutes of our house, and Joel retelling the story as him looking back, seeing me leaning out the window and asking me:
"Did you just puke on my car?"
"No, I was just getting some air."
I promptly passed out. Booch, who was riding next to Joel at that point, turned to him and said, "I'm pretty sure he puked."
But I'll mostly remember Andrew turning to me at the concert, tapping his 24 oz PBR can against mine, and yelling over the music, "Thanks for inviting me, Buddy...this is a great time."
And it was.

We can never lose the things we live for. We may have to change their form at times, if we've made an error, but the purpose remains the same and the forms are ours to make.
-Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged

05.26.10

I actually came into this with something to say....now I'm just distracted by the Dierks Bentley song that just came on. My musical tastes are what they are...my own. If it's the kind of stuff you could hear anywhere from the radio to a dive bar...preferably both. If people are dancing to it, if it's by some teenaged chick, if people are head banging or "moshing", or if it could ever be performed live without a band...I'm not going to like it. And no, I dont speak ebonics, so that rules out an entire genre all together.
It's no secret that music is generally what defines me. If it's classic rock, country, indie, alt-country, americana....anything that falls into the catagories described above, I usually know the song on the radio. Music fuels me, comforts me, and distracts me. This mostly has to do with the lyrics. While there are certain songs that I just want to listen to because they rock, most of the songs I fall in love with hold some meaning to me lyrically. The general rule is the sadder the better.
Regardless, the joy of my favorites, of the hundres that fall into the list of songs I could listen to for the rest of my life, is they are time capsules. every song in my library holds some special connotation, a certain memory...the feelings that are associated with them. I realize that this isn't some special quality of mine. Everybody has songs that remind them of someone or something. I only fear sometimes, that I've wrapped way too much of myself up in music...movies and books too. I'm what happens when you start taking these things too seriously, and go through life emulating the extreme emotions captured in them. I often find myself reigning in my immediate reactions to things...when someone pisses me off, my first instinct is to be John Wayne: punch him in the face, say something totally awesome and tough...and walk away unpunished. Just like when things go poorly in my love life, I want to walk around some nameslly city on a snowy night with David Gray as my background music...complete romantic dramedy. This is an honest problem of mine...I could live in a fantasy world quite easily.
Which is why I've been a complete poetic sack today. While running, scrolling through songs on my ipod, I came across Sufjan Stevens' Illinois album, or more importantly, the song, Run! The predatory wasp of the pallidases is out to get us! Yes, it is really called that. Yes, I'm gonna shorten it to the Predatory Wasp for the rest of this writing. Aside from how amazing and perfect of a song it it, its a song that without fail, seems to be my own personal Delorian.
Five years ago, when I was still a young man, I lived with two best friends of mine, Doug and Sam, Sam's mostly loser/stoner cousin, Burgess, and a timid, mostly unnoticable, mostly silent kid named Jake. Jake was a good friend of mine, but ours was a strained relationship made up mostly of convenience. When I came home from BG, freshly flunked out, mostly burnt out, and almost entirely broke, it didnt take long for me to realize that everyone I knew was away at college. This was a good thing, I had lost a good 25 pounds of muscles, and needed to get all A's at Columbus State if I was ever going to get into Capital and back into football. At Cstate, I ran into Jake. We'd been friends of friends in ghigh school, and we started hanging out...because there was no one else to hang out with...and he had his own apartment. It was a chance to get away from parents...it was a chance to not get too depressed about my life in general. For that entire year and summer, Doug and I crashed at Jake's on the weekends, befriended his neighbors, and more or less, lived out of his place like it was our own. A year later, Doug was back at home freshely flunked out, and I was living it up at Capital., enjoying the perks of being a second year freshman surrounded by fresh out of high school chicks...but we kept hanging out with Jake. When I had proven I could stay in school and statarted looking to bracnch out from the dorms, Jake was a nautral choice for a roomate, both to help lower rent, and hell, we owed him a place to stay. We moved in, and it proved to be the end of the road for that friendhip. He was a little too quiet, way too timid, and way too shy to deal with the way Doug and I were mostly living those days...and after a year of being kept up til five by our partying, he decided it was time to move out. How and why Sam managed to live sober in our house without killing us is beyond me...he's just a really nice guy I guess.
But there was one great gift that Jake left behind: His music. Fora guy less exciting than cardboard boxes, he had good taste in music. I am still not entirely convinced that he actually liked the music, so much as he wanted people to know he liked it. I say this only because he bought each and every indie album on the market. Good or bad, he was game. He listened to some of the worst music ever...but made up for it with introductions to more artists than I can list on one page. One of the greatest was Sufjan Stevens. Jake told me about him quite casually, "Hey, I heard of this new guy. He's good...I guess." That was about the most excited he got for anything. Nonetheless, I gave it a listen and fell in love with the album Seven Swans.
Fast forward three years, Burgess had moved out, Sam was due to to be married soon, and I was in the middle of what can only be remembered as the most miserable, exciting, and interesting years of my life. I always did just enough to stay in school...worked out just enough to barely hold on to the muscle I gained for football...and went out to the bar as often as possible. Donericks was the main haunt, but every weekend Whipps would come down and we'd party our asses off wherever he took us. Although not Sufjan related, I will say, many of my best college memories involve Whipps taking me to some bar or some party which he was only vaguely invited to, where we would hit on chicks we didnt know, get blackout drunk, and get in the first fight we could find.
That winter was horribly depressing. Probably the lowest I've ever been. Football was looking like it was getting away...I could barely keep up with school because of how much I was drinking...and I was utterly let down by the most important person in my life at the time. Her not showing up when she was supposed to proved to be the biggest back breaker of all. The reason for this, is that I had spent most of the weeks before Christmas preparing for it. This is where Sujan comes in.
Doug picked up the album on a whim. We both liked Sufjan, and the new record was something new to listen to. This happened simultaneously with my sudden urge to clean my life up (not for the first or last time). Anyone who saw my apartment near the end, knows that the place was no epitome of cleanliness. Let me say, in all honesty, that the end result of that place compared to how it once was is like comparing the US to Mexico. The place was constantly covered in beer cans, smelled like cigarettes and pot, and the walls were mostly covered by bb gun pellet holes...because we thought it was a good idea to shoot guns in the house. It was obviously no place to impress a real girl...at least not one you'd want to hang out with for longer than a one night stand.
So we began cleaning. We fixed the furnature, refinished the tables, scrubbed top to bottom, repainted the place, and got ready for...I'm not really sure what. ..but I had a complete conviction that it was going to be just what I was needing. Sufjan played for most of this. We listened to it on the way to the bar, we listened to it stoned out of our minds, and we listened to it while we took turns playing xbox. The Predatory Wasp was the favorite...for obvious reasons (I shit you not, listen to it and try not to like it by the end). It became the song of the winter. I'm sure I was listening to it when I was still nursing the wounds from my epic Christmas Eve bar fight...a moment in my life that was as much damaging as it was cathartic...a great story in it's own right, but not where I'm going with this.
But I remember walking into our newly furnished apartment one day, out of the cold, into a warm living room with comfortable couches, in the first place I'd ever lived at on my own, with a group of friends that were closer than I had ever experienced up until that point in time, and really being hit by the feeling that I'm going to remember this. This moment, this time in my life, this place where I live. I'm going to remember it exactly like this. This is where the rest of my life will start.
I suppose it's mostly a bittersweet memory. All of those friendships have either drifted away or become strained by moving on with our lives. We're growing up...a little more every day...and it's terrifying, but its real. When I think back on all the great nights I spent in that apartment, all the poeple who came in and out of it, and all the drinks we shared together...I know that it's where most of my college memories will come from. The things that happened and were experienced there are the things that I will (or won't) be telling my kids about one day. It's where I fell apart after having my heart broken...and it's where my darling Genaveve showed up and stuck around to put it back together...even when I didn't really deserve it.
I suppose now, I wonder what will be theat next proverbial "place". If songs take us back to a person, a feeling, time or place, where am I going and what songs are going to be playing in the background? Twenty to twenty five years old has proven to be...EPIC. I sometimes feel like I've got too many stories, too many lessons, too many thoughts and feelings about it all to ever put it all into writing. I could write a book for every year of this last half decade. And god, look at the roller coaster I've gotten onto now.
I'm sure my late twenties will provide equal to far more experiences and life changing moments, people, and songs...but how great would it be to go back and live through all that again...even the bad stuff. That was LIVING...living the way I've figured out is all I know how to do. Balls out, open to punching out my boss, open to believing in fools' thoughts of true love, meant to be, and personal destiny. But I cant help wondering what's next. The job is too obvious of an answer...I want to know about me, my life, what and who I'm going to care about when I'm sitting in front of a computer fretting over the danger of turning 30. I'm different than I was at twenty...but not much. More experienced, more devoted, much tougher,...but more or less the same guy, just five years of slight maturing to level me out a bit. I know what want to be...I know what kind of guy I want to be...now I just want to live it.

"When a man is pushed, tormented, and defeated, he has a chance to learn something."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

05.24.10

Three years ago, I sat on the deck of my family's beach house on the Oregon coast, nursing a cup of coffee and a hangover, watching the ocean in the distance. Amid those rolling hills of endless green, I sat with a heavy heart and a conflicted soul. I was in my place, the land that in my youth transported me to magical worlds where the monsters and demons I came across could be battled by a stick-turned sword. My brother, cousin, and I ran untamed for hours on end through the woods behind the old beach house, and through the tidal pools that surround Proposal Rock, and our imaginations soared. As we entered the years of adolesence and young adulthood, it still remained a place of peace and safety for us, as we traded in our swords for beers around a campfire, still nestled safely in the shadow of the Rock.

My last trip was the end of an era for me, so to speak. I was twenty three, freshly flunked out of college for the second time in five years, and on the surface, had not a care in the world about it. Joel and I flew out and drove up to the coast with Chris, and within moments of arriving, had cracked open a fresh bottle of whiskey and were on our way to a five day party where we would move cautiously around our family and hid our hangovers, and at sundown, would buy ourselves a few cases of beer and head down to the beach for the night. I had been out of football for six months, and hadn't stepped foot in the weightroom more than once a week for that whole time, and it was beginning to show. Throw in a five nights a week of hard drinking schedule and a diet that consisted of mostly restaraunt food, and it's safe to say, I was at a low point in terms of athletic fitness.

Yet it was not my body that was hurting, although, it surely didnt help my overall state of being...no, it was my soul. I was heartbroken. I'd fallen in love, years before with a girl who, much like the others before her, was not there for me. Not physically, not spiritually, and I dont know why I never put a foot down. Christen was everything to me, and in retrospect, I find it hard to understand exactly why. When we are young and head over heels, we throw out terms like "soulmate" and "meant to be" very carelessly, for when we are young and head over heels, we believe the things we say to one another. But for whatever reason, I fell...and I fell hard. When she ran off to pursue her own dreams, I tagged along in spirit only, for I was not asked to follow...just wait. So I waited, and I hung on end for every blocked phone call and email, and stayed up nights trying to convince her to see that I was there waiting. I begged and I pleaded, and I have come to see that I broke myself in the process.

I am a staunch advocate of the power of a man's passionate heart. It is the consequence of being a die hard romantic. I grew up idolizing men of film and literature who crossed continents and battled their way through man and myth alike to find their way to their one true love. I put Christen up on that pedestal, and I will not go so far to say that she did not deserve it, for there was a time, early on, that I believe I was right to believe in her. When that time ended, I know not for sure, but I should have realized it years before I did. Because in my heartbreak, I made a home for my soul and planned to stay there indefinitely. That is no way for a man to live. It lead to nights of binge drinking and a slew of ruined relationships with girls who deserved far more than I was ever willing to give them. I would slink home most mornings hung over and feeling as if I was the lowest kind of man on earth...and would hide it in a belief that that's what men did. I told myself that men drank and fought and slept around as much as possible, and indeed, that is a belief that falls in line with the majority of guys my age. It took a gorgeous, wild hearted girl with twice the tenacity I ever thought I could handle to show me the error of my ways...and even then, I fought against it, and tried to stay in my den of misery.

But that is another story entirely. This story goes back to that cup of coffee and quiet self analyzation on the deck. Minutes before, my grandmother had burst into my room and told me in her tough, sarcastic way, straight up:
"Aaron, get up. It's 9 o'clock and you need to get out of bed and get a move on."
I rolled out of bed and started to put my shirt on, but she did not relent.
"You look like you've put on weight. You know, you can party and drink all you want, but your grandfather did it and still managed to make it to work every morning at 4am. So if you want to live this way, learn how to do it responsibly."
I laughed, "Grandma, it's 9am. I dont ever work before noon, this is still early for me."
"Well snap out of it. You're putting on weight. I can see it in your face. You need to stop drinking so much, and get on with things."
Plain and simple. No one had really approached me yet about that fact. My parents had expressed interest and worry on what I was going to do now that I was out of school for at least a year, if not the forseeable future, and I made little secret about my hard partying lifestyle. But for the most part, they had remained quiet about it, and I dont fault them at all for it. My parents have always let all their kids find their way through life without much prodding or pushing, and I imagine they were simply waiting to see what I would come up with next. But not Grandma. She raised three boys and still continues to do what she can to run the rest of us, and she was not about to let me sleep and drink my way through my days.

Not another word was said about it, and there didnt need to be. Whether she really meant to or not, she had planted a seed. It brought on a rush of feelings. I felt alone and abandoned. What sort of a hero could I be when the person I wanted to save gave me no inclination that I was requested to do so? I had become an incomplete person for no other reason than I told myself that I was. All I really wanted to do was be a writer...but I couldnt write. I had been sitting in front of empty notebooks and blank computer screens for months. To write well, you need passion, and I had always thought that a depressed, alchohol induced writer was the way to be...then why couldnt I write? My roomate, Doug, and I had finished our masterpiece screenplay Saturday Night, and had submitted it to lukewarm if not disinterested reviews. There went that dream. I had a novel idea, but perhaps I realized even then that it was too much based upon my own life, and I couldnt come up with an ending because I had no idea how my own situation was going to end. I was stuck in a rut, spinning my wheels in epic proportions.

So I sat out on that deck and battled with myself throughout the morning. The trip was by no means ruined, and in truth, I did very little at that time to start making any grand changes. It ended up being one of my most memorable 4th of Julys, as I revelled in the grandness of the land where I spent my youth, we shared beers and stories, and I began what would be a long road of spiritual healing. I can say without certainty that it was then that I took my first steps back towards finding myself and what it was that my heart desired. By the end of that trip, I was certain of one thing: I needed love in my life, and I was going to do what it took to get it back. I did not yet realize, however, that the enormous, delicious love I was to find was in another place entirely...but that's, like I said, another story.

Today, when I walked out the door to my place, I looked out at the ocean in a place I never imagined, in my wildest dreams, that I would make my home. It may be a temporary home and place, but it is my place...and I know that securely. The road I have travelled in these past years has been wrought with surprises and enormous changes of direction, yet, I can trace the first steps back to my return home from that trip to Oregon. When I got back, I resolved to lose weight, get back in shape, and cut back on my drinking. I managed the first two, and the third has slowly followed. I put myself back in the arena and field of adventure with my brief venture into firefighting, and have since finally found the challenge I have hungered for all my life.

It is an invigorating feeling. While there are still a multitude of wants and needs in my immediate life, I can say that I am finally where I want to be. I've finally found myself again.