Gabriel, Alejandra, Me, This Tool and Some Fat Guy

On my flight from DC back to Atlanta tonight, I found myself sitting next to a pretty young Columbian girl named Alejandra.  Bonus, right?  Wrong.  I didn’t see that sweet little baby girl she had on her right breast when I sat down.  I had been in Max and Erma’s for quite a bit longer than I realized I guess. (Dammit Sophia!) She looked scared almost when I sat down on the aisle.  Geez what kind of a monster have I become? Said I to self.  I asked her, “Not what you were expecting?”

“No. Where is my husband?  How the hell should I know the answer to that question? 

“He’s right there.”  Huh?? 

“Hi, my name is Gabriel.” 

“Great, I’m John.   What seat are you in?”  I get it; you want to sit by your old lady and your beautiful daughter, but what am I going to get out of this? Everybody knows that I’m an extreme claustrophobe.  Though I sympathize with your predicament I don’t see how I can help. 

Before I even knew what I was doing I was getting up out of MY seat to switch with Gabriel – without even knowing where his seat was! Wow!  That’s not like me at all.  Wednesday night flights go like this: I sit down. I wait for drink service, I order my Jack, I drink my Jack and I listen to the Clash until I fall asleep.  Simple. 

Don’t get involved – it’s not your issue.

So as these thoughts are going through my head and Gabriel keeps saying the same thing over and over, ”Hi, my name is Gabriel”, his stunning wife Alejandra is saying, almost shouting, “my husband, my husband”. The beautiful baby girl just keeps smiling; suckling at the teat.  (I almost stole that baby, but I’m more of a dog person than a person person.) (5) Seconds more pass and I’m finally aware that I’m out of my seat and I hear this voice…you know the guy who is talking too loud on his cell phone in public?  This tool.

“I can’t believe how awesome you are, Penny. You are the best thing ever, and I never would have made it today if you had not been there to help me.”  [Vomit.]  He couldn’t have been more than 20 years old.  Voyeuristic as I know it is, I thought, “How can you do this to yourself?  How can you give someone else this much power?  She will abuse it.  It’s not her fault, but she will.  If you give someone else dominion over how you feel about yourself, they will take that advantage and turn it against you.  It’s just human nature; survival of the fittest.  Just be cool – you don’t even know kid!”  I so wanted to take this chap aside and dissertate to him all the “wisdom” that I have acquired along the long road to interpersonal relational bliss (fail) that I've enjoyed.  In spite of how logical it seemed for me to do so at the time, I resisted and tried to maintain my focus.

At that EXACT same time I hear this, “Mom, I told you already that I DID turn the air conditioner off! Gah! Really?” I’m not a good judge of age but I would say that this guy was at least as old as I, if not older.  And he’s talking to his mother who for some reason still finds it appropriate to berate her son (her only son I would unfortunately learn later) in public about something he should be doing on his own.  I couldn’t help thinking to myself, “who is actually  to blame here?  The mother? Or this big fella'?  There surely was a point in his life where he could have cut the apron strings?  But for some reason he didn’t.  I wonder why?  I wonder why his mother is so concerned about the goings-on of a grown ass man.”  Maybe it’s because he is overweight.  AND is wearing flip-flops with white socks.  And ACTUALLY has a pocket protector full of multi-colored pens.  I can’t really say but I knew it was none of my business – just some fat guy.

As I was saying, I stood up to switch seats with Gabriel.  Wouldn’t you know that his seat is between this tool and some fat guy?  Fantastic. 

I’m resolved that this flight is going to suck at this point.  So what?  No big deal, right?  I gave up my seat so this guy could be next to his girl.  I should have felt good about that, but I was still perturbed.

THEN, this tool, pulled out of his little bag, a bottled water and a sundried tomato and avocado on rye.  He took off his shoes (his “penny” loafers) and crossed his legs like a perfect lady.  I can only assume he did this so that I might get a better look at his fancy argyle socks.

Tool.

Fat guy and moms were still going at it about the AC and the inevitable high electric bill. We haven’t even started to taxi!  All I could think, is it drink service time yet?

Being that I was fundamentally opposite of the two between which I sat; I stared straight ahead and didn’t say a word.  It’s 1 ½ hours – no worries. 

Alejandra, however was a very excited person and wanted to chat.  I welcomed that.  As I’ve said, I don’t engage.  I mind my business and forget about it.  I can listen though and all Alejandra wanted to do was talk. So be it – I listened.

Alejandra and Gabriel were in America for the first time.  They had all of their papers in order and their little girl was actually born in El Paso, Texas, so she is a US citizen.  Gabe, (she said it was okay if I called him that since I had been drinking) didn’t speak very good (not a single word of) English, but Alejandra did.  She knew as much or more about the history of this country as I did.  

She was more than willing to tell me about the dream that she’d had since she was a little girl, to live in this “free Americas”. 

I held my tongue.  Who was I to tell here that there is no such thing as the American dream anymore?  That hasn’t been a possibility since Reagan introduced us all to “trickle down economics”.  (Not to get political – my apologies.)

I was transfixed by this beautiful Columbian lovely speaking so passionately about her view of America.  What I soon started to understand was that what she was saying was what I had always thought about “America” – but had lost.  It was what I had always wanted “America” to be. 

It’s easy to have an opinion of a concept like that, but to see it first-hand was startling. AND it was refreshing to hear this new immigrant speak about the United States in a positive manner. All she could say was how much better it would be for her and her family in “these United States”.  Certainly, it couldn’t be worse than Columbia but I’m not sure “we” are all Ellis Island anymore either.  Again, I held my tongue.   

How can people say we should build a fence around this country to keep “those people out”?  I understand the basis for that thought and don’t entirely disagree with it, but that thought isn’t thought all the way through in my opinion.  Again, not being political.

I didn’t catch the baby’s name: I’m not sure I asked or if it was offered.  She looked precocious as hell though and I like that. Throughout the conversation I had with her mother she never took her eyes off of me.  She knew that she was a part of the conversation.  Hell, she was the most important part of the conversation without ever saying a word.  That’s the whole point. 

She was the whole point why Gabriel and Alejandra ever even thought about being in this country.  They were/are staking their lives to the possibility that baby might have a chance in the “new America”. 

Alejandra told me about an uncle her mom told her she had, who lived in Atlanta, who might know somebody in Miami who might know someone who could give Gabriel a job.  Think about that for a minute.  Is that enough for you to sell all you own, pack two bags and chase a dream?  It’s incredible to me.  And I was (still) blown away by the spirit that this young hopeful couple possessed. 

Gabriel had no idea what I was saying, but we understood each other.  Amazing.

I couldn’t help but think what a poor example we must have set for this “new American” family; a drunk, a half-a-fag and some Mommas-boy-Jabba-the-Hut character.  But hey, that is America, no?  Maybe we were the perfect welcome party.

I wished I had something important or inspirational to say to them, but all I could do was smile and think to myself, you are in for a very rude awakening.  My goodness, how negative have I allowed myself to become?  I just actually witnessed the essence of why we proclaim to be the greatest country ever in the history of the world and flippant and dismissive was all I could muster.  What a shame. 

I don’t pray, nor am I a believer in very much.  But I certainly will think about those (2) kids and that little baby when I lay down tonight warm in my bed with my dogs. 

I think I have worries?

They based their entire future livelihood on “maybe”. 

If you are not inspired by that, you are not alive. 

Can you imagine what this young family must be going through?  What excitement and joy and fear and uncertainty they must be feeling?

When the plane landed, everyone rushed to be the first one out of their seat to get to the overhead.  To be the first one on their cell phones or IPads.  To show everyone else how important they were – like we always do.

I have never been more embarrassed in my life. 

Gabriel, Alejandra and the baby just chilled.  The baby was in Gabriel’s lap and Alejandra had her head on his shoulder cooing to baby in a language only a mother could understand.  For them, nobody else was on that plane. There was no what if? There was no maybe.  There was only their “us” and all that mattered was how much better than yesterday tomorrow was going to be.

It was the most perfect family moment I have ever been blessed enough to witness – my own family included.

It was as close to perfect as can be.

In spite of what I know as fact, I believe in the American Dream.

Tonight I saw it first hand.

Gabriel and Alejandra are the American Dream.

Monday Night Football

I still watch, but I don’t really care anymore.  Honestly, the only reason I follow NFL football at all is to see how my fantasy team is doing.  I’ve already won this week so, who cares. 

I remember Monday Night Football as the ultimate exclamation point on the long weekend that was always so rudely interrupted by work on Monday.  Mondays were only tolerable then because I knew I had MNF to look forward to – young, single, drunken guys being social without drama.  This was after California and before marriage #1 failed.  That perfect window in my life when I was just old enough to still be barely cool enough to qualify but not quite old enough to know any better (or have any reason why I should).  At that point, Hooterville was mine for the taking. And I did partake.  (I had a red convertible LeBaron – duh, winning!)

Seriously, I remember hanging out with my boys, Little Gene, Ja Man, Jay, AM.  That was the core, but there was always a full house.  We usually watched at Gene’s duplex off Jefferson. (Earlier in our life our good friend Stanford Green lost his life on that street.) We would alternate who was in charge of supper.  If it was my turn I cooked chili. When the rotation brought the crew to my shoe box apartment on Washington Street, AM always made his feelings on the quality of my television well known.  (Incessantly! - I still have that TV bro: watching that tiny sucker right now actually.) Little Gene always cooked “Dorito Chicken”.  Ja Man grilled deer meat in some form.  Griff never cooked a damn thing because he wouldn’t show up until the third quarter and Ant ordered pizza (rip-off).

There was always a wager of some sort, but the best was the side bets.  “I got a George that says Deion Sanders scores on the opening kickoff.” “I got five that’s yours if Ricky ‘Running’ Waters doesn’t score before halftime.”  “I got a dollar bill guaranteeing Dan Dierdorf says something stupid before the end of the first quarter.” (Nobody ever took that bet.)

Pure.

Simple. 

Stupid. 

Perfect.

Watching Monday Night Football tonight and thinking about those days I couldn’t tell you where a single one of those cats are and what they are doing with their lives.  That’s sad.  Little Gene was like a brother to me for all of the time I did in that town.  That dude was in my wedding.  I was in at least one of his.  We saw Ozzy.  We saw Metallica. We discovered Tora Tora, Rock City Angels and always disagreed on how important the KISS solo albums were. We saw the “Prince of Darkness” himself, Alice ‘Freaking’ Cooper! (And every other band that mattered.)  Little Gene is the guy that made me realize what a freakish talent Cliff Burton was.  We quit football at the same time, for the same reason. (Coach Allen didn’t like long-hairs.)  We went to hell and back again in that blue Cutlass Supreme of his.  I could not tell you where he is tonight. 

That sucks. It’s regrettable that I haven’t done my part to stay connected to my past.

But hey, he hasn’t either. 

I do miss those days.  I miss that time before I got so caught up in my own life and my own ambition that I could barely even see my own life.  It’s not like this is some great epiphany I’m having – I just don’t think about it much.  I miss those guys; that reckless abandon, that ‘today matters’ feeling, that whole time in my life.

Pure.

Simple.

Stupid.

Perfect.

I raise a glass to each of you tonight, my friends. And for what it’s worth, I’ve got (5) bones that says Tony Romo finds a way to lose this game.

On the Maynard (and the Belle)

That’s your name but I rarely, if ever call you that.  It’s usually Bear or Little Bear, Old Man, Little Old Man, Grandpa.  I’m convinced you’ve lost so much of your hearing at this point that it doesn’t really matter what I call you; Monkey, Monkey Bear, Money, Big Money.

May, May Bear, May May, Little May.  These last few are unfortunate and I apologize if they are emasculating in any way.  But the truth is son, you haven’t had testicles in years and you were raised for most of your life by a gay man (no offense, Sorke). 

It freaks me out that I have such affection for a dog.  You barely qualify as a dog brother – you’re my best friend.  I’ve already let the job know that when you pass I will be taking a leave of absence. 

I didn’t want you at all when you came into my life.  We had (1) crazy dog already who was spoiled rotten and there was no way that we could handle another.

I admit that I certainly didn’t want some geriatric, decrepit animal that I would have to deal with. And that is what I thought you were.  You came into our home though and made it your own – you even tolerate your neurotic step sister Belle.  You know that she doesn’t mean to step on your face when I get home every night.  She’s just excited, just like you, plus she has low self esteem I’m afraid. She hasn’t lived as much as you and she doesn’t understand how I could possibly show another attention.  She loves you though.  I see you two on Sunday afternoons nuzzled together on the couch and I know that you are both at peace and at home. I see you two chasing each other around the living room all the time. 

I know that today is going to be a dark day.  We knew it was coming but you’re never prepared.  I know that this day is going to be confusing for you and you’re going to wonder why I’m not there.  It’s confusing for me too bud and I’m a grown ass man.  But I promise we'll get through this.  I promise I’ll be back later today.  Enjoy your time at daycare and I will be there to scoop you up before you know it.  Give all of the big dogs shit like you always do. Don’t ever forget how much joy you give me when I see you running through this house. 

It’s just you and me now kid (and Belle of course).  It’s not you that she is leaving kids, it’s me.  I don’t have children – you dogs are my kids, and I would lie down in front of a train to make your life golden.  But grown folks cannot get their shit together sometimes…cannot get on the same page at the same time.  I’m sorry that I put you guys in this position but you will see her again.  At the very least every time I travel, she will be here to take care of you guys – so that’s at least once a week.  I know it’s not the same but we will figure it out together.  You will probably have to explain this all to Belle.  She’s pretty but she's not smart.  But hey, Fall is here now and I know how much you love crunching through dried leaves in the back yard. 

That’s something, right?

I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince that everything is going to be alright.  I’m not sure that it is, but I promise you I’ll keep buying your arthritis medicine.  And if you remember, I don’t have a sense of smell so you can get right in my face as often as you want to and give me all the puppy kisses you can because I have no idea how bad your breath really stinks.  (Though I hear it is epic!) I promise that, as long as you want to be here, you will be.  And I promise I will always be here for you.

I couldn’t be all that your Moms needed but I can at least be there for my dogs. 

I love you guys.

Little Bird to Baltimore

AM

I can’t help but ponder my own mortality and the fragility of the human condition when I’m on an airplane; especially on a little bird like this morning’s twin engine turbo-prop.  All things being equal this aircraft is only slightly more advanced than a mini-van with wings and a couple of engines.  I didn’t see the pilot crank up the propellers with rubber bands but I’m fairly certain that he must have. 

Man’s fascination with flying has always puzzled me.  I’ve seen the footage of the Wright brother’s first flight and I must say those boys had the gray matter working. They left the ground for the first time in little more than twigs draped in canvas.  They started with a simple inspiration, a conviction in their own abilities and a desire to accomplish what no man had accomplished prior.  No failure could quell that desire.  They relentlessly pursued their passion.  I respect that spirit.  Orville and Wilbur were certainly a helluva lot more enlightened than Icarus.  Do you recall this character?  Now that guy was an absolute tool.    I know it’s a myth, but let’s review the plan of young Captain Thought Process.  To escape imprisonment he fabricated wings made of feathers, bound together with wax.  (Really?)  Once airborne it must have been quite a rush – so much so that he didn’t want to land and soared too close to the sun.  The heat of the sun melted the wax and he fell to his death in the sea. That’s the problem with dreamers – they don’t think the dream to fruition. Though I admire his creative spirit as well, he had to see that one coming.  My recollection of this story was gained, of course, from listening to way too much Iron Maiden in high school. I will reserve, for another day, narration of the eternal love for all things Iron Maiden that I’ve enjoyed since Jesus was a freshman at State. I’m not sure exactly how the Greek’s tell that tale, but I’m sure a more intelligent metaphor is intended.

I love flying but I’m apprehensive today for some reason.

I know the pilot.  He’s a good guy. (His name is John, so he must be solid.) I trust him.  I’ve flown with him many times on this plane and we always land safely where we are supposed to (most of the time).  He loves what he does and he’s good at it.  He is an ex-military guy though and sometimes I feel like he flies as if he’s in a freaking video game: that troubles me.  He seems to be in reasonably good health.  Mentally stable from what I can tell, wife, 2 ½ kids etc. etc.  Even still, every time I fly with him I make sure to shake his hand and look him in the eye to ascertain whether or not he’s having a “Geez, that bitch is crazy – I think I’ll fly headlong into Lake Lanier” type of morning. After all, he’s still just some dude maneuvering this assortment of sheet metal and rivets (no wax, hopefully) through the clear blue sky @ 300+ mph, 25,000 feet above this peaceful carpet of downy white clouds.  That’s a lot of trust to have in a human, no?  If he checks out, that’s game.  There isn’t a co-pilot, I sure as hell can’t fly this thing and he didn’t issue parachutes with the bottled water when we boarded.  And let’s be honest, you never see news stories about small private plane crashes where the passengers all walk away, right?  Indeed, the first article I see in the paper this morning goes something like “…twin-engine, turbo-prop crashes while attempting to land…no survivors.”  Seriously? Seriously. 

I’ve seen the Buddy Holly Story.  I know how that story ends. 

I’m starting to freak myself out a little plus I have work to do before we land.  I’ll try to finish this thought later…barring of course, a gut-wrenching free fall to earth ending in a remarkable crater and a fiery ball of twisted metal, smoldering human flesh.  You know when I was younger I would declare to anyone who would listen, my desire to go out in spectacular fashion – two rocket fuel laden trains colliding or a plane crash into a volcano caused by a perfectly timed lighting burst, some epic disaster.  I rethink that position this morning. 

My little bird to Baltimore is perfect and the earth will gently rise to meet us in due time, as it always does.  Right? 

_______________________________

PM

It was a little bumpy dropping into BWI but we landed safe and sound of course.  The day was a complete bust but you can’t expect to win them all I guess.  I don’t really believe that one bit actually – I do expect to win them all.

There’s apparently “some weather” between here and PDK but John doesn’t seem too concerned.  He’s so unimpressed by it in fact that I just noticed that we are on autopilot and he is kicked back perusing the latest copy of Controller magazine.  In case you don’t know that’s basically AutoTrader for airplanes.  Again, really?  At least act like you are paying attention! (My overactive imagination rarely takes a break, you see.)  I guess the up-side is that he’s not taking a nap?  I don’t know for sure but I think if I were in his seat I’d be a tad more engaged. 

So, the fragility.  I rarely stop to think about this thankfully, but I submit that we are about (2) seconds away from certain death with every step we take in this world.  There are about a million and one things that could potentially end my life between here and my office, not to mention the mine field that is my morning routine.  I could easily stumble down the steps and crack my skull as the pups scurry between my legs to go out every morning.  I could certainly be standing in a puddle of water when the outlet that the razor is plugged into short-circuits.  And I’ve not even pulled the truck out of the driveway yet!  Don’t even get me started on the crap shoot that is ATL traffic.  I don’t take time to think about these possibilities because I would be raving mad if I did.  Today, I’ve stopped to think about them ALL – dumb move. 

So why the hell are we trying to dodge 30,000 foot thunderheads this late in September?  He can’t dodge them all and when we fly threw one of these bad boys the plane is ripping up or down, side to side 200’ easily.  That doesn’t sound like a lot but in a plane this size a 200’ drop feels like 1000’. I’ve got a white-knuckle grip on my arm rest – I’m sure that will keep me safe. Wish me luck!

_______________________________

Night Cap

On the drive home from the airport tonight I started to feel like an idiot.  99.9999% of the time the ridiculous scenarios I’ve been filling my head with do not happen.  And when they do, I’m not usually involved.  So why have I been panicked all day? 

Maybe, I took a step (2) seconds sooner or (2) seconds later than I was supposed to and unwittingly averted my own demise. 

Maybe (and most likely) I just had too much time on my hands.  It’s laughable that I’ve been worried about the awful events that could possibly happen to me.  I've not exactly treated my body as a temple, more like an amusement park really.  I still smoke and drink and fill in the blank every unhealthy thing that occurs to me to do and/or participate in. I’m certainly on borrowed time as I speak. 

But hey, to celebrate my safe return to earth I’m having a drink and a cigarette.  Go figure.

Remind me to tell you about how Iron Maiden changed my life sometime.

 

 

 

R.I.P. Johnny Ramone

Every morning before I even really wake up, I reach for my phone.  I turn off the alarm.  I check my email (I have lunatic clients who email me at all hours of the night).  I read ‘this day in music’, and then I get up and face the day.  Even if I’m late for work or I have an early flight, my routine doesn’t change. Today was an especially early morning thanks to my buddy Maynard. He was whining pitifully to go outside as he does most every morning.  But at 4:30 AM – come on!  Think it through, Maynard!  I probably shouldn’t have raised my voice to the little fella though.

He’s earned the right to be a pain in the ass I guess.  I hope I can match his age some day; 84 in human years. If I’m that lucky, I think I might actually enjoy being a crotchety old bastard – waving my cane at the neighborhood kids and whatnot.   Regardless, everyday I find out remarkable details about all sorts of music that I didn’t know prior.  I learn obscure facts that I feel I need to internalize before I rise up and attempt to be creative.  I rarely share these tidbits with anyone.  If you wanted to know, you would find out for yourself – I’ll make an exception this time.

So today there was a bunch of crap about Elvis (yawn), and Sha Na Na and tons of other minutia that isn’t worth repeating.  Honestly, I don’t know why I load my brain with these, effectively useless, morsels of knowledge at all. As I’ve said, I’m probably never going to divulge this “knowledge” to anyone. I’m most likely never going to be in a trivia ‘fight to the death’ scenario where what lies dormant in my brain must be recalled in a flash to save my life.  But I don’t know that for sure, do I?  So I’ll keep reading my ‘this day in music’ and you keep doing whatever it is that you do that makes you feel normal. 

I’m rambling.  Regardless, the last item on the list today was this: “2004, Ramones guitarist Johnny Ramone died in Los Angeles after a five-year battle with prostate cancer. Founding member of The Ramones, major influence on many punk and 90’s bands.”

Wow!  

That’s it? 

That’s all that they could say about one of the most influential guitarist in the history of modern music? Hardly a footnote?  His life in (25) words or less?  Rip off!

How can they reduce that life to this barely tolerable bullshit? And then put him last in the list on top of?!  Ramones were live in Queens, 1974: before John Lydon ever even met Malcolm McLaren, even before the most important band in the world came together, the Clash. 

I felt slighted.  You cannot put into words what this guy meant to a million other kids just like me.  To be fair, he’s not Van Halen or Vai by any stretch of even my overactive imagination, but he took bar chords to a level never before seen.  He basically invented punk in my opinion and thus changed the arc of guitar based rock ‘n’ roll forever.  Yeah the Stooges and MC5 were around, but no punk guitarist influenced as many young players as Johnny did.  His playing ‘style’ inspired me to pick up the guitar for the first time.  At a young age I knew if Johnny Ramone could play (3) perfect chords and be a rock star then I could too.  It was only later in life that I truly began to understand what a seminal figure he was in music – not just punk music.

What was, and is still, so indescribably cool about Johnny is that he was not cool.  By any definition, he was the opposite of “cool”.  He had bowl-cut hair, wore a dirty white tee-shirt, had a bad complexion, he was short, he was from Queens.  He was a freaking REPUBLICAN for crying out loud!  (I know, right?) He was an icon: in spite of himself.

In the midst of this internal rant, it occurred to me that the only reason this website exists is to provide only a nugget of information on as many topics as possible.  It’s not to actually memorialize anything or anyone. It’s intended to give you a simple snapshot and if you find that image compelling, it’s on you to dig deeper.

I’ve been out-of-sorts all day because of it nevertheless.

On the train to B a few minutes ago, just when my mind was finally returning to center this thought popped in my head:  What if, at the end of my life, I am successful enough, or popular enough or important enough to appear in a list like this? 

And on the flip-side, what if I’m not? 

What if, when I’m gone, some intern is tasked with condensing my life into (25) words or less?  What would be written?  Who would they even ask? 

Have I treated my friends and all others true enough to deserve a glowing remembrance? 

Or am I really the asshole that I’ve always perceived myself to be?

Have I done enough (plus) in my life to warrant (25) words?

Or have I always been too (negative) and locked away to leave an impression?

Is the independent pride that carried me through life enough to sustain my memory after I’m gone?

If I died right now, is my life worthy of even the “footnote” that I’ve been so tweaked about all day?

I wonder what I would write about myself.

As usual, I made this about me, when it’s not.  Today is about remembering one of my heroes.  (And I should probably apologize to my little Maynard when I get back to the A.)

Sophia agrees but I’m certain that she has no idea what I’m talking about.

R.I.P. Johnny Ramone, I miss you brother.

John William Cummings

‘Johnny Ramone’

October 8, 1948 – September 14, 2004

09.11.01

(10) years ago this morning, I was sitting on the couch with Sasha the cat watching CNN like I did every Tuesday morning – daydreaming about nothing, trying to decipher in my mind the bullshit that I had written the night previous for Architectural Theory class.  I was 29 years of age in my 4^th year at Mississippi State, stumbling into my 7^th year of a weakening marriage. I didn’t know why at the time, but I remember thinking that this day was going to be a tall boy Budweiser type a day.  I just wasn’t feeling it.  I wasn’t looking forward to explaining the drivel I had penned about dynamic interstitial space.  Architecture school is ridiculous, no?

I don’t think I was aware of the gravity of the situation when Aaron Brown first reported that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center.  (Did you know that 9.11.01 was his first live broadcast at CNN?  What a shitty first day on a new job.)  I remember (earlier that summer maybe) a civilian aircraft wondering into NYC airspace and it turned out to be an amateur pilot teaching his kid how to fly or something.  Big deal.  I assumed this day, that it was a similar, more unfortunate mishap.  ‘There sure is a lot of smoke though for a Cessna.’  When I saw the 2^nd plane screaming into frame over Brown’s shoulder and slamming into the south tower I awoke from that Tuesday sleepwalk.  “I didn’t really just see what I think I did, right?” said I aloud to Sasha the cat.  “Yup”, she meowed. The clock on the wall said 8:03 – 56 minutes later the south tower would crumble back down to earth.  29 minutes after, the north tower joined it’s twin in defeat and every day since the enormity of what I had just witnessed would slowly begin to register in my brain a little bit more.

I didn’t go to class that morning.  I didn’t even make it off of the couch.  I was paralyzed.  I was utterly, wholly transfixed by the tragic history that was unfolding right before my very eyes on live television.  I just sat there staring at the TV – mesmerized – absently petting Sasha the cat all day. 

  

We all know the rest of the story now about the 3^rd and 4^th planes.  (19) fundamentalist zealots, an element of this rogue Islamic faction that is al-Qaeda, did this to the greatest nation that has ever been?  It’s astonishing when you think about the colossal amount of suffering that these few were able to inflict on so many.  How could this happen to us?  2,977 dead?  On American soil?

Yes.  It happened. Why and who could have followed through with a plan like this?  Nobody can read and / or understand the thoughts of a killer to ascertain why, but we now know who – Osama bin Laden.  I only include this next section as a history lesson.  Many of you probably know it already but some do not.  It’s only intended as context.  bin Laden was not an unknown personality to our government.

After dropping out of college in 1979, bin Laden went to Pakistan and joined Abdullah Azzam and the mujahedeen to take part in the Soviet war in Afghanistan, and quickly ascended their ranks.  From 1979 to 1989, the United States “unofficially” provided financial aid and weapons to the mujahedeen leaders through a militant Pakistani “dark-ops” governmental arm (ISI). bin Laden met and built a relationship with Hamid Gul, a three star general in the Pakistani army and head of the ISI. Although the United States provided the money and weapons, the training of militant groups was entirely conducted by the Pakistani Armed Forces and the ISI.    

Many of my liberal brethren have publicly stated that based on this fact, the US was not only aware of this danger, but also somehow to blame for 9.11.  Moreover, we should have seen this coming. I do not share that belief. I submit, that I’m okay knowing that we used bin Laden when we needed him and the mujahedeen to fight Russians. It would not have been prudent for the United States to engage in a fight with the Soviets at that point in the cold war.  I do not agree that we “created” Osama bin Laden however.

My opinion aside, al-Qaeda was in fact officially created on 11 August 1988 when several senior members of the Egyptian Islamic Jihad, Azzam and bin Laden met and decided to marry bin Laden’s riches with the covert expertise of EIJ and agreed to “spread the jihadist cause to the entire world”.  bin Laden returned to Saudi Arabia a jihadist, heroic, legend in 1990 after “defeating” the Soviets.  In simple terms, the more extreme remnant elements of the mujahedeen re-organized themselves as al-Qaeda.

There are a million theories on why this prick chose the path he did, but no one will ever really know why now.

In spite of all of the despicable things that he did:  he was a human being.  He chose to do the things that he did.  He was always in control and aware of what kind of mayhem he was perpetuating.  I have such a hard time believing that (1) individual can possess that level of hate in their spirit.  It’s not like this is a new concept though – Hitler annihilated 65% of an entire race because he was pissed that he was short, had only one testicle and really wasn’t that great of an artist.

The obvious notwithstanding; the depth of cruelty that human beings are capable of and willing to inflict on other human beings is and has always been astounding to me.  This one collection of maniacs alone are responsible for countless unspeakable acts – WTC bombing in ’93, US embassy bombings in ’98, USS Cole, Riyadh, Istanbul, Madrid train bombings, ’04 Khobar massacre, London, Algiers, Islamabad: and these are only the ones that we know about. 

Enough about them – today is about us.

Of all the stories regarding 9.11 that you have heard, the one that rips and tears at me the most is that of Flight 93.  I’m obsessed with it.  There are voicemails that passengers on that flight left for loved ones that are public record now.  I can’t listen to them.  It is unfathomable to me what these brave souls must have been going through, the heart wrenching knowledge that they were certainly going to die.  In dying they knew that they would save the lives of countless others and that is the exact definition of a hero, in my opinion.  Would you have had the same emotional resolve to carry out the mission that these guys saw as their duty? Would you have had the psychological fortitude to settle on, accept and then act so decisively on that decision? I ask myself that question all the time.  And as many times as I’ve asked, I still candidly don’t know the answer.  If it’s me on that plane, do I say “Are you guys ready? Ok. Let’s roll!” like Todd Beamer did?  I’d like to think that I would, but honestly I don’t make any promises.  I don’t know that I would be that brave.  Realistically, it is more than I am able to wrap my mind around.

When I fly, I always get an aisle seat.  In large part because I am extremely claustrophobic but also because I don’t want to be blocked in if this bullshit ever happens again.  I try to figure out who might be a threat, who I can take and who I can’t. Who will die first if this thing pops like it did that day?  To be 100% true, I racially profile the cabin based on who I now know the perpetrators of 9.11 were.  I’m not proud of that fact but what do you do?  

Possibly the most tragic aspect of 9.11 and why I think it has affected us as country so greatly is that it was “us” who died.  It wasn’t our soldiers, thousands of miles from home in a war that we were watching.   We were forced to see bankers and secretaries and lawyers and janitors and IT guys and accountants die.  We had to watch it – we could not look away.  And we still cannot: nor should we.

The real heroes that day?  The NYFD.  The first responders.  Those guys charged up the stairwell of a building, that they had to know was coming down, and didn’t think twice about it. That is actually their job description though, isn’t it?  Can you be more in awe of a group of people than those 411 guys who gave the ultimate sacrifice that day?  They didn’t even blink!  They did their job unbelievably, exceptionally, without hesitation or thought to their own safety.  I remain inspired by what I saw those guys endeavor to accomplish that day.

There really are too many stories to tell though.  And I don’t really know any of them.  I’ve only observed.  I wasn’t there that day.  I don’t really know what to say to the people who were, or to those who lost loved ones that day.  Empathy isn’t nearly a strong enough emotion in this circumstance.  We can all say we remember, and we will never forget, but there is no way that we can truly empathize. 

The memory of the reality of that day is bigger than we are. 

(10) years ago today, there was nothing that we could do.  I, just like you, sat there helpless.  Stunned.  Questioning. Terrified.

(10) years later, bin Laden is dead.  al-Qaeda acknowledged bin Laden’s death on May 6, 2011, vowing to retaliate.

Of the many tragic stories of 9.11 and there are literally thousands, this is the story of one individual who lost his life that horrific day (10) years ago.  I warn you beforehand that there are moments in this video that are graphic and there are images that you will not want to see, but I think you owe it to the memory of those who died that day to watch it.  It's an essential act of witness, but it is the hardest film I’ve ever sat through. It is emotionally draining.   As I said earlier, 9.11 is bigger than I am – bigger than all of us.  No matter how much you want to look away, you can’t allow yourself to.  This is important.  It’s only one story but it crystallizes why this day is so inextricably linked to and tattooed upon our collective identity.

“9.11 was one of the most pivotal events in world history. Its impact will be felt for years to come. You owe it to yourself to go beyond the sound bites and the simplified official story. This is an extremely complicated story with numerous players and motives. The 9.11 information doesn't all make sense or fit neatly together. It's a story full of espionage, deceit, and lies. But if there are forces out there tricking us, they can only succeed if we, the general public, remain ignorant and passive.”

The Falling Man

Godspeed 9.11 victims.  Godspeed the soldiers still fighting this war. 

Godspeed us all, and let us never forget the horror of that day (10) years ago.

Peace and Love

Maybe Grey is Okay

Four words that I would use to describe my life? – “getting out from under”.  What does that mean?  I’m not sure that I even know anymore.  Growing up (and still) there was always somewhere that I couldn't quite get too, something that I couldn't quite overcome, a puzzle for which I could not quite find the last piece.  I have achieved more than I have ever given myself credit for having the ability to, but it is not nearly enough.  Nothing has ever been good enough.  I expect so much out of myself – personally, emotionally, financially and any other qualifier that I choose to place on my validity as a player in this great play.  I probably expect more of myself than I am actually able to deliver, but why should that matter?  Should I not strive for more?  Should I not try to be the best?  At everything? 

Should I expect that everything will turn to shit and be okay with that? Maybe.  Allowing myself to be full-on negative for a minute, it usually does.  So why should I care?

The problem that I have always had is that I am either black or white.  I’m extreme.  I don’t budge on my opinions.  I’ve never tolerated different points of view. When I meet you, I know within 10 seconds if you are good or if you are bad, if you are going to be my friend or if you are going to be my enemy, if you are going to be honorable and true or if you are going to screw me over at every turn.  And once you’ve been accessed, you have no chance of altering my conviction.  (Being the master of delivering bad first impressions, I find that statement depressingly comical.)  Black or white.  It’s the Beatles or the Stones.  Soundgarden or Nirvana.  The Clash or…well we all know there is no argument there!

Whatever you believe to be true and just; I believe the opposite.  Whoever you vote for, my guy is superior.  Whatever is popular is shit and I know of something more essential, and I’m the only one that knows.  Better.  Faster.  Stronger. Further.  Smarter.  Asshole.

I’m a perfectionist.  Less than that, I cannot understand or abide.  And since “perfect” is an unattainable state, I have always been and continue to be dissatisfied. Based on that fact, I’ve tried harder than I should have.  I pushed past what I thought I could not present. I took another swing when I knew I was beaten. I didn’t stop fighting when I knew the battle was over. I did not punt. I did not surrender. I gave more when I had nothing left to offer; to be perfect.  To be the best.  To be the most _______.  Whatever.  Because less than perfect is / was unacceptable. 

Black or white.

My mother would say (and does) that I need religion in my life.  I’m not religious and I’m sure as hell not “spiritual”.  But she might be right – who am I to say?  I personally do not believe in an interventionist God.  I believe that he wound this all up a while back and pushed play, sat down in his recliner with a 6-pack and a bag of beef jerky and watched the show.  If my perception of God is legit, my guess is God is an absolute alcoholic (and addicted to beef jerky on top of!) because we have created a supreme cluster-fuck of this beautiful, exceptional world.  Don’t get tweaked by what I say.  I believe that God (if he exists) has a sense of humor.  If he doesn’t, how else can you explain this?

When I let myself be honest I realize that the way that I have always tried to be isn’t, in fact, the best that I can be.

Maybe I don’t have to be flawless.  The pursuit of that ideal has never ended well for me, has it?  My pursuit of being the ' best damned architecture student in the history of ' undoubtedly took center stage in the demise of my 1^st marriage.  I’d be foolish to say that a similar 'artistic' quest didn’t play a significant role in the breakdown of my most recent romantic misfortune. 

I’ve been singularly focused (on a million different lotteries) since jump, plus I have zero ability to finish the drill. I get sidetracked and heave my focus into something else that I will assuredly fail at and then trek on to the next impossible pursuit.   

When perfection is the only standard and there are no other valid alternatives, there is no way that you can anticipate and / or achieve actual success. 

Maybe there is something somewhere between the left and the right. 

Maybe I don’t have to be perfect.   

Maybe pretty damn good is good enough.

Maybe there is space between the black and the white. 

Maybe grey is okay.

Live From Max and Erma's

I spend a lot of time in airports these days.  The majority of that time is invariably spent in airport bars.  So much so in fact, that Sophia behind the bar knows my name when I sit down.  I’m not on a first name basis with the bartenders in my own neighborhood, so I’m pretty sure this isn’t a good thing.  That said it is nice to see a “friend” at the end of my day. She knows that I’m going to have (2) beers and a Jim Beam and Diet before I get on the plane.  She knows that I’m going to walk next door and have a cigarette between said beers.  She knows that I’m going to try to leave her my credit card to ensure that I don’t skip the check even though she knows that I would never do that.  And she probably knows that I’m going to say “I need to quit smoking” when I sit back down at the bar.  She’s from Algeria. She’s nice.  She smiles.  She doesn’t ask me questions about my life or tell me about her rotten kids – there’s no banter.  I don’t have to say a single word.  I like that.

Airport bars are bizarre little places.  I’ve always thought it must be odd to work at a place like this.  Do they have to go through security to get to work everyday?  Or do they have clearance to bypass the cluster that is IAD security?  If they aren’t forced to navigate security how do they get out to the concourse?  If they don’t have to go through security what is to stop Hector the dishwasher (or whoever) from bringing an Uzi to work and lighting this place up for whatever inane reason that people that do such things do such things?  I don’t like where my mind is going with this so I resolve to trust that each and every employee of this fine establishment is cleared daily.

I digress.

Back to the strangeness. For one thing, the lights are way too bright in here to qualify as a bar, but that is to be expected I suppose.  The patrons are seemingly from all over the world, from all walks of life, all cultures and the place is packed as usual.  The loud guy in the bad suit is at the end of the bar espousing his wisdom about the state of the economy and why this country is going to hell in a hand basket.  Different guy this time, but his ilk is always well represented.  There are the Brooks Brother’s martini chaps reading the Wall Street Journal (desperately pretending they’re not gay).  There’s an older gentleman sitting alone in the back, quietly staring straight ahead at nothing.  (Maybe he is actually the one with the Uzi!)  I’ve seen the lady sitting next to me on past trips. She’s perusing pictures of cats on her IPad (just like the last time I saw her in here).  90% of everyone in my line of sight is doing the exact same thing – staring into the warming glow of their favorite electronic device.  No one is talking.  Nobody is even really acknowledging that there is anyone else in this room. There is almost zero human interaction. Do you want to know the kicker?  The motto splashed across the wall here is “good food ends with good talk”.  Fail. (On both accounts actually).

When did this happen?  When did we all become so isolated?  I’m not passing judgment – I’m no different than they are. Why should I / they invest any even miniscule amount of time in asking how a perfect stranger’s day has been?  Or where they are going?  Or simply say hello?  Because it is the polite thing to do, that’s why.   Because it will remind me that I’m a human being sharing space with other human beings.  But we / I don’t do that most of the time. We each exist on our own private electronic island and facebook or tweet or text or blog our lives away.  It occurs to me that this phenomenon isn’t as strange as I first thought however; and it certainly isn’t exclusive to Max and Erma’s, B76, IAD.  This is the American way.  “I’m going to live in my little house, on my little street, in my little neighborhood and I’m not going to look anyone in the eye and I’m going to mind my own business.”  [I’m going to bury my face in the sand and pretend that everything is wonderful.]  This is no way to live.  It is certainly our right to do so but we need to open up a little.

I think I will try to change this reality or at least my perception of it starting right now.  It’s not like I’m an asshole really.  I have never been an open book by any stretch, but I’ve become more and more cynical about people as I’ve gotten older. I’ve spent a lot of my life disengaged, somehow.  I don’t know if I knew that before right now. Looking at the world from the outside like I was above it all or something. (Geez, maybe I really am an asshole!) I think I’m done with that now.  I don’t think it works. All it takes is a hello and a smile and that might be enough to change someone’s whole day.  It’s not like I have to be friends with every knucklehead in every bar in every town.  But like I said, it makes my day a tiny bit brighter when Sophia says hello and smiles every time I’m in here. 

New rule – be nice. 

The plane is boarding so I should go.  On my way out I’ll smile and say hello to that freaking crazy IPad cat lady.  Shit!  Not off to a good start!!  I’ll smile and say hello to that sweet little grandmother with a fondness for felines. 

There. 

I feel better already.

Peace.

  

Labor Day

I feel like I cannot escape.  I walk alone through this world and try to remember to stop and smell the roses.  I crave the cleansing flood of my own honesty.  I understand that if your heart doesn't break you can't be free.  I've called out to my past.  I've prayed for my future.  And I can't see over the wall.. I cannot jump it, I cannot climb it and I cannot tear it down.

I see the hopeful sunrise across its height every morning.  Every night I see the same sun fall....beaten beneath its depth.  My heart needs to feel these things that I cannot control.  My mind needs to see the things that I cannot change and that I cannot abide.

My skin needs to shake off the chill of this Sunday.  My lungs need to breathe free of the pollution of my yesterday.  I've been left unattended.  I've been thrown like cards. I've been rolled with the punches.  I've been crossed by the wire.  I've been blinded by the light. I've been burned by the fire.  I've been kept out of sight.  I've fallen backwards into heaven and face first into hell.

It's going to be alright.  It never has been.  It never will be. So be it.

So I drink.  I drink to the sunshine.  I drink to the shade.  I drink to the madness. I drink, okay?

I met a girl on Wednesday.  She told me I was alive - I told her she was wrong.  She held my hand.  She gave me hope and a # that I couldn't call.  I secretly told her that I was (invisible). I walked away.  I cinched up my blindfold and walked away, blind. Alone.  Empowered.  Imprisoned.  Alive.  Dead.

I've taken...been taken by many lovers.  I was...I am taken by you.  I never showed you the drawings I did of the most beautiful girl in the world.  It was always you. But you could never see that everything I ever did or saw looked just like you. You were my girl, in every way - -perfect. You were perfect to me.  Yes, I'm an asshole but I know what I know, you were perfect.