Cowboys vs Eagles

Several months ago, my uncle (my mother's brother) invited my family to Texas for a secret event. We had no idea what to expect except that we were instructed to be in Dallas by Sunday the 12th. Naturally, rumors as to what the event could be spread like wildfire through my immediate family and our cousins. As the date of the event drew closer, I suggested that the event could be something related to sports. I was shouted down initially, but upon further review and research, it was revealed that the Dallas Cowboys played the Philadelphia Eagles that Sunday at the new Dallas Stadium. I'm glad to say I was proved right.

Game Day
The day of the game, I flew from Boston to Dallas and was picked up by my aunt and her boys from the airport. I landed around 2:30 p.m. Texas time and was promptly dropped off at my uncle's house, along with the boys, so that we could watch the Patriots-Bears game which came on at 3:15 p.m. My cousins and I watched the 3:15 game together for about 25 minutes before they got up and left. Since they are from Chicago, they did not appreciate the beat down being administered by the Patriots. I loved every moment of it until CBS stopped showing the game in the third quarter because it was so one-sided.

Game Time
A few hours later, the entire group of family and friends headed out to the football stadium to watch the Cowboys-Eagles game. To say I was excited doesn't do my feelings justice. I was beyond excited. I couldn't sit still in the ten minute car ride to the stadium and I couldn't stop grinning.

Being in the stadium reminded me of being in a large mall. There were "stores" on each level, each selling various types of Dallas apparel and what felt like several hundred food vendors sprinkled liberally on each level. People milled around the numerous lobbies trying to figure out the quickest way to their sits or just taking in the larger than life "Gigantic Mega-Jumbotron." This thing has to be seen. Sure, the many shots of it during games and photos online show it's big. But in person, it's bigger. Trust me. A friend of mine joked that even if you have tickets on the 50-yard-line in the first section, you'd still stare up at the Gigantic Mega-Jumbotron screen to watch the game instead of looking at the action in front of you.

I watched the game from one of the suites that makes up a ring that runs around the field about 200 feet above the field of play. The ring of suites acts as a divider between the lower deck seating and the upper deck seating. The suites are equipped with movie theater style seating as well as some bar stools, chairs and tables as well as a sitting area with couches. I counted four flat screen TVs in the suite so that no matter where you were in the suite, you could watch the game.

The new Cowboys stadium has some interesting features. One of which is that both teams enter the field by walking through field-level bars on opposite sides of the field. If you're in the bar area, you can watch the players run through. It's pretty cool. My uncle, two cousin, my girlfriend and I rushed downstairs on the Eagles side of the field to watch them pass through the bar.

It's a little blurry but you can see the entire Eagles team run out to the field. Mike Vick is much shorter than I thought and Andy Reid is a lot bigger than I thought.

We spent the National Anthem in the field-level bar behind the Eagles bench. It was cool being with 20 feet of Eagles players as they stalked up and down the bench area psyching themselves up for the pending game. Vick was seated just outside of the photo on the left on one of the trainer's tables getting stretched out. Despite taking some big hits, he had a decent game. I think everyone has been impressed by his comeback this season. As it turned out, the Cowboys were honoring several past Cowboy teams which included Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders. Cheerleaders have never been a thing for me, but I can admit that, up close, they are quite attractive and tall. Really tall. After the Nation Anthem, we headed back up to the suite for kickoff. I hadn't realized how far we had walked around the stadium until we attempted to get back to the suite.

The Eagles' bench and field-level bar is on the opposite side of the stadium from the suite and several floor below it. We thought we found a short cut when we happened upon an elevator that went up to the ring of suites, but while the ring appears to encircle the field, access to the ring is split. Our suite was on the Cowboys side of the field and therefore we couldn't just walk around the ring to reach our suite. Instead, we took the elevator back down to the mezzanine level and walk around the stadium to the Cowboys side and then take another elevator up the ring of suites. During the walk, we passed sections of "Standing Room Only" area. Tickets for those spots are $30 a piece! I won't lie, I would pay $30 to "stand" in the Cowboys stadium. With the Mega-Jumbotron and the layout of the "Standing Room Only" areas, there is not bad view.

Even though Dallas lost the game, being in the stadium was much more of a treat than anything else. Since I'm moving to the area soon, I'm looking forward to going back. Hell, the way the Patriots are playing, I might get a chance to be there in February!

Brushes with the Law

About a month ago, I was pulled over for "running a red light." I put the infraction in quotes to highlight my innocence. I did not run a red light, if anything, I'm guilty of not slowing down at a yellow light. With this in mind, I set about to fight the ticket. This required sending the ticket (through the mail only) to a specific division of the Registry of Motor Vehicles so that they could process my claim and set a court date for me. The week before last I received a letter in the mail telling me that my court date was set for a date last week and that unless I wanted to forfeit my hearing I needed to show up at least ten minutes early and be prepared to pay the court fees, cash only, exact amount only.

I decided to log my time going through the court system because I've heard many horror stories. I've even seen some of the drama of court played out the few times I've sat in a session to observe the proceedings. The following is a time log of the events I witnessed while I waited for my hearing.

10:50AM - I arrive at RTC (Roxbury Trial Court), go through metal detector and am pointed towards cashier to pay court fees... Ten minutes early. So far, so good.

11:00AM - Several people join me waiting at the cashier. No one is behind the window. A woman named "Maria" begins talking to me about fighting her ticket. Her nervousness is evident. I nod politely. I don't think she's going to win...

11:10AM - Someone finally comes to the cashier's window. Fees are paid, receipt slips are given out. Maria is showing photos of the street where she was pulled over. She is now speaking Spanish to a young Latino couple that is also waiting. Maria hasn't stopped talking since she walked up to the wait for the cashier.

11:15AM - Upstairs, on second floor, it's packed! People mill about waiting to be called into a court room. I'm wearing a gray suit, a collared button-down, without a tie. I think I look fairly professional. Other black people and ethnicities are dressed like they're waiting to get in the club...

11:30AM - An officer comes out of a court room and calls a name. A person sitting on a bench near me gets up and follows the officer into the court room. It dawns on me that there are at least 16 people, including me, here to fight traffic tickets.

11:36AM - Oh snap! There goes Charles Ogletree!

11:45AM - The court officer comes out to the court room lobby and asks everyone who is fighting a traffic ticket to give him their cashier receipt. He is mobbed by several people handing him receipts and demanding answers to questions. I hand him my receipt after the commotion dies down. I can't imagine how taxing his job must be. I want to offer to buy him a cup of coffee. Is that allowed? I'm not sure.

11:50AM - Maria is complaining to no one in particular about having to feed her parking meter. I smile to myself. I parked in a lot. No meter to worry about.

11:55AM - The court officer comes out and calls my name... Wait it was someone else. Never mind.

12:15PM - I think Maria is cursing in Spanish. I guess she's frustrated by the wait. Almost everyone who was waiting ahead of my group has been called. I've been in the RTC for an hour and twenty-five minutes.

12:20PM - Sitting and waiting reminds me of the time I went to the RMV to get my license renewed. I was there for close to two hours, but at least I had a book. I wish I had a book now...

12:25PM - A young woman comes out of the first court room in tears. She sit down next to a man with a child and begins to sob uncontrollably. She reaches for the child and hugs him. A court officer comes out and asks her to come with him. She begins to cry harder. It's painful to watch families get separated due to the system.

12:40PM - Maria gets called into a court room. The lobby is suddenly very quite except for the young Latino couple who appear to be talking about Maria, in Spanish, and laughing.

12:50PM - Maria comes back out of the court room, flooding the lobby with expletives, in both English and Spanish... I think she lost her hearing!

1:00PM - After two hours and ten minutes, I'm called by the court officer. I stand arrange my papers and go into the court room. Time to face the unknown.

1:10PM - My case is "farmed out" to a different location and jurisdiction because of my mother. Another day, another court. Will I have to pay court fees again?

I hold his gaze, his sneer increases. I don't break eye contact. His eyes narrow. I hold fast. Then he nods and looks away. I guess I passed the test.

He stands in front of the door he entered, with one hand loosely gripping a pole. His eyes trace the train car. He seems to sneer at everyone. He looks at me.

At the last stop, an Asian man got on the train. He is wearing a Red Sox jersey, black jeans, a black and red Red Sox baseball cap and black and red Jordans.

I'm currently on a train, going home. It's filled with the usual crowd of day workers in office attire and young people starting their Friday evening carousing.

Passing

My grandmother, my father's mother, died last week. This past Thursday we held the funeral and burial services. My father's family flew in from across the country to mourn the loss and many family friends, both ours and hers, showed up to pay their respects. Her death was sad, as most death is, but not unexpected. I've always felt that grieving is a private thing and because of that, I've agreed to the idea of a funeral. That people need to gather together to celebrate the life of someone or mourn their loss depending on how you look at it. I just want to share a story about her. it speaks to our relationship and what I'll always remember about her. Bare with me.

When I was young, around four or five years old, I would travel downtown with my grandmother to go shopping. there were several stops that were always made. Filenes and then Filenes Basement. The final stop would be Woolworths. That store no longer exists but I remember spending a lot of time there because there was a restaurant in the basement. We would meet up with her sister and her sister's husband and eat lunch in this basement diner-esque restaurant. I liked the place because they had fish sticks and french fries on the kids menu. As a kid, there is no better combination.

The second part of this story takes place on Sundays. Every Sunday my family would visit my grandmother after church. My sister and I would watch outrageous television, like Hercules and Xena Warrior Princess. My grandmother would offer us ginger ale, or "tonic" as she called it. She would also serve us fish sticks and french fries.

It struck me that she remembered my love of fish sticks and french fries. It that kind of gesture that I will remember. She noticed the little things and never forgot the small details. I'll miss that, but I'll remember it as well.

I love you Nana.

Labor Day

Happy Labor Day, everyone!

She just got sworn-in! It's official!

MA Governor, Deval Patrick, is speaking now. He's telling stories about his first jury trial. Apparently, the judge in the trail never once looked at his client. He's explaining how my mother is a good judge because she sees the people who appear before her as victims first, and defendants second. And now the swearing-in:

My godfather, who is also a lawyer, calls my mother an advocate with passion and compassion. Powerful words.

Chief Justice, Charles Johnson, gave some words of advice: The highest compliment a judge can receive is that they were diligent in their search for the truth.

My mother is being sworn-in as a judge in the Boston Municiple Court Department today. Stay tuned for updates!

European Vacation

Just one of the things I did while on vacation in Spain, Italy and France.



This took place at the Grand Marina Hotel in Barcelona on my cousin's birthday. I revealed my drink, the Flyguy, and the bartender liked it so much that he asked me to come behind the bar to make it again. Thank my sister for being on the ball enough to record the proceedings!

Of Mice and Music

[The following is an excerpt from a collection of short stories I wrote about growing up in Boston and riding the T.]

The Park Street train station is notorious for a few things. It’s one of the few train stations that connects three different lines, the Red, Orange, and Green, at one place. It’s also known as the hub of one of the oldest public transit lines in America. According to history, the Green line in its trolley form originated from Park Street as one of the oldest above ground train lines. It’s also one of the busiest train stations in Boston. With three lines connecting from it, it is easy to see why. Because it’s so busy it is also one of the hottest train stations in Boston. Second only to Downtown Crossing, the temperature in Park Street has gotten up to and over one hundred degrees. While all these stats are impressive, most people will agree that Park Street is most known for its entertainment.

All over Park Street you can find people performing for dollars and change. I’ve seen a breakdancing troupe outside the entrance to Park Street, a college aged magician doing card tricks on the Green line level, and you can almost always count on seeing someone with an acoustic guitar playing on the Red line level of the station. This person is the most interesting to me. They usually sit on the middle platform between the inbound and outbound train tracks playing music and hoping not to be drown out by the noise of incoming trains. Some even bring speaker equipment to combat train noise. These people impress me because they situate themselves right in the middle of passengers. When you’re at Park Street waiting for a train on the middle platform you can’t help but listen to their music even if you don’t like it. This seems like the perfect way to get heard, despite how annoying it seems.

I spend a fair amount of time at Park Street, and I’ve noticed that humans aren’t the only species that listens to the music. One of my pastimes at Park Street is counting the mice that I see while waiting for the train. They aren’t that big, and they move rather quickly so it takes a sharp eye to spot them. The mice are about the size of a thumb, and colored dirty brown. This makes them almost invisible when they scurry across the tracks. Most times one can only see them as a brief flash in the corner of your eye. Once you turn to look fully they have disappeared among the dirt and grime of the track.

The mice like the music. Well, that isn’t exactly true. It’s more that the mice are drawn by the music. Whenever a musician is out on the platform I’ve seen more mice running about on the tracks. Often times I see them running up and down the track stopping near to where the person is playing. They seem to listen for a moment and then run off in the opposite direction, only to come back moments later and repeat the process. Every time I see it I can’t help but think of the Pied Piper. The mice seem to be waiting for instruction from the musician. They wait there on the track, almost at attention, once they have received orders, they hurry away. When the task is completed they return for more directions. No matter what the music type the behavior is the same. I wonder what is so captivating to them, what is so mesmerizing about the music that these mice become soldiers in the musicians cause. What is the musician telling them?

Every time I wait for the Red Line at Park Street I look for the musician. The Pied Piper of the day. I look to see what he or she is commanding of their troops, and how well the troops are performing. Only at Park Street.

Before stepping off, she turns to SpongeBob and says, "it was nice to meet you!" Only on the MBTA could that happen.

"Wow," Gray top remarks. "We do look alike!" "I told you!" Says SpongeBob. The bus pulls into the Jackson Square station and Gray top gets up to exit the bus.

Pulling out her phone, SpongeBob rifles through a folder of images, stopping at one of her and another girl who resembles Gray top. They could be twins.

SpongeBob turns to Gray top, looking at her closely and says, "you look just like my friend." Gray top smiles. SpongeBob continues, "let me show you a photo."

One girl is wearing a bright yellow SpongeBob Squarepants t-shirt and athletic shorts. The other, a gray top and jeans.

I'm riding a bus to work. It's mid morning and the bus is packed. Because of that two girls are forced to sit next to each other. They don't know one another.

Culture Shock

[The following is an excerpt from a collection of short stories I wrote about growing up in Boston and riding the T.]

All types of people ride the “T.” It is transportation for the masses. As long as you pay your fare you can ride. Most people on the “T” are good people as far as I can tell. The high school students are loud and considered obnoxious by the old women who are riding downtown the shop. There are young professionals who wear crisp suits and read the New York Times on the ride into town. I’ve seen construction workers, and even homeless people. The weekend is even more diverse as people shed their work clothes for more comfortable party clothes. This is the time that you see drunken people on the train. They deserve a story unto themselves. While I’ve seen all types of people on the train, I’ve seen all types of people on the train. This includes those that don’t quite fit the mold.

During the summer after my first year of college I worked as a camp counselor at a writing camp based out of Tufts University. This meant that every morning, I would meet my buddy and fellow counselor, Matt, and he and I would take the Red Line to Davis Square. Davis Square is on the other side of the city, and thus it was a long train ride both in the mornings and the afternoons. Most mornings we would pass the time by finishing the corrections to our campers’ journals. Being the good counselors that we are, we rarely saved journals for the morning commute. However in the afternoons it was a little more difficult. We could get an early start on the journals, but that would mean not having anything to do on the morning commute, so that was out of the question. We often resorted to looking at women and talking about video games that we had played or wanted to play. Sometimes we would discuss deep philosophical issues, such as censorship in the media, but this was a last resort.

On one particular trip we had exhausted video games, and seen enough pretty women to last us a life time. Matt was opening his bag to pull out a journal. I had to act quickly or all would be lost. Fortunately I would be saved from discussing the pros and cons of communism because a new topic of interest stepped on to the train. It was an Asian woman with two children in tow. One was in a stroller, and the other looked like a boy. I wish I could give you a definite answer to the older child’s sex but I can’t. It looked like a boy and even had some characteristically young male mannerisms but because of the way it was dressed I couldn’t be sure. The way they were all dresses, save the baby who was dressed normally, was enough to spark a conversation alone. The (boy?) was wearing a Japanese school girl’s outfit. You know the type. A loose white blouse with a red neck tie that splays out in two even ends down the chest, a short blue skirt with pleats, white socks pulled up to mid shin, and black patent leather shoes that reflected the overhead lights in the train.

The mother was wearing a magenta pink waistcoat that was unbuttoned down to the place where her ribcage split. She was not wearing an undershirt or bra. She had on black leggings that were pulled up and covered by the end of her waistcoat. Over the leggings she wore chaps. Yes, chaps. Like you’ve seen in westerns or more recently, as an accessory in bondage sex. These however, were not black leather, they were silk or satin, and they shimmered as she moved onto the train. They were gold in color and covered with Japanese characters. She was also wearing stiletto heels with a severely pointed toe. Her outfit caused most of us to stare; those that regained their senses looked away and opted for furtive glances in a show of discreet politeness. Others cursed politeness to hell and stared outright.

One woman in particular, a heavyset black woman seemed to take personal offence to the Asians woman’s presence. The black woman acted as if the Asian woman has walked on the train and slapped her in the face. She shook her head in disgust stopping only to look at the Asian woman, and go back to being outraged by her presence. Matt and I watched the Asian woman board the train with curious interest. We had no need to discuss communism. The Asian woman seemed to be oblivious to all the attention she had received upon entering the train. She told her son (daughter?) to sit down in a seat and be quiet while she gently rocked the stroller. As attention over her entrance died down, Matt and I proceeded to make comments in hushed voices about where she was coming from and where she was going. We amused ourselves and almost forgot that she was even there. But at JFK/UMASS she reminded everyone of her presence on the train.

As the train entered JFK/UMASS, the Asian woman coughed and then spit out some phlegm onto the floor of the train and then wiped it with her shoe. This was too much for the black woman. She looked at the spittle, and then at the Asian woman and shouted at her.

“That is just disgusting! I can’t believe you would do that!” she looked around for support from other people on the train. Getting none and needing none, she continued her tirade.

“Look at you! Who dresses that way huh? And then you spit on the train! It’s people like you who make me sick!” the black woman yelled.

“Shut up you! How dare you insult me!” the Asian woman spit back. Her accent was thick but you could make out everything. Matt and I were all ears. This was great.

“No you shut up!” the black woman countered. “You just a dirty bitch! Just filthy”

“No you bitch!” the Asian woman retorted.

This seemed to strike a nerve with the black woman. She stood up and took a menacing step towards the Asian woman. The black woman easily had fifty pounds on the Asian woman, who took a step back when the black woman stood up. I had never seen a fight on the train before. I couldn’t believe my luck. Timing has a lot to do with what happened next. I often wonder if the train was not pulling into a station would there have been a fight, and who would have won. But as it was the intercom crackled and broke the staggering silence of the compartment.

“JFK/UMASS CHANGE HERE FRO BRAINTREE SERVICE, THIS IS AN ASHMONT TRAIN.”

The doors opened and the Asian woman, seeing her opportunity exited the train dragging her daughter (son?). The black woman just stood there, breathing heavily, nostrils flaring. I could see the sweat running down the side of her face. She went back to her seat and sat down heavily, not saying a word. In fact the whole compartment was silent; it felt as if no one knew how to move past the situations that had just occurred. I laughed, loud and hard, clapping Matt on the back hard enough to make him shake. Everyone looked at me, but I didn’t care.

“Did you see that? She was ready to hit her, that’s crazy.” I said through fits of laughter. I was laughing so hard I was crying. Matt just nodded and opened his bag and pulled out a journal. I wiped my eye and settled down. By now the compartment had gone back to a facsimile of normalcy. That was my best train ride ever.

Just a Hook-up

[This was a post I did for another blog a few years ago. That blog has folded, but I liked my piece, so here it is.]

Charles Blow wrote an Op-Ed column in the NY Times on December 13 entitled “The Demise of Dating,” saying that amongst the younger generation, dating was a thing of the past and the hook-up was now the standard. The thrust of his argument is that the popularity of just hooking up has led to a decrease in our ability to establish and maintain one-on-one relationships; the emphasis on the group relationship has or is destroying the individual relationship.

Hold up a sec Chuck.

While I agree that the phenomenon of hooking up is seemingly replacing the old standard of dating, it doesn't mean that dating is dead. Relationships are not easy, and while the hook-up does simplify certain aspects of it, it also adds complications to others. The idea that hooking up “emphasizes group friendships over the one-pair model of dating" is only the surface of the issue. If people in a group friendship are hooking up, they are creating added layers to their specific relationship which creates one-pair interactions within the group friendship. On the surface, the hook up appears to only strengthen the group dynamic but it pushes the one-pair individual dynamic just as much.

Charlie also talked about how the hook-up is gender-biased toward men because eventually women want individual relationships and we, commitment-phobic, men only want to hook up. That's probably true. Still, I find it a bit silly to think that only women would want a hook-up to turn into a relationship. Hooking up is a two-way street, men get can get just as attached and begin to look for that individual relationship.

I take umbrage with the way Mr. Blow paints a picture of the future of social interaction as one that is solely a group dynamic with everyone hooking up with their friends and no one taking the time to get to know someone on an individual basis. Are we, as a generation, doomed to just move from one hook-up to the next with no real emotional foundation or attachment? I hope not.

A friend of mine told me "Love is important, it's what we live on, the delight we produce in others."

She's clearly smarter than me and I agree with her fully. I find it difficult to believe that through hooking up with someone you'll be able to make a connection that can lead to something deeper. The process of getting to know someone through hanging out with them is so integral to a relationship that skipping or holding off on that until after you hook up strikes me as backwards. If there is a connection, the intimacy will be there. It'd be good to know that the intimacy is just a part of a larger, deeper connection you share with someone.

Maybe I'm old-fashioned, and need to get with the times, but I can't think of anything better than hanging out with someone I like and getting to know them... Then hooking up.

New Blog!

I've started a new blog with my fellow writer and West Roxbury Education Complex Writing Tutor, Gage Norris. He's legit and as a result, our new blog is legit. Phreelance Writers is the name. Check it out, we'll be posting new content almost everyday. We'll even have guest contributors because we both know some great writers who are currently "freelancing." I promise, you won't be disappointed!

Andventures in Maine - North Berwick

I was back in Maine this weekend hanging out with my friend Gage. The trip was a bit impromptu but it worked out for the best. He called me around 2:30 p.m. on Friday asking me if I wanted to come to his place in Maine for the weekend. This was something we had discussed before but were never able to coordinate. It seemed like this would be another one of those times since he was leaving within the hour. I had errands to run and wouldn't be free until after 4:30. As it turned out, my sister was heading up to Bar Harbor, ME that day so I was able to catch a ride with her to Wells and get picked up by Gage.

The weekend was fairly relaxing. We hung out at his house, a legitimate farmhouse, including a barn and wood chopping space on 150 acres of pure, Maine forest. I loved the front door, a double door, one inner and one outer, that would swing closed to maintain the temperature in the house. Inside, everything was wood. It felt very rustic and authentic.

We spent Saturday at Ogunquit Beach. Until that day, the last time I went to the beach was in Hawaii. The water at Waikiki beach was probably around 70 degrees. I remember it feeling like warm, pleasant bath water. The water at Ogunquit was much colder, I'd guess around 58 degrees. I had to laugh when Gage remarked that the water was warm. Ogunquit Beach is one of the more interesting beaches I've been to. During low tide the water recedes far enough back to expose an 80 yard swath of sand that extends from a raised parking lot and beach front restaurants. During high tide the water comes all the way in to the rocks and boulders used to raise up said parking lot and restaurants such that the beach itself disappears. When we first arrived, we set up our towels and beach umbrella about 50 yards from the water. By the end of the day we had retreated onto the rocks in front of the parking lot. However while the tide rose, we tossed a Frisbee around and Gage and his friend Melanie went skim-boarding.

The best part about watching Melanie's video is the boy jumping out of the way at the last minute. Even though Gage brought two skim-boards to the beach, Melanie was forced to use Gage's larger board because the other one was damaged. It should be noted that Melanie may in fact be a foot shorter than Gage. I mean, look at her compared to the skim-board, it's almost her height! Melanie came with a friend to join me and the Norris family at the beach. It quickly became evident to me that Gage's younger brother and Melanie's friend were more than just acquaintances. I suddenly felt like the odd man out and had to fight a severe bout of longing for my girlfriend! Later that evening everyone reconvened for sushi in Portsmouth, NH which was only a 25-minute car ride away. On Sunday Gage, his brother and I played basketball in the sun at a nearby rec center. Probably not the best idea when the temperature is topping out at 90 degrees, but still fun. The Gatorade afterward was even better.

This last jaunt to Maine, combined with my other trips, has illuminated something for me. I've come to realize that I like Maine. It has the isolation feel of deep country forest but it's only a train ride away. This is a unique combination because it makes the state close enough to get to and at the same time feel very far away from everything. I'm not one who is particularly interested in communing with nature but the stillness of a Maine morning in July is something to behold. I just wish I got better cell phone reception...!

Got Books? Or, too much of a good thing

I like to read. Blame my mother. While I say this in jest, the truth of it is that my love of reading is one of the fundamental things about me. It's a foundation and a starting point for much of how I view the world. So much so that when I meet or talk to people who claim not to be "readers" I have an almost visceral reaction, a physical recoiling. It's as if I can't be friends with someone who doesn't read. That may not necessarily be true, but I have on more than one occasion cut conversations with people short once they told me they don't read.

As much as I love reading, it can also be a burden. I'll read anything. I mean that. If someone suggests a book to me, I'll try to find it and read it. Feel free to suggest books in the comment space... My most recent way of finding new books to read is through movies. Many movies, these days, are based off of books or graphic novels. I enjoy finding the source material for the movie, reading it, and then seeing the movie to do a comparison. With the exception of one book and movie combo, The Ruins, by Scott Smith, every book I've read has been better than the movie.

I recently saw Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief and in true form I went out and bought the five-book set series on which the movie was based. This brings me to an issue I seem to be developing. My ability to suspend my disbelief is so genuine that I get frustrated when the characters I'm reading about balk at the crazy situations they find themselves in. I understand getting sucked into a story, but this may be too much. Still, I can't help myself.

Percy, you're 12-years-old, weird stuff has been happening to you all your life, you find out you're half human, half god and then you have the nerve to affect surprise and shock when your true nature is explained to you? Come on!You need to be more like Harry Potter. Sure, he's older and has had a few more years experiencing the weird, at some point, you have to be like him and just "go with it."

I tried to explain this to my sister. She just laughed at me and shook her head. I recognize that I'm complaining about a fictional character, but if I'm going to follow their exploits, I shouldn't be more on board with all the insanity than them. I'm just third party viewer, living vicariously through them. If I'm going to believe, they need to believe too!

Updates, or lack thereof - 4th of July

A friend of mine made fun of me the other day. She called my status as a writer into question, saying that I hardly ever update my blog so how could I call myself a writer, even a freelance writer? I got upset, not so much because of what she said but because of the truth of it. I've been slow to update this blog and my lack of writing here, as well as other places, does raise some doubt as my status as a writer. Let me augment all of that by posting something here and now:

The fourth of July was last week, hooray American Independence! I went out with some friends to watch the fireworks display in and around Boston. They were pretty sweet, Check out the finale of the big show below.


The fourth is a bit of an infamous day in my life. A year ago, that day, I broke up with a girlfriend in the most awkward of manners. I refer to the whole event as my "Epic Fail." A year later the memory of it still makes me flush with embarrassment and brings a chuckle to those of my friends who know the details. Not one of my best moments.

I strive to look at the incident from all angles and take away from it the best parts. It's fair to say that the incident put into the play several events in my romantic life over the next few months which brought me to where I am now, in a happy and committed relationship. It also taught me not to force anything. The idea of the square peg, round hole comes to mind and if I'm honest with myself I was trying to fit one into the other. Never a good idea. Finally, and probably most uncomfortable for me, is the whole thing is hilarious from a third party perspective. I tell people what happened and they laugh. At first that upset me, but now, a year later, I can see how amusing the situation is.

I just wish I had been able to spend this past Independence Day with my current lady-friend. It would have created the perfect epilogue to a very humorous gaffe.

Driven Desire

Does privilege breed apathy or lethargy? For the longest time I argued that it did not, that the nature of an individual was what caused apathy or lethargy. but perhaps the idea that having more opportunity than one knows what to do with can just as easily be a hindrance as it can be a boon. I have been accused, in the past, of not being "hungry" because my parents did well in providing for me. Because I was never deprived of that which I needed, (noted I did not say wanted) I never have fully appreciated or felt the drive to earn something. This argument also states that I will never be truly successful because I will never know what it is like to desire something that cannot be easily gained.

I take offense to this argument on general principle because it assumes that without "hunger" or struggle one cannot fully appreciate success. It also suggests that it was a mistake to provide so well for me without some type of counter-balance because it makes me soft and not able to truly handle the reality of the world. That reality being that one has to go out and and get what they want for themselves and can't/shouldn't rely on someone else to help them. While I agree that the effort put in towards a goal is directly proportional to the success of meeting said goal, I chafe at the idea that "hunger," in the sense of deprivation, is the only way to measure success and fulfillment therein.

I think with privilege, or providing for people, it's more of a desire to equal if not succeed those who provided so much for you. I know what drives me, apart from wanting to be successful, it is the desire to live up to the high bar my parents set in terms of success and comfort. From my position, I need to do at least as well as them, both successful lawyers, if not better. The reality remains that I am not driven by trying to fill a lack that I experienced when I was younger, but rather attempting to live up to and surpass the exacting standards set by those who came before me.

UMass-Boston Piece

I wrote a story about student athletes at UMass-Boston back in April. They just published it, this past month. The link can be found under the "Freelance Writing section." This is one of the interesting aspects of freelance writing. Often, you write something and send it to your editor and hear nothing. Your story disappears into that ethereal space in an inbox stuck between a staff meeting reminder and the follow up email from that guy in the Chancellor's office that he's been meaning to get back to... Well, they sent me a check so I guess I should have known they were going to use the story.

The story came out well. Much thanks to my ex-KDH writer/editor (wink, wink, nudge, nudge). A funny side note about the story: I called the entire suite of coaches and UMass-Boston athletic department officials. One of the few who picked up the phone was the coach of the now-defunct sailing program. We had a short, terse conversation in which he explained how his program was being shut down due to a lack of funding. He also intoned that if certain other officials in the athletic dept. were to cut back on what he called "unnecessary expenses" perhaps the sailing team would still be around.

It was incredibly awkward!

"on second thought, I don't think I know him!" He shouts as the bus pulls off. Man, I love the T!

The rest of the bus erupts. "Don't do it!" Someone shouts. "You better run!" Shouts another. The man stammers as he exits the bus. Once off the bus he recovers.

"do you work with Jim C****?" She asks the man. He pauses, "I do..." he replies. "Can you tell him his baby-momma is looking for him?"

Two incidents in one day, MBTA, why are you so good to me? The previous stop: a man in a work uniform standing to get off the bus is questioned by a woman.

I wish I was making this up. Only on public transit would a guy, covered in pee, try to sneak on a bus using the front door. One more reason why I love the T.

The bus is packed so, needless to say, he bumped into a woman standing near the driver. She freaks out and starting screaming "that's urine! That's disgusting!"