Promise of a New Day...
As depressing and bluesy as yesterday was, I sure needed it. Today is one of those days that you feel like you've taken off the old worn overcoat, and I wouldn't feel this much better if not for yesterday.
I face today with hope and the courage to make it as great as it should be. I will keep my eyes open for the best opportunities to make themselves available. Doors will open and close, and I will be ready, willing, and maybe even a little giddy.
And just as a postscript to yesterday, I just want to put this out there, in case my buddy Leonard is reading...
Dude, you are my best friend, and I love you to death. I want you to have every good thing on Earth. We really need to figure out some sort of collaboration, because one of these days, you are going to run face first into greatness, and I want to be right there to enjoy it with you.
I admire your deeds and your soul, and although we have different goals and motivators, I want you to see that there is so much more in the world for you. Brother, it IS possible to have it all. Don't be afraid to step out of the box. You have a mind and skills that need to be shared with the world. Don't keep them secreted inside.
Have a good day, peeps!
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Love's Labour
When I was in college, I had a roommate (who was an idiot!) who suggested to me that the biggest compliment one could ever receive was a surprise birthday party. For nearly 20 years, I completely agreed (despite his idiocy!).
Today, I don't.
I just finished the haunting "I'll Sleep When I'm Dead" book. And I realize now that the greatest compliment doesn't happen until you're dead.
Death has a way of bringing families together - and tearing families apart.
When someone is still alive, people tend to not really say exactly how they feel about that person. But when that person dies, all formality goes out the window.
I can't help but think about the fact that when someone dies, all of their normal muscle control goes away. Therefore, said dead person shits him/herself.
Is it not sort of like that with friends and family? We often don't say what we really mean - until someone dies. Then we lose control over self-censorship.
Throughout my adult life, I'm beginning to think that I've been preparing for death. I rode across Alaska and Montana in order to raise money for AIDS vaccine research - in hopes that during the lifetimes of my nephews and nieces, they will not have to worry about contracting AIDS. Is this my way of trying to take care of them while I'm worm food?
As I laid wallowing in chemotherapy chemicals during cancer treatments, I began structuring "Cancerboy", which I wrote to help survivors and non-survivors alike to understand that one can return from the depths of hell and find a life that is truly successful. Is this an attempt at trying to save the world even when my body no longer exists?
I think about my dad who died at 48 years old, and my step-dad who died at 61 and my mentor who died in his 50s. I think about what they meant to me while they were alive and how much (more?) they mean to me now.
We take advantage of this life and those people whom we say we cherish. But how do we prove our love for one another?
As I read Warren Zevon's biography, I took note of the people who stuck with him throughout his life. And as each page got me closer to the end of the book, I began thinking more and more about the people in my life.
Do I tell them what they mean to me? Do they know what they mean to me?
For the last 5+ years, I have tried to make sure that everyone in my life understood exactly how much I love them.
Weird thing is, I've probably failed, and should try harder.
When I was in college, I had a roommate (who was an idiot!) who suggested to me that the biggest compliment one could ever receive was a surprise birthday party. For nearly 20 years, I completely agreed (despite his idiocy!).
Today, I don't.
I just finished the haunting "I'll Sleep When I'm Dead" book. And I realize now that the greatest compliment doesn't happen until you're dead.
Death has a way of bringing families together - and tearing families apart.
When someone is still alive, people tend to not really say exactly how they feel about that person. But when that person dies, all formality goes out the window.
I can't help but think about the fact that when someone dies, all of their normal muscle control goes away. Therefore, said dead person shits him/herself.
Is it not sort of like that with friends and family? We often don't say what we really mean - until someone dies. Then we lose control over self-censorship.
Throughout my adult life, I'm beginning to think that I've been preparing for death. I rode across Alaska and Montana in order to raise money for AIDS vaccine research - in hopes that during the lifetimes of my nephews and nieces, they will not have to worry about contracting AIDS. Is this my way of trying to take care of them while I'm worm food?
As I laid wallowing in chemotherapy chemicals during cancer treatments, I began structuring "Cancerboy", which I wrote to help survivors and non-survivors alike to understand that one can return from the depths of hell and find a life that is truly successful. Is this an attempt at trying to save the world even when my body no longer exists?
I think about my dad who died at 48 years old, and my step-dad who died at 61 and my mentor who died in his 50s. I think about what they meant to me while they were alive and how much (more?) they mean to me now.
We take advantage of this life and those people whom we say we cherish. But how do we prove our love for one another?
As I read Warren Zevon's biography, I took note of the people who stuck with him throughout his life. And as each page got me closer to the end of the book, I began thinking more and more about the people in my life.
Do I tell them what they mean to me? Do they know what they mean to me?
For the last 5+ years, I have tried to make sure that everyone in my life understood exactly how much I love them.
Weird thing is, I've probably failed, and should try harder.
The Blues Down To My Shoes
Do you ever have those days when you feel like you are being followed by a black cloud?
You know deep inside that everything is fine, and life is so, so good.
But there’s that nagging sensation of doom and gloom…
I feel that way today. I don’t know why, for sure, but I’ve got a few theories:
Theory 1) After a couple of weeks worth of nice weather, it has gotten cooler and dreary again. It’s nearly May and there has been speculation that we may actually get some SNOW this week. This winter was a particularly hard one, and many of us here in Michigan are physically ACHING for nice weather to stick around. Unfortunately for me, I am very affected by weather.
Theory 2) I am being affected by the book I am reading. I am near the end of Warren Zevon’s autobiography. At this point in the book, he realizes that lung cancer is killing him, and he is trying to finish an album before the put him in his coffin. It’s very sad.
Theory 3) Lately, I feel like I have been bombarded by maladies. I was sick for a good few weeks during the winter, then again a few weeks ago, and after finally getting the proper medication to get rid of my cold, my allergies start up and I am sneezing and blowing my nose and my eyes itch and burn… I’m sick of being sick! On top of that, I got a bridge when I went to the dentist last week, and I am in pain many times a day. Now, I can handle pain and discomfort to a certain point, but once again… I’m sick of it!
I understand that even on my worst days I am better off than many people. I have absolutely no right to whine or complain. But sometimes, it feels better if I do.
I recognize that I am very lucky, and I am extremely grateful for having the life that I do.
I just want that damn cloud to go away.
Do you ever have those days when you feel like you are being followed by a black cloud?
You know deep inside that everything is fine, and life is so, so good.
But there’s that nagging sensation of doom and gloom…
I feel that way today. I don’t know why, for sure, but I’ve got a few theories:
Theory 1) After a couple of weeks worth of nice weather, it has gotten cooler and dreary again. It’s nearly May and there has been speculation that we may actually get some SNOW this week. This winter was a particularly hard one, and many of us here in Michigan are physically ACHING for nice weather to stick around. Unfortunately for me, I am very affected by weather.
Theory 2) I am being affected by the book I am reading. I am near the end of Warren Zevon’s autobiography. At this point in the book, he realizes that lung cancer is killing him, and he is trying to finish an album before the put him in his coffin. It’s very sad.
Theory 3) Lately, I feel like I have been bombarded by maladies. I was sick for a good few weeks during the winter, then again a few weeks ago, and after finally getting the proper medication to get rid of my cold, my allergies start up and I am sneezing and blowing my nose and my eyes itch and burn… I’m sick of being sick! On top of that, I got a bridge when I went to the dentist last week, and I am in pain many times a day. Now, I can handle pain and discomfort to a certain point, but once again… I’m sick of it!
I understand that even on my worst days I am better off than many people. I have absolutely no right to whine or complain. But sometimes, it feels better if I do.
I recognize that I am very lucky, and I am extremely grateful for having the life that I do.
I just want that damn cloud to go away.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Years of Pain
I’ve got a friend who has recently dived into cycling. He is preparing for his first century (100 mile bike ride), and has been keeping me abreast of his successes.
I told him today that he reminds me a lot of myself eight years ago, as I was training for my epic bike rides (multi-day, multi-hundred miles). I mentioned how it’s amazing how things change so quickly.
And then I got depressed.
When I was training for my big rides, cycling was my life. EVERYTHING revolved around cycling. It was cool. It was fresh. It was annoying to everyone around me.
I generally succeeded in those epic rides. I far exceeded everyone’s expectations, and I was very proud of my accomplishments.
And then I got sick, and everything changed.
Though treatment was only five months in length, the whole experience took up almost an entire year. And when I was re-born, I had one goal first and foremost in my mind – to prove to myself and everyone else that your only boundaries are in your head.
Eight months after treatments were over, I did another epic ride. This one was across Iowa.
Iowa was a turning point for me. I learned that I could still persevere and survive long, painful miles. But I didn’t want to anymore. I didn’t have anything else to prove.
As a result, I began to ride more for the fun of it than anything else. I still tried to do one long bike ride each summer, and I even found a purpose – Gilda’s Riders.
If Gilda’s Riders worked out the way I had hoped, it would have become a source of inspiration for everyone whose life had been touched by cancer.
Gilda’s Riders worked for two years, but I got burned out. Having just gotten married – another major change in my life – I found that there were too many other things that I wanted and needed to do, and planning a charity ride fell to the wayside.
There are times that I yearn for the lactic acid buildup, and pain of riding across mountains. There are times that I miss devoting my life solely to achieving something I had previously thought was unachievable.
As a survivor and still-newlywed husband, my priorities have changed, and so has the time that I have available.
Everything I have done, everything I have accomplished, has been done to get me to where I am right now. I am very happy. I am healthy, too, for the most part.
I have been a survivor my whole life. I am proud of that.
I want to see what life is like without adversity, though. I want to appreciate not being anxious from the moment I wake up.
And that is where I am right now. Riding as if there is no chain.
I’ve got a friend who has recently dived into cycling. He is preparing for his first century (100 mile bike ride), and has been keeping me abreast of his successes.
I told him today that he reminds me a lot of myself eight years ago, as I was training for my epic bike rides (multi-day, multi-hundred miles). I mentioned how it’s amazing how things change so quickly.
And then I got depressed.
When I was training for my big rides, cycling was my life. EVERYTHING revolved around cycling. It was cool. It was fresh. It was annoying to everyone around me.
I generally succeeded in those epic rides. I far exceeded everyone’s expectations, and I was very proud of my accomplishments.
And then I got sick, and everything changed.
Though treatment was only five months in length, the whole experience took up almost an entire year. And when I was re-born, I had one goal first and foremost in my mind – to prove to myself and everyone else that your only boundaries are in your head.
Eight months after treatments were over, I did another epic ride. This one was across Iowa.
Iowa was a turning point for me. I learned that I could still persevere and survive long, painful miles. But I didn’t want to anymore. I didn’t have anything else to prove.
As a result, I began to ride more for the fun of it than anything else. I still tried to do one long bike ride each summer, and I even found a purpose – Gilda’s Riders.
If Gilda’s Riders worked out the way I had hoped, it would have become a source of inspiration for everyone whose life had been touched by cancer.
Gilda’s Riders worked for two years, but I got burned out. Having just gotten married – another major change in my life – I found that there were too many other things that I wanted and needed to do, and planning a charity ride fell to the wayside.
There are times that I yearn for the lactic acid buildup, and pain of riding across mountains. There are times that I miss devoting my life solely to achieving something I had previously thought was unachievable.
As a survivor and still-newlywed husband, my priorities have changed, and so has the time that I have available.
Everything I have done, everything I have accomplished, has been done to get me to where I am right now. I am very happy. I am healthy, too, for the most part.
I have been a survivor my whole life. I am proud of that.
I want to see what life is like without adversity, though. I want to appreciate not being anxious from the moment I wake up.
And that is where I am right now. Riding as if there is no chain.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
One hour of drama burns 100 calories
Let's say that sex burns 65 calories per hour.
If we agree to that, then I have decided that drama in ones' life must burn at least 100 calories per hour.
On what do I base this? Well...
First of all, sex is fun. Drama is not.
Use the following interpolation:
Sleeping is fun. Sleeping burns like, 30 calories per hour.
Running is not fun. Running burns 400 calories per second. It's true.
Watching TV is fun. Watching TV burns 20 calories per hour.
Rock climbing is not fun. Rock climbing burns an estimated 200,000 calories per minute. I know this as fact.
Therefore, if sex is fun and burns 65 calories per hour, then drama - which is not as fun as sex, but also not as sweaty as rock climbing - must burn more calories.
Now, since SO MANY PEOPLE appear to like drama - like soap operas, for instance - then it can't burn as many calories as running, either.
So based on that scale, drama absolutely MUST burn 100 calories per hour.
Okay, so now that we've established that fact, I have got to ask a question:
With SO MANY PEOPLE burning SO MANY CALORIES on their own (or someone else's) drama, why are we the fattest country in the world?
The answer is simple, silly!
Drama makes people depressed, and what happens when people get depressed?
That's right...
They get drunk (empty caloric intake)
and have sex.
And for the record, I'm pretty sure that drunk, sloppy sex only burns 40 calories.
Let's say that sex burns 65 calories per hour.
If we agree to that, then I have decided that drama in ones' life must burn at least 100 calories per hour.
On what do I base this? Well...
First of all, sex is fun. Drama is not.
Use the following interpolation:
Sleeping is fun. Sleeping burns like, 30 calories per hour.
Running is not fun. Running burns 400 calories per second. It's true.
Watching TV is fun. Watching TV burns 20 calories per hour.
Rock climbing is not fun. Rock climbing burns an estimated 200,000 calories per minute. I know this as fact.
Therefore, if sex is fun and burns 65 calories per hour, then drama - which is not as fun as sex, but also not as sweaty as rock climbing - must burn more calories.
Now, since SO MANY PEOPLE appear to like drama - like soap operas, for instance - then it can't burn as many calories as running, either.
So based on that scale, drama absolutely MUST burn 100 calories per hour.
Okay, so now that we've established that fact, I have got to ask a question:
With SO MANY PEOPLE burning SO MANY CALORIES on their own (or someone else's) drama, why are we the fattest country in the world?
The answer is simple, silly!
Drama makes people depressed, and what happens when people get depressed?
That's right...
They get drunk (empty caloric intake)
and have sex.
And for the record, I'm pretty sure that drunk, sloppy sex only burns 40 calories.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Artist, Tortured?
I am in the midst of reading Warren Zevon's biography, "I'll Sleep When I'm Dead", and it's got me thinking about the tortured artist effect (coined by Todd Rundgren)...
It's also got me thinking about intelligence.
Warren and Frank Zappa are definitely two historical people I'd like to meet. With today's media allowing for instant gratification, and negativity entertaining us more and more, I'd be interested to see how they would be portrayed today.
When I was much younger, I totally believed that in order to be relevant, you had to be tortured. These lines from Neil Young's "After the Goldrush" were my mantra:
I was lyin' in a burned out basement
With a full moon in my eyes
I was hopin' for a replacement
When the sun burst through the skies
There was a band playin' in my head
And I felt like getting high
Thinkin' about what a friend had said,
I was hopin' it was a lie
In my eyes, this was as low as you could go. I yearned for it, yet too afraid to make it happen on my own.
In recent years, I have come to wonder, though...
Did I make it happen?
Looking back on my life, I remember thinking about things I didn't want. Two things in particular:
I didn't want huge scars on my head because they would be obvious when I got older and lost my hair;
I never wanted cancer.
Now, they say that if you want something bad enough, and think about it long enough, you will eventually work yourself into that occurrence.
But what if you DON'T want something to happen to you?
How many times did you say to yourself, "don't trip, don't screw this up, don't lose this", and it happened?
How is that different than "I don't want to get cancer"?
Warren Zevon was a tortured artist. He is an idol of mine. I love the way he put words together with music. From The French Inhaler:
You said you were an actress
Yes, I believe you are
I thought you'd be a star
So I drank up all the money,
Yes, I drank up all the money,
With these phonies in this Hollywood bar,
These friends of mine in this Hollywood bar
Mr. Bad Example:
Of course I went to law school and took a law degree
And counseled all my clients to plead insanity
Then worked in hair replacement, swindling the bald
Where very few are chosen, and fewer still are called
These days, Warren and Frank are dead. Cancer - the genius killer.
Ironic, eh?
I no longer want to be the tortured artist. In fact, I haven't wanted to be one in many, many years. I have been too close to despondence for my own comfort, and I am a cancer survivor. I've walked the roads that would leave some people in ruin.
Mr. Rundgren can keep the ever popular totured artist effect. It was a neat concept, but there are some street smarts I'd rather not have!
I am in the midst of reading Warren Zevon's biography, "I'll Sleep When I'm Dead", and it's got me thinking about the tortured artist effect (coined by Todd Rundgren)...
It's also got me thinking about intelligence.
Warren and Frank Zappa are definitely two historical people I'd like to meet. With today's media allowing for instant gratification, and negativity entertaining us more and more, I'd be interested to see how they would be portrayed today.
When I was much younger, I totally believed that in order to be relevant, you had to be tortured. These lines from Neil Young's "After the Goldrush" were my mantra:
I was lyin' in a burned out basement
With a full moon in my eyes
I was hopin' for a replacement
When the sun burst through the skies
There was a band playin' in my head
And I felt like getting high
Thinkin' about what a friend had said,
I was hopin' it was a lie
In my eyes, this was as low as you could go. I yearned for it, yet too afraid to make it happen on my own.
In recent years, I have come to wonder, though...
Did I make it happen?
Looking back on my life, I remember thinking about things I didn't want. Two things in particular:
I didn't want huge scars on my head because they would be obvious when I got older and lost my hair;
I never wanted cancer.
Now, they say that if you want something bad enough, and think about it long enough, you will eventually work yourself into that occurrence.
But what if you DON'T want something to happen to you?
How many times did you say to yourself, "don't trip, don't screw this up, don't lose this", and it happened?
How is that different than "I don't want to get cancer"?
Warren Zevon was a tortured artist. He is an idol of mine. I love the way he put words together with music. From The French Inhaler:
You said you were an actress
Yes, I believe you are
I thought you'd be a star
So I drank up all the money,
Yes, I drank up all the money,
With these phonies in this Hollywood bar,
These friends of mine in this Hollywood bar
Mr. Bad Example:
Of course I went to law school and took a law degree
And counseled all my clients to plead insanity
Then worked in hair replacement, swindling the bald
Where very few are chosen, and fewer still are called
These days, Warren and Frank are dead. Cancer - the genius killer.
Ironic, eh?
I no longer want to be the tortured artist. In fact, I haven't wanted to be one in many, many years. I have been too close to despondence for my own comfort, and I am a cancer survivor. I've walked the roads that would leave some people in ruin.
Mr. Rundgren can keep the ever popular totured artist effect. It was a neat concept, but there are some street smarts I'd rather not have!
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
What's it gonna take??
Yeesh! No love for the city of Detroit these days...
I can't say how badly I want to bitch about Mayor Kilpatrick, about Detroit Public Schools, the unemployment rate, and the general crappy feeling in this town.
But I have been cursed with having a glass that is perpetually half full. Instead of complaining about the obvious (or not so obvious for that matter!), I find myself asking: What do we gotta do to make things better?
Geez, I wish I knew the answer to that.
I know that I enjoy going to Greektown and Slows BBQ. I enjoy donating my future lottery winnings to the casinos. I enjoy going to Mexicantown for awesome Mexican food and margaritas.
Sports-wise, Detroit is on the way to hockey and basketball playoffs. Baseball season just started. We have so much to look forward to in the world of sports (yes, I even have hope for the Lions this year - or any year, really!). I really hope that somehow, Detroit can find a spark and get past the negativity it finds itself shrouded in.
I wonder, exactly where that spark will come from. Who can perform the magic that we need?
Time will tell, and I hope we're paying attention!
Yeesh! No love for the city of Detroit these days...
I can't say how badly I want to bitch about Mayor Kilpatrick, about Detroit Public Schools, the unemployment rate, and the general crappy feeling in this town.
But I have been cursed with having a glass that is perpetually half full. Instead of complaining about the obvious (or not so obvious for that matter!), I find myself asking: What do we gotta do to make things better?
Geez, I wish I knew the answer to that.
I know that I enjoy going to Greektown and Slows BBQ. I enjoy donating my future lottery winnings to the casinos. I enjoy going to Mexicantown for awesome Mexican food and margaritas.
Sports-wise, Detroit is on the way to hockey and basketball playoffs. Baseball season just started. We have so much to look forward to in the world of sports (yes, I even have hope for the Lions this year - or any year, really!). I really hope that somehow, Detroit can find a spark and get past the negativity it finds itself shrouded in.
I wonder, exactly where that spark will come from. Who can perform the magic that we need?
Time will tell, and I hope we're paying attention!
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