On Demand

I can’t remember the last time I watched a movie that impacted me this much. When I was younger, it seemed to happen a bunch. The movies and music that you’re exposed to as a teenager hits you at the perfect time for long-lasting impact. Ask your parents their favorite album or movie and most likely it was released before they turned 25. So on a lazy, quiet, sunny Saturday morning, I wasn’t expecting to browse my favorited movies on Comcast, find that ‘Once’ was on demand, and for 86 minutes, become completely entranced. It’s such a beautiful and powerful and warm movie that I’m still glowing. So much so that I spent some time during lunch today browsing YouTube for Glenn Hansard performances. Some from the movie. Some with his co-start. But one in particular with another Irish musician, Lisa Hannigan. Click. Highlight. Drag and drop. Wikipedia. Holy shit, she was in Damien Rice’s band during his albums O and 9. I KNOW HER! YouTube. Click. Listen. Like. Grab phone. Unlock. Spotify. Search. Find. Albums. Sea Sew – Save. Passenger – Save.

I am excited to forget that I saved two albums by Lisa Hannigan, get bored one afternoon, browse artists I’ve recently added, and listen to her music. Maybe in the car. Maybe before bed. Maybe just on a lazy, quiet, sunny Saturday morning. But it’s there, and it’s nice to know it’s there. Losing all my music on a dropped external hard drive wasn’t the worst thing that’s happened to me, mainly because I immediately signed up for Spotify Premium and all of a sudden have access to more music than I can listen to in a hundred lifetimes. Sure I have Tragic Kingdom saved because music in 1995 had a major impact on me, especially albums that were released on my 10^th birthday, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love scrolling through my list of saved artists and not recognizing dozens of names because I heard one of their songs on an Evening Chill playlist and decided to save 38 of their songs on 3 albums.

Around 1995, well a year or two before and the years after, at least until the fall of 1999 when my brother went off to college, music was a special thing. It created a bond with my dad when I told him I wanted the entire Pink Floyd ‘The Wall’ album recorded onto a cassette tape, and again when I decided that ZZ top was a good band to listen to as a fifth grader. With my brother when I let the alternative minded music seep into my everyday listening, and again when live shows became a part of everyday life, from garage punk bands to the House of Blues. But the most vivid memories related to music come from riding in my parents’ Cutlass while my brother drove, Palatine to Roselle, Roselle to Algonquin, and all the way west until you hit this tiny music palace called Record Breakers. I don’t think it was always there, but for the sake of this story, that’s what I remember. That’s not around the corner from where we lived, so to go there took some actual effort. Luckily (I guess) my calendar wasn’t too full.

We’d go to this store and literally browse the stacks of tapes and CDs. The smell of incense wafted strong throughout the store. Sometimes there was a mission. Sometimes there was not. Sometimes you would listen to a CD in the CD listening stations and make a decision. Sometimes you would buy a poster or a hat or a shirt. Sometimes you would get a suggestion from a worker and try something new. Sometimes you would see that a band member of a band you like had a previous band worth checking out. Sometimes you would hear a song on a soundtrack and that would open up a whole new set of music to explore. Sometimes nothing would happen. But every time, something was happening. You didn’t always walk out with new merchandise, but you always walked out.

There’s something about this on-demand world that is suffocating our society. That Pink Floyd tape sounded better because I had to talk my dad into setting up a time to make the recording, he had to get his equipment set up, the recording had to happen, and then I got to listen to it. Finding a CD at Record Breakers was exciting and adventurous and rewarding in a way that made you appreciate the music.

And don’t even get me started on video games. NBA Jam TE (tournament edition) was one of the greatest Sega Genesis games of all time. And the cheat codes you could implement to unlock characters, super dunks, super threes, big heads; amazing. After seeing a Kobe Bryant spoof with NBA Jam graphics, I decided to search for a current version of NBA Jam, and if I couldn’t find one, create a Kickstarter, because that game needs to exist for PS3 or PS4. Well much to my surprise, an NBA Jam game had been created, the On Fire edition, and with rosters updated through 2013. And because technology is amazing, sure as shit you could download the game and be playing it within minutes. I was dumbfounded and wildly excited. Know what I did on a Friday night? I stayed in and played NBA Jam with my brother and for about 2 hours, it was 1994 again. I had a great time.

Flash back to 1994. “Mom, can we get a ride to Blockbuster?” I still remember the smell of that place. Straight to the video games. Walk. And browse. Pick up. Read. Look. Compare. The anticipation of renting a video game on a Friday night rivals the adult version of being in an airport before a vacation. That game could be anything. It could be everything. And the clock’s ticking. As soon as you leave the store, every second you aren’t playing that game is wasted. The amount of nights I stayed up until 3 or 4 or 5 in the morning playing video games… It was research. Reconnaissance. And it was amazing.

I’m not sure how I feel about this on-demand life. I’m definitely a participant. But without losing perspective. On-demand makes it easier to avoid the outside world. Netflix a show, GrubHub your meal, Saucey some booze, and never leave your couch. Sometimes that’s amazing. But we’re breeding a population that expects everything to be available. The only way they know how to discover something new is with a search bar. Be adventurous and the reward will taste sweeter.

In This Moment

On July 31st, I was vibrating with excitement. In the days of technology and computers and smart phones and tablets, we have access to more tools and resources and gadgets that can organize or maintain or simply keep track of seemingly every activity we choose or do not choose to engage in. Some of these tools I use. Take, oh I don’t know, Facebook event invitations. Yet others, for reasons unbeknownst to me, never quite stuck. The most prominent of which is the digital calendar. I’ve tried. Boy have I tried. But there is something gravitationally controlling my documentation of plans and events and dates and outings and games and concerts and meetings: PAPER. I can’t get enough of it. I hate taking notes. I hate writing anything more than 10 words. I hate carrying around extra items. But there is some sense of accomplishment, some sense of reality, when I take my Bic Atlantis black ballpoint and fill up the day-by-day of my life, one month at a time.

August was a beautiful month. As I look back, only 5 days remain blank. There were so many things scheduled, I was counting the hours for the calendar to flip. After some changes and struggles and challenging situations, it was my immerse-myself-in-everything-I-possibly-can-for-as-many-days-as-I-can-until-I’m-so-tired-I-have-to-take-a-day-off-work-just-to-sleep phase. And it worked. All the way through my August 31st day of rest. I burned it at both ends. I rode ten roller coasters, played six rounds of golf,  five softball games, drafted three fantasy football teams, attended three concerts, three dinners, a baby shower, a wedding, and a movie. Read ‘em and weep. I went all-in and doubled up.

Looking at the next six Saturdays, my calendar is solid, beginning with this extended Labor Day weekend of fun at the lake. This morning I sent a text that included the quote ‘already looking forward to the weekend,’ and c’mon, who’s not? Take polls, ask friends, email your coworkers, call your parents, and please, someone tell me if you can find more than one grouch that isn’t looking forward to the weekend, even if they qualify it by saying ‘well I look forward to any time away from work’ or ‘well it’s a long weekend, so it’s more exciting.’ It doesn’t matter. We are all apparently programmed to long for moments away from our responsibilities and everything else is just getting in the way. Why, I fell victim to this thinking not 5 hours ago. And why wouldn’t I? I got golf, boating, partying, and golf again. Of course that’s better than what I do when I’m at work. Of course, of course. But, maybe, if all I can do is count down the minutes until the weekend starts, I shouldn’t be alive in the first place.

Work isn’t as fun as golf, but if I spend all my time wishing it were another time, then I’m literally wasting time. Being alive is fucking amazing. Every capability that we have is nearly inconceivable. Scratch that. It is inconceivable. I can’t honestly comprehend the idea of life. There. I said it. And I’m not ashamed. You can tell me a thousand times how the brain sends signals to the heart and the heart pumps blood through veins and our lungs inhale one thing and exhale another and our kidneys and our muscles and whatever and whatever and whatever and everything and anything, and I can answer the questions on an exam and pass biology, but my brain does not have the capability to truly understand existence. Evolution: go ahead and explain it without sounding like a lunatic. It’s not possible. I believe science. But I don’t understand it. The fact that I am here, doing this, thinking this, admitting this, living this, is unbe-fucking-lievable.

So instead of wavering over line between wishing it was the weekend and folding my laundry, mentally escaping my immediate activity, hoping that the also incomprehensible notion of time would inexplicably quicken, I will attempt to teeter between different thoughts. There’s either the task at hand, or the absolute truth that I am alive, and the unbridled appreciation for my opportunities in life. It’s the anti-Office Space. It’s something I heard in an amazing song many years ago, something which resonated in me so wholly, so starkly, that it’s discouraging that I still have to remind myself this thing. It was spoken by the now-Oscar-winning-rapper Common, the song is called ‘Be,’ and the line goes:

“Never looking back or too far in front of me, the present is a gift, and I just wanna be.”

Agent of Chaos

If the Joker is an agent of chaos, he must be my spirit animal. At least recently. It’s been a while since I sat down and felt like writing. It’s not that I’ve been avoiding it, it’s not like I have nothing to say, and it’s not like I didn’t wish that it never went away. Things just came up. I won’t say that I didn’t have time, but instead I chose to engage in other activities. Priorities, I would say. Like my video about the very same topic. Plus, you know, summer.

But it’s been more than just that. Change is something that I normally embrace and typically have no issue with, but, as those close to me are aware, the changes in my life register relatively large on the Richter Scale of life, sending vibrations through my entire experience that reverberate loudest when it’s the quietest.  I’ve reconnected with folks at a higher frequency in the last month, and depending on the length of time between our last conversations, assuming it’s 2 years or less, I could be employed at one of four companies, residing at one of three apartments, and driving one of two vehicles, not to mention my fluctuating relationship status during that time. Admittedly, these life changes have been instigated by me, and I’m not assigning blame, but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t ripples that have penetrated me, legitimately affected me to the core, and shaken my day-to-day routine.

Routine is the word on which I would like to focus. At the beginning, priorities set your world in place. While I can quote myself by saying ‘every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every month of every year is a choice,’ the truth is you don’t make a choice every second. Or, I should say, the choices become simplified and the answer becomes repetitive. I don’t have to decide to go to work each day. While some might call the office life a droning existence sequestered in tall cubicle walls, the fact of the matter is I enjoy my job, I enjoy the company I work for and the people I work with, and aside from the occasional late night event, I have very few if any issues with waking up before sunrise and trudging through now-school-in-session bolstered traffic patterns every weekday morning. Because even though it sounds monotonous and restricted, it’s also routinely and comfortable.  I don’t live a boring life and if my time spent away from the office can contain as much activity as possible, the eight or so hours in the office don’t need to titillate my nerves and stimulate my eagerness to be alive. I’ve been fortunate enough to find a career that’s challenging and creative and suits my skill set, so there’s no concern on that front.

I don’t know many people that don’t enjoy be comfortable. For the occasional person, being comfortable means inducing chaos, but that’s rare. And even in those circumstances, there are almost always aspects of their life that could be considered routine or boring or safe or comfortable, from food to a bicycle to their partner. For the rest of us, getting into a routine feels less like a rut and more like a groove; same general principle, but a significantly different connotation. And that’s where I like to be, in a groove. When you’re in a groove, it feels like you are on the same frequency as the universe. Like you’re behind the cosmic curtain and finally understand how shit works. When you’re putting dishes away and a glass falls, you have the unbelievable sensation of gravity and special recognition to catch it before it shatters on the kitchen floor. It’s like when Kerry Wood would backhand a ground ball with his back to the batter; some things just come naturally when you’re connected to the moment.

I don’t really have any of that right now. There’s days I get in my car and don’t know where I’m supposed to drive to get to work. Or I run up and down two flights of stairs because I forgot where I put my shoes. Or I run to the car in the rain because I forgot I keep my umbrella under the seat. Or I bang my head on the pole in the closet because the ceiling in my room gets shorter as you go wider. Or I bang my foot on the trash under my desk. Or I jump into bed without turning the light off. Or I re-park three times because I can’t fucking figure out how to get my car to stop in a straight damn line. I would have locked my keys in my car four different times since I bought the thing in October if the car wasn’t smarter than me and says, ‘Hey, you, dummy, I’m not going to let you lock me because your only means of getting me back open are sitting on my scolding hot black leather, you idiot.’ My car can be snotty, apparently.

This isn’t a cry for help or even complaining. From top to bottom, as I reconnect with folks that I’ve missed over time, I can honestly say that I’m still happy and I like the direction that my life is going. For now, and I don’t know for how much longer, it feels like the Earth is spinning a little faster and I’m just trying to hold on. Every change has come with a period of adjustment. When those changes overlap, the period length tends to multiply. My only choice is to embrace the chaos until a routine resurfaces.

The end of summer is a shit-show, so just run with it. Book and double-book my calendar. Over-extend while I have the flexibility. And ultimately learn something about myself. I already know that I like routines and patterns and grooves, but if you always do what you’ve always done, you won’t grow. So instead of feeling like I need to hold on, a bigger part of me feels like I need to let go. Only then can self-development and self-discovery take place and continue to take place.

Self-discovery is not a destination but a lifestyle.

Polish or Labor

A few weeks ago, the country hemmed and hawed at celebrities strutting the red carpet and hamming it up on camera during the 87th annual Academy Awards. Anchoring the egregiously long television event is the award for best picture, so popular that most people in this nation understand what ‘Oscar season’ means. And yet, after researching the last decade of nominees, I’ve only seen 30% of them. My movie taste has barely evolved since I built my first top-ten list, requiring a mammoth personal experience with a film to even sniff the top 20. While it’s easier with music, I think it’s hard to untie the feelings and emotions and reactions to a movie when you first truly discovered the role they can play in your life. These days it’s unlikely that a movie will change my life. When I was 16, everything changed my life. I’m not saying that I can’t still learn or change or grow, but I’m a little less impressionable as I approach 30. Given all of this information, I think it’s pretty easy to determine that I am no movie expert and most certainly could not weigh an educated guess or suggestion on who or what deserves a heavy, gold statue.

Then why did I feel satisfaction when [spoiler alert] Birdman beat out Boyhood for the coveted Best Picture notoriety?

Here’s what I know about the two movies. Birdman had an exceptional cast, depicted life in Hollywood and on Broadway, and didn’t have many camera cuts. Boyhood had an impressive cast as well, tackled the issue of growing up, and used the same actors over a twelve year period to track the true progress of a boy coming of age.

About a month ago, the equally useless Grammys took place for the 57th time. Equally focused, the ceremony crescendos with album of the year. And again repeating history, Kanye West took it upon himself to sound off about a winner, claiming Beyoncé should have won album of the year instead of Beck. Once again, I haven’t listed to either album. But what I do know is the internet backlash against Mr. West was profound, usually citing the number of contributors on Queen B’s album while pointing out the unbelievable range of individual talent that Beck displayed, writing and performing the whole darn thing by himself.

Then why do I find myself uncomfortable with the whole situation, especially as someone who listens to a genre of music that takes pride in talent, ability, and live performances of real instruments? Because the award wasn’t ‘Who was the most talented musician that made an album,’ and it wasn’t ‘Solo album of the year,’ and it wasn’t even ‘Who accomplished more with the music they made.’ The name of the award is Album of the Year.

Does how something gets made impact your reception of it? Or another way, do the means justify the ends?

While no one doubts that Boyhood is an amazing accomplishment in film-making, does that mean it’s a good movie? Does it impact the way you view it? When you watch it, do you have to think ‘this is a little boring, but that kid basically grew up on camera, so I’m going to like it a little more?’ Can you separate the two, assuming you already know the story? I heard an interview where some B-lister saw the movie and remarked how impressive the casting was to find young actors that looked so much alike as time passed. He had no idea it was the same kid. Does that make the viewing better or worse?

I was raised to respect the talent of musicians. My family has spent hours fawning over the mind-blowing ability of Jimmy Page, Alvin Lee, and Lindsay Buckingham, amongst others. When my interests turned to rock and heavy metal, it was the unimaginable guitars and drumming that mystified me, a body void of musical aptitude. But ask a non-metal head how they feel about the music, and their reaction will be the same: they might be talented, but it sounds like shit. At the end of the day, what matters more? Are they talented, or is the music good?

There is no black or white answer to this, but surprisingly, I fall on the Birdman and Beyoncé side. It shouldn’t matter how you got there, only that you got there. Music is made to sound good, and movies are made to be enjoyed. And I’d rather have a great sounding song that was made by machines than the best guitarist in the world producing crap.

Of course, you can have both. And maybe Boyhood IS an amazing movie that ALSO was a feat to make. And maybe Beck’s album IS a delight to listen to that ALSO was an impressive display of music. And in those scenarios, the how it got made can enhance the what got made. But choosing between the two? Give me polish over labor.

The Fisherman

I was called into an impromptu meeting with my boss. I had been with the company for about six months and our relationship was still in its beginning stages; surface level conversation without much depth. The topic of the conversation was something that I had not spent much time thinking about, it didn’t keep me up at night, I never spent a thousand words exploring it in this blog. It dawned on her that despite our close working quarters and daily conversations, she had never asked me what in retrospect is a pretty important question for her to understand.

“What motivates you?”

I don’t know how many people are prepared to answer that question, but I recommend taking some time to figure out your own response. Quick on my feet, I put together a response that was not only accurate, but has proven so well-aligned with the rest of my life that it’s become something of which I can be proud. Before I said anything, she told me that vacation time was her motivation. Employee incentives rewarded a few extra days, up to five, if you were a high-performing employee the year prior. Every extra day she could travel or relax was worth the investment. So what about me?

“Work-life balance.”

Which might not have been the answer she wanted to hear, now that I think about it. But I could not have better summed the reason I get out of bed in the morning. I want to do enough and do it well enough to do what I want. If you get too heavy on the work side, you forget the reason why you’re working. What’s the point of busting your ass in the office if the rest of your life is passing you by? So you can retire at 50? Great. Have fun going snowboarding with a replaced hip. If you get too heavy on the life side, then you can’t possibly expect to maintain your lifestyle. Take two months off to travel Europe? Phenomenal. Now here’s some debt that will haunt your next decade.

The benefits of balance should be so apparent. I’m not a prophet or a revolutionary or even a qualified professional, but I know feeling. And I know sadness. And I know happiness. I once underwrote a quote from ‘The Pursuit of Happiness’ describing the pursuit as the true representation of happiness, but in my maturing years I’ve come to the realization that that’s bullshit. Happiness is not a slippery, elusive, morphing, contorting, phantom that always rests inches beyond your grasp. Happiness might not be material, but I’ll be damned if it’s not real and attainable.

I spent my fair share of time without it, so I know what it feels like to have it. I spent time shuffling my feet, bullied, timid, and lonely. And while I might not have been facing clinical depression or active thoughts of self-mutilation, but I knew I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t confident, I wasn’t self-aware, and I was not living up to my full potential. Every teach in my life was correct: great potential, lacks motivation.

Well here it is, in the simple words of a former, awesome colleague: work hard, play hard.

I found a profession that instills confidence, creativity, and passion. I found people in my life that instill compassion, comradery, and a sense of belonging. And I found activities and hobbies that stimulate my senses and engage my mind. And I’m not willing to sacrifice any of it, at least not yet. Because the end game is already here. It’s the end of the movie when Will Smith’s character says “this part is called happiness.” Don’t let life pass you by because you think that happiness is the destination. There is no destination. Happiness is real, attainable, and simple. Find balance in your life the rest will fall into place.

I want to end with a short story that I heard told by Al Madrigal on the Pete Holmes podcast You Made It Weird. I found a slightly different version that I edited again, but the point is identical and the message is clear. Check out the podcast if you’re into that kind of thing, but more importantly, read the story.

An American investment banker was at the pier of a coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large yellowfin tuna. The banker complimented the fisherman on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.
The fisherman replied, "only a little while." The banker then asked why didn’t he stay out longer and catch more fish. The fisherman said he had enough to support his family’s immediate needs. “But what do you do with the rest of your time?"The fisherman replied, "I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siestas with my wife, then stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos." The banker scoffed, "I am a Harvard MBA and could help you. You should spend more time fishing and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat. With the proceeds from the bigger boat, you could buy several boats, eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would sell directly to the processor, eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing, and distribution. You could leave this village and move to Mexico City, then LA and eventually New York City where you will run your expanding enterprise.""How long will this all take?""15 – 20 years.""What then?"The banker laughed, "That’s the best part. When the time is right you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich. You would be a millionaire!""Millionaire – then what?"The banker said, "Then you would retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siestas with your wife, and stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos."

 

Nothing to Prove

Tuesday night marked the 5th time I’ve seen Machine Head perform in concert. It was raahh and grrr and bwaahh and whatever to almost everyone reading this, but to me and the dozen hundred black clad brethren screaming their lungs out, it was everything. Frontman Robbie Flynn even questioned at one point, ‘Isn’t this why you’re here? To let loose?’ For so many of us, heavy metal music has always been about a release, an understanding, and an acceptance that we so lacked in the rest of our lives. And the dancing of heavy metal involves pushing, pulling, bumping, hitting, shouldering, stomping, circling, colliding, bouncing, rolling, and occasionally Bravehearting, all to the beat of bass drums, shrieking guitars, and balls-to-the-wall vocals. My first concert was in February of 1999. I was 13 and went to see four bands that I barely knew, only overheard. I was a slender build, definitely not equipped to handle the physical demand of being on the floor at the Metro when Fear Factory took the stage, but I felt like one of the cool kids when I helped line the edges of the pit while my brother and his metal cohort gallivanted through the chaos with ironic glee, pushing and guiding any sweaty figure that came into my line of sight. And line of sight is important on the floor of a concert, and as any true metal-goer will confirm, the north edge of the pit is the clearest view of the band you can attain, assuming you can handle cattle-prodding the angry masses and occasionally relying on the folks behind you to add as an extra support system. It wasn’t until my next concert that I broke my moshing cherry. And as more and more concerts stacked up, the pit became my friend. Why would I put my under-sized body through such seeming torment? Because surviving the biggest or the fastest or the nastiest feels like getting a purple heart pinned to your chest. To us, those were battles and it was an honor to say ‘I ran through the biggest and the baddest, so look at me.’ The highlight of my career was Ozzfest 2004, second stage, through the gravel and the dust, bandanna covering the lower half of my face, galloping through what seemed like acres of confusion and pain while Lamb of God broke down the nastiest of songs. Runner up: Disturbed, Killswitch Engage, Lacuna Coil, and Chimaira at Northerly Island where I took about 5 songs off total over the course of the show. See, bragging is part of the game. Or it was. A part of the metal or alternative culture is always attempting to be the craziest or the first or the coolest dude or dudette around. You want to wear the shockingist T-Shirt and seen the most amount of live music and drink the most amount of beers and wait-hold on… this shit happens everywhere; in every group. The day before the Machine Head concert I had returned home from a snowboarding trip to Snowbird, Canyons, and Park City Mountains near Salt Lake City, Utah. This is a completely different group of guys, a completely different mentality, and a completely different approach to a group dynamic… right? All we can talk about is the fastest we've ever bombed down a run, or the steepest slope we've ever survived, or the deepest powder we've ever struggled through, or the most air we've ever landed off a kicker. We have apps that tell us how many vertical feet we travel in a day; thanks for making it easier to perfectly compare who was better. It’s all we can talk about. If you talk about how cold it was, I will tell you my coldest adventure (-15 for a high). It’s a constant state of one-upping. But as a seasoned 29-year-old with a steady head on my shoulders, as long as copious amounts of alcohol aren't part of the equation, I’m past that life (or at least I try to be). Because I realized that either one of two things are true. As I stand behind some over-excited concert goer standing in front of his reserved stool at the House of Blues, people will either look at me and think I’m not as cool as they are for whatever reason, or they won’t have a second thought. And either way results in me not giving a shit. I don’t have anything more to prove. It might be a sign of adulthood, or laziness, or just being tired of having to keep up, but it feels so damn good to let it go. For years I felt like I had something to prove. That the little guy at the concert needed to rough it up with the big boys to gain respect. That the rookie had to fly over a jump to gain respect. That the socially challenged dud must find someone to show off. Truth of the matter is I don’t give a shit anymore. Your destructive opinion of me doesn't change my empowering opinion of me. Less judgment, more balance, more happiness.

Photo credit: Joe Lazzerini

Cheater, Cheater, Pumpkin Eater

I really enjoy my morning routine. Not the whole getting out of bed and taking a shower and making my lunch and sitting in traffic and actually going to work part of my morning. That shit is for the birds. I enjoy the first fifteen to twenty minutes of my day when I run through a series of websites and phone games, ramping my brain up to functioning speed and basking in the calm before the metaphorical storm. The first stop of my day is my Firefox homepage, Google News, where I can feign being interested in domestic and international stories about terrorist threats and government shenanigans and disease outbreaks before I scroll down to peruse the Entertainment and Sports sections.
“Kenyan marathon star Rita Jeptoo receives two-year ban for doping” is the headline I saw this morning. “Okay,” I thought to myself, and continued reading half a dozen headlines about the looming super bowl squeezed around the occasional NBA or NHL or PGA highlight. The Jeptoo headline didn’t faze me, but not because marathon running is tedious and pointless, though I think it is. It didn’t impact me not because competitive running ranks #31 on my list of other sports I have more interest in,* but it’s true. The marathon winning doper was glossed over because cheating has become such a staple of our society (although admittedly I can’t comment on previous generations and iterations of culture and their tendencies to cheat) that I’m no longer appalled or outraged or even mildly surprised when the ‘news’ comes out. The reason that I’m not appalled or outraged or mildly surprised is because I just kind of assume that’s the case. And that is the bigger story.

We are just over 48 hours away from kickoff of the largest sporting event in the country and as of writing this, two of the top ten sports headlines focused on the possibility of a participating team purposely deflating the game footballs as to attain an advantage over their opponent in a cold and wet matchup two weeks ago. The hometown quarterback was able to grip and sling the balls easier, leading to a 38-point dismantling because apparently the NFL never thought it was an issue to have each team bring their own 12 balls to use during the game. Seems like something that folks would want to address, but I don’t run a league so who am I to comment? I agree that it likely did not have a significant outcome on the game, in-hand from the first drive, and I agree that if they did in fact cheat that it’s something that should punished, but I am concerned with the idea that everyone immediately thought that the Patriots must have done this on purpose. Given the questionable and shady history of the New England-based team, it seemed completely plausible that they would find a way to underinflate the game balls without the referees knowing to ensure their spot in the most prolific American sporting event.

Baseball had its lowest full-season run total in almost 40 years (1976) and new commissioner Rob Manfred is interested in ‘injecting additional offense in the game.’ Those of us who watch the game know that we are not far removed from what will forever be known as the steroid era, a time of immense offense when hat sizes grew like flowers in the spring and balls were hit farther than port-o-potty lines at Lollapalooza. PED’s effect on the current game is felt less on the field and more in the media, where decade-removed all-stars continue to pop up on the hall of fame ballots, a not-so-important-to-me-but-very-important-to-baseball-fans-worldwide aspect of the sport that commands more headlines than it ever deserved. We know the major players in the steroids conversation, but a name that I never associated with the enhancements is now blacklisted. “There’s no point in arguing that Mike Piazza belongs in the Hall of Fame. It’s not even a worthwhile debate. By any statistical measure, Piazza should be a lock for Cooperstown…” explains 25-year veteran writer for Newsday, David Lennon, a man I know nothing about but figured his article articulated a commonly shared opinion that coincidentally supported my theory. And my theory is that we just figured if you’re from that era, your numbers are fantastic, AND you are built like a man playing the wrong sport, you must have been using drugs. Pedro Martinez, Randy Johnson, John Smoltz, and Craig Biggio made the cut this year, but they don’t look the part so they don’t get the penalty.This topic is not relegated to sports. If I had to guess, Politics is full of successful folks that people assume cheated to get ahead, Monica Lewinsky-style. CEOs, bank heads, public school officials, your boss; name the industry, and I bet you can think of a few people that you think bent the rules to get ahead. And as a society, we don’t seem to care. We’ve become so desensitized to cheaters that we assume anyone that has success has cheated, and then we don’t care. Cheating is both a common topic of conversation and a common ignorance. We like to call out some cheaters that we don’t agree with, but draw the line behind others. It happens so much that the impact is becoming smaller and smaller, opening the window for more cheating. It’s a self-fulfilling pile of shit. The more we cheat, the less we care, the more we cheat, the less we care, and so-on.

I know my cheating record isn’t completely unblemished, up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A, select, start for starters, but I hope people don’t look at any of my success and think that I somehow beat the system to get ahead. I can’t say if the Patriots or Piazza or anyone is guilty of cheating because I don’t know the circumstances, but the mere fact that it wouldn’t surprise me if they were means a lot about who we are the choices we make. We've cheapened success by cheating to get there, a mark we all have to bare.

* 1. Baseball; 2. Football; 3. Basketball; 4. Hockey; 5. Soccer; 6. Golf; 7. Volleyball; 8. Lacrosse; 9. Tennis; 10. Rugby; 11.Snowboarding; 12. Cricket; 13. UFC; 14. Skateboarding; 15. Wrestling; 16. Diving; 17. Swimming; 18. Gymnastics; 19. Racket Ball; 20. Handball; 21. Pickle Ball; 22. Jai Lai; 23. Polo; 24. Water Polo; 25. Bowling; 26. Skiing; 27. Curling; 28. Badminton; 29. Frisbee; 30. NASCAR; 31. Running

Baareaking the Law, Breaking the Law

For the first ten or so miles of my drive, depending on when I leave, I progress predominantly significantly below the posted or non-posted speed limit. After six or so years of driving twenty or more miles on the reverse commute to work, there are not many better feelings than the moment that traffic starts to break up. During the drive up 94, this happens almost immediately after passing under the bridge of Old Orchard Road. For the drive out on 90 that I’m currently facing on an almost daily basis, it starts to loosen after Canfield but can’t be considered completely broken up until after the toll, at least as long as the construction slumbers on. From my experience on 290, it’s hell until 294 so don’t get your hopes up. I’m not too familiar with the commute on 55, but might get acquainted in the near future. But in that instant, when the space between cars grows linearly ahead of you, what’s the first action of the collective group? LET’S GO FFFFFAST!! The speed limit is 55mph. Fifty five. Five five. Have you ever actually driven 55 on an expressway in light traffic? You’re getting passed by kites. Your car hasn’t gotten out of 3^rd gear. It’s embarrassing. Model Ts are breathing down your neck. Morning commute traffic in the left lane moves between 70 and 75. This is agreed upon, acceptable, and apparently still cool through construction zones. Every day, hundreds of thousands of people are making a collective to decision to break the law. And everyone’s okay with this.

Speaking of my morning commute in case there was any doubt where I do most of my thinking, I see probably two hundred unique motorists every day, and apparently I find myself among the company of some very important people. How could I make such a declaration? Why, by the copious amount of people that is holding a glowing rectangle in front of their face. What other explanation could there be? Illinois has recently gone blanket phoneless, which means if you’re holding your phone and operating a motor vehicle, you my friend are breaking the law. Hands free does not mean speaker phone while you hold the phone 12 inches from your face and gab with your bestie. That’s not hands-free, that’s hands. In addition to being in danger of receiving a ticket, you’re in danger of dying. There isn’t one person in world, that’s over seven billion people, that could argue that it’s safer to drive while operating a cell phone. But I do. Yesterday I searched for a Bill Simmons podcast on Grantland, loaded it, hit play, and plugged it into my car adapter, all while operating a vehicle. Thankfully my stick shift driving days have taken a leave of absence, but there I was, breaking the law and putting my life in danger. Granted I try to minimize my exposure and keep my eyes on the road, but let’s be honest, I’m an idiot. And I’m in good company.

Rolling stop signs. Running orange lights (you know, that color between yellow and red that everyone sees as green). Cruising through a no turn on red. Crossing over solid lines. Abandoning your turn signal. Ignoring your headlights. Blasting your music. Parking wherever you want with your flashers on. Changing lanes in the middle of an intersection.

Why do we feel impermeable while we’re driving? How many laws do you break on a daily basis that doesn’t occur when you’re in an automobile? Jay-walking… I think that starts and ends my list. If I was living in Hong Kong I could include spitting in public.

Cars have become our suit of armor. We are Tony Stark when behind the wheel. Is it because people can’t see my face? I’m somehow obscured and protected in a way that allows me to violate laws? I must just think that it’s the machine that’s breaking the law, not the user. What other possible explanation could there be for such a blatant disregard of the rules and guidelines that our society has agreed upon? We don’t have put a face with committing the crime so it’s okay. What cowardice! Driving around like the big bad wolf on Wall Street while we cower like the little pigs on foot. For shame.

I’m not advocating committing more crimes outside of your vehicle. And I’m not entirely sure I’m going to start abiding by the speed limit, making two-second stops at stop signs, and parking legally one hundred percent of the time. But there’s something mildly unnerving about our law-breaking frequency when we’re behind the wheel of a two-thousand pound deadly weapon.