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.
 

‘Tis Better to Give…

How many of you thought there were a bunch of crazy people walking around this world who claimed it is better to give than to receive? Have you ever received? Receiving is one of the best things! Instead of having to do, or spend, or make, you get! How could getting not be better than anything else? Some of my best childhood memories are of getting. So what happened? When did getting get passed by giving? What could have possibly happened that caused me to switch teams, drop the receiving hat for the serving gloves?

I’ll tell you what happened. It’s the same thing that ruins all childhoods. It ruins eating a bag of Doritos in one sitting, it ruins staying up til 5am playing video games, it ruins pretending the gravel is lava; adulthood. I don’t know when the change happened for me, but I can sure as shit explain why:

1.) I’m a nearly 30-year-old man with a decent job. If there is something I need, I buy it. If there’s something I want, I buy it. If there’s a vacation I want to take, I take it. No, I’m not made of money. And of course there are things I want and can’t afford and places I want to go but can’t pull the trigger, but I’m not sitting here looking through the window of a nearby department store wishing I could look as good as the mannequin. I’m not bitching about the rubber coming up on the right joystick of my PS3 controller. I have everything I need and most things I want. My life is pretty complete as far as material shit is concerned.

2.) There is more pressure and stress to open a gift in which you haven’t the slightest idea what lies inside than there is to find the right gift for someone else. Don’t get me wrong, I’m genuinely happy with everything I unwrapped this year, but not everyone walks away unscathed. And despite my content, there’s that moment of trepidation when you unwrap a mystery and think ‘how the hell am I going to fake like I like this thing?’ It doesn’t matter how many miles separate you from the sender, it’s dreadful.

3.) There are few things more satisfying than nailing the perfect gift for someone. It can be a little risky, but the reward of seeing their face and knowing that their happiness has a direct cause and it’s you is worth it. And shopping isn’t too hard these days. Online shopping has made it very easy to find everything you need without having to see the last row of the parking lot at Woodfield. If you can conceive it, there’s a good chance it’s for sale, and probably for ½ off until Christmas Eve. Add that to a great wrap job and it’s a lay-up nine times out of ten.

Or maybe it’s just because it feels so selfish to open up something that someone spent money on for me. What did I do to deserve this? I almost feel guilty. BUT, for the same reasons it feels so good to make someone else happy, someone else feels happy by making you happy. It’s a sick cycle, but it’s the truth. I get my knickers off by making other people happy, and other people get their knickers off by making me happy. Don’t be a Grinch and say you don’t want any gifts. Because while shopping isn’t always fun and you might strike out once in a while, gift GIVING is the important part of the holidays, not gift getting. 

Big Three Oh

“I'd like to hope that I will continue to live my life void of age constraints. Void of fearing a new number next to my facebook birthday. But who knows what the future will bring? All I know right now is I've thoroughly enjoyed living a portion of my life, and I hope the rest of it continues down this path.” (One for the Ages)

That was how I felt over five years ago when I was writing about age. I don’t know why in June of 2009 I was stricken with motivation to explore the intricacies of age and our relationship to it, but I do know why I have fallen under the same spell today. In the last three months I have either attended or unfortunately declined six 30^th birthday parties with a seventh looming on Saturday. Ranging from house parties with family to dance marathons in Wicker Park, they’ve all been consistent in one thing: let’s get the most important people in my life together to celebrate this milestone. And who can blame them? Thirty is a big number, right?

In June of 2009 I was winding out my first year of living in the big, scary city. I was 24 and possessed the same defining trait as Jon Snow: I knew nothing. It makes me happy to see documented proof that I was enjoying my time and was stuffed with hope for an indeterminate length of time that rested ahead, unstirred and unguaranteed. It’s hard to pull a consistent string of memories from my 24^th year on this planet, but over time I can recall some of the highlights and even a few of the lowlights. I can think of a few birthday parties I went to that year when we still thought it was cool to get wristband deals at Lincoln Park bars. I remember justifying drinking on a Monday night because burgers were only a dollar with the purchase of a beer and it was the fiscally responsible thing to do. I remember dumping so much money into a Golden Tee while endlessly eating pizza on Sundays that we sought out and bought a Golden Tee machine of our own because it was the fiscally responsible thing to do. I vaguely remember making a drunken fool of myself, but distinctly remember the feelings of regret and shame I that I still feel to this day despite the collective alignment of ‘we’ve all made those mistakes.’ I remember incorrectly calculating the trajectory of the ricochet from a garbage can with my necessarily covered car too close for comfort. I remember smoking hookah on our rooftop before heading to a Wrigley Field bleacher debacle. I remember life as a 24-year-old.

“There are some people that wake up 30 years old and go 'shit, I need to get my ducks in a row.’”

I guess that’s probably still the case, but for the most part, my friends seem to be in pretty good control of their ducks. They might not all be lined up, but they haven’t let any drown either. But I think that 30 represents something wholly different than making sure your life is in order, though I suppose that’s part of it. For some, it represents a foray into married life, remodeling bedrooms, building cribs, staining decks. For some, it’s an unwelcomed reminder of their own solitude, first dates, long, meandering nights, 10-minute love and 5-minute heartache. For some, relationships don’t bind their life and the focus is on career, or school, or family and friends. Whatever it means to you, I think it’s inescapable to wake up on your 30^th birthday and not take some assessment of your life. Not that you can’t do it when you turn 28, or even when you don’t turn anything at all, but sometimes built-in check points are a helpful way to turn the looking glass inward.

“The ebb and flow of life is as wispy as swept up clouds sneaking across a low mountain sky, not meant to be contained, straightened, or organized.”

Self-analysis and honest to goodness self-awareness is such a necessary part of growing up. When you’re eight, all you need to worry about is enjoying life. When you’re sixteen, all you need to worry about is prepping yourself for future success, which can mean different things to different people. When you’re 24, apparently all you need to worry about is how to drink on a budget, lessons that college probably equipped you with. But by the time you hit the alarm clock on 30, it might be the first time you’ve had a chance to take a holistic look at your life; a sort of personal inventory. It’s a wake-up call whether we asked for it or not. And I would be willing to make a bet that the snooze on the alarm gets shorter and shorter as you age, prompting consistently more frequent stares into the mirror. This, by all accounts, is a good thing.

Skipping kindergarten has given me the opportunity to observe countless of my peers rolling over the stone of 30 before I get there, gleaning from them what I can, inferring the rest. My thoughts might not change on the dawn of my big three-oh, my actions, my theories, my feelings, they might all remain intact, but that doesn’t mean that it won’t be a significant day in my life. Which is why I have a plan.

If you’re reading this, you’re invited. Saturday, October 10^th, 2015. Save the Date. Details to follow… 

Happy Feet

I love taking pictures around Chicago. Whether it’s on my way to a bar, heading home from work, or taking a day off from work, I’ve captured more city scenes than I care to share. So when a long-time friend of mine, we’ll call her Paula, came to me with a proposition that involved taking pictures around Chicago, I didn't need to hear much more, despite the inquisitive looks that everyone around us demeanored. The task was to photograph a large percentage of her very nice shoe collection in the foreground of an obviously Chicago scene, with Paula acting as the lower leg model. The pictures would go no higher than her calf and the focus would be split between the array of fancy-type shoes and the history of our Midwest Metropolis.

On a risky date in late October, the Earth decided to cooperate and grant us the colors, the sky, the temperature of a perfect picture day. Having sent me the catalog of shoes, I was able to assemble a rough idea of landmarks and trademarks that embodied the city, but really depended on instinct and creativity to fill in the gaps and provide the originality that we both sought. Buckingham Fountain is nice (even without the ‘fountain’ part), but there are millions of tourists that think B.F. is Chicago. I had hoped that we could capture a little more of life in Chicago without completely abandoning the post card fodder.

Before we even left for the city, I pushed our departure time back about two hours to squeeze in another 9 holes of par 3 golf on what was one of the best mornings for golf that I can remember. Paula, an absolute sweetheart, offered to postpone the plan and ironically rain check the date. Despite the delay, I wasn't going to waste the weather on presumably additional day-drinking within the confines of merry establishments while celebrating my friend’s 30th birthday. As much as she considered this a favor, there was no denying my own excitement for the day ahead. Besides, plans are plans. We set up camp, packed as many ‘daytime’ shoes as we could in her large, bright-pink bag, and red-lined to Roosevelt to begin our journey.

The walking lower bodies at Agora; the Roosevelt bridge looking at Michigan Ave; the Lakefront Trail outside of the Shedd Aquarium; Lake Michigan with the Planetarium; Buckingham Fountain with a skyline backdrop; the Jackson St. Bridge looking into the depths of the loop; the iconic lion outside of the Art Institute of Chicago; Lurie Garden near the Pritzker Pavillion; Millennium Park; the Chicago River; the Merchandise Mart train platform.

At the conclusion of our time with the sun, we found more calendar life than everyday life, but the colors and brightness of the day made the trees and buildings and water all shine and glisten like New Year’s Eve. We traversed almost four miles, took seventy five pictures, talked, laughed, shared an appetizer, enjoyed some beers, and finally headed north to regroup for the evening session. We had made fantastic progress and it felt like the day was over, but the best was definitely yet to come.

The Ron Santo statue outside of the Right Field Bleachers; The Chicago Theater; the State Street Riverwalk; the Chicago Remembers Vietnam Memorial; a Chicago Flag painted horse on Michigan Avenue; The Water Tower; a CTA sidewalk cardinal directions; a fountain at Kinzie and La Salle; the Merchandise Mart train platform; the Brown Line CTA car; the doorway of an apartment building.

After twelve hours, six and a half miles, and one hundred and fifty pictures, we were spent. From two dozen footwear changes to street stains on my hoodie, phase one of the project was complete and our bodies were worse for wear. Aside from the hopeful product of this difficult to explain, rather ambitious adventure, which will range from a coffee table photo book, prints on canvas, and who knows what else, why would we exhaust ourselves, both physically and literally, laying on the street behind a resting CTA bus?

When things are changing in your life, you find solace in comfort. And when things are changing in your life, comfort means familiarity. While my social calendar has shifted in recent weeks, I not only found comfort in making plans, possibly overextending myself, and following through with those plans, but I also found comfort in creating something new for the benefit of another. There’s an unbelievable feeling you get by helping others. It’s as selfish and warm feeling as going out and buying a new video game system, but at a fraction of the cost. It’s not only about giving the product, which I hope turns out well, and it’s not about giving my time, which I have more to offer these days, but it’s about giving your attention, passion, and consideration to someone and something. I’m not saying I’m a beacon of humanity because I took a bunch of pictures of my friend, but I did scoff when she asked how much she should write the check for, you know, to pay me for my services. As if! 

Ambitious and revived, not long into our nighttime shooting and after posing in front of the Chicago Remembers Vietnam Memorial, we received the same consideration and attention. In between failed 50-50 grinds and shaky kick-flips, a propositioned high school boy held Paula’s arm while she modeled on his scraped deck and I lay on my stomach, framing and snapping one quick picture of sidewalk, wheels, board, shoes, river, and part of the Marina Towers.