Music to Our Ears

Does it matter when we start listening to a musician?

I am a big fan of John Mayer’s music. I have been listening to him ever since my little sister Emily introduced me to Room For Squares in 2001. I’ve bought every album and seen him live several times in Tinley Park, Milwaukee, and Chicago. I’ve seen the progression of his music, as he’s grown from a pop musician into one of the most respected guitarists of our time.

I have also become a big fan of The White Stripes. While the duo of Jack and Meg White has been officially split and the band broken up since February of this year, I’ve only been listening to them for the past 6 months, since Jack White appeared on the Colbert Report and piqued my interest. I’ve downloaded a lot, though far from all, of their music and have loved every bit of it. I’ve excitedly researched their career and read reviews and articles about their music.

Now I ask myself—holding personal preference constant—is it possible to love The White Stripes as much as I love John Mayer? Put another way, can I appreciate The White Stripes as much as I would have if I started listening to them when they started, the way I did with John Mayer? Does our musical appreciation depend on when in their career we are introduced to an artist?

Falling in love with someone else’s music is about the personal connection. I’ve often said that Mayer’s discography was the soundtrack of my young adult life. I'm sure most people have a similar connection to their favorite artist. Room For Squares fed directly into my adolescent romanticism, singing that girl’s body is a wonderland and dreaming of running through the halls of my high school, “screaming at the top of my lungs”. From there, the aptly named Heavier Things came out right when I was entering college. The lyrics “Someday I’ll fly, someday I’ll soar, someday I'll be so damn much more, cause I'm bigger than my body gives me credit for” embodied how I felt entering my adult life, with nothing but opportunity before me.

Continuum came out when I was a senior. Capturing my realization that my college days were coming to an end and that it all went by too quickly, in “Stop This Train” Mayer sings “so scared of getting older, I’m only good at being young.” And then the songs “Slow Dancing In a Burning Room,” “Dreaming With a Broken Heart,” “In Repair,” and “I’m Gonna Find Another You” got me through a painful breakup at the end of my senior year. Finally, when I was single and finally happy again, Mayer came out with Battle Studies. In “Who Says” he asks “who says I can’t be free, from all the things that I used to be?” In “Perfectly Lonely”, Mayer sings about blissfully belonging to nobody, but the lyrics below described exactly how I felt about starting a relationship with Tegan.

And this is not to say

There never comes a day

I'll take my chances and start again

And when I look behind

On all my younger times

I have to thank the wrongs that led me to a love so strong

But hearing the song when it first comes out is certainly not required to feel a personal connection to the music. Just because I listen to The White Stripe’s “Icky Thump” four years after it came out doesn’t mean I feel the anger behind that song any less than I would have had I heard it in 2007. I’m sure that if I were to go through a hurtful breakup now, The White Stripe’s angst filled rendition of Bob Dylan’s “Love Sick” would help me just as much as “I’m Gonna Find Another You.” I will always feel the same exciting motivation and energy whenever I listen to the chest thumping beat in “Seven Nation Army” or the charged guitar riffs in “Hello Operator.” By their very nature, songs will always be the same as they were when they were first recorded in the studio. We’re free to enjoy them whenever we want.

So, there has to be something that goes beyond the personal connection to music. And I think the temporal difference of appreciating music comes from the social element. When I was in high school, I went through a Beatles-mania faze after purchasing the compilation album “1” in 2000. I listened to nothing but The Beatles for a significant portion of my sophomore and junior year. I love listening to The Beatles and understand their impact on music as much as someone my age possibly can. But compare that to my mom, who not only knows about the hysteria that gripped the nation during that time but was a part of it. To this day, she still holds a tiny grudge against her mother for not letting her go to Midway airport to welcome the Fab Four to Chicago. Her appreciation is based in the history and deep connection to anyone growing up during that time.

As anyone knows, seeing music live is always better and more exciting than listening alone. But that reality goes beyond the concert hall. When we’re learning to love an artist in tandem with the progression of their career, we are experiencing their music live, in real time. We wait anxiously for every new album and discuss it with our friends or fellow fans. We hear their music on the radio and listen to DJs interview them on the air. And, yes, we go to their concerts and humbly watch as our favorite artist sings to us and thousands of others. The fact that our favorite music usually comes from our youth makes sense as that is the time when our social lives were most important to us.

My appreciation of John Mayer, therefore, comes not only from the music itself but the discussions I had with my sister about his new album or his personal antics. It comes from going to see him at Tinley Park or at the United Center with my mom and my sisters. It arises from the excitement of what’s to come. My internet research on The White Stripes and the ability to listen to their entire discography all at once cannot equate to the enjoyment of growing with them over the years and experiencing their career with others.

This past summer, Paul McCartney put on a couple sold-out and very expensive shows at Wrigley Field. There were two kinds of people in the audience—those who had experienced the entire span of The Beatles’ music and those who had not. The younger people in the crowd no doubt love and feel connected to McCartney’s and The Beatles’ songs. They were there to get a taste of the excitement that a musician like Paul McCartney can bring to a crowd. But it was more an attempt to get a slice of history. The older fans, on the other hand, were there to remind themselves of what it was like back when they were young—when an entire nation first saw the The Beatles together. That social experience can never be recreated no matter how many times they listen to Abbey Road. And that is why being there in the moment is so special.

When Harry Lost Tommy

Sometimes movie heroes aren’t as heroic as they’re written.

I started reading the Harry Potter novels sometime between the release of the third (Prisoner of Azkaban) and fourth (Goblet of Fire) books, which means I started sometime in late 1999, when I was 14. I actually borrowed the first three books from my little sister’s friend Amy, a 10-year old bookworm with a single long braid that went down to her thighs. The author, J.K. Rowling, had me hooked and I read all three in a matter of weeks and craved every new release. I loved the characters, the imagery, and the unbelievable imagination of Ms. Rowling. And I loved that, by the end of the series, 8 year olds were dying to read 800 page books. My favorite book was Goblet of Fire and my favorite line is when Mrs. Weasley calls the evil Bellatrix Lestrange a bitch—I don’t think I’m alone on that one.

I have loved the movies too, particularly seeing the films evolve slightly as Harry shuffled through directors until finally landing on David Yates for the fifth (Order of the Phoenix), sixth (Half-Blood Prince), and sevenths (Deathly Hallows – Part I and II). It’s fun to look back at the first (Sorcerer’s Stone) movie, which was made in 2001, and see the young faces of our heroes and heroines. The sensation is not unlike looking at old family photos and wondering where the hell the time went. It’s been a very long ride and it’s all about to come to a bitter-awesome end on July 15.

That all being said, in my mind the films took a drastic turn to the unforgivable with The Half-Blood Prince. Towards the end of the story in the book, Harry is with his loving mentor and principal Dumbledore—the closest thing he has to a father. Hearing a pack of Death Eaters coming their way, Dumbledore orders Harry to put on his invisibility cloak and then, knowing that Harry might want to intervene, casts a spell on Harry that renders him completely silent and paralyzed. Harry then witnesses Snape kill Dumbledore right before his eyes. When the spell is released and Harry is able to move again, he knows that Dumbledore is truly dead. Harry chases after the Death Eaters but to no avail. Dumbledore is gone.

This is a pinnacle moment in the book and the series, and not only because Harry is losing the most important teacher in his life. Up until this point, Harry has been a reluctant hero, questioning why he has to be the chosen one and not fully grasping his destiny. When he is sitting there frozen, he is screaming inside, wanting to take on all the Death Eaters, protect Dumbledore, and then move on to kill Voldemort and end his evil reign. He finally knows now that it’s his duty. However, in his final lesson to Harry, Dumbledore leaves him frozen. Dumbledore is dying anyway (from a previous spell), and, if Snape kills Dumbledore as the two of them planned, Snape will prove his “allegiance” to Voldemort and become his right hand man. It turns out to be the ultimate sign of Snape’s loyalty to Dumbledore—Snape needs to kill Dumbledore to continue the fight against Voldemort. Harry doesn’t know all this yet. He doesn’t know that Snape is a double agent; he still thinks Snape is on Voldemort’s side. He’s got the drive but not the wisdom. Dumbledore’s final lesson to Harry is to wait—“Your time with Voldemort will come.”

The movie version of The Half-Blood Prince takes a different approach. For lack of a better word, Harry just kind of…stands there, crouching, frozen by fear and watching the whole thing go down. The outcome is the same: Harry does nothing, Snape kills Dumbledore, Harry chases after the Death Eaters to no avail. But, as anyone who’s studied law knows, the intent matters. Without the desire to fulfill his destiny, Harry has not begun his transformation into a true hero. He’s still just the same scared kid with some major baggage and an ocean of untapped talent.

A similar disconnect between the book and movie version happened in Lord of the Rings: Return of the King. For most of the series, Aragorn is a reluctant hero. He is the long lost heir of Isildur, the king who cut the One Ring off the evil Sauron’s hand. Isildur eventually succumbed to the evil of the One Ring and did not destroy the ring in Mount Doom in the land of Mordor like he should have. Instead, he tried to use the great power of the ring for himself, which sealed his doom. Aragorn knows he’s the rightful King but refuses to claim his destiny out of fear and shame.

In the book Return of the King, the hobbit Pippen finds one of the seven palantirs, a spherical stone that somewhat functions as a crystal ball. Someone of great power can manipulate these stones to see virtually any part of the world. Sauron has taken control of the stones and is using them to spread evil throughout Middle-earth. Aragorn turns a corner towards his destined greatness when he takes control of the palantir Pippen found and fools Sauron to send his armies and attack Minis Tirith—a distraction that allows Frodo to get to Mordor to destroy the ring. It is the beginning of his transformation into a true hero. In the movie Return of the King, however, Aragorn just kinds of stares ominously at it—and that’s about it.

Now, I’m not trying to be one of those stuck-up, “the book was way better than the movie” people. I understand that changes have to be made to adjust a story to be more cinematic. In the book version of Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, when Frodo is first given the One Ring by his uncle Bilbo Baggins, he takes years to prepare for his journey. The movie did the right thing in having Gandalf the Gray give Frodo the ring and essentially say, “Yo, you gotta skedaddle.” Additionally, the movies completely cut a major character—Tom Bombadil, who happens to be one of my favorites—because, in reality, the hobbits and Tom just smoke, drink, and sing in the forest for about 60 pages. Not very cinematic at all. Similarly, it would be impossible to expect everything in J.K. Rowling’s books to end up on the screen. These choices and cuts are effective and reasonable.

However, when Harry just stands and Aragorn just stares we are robbed of their crucial transformation. One of the major rules of screenwriting is that the hero or heroine has to be an agent of change. While many things can happen to a main character, eventually he or she has to do something about their predicament. Consider the movie Precious. The heroine is a poor, obese, black girl that is abused by her mother, raped and impregnated by her father, and oh yeah, has AIDS. If, in the final scenes of the movie, she wins $250 million with a Powerball ticket, granting her a happy, healthcare-filled life with her child free from her mother and father, we would walk out of the movie wondering why the hell we just paid $12 to see someone get lucky. Instead, she chooses to make a change after being inspired by her teacher. She stands up to her mother and runs away with her baby. At the end, we know that she’s still going to struggle, but at least we know she’s going to be ok. All because of her own actions.

Return of the King does eventually make up for the palantir fumble. In the final battle scene of the movie, Aragorn has finally accepted his regal destiny. He is leading his men into battle at the gates of Mordor to give Frodo one final chance to cast the ring into the flames of Mount Doom from whence it came. The mission is almost certain death. He rides on his armor clad horse, up and down the front lines, giving his men hope. “A day may come when the courage of men fails…but it is not this day! Today we fight!” We finally see him take hold of his fate and know that the King has in fact returned. He has earned his crown. I get goose bumps just thinking about it.

I hope that Harry has a moment like this in the final movie. He needs to finally accept his fate and act upon it. He needs to not just kill Voldemort, but know that he’s going to kill Voldemort. He needs to believe that he truly is The One. If he doesn’t, then he’s just another lucky kid with a wand.

Commencement

Congratulations class of 2011!!!

If you’re anything like me, after several years of an expensive and accredited education, you’re sitting in your seats right now with more questions than answers. Beyond “who is this guy speaking to us right now and why is he here?”, you’re probably wondering “How did we get here so fast?” “How am I supposed to feel about today?” “ What party am I going to go to after this is over?” and “Who the hell thought of these stupid outfits?” But most importantly, somewhere deep down, you’re wondering, “What now?”

I don’t purport to know the answers to all of these questions. But let me start by at least giving you at least a frame of reference for your accomplishment today. The University of Wisconsin – Madison was established in 1848, which means there have been over 250 graduating classes between spring and winter ceremonies. There are over 390,000 living Wisconsin Alumni. In a bigger scheme, there are over 1.7 million American kids your age graduating from their respective colleges this spring, which doesn’t include the thousands upon thousands of universities all over the world. In the grandest scheme, if the entire timeline of the earth was spread out between the Kohl Center and Camp Randall, humans would account for about the length of a golf tee, and your life would amount to less than the width of a hair. I doubt this makes you feel more special.

Now. I want you to look to your friends to the left and right of you. See the memories in their eyes. Think about your professors and counselors. Remember the care they had in guiding you these past four years. Now look up into the stands at your parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and friends. Appreciate the pride in their faces. Your accomplishment in graduating, while noteworthy, is not entirely unique. But the relationships you created and nurtured and brought to life are entirely yours and yours alone. As you move on to the next steps in your lives, know that everything you do is granted importance by its impact on others.

During my freshman year, I took a class called “Integrated Liberal Studies: Economic, Political, and Social Thought in Western Culture.” Quite the mouthful. During one of our first classes, the professor asked the class of 150 students to raise their hand if they really want to be there. Of course, most hands went up. He smiled and said, “Please answer honestly. If there was anywhere else you’d rather be please put your hands down.” All the hands went down, and the professor leaned forward and said, “you’re all liars.”

He went on to explain what he called “Socrate’s Metric Art.” Every decision we make, both consciously and unconsciously, is based upon our values. We can talk all we want about how we’d rather be at the terrace drinking away the day, playing basketball at the SERF, sunning in front of the Kohl center, or on the damn moon. But the fact of the matter is that we were there, in his classroom without a gun to our head or threatened with incarceration. We were there because we valued an education and our future. So much so that we were willing to get up and go to a less than entertaining class and forego some immediate benefit for long term validation.

And so it is with you. You are sitting in this room because you too value and crave a deeper understanding of your world and your selves. You chose Wisconsin because you value what we hold dear: good-hearted friends, raucous good times, renowned educators, unifying athletics, and the feeling you get walking along State Street and heading to the farmers market. Don’t be too worried about your upcoming decisions and choices. You’re 22 or 23 and clearly have your priorities lined up.

Some of you may still be worried about entering the “Real World,” however. Forgive me when I say that the idea of a “real world” is total bull. This idea that nothing you’ve experienced is real just because you’ve been in a classroom instead of the workforce is utterly ridiculous. Tell me, when you were struggling to get through organic chemistry did you not experience real frustration? When you were trying to juggle papers, finals, interview schedules, friends, family, and practice did you not have real responsibilities? When the Badgers beat OSU and you rushed the field (and the court) did you not feel a real sense of community? Some of you may have experienced a personal or family tragedy or struggle during your four years here. Did you not suffer real loss? Sure your responsibilities will change over the years and you might have to deal with more on your plate, but don’t for a second think that it will come as anything new to you.

So, here we are at your commencement. We are celebrating your new beginning. Your continued education. Your new self with nothing more than a degree, a lot of friends, and an ever expanding horizon. As you embark, remember that the people who you surround yourself with will give your accomplishments their meaning. Trust that your values will guide you with every step you take. And have faith that you are ready to take it all on.

Badgers, let me be the first to welcome you to the rest of your life.

Congratulations.

Lyrical

Woke up quick, at about noon and started making banana pancakes. The earth was shaking, and my mind was aching from last night's gin and juice. Gravity just kept working against me in my teenage wasteland. So, I decided to take this sad song and make it better. I kicked off my Sunday shoes and electrically slid right out the back door of my home in Illinois.

I was just sitting in the afternoon sun when a material girl pulled up next to me and asked me to get in her car. “In your dreams!” I got on a magic bus, and the wheels were going round and round when I think I saw God trying to make His way home. Da. Da. Da. When we got to my stop, I stood up, and put one of those fingers on each hand up and pulled the chord. I walked the line and stepped off into a whole new world.

I crossed Highway Hell and a bridge over troubled water to my favorite little shop on the corner. I ordered a yellow sub and an American pie and washed them down with some red, red wine. Good thing I didn’t spill it. I just sat there, waiting and wishing for my friend Johnny Begoode, but he didn’t show because I think he got high. I guess that friend wouldn’t help me get by.

Seeing clearly now and flying high as a kite, I felt like the fortunate son. On the intersection of Thunder Road and Route 66, I saw a gold friend hanging in the backstreet. I shouted, “Louie!” A little bit louder now, “Louie!” He wanted to get jiggy with it, but I said, “Hey, now. You’re an all-star! Don’t you have to play?” He said that he was a free bird and asked to go to the place where guitars gently weep and the piano man plays for free.

There was a Bohemian band playing their rhapsody, making me comfortably numb. As Louie and I watched what was going on, all our friends came in like rolling stones. Layla, Jude, Eleanor, Billy, Jeane, and even that hound dog Baba. God only knows where he came from. I could only imagine. We started to feel the teen spirit and good vibrations, rocking and rolling all night long. I was feeling white and nerdy so Dougie taught me some new moves. We stayed all together now until the night slipped away and we saw the rising sun. The dawn’s early light had a purple haze.

Eventually we walked our own way and I was soon falling slowly into my bed. As the sandman entered and I drifted into the river of dreams, I smiled. Tonight was a good, good night. I had a feeling it would be.

All The King's Horses

Joe will never forget the sound of bone meeting pavement.

On October 17th, 2003 I was a freshman at the University of Wisconsin – Madison. It was a Friday. I and a dozen or so freshman teammates were given the task of “hosting” a dozen or so swimming recruits. We were essentially their personal guides to Madison and the team itself. In our efforts to “wine and dine” them, we decided bowling would be a good activity. The real fun, we thought, would come after Saturday morning practice before the football game vs. Purdue. We met in the main lobby of our dorm, “The Towers”, before excitedly herding out the sliding doors. It was a cool, clear night, and I was wearing a black Badgers sweatshirt with a white t-shirt underneath that would soon become unwearable.

The plan was to walk a few blocks where a group of seniors and juniors would pick us up and drive us to the bowling alley at Union South. I was in a good mood. I was energetic. I was feeling goofy and fun. I shouted, “Screw this! I’ll just ride Darren!” And in the middle of a tiny cul-de-sac nestled between State Street Brats and University Inn, I jogged a few steps ahead to my buddy Darren, placed my hands on his shoulders, and vaulted myself straight up. Not unlike the motion of pulling myself out of a pool. Now, I had no intention of actually piggy-backing Darren. But how would he know this? He put his arms behind his back and grabbed my legs just above the knee. I did not hold on. With my legs acting as a fulcrum, I plummeted backwards from about eight feet up (Darren had to be at least 6’4”). I landed with the full force of my 185 pounds directly on the back left side of my head.

I have no memory of the impact. The rest of the evening is broken into a series of vivid images. Sitting on the curb, confused beyond imagination, repeatedly stating, “This is not good… this is not good...” A passerby rushing into University Inn for towels. The vibrant red overwhelming the bleached cotton. Kevin frantically driving to the hospital in his Jeep Wrangler. Chris in the back seat holding the soggy towel against my head. The wheelchair. The drawn curtain. The staple gun closing the wound. “Ca-chunk! Ca-chunk!” The doctor repeatedly asking, “Have you been drinking?” Me repeatedly shaking my head. The Dixie cup full of pills. Amanda, Kevin’s girlfriend, giving me my only sense of calm by holding my hand and stroking my arm. The worry on her face. Being moved to my own room. Cranking my neck to keep up with the spinning ceiling. Throwing up Urban Pizza. The nurses waking me every hour so I didn’t drift into a coma. The golden sun filling my sterile room.

My mom, after making what she calls the longest drive of her life, listened with me to the doctor the following day. Grade III concussion. Skull fracture. Hemorrhaging. Bruised brain. Damaged cochlea. Permanent. The last clear thing my left ear would hear is my ear canal filling up with blood. I cried as my mom could only hug me.

I soon realized, though, this was no time for tears. I had to learn to walk again down the hospital hallway, my mom on one side, my IV on the other. I had to rest at the hospital and then at home in Barrington while my athletic counselor dealt with my professors. I had to figure out how to do sit-ups and flip-turns without vomiting. With the help of family, teammates, and friends, I regained my balance, finished on the Dean’s List, and got best times in the 200 and 500 freestyle by the end of my freshman year. But my left ear is still silent.

Beyond the obvious lesson of “NEVER do that again!” this experience taught me the unimaginable impact of my choices. There are a thousand strings attached to every decision I make in my life. Just think: I jump on Darren’s back in 2003 and you’re now reading a blog post. Every choice I make echoes throughout my entire existence, and because time continues to move forward, every choice is permanent. I am a free man when making my choices in life but a slave to their results.

Sometimes these choices are big, and I understand their gravity. I thoroughly consider where I go to school, where I work, who I marry. But most choices are small and automatic. And a select few of those can have a major impact. Anyone who was “in the wrong place at the wrong time” can attest to that. Will a change of clothes set forth my demise or simply ensure I see that rainbow before I get to the office? My doctor said that my decision to wear a winter hat that Friday night probably saved my life.

A couple months ago I went to see a Otolaryngologist (aka ENT) to see if technology has caught up to my injury. I took a hearing test in a padded room the size of a walk-in closet. While my right hand was very active, my left hand remained mostly still in my lap. After looking at the results, the doctor said that a hearing aid is out of the question. Simply turning up the volume will not help. A cochlear implant, which would address my problem directly, would work if I damaged both ears. Cochlear implants are not suggested for unilateral hearing loss. The sound would be delayed, raspy, and largely imperfect, confusing the sound processing in my brain. The only real option is a Bone-Anchored Hearing Aid (BAHA), in which a small rod is drilled into the left side of my head behind the ear. A receiving box captures noise coming from the left and sends the vibrations through my skull to my right ear. For vanity’s sake, I declined the offer. At least for now.

For the time being I will continue to put people on my right and sit on the left end of the dinner table. I will politely ask people to repeat things or sometimes give up and simply smile. I will miss out on some movies’ surround sound and always have an extra headphone. I will cock my head to the left to hear someone in a crowded party. I will worry my mom as I cross the street. My kids will learn to “talk into Daddy’s good ear.” I will tell this story many times throughout my life, knowing that I’ve lost my spare. That I don’t have a back up anymore. It’s not a tragedy. It’s not even a shame. It’s just life. My life. And I have no choice but to keep on living it.

We Will Never Forget

“Happy National Emergency Day, everybody!”

I was a junior in high school when my photography teacher opened up the day with this remark to a sleepy class of 16 and 17 year olds. “September 11th? 9-1-1? Get it? No? Never mind. Get to work.” After only a few weeks into the school year, we had already become numb to his eccentricities. We shuffled to the huge dark room to work on artistically expressing ourselves through black and white images. A little bit before 8:00AM one of the few kids with their own cell phone got a text that a plane crashed into the World Trade Center in NYC. Two thoughts popped into my head: “which one is the World Trade Center again?” and an image of a small prop plane helplessly smashing into a rigid building.

By the time first period was over at 8:19AM, 22 minutes had passed since the second plane hit the South Tower. I walked out of the classroom into a hallway abuzz with words like “attack” “terrorist,” and “holy fucking shit.” Second period calculus was a blur as news came in that a plane had crashed into the Pentagon, another plane crashed somewhere in rural Pennsylvania, and the buildings were starting to fall. It had become clear that this was a calculated strike. On the classroom’s TV in third period psych, I watched in horror as the North Tower gracefully fell at 9:28AM leaving nothing but open sky. Mr. Galovich had never heard his class so silent.

Fear was fully in force and panic was starting to settle in. Principal Leonard was considering sending kids home. “What if Chicago is next? These kids will want to be with their parents.” To maintain order, a decision was made to keep school going. Most teachers just suspended class and allowed us to watch the news in the classrooms. Large screens and projectors were set up in the cafeteria during the lunch periods. This granted us some sense of control—if we could watch the events and react together to what we were witnessing, perhaps we wouldn’t feel so caged. My English teacher was the only one who kept business as usual. “You’ll have plenty of time to watch TV tonight.” I hated him. I couldn’t analyze Ethan Frome at a time like this. History was happening! Years later I realized that he was just as scared as we were and dealing with it in his own way.

Shocked. Dazed. Stunned. Horrified. These words aren’t enough to describe the exact feeling of that day, but by the time I went to bed I just felt numb. And as new information, images, and videos came out in the days, weeks, and months following that idle Tuesday, my numbness never went away. I heard stories of people jumping from the top floors instead of burning to death. Of firefighters blindly running up the stairs against panicked hordes of people. Of loving calls and texts amidst imminent death. Even of the devil’s face appearing in the bellowing smoke. I was watching a horror movie that was not only based on actual events but happening in real time.

Flash forward almost ten years. I know all about Afghanistan, Iraq, WMDs, the “surge,” al-Queda, the Taliban, shoe bombers, and underwear bombers. I no longer have 8 periods of classes or worry about swim practice. I work 9-12 hours a day and discuss cash flows. I work on the 56th floor in downtown Chicago and get butterflies when I see a low flying plane circling the city to land at O’Hare. And now I’m about to go to bed after watching the movie Moon with Tegan. But before I plug my phone in, I see a text from my friend Andy. “Turn on CNN.” Within a few minutes we watch President Obama explain that Osama bin Laden has been killed. “Justice has been done.”

Over the ensuing days, many questions have been squawked about on the national news. What was the proper way to celebrate? Are the grisly pictures going to be released? What will this do to the President’s polling numbers? How many people have made the Obama/Osama mistake? What does this mean about our relationship with Pakistan? Should we leave Afghanistan? The discussion reminds me of all the questions that were raised beginning September 12th, once we shed our wordless disbelief. Hearing Osama’s name over and over has had an odd nostalgic ring to it. Through it all, one thing is certain, however: our war with terrorism is not over. But my numbness from that horrific day settles just a bit because I know that, at the very least, many of the friends and family of loved ones lost to Osama bin Laden went to bed on May 2nd, 2011 with a sense of closure.

George Carlin once had a comic bit that amounted to, “no one gives a shit where you were when JFK was shot.” He was making fun of people who give themselves a false sense of importance by connecting themselves to monumental events. Despite my being a huge fan, I have to disagree with Mr. Carlin on this one. We only see through our own eyes, and memories are stronger and more vivid when framed by our personal experiences. September 11th, 2001 was supposed to be just another random Tuesday. It wasn’t. Now, I’ll never forget “National Emergency Day!” or Ethan Frome or the projectors in the cafeteria. And no one will ever forget what menial task they were doing before the first plane hit or how they reacted to it. Because of these grounded memories, we will never forget those who were lost that day and what it did to us as a country, even after our most skilled fighters took out the madman who made it happen.

No. We will never forget.

From A to B

I like to travel. I’m not even talking about traveling great distances, seeing old monuments, or finding new horizons. I just like to move. Forward. From point A to point B. To me, there are few things more satisfying than having somewhere to go and having all the time in the world to make the trip. The gratification stems from feeling my progress literally move beneath my feet and having the time to enjoy it. I am entertained by the constantly changing environment. The sights, sounds, smells, and people I encounter provoke random thoughts and questions. Sometimes point B is yet to be determined, such as an aimless walk or drive that passes the time on a free day. Or sometimes, such as in this case, point B is simply a place that I’d rather be, with Tegan in her apartment.

As I leave point A, I am greeted outside my building by a waiting yellow cab, its top light prominently lit, its engine softly humming. No need for a personal chariot tonight. I’m in no rush and short on cash anyway. But who will take him up on his offer? Where will they go? How much will they tip? I wonder if his cab smells funny. He is talking on his cell phone. Drivers are on the phone all the time. What the hell do drivers talk about? Are they talking to other cab drivers? I carry on.

It just finished raining. Night has fallen. The watery sidewalk and streets glisten with reflections of the streetlamps and headlights. The scene looks just like those paintings that glamorize this very moment. What was that artist’s name? Tegan would know. I think he’s from Chicago. I wish I could afford his work. They were so pretty in the art gallery on Michigan Avenue. The shiny sidewalk dumps into the Redline entrance at State and Polk. There is a man (at least I think it's a man) coming up the underground stairs with an opened umbrella, forcing me to twist around him. Little premature, huh buddy? Dick.

The train rolls to the crowded platform as soon as I get downstairs. This rare occurrence is utterly delightful. Almost like having a cab waiting for me when I leave my apartment. I wonder if he’s picked a fare up yet. My luck doubles when over the loudspeaker, the conductor announces that this train is late and will run express from Lake to Fullerton. Perfect. I sift through the crowded train car and find an open area near the emergency exit. I lean against the wall and start reading The Economist when an odd looking hipster in skinny jeans gestures if he can have the open seat in front of me. I nod. He sits. I sneeze. He says, “Bless you.” Was that for the open seat or the sneeze? “Thanks.” I look out the window as we screech past the Division stop. I catch a man’s impatient face that distinctly says, “what the fuck?”

It’s drizzling again by the time I get off at Belmont. My pace hurries as the city passes by me. Damn that pizza joint smells good. What is that girl studying in Starbucks? I freaking hate slow walkers. Jack’s looks pretty full tonight. Tegan and I have been meaning to eat there. That man really needs to fix his muffler. Would I have laughed if that kid fell in that giant puddle? As I turn onto Tegan’s street there are three guys having an animated conversation. “Bro, I’m tellin’ you. I’ve had parties with like 100s of people, bro, and never seen a fight break out. Seriously, dude.” I wonder if anyone was seriously injured. Does that guy know he sounds like a total douche bag?

I finally approach Tegan’s apartment building. There’s a white cab sitting outside her high-rise, his light off, waiting for his called fare. He’s talking on his cell phone. Is he talking to my friend from before? That would be awesome. I head inside and call her apartment. The line is dead. Why do I always have to do this twice? The second try goes through, and she buzzes me in. I find an elevator waiting for me.

Tegan and I have a running joke that whenever we go to a new city I look at her and say, “Tegan, look! People live here!” While my astonishment is somewhat embellished, I am truly fascinated by the common practice of visiting a place that people call home. I come into their city as they go about their daily lives and get to borrow their existence for a day or weekend or even an entire week. Then when I leave to go home, they’ll still be there, doing what they do. As if nothing ever happened. I felt a similar sensation tonight. I left my apartment and went out into my own busy city. With every person I saw along the way, I got to, at least for a moment, share in a slice of their lives. If they were paying attention, they shared in a slice of mine.

Ding! I step off the elevator and knock on the door incessantly to tease Tegan. She opens and smiles. God I love her.

“Hey babe, how was the trip?”

*Tegan did remember. Michael Cheney.

Grammas & Grampas

We sometimes talk about grandparents like they’re baseball trading cards.

“How many do you have left?”

“I have three, but one of them is not exactly in mint condition.”

“Oh I’m sorry. I only have one left, but it’s looking great considering it’s from 1927.”

That might be an exaggeration, but grandparents are a fact of life. All of us have four biological grandparents. Divorce, separation, and remarriage might change who gets together for the holidays, but the structure of our ancestry is absolute. The other absolute is that our grandparents will eventually fade away throughout our lifetimes. Sometimes this happens before we even get to meet them. I only have one left, my Gramma Rose, but I’ve been fortunate enough to have personal memories with all four.

My Grampa Walter, on my Dad’s side, was the first one to pass. I don’t have many memories of him, but I recall that while he was a very stern man, almost cold, there was a definite grandfatherly love beneath the surface. This duality is perfectly visualized in my distinct memory of him giving me a small travel alarm clock. On the one hand, there is the unfeeling certitude of that clock ticking away, evoking his strict German heritage. On the other, there is the image of a busy Thanksgiving gathering, and tucked away in the corner an old man, quietly bending down and giving a gift to his young grandson.

When I think of my Gramma Dorothy, again on my Dad’s side, I immediately think of garbage. When we visited, my sisters and I used to argue over who got to throw her trash-filled, Jewel-Osco bags down her condo’s garbage shoot. Living in the suburbs, we didn’t often get to experience that odd pleasure of hearing trash clumsily fall to its demise. What I really remember her for, though, is her deep seeded need to give. When she came with us to Arlington Race Track every Mother’s day, she gave away every winning ticket. She was naturally selfless. The world might have had its Mother Theresa, but I had my Gramma.

My Mom’s dad, Grampa John, had the exact opposite dynamic of my Grampa Walter. He radiated warmth and love like no person I’ve met, but I always had a sneaking suspicion that inside he was tough as nails. In my mind, his hearty laugh never quite meshed with his dungeon-like workshop below their house, which more resembled the lair of a workaholic foreman than my gentle Grampa. My favorite story about him, long before I was born, was that he mailed my Gramma an engagement ring while he was in the service during WWII. In the midst of all the fear and violence, all he could think about was loving my Gramma.

That brings us to my lone living grandparent, Gramma Rose, my Mom’s mom. She constantly reminds me of all the trouble I used to give her when she used to babysit. I think my mischief stemmed from the fact that as kids, we view our grandparents as slower, quieter and therefore less scary versions of our parents. She just didn’t intimidate me. But I’ll always remember Gramma for her aversion to profanity (even “shut up” was a no-no) and her caustic wit. Even now, as she’s slowly withering away on a hospital bed in her apartment, she won’t let you get away with anything. When visiting with me last week, Tegan nicely asked if it was too warm in her place. She whispered, “I’m always hot. I’m hot stuff.”

I don’t know how much longer my Gramma is going to last. Not even the doctors know at this point. I also don’t know how I’m going to react to it. But judging by my previous experience, it won’t be painful. I didn’t cry when we lost any of my grandparents. Maybe some were younger than others, but the sadness is different than the sharp, confused pain associated with a tragic accident or an unreasonable disease. It’s a sense of understood loss, coupled with warm and happy stories told when the family comes together to say goodbye. With so many things that can end a life, we celebrate a grandparent’s achievement in avoiding them for as long as they did.

I’ve heard before that losing a parent is a harsh awakening because it reminds you that you’re up to bat. You’re next in line. Both my parents have probably felt this grim feeling. But in reality, aren’t we all up to bat? Even the newest addition to our family, my cousin’s new baby Jack, by the very fact that he is alive, has a timeline. Every beginning has an end. Our only hope and prayer is that our timeline is long, prosperous, and happy. And when we get to the end we have loved ones with us to make it less painful.

A few years ago, my Dad sent me some very old pictures of my Grampa Walter when he was about my age. I recently went through them with Tegan to show her some family history. She was stunned at how much I look like my grandfather. This made me realize something. Pictures can be lost in the attic. And memories can fade away. But if we ever need a reminder of our ancestors, all we need to do is look in the mirror and remember that we came from somewhere.

My Golden Years

• The first American to receive a monthly Social Security check was Ida May Fuller. She paid $24.75 into the system after three years of payroll taxes but received $22,888.92 between retirement at 65 and her death at 100 years old.
• Currently, two 56-year-olds with average earnings will pay about $140,000 in dedicated Medicare taxes over their lifetimes but will receive about $430,000 in benefits following retirement.
• Social Security is largely a pay-as-you-go system in which the current taxes of the working pay for the benefits for the retired. The system’s “support ratio,” which measures the number of people of working age over the number of people beyond retirement age, has decreased from 5.3 in 1970 to 4.6 in 2010 and is forecasted to fall to 2.6 by 2050.
• The life expectancy of 65-year-old males in the U.S. has improved by about 5 years since 1970, though people on average are retiring one year earlier.
• Spending on health care programs and Social Security is projected to grow from roughly 10% of GDP today to 16% of GDP by 2035. By comparison, spending on all of the federal government’s programs and activities, excluding interest on debt, has averaged 18.5% of GDP over the past 40 years.

There is a lot of data and research on our country’s entitlement programs, but these are some of the facts that have stood out. Considering my progressive mindset, I believe in the intent of these programs. But these facts paint a picture showing how they are systematically unsustainable and how, with the baby boomer generation moving into retirement, they could eventually bend and break this country’s bank. I don’t purport to know the answers to this highly complicated problem. Despite the theatrics of last week, I hope our government will eventually figure something out that extends beyond red vs. blue. Representative Paul Ryan’s 2012 budget proposal, while imperfect, is at least a clue that some people in congress are taking it seriously. But to me, this national discourse raises one very important question: who is responsible for my retirement?

In the agricultural age, there really was no “retirement.” You had as many kids as you could to help the family farm and worked in the fields until you dropped. With the advent of the industrial revolution, people moved to the cities and began working in factories. This was fine and dandy until 1929, when the Great Depression put 25% of the country out of work and washed out any savings. In response, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt signed the Social Security Act in 1935, the most influential social safety net that changed the way people thought about their future. Retirement was now the government’s responsibility.

This mentality continued in the middle part of the century. As the U.S. economy boomed following WWII, the “American Dream” was born: a house, two cars, and a steady job. Auto manufacturers kept labor costs low by including in current benefits the assurance of a pension. Other manufacturers followed suit by offering these “defined-benefit” plans, in which retirement payouts are defined and legally promised. Responsibility was now put on employers as well. With President Lyndon Johnson’s signing of the Social Security Act of 1965, which included Medicare, we added to the government’s list of responsibilities the burden of retiree health care. As these programs are supported by current workers and tax payers, the looming liabilities they created were hidden by the bull markets of the 1980’s and 1990’s.

With the bursting of the tech bubble in 2000 and later the housing market in 2007, the assets backing the pension plans fell dramatically, exposing employers to considerable net liabilities. General Motors eventually claimed bankruptcy, in part due to the mammoth burden it owes to retired pensioners. As unemployment remains high and retirees live longer, there are fewer workers to support the outgoing pension and social security checks. For these reasons, most employers now offer “defined-contribution” plans like a 401(k), which offers matching contributions (~4% of salary, for example) but puts the investment decisions and, ultimately, the risk in the hands of the employee. Responsibility has now shifted back to the individual.

My first memory of any real savings beyond a piggy bank was a kid-targeted savings account at the local bank in Barrington. At the time, there was no internet banking. Or there might have been, but we didn’t have the internet yet. My sisters and I had these little blue ledger books that resembled a passport. Upon receiving money for birthdays and holidays or for any chores I did around the house, we would go to the bank and give the teller our books and a deposit slip. She would then use a special printer to mark the deposit and our resulting balance. While I understood that I was doing a good thing, whenever I got that book back with some lines added to it, I couldn’t help but feel I would have rather had a video game. At least the bank always had fresh cookies by the door.

The savings account grew at a pace one would expect for a 9 year old. That is, until my Grandpa died. My Gramma, who doesn’t drive, had to sell their car. The money was split up amongst my sisters and me, which resulted in a $3,000 increase to my account. Compared to my stash at the time and based upon my familiarity with money, this experience taught me three things: I was getting gypped on my birthday and Christmas, I was being grossly underpaid for my chores, and my Gramma was the richest woman in the world.

I don’t have that account anymore. Instead I have a 401(k), a Roth IRA, a Certificate of Deposit, a brokerage account, and a savings account. These are admittedly more complicated than those humble beginnings in Barrington, but the underlying purpose is the same: to live below my means. My parents instilled in me from an early age the crucial importance of saving for the future, whether it’s for a major purchase, specific event, emergency, or simply to use in my golden years. That money I saved as a kid and Gramma’s car money is sitting somewhere, and I will happily use it towards business school in the fall or maybe someday an engagement ring. Much better choices than a video game.

Now, I don’t know what is going to happen with Social Security or Medicare or any of the other federal entitlement programs. Social Security is called the political “third-rail” for a reason. Any efforts to mess with it and you’ll be zapped out of a job by voters. It’s tough to ask people to give up the better end of a deal. I for one hope that my benefits are cut or the retirement age is raised so that the system is brought into saner pastures. If not, then my problems (and my children’s) will far outweigh what my Social Security checks amount to every month. But one thing is certainly clear: my retirement is my responsibility.

That is, unless Gramma has any Ferraris I don’t know about.

Deadly Sin

“Don't waste your time on jealousy; sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long, and in the end, it's only with yourself.” – Mary Schmich, “Everybody’s Free (to wear sunscreen)”

I’ve heard that a real sign of maturity is the ability to be truly happy for others. If that’s true, then I have some growing up to do.

This past Wednesday, a former swimmer from the University of Wisconsin and native of Evanston, IL named Anders had a show premier on Comedy Central that he co-created and stars in. The premier for “Workaholics” has been a long time coming after years of hard work and dedication to his and his friends’ internet comedy group Mail Order Comedy. Their hilarious on-line sketches (I’m a huge fan) caught the eye of Comedy Central producers, and after several delays the show finally premiered last night to positive reviews.

I advertised their show to all my friends. I enjoyed all the commercials on TV and buzz on Facebook. I paraded the Red Eye newspaper around the office to show everyone their picture on the front page. I felt a sense of pride in knowing that I know Anders personally. I watched the show with my girlfriend and her sister and enjoyed it immensely. It was downright funny.

But, as this blog is aiming for brutal honesty, I have to say that their premier has not been an entirely joyous occasion for me. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I wanted them to outright fail, but internally I was responding to their success with negativity. A sense of harassing jealousy or envy that has been difficult to shake.

Regrettably, this is not the first time I’ve reacted this way to the success of friends or acquaintances specifically involved in theater, acting, or comedy. I’ve had friends get roles in major motion pictures (Road to Perdition), TV shows (Law & Order, Gossip Girls), or theater productions in Chicago and NYC. Each time I felt a sense of frustration with their advancements in their career.

And these are not enemies. These are good people who have treated me well, and some of them I would even call friends. In this case specifically, Anders has always been friendly with me the few times I’ve met him and even took the time to read my screenplay two years ago and give me insightful and helpful notes. While my tinge of jealousy simultaneously comes with a sense of heavy guilt, I’m not absolved from my nasty thoughts.

Life would be so much more enjoyable if I could truly be 100% happy for others. Imagine: every time someone finds success, my happiness goes up without a smidgen of jealousy or guilt. While I try to live that way, I have not figured out how to do it successfully. I really don’t know why.

Maybe it’s because the reason for some people’s success is not visibly explicit. I don’t get jealous of LeBron James or Tom Brady or Albert Pujols. I wasn’t born 6’8”, 250lbs, with the vertical leap of an antelope. It would be ridiculous of me to look at them and berate myself for not doing what they do. But guys like Mark Zuckerberg, John Mayer, or James Franco are successful too. I’m more similar to them than to Payton Manning. I don’t mean to diminish their genius or skills, but where are my talents? Why can’t I see them?

Maybe it’s because I have been competitive my whole life. I swam competitively for 17 years. In swimming, I raced against other people in the pool at the same time, everyone trying to get to the wall first. But competition went beyond the actual races. By going for top times in the country, or by trying to break long-standing records, I raced against people I had never met. Their recorded times were the ghosts of their accomplishments, and it was customary to be in competition with strangers. In real life, that starts to border on insanity.

Maybe it’s because I feel like I could actually succeed in acting or comedy. You could show me the most successful doctor, lawyer, or engineer and I would probably be very happy for them. Not only do I have no desire to fulfill jobs, but also I know I wouldn’t be successful in them. I’m not wired for it. But I enjoyed acting when I did it. I enjoyed stand-up when I tried it. And I saw glimmers of success in those roles. Maybe I’m delusional, but maybe I’m right.

Maybe it’s because I never gave acting a real shot. I’m not jealous of Michael Phelps. I devoted my life to swimming and walked away content with my accomplishments. I wasn’t the best swimmer in the world, but I know it wasn’t for lack of trying. Acting and comedy have always been a side project, an endeavor of spare time. Maybe my jealousy comes not from witnessing others’ successes but their courage. Some of my friends are struggling their best in the industry and I look upon their efforts with envy. Their attempts make me look cowardly.

Maybe it’s because I feel like a sellout. A life in finance is something that I enjoy, am good at, and am paid well for. And I believe that a level of financial security is a worthy goal. To be able to travel when and where I like. To have a good home to raise a family. To be able to send my children to college without a morsel of difficulty. To be comfortable. But doesn’t that sound like a justification for taking the easy route?

Maybe it’s because I’ve been brainwashed by the celebrity culture. We love our celebrities. It seems that you’re only really deemed successful in this country if you’re rich, famous, and on the red carpet. While I know there are extremes of this mentality (I do not define the cast of Jersey Shore as successful) there is a certain stamp of approval on someone’s success when it’s on the big screen. “They’ve made it” implies I haven’t.

Maybe it’s because I’m not strong enough to believe my own definition of success. I used to get upset by my old swim coach because it seemed that all he celebrated was the success of his best swimmers. In my mind, a personal best by the fastest and slowest swimmers on the team are equal accomplishments. Human development cannot be measured on a single scale. But in reality, it’s more fun to watch the superstars.

Maybe it’s because I got too much support throughout my life. You would think that the need for recognition would originate in a life devoid of encouragement. But I have been lovingly supported. Ever since I was little I had people telling me how successful I was going to be. I was going to win this award or be on TV or in the movies. I heard it so much I started to believe it. Now my expectations are so high I can’t help but feel like I’m failing.

Maybe it’s because I’m self-centered and arrogant and a little lost. Look at what’s going on in the world: earthquakes, violence, poverty, hunger, disease. And all I’m worrying about is myself, lazily filling up my helpless, nagging emptiness with jealousy and envy. I constantly search for greener pastures. It’s pathetic and doesn’t help anyone.

Maybe I just simply have some growing up to do. When I talk to my parents about success, they seem to have such a grasp on the important things in life. They have the crystal clear view of hindsight. They’ve had the joy of having kids and are comfortable and willing to enjoy their life as they’ve made it. I once told my boss that as a kid all I wanted was either an Oscar or Olympic Gold Medal and without them I feel unaccomplished. He said, “Tommy, there are a lot of gold medals in life.”

Maybe I’m too idealistic. I believe that all of us are destined to achieve greatness, but it’s up to us to make it happen. While I am happy in what I’m doing, I can’t help but feel there’s something else that I’m supposed to be doing. It seems like others have it figured out and I’m left behind.

Maybe I’m just kind of an asshole. To be pained by the success or take pleasure in the failure of others, even remotely, is just a petty and dickish way to live my life.

Or maybe……I’m just human.

I don’t know. It’s probably somewhere in between.

The "WE" in "Web-Logging"

Over a cup of Caribou coffee at Denver International Airport this past weekend, I was pitching to Tegan an idea to write about for this blog. I was in the middle of brainstorming when she politely interrupted me to ask, “What do you think is the point of writing?” Admittedly, my immediate reaction was one of defense, as if she was insinuating that my idea was not worth writing about and questioning my ability to write at all. In hindsight that reaction was a little extreme, because, for a writer, she was asking a very pertinent question: Why write? Or, more specifically, why blog?

Now, I’m relatively new to the blogging community. Not just because this is only my fourth post, but also because I simply haven’t spent much time searching out and reading many blogs. When reading on the internet, I primarily stick to the NYTimes, WSJ, ESPN, the Economist and Bloomberg. I sometimes venture to the Huffington Post for more entertainment purposes. While one could argue that the opinionated columnists within these news sources write similarly to a blogger, their words are usually also published in print and subject to slightly more scrutiny. So it’s not exactly the same.

None of this is to say that I don’t find merit or value in blogging itself. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. I adamantly read Roger Ebert’s blog, which beautifully ponders anything that flashes across his intellectual curiosity. I’ve read most, if not all, of his posts and find truth within each and every one of them. I thoroughly enjoy the blog Things White People Like, which lampoons the pompous pursuits of hipster yuppies. A good friend of mine from Wisconsin has made it his life’s passion to photograph and write about all types of foods at taylortakesataste.com. Tegan’s sister Amanda wrote a blog while she was working in France for 10 months so friends and family could check-in with her experiences. Just these four examples show how blogging can have a very wide range of focus, use, and audience.

My undefined hesitation in entering the blogging universe came to life in The Social Network. About mid-way through the movie, Mark Zuckerberg is confronting his ex-girlfriend Erica Albright while she’s getting drinks with her friends. In reference to his vicious posting about her on the internet she quips, “As if every thought that tumbles through your head was so clever it would be a crime for it not to be shared.” There is an arrogant presumption inherent to blogging that anyone, let alone an entire audience, really cares about what you’re writing. Prior to the internet, the fact that an author would have to be endorsed by an accredited publisher weeded out all the writing better suited for a personal, handwritten journal. Nowadays, emboldened by the anonymity and unlimited reach of the internet, there are countless “writers” out there putting words together that are less than worthy of my, or anyone else’s, time

So, blogging is both extremely valuable and utterly worthless. Much in the same spirit of its intended purpose, nothing boils this conundrum down better than Twitter. On the one hand, the application’s immediate and shared communication helps communities cope and respond to natural disasters; assists revolutionaries in gathering and shaping their government; and spreads news of the world’s events at the most personal level. On the other hand, Twitter feeds the narcissism of its commonplace and celebrity users who feel the need to disseminate the intricate minutiae of their daily activities, turning the website itself into comedians’ fodder. Anyone who has seen Conan’s YouTwitFace bit knows what I’m talking about.

What it comes down to is that blogging is a tool. A lot like a hammer. And I’m not going to go so far as saying it can be used to create and destroy, because I’m not contrasting to hateful writing intended to hurt. A properly used hammer can be used to build a beautiful and useful home. However, if the carpenter loses his focus and that hammerhead misses its target, he’s going to have a bloody, bruised, and/or broken thumb. Same goes for blogging. If you stray from your focus, you’re only going to end up hurting yourself and no one is going to want to look at the result.

So, why blog? What should I use this tool for and how should I go about it? My answers to Tegan’s questions center on honest introspection in the pursuit of universal truth. That’s a little lofty, but let me explain. I believe that all of us are connected in our hope that we’re not alone. If, through open and honest discussion, I can strip my experiences down to their elemental particles, then I might be able to strike a chord with an audience. The specifics will be mine and the mode will vary from post to post, but the underlying meaning will be communal.

To give an example, I am currently reading The Blind Side by Michael Lewis (one of my favorite authors). During my flight this past weekend, I got to the part when the Christian southerner Leigh Ann Tuohy is first interacting with her future adopted son and NFL star Michael Oher. She is taking him to his very poor and dangerous neighborhood to buy him some new clothes. Before getting out of the car, she turns to him and asks, “You’ll protect me right?” After barely uttering a full sentence the entire car ride, he confidently responds, “I got your back.” Now this story is about these two very specific people, who were strangers at the time. But I know what it’s like to feel protected by someone else, or to feel the desire to protect another human being. And Michael Lewis knew that the idea of protection and, more specifically, family is universally understood. All these things came together in my subconscious to make my hair stand on end and feel a rush of human connection.

But Tegan took my answer one step further. Good writing, and therefore good blogging, has to extend beyond a sense of inherent truth. I can’t just write about things that people already know or feel. I have to do it in a way that retains interest. Using my previous example, I was affected by Leigh Ann’s and Michael’s story because of the way it happened, but also because of the way Michael Lewis wrote about it. Nothing demonstrates this balancing act better than a successful comedian. A good comic is “saying what we’re all thinking.” But, mostly because of stand-up comedy’s on-the-fly delivery, most people fail to recognize that each joke was methodically rehearsed at countless comedy clubs. Every pause, inflection, or emphasis is there for a reason: to keep you listening and laughing.

So that’s the why: to use my personal experiences to find common ground. That exploration will be for your benefit and for mine. The challenge is to keep it interesting.

Wish me luck.

Layman's Terms

My girlfriend Tegan's twin sister Amanda recently called me and asked, "What are retained earnings?" She was working on her company's financials and had stumbled upon a term that she had heard of before but did not fully understand and now had to use intelligently at work. For me, the definition of a company's retained earnings is about as rudimentary as you can get. But for her, with no business background, my text-book definition lead to even more questions. What she wanted was an explantion in terms that she could understand. What she didn't want, nor had time for, was an entire lesson on the intricacies of a company's financial statements.

This is the reason why the concept of specialization exists. Amanda speaks fluent French and works at the French chamber of commerce. Makes sense. My understanding of the French language does not extend beyond a Nintendo video game console (a Wii, get it?), but that's fine because I work in finance. Something as common to me as retained earnings could look like a forein language to someone else.

So, I thought I'd take the time to explain some other very common things (to me anway) in simple terms. Hopefully, we'll all be on the same page.

iPad: An extremely expensive toy that gives a false sense of coolness and will be obsolete in 5 minutes.

Cell Phone: A device that digitizes one's voice, allowing users to talk to each other over vast distances and slam into each other on the highway.

Glenn Beck: The most scared man in the world.

Internet: A horizontally structured, digital network that gives users access to unlimited information, efficient markets, and social connections but is mostly used for stalking and pornography.

NFL: Roman Gladiators 2.0

Politics: The art of lying, cheating, bickering, backstabbing, posturing, playing dumb, making false promises, and forgetting everything one has ever said, all in the name of patriotism.

Collateralized Mortgage Obligation: Thousands of pieces of shit bundled and wrapped in a really, really expensive and confusing bow

Cheesy Gordita Crunch: A blend of tortilla, cheese, meat filler, sour cream, lettuce, and tomato that has a utility inversely related to sobriety.

Airplane: A vehicle that uses thrust and lift to transport people and spread colds.

Fox News Comments Section: The area below an article that allows angry, sad, stupid, and lazy people to add back to society.

Pâté: Cat food.

Marriage: When two young adults fall in love and decide to spend the next 15-20 years with each other.

Charlie Sheen: My hero.

Greetings

What's your name? Where are you from? What do you do?

These are the three main questions we ask when we meet someone. I use these questions all the time, and I'm expecting it in return when I meet someone new. During the course of a casual first meeting, if a stranger skips these very basic steps, I almost feel like a social contract has been breached. I feel robbed of my meet-and-greet protocol. It is an actual comfort to have these questions in my pocket. For whenever I am confronted with a new face, whether it's because our mutual friends' attention have drifted away from us, we are filling the void while waiting on the bartender, or we simply met eyes on the el train, I know I have at the very least a good 10 minutes of conversation before I have to actually think of something to talk about with this person. And who knows, maybe I'm from the same area, which adds at least another 15 minutes.

It was my junior year while attending the University of Wisconsin - Madison. I was on the swim team there and we had just finished our final day at the Big Ten Championships. It is tradition to have a team dinner where all the families get together after the long weekend. The festivity usually transpires in some banquet hall at the hotel we are staying, which this year happened to be a beautiful place in Indianapolis called Holiday Inn. The coaches say a few words, we have a buffet meal, we chat, and all the guys, regardless of performance, can't wait to get out of there and just goof off with all this exhausted energy, just pining to get home and start the real celebrations.

The main purpose of the meal though is the getting together. The chatting. The meeting. The recounting of the weekend. We as social beings find comfort in eating as a large group, especially after a time period of stressful circumstances. Holidays, graduation, a death in the family, or in this case a competition. I don't really know why. Maybe it has something to do with the resulting feast after the exhilarating big hunt.

The parents usually know each other after spending so much time up in the stands watching us compete, but not always. My mom, my dad, and my friend Mikey, a senior, and his parents were sitting at a table donned with a paper tablecloth. We had just sat down to our meal of gourmet pasta and garlic bread upon a plastic plate. The father of one of the freshman on the team came over to our table and wanted to introduce himself. He had met Mikey's parents and wanted to make sure to meet mine, as I was a co-captain with Mikey and he wanted to meet the other captain's parents.

Now what transpired was absolutely nothing more than ordinary. To be honest, I don't remember exactly what was said, but I'm pretty sure everyone involved followed standard procedure. Afterwards, the man smiled, as did my parents, and we got back to our garlic bread. But then my dad said something that for some odd little reason has stuck with me. He looked at me and matter of factly said, "I wish, just for once, someone would ask not 'what do you do' or 'where are you from,' but 'who ARE you?'" Then he turned back to chatting with my mom. To him, it was a fleeting thought; to me, it has changed how I think about strangers.

Upon thinking about his gripe further, I realized that my father had a point. All too often we use these questions as a crutch, giving a facade that we really care about the person to which we are speaking. Don't get me wrong, there are times when I really am interested in what a new acquaintance is telling me when we first meet, and not just when it is a cute girl at the bar. But a lot of times it is simply filler. I feign interest in my new "friend" because I know our short time together will pass and, chances are, I will never see him again. I am polite, and I am rewarded in kind. But, really, what a waste of time for the sake of mere pleasantness; and why do anything in life if it is not genuine?

After constant usage, these three little questions, instead of simply describing certain aspects of who we are, actually start defining who we are, which, in reality, is utterly shallow. Why should my place of birth, in which I had no choice, define my personality? Why should the name my parents gave me, again in which I had no choice, define my character? Why should the job I took as a means to make money doing something I enjoy necessarily define my essence? As I respond to these simple inquiries repeatedly to stranger after stranger, I pigeonhole the definition of me in my redundant answers. My father was making sense.

However, before I was completely convinced he was right, I asked myself two follow up questions: If someone really did come up to me and asked, "who ARE you?" would I know how to truthfully respond? And, even if I could, would I want to share my innermost thoughts about myself with a total stranger? The simple answer to both these questions is a resounding "no."

We all, despite my sounding like Shrek with his onion analogy, have many layers to our personality, our character, our being. Each successive layer represents another boundary to whom we let inside. I have countless "friends" or acquaintances on my outmost layer; these are the passerbys with whom I make eye contact on the city's sidewalks as I make my trek home. The next layer would be the people I have met and, at the very least, discussed my name, my job, and my geographic origin. From there, the layers continue, with each stratum of my multi-dimensional character inhabited by fewer and fewer souls. Assuming I actually knew what to say, if I allowed a stranger to cut through all those layers and inform him of my true self when he asked me who I really am, it would rob my closest, innermost friends the value of our relationship that took many years, laughs, tears, and stories to create. Simply, it wouldn't be fair. And I, in turn, would feel cheated if it was that easy to get close to my best friends.

So, I would have to say that I am OK with these three questions when meeting someone new. As the old Chinese proverb says, "a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." Any relationship has to start somewhere, and these questions, despite being hackneyed and shallow, at least provide building blocks and common ground from which to grow. And considering that you and I are just starting to get to know each other, I thought it would be appropriate to begin with the casual and fully established meet-and-greet.

Hi. My name is Tom, though most of my friends call me Tommy. I live in Chicago but was born in Barrington, IL. I work as a Senior Investment Analyst at Prudential Capital Group.

Nice to meet you.

New Beginnings...

This was written February 2009...

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I am a nobody. I have had no great accomplishments, lead no great movements, fought no great war. My life is no more significant than a single blade of grass across the entire Great Plaines. My voice is no louder than a pin drop in a noisy city. My life will pass over this world with no greater effect than that of a single warm breath against a arctic glacier. But chances are, I'm not much different than you.

As a human being, I go on through my daily life, a slave to routine, as if order and repetition provide my existence even a slice of meaning. I fret over the smallest occurrences. I am ecstatic with the most minute fortunes. I value my life by the progress of my career path, the joy of my social relationships, and the peace found within. I do this while trying to ignore the enormity and endlessness of forever, as it has become impossible to grasp. I focus on the minute details that make up my world because I am haunted by the vastness of eternity.

It is very easy to think of men and women who we believe have left their mark on history. Looking back, some great names instantly come to mind. Alexander the Great, still recognized as one of the greatest military leaders ever to have trampled this earth. Ghenghis Kahn, the fearless and ruthless leader of the Mongol Empire, to this day the largest contiguous empire in history. Julius Ceasar, Queen Elizabeth, George Washington. But legacies are not left only to great crusaders and leaders. Think of the greatest minds: Plato, Homer, da Vinci, Shakespeare, Curie, Einstein. Think of the greatest artists: Picasso, Dali, van Gogh, Monet. To keep it simple, think of some of the great names of our day: Jordan, Woods, Phelps, Nicholson, Hilary, Obama. These are only a few examples of people much bigger and greater than I.

For me, it is near impossible to think of these names and not feel my worth at the very least mitigated. Who am I compared to these people? What accomplishments have I done that could even be mentioned in the same breath as those of this very select group? Are they not human beings just as I am? Then why do I feel that, in the end, they will live on forever, and I will simply end up another forgotten soul?

It was impossible to answer these questions until the sheath over eternity, the veil covering forever was lifted. I had always felt that their legacy would go on to the end of time because of their impact on history, on thought, on politics, on sport, on life. Their story would be recounted, their theories studied, their works enjoyed, their names remembered forever. And this seemed like a reasonable assumption, for Alexander the Great ruled over 2,000 years ago and we still readily consider his name synonymous with the word conquerer. But will he still be remembered another 2,000 years from now? 100,000? A million years? A billion years? A trillion?

I realized that every person on this earth leaves a legacy. We all have an impact, and the question is not if or how big but simply how long. In reality, any pursuit to leave a permanent mark on this world is an effort in futility. Forever is bigger than all of us and greater than any individual. But due to our ability to learn history and imagine the future, we do not exist solely and linearly between our birthdate and the day we die. History lessons mesh into memory. Dreams mold into reality. We fool ourselves into thinking that we have been around since the beginning of time and will live forever, so we try to create a legacy or impact that will match that span of time. But it's simply not possible.

Eternity, endlessness, infinity. The concept of forever is impossible to truly fathom. Some people call it God. Some people call it Truth. But whatever one calls it, the reality of timelessness renders who we are and what we do insignificant. We can all agree that our lives are a defined slice of time, and mathematically, our fraction of infinity approaches zero. Our lives approach nothing.

Is this a grim conclusion? I don't think so. The weight of legacy and worldly impact have been lifted and a lightness remains. If my life is meaningless then my misfortunes and trials and mishaps are rendered meaningless as well. If my time on earth is definite against an indefinite backdrop, then the joy and happiness and fulfillment I reap from it are all that matters. For just because something is meaningless does not mean it is not real. My relationships are real. My bliss is real. My love is real. While my hate, my sadness, and my despair are also real, their meaningless allows me to let them go. My lightness of being allows me to choose what I hold on to, and therefore endless choice is the greatest gift of a life rendered meaningless by endless time.

I recently told a close friend that I made the choice to write a book. He instantly dismissed it. Someone in his mid-20's should not be spending his time looking back, dissecting what has happened, as autobiographies often do. Looking back is for those whose clock is reaching its time, for those whose harboring sandy shores are not too far off in the horizon. But this will be no autobiography, I explained to him. No doubt, there will be stories of moments and times that I believe have shaped me into the, I hope, unique human being I am today. But it will be less backward looking and more inward and more forward. I imagine myself reading the thoughtful, youthful, and lofty words within these pages when I am withered and approaching that harbor, wondering if I lived up to their promise.

There are times when I have felt very alone in this world, mostly during the few times in my life of heartbreak, loss, and suffering. There is no one on earth that could possibly understand what I am going through, I would feel. But it is times like that during which I am reminded that "every heart vibrates to that iron string." It is our shared universal humanity that brings us together. It is why comedians can make us laugh, why movies can touch our hearts, why books can touch our soul. It is our shared meaninglessness that forces us to give meaning to each other.

So, as I embark on this journey of using written word to portray my own muddled thought, I promise to be as real and as true to myself. As in all of life, I have no specific plan in mind. But I do hope to perhaps strike that iron string within myself and within anyone willing to listen. I am a nobody and this is my story.

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I wrote this on Facebook's Notes one random evening in the dead of winter when inspiration flashed through my mind and I had a couple hours to follow through on it. I posted the essay and received immediate positive feed back from friends and had every intention of following through with its promise: to write a bibliographical and philosophical book based on past experiences and future dreams. In retrospect, perhaps that endeavor promised too much.

I don't mean to say that writing a book was something I couldn't handle in my lifetime. But this original post had a weight to it that was too heavy to bear. Even if I had an idea to write about, my drafted words did not match what this "Preface" gave preview to, and I would close the computer and divert my attention elsewhere. I began to feel guilty that I had the gall and presumption to post such a heavy handed piece and gave up on the project altogether.

I've realized, however, that I didn't overshoot, I was simply aiming in the wrong direction. I still believe the words I wrote in February 2009, but their focus on deep, introverted reasoning pigeonholed me. I don't always think or write in such emphatic terms. Sometimes I can be very light hearted. Or comical. Or somber. Or weird for the sake of weird. Or simply hungry. In life, our range of emotions and perspective can change drastically. From year to year or even day to day.

So that is what this blog will aim to achieve. My goal will still be to strike that "iron string" within me and all of us, but I'm going to keep an open mind about how to do that. Sometimes I will attempt to cut right to the core of it and sometimes I'll skirt around the issue and sometimes I'll just write because it's fun and I enjoy writing. Maybe, just maybe, you'll enjoy it too.