I'm staring out my window, watching my four year old daughter on the swing. It seemed like we'd never get her to kick on her own but there she is, a seasoned veteran of the playground. Completely independent, needing no help from any grown up to climb or get a good momentum going. Back and forth, smiling, wind whipping through her hair, the sun on her face. It's ecstasy. It's all she needs or wants and it all goes downhill from here. Soon enough she'll be fretting over her wardrobe and what friend didn't invite her to a party. Before my wife and I know it, she'll be tossed into the same cauldron (a word I've been dying to use) of upside down plans and backwards ideals that we're currently fighting to make sense of. I wish I could change it all for her and her big brother who's fidgeting through 3rd grade math at this very moment, wondering how it will help him beat the "Temple of Kali" level in Lego Indiana Jones, but I don't know where to even start. I myself could use a little help beating the "Temple of Kali" level.
On September 11, 2001 I was an almost proud employee of Borders Inc. I had recently accepted the position of "guy who stands by the back door, smoking cigarettes and unloading shipments all day". A fine occupation for someone who, at that time, was still convinced he'd be on a cross country tour with his band in the very near future. I had just taken care of a shipment of CD's and DVD's and was bringing some paperwork to file in the office when I heard Marie say, "A plane just crashed into one of the Twin Towers." I stepped into her office and asked her to repeat that. She did and of course the usual follow up questions were asked. What kind of plane? How do you not see a building of that size? Was it an accident? The first radio report wasn't able to answer all these questions so I returned to my post with a mild confusion. When I arrived, I found Chris and Brian standing just inches away from a small radio we used for entertainment while stuck loading and unloading product. It was confirmed, a full sized jet had flown directly into 1 WTC. Our man on 660 AM was also unsure if this was an accident or an attack, for a plane of this size to fly directly into one of the largest man made structures in the world would need one of two things; A mad man at the controls or some sort of freak occurrence to take place. Everything stopped as we listened, not knowing what to make of this and sharing the occasional shoulder shrug. We slowly began to open boxes, keeping one eye on the radio when our man on 660 AM, with the same sense of horror we had when we heard, had said that a second plane had struck 2 WTC. All hell has just broken loose.
Immediately following this news, I rushed to the door, unlocked it and flung it open. In the split second it took for me to step out of the building and look west, I almost convinced myself that this wasn't for real or as bad as it seemed. When my eyes settled on the smoke encompassing the sky, time stopped. Sound silenced. Chris was standing behind me. "Oh my God", he said. I snapped out of my shock and tossed the keys to Brian. "Lock the fucking door!" I began running a mental list of friends and family. Mom and dad, here on the island. Both sisters, here on the island. Joe, just around the corner. Nick, still sleeping off the effects of last nights hoe down. Jon...in Manhattan. I called his phone and got his voicemail greeting. I hung up and took off for the office and arrived as Fred was trying to get a signal on the old television in the break room. He cursed as he struggled with the ancient box, twisting the antennas, hoping for some sort of reception. By now there was a small group in Marie's office, listening. Everyone in awe. I ran back to my spot and grabbed the phone to call Jon, only to hear his voicemail greeting again. I hung up and tried once more, this time leaving a frantic message. I returned to the radio, listening closely. President Awesome had made it safely to his big plane and was now flying to his secret hideout. As our man on 660 AM began to recap I placed another call to Jon. This time he answered. I asked him where he was. He had just reached street level outside of Penn Station, completely oblivious. He mentioned people running and crying and I told him what was happening. His first reaction was that this was some nasty accident. I assured him it wasn't then told him to watch his ass. Before hanging up, I reiterated the best advice I could give my close friend. "Watch your ass!"
Soon after, a third plane hit the Pentagon. Brian lost control, roaring and viciously firing an object into the wall. Less than a month removed from my twenty first birthday, I was nothing more than a scared kid at this point. I remember looking at Chris and asking, "What's happening"? "I don't know, Tony". His eyes began to water and we decided to step out for another smoke. We couldn't take our eyes off the sky to our west. The smoke now reaching as far south as we could see. I decided to lock up and asked to take a break so I may run home and check the television. I hopped in my '76 Malibu and hauled ass to my house just a few blocks away from the store. I entered to find my father in the kitchen, eyes glued. Ashtray overflowing. It was my first clear look at what was happening in downtown Manhattan. The smoke billowing out of the buildings, arms waving from the windows. FDNY and NYPD on the ground, frantically trying to save lives. Then the on scene reporters began interviewing eye witnesses. The first gentleman I saw claimed that the planes had no logos. No insignias. No windows. The split screen then came into effect as we all got a double dose of catastrophe. The towers on the left, The Pentagon on the right. My father turned to me and asked where the rest of the plane was. I just answered with a puzzled look. "The Pentagon. Where's the plane? The hole is too small." Begin all the conspiracy theory shit talking now but even he realized that obvious discrepancy. As I returned to work, I drove westward on one of Long Island's major roads, staring directly at the smoke when it almost looked as if it were changing somehow. The base of the plume seemed to grow wider. When I arrived at work I was told that 2 WTC was gone. Shortly after, Tower 1 fell then United 93 crashed into a Pennsylvania field.
I reached out to Jon again. He answered and to this day I almost wish he hadn't. I was happy to know he was OK but he was a wrecked shell of himself. Just thirty blocks away, he watched the towers fall. He informed me that his mother was on her way to meet him for she also worked in Manhattan. The next time I would speak to Jon was much later that night when he finally made it home.
The entire staff of Borders Westbury was huddled at the information desk. Everyone bringing some different piece of information they had heard. The rare customer would enter to ask if we had any additional information then to pester us about a book that had the word "THE" in the title and had something to do with a guy who had a thing. This whole part of the day is nothing more than a haze for me. I remember struggling with the notion of what would change after this and how we would move on, if we ever could. The only thing that sticks with me is a short conversation I had with my cousin Mike who was stationed at Fort Bragg, North Carolina at the time. He let me know that his stuff was packed and he was ready to move. I was overcome with emotion, immensely proud of him and hoping that he find his way out of this whole shitty mess OK.
The store closed early that day and we all went home to our families. The news channels were on when I got home. My mother was terrified. Both my sisters were terrified. I was terrified. I spoke to Joe that night and he gave me the OK on all his family members. Afterwards I just sat in my room, waiting. Jon called very late that night. "I'm almost home." I met him when he arrived and we stood outside his house, unable to ignore how silent the skies over Long Island were. Living below the flight path for arriving and departing flights from JFK and Laguardia, one grows so accustomed to the sound of airplanes that you don't hear them any more. Since that day, I have watched every airplane fly over head.
10 years. A significant period of time in a human's life. Small in the grand scheme but a sizable percentage for the individual. In this time frame, no answers have given myself any sense of relief. Is that really all it took? Nineteen guys with box cutters? To be honest, I was never impressed with the whole plan. Learn to fly a plane, then crash it into an important building. Children could do better and this was the fucking operation that shook El Numero Uno to it's knees?!
Since that day, it has been a steady dose of awful happenings. Tsunamis. Earthquakes. Volcanic eruptions. We all watched one of the greatest cities on the planet drown. Ladies and gentlemen, we can't even figure out how to safely operate a motor vehicle when it rains. We're gonna save the planet? Fix the economy? The last 10 years has taught me a lot about the species I belong to. Most of it not good. Corruption. Deceit. Personal agendas before public good. Greed. When our military rushed into Iraq, all I could think of was my cousin Mike and good friend Brian who were over there putting their asses on the line for something I'm not sure was real.
A near bright spot was presented to us this past May when we all got word of Osama Bin Laden's demise. We cheered. The bad guy was gone. Right? At first I didn't need visual confirmation but after a few weeks my distrust of the people who call the plays began to eat at me. Public enemy #1 was killed and all they did was throw him in the water. This piece of news puts our troops in more danger but they didn't want there to be a place for the villains to rally at. Or bulletin board material for when they come back. Priorities, folks.
So here we are. 10 years after. Another big threat is held over New York City. Kind of predictable actually. 2012 looming. Education and employment are in the shitter. Nothing but talk and piss poor execution coming from those we depend on to make things right. No end in sight to this new tradition of disappointment and disaster and all I can think of is sitting my ass in the empty swing next to my daughter and listen to her laughter.
To all those who lost their lives, their loved ones and who strap up there combat boots to march into uncertainty, nothing but love, respect and warm wishes. Your suffering is not in vein.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Sometimes you can't help yourself
As I was sitting quietly, eyeing my movie collection while my daughter wathced her 53rd consecutive episode of "Let's See How Long Until Dad Flushes His Head Down The Toilet", I noticed that I have one or two questionable selections in my cinema library. I then moved to my rather large music selection and found quite a few more. These pieces of work that I gladly spent money on (sometimes) are nothing more than guilty pleasures. When viewed by a friend, my movie and music collections are met with raucous applause and sometimes a high five. Obviously, the titles in question were either overlooked or just brushed aside with a strong pity and never mentioned. I, however, will call my lame ass out right now.
When asked, I will gladly provide the movies and musical artists that have helped shape my life and growth as a musician and writer. I must say, no one has ever argued any of my top picks. They change in order from time to time but the big ones are always mentioned. In cinema, it's major influential movies like The Godfather, Shawshank Redemption, Pulp Fiction, Reservoir Dogs, Brave Heart, Saving Private Ryan. With music, it's Tool, Deftones, Miles Davis, Notorious BIG. The music picks are always scrutinized by old, angry folks. The same self righteous mopes that claim all of the musical artists worth mentioning debuted before the eighties. Neglecting bands like Metallica, U2, REM and an entire genre called RAP that, just in case you haven't noticed, is the top selling genre of music since the new millenium began.
I've always been proud of the list that makes up the people and the work that has blown my hair back throughout the years but I've discovered a few...not as strong examples of what I enjoy listening to and watching. My dvd rack is chock full of awesomeness. Indeed, I have alphebetized each title, because I'm half pecker head, and the first couple of movies are American Beauty, American Gangster and Anchorman. This fine pattern continues through most of the rack but there is one glaring choice that has me questioning my dignity. "The Chronicles Of Riddick". I know this is a top pick for many comic book fanatics, but when analyzing this movie, it becomes hard to find the strengths in it. BUT I WILL ALWAYS WATCH IT WHEN IT'S ON! Can't get enough of it as a matter of fact. I don't care how corny it is. I don't care how many times my wife asks me if I'll be engaging in a "Dungeons and Dragons" orgy afterwards while wearing my King Limpdick crown and holding a staff that resembles my poor judgement, I will be more than happy to view this feature film over and over again.
Another guilty pleasure when it comes to film...Airborne. That stupid ass movie about the SOCAL kid who moves to Cincinatti for a school year and has difficulty blending in and gains everyone's trust and respect by rollerblading. I've eyed my bottle of painkillers while watching this movie, thinking that there is no turning back so I might aswell ghost myself. A friend of mine claims that "Groundhog Day" is his but I actually think that is a legitimate movie to like. Mine all suck and are a source of great shame.
My musical selections that cause an eyebrow raise are just as bad. Limp Bizkit...need I say more. This band single handedly killed a genre, or sub-genre, whatever you want to call it. The whole rap-core movement was crushed when the singer of the band that was supposedly in the forefront proved to be cheesier than a Green Bay, Wisconsin bowel movement. Weak lyrics (sorry Fred) and he got played by Christina Aguilera in front of the whole world. We all cringed when we saw the horrible, awkward interaction between them at a photo shoot. Limp Bizkit's music, I will always stand by. I genuinely think it's pretty bad ass but the vocals make me hope that no one can tell I'm listening to Limp Bizkit in my car.
Filter is another band that is featured on my ipod. One or two songs from their first three albums have made the cut despite the fact that during each chorus I step back, look at myself and can't help but think I'm challenged in some way. I had the terrible misfortune of catching them live many years ago and it became readily apparent that all the effects a studio can provide to enhance the sound of one man's voice were all exhausted while recording a Filter album. Now, ask if, when I'm making one of my patented play lists on my ipod if I neglect to put, at least, one Filter song...NOPE! "American Cliche" is my favorite and I make pee pees in my pants whenever it's on. I always fail to mention that I listen to Filter when I'm in the company of musician friends. It may or may not be fun to get ridiculed and bitch slapped in Brooklyn.
I have quickly grown to love this fault. This type of evidence can and will be used against me in a court of coolness and decency but I embrace the guilty charge. I believe stuff like this keeps one balanced. Everyone can use a touch of cheese in their life and by all means, say it loud and say it proud. It's ok, even Jesus had days like this.
When asked, I will gladly provide the movies and musical artists that have helped shape my life and growth as a musician and writer. I must say, no one has ever argued any of my top picks. They change in order from time to time but the big ones are always mentioned. In cinema, it's major influential movies like The Godfather, Shawshank Redemption, Pulp Fiction, Reservoir Dogs, Brave Heart, Saving Private Ryan. With music, it's Tool, Deftones, Miles Davis, Notorious BIG. The music picks are always scrutinized by old, angry folks. The same self righteous mopes that claim all of the musical artists worth mentioning debuted before the eighties. Neglecting bands like Metallica, U2, REM and an entire genre called RAP that, just in case you haven't noticed, is the top selling genre of music since the new millenium began.
I've always been proud of the list that makes up the people and the work that has blown my hair back throughout the years but I've discovered a few...not as strong examples of what I enjoy listening to and watching. My dvd rack is chock full of awesomeness. Indeed, I have alphebetized each title, because I'm half pecker head, and the first couple of movies are American Beauty, American Gangster and Anchorman. This fine pattern continues through most of the rack but there is one glaring choice that has me questioning my dignity. "The Chronicles Of Riddick". I know this is a top pick for many comic book fanatics, but when analyzing this movie, it becomes hard to find the strengths in it. BUT I WILL ALWAYS WATCH IT WHEN IT'S ON! Can't get enough of it as a matter of fact. I don't care how corny it is. I don't care how many times my wife asks me if I'll be engaging in a "Dungeons and Dragons" orgy afterwards while wearing my King Limpdick crown and holding a staff that resembles my poor judgement, I will be more than happy to view this feature film over and over again.
Another guilty pleasure when it comes to film...Airborne. That stupid ass movie about the SOCAL kid who moves to Cincinatti for a school year and has difficulty blending in and gains everyone's trust and respect by rollerblading. I've eyed my bottle of painkillers while watching this movie, thinking that there is no turning back so I might aswell ghost myself. A friend of mine claims that "Groundhog Day" is his but I actually think that is a legitimate movie to like. Mine all suck and are a source of great shame.
My musical selections that cause an eyebrow raise are just as bad. Limp Bizkit...need I say more. This band single handedly killed a genre, or sub-genre, whatever you want to call it. The whole rap-core movement was crushed when the singer of the band that was supposedly in the forefront proved to be cheesier than a Green Bay, Wisconsin bowel movement. Weak lyrics (sorry Fred) and he got played by Christina Aguilera in front of the whole world. We all cringed when we saw the horrible, awkward interaction between them at a photo shoot. Limp Bizkit's music, I will always stand by. I genuinely think it's pretty bad ass but the vocals make me hope that no one can tell I'm listening to Limp Bizkit in my car.
Filter is another band that is featured on my ipod. One or two songs from their first three albums have made the cut despite the fact that during each chorus I step back, look at myself and can't help but think I'm challenged in some way. I had the terrible misfortune of catching them live many years ago and it became readily apparent that all the effects a studio can provide to enhance the sound of one man's voice were all exhausted while recording a Filter album. Now, ask if, when I'm making one of my patented play lists on my ipod if I neglect to put, at least, one Filter song...NOPE! "American Cliche" is my favorite and I make pee pees in my pants whenever it's on. I always fail to mention that I listen to Filter when I'm in the company of musician friends. It may or may not be fun to get ridiculed and bitch slapped in Brooklyn.
I have quickly grown to love this fault. This type of evidence can and will be used against me in a court of coolness and decency but I embrace the guilty charge. I believe stuff like this keeps one balanced. Everyone can use a touch of cheese in their life and by all means, say it loud and say it proud. It's ok, even Jesus had days like this.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
It's soccer sunday and I got sauce stains on my shirt!
I can't help but give a grin to all my proud friends who shit on my soccer loving ways. "You can't even use your hands." "I can't get interested in a sport that can end in a 0-0 tie." All I respond with is, "Take a set of cleats to the knee or ankle and holla back, youngin". Sure, that 8 out of ten times you see a soccer player hit the ground he's completely full of shit. Can you blame him though? He's trying to give his team the advantage and, furthermore, have one of the opposition sent back home to sulk in his own agony. It may get a little too spicy for my taste when some twat falls to the ground and holds up the game for ten minutes, grabbing his face like he just took a shot from Noah Flusterfist, DDS with poor depth perception. Meanwhile, they've showed the replay twelve times and no contact was made. I get it, no self respecting, American athlete would ever do anything to compromise the integrity of his sport or club or his own legacy. Right?
My inspiration for today came when watching some of the post game commentary on Fox Soccer and even though they weren't the team featured in the match, my boys in Napoli were the story. The commentators praised the team's success this season and apparent return to some small amount of glory. Growing up, we were always paying attention to the Italian channel on Sunday. Napoli were a force to be reckoned with, year in and year out. Two league titles, an Italian Cup, a Super Italian Cup (served with capicola and prosciutto) and a UEFA CUP. All these between 1986 and 1991. The most successful southern Italian team in history. The main focus through these years was the fact that we had Maradona, my #2 player of all time. You could call me a homer for this and I'll admit that if he'd played with Milan or Juventus he'd probably be as far down as #7 or #8. His arrival brought the first championships to a team south of Rome. He was almost as big as Jesus over there and for those of you who haven't been, JC and the crew are pretty big in that area.
Unfortunately, the team completely fell to shit after a string of tough seasons. They lost all the big names. Maradona, Gianfranco Zola, Daniel Fonseca, Ciro Ferrara and the Corleone Family. They went back and forth between the first and second league and in 2004 they went flat ass bankrupt with a debt of over 70 million euro. Nice. The pride of possibly the most culturally and socially picked on city in the country was squashed. Not that the city didn't deserve a little bit of the shit that was thrown at them but, have a run in with an Italian from any other part of the country then claim to be from Napoli, watch the reaction. Next to the Sicilians we got quite the rep. When Maradona signed with the team in 1984 a Neopolitan newspaper printed this fine piece of journalistic savvy regarding the city's problems and the big addition to the soccer team. " We have no mayor, no housing, no schools, no busing, no money or ideas but we have Maradona."
There is much speculation as to how the team came to be so far down shit's creek without a paddle or boat that there actually was no team at one point. Considering the city they represent had the same problem due to incompetence that would make George W look like the next Field's Medal winner and corruption that strengthens the stereo-type of Italian morals, it shouldn't be hard to figure out how a legend dropped from the face of the planet for a few years. But guess who's back?
Napoli spent two seasons in Italy's third league, Serie C1. They were promoted to Serie B after a strong showing and it only took them one season to get back to Serie A. In their first season they finished eighth. Keep in mind there are twenty teams and the bottom three get dropped to a lower league. They qualified for a European Tournament the following season and thanks to a strong performance, qualified for the UEFA Cup a year after that. As I sit here, they stand strong in third place with five matches left. No championships will come this season but I can't help but notice friends and family who live there, posting on FaceBook and Twitter regarding the team and how they are doing an entire people proud. They're the type of team everyone wants to love. No quit, high energy, no added baggage...yet. They score over a third of their goals within the last fifteen minutes of a game, having crushed many giants this year, listen closely for northern Italian sobbing, and have a shot at the Champions League for next season. Forza Napoli! Now don't go and fuck it all up again.
My inspiration for today came when watching some of the post game commentary on Fox Soccer and even though they weren't the team featured in the match, my boys in Napoli were the story. The commentators praised the team's success this season and apparent return to some small amount of glory. Growing up, we were always paying attention to the Italian channel on Sunday. Napoli were a force to be reckoned with, year in and year out. Two league titles, an Italian Cup, a Super Italian Cup (served with capicola and prosciutto) and a UEFA CUP. All these between 1986 and 1991. The most successful southern Italian team in history. The main focus through these years was the fact that we had Maradona, my #2 player of all time. You could call me a homer for this and I'll admit that if he'd played with Milan or Juventus he'd probably be as far down as #7 or #8. His arrival brought the first championships to a team south of Rome. He was almost as big as Jesus over there and for those of you who haven't been, JC and the crew are pretty big in that area.
Unfortunately, the team completely fell to shit after a string of tough seasons. They lost all the big names. Maradona, Gianfranco Zola, Daniel Fonseca, Ciro Ferrara and the Corleone Family. They went back and forth between the first and second league and in 2004 they went flat ass bankrupt with a debt of over 70 million euro. Nice. The pride of possibly the most culturally and socially picked on city in the country was squashed. Not that the city didn't deserve a little bit of the shit that was thrown at them but, have a run in with an Italian from any other part of the country then claim to be from Napoli, watch the reaction. Next to the Sicilians we got quite the rep. When Maradona signed with the team in 1984 a Neopolitan newspaper printed this fine piece of journalistic savvy regarding the city's problems and the big addition to the soccer team. " We have no mayor, no housing, no schools, no busing, no money or ideas but we have Maradona."
There is much speculation as to how the team came to be so far down shit's creek without a paddle or boat that there actually was no team at one point. Considering the city they represent had the same problem due to incompetence that would make George W look like the next Field's Medal winner and corruption that strengthens the stereo-type of Italian morals, it shouldn't be hard to figure out how a legend dropped from the face of the planet for a few years. But guess who's back?
Napoli spent two seasons in Italy's third league, Serie C1. They were promoted to Serie B after a strong showing and it only took them one season to get back to Serie A. In their first season they finished eighth. Keep in mind there are twenty teams and the bottom three get dropped to a lower league. They qualified for a European Tournament the following season and thanks to a strong performance, qualified for the UEFA Cup a year after that. As I sit here, they stand strong in third place with five matches left. No championships will come this season but I can't help but notice friends and family who live there, posting on FaceBook and Twitter regarding the team and how they are doing an entire people proud. They're the type of team everyone wants to love. No quit, high energy, no added baggage...yet. They score over a third of their goals within the last fifteen minutes of a game, having crushed many giants this year, listen closely for northern Italian sobbing, and have a shot at the Champions League for next season. Forza Napoli! Now don't go and fuck it all up again.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
My Long Awaited Response
It's been quite some time since a friend of mine shared a comment made to him by someone within his inner circle of trusted folks. The whole story has actually kept me up at night...here and there. I really wanted to offer words of wisdom but I was so irate at the time, the only words that would come out were those of the four letter variety and just a whole lot of tough, New York slang. It really bothers me when I know that the situation calls for some fine advice delivered in poetic fashion and all that comes out is, "Yeah, fuck that asshole. He's a sack of shit anyway." We've got to be coming up on six or seven months since that night and I knew that, one day before my demise, I would find the right words to respond to what was said.
My friend, like me, is an artist. Musician, writer, actor, painter...whatever. The comment made was based on the fact that my friend has not hit "the big time" yet. Meanwhile, other people within the circle of friends have made quite the name for themselves. One of these people played a character in a movie some years ago and I'll put money on the fact that if you mention the character's name to anyone between the ages of sixteen and fifty, they'll know exactly who you are talking about. Half of those people will know the actor's real name and half of those people will call themselves a "big fan". Like I stated, I really had nothing of substance to say at the time I was told. I guess I needed the better part of a year to come up with something that satisfied my pride.
Here it is. Our friend who made himself a star and can't walk down the street without being hassled, gave up something. It's nice that he still rakes in cash from his role and it has led to more work, we're all genuinely happy for him but what does he carry around with him now? Here's my point. Every artist starts out somewhere. For me, it was a basement on Long Island when I sat down behind a drum set for the first time. The initial passion came from the basic need for attention. A lot of artists are going to rip into me but be honest, whether you act, sing, paint, shit in public...the first step is screaming, "Look at me!" If you didn't have that egotistic outlook, you wouldn't be doing this. I don't care how much of a shy guy Kurt Cobain was. He wrote music then he recorded that music and then he sold that music. If he didn't know what he was getting into when he signed the independant record deal, he sure as shit knew by the time he signed with a major label and released "NEVERMIND". Without the balls to want to show everyone what you can do and perform; that's a key word here, PERFORM; you don't chase the dream. Period. End of story. You never get on that stage or in front of that camera or sit in front of a blank canvas. I don't care how noble and deep you are. You do this because you know you're good enough to be recognized.
Now, I'm not saying that this simple human fault is all there is. Absolutley not. Once you've gone a decent way down the rabbit hole and have learned some pretty cool tricks and technique, it becomes more about the art and the growth one goes through as the artist. When you're young, you look at the great artists and think, "I wanna be there. I can do that." Visualizing a snap shot filled walk down the red carpet or tossing your drum sticks to the loving audience. After some time and maturation, that's maturation you sicko, you view the greats as the standard when it comes to technique, growth and the level of mastery in your respective craft. As a drummer I am in awe, absolute awe, of men like Danny Carey and Narada Michael Walden. As a writer it's all about Hunter Thompson, Neil Simon and Kerouac. Just like all my actor friends have their greats. Deniro, Brando, Day Lewis, etc. You view your heroes as a measuring stick. It's not about the money anymore. Sure it would be great to make a living writing for stage and screen. Overall that is the goal but once you die there isn't anything measured in terms of monetary wealth or fame. If I cross over and there's any mention of money, I'll be fighting my way back.
This is what our famous friend can't claim anymore. Not one aspiring artist will look back and say, "Hey, that guy really brought it. I wanna be like that." He will not be a measuring stick and he won't be recognized as he recognized his heroes. Now keep in mind that this person is quite talented and has done a few things which are well deserved of a strong applause but remember the initial comment made. It had everything to do with money, fame and stature within the entertainment industry and nothing to do with talent. My friend who was the recipient of the comment has worked until he was mentally, physically and emotionally exhausted to grow as an artist. There is no limit, and he's proved this, to how far he'll go to become the one that is looked at as the standard, the measuring stick, the hero. He never folded and took the money for work that would compromise his integrity and on one or two occasions, a stroke of shit luck took a great opportunity and squashed it. It's never about the money. If it was, you'd all know him by now and would probably be sick of him.
Regarding our famous friend, I'm not calling him a sell out. As a matter of fact, he's far from it. He was approached with an opportunity and he grabbed it with both hands and ran with it. That's what you do. At no point do I think he stays awake, in bed, flustered about his decision. If he does, he shouldn't. He furthered his career and kept the ball rolling which is a boat load more than I can say for other artists.
It is a thin line one walks between self respect and success. Especially in this business. I believe there are more artists who work for the love of it rather than the paycheck but most of the time it appears to be just that. All you can do is trudge along, never stop paying attention to what's worth your attention and remember you are just a part of the whole. There's always more to learn.
My friend, like me, is an artist. Musician, writer, actor, painter...whatever. The comment made was based on the fact that my friend has not hit "the big time" yet. Meanwhile, other people within the circle of friends have made quite the name for themselves. One of these people played a character in a movie some years ago and I'll put money on the fact that if you mention the character's name to anyone between the ages of sixteen and fifty, they'll know exactly who you are talking about. Half of those people will know the actor's real name and half of those people will call themselves a "big fan". Like I stated, I really had nothing of substance to say at the time I was told. I guess I needed the better part of a year to come up with something that satisfied my pride.
Here it is. Our friend who made himself a star and can't walk down the street without being hassled, gave up something. It's nice that he still rakes in cash from his role and it has led to more work, we're all genuinely happy for him but what does he carry around with him now? Here's my point. Every artist starts out somewhere. For me, it was a basement on Long Island when I sat down behind a drum set for the first time. The initial passion came from the basic need for attention. A lot of artists are going to rip into me but be honest, whether you act, sing, paint, shit in public...the first step is screaming, "Look at me!" If you didn't have that egotistic outlook, you wouldn't be doing this. I don't care how much of a shy guy Kurt Cobain was. He wrote music then he recorded that music and then he sold that music. If he didn't know what he was getting into when he signed the independant record deal, he sure as shit knew by the time he signed with a major label and released "NEVERMIND". Without the balls to want to show everyone what you can do and perform; that's a key word here, PERFORM; you don't chase the dream. Period. End of story. You never get on that stage or in front of that camera or sit in front of a blank canvas. I don't care how noble and deep you are. You do this because you know you're good enough to be recognized.
Now, I'm not saying that this simple human fault is all there is. Absolutley not. Once you've gone a decent way down the rabbit hole and have learned some pretty cool tricks and technique, it becomes more about the art and the growth one goes through as the artist. When you're young, you look at the great artists and think, "I wanna be there. I can do that." Visualizing a snap shot filled walk down the red carpet or tossing your drum sticks to the loving audience. After some time and maturation, that's maturation you sicko, you view the greats as the standard when it comes to technique, growth and the level of mastery in your respective craft. As a drummer I am in awe, absolute awe, of men like Danny Carey and Narada Michael Walden. As a writer it's all about Hunter Thompson, Neil Simon and Kerouac. Just like all my actor friends have their greats. Deniro, Brando, Day Lewis, etc. You view your heroes as a measuring stick. It's not about the money anymore. Sure it would be great to make a living writing for stage and screen. Overall that is the goal but once you die there isn't anything measured in terms of monetary wealth or fame. If I cross over and there's any mention of money, I'll be fighting my way back.
This is what our famous friend can't claim anymore. Not one aspiring artist will look back and say, "Hey, that guy really brought it. I wanna be like that." He will not be a measuring stick and he won't be recognized as he recognized his heroes. Now keep in mind that this person is quite talented and has done a few things which are well deserved of a strong applause but remember the initial comment made. It had everything to do with money, fame and stature within the entertainment industry and nothing to do with talent. My friend who was the recipient of the comment has worked until he was mentally, physically and emotionally exhausted to grow as an artist. There is no limit, and he's proved this, to how far he'll go to become the one that is looked at as the standard, the measuring stick, the hero. He never folded and took the money for work that would compromise his integrity and on one or two occasions, a stroke of shit luck took a great opportunity and squashed it. It's never about the money. If it was, you'd all know him by now and would probably be sick of him.
Regarding our famous friend, I'm not calling him a sell out. As a matter of fact, he's far from it. He was approached with an opportunity and he grabbed it with both hands and ran with it. That's what you do. At no point do I think he stays awake, in bed, flustered about his decision. If he does, he shouldn't. He furthered his career and kept the ball rolling which is a boat load more than I can say for other artists.
It is a thin line one walks between self respect and success. Especially in this business. I believe there are more artists who work for the love of it rather than the paycheck but most of the time it appears to be just that. All you can do is trudge along, never stop paying attention to what's worth your attention and remember you are just a part of the whole. There's always more to learn.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Malignaggi Gets Punched...A Lot
Despite the constant show boating and seemingly endless decline of ability, I still find myself screaming at the television whenever Paul Malignaggi is throwing hands. Sure, I'm a little biased, being a fellow Italian from New York but what can I say? I like the guy. However, my support of the "Magic Man" couldn't stop Amir Khan from slamming his fists into Paul's face for just a little over a half an hour before the ref stepped in and stopped the one sided fight in the 11th round.
The main questions asked of Paul after the bout regarded his lack of foot movement and his apparent decline in ability. I just want to know what he's going to do next. It's apparent that he can't hang with the top fighters in the 140 pound division and if he steps up in weight, what's the use? He can't stand and bang with the fighters who can punch out horses and if he runs into someone who has equal or greater speed, he stands in front of them taking abuse. I wish the kid nothing but the best and I hope he either finds an answer that will help him gain a little of that glory when he held a world title or moves on to something else. Other than fighting second tier fighters, I don't see Paul hanging with the best. Guys like Timothy Bradley, Devon Alexander, Juan Urango and Lamont Peterson just have too much for Paul to deal with.
As for Amir Khan...I'm impressed. He showed speed, power and most important of all, brains. He connected with punches at different rates throughout the fight. One punch here, another punch there. Then BOOM...a flurry that lands two or three solid shots. He beat Paul at his own game and kept his title belt. He's looking to take on Marcos Maidana, who has enough pop to lay out any Jr. Welterweight. Unfortunately, for him, that's almost all he has. He's the guy who will gladly take three of your punches just so he can deliver one of his and that one punch could be what takes him to the next level. If that fight does happen, I'll take Khan in an easy decision though. Khan can hang with the bets of this division and the plan he laid out for us in a post fight interview was as good a plan as I've ever heard from a boxer. He'll fight Maidana, two other top Jr. Welterweights will knock each other out and he'll take on who's left standing. Atta boy.
The other fight of the evening was Victor Ortiz taking out his frustrations on an aging and slowing Nate Campbell. From the opening bell to when the judges scores were read, it was all Ortiz. He didn't have to answer the questions about his will and let his hands go repeatedly, climbing a little further up the ladder after his loss to Marcos Maidana when he quit after taking some hard shots. See? I told you Maidana hits hard. Ortiz controlled the pace, the style and just about anything you can control inside a boxing ring while taking limited shots from a fighter who couldn't pull the trigger.
The main questions asked of Paul after the bout regarded his lack of foot movement and his apparent decline in ability. I just want to know what he's going to do next. It's apparent that he can't hang with the top fighters in the 140 pound division and if he steps up in weight, what's the use? He can't stand and bang with the fighters who can punch out horses and if he runs into someone who has equal or greater speed, he stands in front of them taking abuse. I wish the kid nothing but the best and I hope he either finds an answer that will help him gain a little of that glory when he held a world title or moves on to something else. Other than fighting second tier fighters, I don't see Paul hanging with the best. Guys like Timothy Bradley, Devon Alexander, Juan Urango and Lamont Peterson just have too much for Paul to deal with.
As for Amir Khan...I'm impressed. He showed speed, power and most important of all, brains. He connected with punches at different rates throughout the fight. One punch here, another punch there. Then BOOM...a flurry that lands two or three solid shots. He beat Paul at his own game and kept his title belt. He's looking to take on Marcos Maidana, who has enough pop to lay out any Jr. Welterweight. Unfortunately, for him, that's almost all he has. He's the guy who will gladly take three of your punches just so he can deliver one of his and that one punch could be what takes him to the next level. If that fight does happen, I'll take Khan in an easy decision though. Khan can hang with the bets of this division and the plan he laid out for us in a post fight interview was as good a plan as I've ever heard from a boxer. He'll fight Maidana, two other top Jr. Welterweights will knock each other out and he'll take on who's left standing. Atta boy.
The other fight of the evening was Victor Ortiz taking out his frustrations on an aging and slowing Nate Campbell. From the opening bell to when the judges scores were read, it was all Ortiz. He didn't have to answer the questions about his will and let his hands go repeatedly, climbing a little further up the ladder after his loss to Marcos Maidana when he quit after taking some hard shots. See? I told you Maidana hits hard. Ortiz controlled the pace, the style and just about anything you can control inside a boxing ring while taking limited shots from a fighter who couldn't pull the trigger.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Dora The Pain In My Ass
You got kids? I got kids. My oldest one, despite his testosterone trying to naturally pull him away, enjoys watching Dora. You know, the firey young Mexican who apparently has the freedom at the age of ten that most adults are jealous of. Imagine what would happen if you decided to hike five counties away when you were a kid. "Let's go Pick berries at the top of a mountain." Kiss my ass, kid.
She can't see worth a shit either. She'll be standing two feet away from a row boat and still have the balls to ask my son, "Do you see a row boat?" My son doesn't even bother answering anymore because he knows her and that prick monkey that follows her around are completely full of shit. And then just to top it all off she tells the kids to scream in spanish at six AM. "Ayuda Me! Ayuda Me!" And my son won't miss the oppurtunity to bellow before sunrise. I will get my revenge. When she's a plain old whore with six kids living on the outskirts of the drunken village of Irapuato, I'm gonna come out with my own show that'll have her kids screaming in Italian, "Va Fa Chulo"!
She can't see worth a shit either. She'll be standing two feet away from a row boat and still have the balls to ask my son, "Do you see a row boat?" My son doesn't even bother answering anymore because he knows her and that prick monkey that follows her around are completely full of shit. And then just to top it all off she tells the kids to scream in spanish at six AM. "Ayuda Me! Ayuda Me!" And my son won't miss the oppurtunity to bellow before sunrise. I will get my revenge. When she's a plain old whore with six kids living on the outskirts of the drunken village of Irapuato, I'm gonna come out with my own show that'll have her kids screaming in Italian, "Va Fa Chulo"!
Monday, December 24, 2007
May God Have Mercy On Your Ass!
Hemorrhoids. We all know them. We all love them. How many of you ever had a hemorrhoid? MMMM, Tasty. I got my first one the other day and it looks like my asshole is smoking a cigar. It's just my luck that my induction into the impacted anal gland family is with a three pounder. It actually woke me up this past saturday morning by singing, "Tiny Dancer". I told my mother and of course she had a reaction that would lead most people to believe that I told her I was really a black man in disguise. Then, of course, she had to tell everyone located east of the plains. The people she works with giggle at me now. I see them point at me then pat their ass. So I went to the doctor today, just what I'd hope to do on Christmas eve, and the nurse told me not to feel bad. I thanked her for the support then sent her tumbling down the hallway. The last thing to tell a man before he's about to get a finger in the pooper is not to feel bad. I feel like...well, I feel like my ass is growing a thumb. The doc came in checked it out. I felt bad. I had this image of him vomiting during his christmas dinner thinking about the third leg that I'm growing. But all was well. He actually chuckled a little and said, "Don't forget to feed that thing", before walking out, surely to share a hearty holiday laugh with his staff. I guess everyone's gotta take a shot to the ass every now and then.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)