Wilkey Way

Project Runway

2011-12-05T19:00:00.000-05:00

Brought to you by your friends at DirectTV http://www.tvbydirect.com/

Author: Dorsey Velasquez
There are few shows that I love as much as Project Runway. I love, love, LOVE Heidi Klum, first of all, so there’s that. And I obviously love Tim Gunn (who doesn’t?). The designers though are obviously the primary focus of the show. I know that technically the clothes they design are supposed to be the main point, but come on…the designers themselves end up being the focus, right? Any by that I mean the endless drama that goes on between the designers ends up being the primary focus. They can’t go five minutes without getting into a fight, it seems like. One will get upset about someone else “copying” their design, or using the same fabric, or making a snide remark about the garment they’re making. From there, all hell breaks loose. Normally Tim Gunn will choose this time to come into the design room, and we’re forced to watch everyone awkwardly pretend like everything is normal so they don’t get admonished by Tim. It’s television as its finest, in my opinion. Tune in the next time you see it on direct tv Aurora and let me know if you agree.

Outside Looking Out

2011-11-21T23:40:00.000-05:00

When I was a boy, I was scrawny and nerdy. There were only two reasons to be singled out and taken out of class, Special Ed and Gifted & Talented. I was put in the latter. But my parents are from Brooklyn, so unlike the other kids who got picked on, I was not taught to turn the other cheek. I got into fights. And with the case of one particular bully, after typical spineless solutions like "Tell the teacher when you have to go to the bathroom so she can secretly push the PA button, alerting the office so the Principal can walk down and watch the bathroom door", my parents did involve the police. At the time, there was ONE cop who handled youth matters. But rest assured, that cop AND that principal grew to fear my parents. Even after the bully's father threatened to show up at school with a shotgun, my parents still didn't back down and the bully was kicked out of school. Of course, the true difficulty was just the whole legal/political matter of the money involved in putting the kid in an alternative school.

Anyway, neither the fights nor the bullying stopped. When I was 10, my parents finally enrolled me in a karate school. Now, bullying is arguably the most common cause for parents enrolling their kids in karate school. I take that back. At the time, it was pretty much the only reason. Today, parents are more familiar with the true benefits. And yes, around sixth grade, just before my parents took ME out of public school, I did have a cinematic moment where I beat the shit out of one of the bullies in front of the whole school. But wouldn't you know it, a year later, AFTER Id been put in Catholic school, I was hanging out outside a friend's house, a fellow karate student nonetheless, when that bully turns out to live across the street. One day he shows up to start trouble, this time with a friend. I may have been taking karate but Id never faced multiple opponents before so I grabbed a stick. Wouldn't you know it, the "friend" was a fellow nerd and Gifted & Talented student. He'd taken the sidekick route I guess. Things escalated and here's what happened. I ended up fighting the sidekick because he jumped to the bully's defense. I gave the bully one swat in the arm. But he mainly let the other kid fight while he just insulted my mother. And the WHOLE time, the fellow karate student stood by and watched. The lesson? Not only does violence keep coming around but learning karate doesn't have anything to do with violence or even the courage to use it in the right circumstances, like defending a friend. It was only as I entered adolescence as one of only thirteen students at Our Lady of Lourdes that the true lesson of martial arts sunk in. Only then did I learn that by believing the bullies, my thinking had allowed them power over me. By mastering this art, I mastered myself. I no longer saw myself even in the same context as bullying or violence.

NOW, that's MY story. At the age of 32, and in light of the recent suicides, the subject of bullying has hit home. First and foremost, I feel that the use of the term 'bullying' has proven to be a PR gaffe. No one is associating the term with the dire consequences we are seeing today. 'Harassment' would be a better place to start and even that might fall short of what is being done to kids today. And I know that while I may have survived or come around, that certainly doesn't mean I can remain indifferent. In fact, I feel quite the opposite.

I have developed a concept called Outside Looking Out. Over a decade ago, this was the title of a song my band at the time had never finished. Over time, the title has stuck with me because of its defiant tone. When you consider the term it is derived from, "outside looking in", the message is presumptuous. As always, status must be defined by its relationship to the "inside", to the "accepted". Where is the phrase that speaks for those who are outside and happy to be there, contentedly looking outward and beyond? Most importantly, where is the space for those young people who feel this way?

The nation's schools have been making considerable effort to 'police' their own, re-educating and regulating the space of the general population of students. However, the outsiders remain outside. While they might appreciate what's being done with the other students, this does not mean any steps have been taken to give them their own comfort zone, for lack of a better term.

Outside Looking Out will start as a publication. Originally conceived as a comic book anthology, it has since been reconceived as a literary forum for those who feel different or separate from the norm. It is my hope that submissions will cover the spectrum of emotions these students feel as the piece's themes. In the future, it is my dream to extend this concept to other displays of creativity and art from band nights to exhibits. Currently, I am seeking a home for this concept but I am always available to lend my support in any way possible to the larger cause.

WILKEY III

2011-10-02T18:56:00.000-04:00

That's right, folks. As of tonight, my life has become Wilkey III and I fully intend to race each and every one of you down the beach wearing half-length, torso-revealing tank tops. You'll beat me over the course of a montage but by the end, I shall be victorious and we will embrace in mid-air, in slow motion. Wait, that's in Rocky III. This is WILKEY III. It begins here on the floor of my brand new apartment, in a muscle shirt and underwear, and it certainly feels like it took an exhibition match with Hulk Hogan and two heavyweight bouts with Mister T to get here. Join me in my deep, continuous sighs of relief as I recount the first two chapters of the Wilkey Saga.

The original Wilkey ended when I was 17. It was a free ride. I gave it so little thought, I can barely remember it. In fact, I so rarely stepped out of my mind, Im not sure I was ever really here. But it's a lovely story. Give them what they want, so long as it doesn't take time from my fantasy world. Black Belt, Honors Student, Varsity Athlete, Musician, Editor, Set Crew Member. What else do you got? How about a hospital stay? How about Wilkey II?

Who gets a second chance at growing up? Who gets to reassemble and restart? Most importantly, who spends another fifteen years trying to do it all over again, expecting it to turn out better? Here's the good news. The 'you' that you're supposed to be is never far away. In fact, he's been with me all along, often lost, confused and angry but he's been around. Where do you think the writing and the music has been coming from? And instead of Mickey being an angel on my shoulder all these years, I have had my parents in my corner. I have had brothers and great friends. Wilkey II is dedicated to Mom, Dad, Grandma, Trisha, Hiro, Kevin, Jenna, The Colonel and Pollard.

Mickey dies in Rocky III and Rocky moves on to other mentors. Not me. Mark my words. I'm the only in my corner and that's the way I want it to be. That's the way it's always been. My friends and loved ones have their own lives to live. They'll always be there for me but after growing up twice, it's time I took the wheel. It's taken 32 years but I know how I work. Here I will establish what I call The Bunker. This is where I make my stand. This is where the fantasy world starts to cross over to the real one in a big way. My writing is my mission. This is my workspace. From here, I will be on the outside looking out. From here, I will reach out to others like me. From here, I will create the future of WILKEY.

Get The Big Rock Out Of My Way

2011-04-24T14:41:00.001-04:00

Easter. I understand the story. Thats always been enough for me. Being true to one's self will take you beyond this life. Staying on the path is the challenge. Will you stay on it once you see what happens to those whose path was to show us this? And Im just talking about those lives ended by the mercy of a bullet. There is a reason why those who are not governed by kings, emperors or presidents are no longer paraded by us, beaten, asphyxiated, impaled and crucified. That just happens to celebrities. But it us who are nailed to one place. There is no path. Our means of "travel" has been placed in our hands. How can you be true to yourself when you're staring at your cellphone, friends? That's just to distract you from the television. And that is it. There is no path. There is no beyond. Live with it. How does that sit with you? Hopefully, you're still reading.

The Jews did not kill Christ. It was the rabble. It was you and me. Galilee was a ghetto where people had to choose whether to feed their family or pay tax to the emperor. Sound familiar? Imagine an anti-authoritarian peasant telling the rabble that they have the power and not the emperor. That also means the onus of life is on them and not an old man in the sky. The king wants to kill you for saying youre the king and the religious want to kill you for saying you're God. Then you die and become the old man in the sky. Finally, one of our most beloved celebrity filmmakers decides to sink his personal fortune into telling a story that brings you back down to earth and runs you through the whole gamut again. Show the man that walks the path no matter what the cost!! Millions see it. Millions are made. What gets taken away? The violence. It's too violent. The story of the mother, Mary? The mother sees her son fall and rushes to his side like shes done countless times. The story of the love, Magdalene? He offers a hand to someone lynched and ostracized. The fate of so many other characters such as Judas, Peter, John, etc? ALL OMITTED FROM THE EXPERIENCE. Instead, we crucify the filmmaker and continue to do so with glee. In these times we raise them up and take them down with glee and efficiency that puts the Romans to shame.

Like children, we still don't know what we want and we're still waiting for someone else to do the heavy lifting for us. In that Roman outpost, the rabble were expecting a magic king and got a carpenter's son. They destroyed him because he didnt do magic. Instead, he prayed for the forgiveness of those who visited inhuman amounts of pain and suffering upon him. I guess it's not extraordinary enough.

At some point, science rose to power and the skeptics found their own religion. The story comes under attack for being a story. The main character comes under attack for being too extraordinary. He's just not believable. Science doesn't see it but it creates the distraction from truth it so readily accuses the spiritual of being. If the kingdom of god and all of our answers lie in the present moment, we must remain distracted from it if we are to be governed and remain docile. You may not believe someone can die and return to life but I am sure you can imagine people experiencing something awesome enough to find their own path and create the extraordinary. The story remains perfect.

The Chatter

2011-03-27T15:16:00.000-04:00

"The smart way to keep people passive and obedient is to strictly limit the spectrum of acceptable opinion, but allow very lively debate within that spectrum - even encourage the more critical and dissident views. That gives people the sense that there's free thinking going on, while all the time the presuppositions of the system are being reinforced by the limits put on the range of the debate."
Noam Chomsky, from The Common Good, 1998 [43]

"I'm a little vaklempt. Talk amongst yourselves. I'll give you a topic." Linda Richman.

There was a time when the voice of a dissident was met with a gunshot or rolled over with a tank. People were simply not given a choice. The day the people were given a choice was the day democracy was born and we all lived happily ever after. What a lovely story. But who's telling the story? If you're thinking that you don't see that question in your day-to-day life, you have started on a path and I refuse to take the blame for it. Perhaps, however, I will offer a small measure of guidance. Your view of your world has a Zoom option like any camera. You may experience a wide angle and speak of world issues or you may be stuck in a tight shot with the bills and Charlie Sheen. The enlightened conversationalists among us may be able to swoop gallantly from one pole to the other. Who is pressing that button? Who made the camera? Where did it come from? Again, these may be questions that are not turning up on your Wall. Even if you've had the notion that there's more to things than meets the eye, there is plenty of programming and merchandise for you. Individuality is an ad campaign. The illusion of choice is key to controlling a free people. Just keep talking. Keep participating. There's something for everyone. This is The Chatter.

If you're familiar with Noam Chomsky, you won't be surprised to learn that the quote I opened this blog with is the shortest and most to the point I could find. Chomsky is boring, long-winded and not pleasing to look at. His talks are most often experienced without any graphics, side scrolling bars or background music. Oddly enough, he does seem to want to control any discourse he might generate. In fact, throughout a Chomsky lecture, you will hear him repeatedly cite his sources and encourage you to check info out for yourself. When he sets his parameters, he tells you he is setting them and attempts to do so in the most transparent fashion. There is a lot of room to breathe. Am I saying that Chomsky is exempt from The Chatter? Not at all. In fact, I am always certain that there is a protocol for anything or anyone I could possibly bring to the table. Still, there is a reason why I opened with his words, as there is a reason I involved Linda Richman.

Speaking of protocol, I believe it is still more than safe to say that any political discussion is immediately drawn and quartered by certain well-conditioned responses from Chatter participants. Don't discuss politics and religion. Sound familiar? If a citizen is aware of anything, it most likely comes from skimming the muck at the surface of the water. An earthquake in Japan is just as likely to be there as the current popular reality televison series. So, they're all good. If you fancy yourself more sophisticated, the media is waiting with open arms. What does the billboard say? Come and play. Actually, it is more likely to invite you to rage against the machine. Does it take above average intelligence to get this far? No, I believe it takes common sense and a firm commitment to it at that. Sooner or later, someone is going to feel like they're listening to one person talking about one thing rather than feel like they live among millions of people. What is to be gained from this effect of reducing the voice of millions to the voice of one? Who or what would it take to pull off such a trick? I believe the 'correct answer' in common discourse will lead you to good old conspiracy theories and other charming eccentricities. Like I said, there's something for everyone. However, if you're still committed to a common sense, we can reasonable accept the possibility that it takes more than one person in a white house to run a country. In fact, we can even assume that any instituion based on so much rhetoric couldn't possibly be responsible for getting what gets done every day in America. That covers our political system. At the same time, there are no boogeymen despite their very obvious appeal to our imagination. There is no Big Brother, no Man or any other tidy patriarchal catch-all for the disillusioned. There is money and there is power. Those that have them run the show. Yet he who makes the gold does NOT make the rules, not necessarily. He who makes the gold does not care about us but he cannot ignore us nor can he shoot us or run us over with a tank. What's the poor tyrant to do?

Chomsky speaks of a "specialized class". He borrows the idea from Walter Lippman, whose writing I studied as a Communication major. We're talking about management, those whose job it is to think and plan and mind the common interest. Who do they manage? A more colorful term used would be the "bewildered herd" but I feel the more accurate one would be "spectators". Just keep watching. Just keep talking. There you have The Chatter. I'm afraid so. Like all games, it comes down to winners and losers. Or does it?

What could be better than minding the sheep? Imagine if the sheep could mind themselves! Enter the internet. I bet this specialized class thought it was pretty good at establishing ground rules to shape a culture without actually telling the participants. Have you been on Facebook? We have created our own Chatter, our own rules and haven't told each other anything! Think about it. Social media is not only the elephant in the room but it's been years and NO ONE SPEAKS ABOUT IT! It has made it to the very PALM OF YOUR HANDS! Still, can anyone tell me where I can find the handbook for etiquette? What's happened?

The work of the specialized class is now in the hands of the bewildered herd. The line is severely blurred. Whatever made the specialized class specialized clearly does not apply to the spectators. The Chatter has become The Twitter. So is this overly disturbing thought the reality? Let us take a moment. I am fairly certain the potential of the internet was written off the moment porn became its biggest source of activity. However, there is one very important feature that separates the Net from all other outlets. It is virtually infinite and the means of production are in our hands, literally. Don't count the ole TV out but it enjoyed quite a run of piping The Chatter directly into our living rooms without any opposition. It remains at the center of The Chatter. However, it is apparent that our input became far more required than ever before at some point. No one is showing up for Neilsen ratings that I know of but I don't really know that anyone ever did. Does anyone know where those things came from? Anyway, who needs them? Everyone wants to know what we think!! Isn't the 21st century exciting? The people's voice has its place next to porn after all! Of course, it is about as articulate as porn but you can't count it out.

In David Fincher's The Social Network, I would say our current situation is represented quite well in the scene where Eduardo Saverin, portrayed by Andrew Garfield, comes home to his psycho Asian girlfriend, played appropriately enough by former Disney starlet, Brenda Song. After bombarding a befuddled Saverin with accusatory questions about unanswered texts and his Facebook relationship status, Song starts a fire in his trash can with the scarf he bought her as a present. Meanwhile, Saverin is realizing that his world has become unrecognizable to him. A little over the top, but I maintain that it brilliantly captures our general mental state at this time while also reminding us that this seemingly apocalyptic era has been dropped in our hands, again, literally. It may also be in the hands of the experts who have quite obviously mastered it and put it to use like they always have but they had to concede to us to do it. It wasn't too long ago that the forces of marketing and advertising had to at least acknkowledge the media savvy of their audience with a wink that still implied who was boss. We are well past that point.

You may note that I seem to have smuggled a silver lining into this essay. I hope so. Every one us has gone from being part of a sleeping giant to being a giant our self. Are we awake? How could we not be? There are countless reasons to close our eyes, That much has never changed. The noise around us has grown bigger and scarier. Yet I say again that our minders, our managers, cannot maintain this Chatter without us. While most would forfeit this responsibility, it apparently is not ours to forfeit. Our voice belongs in this Chatter whether we like it or not. Talk amongst yourselves.

Biblionaut Versus "The" Book

2011-01-17T21:38:00.000-05:00

If you don't play by "the" book, they'll beat you senseless with it. There was a time in my life when I was all over "the" book but I guess you could say I never read my own press, at least not if it was printed in "the" book. All I had to see was what life was like for those who weren't mentioned favorably or weren't in "the" book at all. I called these people friends. They were stuck in a black hole while I was a star soon to burn out. Yet my story remains in this book and stories require belief to sustain themselves as living things. So I ask where has all the belief that has sustained me through the years come from? A select few individuals have managed this and even fewer continue to believe. In the end, only my mother and father continue to testify to the superstar protagonist of an obscure story in a hypothetical tome.

As a self-professed biblionaut, I continue to venture into the ether on a daily basis and aspire to gather materials with which to build my own books. No longer am I holding out for elusive happiness or success. If I must ride my broken heart like a battleship to the day of my demise, so be it. Make no mistake, noise will be made and pages will be filled. Sooner or later, I will figure out how to sustain myself in this world but not without a fuss, never without a fuss.

The age in my eyes is really beginning to show through. Those who gaze upon my face may or may not sense that these eyes have seen much more than this world and have yet to actually read "the" book. I mean, I've skimmed it, read the Cliff Notes and seen the movie plenty of times. But really, who can read that thing? Maybe it is read to us in the womb. We are certainly aware of it as soon as the world it describes supplants the world we came from. For me, if I could actually look back to the world we came from, I imagine a great big pair of legs with green and white striped socks like Nanny from Muppet Babies. A part of me will always have my arms wrapped around one of them, refusing to be pulled into this replacement world. The lines between life and survival will blur for as long as I draw breath. Somewhere there is a girl who just happens to need what I've got and when we collide, I will wrap my arms around her. I'm sorry, Nanny.

2011-01-08T19:01:00.000-05:00

People are dead. A nine year old girl is dead. Not even 24 hours have passed and already, as I write this, the national conversation is locked all the way down to the Facebook posts. They're dead. The girl is dead. The judge is dead. At least three others are dead. A woman was shot in the head and is fighting for her life. Am I wrong to want the puppet show passed for politics to be postponed until at least, say, tomorrow? Why am I hearing the names and words already? Why am I hearing people blame a cable news network? Why am I hearing about Sarah Palin and Glen Beck?

People are dead. A nine year old girl is dead. Do you know that the early broadcasts of the event consisted of the appointed Bobblehead reading text from YouTube and Myspace? Any of us can do that. By now, the feeds are scrolling, the graphics are working, the faces are rotating. Facebook is already peppered with television. Those people, that girl, are no longer dead. Already they are being bandied about from press release to press prelease. They have been absorbed into the maelstrom of hot air that swarms out of control through the homes and minds of Americans. Making up your own mind, are you? You wish. If you're not already using the handbook imprinted on your mind, youre swinging at whatever the talking heads are lobbing your way.

Stop. Kick all voices out of your head save your own. Allow your mind to process a man pointing a firearm at a person's head point blank and firing. Go one step further and try to imagine that this person's actions has, in some way, a connection to us all, as people. Dwell on it as long as you need until you absorb it. Then, maybe you can step up to the conversation with a right mind. You will not be scrambling about frantically trying to piece together fragments from a late night talk show monologue. Death should be able to exclude someone from our inane ravings, at least for a little while, right? Why am I thinking of folks like the Westboro Baptist Church protesting funerals? They really don't get it and neither do you if you cannot resist jumping into the melee following murder with virtually the same fervor as when Jersey Shore gets a new cast member.

Biblionaut

2010-12-28T18:53:00.001-05:00

Ever since we are born, we begin forming our world by observing the world. Where else are we going to get this information from? But what happens when the world just doesn't shape up? Some of us are compelled at an early age to seek our world elsewhere. So what's wrong with that? How different is that from the former option?

For starters, the world is all around. It's right there. Just follow the crowd. The other path, of course, was perhaps most famously described by Frost as The Road Less Travelled. Certainly, that poem, or at least its title, represents the alternative to the world sufficiently enough. However, I have conferred with others of like mind and we have determined this much about Frost. That son of a bitch left a whole lot out!

Can we blame him, though? After all, mankind has outdone Frost in mapping the world, long before his famous piece and long since. No, forget that. Astronauts and their scientific brethren have space all sussed out. Religion has managed to make innerspace literal and complete with infrastructure. React to or rebel against these occupations, you fall into places set for you and the picture is complete. Ultimately, the Road Less Travelled is so for a good god damn reason.

Still, we're out there, aren't we? You know who you are. We are still exploring. Whether it be in films, music, architecture or metaphysics, we are still chasing happiness and fulfillment like anyone else. It's like comparing health benefits from various employers. Most of those on the road paved with gold have what I call "The Package Plan". Sure there are bumps and hazards but the bumps and hazards are covered in the plan just as they are with the horde of subscribers. On the other hand, I can assure you that there is not much support for the biblionaut. Do you know how I know that? I made the word up.

While I have done and continue to do my fair share of adventuring in the aforementioned mediums and disciplines, none have offered me as much refuge as the book. As a self-defined biblionaut, I still venture daily into the space between the lines and between the pages, craving the fellowship and comfort so many are able to derive from merely looking around the room they currently occupy. There was a time when I so desperately sought precedent for feeling how I feel that I would frantically dog-ear, underline and highlight with generous asterisks thrown in for good measure. When I moved back home, from my first apartment, I donated my apartment's furnishings to Hurricane Katrina victims but returned with boxes of my books.

If youve seen the film Inception, you may recall that time in dreams passes differently than time in real life. Well, even if you haven't seen it, I am sure this sounds like a reasonable assertion. That is the basis for why I ultimately derive the most solace from the novel and even more specifically, the graphic novel. If one novel can feel like a lifetime, imagine the experience of serialized works with reoccurring characters. Literary heroes and comic book superheroes exist for the better part of a century in real time. It is impossible to calculate how much time, in any sense of the word, I have spent with certain characters in my imagination. In fact, when I begin to read a given series, I often greet characters as I commence accompanying them on their respective journeys.

At the end of the day, we must define ourselves regardless of which road we have taken. If a role that fits you exists, take it and never look back. If not, search until you find your fit and if you so choose, name it. While I very much find myself in multiple realms of the dreamscape, at this moment I am best described as a biblionaut, a term I invented for the title of this blog.

COLLISION CLAUS: A Christmas Story by John Wilkey

2010-12-19T23:44:00.000-05:00

Chapter One

Louis Glock does not consider himself a lucky man by most standards. Yet he does believe that when opportunity meets preparedness, a man can make his own luck. That might explain the state-of-the-art, Kevlar-woven, Mother Lode 3-person tent. In his fantasies, Louis imagines there might one day be a special someone to share the tent with. For now, he is content to share the ample space with his power generator, flat-screen TV and PS2 video game platform, not to mention his heater, micro-fridge and Winchester air rifle. Yes, Louis Glock is armed. Only three nights earlier, the PowerStation 3 encampment outside the Prime Purchase in Princeton was assaulted by a drive-by pellet shooting. Louis was sure it was rival gamers caught in a desperate attempt to scare off the competition steadfast in their vigil for the release of the glorious game box. It just so happens that that night was only Louis’s second night outside the Prime Purchase in East Brunswick. Louis had already proved his resolve to be the first gamer to obtain a PS3 from the East Brunswick branch of Prime Purchase. On his very first night, moments after completing the arduous set-up process of his tent and all of its gear, several brigands waited for Louis to dose off. They then proceeded to hook a cable from their pickup truck to Louis’s tent. When Louis woke up he was in the Middle State bowling alley parking lot. Since then he has endured countless jeers from teenagers and fended off more than a few failed line jumpers. Several times, they had managed to move his entire tent several places back in the line. Still, fast forward to Christmas Eve, Louis remains the head of countless similar lines stretched out in front of toy and game stores nationwide. Just when Louis concluded that he had fended off the last of the attempts to supersede him in line, a blinding light washed the dank and dark twilight sky in a dazzling array of bright reds and greens, on a backdrop of pure snow white.

“I’ll be darned,” thought Louis. “Fireworks.”

It was a nice thought but one couldn’t help but wonder how anyone conjured up the means to set off such a top-shelf display of fireworks at three o’clock in the morning. The store is closed. Unless, it was a distraction. Just as the thought entered Louis’ mind, the lights seemed to fuse together into one fiery ball that began to rocket straight toward the front entrance of Prime Purchase. Showing an all new level of lack of concern for his own well-being, Louis jumped in front of the entrance doors as if he was going to succeed in blocking the veritable comet bearing straight down on him. Just a nanosecond before contact, Louis dove into his Mother Lode tent. As shards of glass and flaming signage rained down on the tent, Louis was already pumping himself up for his impending charge into the electronics retail giant. No one was going to come between Louis and the latest batch of PS3’s certainly stored in that East Brunswick location.

Sure enough, as the dust settled, Louis jumped into a crouched position and sprung like a mountain lion out of his tent, colliding quite forcefully with a gargantuan, lazy-eyed behemoth from South River named Roland. It seemed a stampede with the collective brain power of Louis had come to the same conclusion: someone is trying to steal the store’s stash of PS3s!! Though it may seem as if the crowd is ignoring the extraordinary set of events preceding the crash…..well, they are. Nothing will come between these people and the delivery of PS3’s they all knew were emergency shipped to the store for sale on Christmas day. Several of the maniacs charging through the gaping hole now smoking and sparking have actually pre-ordered their systems but after their customary 15 hours of television viewing, they accrued an overload of advertisement anxiety and made a beeline for the East Brunswick store.

Chapter Two

The gaggle of goofy consumers and erstwhile “outdoorsmen” did not glance for a second at what pieces of the store or merchandise they were trampling over on their way to the stockroom in the rear. Quite amazingly, the nine reindeer lying stunned in the home theater section went overlooked, presumed to be rather life-like decorations. Nor did the bearded fat man garner a single backward glance as he grunted and moaned as each obese video game freak jumped on and off his rather smashed sleigh en route to their destination. Alas, not even red-nosed Rudolph was immune to the narrow-minded fixation as he is jostled and rudely shoved out of the way. The tiny Elves accompanying Santa this night are fortunately quite adept at hiding. The mad dash of manic consumers would come nowhere near the giant refrigerators they had packed themselves into.

Colliding with the well-locked doors to the stockroom did not subdue the crowd. Rather, its members turned its ire and mania inward on each other. In the middle of the night, on Christmas Eve, men and women, boys and children were beginning to wrestle and assault one another. The sheer ugliness of it, thankfully, was only to be witnessed by an individual who is more than a mere man. From his earliest days leaving pies on windowsills, to his centuries of toy making expertise to the modern era of technology, Santa Claus has endured. No longer able to compete on the toy front, Santa’s role has been a bit more flexible, if you will. As an employee of God, Santa’s job is never really in jeopardy. Besides, God believes in Santa Claus just as the children who still carry God in their little hearts harbor a belief in the jolly old man.

Unfortunately, this does not stop Santa from having bad days. Each year, come Christmas, ole’ Kris Kringle can’t quit the bad habit of deliberating over his Naughty and Nice list. Should he adjust its criteria? Does anyone even care about his list? All too often, this train of thought leads to egg nog and egg nog leads to some uncoordinated sleigh riding. It doesn’t help that the leader of this pack of reindeer is the son of an old drinking buddy of Santa’s. Yes, that’s right, Rudolph inherited that red nose for reasons a tad different than the fairy tales and Christmas carols let on. And while the other eight reindeer are loved plenty by Santa, they are still reindeer-for-hire and loyal to the union. Rudolph has been Santa’s wingman since that one “foggy” Christmas Eve. This particular Christmas Eve was equally “foggy” as both Rudolph and Santa were sobering up via Gingerbread lattes while flying aimlessly about. They had delivered what homemade toys were still in demand. The remainder of the night consisted of whatever God felt like doing. It was His birthday, after all. Oddly enough, neither Rudolph nor Santa could see just yet how this crash landing played into God’s plans but they never did see how anything played into God’s plans. So, with a touch of egg nog still lingering in his veins, Santa let out a hoot and a holler as he burst out from underneath his sorry sleigh.

Before him, a miniature riot had broken out for reasons unknown to its participants. Barely distracted by the looming presence of a 6-foot-plus rotund man covered in white hair and gloriously topless, Louis had doubled back to his tent to get his hands on his Winchester BB gun. A sixth degree black belt in Aikido, Santa was doing quite a good job of defusing the ruckus with minimum damage when Louis turned up, pointing the barrel of his Winchester at Santa. Having judged the potential disaster accordingly, Santa abandoned his martial arts prowess and opted instead for his magical powers. In an instant, every single adult in sight was suspended in mid-air, frozen like department store mannequins. Santa’s melancholy seeped back into his heart even more so than before. Two fathers at each others throat. An elderly lady in a wheelchair, knocked to the ground. A mother in the midst of pushing a small child out of the way. Each person, still a child in Santa’s eyes, is a disappointment to ole’ St. Nick. As if it weren’t enough to witness their current behavior, a being with Santa’s scope of power must bear the memories of their innocence. Finally, on the left, a pair of young parents is stuck in the middle of an ear-piercing screaming match. Unbeknownst to them, the McFaydens were to be the centerpiece of Santa’s assignment this evening.

Chapter Three

If it weren’t for Mrs. Claus’ fear of flying, Santa might not count a red-nosed reindeer as his best friend. Yet, in his heart, Santa knows there is no comparison between the kind of best friend a wife makes and the kind a reindeer makes. Nonetheless, a sweaty and still slightly tipsy Santa is now stumbling over wreckage in search of his coat and hat. At the same time, a rather sober yet still very red-nosed reindeer saunters over to Santa with both articles of clothing hung from antlers. Falling in line directly behind Rudolph are Santa’s three elf assistants for the night: Gabriel, Denzel and Chang. Each carried two cups of coffee and shouted in unison:

“Hide, we did in the land of appliances. Abound with coffee makers it was, but not a single bean was to be found. One magic fart from Denzell and bags of grinds did surround”

Denzell was a stand-up elf and of the African-American persuasion. Gabriel was Hispanic and held the distinction of the first outwardly gay elf. Lastly, there was the North Pole’s premier sleigh designer, Chang, a female Asian elf. Admittedly, this crew is left over from the heyday of the PC movement. But they also happened to be the elf crew Santa has the most fun with, hands down.

Within minutes, the North Poleans have brushed aside debris and found seats for themselves as Rudolph and Santa down their coffee. The reindeer crews have come to and are stretching their aching muscles. More than a few choice obscenities are being worked out of their systems in the process. Not surprisingly, the sleigh-pulling union is mentioned on several occasions. It is at this precise moment of calm, that Santa spots movement out of his peripheral vision. Immediately, he sends his elves in the direction of the flurry of movement. In moments, the three elves have escorted a red-haired and freckled boy, no older than eight years of age, to Santa’s perch.

“What is your name, boy?”

“Tr-travis, sir.”

“What, you don’t have any wisecracks to make about the old man? It’s OK. Go ahead. I meet jaded five year olds these days.”

“No, sir. Anything’s better than the fighting.”

“Oh, that. I’ll have you know, I used all of my martial arts mastery to defuse the situation without harm. But in the end, it was the magic that calmed the commotion-“

“Not that fighting. That fighting.”

The boy pointed a plump but tiny little finger in the direction of the raging parents.

“Ah yes, that. My magic is limited, Travis. More than ever, I rely on the Boss for my orders.”

“Y-you mean you’re not in charge? Of the North Pole and all that?”

“Oh sure. But this isn’t about all that.”

“It isn’t”

“Y’see, the first few years after being human …God loved being the center of attention. He loved having a birthday. You could say the humanity took a while to wash off. Then, in true God fashion, it became more about giving to others than receiving. That’s where I came in. I thought I was just a silly old man who liked to carve toys and share pastries, cookies and other goodies with all my friends. That’s when I started hanging out with Randolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. And hey, he was red-nosed for a reason. When I got the job, God hooked me up with the premier reindeer crew in the whole universe. They flew, which was good. It began as a working relationship but we bonded. So, it hurt them a bit when Randolph had a kid, Rudolph, and I eventually became his legal guardian when Randolph went to the Reindeer Stable in the Sky. One foggy Christmas Eve later and Rudolph is leading the crew. They’re used to it by now. All the other reindeer, they’re old friends. Rudolph is family. And he didn’t just inherit that red nose. He earned it just like his old man. “

“So, you don’t bring us toys, anymore?”

“Sure I do, Travis. But I’ve recently started to realize my full potential. Sure, kids love presents and sure, they need love. But God needs help. And out of all the ways he’s been represented, I just happen to be the best looking-“

“Harrumph!!” A collective scoffing sounds out from the direction of the reindeer crew.

“OK, not best looking in terms of being handsome. But I was certainly the friendliest, jolliest, most welcoming avatar to date. It just so happens that the toy game no longer takes up all of my time. So I have this free time. I’m still working it out. And you know God and the whole mysterious ways routine.

“Did God send you?”

“If I was lacking in the wisdom department, I might be inclined to tell you a few pints of egg nog sent me. But I know better-“

“Fix my parents”

“Umm….you’re sure you don’t just want one of these PP3’S?”

“It’s PS3 and I know Id have a lot of fun if I had one. Some kids would play with me just because I had one. But, it’s just—“

In the middle of the child’s sentence, the sounds of the real world outside come blaring through the decimated window front of the store. Sirens and flashing lights are suddenly apparent to Santa and his new friend but nowhere near as pressing or alarming as the eight policemen storming the store entrance with pistols drawn.

“FREEZE!!”

“You first.” With a tired wave of his hand, Santa renders the officers in the same condition as the would-be rioters.

“This time manipulation stuff is cool but it takes a lot out of you”

“It’s awesome,” declared Travis.

“Well, Travis, you can hang out with us as you want. Chang is going to work on the sleigh while Gabriel redecorates and renovates. And Denzel, uhm….”

“Hey Travis, what goes ‘Ho, ho, ho, SWOOSH! Ho, ho, ho, SWOOSH!’?” said the stand-up elf.

“I don’t know what?”

Leaning forward in a conspiratorial manner, the elf whispered “Santa Claus caught in a revolving door”

“I heard that!” boomed Santa as he starts to study the faces of all the men and women he has frozen over the course of the night. Denzel and Travis just giggle.

As Santa finishes his rounds, he thoughtfully stroked his beard and declares: “Tonight is a night of unfinished Christmas stories…and I’m going to finish ‘em”

Chapter Four

“When I was his age, we had Christmas every other year!”

“That’s because your father was a gambling addict!”

“That’s right! One year he’d slap a wad of hundreds in my hand, a little extra if I saw him with another woman. He’d slip even more to Mom, especially if she saw him with another woman.”

“Right, right. And your mom would blow the money on a new car, and then renege on the payments because Dad was dipping in for the old habit.”

“That’s right! And next Christmas, Id get an expired coupon to Toys R Us or some other fantastic present!”

“I know, I know. You’d think you would want the best for Trav after having such losers for parents.”

“Don’t show disrespect for Mom and Dad in front of the kid, I'm warning you Julie!!”

“Listen, I just don’t want my son to feel left out. Everybody’s too afraid these days.”

“Yeah, why’s that, I wonder?! Could it be drive-by pellet shootings?!”

“They caught those guys, Roger. Now stop yelling, you’re ruining Trav’s Christmas”

“I’m ruining his Christmas. I’ve got to sleep in my car so he doesn’t “feel left out”!”

“Oh you’re not sleeping in here the whole night! You’ve got to do your stint in the tent!

Roger McFayden’s father, Julius McFayden, was “the last of the big-time spenders”, to coin a phrase. As a small boy, Roger learned right away the power of money. His father was the owner of a jewelry shop and earned a meager sum each year, barely able to cover his overhead. Yet, this did not stop him from betting on everything from horses to sporting events to the weather. It was the year that the McFaydens went from living in a four bedroom house on Long Island to a one bedroom apartment in Bedford Stuyvesant that Roger began to learn the true nature of his parents’ relationship. His mother Sophie did not love his father. Their happiness as a couple fluctuated with Roger’s financial luck. Sophie would spend Julius’ winnings faster than he could count them. And Roger? He was a debit, a drain and a loss. At least, that’s how his mother saw him. His father would do his best to slip Roger a little extra but all too often, Sophie would snatch any such extra cash. It was this lack of stability and the misery caused by his parents’ financial failings that eventually would lead to a great deal of tension and obsessive controlling on Roger’s part when it came to he and Julie’s finances.

Julie McFayden, formerly Julie Hill, enjoyed a posh and luxurious upper middle class upbringing. Daddy was a lawyer and Mommy was a shrewd investor. Never wanting for anything, Christmas was always a joyous occasion filled with family and presents. It was an experience Julie could never fully explain to her husband Roger. His formative years resulted in an all too typical need to teach his son a lesson. Travis would always be happy, as much so as Roger and Julie could muster, but said happiness would never hinge on money or material belongings. At the same time, Julie saw no reason to not continue the Hill tradition of lavish spending and, as Roger saw it, spoiling the child. With this at the core of the McFayden family of Roger, Julie and Travis, the tension and all-too-often out bursts caused by money were so very much a repeat of history. Only Santa could see through the shackles of the mundane that could destroy a beautiful little family such as the McFaydens. What was lacking in Roger’s upbringing and merely measured by possession of the latest and greatest in retail goods over at the Hill residence, was pure, unadulterated and immeasurable. The genuine love of Roger and Julie superseded their own personal histories and resulted in a sublime marriage and ultimately the conception and birth of Travis. The most common tragedy of human experience is the inability to see love and place all of one’s faith in it. In recent years, with Travis no longer an infant, Roger and Julie have lost sight of the love they have been gifted with. Fortunately, a mythical fat man interrupted their latest round of bickering when he and his sleigh hurtled into Prime Purchase.

Chapter Five

“Yup, these two are do-able” bellowed Santa. “Oh my Boss, I am hungry!”

“Does that mean you can fix ‘em?” cried Travis.

“Kid, I don’t fix anything. Only people can fix themselves. Here, here’s twenty bucks. Go get Santa some KFC.”

At the mention of those last three letters, a loud commotion signaled the sudden attention of all ten reindeer and the three elves at work.

“OK, here’s a hundred. Get as many buckets as that’ll get you.”

“But Santa---“

“Go! As far as the answer to your question, I’m in control. But there’s this matter of a big fat jolly employer of elves and reindeer that loses control when he gets hungry!”

As Travis sprints off in the direction of the shopping center’s KFC, he passes Louis Glock and his Winchester air rifle poised to fire at the frozen rioters. As he begins to sprint across the parking lot, he looks back just as he passes through an invisible, jelly-like substance. Once on the other side of the jelly, Travis trips over himself in astonishment as the façade of Prime Purchase appears to be untouched.

On the other side of the façade, Santa is pure baffled as he sizes up Louis Glock.

Turning towards his reindeer, Santa sounds it out loud to see if it makes any more sense: “This man has armed himself with an air rifle due to an earlier event where several individuals instituted their own drive-by pellet shooting at another one of these here establishments?”

“That’s correct, sir,” responded Blitzen.

“And that Kevlar-woven, Mother Lode 3-person tent at the head of the line is his? The one with a power generator, a TV and all that?”

“That would be his,” replied Comet.

“And he’s been there for three days?”

“Three days and four hours,” offered Vixen.

“I’ve got an idea”

“Gabriel, remove Louis’ air rifle. Denzel, knock over that stack of boxes. Chang, arrange it to look as if those boxes landed on that fine young lady I froze by the restrooms over there. Apparently, she wasn’t part of the riot. She just took advantage of the entrance I created to take care of an emergency. Make sure you don’t get a scratch on her. I’ll go ahead and place Louis right near by. Perfect. So how are we doing?”

“The Sleigh is fully operational,” declared Chang as she put the finishing touches on the “damsel-in-distress” scenario.

“Nothing can put that old girl out of commission, baby!” shouted Rudolph.

“But I’m not done, yet!” yelled Gabriel, as he festooned Prime Purchase with more garlands and glitter and gift boxes than it has copies of the latest American Idol winner’s CD.

“Apparently, neither am I,” stated Santa in an uncharacteristic grim tone of voice.

Shoving his way through the fleet of frozen police officers was a man in worse fitness condition than Santa himself. Wearing his Prime Purchase polo shirt and khaki shorts, Orson Winkelmeyer bore the keys to paradise in his fanny pack. His eyes may well have been from the other end of a magnifying glass, or so they appeared from behind his ultra-thick glasses. Orson Winkelmeyer was the store manager of this particular Prime Purchase and, in his mind, HE was Santa Claus. He stood by as adults young and old overran their credit limits to make the yuletide voices in their brains cease their cacophony of Christmas carols and voices that cried out for this year’s must-have material object. Only he can satiate the ravenous need possessing the minds of so many. This year it is the PS#. Next year, the PS4, and so on.

With all his science and math skills, Winkelmeyer long ago decided Santa was a chump, defeated and no longer able to deliver the voracious appetites of Earth dwellers. Somehow, he knew the day would come when he could challenge the Claus directly and lo and behold, the jolly old relic had crash landed into his store.

Santa was befuddled. His freezing power, the time manipulation ability had exhibited twice before, was not working on Winkelmeyer.

“Who may you be?” asked Santa.

“I am Orson Winkelmeyer. Store # 235’s very own Santa Claus, if you will.”

“If I had a cookie for every fat guy who lost his mind and thought he was me….See, bub, it’s in my genes. I’m in terrific shape but I’ll always be fat. You got the way you are because, well, you do share the same lifestyle as many of your customers. I’ll give you that much if you want to claim some sort of kinship with them.”

“Huh?” replied Winkelmeyer.

“That’s right. Plasma flat screen TV with Surround Sound and only the best DVD player hooked up right next to the latest gaming console. Your apartment in the basement of your mother’s long-paid-for suburban home with a phone and mini-fridge all in arm’s reach. It’s a miracle you drive yourself to get here everyday. Surely, you’d prefer a chauffeur or at least a bus that stops in front of your house…”

“Oh that’s enough, tubby!”, Orson burst out, “You think you’re so physically fit? You still think you’ve got what the kids love? I hereby challenge you to……DANCE, DANCE REVOLUTION!!”

“You’re joking,” replied Santa.

Tearing open a box underneath one of the sample-showing TV screens, Orson yanks out the mat necessary for the game. Competitors in the game must step on whatever part of the mat the screen dictates as loud club music blares from the television. This is supposed to simulate dancing. For Orson, it’s as close as he will ever get to socializing. For Santa, it’s a sad, sad replacement for break dancing, jazz dancing and other favorite pastimes.

Orson’s choice of song, interestingly enough, is Flashdance(What a Feeling). As Winkelmeyer proceeds to flaunt his Winkelmeyerness, velcroed low-tops pounding the mat sloppily and instantaneous globules of sweat appearing everywhere, Santa can’t help but stifle a chuckle and accept that, however unlikely, this boy-man’s appearance is still a part of God’s plan for him.

By the time it is Santa’s turn, Winkelmeyer has stumbled to the Men’s Room in order to pay the porcelain his due for the exertion he forced upon his pathetic physique. Granting Winkelmeyer a few moments, Santa finally mounts the platform in time for El Ritmo Tropical to start its South American pulsations. Orson is dumbfounded as Santa once again bares his rose red chest and snow white chest hair in order to deliver Latin gyration after :Latin gyration. “How did a North Pole boy learn such equatorial dance moves?” you might ask. Santa’s reply?

“Rio.” “De.” “Janeiro”.

Hey, no one said Santa isn’t entitled to a vacation.

“OK, I win. So what am I supposed to get out of this?” asked Santa.

In the midst of a tearful tantrum, Orson cried out “NOTHING! You’re not supposed to get anything! You BIG FAT JERK!” hollered Orson as he stamped his feet like a little boy.

At that moment, a small figure carrying a sack full of buckets of chicken comes trudging through the wall of frozen cops and onto the main floor of the store.

“Food’s here!!” declares Travis.

“THAT’S IT!!” bellows Santa.

“W-what?” responds a rather stunned and unstable Winkelmeyer.

“Chicken?” said a puzzled Chang.

“I couldn’t freeze you!” realized Santa.

“So?” replied Orson

“Only those who believe in me can manage to resist my time manipulation powers”

“Oh that’s so cheesy” muttered Orson.

“How old are you?”

“Thirty three” Orson managed to let slip under his breath

“How long have you been holding onto this, son?”

“Just SHUT UP!! I H-HATE YOU” stammered Orson.

“That’s fine, my boy. To hate me, you must believe in me.”

“You’re thirty three and you still believe in Santa?” interjected Travis, as the reindeer and elves lined up for their fried chicken.

“Shush, Travis” said Santa. “Orson, when did it start?”

“You know. You’re Santa, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but I want you to take me there in your mind”

Chapter Six

Christmas Morning, 1986

“FER CRYIN OUT LOUD, WANDA, ARE YA DEAF? TURN THAT GODFORSAKEN CHRISTMAS CRAP DOWN!!”

“NATHANIEL WINKELMEYER!! IT IS CHRISTMAS MORNING AND THIS IS NOT CHRISTMAS CRAP. THEY’RE SINGING ABOUT FEEDING THE WORLD!! Darn it, I missed Bono’s part. AND BESIDES, YOU BE A MISERABLE CYNIC ALL YOU WANT BUT THERES NO NEED TO SPREAD IT TO OUR SON, ORSON!”

“YOU ASK ME, THE KID’S RETARDED! WHAT KID AT THIRTEEN STILL BELIEVES IN SANTA CLAUS!”

“THAT DON’T MATTER. BLESS HIS HEART FOR STILL BELIEVING IN SANTA CLAUS AND DON’T YOU EVEN THINK ABOUT TRYING TO RUIN THAT FOR HIM!”

As Santa and Orson materialized in the middle of this shouting match, both large men began to well up. For Orson, this was what he listened to almost every Christmas. It was only his belief in Santa that granted him the confidence that each year would leave what he wanted underneath that tree. For Santa, it was simply the result of the overabundance of empathy God had empowered him with. In his millennia of service, Santa Claus always knew there were children who loved him for what he gave. Often times, that toy or other object of obsession was transformed into some cosmic confirmation or pay-off. At this point in time, Santa and Orson are about to witness a Christmas morning, twenty years ago, when Orson was a young teen. This year, the cost of Orson’s love would be the delivery of one Atari 2600.

“I remember, Orson. Back then, I could actually make those game systems myself. But God and your Mom had other plans that year.”

“Oh yeah, what? Ruin my parents’ marriage”

“I’m sorry, Orson. The purchase of that game was left up to your father. I was under strict instructions to leave this gift up to him. As meaningless as such an object is in the long run, this point in time represents the last straw. Your mom had repeatedly reminded your dad about this all too important present. But for the last year and a half, Nathaniel had become more and more despondent, detaching himself emotionally and physically from his family.”

“And there was nothing you can do?”

“Orson, I have a way with love. It is my gift, granted me by God. I can pour love into the very molecules of each and every present I make. Only I can leave behind such an intoxicating residue of love that Christmas Morning can be such an intangible source of joy blanketing all of the day’s festivities. But where do you think I find this love?”

“Are you saying Mom and Dad didn’t love each other?”

“There simply wasn’t enough. Your Dad simply had not planned on being a husband and father so early in life.”

“But Mama loved me, and now she’s gone and I don’t know what to do” sobbed Orson as he collapsed into Santa’s arms. “I had this feeling in my gut that I had to get to the store at all costs tonight.”

Still weeping, Orson looked into Santa’s eyes with tears streaming down his face and whispered “Take me back. I’ve done something…..I-I’ve done something.”

Chapter Six

Re-materializing in front of the charging police officers, Orson immediately fell to his knees.

“LET THEM TAKE ME AWAY!!” screamed Orson, in agony. “I took them all. Every one of them.”

“Oh, Orson” muttered Santa, holding his head and shaking it.

“The camping out, the selling on E-bay…THESE KIDS!” Orson pointed out Travis in mid-rant “who take it for granted that their parents are setting up camp so they can get the latest fetish object, the latest video game console.”

“So you stole the PS3s?

“Yeah, I know. There’s no excuse. I thought you’d at least understand the lesson.”

“No one appointed you to teach lessons, Orson. Not even I have the authority to teach lessons. People just tend to derive them from love. Me, I’m just a love dealer.”

“I understand, Unfreeze them so they can take me away.”

“I don’t like that as an ending to the story. Chang, is my ride ready?”

“Yeah, but make it quick. If we have to hear one more joke from Denzel, there’s going to be regurgitated chicken by the bucket all over the joint.”

“She’s right, Santa. I’m not cleaning that in the morning” said Orson. “Let’s go!”

“Wait, Santa!”

“What is it, Denzel?”

“Listen to this one. ‘What do you get if you deep fry Santa Claus?’”

”I give up.”

“Crisp Cringle”

“Charming.”

In the blink of Travis’ left eye, the sleigh and its contents disappeared in a cloud of glitter. In the blink of his other eye, the sleigh had returned and both Orson and Santa hefted sacks full of boxes, boxes with highly coveted game systems inside.

“See, Orson, I may look out of shape but as you can see, not only do I dance, but I’ve been responsible for some heavy lifting in my time. If you want to be like Santa, you have to work out the body and the soul.”

“Does this mean we’ll be seeing a fitness video from you soon?”

“Funny, Orson:”

“Hmmph” The sound came suspiciously in the direction of a certain stand-up elf.

“Christmas cheer wouldn’t be the same without some sense of humor. That goes for elves, too.”

Denzell beamed widely at the nod from the Big Man.

“Santa, Santa, Santa.” Gabriel came striding out of the music aisle with both hands in the air, both carrying CDs. “Now that we’ve eaten and now that I’ve endured the most tasteless belching contest to date(they even involved the boy), us Pole creatures thought you might want to have a little going away party, seeing as how we’ve spent more time here than we’ve spent just about anywhere these past few Christmases.”

“My store…what have you done to my store?” whimpered Winkelmeyer.

“It’s been Gabrielized. Retail is so fluorescent and ‘blech’. I’ve made it shine.”

To this, Chang chimed in, “Hey Gabe babe pass me the sounds. I tricked the sleigh out with one killer sound system.”

As Santa smiled warmly as his friends always made him feel inclined, Travis shuffled over and tugged on Santa’s sleeve.

“Yes, Travis”

“Is everything going to go back to normal now?”

“Normal? That’s a loaded word, Travis. When I first started this gig, ages ago, I thought it was the absence of love that made people behave like the bunch that stampeded through here earlier tonight. But there is no absence of love. Love is EVERYWHERE! It just gets harder to see it. It gets harder to feel it. Sometimes it gets misplaced. Like this silly video game. An object, like any other object, is given status through love. Ideally, people hope that these objects will do more than their designed purpose. They pray that each gift will pass love on to their cherished friends and family. So how does it become this? Two fathers at each others throat. An elderly lady in a wheelchair, knocked to the ground. A mother in the midst of pushing a small child out of the way. It’s been twisted, ya see, Travis? Sure, plenty of people covet this machine for the noblest of reasons. But they forget that that power, that Godliness, rests in their own hearts—“

“Santa?”

“Yes, Travis?”

“Duh.”

“Excuse me?

“I’m eight years old. And I live in the real world. And I know that grown-ups are the way they are because they don’t know all that stuff anymore. They use so little of their imagination and so little of their minds, that’s probably why it’s so easy to freeze them like you do. But when I asked you to fix them, I asked because I know that when this dream of a night comes to an end, you’ll hit ‘Play’ again and it will all go back to normal.”

“Touché, kid. No one’s ever called me out on one of my heartwarming monologues. But you’re right. When my work here is done, time will carry on from where it left off.”

“So what do you do?”

“I’ve a light touch for a big man, my boy. I leave a reminder here. Point a heart over there. Whisper in some ears. I set the record straight. Sometimes it’s as easy as arranging the players in the right position.”

That said, Santa spun and re-animated Louis Glock and the pretty young lady buried in boxes. It was the classic damsel-in-distress scenario as Louis lifted the girl to her feet and she fell into his embrace.

“See?”

“What about my Mom and Dad, then?

“Your Mom and Dad have oodles of love to work with. Dad just lets some old fears about money get in the way. And Mom just spoils you a bit. But in you, in that little heart, they have given you so much love. And I happen to know just what they really want for Christmas. Don’t you worry.”

Chapter Seven

Christmas Day, Present Time

Travis McFayden is standing on the sidewalk in front of Prime Purchase and shaking his head. The day is unseasonably bright and the previous week’s snow was starting to melt. To his right, the line of tents and folding chairs stretched again. Louis and his new girlfriend practically skipped out of Prime Purchase, leaving Louis’ tent and belongings behind. The man in front of him in line is the same man that been frozen executing a choke hold on the man in front of him. That man’s daughter was the child pushed out of the way by the mother in front of them. Alas, the tension and animosity was gone. Each consumer seemed to have been outfitted with brand new tents and camping gear. Rather than behaving as if they were gladiators in the Coliseum, these men and women were jovially passing the time as if at a barbecue.

Seeking out his own tent, Travis was flabbergasted at the sight before him. Both his Mom and his Dad lie asleep in each other’s arms. Without a moment’s hesitation, Travis managed to squeeze himself into the middle of a parent sandwich. Bliss had erupted in the unlikeliest of places.

In that instance, another rather tickled individual strode out of the entrance of his store, in full Santa regalia.

“Seasons’ Greetings, shoppers. I am Orson Winkelmeyer, store manager here at Prime Purchase #235. While I am inclined to close this establishment due to it being Christmas, there are a few matters to attend to, I understand. To all employees reporting for duty this morning, go home. It’s Christmas. A bonus will await you all when you return. Please contact your co-workers not scheduled for today and notify them. Finally, my queue of video game fanatics and/or parents of said maniacs. My two little elves have some pieces of paper you might be interested in”

With that said, Gabriel and Denzel stepped out from behind Winkelmeyer. Simultaneously, Roger and Julie McFayden awoke with their beautiful son in their arms. As contented as he was in that position, his parents were under the assumption that this moment was all he’d been waiting for.

By the time, the two elves arrived at the entrance to the McFayden tent.

“Let’s go! Only those with the tickets get the PS3”

At that, Travis poked his head out from the tent flap.

“What are you guys still doing here?”

“Winkelmeyer got all inspired and wanted elves. Considering how hard it would be to hire a pair of midget on such short notice, we agreed to stay.”

Wondering what all the conversation was about, Roger and Julie joined their son and poked their heads out as well.

“Travis, do you know these elves?”

“Oh no, Mom. This one was about to tell a joke.”

Gabriel’s eyes rolled while Denzel’s lit up like Rudolph’s nose.

“Why is Christmas just like a day at the office?”

“I give up” said Travis.

“You do all the work and the fat guy with the suit gets all the credit.”

“I like that one,” laughed Roger.

“I heard that” yelled Winkelmyer. “Carry on, elves”

“He’s even bossier than the real deal” exclaimed Gabriel.

By now, Travis had come out of the tent all together and his parents weren’t far behind. As he started down at the ticket that his elfin friends had given him, he couldn’t help but get giddy feeling in his stomach. The PS3 was going to be so much fun! While his imagination tried to conjure all the different types of games he would get his parents to buy, his peripheral vision was drawn to the wheelchair-bound middle-aged lady who had been knocked over in the riots from the night before. Slowly, with a sigh, she had begun to wheel away.

“Where ya going?” Travis gently asked.

“They were one short on the tickets, I’m afraid.”

“You play video games?”

That gave the lady a hearty gut laugh.

“No, but my grandson does. But his parents don’t have the constitution that your parents have and that I have. I said, sure, it’s just a toy and it’ll be obsolete next year. But I heard about these lines and it sounded like an adventure. Y’know I waited on line for every one of the Star Wars prequels. I even liked Jar Jar Binks. I thought he got a bad break….”

As the lady rambled a bit further, Travis took one look at both his parents in that tent and then another look at his ticket. The PS3 would be back on the market in a couple of weeks. And so, after a night unlike any night he’d ever experienced and his parents holding hands for the first time in his young memory, Travis McFayden passed his ticket onto the outspoken Grandma.

Travis’s parents, quite taken aback, were left speechless.

“Cmon guys, lets pack up and go home. It’s Christmas.”

As the McFaydens took down their tent, Travis looked over at Orson Winkelmeyer and gave him a mini-salute which Winkelmeyer returned. As for Gabriel and Denzel, Travis had to ask:

“Are you guys going to duck behind the building and disappear into magic glitter?”

“No, we’re taking a bus to Hackensack. We have some family up there,” replied Denzel.

Chapter Eight

As the McFaydens filed through their front door, Roger McFayden lifted his son up and squeezed him as hard as he could.

“Well, kid, what you did back there just took our breath away, your Mom and I. But unfortunately, it really took your Christmas present away.”

“Very funny, dad!”

With much jubilation, Travis dropped from his father’s grip and made it to the base of the tree in leaps and bounds. Under the tree, there was but one box with a folded up letter attached. Tearing the letter off, Travis began to read:

“Dear Travis, I had to split before I got to the grandma. But I knew you had it covered. Enjoy the PS3. Maybe next year we can go head-to-head on Street Fighting Massacre. Love, S.C.”

Rather than dwell on the juicy mystery, Roger and Julie went to work on something Julie had wanted since having Travis and Roger had been afraid of for just as long. Could we provide for two? Are we spoiling the one we have? Can we pay for both to go college? All these questions and more created massive tension in the old Roger, a tension he shared freely with his small family. On this Christmas Day, the McFaydens had somehow been reminded of why Travis really existed and the reason for their marriage.

Epilogue

One Year Later.

What sounded like heated battle in the form of barely contained fits of whispering started to make its way upstairs in the McFayden household. Julie awoke first, but barely. Groggily, she nudged Roger.

“I think your son is flirting with disaster. He’s going to wake Trisha while he’s snooping around the tree.”

Downstairs, in the living room, Travis is merely engaged in mortal combat with none other than Santa Claus, himself. By now, Street Fighting Massacre had spawned a sequel and it was supposed to be one of many presents to open in a few hours on Christmas Morning proper. Yet, as promised, Santa did pay a visit as promised and took up the Player 2 controller with great zeal. Right in the middle of an unstoppable flurry of tornado kicks, Santa was distracted by a sound. The sound was an infant crying for her Mama.

“Ha! It worked!”

“What worked?” said Travis.

“Never mind. You win. I’ve got to split.

“But it’s best 3 out of 5”

“That’s super, kid. Really. But right now, your mom is telling your dad to come check on the baby and I can’t be here. Maybe next year.”

“Promise?”

“If it means you taking a trip to my place, we’ll do it. But I got to warn ya, it’s not too fancy a place. An old girlfriend of mine used to say, ‘Love don’t pay the bills.”

“What does Mrs. Claus say?”

“All you need is love, kid. All you need is love.”

Merry Christmas & happy new year from john

Love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love.

There's nothing you can do that can't be done.

Nothing you can sing that can't be sung.

Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game

It's easy.

There's nothing you can make that can't be made.

No one you can save that can't be saved.

Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be in time

It's easy.

All you need is love, all you need is love,

All you need is love, love, love is all you need.

Love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love.

All you need is love, all you need is love,

All you need is love, love, love is all you need.

There's nothing you can know that isn't known.

Nothing you can see that isn't shown.

Nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be.

It's easy.

All you need is love, all you need is love,

All you need is love, love, love is all you need.

All you need is love (all together now)

All you need is love (everybody)

All you need is love, love, love is all you need.

FACEBOOK aka Friendship: A Quick One Part Two

2010-11-06T19:00:00.001-04:00

This is not a pipe.

This one is from a lesson I learned via Scott McCloud in his book Understanding Comics. That is where I first learned of the above painting. The idea of the original piece, should you be standing in front of it, is that you are not looking at a pipe. You are looking at a painting of a pipe. In McCloud's piece, he points out that you are looking at several printed copies of a drawing of a painting of a pipe. So, I must point out that you are now looking at the HTML code of a JPEG of a picture of a painting of a pipe....or something like that. Does your head hurt? Mine too.

So what does this have to do with Facebook? Recently, I CLICKED on an IMAGE of an ACQUAINTANCE to see what she looked like as Lady Gaga. While on the FACEBOOK PAGE, I saw an IMAGE of a pretty girl and CLICKED. I then sent a MESSAGE asking the ACQUAINTANCE about the girl in the IMAGE. As a result, I am told that it is REALLY WEIRD that I am CREEPING around her FRIENDS. Are you with me here? Facebook is only a few years old, social media a bit older and the entire Internet itself, not even as old as me. Yet it has seemingly assimilated reality, or vice versa, in the minds of young people. Think about it. Eight minutes of me staring at my screen like a vegetable while scrolling through random combinations of words and images translates into meaninful interaction for others!

Friendship: A Quick One

2010-11-06T16:45:00.000-04:00

I heard something about friendship VS. facebook. Something about taking a stand on behalf of REAL friendship by taking action and DEFRIENDING in Facebook. You dont really distance anything or anyone from a "Facebook World" by establishing a holiday based on activity done in the same world. Right now, to me, Facebook is what Im typing and MAYBE the rest of the visible screen. I dont know offhand how many "friends" i have. I never had my concept of friendship confused with Facebook terminology. And Facebook does not play a central role in my life. Noam CHomsky, in some way, says that what keeps our brand of democracy going is a never ending stream of inconsequential "opinions" on which we can fall on either side of, as long as the chatter continues. It is what media exists for. So ill continue to communicate with people on Facebook. Ill state opinions, make jokes. have fun. But does it have anything to do with my worldview? None whatsoever. Does it tell me something about the worldview of everyone else? Certainly. The last I remember an intense discussion over the meaning of "friends" and how many you had was when I taught high school and it was Myspace. now I can only hope the theme of this blog is supported by a prominent media figure or Im screeeewed.

Bullies Won't Change But You Must...Especially If You're A Bully

2010-10-18T21:55:00.001-04:00

"Bullying Must Stop" Someone points at the heavens and we all look at their hand. We are finite beings trying to comprehend the infinite. The world does not change. There is no winning a war on terror and there is no stopping bullying...unless you are the bully. Please allow me to add my own story to the public forum.

You're four years old and about to enter kindergarten. Do you get a lunchbox, a pat on the back and some encouragement to make friends? My mother is Sicilian, I'm an only child and I'm adopted. No, I get told that if anyone hits me, I hit them back. Mom, and I believe Grandma, even show me a little boxing. By the time I am five, I am in my hometown of North Brunswick, NJ but I have carried my early training with me. Around first grade, my school does a tremendous favor for certain students by separating them from the student body and making them stick out by no fault of their own. We are placed in two groups: Special Ed and Gifted & Talented. The difference is irrelevant. They decide to hold me back from GT for a year because I talk too much and don't complete my assignments. This does very little to spare me the distinction of being a nerd nor does it delay the bullying that would become a constant presence in my life for the remainder of grade school. The nerds that grin and bear it may or may not have earned some relief but the kid who talks back and fights back? Here's where I get to share how everyone from administration to faculty to my parents tried to STOP BULLYING while I held my own with my mouth and my fists.

Bullies at my school were given special privileges like collecting playground equipment or playing computer games in the principal's office. They were labeled with impressive classifications like "Neurologically Impaired". Some just had alcoholic fathers who would threaten to come to school with a shotgun if their little bully was treated unfairly. These same kids would make up their own rules and roam hallways, even darting into bathrooms to harass children trying to urinate or chase them back to their classroom in order to punch them in the kidney. School's solution? Have my teacher secretly press the PA button to alert the front office to every time I needed to go to the bathroom so the principal could mosey on down to keep an eye out. Policemen assigned to school matters would be enlisted to aid in the case of having bullies expelled. Meanwhile, my fists are deemed in need of training by my parents when other bullies take the place of the one that was expelled. That's one way of stopping bullying, right? Beat them silly until they "learn their lesson". You may say it doesn't work that way. You would be right but that lesson comes later. Before leaving the public school system, another move designed to rescue me from bullying, I pounded a bully's face in right in front of my classmates. The vice principal even expressed gratitude, unofficially of course. Wow, that training worked, didn't it? Not yet, but it will. Stick with me.

One year after I "stopped" the bully with several blows around and about his face, I am no longer going to the same school but I am hanging out with a friend and guess what? Mr. Bully lives right across the street. He sees me and this time he brings a friend. I give but a moment's consideration to the aforementioned martial arts training and decide to opt for a stick instead, seeing as how I have never faced multiple opponents. I managed to pummel the bully's friend, ironically enough a former fellow nerd turned sidekick. The bully got off easy with just one bruise on his arm from the stick. So, YOU tell ME? How is "STOPPING THE BULLYING" going so far? What say we drop that NONSENSE and get to the heart of the matter? But before I do, let me recap that: "STOPPING THE BULLYING" is NONSENSE.

Some time not too long after that last encounter with MY bully, I stopped fighting AND being bullied for the rest of my life. Was it magic? Was the bullying STOPPED? Did the world change? No, I changed. Why did I think I was being bullied? What was it about me that was being bullied? They called me a Mama's Boy because my mom worked at the school and was very protective of me. SO WHAT. Oh, and Mom bought my clothes because I was a child and couldn't be bothered with it. SO WHAT. I sucked at kickball. SO WHAT. I was a nerd. SO WHAT. Whatever I was, was fine. THAT'S what "stopped bullying". IF I WAS GAY, the answer would be the same. SO WHAT. If I was a BULLY, then guess what? It's still ME that needed to change. What are our kids thinking? About themselves? About others? I'm not hearing this in the media, are you? My problem was that I was fighting with bullies but guess what I was thinking about MYSELF and OTHERS each and every day? I only thought one thing, that I was going to be bullied and that I would have to fight. Take a wild guess what happened.

Now, I grant you this. There was martial arts. There were my parents and my grandmother. I had love and support. Thank god because if our schools and institutions were failing over twenty years ago, when I was a child, imagine where they are at now. That kid that just picks up a gun and shoots himself? He didn't just pick up a gun and shoot himself. No one wants to consider how many opportunities there were to find out what was going on in this kid's life. Instead, they want to repeat the mantra "Stop The Bullying". Find out what's going on with the bullied. Find out what's going on with the bully. THEY'RE ALL KIDS!!!

Before I go, let me leave you with this.. I am a former teacher, at least for the time being. If you were to tell me that there should be someone at the school whose job it is to do the above. And you would be right. Even in the sort of financially strapped school I taught in, there was always at least one person ready to talk to a student. But HOW does the student get TO the help? Are we leaving it up to them? Apparently, look at the results. THEY'RE ALL KIDS!!! Even the most popular kid doesn't have a clue what's going on. Believe me. EVERY ADULT that has even the most MINUTE contact with a kid's life is RESPONSIBLE for it. There is no exception. One of my former students comes to mind. The shy or low-key student gets lost in the shuffle at any school. At an urban charter school, they are virtually invisible...but not to me. One such student, female, was always present and always completed her work. At some point, her attendance started getting spotty. Quality of work started falling off. My immediate response was to connect that student with the person she could speak to. Don't get me wrong, many times, I was the one they spoke to. But in my mind, not only were these kids my responsibility but it was also my responsibility to share. It's the true business we were in as educators and caretakers. Concerned about a suicidal student? Forget about the bully. Spend Christmas Eve with her in the in-patient facility when her so-called "loved ones" won't.

So let's not STOP bullies. May I suggest talking to them? Talk to the bully. Talk to the bullied. Be aware. Be vigilant. These are our children, whether we are parents or not. Please let's save their lives and drop the media gloss for once.

Information Overload

2010-06-28T19:38:00.000-04:00

We all grew up reading literature and viewing films loaded with allegorical science fiction, warning us all of technology getting the better of us. The essential sci-fi literature of the 20th century was published before most of us were born but it laid the groundwork for the world we are accustomed to, giving us essential concepts/ideas such as "Big Brother"/omnipresent surveillance(1984), scuba diving(20,000 Leagues Under The Sea), and artificial wombs(Brave New World), just to name a few. Eventually, Hollywood caught up and took the lead with Star Trek, The Terminator and The Matrix. Computers in these films were gruesome, world-dominating behemoths while phones were always hand-held communicators. As long as this was our reality, cell phones seemed like fun little walkie-talkies and computers were boogey-men.

In the 21st century, cell phones and computers have become one and global interconnectivity is no longer ominous. Life without a hand-held computer is now nearly impossible to conceive of. In fact, most of us seem unable to live life just once. We are compelled to report on every waking minute of it. Since we are able to do it anywhere at anytime, the experience of life is being recorded and represented creating an effect not unlike the visual effect of a picture of a person holding that picture.

Skynet is no longer a tyrant but a cute little accessory that people line up for at 5AM. It would seem that the very concepts that shook our culture are now the ultimate source of amusement. What about serious uses for us serious folk? What about blog writers who need a softer transition from their laptops? Cue the Macbooks and IPads. As for this particular blog writer, I have yet to progress from my "archaic" desktop with its "primitive" wireless internet connection. Honestly, a laptop with MSWord on it would be just fine for me but didn't they have those when I was a kid? Weren't they called Word Processors? What if I need to use the internet to research or verify something for any one of my writing projects? It seems that in this present reality, Skynet doesn't need to send any Terminators to squash dissenters. The Matrix doesn't need to enslave us in goo-filled pods to get what it needs from us nor does it need to jack us into some elaborate program to make us complacent. No, the big baddies of yesterday merely needed to appeal to our fashion sense. Our individuality was never threatened. It is encouraged through the purchase of mini-miracle gadgets.

Karate Kids

2010-06-13T17:45:00.003-04:00

It has been said that there is nothing new under the sun. This is certainly true of martial arts and is practically a rule in Hollywood. When TV commercials first appeared for The Karate Kid, I was five years old. My mother saw the commercial one night at dinner and casually asked: “Do you wanna do that?” and I eagerly nodded my head. Five years later, I was enrolled at Golden Tiger Karate. Twenty years later, I continue to teach and train at the very same school and you know what? There is nothing new under the sun and that is exactly how it should be. In The Karate Kid, the fighting and authenticity both took a back seat to the relationship between teacher and student. The lifestyle passed from father to son, from Myagi to Daniel, was what charmed audiences and first planted the idea in parents’ heads that their daily efforts to raise their children to be good people could only be augmented by signing them up for karate lessons.

Through hard work and practice, Daniel La Russo transitioned from lost boy to young man. He was no Bruce Lee and there is no Crane Technique but he made it seem like any kid could do it. This weekend, the remake of The Karate Kid starring Will Smith’s son, Jaden Smith, was released to the sort of box office success Hollywood has been waiting for after a rather disappointing year in receipts. Set in China with Jackie Chan in the mentor role, Dre, the titular ‘Karate Kid’, is actually trained in kung fu. The goofy, fake but quaint style of action in the original is replaced by the sort of slick choreography kids today demand. The basic plot is followed rather faithfully. Most importantly, a displaced boy, younger than Daniel, is initially confused by the strange methods of his new teacher. Rather than waxing a car, painting a fence or sanding a floor, Dre puts his jacket on, takes it off, drops it and hangs it up. Sound silly? Just wait. Earlier in the film, Chan’s maintenance man, Mr. Han, witnesses a tense episode between the 12 year old Dre and his mother over his bad habit of leaving his jacket on the floor and failing to hang it properly. Of course, much like Daniel’s chores are later revealed to be karate “techniques”, the practice with the jacket turns out to be a kung fu lesson. At the same time, his mother is astonished when the same jacket is placed on its hook at home.

So, with this remake in a never-ending stream of remakes proving the aforementioned adage true many times over, what is there to take away from the experience? Might thousands of young boys and girls be begging for karate lessons after being taken to see the film? I certainly hope so. Will they be more likely to be impressed by a miniature Will Smith trading punches and kicks with bad boys and Jackie Chan? I’m sure. However, I am certain that each and every parent that takes their children to see this movie will come away with something different. They will have to identify with a mother’s frustration over the sort of mess a youngster can cause only to see or be reminded how the ancient arts of the East address the problem. Sure enough, at least one opportunistic karate franchise was stationed right inside the theater lobby offering free self defense classes, hoping to capitalize on moviegoers’ excitement. On the other hand, throughout my own personal history with the martial arts, the mission of shaping the character of young people has always been front and center. It could be learning to pick up after them selves or being more respectful to parents, both themes in this film. In a world where parents feel increasingly against all odds, allies in the war against harmful influences on their children cannot be more highly valued. Finding the right teacher may be as fateful as the encounters of Miyagi and Daniel or Mr. Han and Dre. In the end, I can guarantee that the truth of what you seek is right here, right now and certainly nothing new under the sun.

Comics: The Future of Movies

2010-05-10T00:19:00.005-04:00

So, I saw Iron Man 2 each day of this fine weekend. The first was opening day. The 2nd was a private screening hosted by Main Street Comics. The third was with Mom for Mother's Day. Think what you will but I just had a great thought about my beloved comics. Always the underdog, dismissed as disposable shite while simultaneously broadcasting unexplored realms of invention and imagination, the medium of comics has now achieved a new milestone with the advent of the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

Just to establish a little background, before Bryan Singer's X-men, there was Donner's Superman and Burton's Batman. Sure, Blade stirred the waters a bit but no one knew he was a comic book character and those who did knew he never even had his own title. Besides, it would take a hell of a lot more than Wesley Snipes to banish the memory of be-nippled Batsuits from our minds. By the time Spiderman reached the upper echelons of Hollywood's hallowed box-office top-grossers, a new era had been ushered in. As dutiful hacks played the part of skeptics and asked if it was a fad, the forces of common sense already knew the obvious. Like any other film genre, there would be good films and there would be bad films. At this point, the odyssey from Captain America with the motorcycle helmet to Captain America with the rubber ears to Captain America's shield being used as a red herring in this weekend's Iron Man 2 couldn't be a more perfect metaphor for the same quest for credibility comics are still earning the hard way.

Now, here we are, 10 years later. Superheroes are here to stay, in Hollywood that is. They have raised the bar for blockbuster action/adventure, fantasy and sci-fi. Eventually, the ruthless addiction comic fans have to smart characterization, snappy dialogue and "big picture" interconnectivity started seeping into these cinematic events and forcing the bar to raise not in response to special effects innovations but by aspiring to comics' tapestry-like approach to storytelling. And so the Marvel Cinematic Universe concept was born.

The original Iron Man film introduced moviegoers to a spy organization called S.H.I.E.LD and its intrepid leader, Nick Fury. This would be the Big Bang of the MCU. Then, following a fleeting glimpse of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s presence and a slightly more overt reference to the "super soldier" concept from Captain America, Robert Downey, Jr. shows up as Tony Stark at the end of The Incredible Hulk. Still with me? With Iron Man 2, we have a full-fledged supporting role for old Nick Fury and he introduces us to Natasha Romanoff/Black Widow, S.H.I.E.L.D co-founder Howard Stark and a last second clue to the mystery of how the science-based world of Tony Stark's Iron Man coincides with the more "enchanted" elements of the Marvel Universe. By 2012, we will see all of these elements and characters converge into the event film of the future: The Avengers.

So what does all this amount to besides geek porn? What exactly was my great thought? The Marvel Cinematic Universe is not just a milestone in the history of comics. It is a milestone in cinematic history. That's right. Having established itself as the treasure trove, the veritable goldmine for immensely profitable ideas, comics creators are now well on their way to ushering in a never before seen synergistic frontier. Sequels are old hat for Hollywood but franchises linked together as the basis for ONE film starring the original lead actors from each said franchise? You're welcome. Oh, and don't forget one thing. Comics have been blowing minds with the same brand of ingenuity every month for the last 75 years or so. Enjoy.

FML

2010-04-29T21:11:00.002-04:00

You know what it stands for. When you say you're having a bad day, you have not only defined your day. You have defined yourself. That was always the case until the dawn of the current era of mass communication. Now, when you have a crappy day, you not only make it so in your mind but you repeat the process countless times in text messages, Tweets and Facebook posts. In fact, the maelstrom of daily communication, no matter how inane, has barely allowed us to take a step back and look at what we've become. Well, I have chosen these three letters as where I am taking my stand: FML. As I said, you know what it stands for. NOW is the time to take a step back. Think of what you're saying. Now think of the implications of packaging such a thought in such a neat little expression and tossing it around like it's a sigh or a yawn. Are you getting me? Am I off base? Am I out of line? Does it mean nothing? George Carlin once said that we think in language so the quality of our language affects the quality of our thoughts. How about the quality of our lives? You can have a bad experience, extrapolate it into more bad experiences by fixating on the first one, write off the rest of the day as a 'bad day' then RELIVE the entire saga in multiple electronic formats and arrive finally at the grand finale of summarily dismissing your LIFE with three letters. Just think about it, folks. I'm a passenger like all of you but we can take that step back even as fast as life can be these days. Remember the immortal words of one Ferris Bueller:

"Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it"

Solidarity, Part 2: Fun With Personal Pronouns

2010-04-29T19:10:00.006-04:00

I'm thinking of YOU. While I am sure the concept of solidarity is associated more with a sense of belonging to a particular group, I am using it in reference to my belonging to THE group: YOU. It is the one group we all belong to yet still can't seem to remember it. Now if you noticed I described this one group as YOU and not US, bonus points for you. WE are all members of this group but it is all too easy for the group to become YOU. THEY? Ok, that exhausts our supply of personal pronouns. Let's recenter with the last words I left you with in Solidarity, Part 1:

"The fundamental delusion of humanity is to assume that I am here and you are out there." Yasutani Roshi

Zen masters such as Roshi use the word 'mindfulness'. This word better serves this essay and any hope I have of achieving lucidity than the term 'meditation'. The wizards of popular culture and the ministers of propaganda have reduced this concept to a caricature as it does so many other useful concepts. Alas, these tiny broadcasts are subatomic particles compared to the work of those machines. Thus, while at this very moment, I may be somewhat mindful of you, all or any of you, the owners of the means of production and the sattelites are rendering the very same concept as a Coke commercial. After all, they can actually show you a convincing image of the rest of the world on those flatscreens of yours. I guess I can't.

Solidarity

2010-04-22T13:13:00.002-04:00

Children are not safe. Let me get back to that. Loneliness is not a passive emotion. It does not just appear but rather, it convinces you. While the choice is yours, that should not mean that we all dismiss it, ignore it or remain oblivious to it. Yet, the sad truth is that when a person has become convinced of their loneliness, they then convince the world around them as well. Now let me tell you how this blog's title and its opening statement factor in. While I lead quite a full life and thorougly blessed, I have my reasons for hearing that call heard by the lonely. We're not talking about a "I have nothing to do tonight and no one to do it with" lonely either in case that is what's on your mind. When I declare my solidarity with this particular group of people, I do so while standing amongst those convinced of and therefore oblivious to their condition. I remain as mindful as I can be despite my own natural aversion to that state of mind.

Now, where do the children come in? Why are they not safe? It was once said to me that most people settle into who they are and will be for the rest of their life by the time high school is over. This does not mean that things stop happening to you. It just means that, for better or worse, your basic set-up is established and you're on your own. All common sense always then used to dictate that until such time, we so-called adults are supposed to cover the children. In part, this particular thread of the blog came about upon hearing reactions to the recent suicide of an Irish teen who took her own life due to "excessive bullying". See, I believe I structured that sentence to reflect the proper order of importance. Upon hearing the story, my focus settled on the girl's suicide. In my mind, this occurrence should be cause for pause. But when I have to hear people, adults, say things such as "When I was a kid, I got bullied and I didn't hang myself.", I shudder just a little bit. I almost imagine them saying that while the kid is hanging in front of them or does the always increasing distance from humanity provide the disconnect necessary to form such a thought? Children are not safe. If we can intercept terrorist communications and still be attacked from within, a la Fort Hood, what sort of urgency does the cries for help preceding a teen suicide have? Just a few days ago, the anniversary of Columbine passed us all by rather unnoticed and that couldn't be more fitting.

Our refusal to evolve as adults is literally killing us AND our children. The solidarity I refer to in this blog may be with the lonely and forgotten. It may be with the young people who are reaching out and grasping air. But don't you see? Solidarity is the whole point. Look around you. These children are everywhere. The lost are everywhere. The lonely are everywhere. You or I might not be stopping terrorists anytime soon but all it takes to stop the rain from falling on these people is to let them in. It's their party too.

"I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together." John Lennon

"The fundamental delusion of humanity is to assume that I am here and you are out there." Yasutani Roshi

Blog To The Future

2010-04-09T21:33:00.004-04:00

So Im back to the blog, to blog to the future. Title reference! Since my last entry, I have gone through a change that actually involved deleting a number of blogs due to the place I was in when I wrote them. Now this is a miniscule aspect of the change and as a writer, I realize that the place one writes from is integral to the writing and not really a reason to eliminate the work. But one does have a right to edit one's life in a sense and once I unlocked the key to closing a chapter that needed closing, I did whatever the new chapter called for. I didn't mean to stop writing in this space all together but at least one major new development happened in the meantime. The notion of surrounding myself with creative people, especially writers, has been one that plenty have done their best to get through to me. Yet, the young and dumb punk in me always misconstrued the notion as elitist so I was too good for that. I know. Gag. But perhaps I shed an ounce of ignorance during this change and realized that writing never should have been the Plan B that I made it. The fact that the failure of Plan A would be the catalyst of the change I have undergone could very well have something to do with that.

As for the change itself, you could say that the final bubble of my twenties has finally burst. Gone is the pipe dream of making a difference as a teacher and established is the very directive the King himself hung around his neck: TCB. That's right, Taking Care of Business. Work is work. The dream is the dream. Whether or not they get to occupy the same space is not my focus anymore. Does this not mean I don't want to teach writing while writing myself any longer? No. But I am certainly not holding out for it. I can't afford to. This fella needs to get moving big time. So, I started to see that notion of surrounding myself with like-minded folk not as elitist but as absolutely vital to my plan of taking my talent to the next level. I applied to Fairleigh Dickinson's MFA program in Creative Writing. Not only was I accepted but I was given the Director's Award for Fiction, a distinction and monetary reward reserved for one writer showing significant promise in fiction writing. That's that.

What of employment? It turns out that the whole of my teaching experience in ALL schools I have taught in boils down to one immutable fact. My conscience is my undoing. I have known this since the time in 7th grade when all the boys snuck into the school kitchen, stole cans of soda and were able to return to the open to enjoy their drinks while yours truly immediately hid in a bathroom, gulped half the can with shaky mitts and threw out the rest. Now, saying that my conscience is my undoing may make me sound high and mighty. However, the flipside is that a certain school of thought would have me believe that I am flawed, somehow inept or disabled in my inability to eat it and grin. But it is this understanding of the "real world" that I have been told I lack that allows me to see how insidious that which thwarts us all remains and shall always be. There are no heroes and villains. It is what it is. And what it is can be everything to everyone. It will not compromise but you and I will. An old friend showed me the model of establishing the career and family while working at what you love remained separate. Whether or not that included eventual success, however measured, in the work that you love was a separate matter. Still, I had to have it all. In those twenties I mentioned, that bubble I dwelled in allowed me to judge a simple 8 hour a day, 40 hour a week paycheck and place on a pedestal the notion of holding out for the so-called "dream job" where I could make a difference for a living. Well, here's the deal. Like I said, that bubble is burst and I remain a caring person who strives to make a difference in the lives of those he loves and those who gift him with friendship and kindess. And THAT guy needs to start making a living. THAT guy doesn't need to find himself in helpless scenarios, feeling utterly futile while events, big and small, fly in the face of what he cant help but call his conscience, his principles, his standards, etc. THAT guy has learned compromise to the point where it is no longer compromise but a deliberate suppression of perception. THAT guy has finally learned to take care of himself. THAT guy has finally learned to take care of business. Thanks, King.

The Date

2009-10-22T15:41:00.005-04:00

Does anyone see the difference between "being random" and remaining open to every moment's possibilities? For her, random was running out of a place after just sitting down for drinks or deciding to buy a pack of cigarettes and smoke for the first time in a while. For me, it was witnessing a couple trying to deal with an immobile, wasted pal and offering them a ride to their house when they were going to have to drag him a couple of blocks. In a general context, my actions seem crazier and more dangerous. But in the context of "being random" as so many flakes describe their behavior, I feel you might as well make it count. These good deeds are moments' possibilities more often than you know but they're not always convenient or conventional.

Trust me, there were plenty of signs throughout the night but she was so gorgeous. Pale skin, black hair, my usual Snow White profile. A drunk guy about a head taller than me was babbling about Halloween and hitting on her right in front of me. I grabbed him and said "Halloween's your favorite holiday, right? That's where the conversation ended." He profusely apologized and took off. But I found him lurking around and could have sworn he said "Ill wait around if you come back." I wasnt supposed to hear it but before I could do anything, she started getting real remote and detached then suggested we leave. From there, she insists on walking me to my car and seeing ME off. When I offer to do the same for her, she bristles and remarks about being a big girl and how she hates when someone tries to look after her, blah blah blah. And she was very sudden and abrupt about it, adding to already building suspicion. This one time, I knew I was being fucked over and couldn't just leave the night to end like that. I drove off but turned the nearest corner. I looked back and could see that she wasn't going anywhere. She was engaged in conversation with two guys. I got out of the car and headed back in that direction, not knowing what Id do or say. That's when I saw this college kid crumpled on a stoop and this couple I had met in the bar trying to get him to wake up and stand. Im looking down the sidewalk at my "date" hanging out with two guys and then back at this poor bastard trying to get his poor bastard friend to hang onto his neck so he could drag him home. When the drunk took a bad fall, I got involved. I asked the couple how far they lived and would they like a drive. So, I did it and while they were thanking me, I couldnt help but laugh and mention how they owe the ride to my "date" being a nutbar. I couldnt help but wonder out loud about my luck. The girl of the couple was even going on about how gorgeous she was, haha.

So, I drop the crazy kids off and head back toward the bar. I park in the same spot and the "date" is now standing directly in front of the bar, still socializing. If you've been taken advantage of before, you may understand my motivation for confronting a situation like this just once, rather than grin and bear it or call it a day. So, I just casually strolled up beside her and she so very calmly responded. I told her what I had just did. She made up a story about breaking up a fight. If she broke up a fight, it must have been telepathically.

Those who know me best, unfortunately, will not be surprised in the least that this experience occurred. That's all I can say about that. But with the sort of change I have been diligently pursuing in the wake of losing my job, I see no reason why my social situation can't be part of said change. There is nothing to tie me down.

Context Clues

2009-10-08T13:19:00.002-04:00

As an English teacher, it's no surprise that I teach students about context clues. Of course, I teach high school students who have never heard of context clues but that's another story. For today's blog, I would like to talk about context clues in a whole other context. If we can figure out what a word means by its surroundings, why can't we shed some light on ourselves in a similar fashion? Here's an example. Staring straight into my mind's eye all the time drains every ounce of energy from me most days. But if I change the context in which I see myself, my perspective shifts dramatically and my energy can be refreshed. While walkin down a sidewalk that's part of a city block that's part of a city with a horizon and wide open sky just beyond it, who the hell wants to be cooped up inside their skull?! When I gaze up, then around, and eventually remind myself of the sky's omnipresence and how it will always give way to infinity, I am no longer "stewing in my own juices" so to speak. I avoid being "pickled". My new context may make me infinitesmally small but it also makes me part of said infinity. That's not bad for a walk to the corner store and a scrumptious BLT on a roll.

My Graphic Novel: Title and Plot

2009-10-07T15:24:00.003-04:00

The man who calls himself 'Jack' is stalking the streets of Washington, D.C. in search of a mysterious drug which he is inexplicably addicted to. After tracing the sale of said drug from a pair of government agents to a group of local dealers, 'Jack' finds he has extraordinary reflexes and fighting prowess when he liberates the criminals of their recent purchase. A series of random events then lands 'Jack' square on the path to discovering the source of his training, his addiction and the mental trauma that has been dogging him for the short time he is able to remember. One clue, the pharmaceutical symbol 'Rx' will blow open a sordid history of government funded torture and psychological experimentation, a history the Central Intelligence Agency is eager to close the book on as it readies a whole new volume of social control for the 21st century.

Caught In A Good Mood

2009-10-07T13:27:00.004-04:00

"Right at the center of a contradiction, that's the place to be" Bono

Have you been reading my ongoing meditation on this concept of "graspin"? You know, basically saying 'don't do it'? Let me reverse that. You can't let a good mood get away. While you can certainly experience it without grasping, it is way too easy to let it pass you by. Thus, you may have to grab hold in certain instances. If you hold on too hard and don't let go, the mood will certainly die, in which case you shift back to the "no grasping" directive. This contradiction may very well confuse you or cause you to dismiss everything I have written thus far. Stay with me and I will explore the notion that contradiction is the place to be. It is balance. It is the key to unlocking new levels of learning. When I was ten and just starting my martial arts training, I was a white belt and the designation is fitting because everything is black and white. I was taught the basics and the basics were it. Only when I reached higher ranks and neared black belt did my instructor start to basically teach us with "Remember when I said *blank*? Forget that." And thus, knowledge we thought we had had a grasp on for years had suddenly been taken out of the equation or given a new shape. It is how we learn language in a lot of cases, especially the English language. It gets downright frustrating.

So, technically, this is a two-topic entry. For those of you who read that I am in a good mood and thought "Now this I gotta hear", only to be slapped with the usual esoterrorism, have no fear. I shall elaborate. But first, "esoterrorism" is not a real word. It is derived from "esoterrorist", a label assigned to me by a history teacher in high school. My answers tended to run rather long and difficult to understand. Hard to imagine, yeah? Anyway, I certainly am in a good mood. Ever since I began this blog in order to create the initiative to discipline myself and produce regular output, my writing has grown stronger. The big payoff is the resurgence of my graphic novel work. It has been many years since I first started receiving finished art based on one of my scripts. The reason it has taken so long comes down to the usual factors of time and money. The complete story has existed all along. A full preview of the first chapter has been around almost as long. My only plan had been to continue to pay for and oversee the production for all art based on my scripts. Then, I would go back and create the final text to go with the finished panels. As of this writing, I have completed art for four of the eight chapters that comprise my story. However, extended money issues combined with my aforementioned writing boon have compelled me to start the final writing for the completed art I already have. As soon as the money presents itself, and it will, I can still go ahead and get the rest of the chapters in the can. For now, the fact that I am again writing my baby and feeling like it is brand new is MOST certainly contributing to my good mood.

What else? I've been enjoying quite a bit of a surge in my social life and meeting some very interesting people. Folks are making me feel the love and that's no small feat. By that, I mean my folks and folks in general. Certain colleagues of mine in this teaching adventure are highly valued sources of support and inspiration. If I had one on, my cap is off to Mr. Serefeas and Mr. Schwacka. My lifelong mentor, Master Michael Abruzzi, is an essential figure in my life even if his input has eliminated everything but water and tree bark from my diet. Who am I kidding? I have a long way to go before I get halfway to that level. But thats one I REALLY dont get a vise grip on because it creates mental stress and zero productivity. But seriously, no one walks the talk in the health department like Master Abruzzi and I defy anyone within twenty years of his age range to do better.

So yeah. Im in a good mood. Bought myself an XBox 360 and I just can't wait to get going on Batman:Arkham Asylum, DC vs. Mortal Kombat and Halo:OTSD. Then there's playing online and downloading and all that. But I know if it's too complicated to set up, I can't be bothered. The gaming experience has to be easy to access and even easier to enjoy. At the very least, this distraction should tide me over and carry me through this good mood until certain factors of my life fall into place. Until then, it's video game violence mania!!

"Contradiction is balance"

Issues

2009-10-06T08:13:00.005-04:00

What is the difference between issues and baggage? I'll venture a guess and say the latter must be carried while the former tends to tag along all on its own. But both still rely upon your participation. Sometimes a smile can invalidate their existence but a smile is ultimately too fleeting. That doesnt stop me from making every effort to keep those smiles coming and ward off the darkness as long as I can. As I wrote in my last blog entry, when you get a grip you are thwarting yourself just as efficiently as any adversary you'll ever face. So today, in order to release my grip on whatever's clogging up my mind's eye, I will turn to my new friend, Blog, and hope that he can take the weight.

In order to avoid carrying baggage, Ive always had a tendency to cut away large portions of my past with zeal. My issues certainly remain in place. Though I call them issues, I still make it a point for none of them to BECOME an issue for myself or anyone else. Make sense? Doubtful but if you've been reading these things, there's a chance you can follow or figure it out by now.

Love is the gift of self. That is probably the single most important thing religion ever taught me. Not a gift of the body. Not a gift of affection. Not even a gift of all the time, effort and attention you think you can possibly spare. Whatever state Project You may be in at the time, that is the gift you are giving. Issues, baggage and all. And it is in no way the obligation of the recipient to take over for you. You're never absolved of that responsibility, no matter how hard you try. Shirk it, baby. The issue is still there. So what's in it for you, my fellow creatures of conceit? A partner. You get to keep working on you. Your partner gets to keep working on them. That's right, a partner. Personally, I have never had a crowd of any sort. Perhaps, I have drifted into or spent time amongst a group of people. But my number of friends and associates has never been a large one. You won't see endless pages of party shots with me anywhere in sight. On the other hand, I have never been able to keep my world to myself. The need for attention and even moreso the need for appreciation or recognition has always been quite apparent to all who know me or have ever known me. But Im sure you, my imaginary friend, can place the truth between those two poles. It is only when I appreciate or recognize myself for who I am that I am ready to make a gift of it. Any takers?

Vise Grip

2009-10-02T09:51:00.002-04:00

Ever feel like you're wrestling with your life? All you need is one victory, even a tiny one, on some front but it just won't materialize? Well, I have news for you. With all my talk of squeegeein the third eye and assorted borrowed Buddhist concepts, I am one of the worst offenders.

A while ago, I read this great book on the concept of the devil from a Buddhist perspective. The title escapes me but this quote from Buddha remains resonant: "It makes no difference what you grasp, when someone grasps, Mara sits beside him". Mara is Buddha's devil or devil-concept. This 'grasp' he refers to, in my mind, is the opposite of squeegeeing the third eye. The mind's eye needs to remain clear so that the world can pass through it and a dirty third eye will certainly muddy that up. However, it is only when this 'eye' gets a hold of something and won't let go that our entire life can be upheaved. Despite the ability of a high-functioning third eye's capacity to process the metaphysical or obtuse concepts of the surrounding world, the rest of our mind still clings to the concrete like a baby to his mother's breast. When this 'grasp' occurs, things start to back up in the third eye and sure, Bill Hick's squeegee recommendation is sound advice. Yet, the jamming of the eye in this manner is only the beginning of our troubles. Like a nervous sphincter, our mind's eye clams shut in an attempt to establish some sort of fixed position from which we can fend off life's challenges. No one, NO one can avoid this. Especially not me.

My only hope, as far as I can tell, is that I still manage to catch on eventually when I have a vise grip on life. Other folks work hard to maintain their grip and experience the odd "eye-opening" experience here and there, only for it to do the spincter thing immediately after. My experience of releasing said grip is not radical or beyond what my fellow travelers work with. It actually turns out to be the latest in a lifelong parade of double-takes where I let it slip and am reminded that my life and life itself are still "there" whether Im gripping or not. So then what good does this grip really do? How many proverbs and cliches are there for holding onto something too tight? I'll let you go ahead and fill them in. Life happens. It doesn't require our input and it goes on. The spirit of existence is a free one and it doesnt respond well to, or really give a shit about our input. It's for us to enjoy. I leave you with more words of wisdom from my spirit-world brother Bill Hicks:

"It's just a ride and we can change it any time we want. It's only a choice. No effort, no work, no job, no savings and money, a choice, right now, between fear and love. The eyes of fear want you to put bigger locks on your door, buy guns, close yourself off. The eyes of love instead see all of us as one."

Squeegee Your Third Eye

2009-09-22T15:46:00.003-04:00

One of my heroes, the late stand-up comedian Bill Hicks, used the phrase "Squeegee Your Third Eye" a lot in his act. Of course, he also recommended we do this through the use of psilocybin mushrooms but I believe the phrase can easily apply to non drug users. After all, I have never used drugs, with the exception of alcohol but that's no help, believe me. Bill always pointed out that the two drugs that do nothin for our Third Eye are perfectly legal while all those that do alter our minds are illegal. Coincidence? I think not. Those that know me, however, know that I understand we're all tryin to get to the same place. There is no judgment from me. The Third Eye is another way of sayin the mind's eye. A squeegee is that thing they use at the gas station to clean your windows. By squeegeein our mind's eye, we are keeping it clear so that we may perceive things better. Being mindful of things is to perceive life through our mind's eye and not just our five senses. It is through our mind's eye that we master life. If you've been woken up by Morpheus, this means you can do kung fu, dodge bullets and jump from building to building. That's fun but before any of that, Morpheus told Neo that The Matrix worked on his five senses and if that's all you use, the control works. Since we are more than the sum of our five senses, we are free. We just have to keep that area clean. We have to squeegee our third eye. We must strive for mastery. This way of perceiving the world, once switched on, does not switch off. Trust me. I've sabotaged it with alcohol and it may blur but it does not shut down.

At this moment, forces far more destructive than alcohol are at work on my mind's eye. See, as far as I know of my own third eye, it doesn't work like any other senses. It does not involve the wondrous precision of the nervous system. Too much input from the world around me slips past my five senses and clogs my mind's eye. All that refuse, all that shit becomes far too much for a mere squeegee. How do I keep it out? Most people, even those who know nothing of this mind's eye, filter their world until they're comfortable with the outlook. When the mind's eye is clogged, they feel the effects but are unaware. They do their best with their five senses and their mind's eye takes care of itself. You could say that they are trained to stay away from certain functions of the mind. If everyone was mindful and weilding a third eye, we could be on some unknown level of evolution and travelin to new realities. Instead, cases like mine tend to result in mental illness. That tends to handicap perception and cause much suffering. But that's still not the case with me. Hence these forces which I haven't explained yet. Some of us get this idea that this clouded mind might have a silver lining. If we manage to clear the hurdles and dodge the bullets our condition puts in our path, there must be a reason. My survival and the augmentation of my perception might have prepared me to assist others with their perception. The fact that I have managed to infiltrate the field of education is a key clue to my purpose lying in the future of children. The fact that I ended up with teenagers has seemed right to me. They are only just forming and that includes their mind's eye. Smaller children are perception with legs. I love them to pieces but they are relatively clear of struggle for the time being. Adolescence is truly when the "Who am I?" directive appears and we all know that there is a line around the block and across the planet waiting to give or sell them the answer. THEY are the forces I speak of. Those voices and the noise that they smother perception with plague me. I cannot filter them as others do. Instead, I perceive them all and even amplify them a bit. Thankfully, at age 30, I may finally understand that too much time spent in the mind's eye can lead to delusions of invulnerability and the neglect of my all-too-human, all-too-ordinary life. Too much "big picture" makes the small picture inoperable. And the "small" picture is daily life. When daily life shuts down, ALL life shuts down. Sound elementary? Guess what? Now you have the kryptonite that kills those of us who try to be Superman. Plans to save the perception of students are still made under the auspices of the institution of education. The cock-eyed and polluted pool of conformity is the only pool I can conduct my mission in. That's what's getting to me, folks. I am up to my eyes in it. If I save myself, does that mean I have abandoned my mission? Have I given up? I never quit. What do I do?

Be present

2009-09-21T23:41:00.002-04:00

Buddhists use the word 'mindful' a lot. I may devote my next blog entirely to the concept but for now I just want to share just one example and end with a related post that I placed on Facebook. Buddhists advise us to be mindful of the present moment. We should try to enjoy the experience of whatever we're doing at the moment. For example, rather than stuffing crap in our mouths while driving and talking on the cell phone would be the complete opposite of that idea. Next time you eat, try just having that experience and worry about nothing else. It's tougher than it sounds and I suck at it as much or more than anyone else. Be present:

My interest in this subject probably started at one of the last few concerts I went to and realized I was one of the only attendees in the front row that was actually experiencing the show rather than taking pic with the digital and tweeting. More re...cently, I was doing something as natural as hanging out on a porch with some folks but I was the only one there because the rest were completely "plugged in" to Iphones, laptops and whatever. Not doing work. Not even talking to someone live. Just somewhere else.

Actress Radha Mitchell, Bruce Willis' co-star in the new movie Surrogates, explains what I feel is a rare, relevant theme, the kind that good sci-fi movies should be based on. This is from an interview on Superherohype.com:SHH: You mention social commentary; there seems to be a message in "Surrogates" about technology taking over and the inherent risks. Can you talk a little about how you feel the film relates to technology in the world today?Mitchell: Definitely. I think the strength of this story is that it exaggerates a situation that we're all experiencing now in that we're talking about abstract forms of communication. You use this Surrogate body to live your life for you. A lot of us are spending much more time than we ever did before, especially on our working sites, on the internet, Googling, texting, Twittering. It's taking up a lot of our time and taking time away from actual human exchanges. Or, a lot of us are sort of playing these roles in society and not necessarily being what we are. I think that it is, on a certain level, dehumanizing us. The movie posits the question and then challenges us to take responsibility. It's actually unexpectedly challenging for a big-budget action movie."

Certifiable? Certified? Classified? All Of The Above?

2009-09-17T10:01:00.008-04:00

I cannot be classified.

I am not a member.

I wrote that in high school, 10th grade I believe. It's cute, I think. Lord knows, I'd be ecstatic if I received anything of that nature from my students. For me, it was the beginning.

Some of my earliest memories aren't even really memories. They're figments of my imagination but figments that were being used to propel all sorts of exploration. Before I even turned three, I was having daily conversations with my sixty four year old neighbor, Sav. And I would talk about whatever was the furthest from my immediate scope. My favorite topic was the planes that flew from nearby JFK Airport and right over our house in Queens. By the time I was learning my alphabet, I had made it to the edge of the known universe, struggling with the black or white space that could only be what came before the beginning. Yet, none of that was a threat to my place in the whole mess. As I've said, I've always been able to pilot from within. No matter which direction I look, outward or inward, I can always find myself on the verge of something but never quite there. Let me pause for a moment to paraphrase something my mentor and karate instructor said in class last night.

Look through the telescope and you will see infinity.

Look through the microscope and you will see infinity.

Being on the verge of something but never quite there is merely a description of the leash we are all on. We may gaze at the infinite but our perspective is finite. Sooner or later, we classify out of the need to get a grip. We make plans.

Love. Work. Living space. No matter how long I have used my creativity and imagination to address and contemplate the infinite, the present has a way of getting one's attention. Try having plans in all of those areas blasted to bits within a relatively short window of time. No longer a dreamer, you're worn. Suddenly, you become aware of the mass you're comprised of and remember how long you've been dragging it around. It's a crash course in what's actually goin on. With luck, the "While You Were Away" memo arrives long before any serious breakdown. In my experience, the road to disaster is paved by neglect for the here and now. A certain Dr. Winston O'Boogie once said "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans."

Torrential Thoughts

2009-09-11T16:37:00.002-04:00

It can constrict itself to a pin prick, a prick just big enough to set its sights on one idea or image without relenting. Or it can expand to such an extent that either some catastrophic stampede can trample through and wreak havoc or an aerial god-like view will reveal the insignificance of whatever that prick set its sights on. The third eye. The all-seeing eye.

How have I come so far in man's linear world? The martial artist in me would tell you that you counter straight line attacks with circular defense. In other words, use the femine Yin as cohesively with the masculine Yang as you can. But that concept of balance was something I was obsessed with for quite a long time until recent years. See, I have always managed to make it in man's world but only due to the power of my imagination. Never have I been in tune with the objective world. BUT Ive been able to use this dry/erase board, or for fellow teachers, this SmartBoard, in my mind to conceptualize and dream up responses to the everyday world. I used to excel at math not because I appreciated numbers or calculations. I could imagine the equations, using my mind's eye.

You see, since I was a kid, I found I could run my affairs from inside. Anything that threatened to pull me out was met with great annoyance. Every time the obligations I was taking on outside demanded compromise, I would negotiate always for maximum retention of my inner world. But I did tell you something changed in recent years, did I not? Well, there are no two worlds. There needn't be any interface because none exists. Interfaces exist because we create construct upon construct upon construct to navigate and make sense of this world. The idea I am building up to is more of a fusion or coalescence. The ability to bring one's inner world out in the open and take the wide open into one's heart. Tall order, right? I've got time.