Category: Life

“Contrary” – An Appreciation

The Madchronicler2 Comments

If you look up the term “contrary” in any dictionary you receive a definition similar to, if not the same as this one:

Contrary [kon-trer-ee] (ADJ, N): 1. Opposite in nature or character; diametrically or mutually opposed; 2. Opposite in direction or position; 3. Being the opposite one of two; 4. Unfavorable or adverse; 5. Perverse; stubbornly opposed or willful. 

That particular definition was taken from www.dictionary.com, one of my many internet bookmarks and an app on both my phone and my Kindle Fire. “Contrary” is not what I like to consider one of my “chosen words.” You know the types of words that I’m referring to, especially if you are a writer like I am or I aspire to be (depending on whose opinion you ask). If you’ve ever read anything that I’ve written–be said “anything” one of these oft ignored blog entries or the novel that I just finished writing–you are likely familiar with my “chosen words.” Examples include: “Aforementioned,” “segue” and “frighteningly.” I don’t even think I used “contrary” once in “Endworld.” Not even “contrary to popular belief” or “contrary to what you might be thinking.”

I’m not sure if the omission of a relatively common word is conscious or subconscious. After all, I generally try not to be “contrary”: Not in life, nor love, nor… well sh*t, friends, anything. I try very hard to keep a positive outlook despite the precariousness or dreariness of a given situation. But some days? Well, some days I remember the words of a once-acquaintance who used the term “contrary” to describe a different circumstance. When said acquaintance was having “one of those days,” she called it a “Contrary Day,” i.e. a day where she was just… off. Not depressed nor angry, just “contrary.” I’ve heard others refer to it as everything from being “bleah” to being “out of it.” I didn’t learn a lot from that once-acquaintance. If anything, I learned how much of a dick with arms and legs I can be, and if that person is reading this right now–as I sit in what my wife Nicole calls “my divot” on the couch in our living room with the Sixers on mute across the room and Bach playing over the speakers of my laptop–I’d like to take this long, overdue opportunity to say that I am sorry.

Refocus. Eyes forward. Oh crap, if I look forward I catch a glimpse of the Sixers beating the “best team in the NBA” by 15 points late in the Fourth. Refocus. Eyes on the screen of my laptop. Back to “contrary.”

Lately, friends, I’ve been feeling quite “contrary.” Primarily over the last week or so. Said (“said” definitely equals another one of my “chosen words”) “contrariness” is due largely in part to my current work situation–down a person in my department for the next month/forced to do her work and my own during one of the busiest periods we, as a company, have ever experienced–and by association my newly elevated stress level. But there are other factors contributing to it, as well, some that I have been able to diagnose and some that remain a mystery.

One that I have been able to diagnose is ‘kinda simple: I’ve a hole in my soul where there once existed a novel. There’s an emptiness inside of me now that “Endworld” is done: A sense of loss that I can equate with many things, some that I would write about had I more time and energy and some that are somewhat… private that I won’t regardless of how lucid I am. As a wise sage of the cinema once said: “I keep those thoughts for myself.” The solution to my problem? I could start the next novel. I am, in fact, itching to start it. But beginning something as extensive as a novel directly on the coattails of something equally extensive is a daunting task, especially in light of the workload I am carrying currently. And considering that the fate of “Endworld” in many ways remains up in the air until I receive feedback first, from the person who is currently editing it, second from my wife who is currently reading it and third, from a collection of a dozen or two “beta readers” that have expressed interest in previewing it, I think its best not to begin the second until I know for sure if the first has appeal. So for now, “Endworld” book two will remain a plot in my head and a rough outline sketched out in virtually indecipherable cursive on a legal pad until such time as I am confidant that it has legs.

I also equate it to life: Beginning a serious relationship on the coattails of another, serious relationship is oft times doomed for failure. Some times it works out. Take Nicole and I: I came out of a serious relationship and within a few months I was inan even more serious one with the woman I would, eventually, marry, alias the mother of my one daughter, Cara, and the soon-to-be mother of my second daughter. For those of you reading this that don’t know yes: Nicole and I are expecting what I have been calling a “plus one” for the last few months. Cara Angelina’s little sister, Natalie Theresa Marsh is due in early June. But many times? What most people call a “rebound” relationship does not work out. It fizzles and the participants are left even more scarred than they were before beginning it. The moral of the story? Take a little time after you complete something epic, be that something a book, a relationship, a job or any number of “a’s” and a noun before you begin something equally or more epic. Sometimes the jump works out. Others? You end up in a worse place than you were before. I’m thankful… damn thankful that my situation turned out the way it did. If there’s one thing that isn’t contributing to my “contrariness” right now it’s my marriage, my family and my friends. Not to mention a surprisingly dominant home basketball team that just spanked the Bulls by 16 points. “Show ‘ya ‘luv,” Philadelphia. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a professional basketball team in this town that we can be proud of.

Diagnosed, then: Factors contributing to my “contrariness.” One: My work situation. Two: My desire to write the currently untitled sequel to “Endworld” (though my buddy Matt’s proposed title, “Red-Headed Stepchildren of Endworld” remains the frontrunner). Those are the two most prominent. But is there a third? A fourth? Likely, but I honestly don’t know. This little, psychological cross-examination of my current condition has thus far only yielded those two. I guess that my virtual incapacity to win a single game of “Words with Friends” could be a third. Consider: I have four years and some change (if you count my 24 Graduate credits which are currently sitting in educational limbo at Drexel) of experience with the English language in an academic setting. I have a relatively extensive vocabulary that, contrary to what you may believe is not limited to my “chosen words.” I can pull words like “redressed” and “factoid” out of my a** if given the appropriate tiles and board set up. Each word yields me anywhere between 30 and 40 points (my highest yet–“flux”–actually yielded me almost 60 thanks to good positioning). But then my opponent plays “axe,” hits a triple word score and a triple letter score on the “x” and completes “avoid” and “da” on a perpendicular and a parallel/ends up with a shade under 100. I can’t tell you how close I came to cursing that person out via the “Words with Friends'” chat function/throwing my brand new Kindle Fire through the screen of my television from my position within “my divot” upon the couch. If that person is reading this right now I am sorry. Reference my aforementioned capacity to be a dick with arms and legs. The moral of the story, friends? Extensive experience with the English language does not make you a “Words with Friends” ringer. If anything, it acts as a crutch when combined with your incapacity to do simple math.

Incidentally, current record on “Words with Friends”: 1-9 in my last ten matches. That one win was my only win and it came at the expense of my brother-in-law who has now avenged himself on me three or four times since, most recently by approximately 200 points. If I ever win another game I will likely leap up from “my divot” and dance a jig in the middle of my living room before I relapse in to my “contrary” state. But I digress. Refocus. Eyes forward. Oh f*ck, Nicole is watching “Phineas and Ferb.” Refocus. Eyes down and on the screen of my laptop. But… it’s… Skiddley Whiffers! 

What about a fourth? Perhaps the dearth of decent television right now (though blessedly, “The Walking Dead” is due back on a week from this Sunday) or the lack of time to do anything other than sleep, work, occasionally grab a bite to eat (down almost 10 pounds in the last week… nothing like a stress and “contrariness” crash diet to drop that extra coating of winter fur or in my case, holiday fat) and sleep again. Perhaps the fact that I am now blogging while watching the “Tour ‘de Ferb” for the umpteenth time and am desperately longing for a new episode of arguably the best cartoon on television before it stagnates. In truth? The third, fourth, fifth or dozenth factor (if one exists) doesn’t matter. I am “contrary” right now because of factors one and two. Little more explanation is needed save for this: I decided roughly two hours ago, right after Cara blessedly went right to sleep that I would take a little time to write an appreciation of “being contrary” and I did. Not just for myself but for the person who originated said concept. It’s a good one, friends. A worthy addition to the list of euphemisms people use for having “one of those days. “I’m having a contrary day.”

Take it out for a test drive the next time you’re feeling “bleah” or “out of it.” Try it on for size. If you like it, use it, and spread it around so that others can use it, as well. And while you’re at it, try writing about your state of mind. You don’t need to be a writer or an aspiring writer with “chosen words.” You’ll be amazed at how much better you feel afterwards. Much less like an overworked, stressed out, oft times dick with arms and legs that can’t win a single game of “Words with Friends.” You feel semi-normal. And maybe… just maybe “semi-normal” is enough to help you cope with your “Contrary Day.” At least, that is, until the resurgent Sixers play the Heat on Friday night.

Show ‘ya ‘luv. 

F.

What Thanksgiving Means to Me by Way of Monty Python, Industrial Strength Aerosol Lubricant and CHILDREN OF ENDWORLD

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Believe what you will, this blog post is NOT going to be all about the once-sequel to the novel I’ve been working on for the last six to seven months, CHILDREN OF ENDWORLD. I say “once-sequel” because as of the last… oh, few days, CHILDREN is no longer the sequel to the novel I’ve been diligently plugging away at since the end of April, 2011. It’s been subjugated to Book Three status. It will still be called CHILDREN but the NEW direct sequel to ENDWORLD is just that: A direct sequel, i.e. it takes place directly after ENDWORLD concludes and not three years later. Anyone familiar with the original trilogy that is disappointed with that eventuality I’m sorry, but in light of certain… developments it makes more sense to NOT break up the continuity of the story.

No, friends. My reason for bringing it up is this: There is a scene roughly 50% of the way through the original draft of CHILDREN in which Roland err… William MacNuff (sorry; old habits and all that) is reunited with his surviving companions from the first book in a location that I will NOT divulge here (it’s ‘kinda a surprise) on a cold and snowy morning (hint, HINT: Where might it be snowing in late November?) over coffee and a home-grown breakfast. That morning has always been and will remain Thanksgiving morning, and while I only briefly allude to it in the original draft of CHILDREN I intend to elaborate upon it in the re-write. As you may have figured out, I’ve done a great deal of elaborating on THE ENDWORLD CHRONICLE already, so much so that the title “chronicle” no longer is sufficient to the scope of what I am intending. It’s more of a cycle, actually. THE ENDWORLD CYCLE, perhaps? Or is that to Piers Morgan? No idea, yet. I haven’t even formulated a title for the new sequel though admittedly, I ‘kinda like RED-HEADED STEPCHILDREN OF ENDWORLD (thank you, @mattiasmaximus, AKA my buddy Matt, AKA Matt O’Brien in THE ENDWORLD… whatever).

But I digress. That scene has always held a special place in my heart, soul and mind because of something I wholeheartedly believe in. Something that is, for me, an underlying theme of this time of year. Not just Thanksgiving but the you-know-what season that follows it (sorry, but I’m predisposed to NOT mention that particular C-word until AFTER I’ve eaten until it hurts and watched football-related programming for 24 hours). So I’ll stick with Thanksgiving, which is all about family and friends. It’s about uniting as a unit/as one to celebrate all that you… that WE are thankful for. And I have A LOT to be thankful for this year, friends. I would list everything but to do so would be ‘kinda tedious (seems like I’m using “‘kinda” a lot in this post, doesn’t it?) and I don’t want to give away any… as Doctor River Song from “Doctor Who” would say, “spoilers” before I’m allowed to. But I would be remiss if I didn’t list a few things.

This Thanksgiving more than others I feel very, VERY blessed. I have a wonderful family and wonderful friends; I’m once again “pot committed” to something that I love doing: Writing; I have a steady job, something that many around the world and specifically here on, as William MacNuff would say, “The Continent” can not claim. I have a renewed sense of purpose, something that I’ve been sorely lacking for the last couple of years. And that? That is where I’ll leave it. ‘Cause really, this little blog post is NOT meant to be a generic, “What Thanksgiving Means To Me” elementary school-style essay. After all, the title of this little ditty is “What Thanksgiving Means To Me (by way of Monty Python, industrial strength aerosol lubricant and CHILDREN OF ENDWORLD).” So my approach is to look at Thanksgiving from a few… uncharacteristic viewpoints. So without further adieu…

In 1983, the almost (but not quite) defunct Monty Python’s Flying Circus (though I don’t think they called themselves that at that point) put out their last movie of original material. “The Meaning of Life” was JUST THAT: A series of sketches about the meaning of life. Everything from birth through death. While the overall movie itself was, for me, a bit LESS hysterical than the previous three (others may think differently), there were a few parts that had me in tears of hysteria. And I’m NOT referring to “Find The Fish” which was, to employ an Anglophile term, “bloody awful.” I’m specifically referring to the one minute long skit about suicidal leaves. Those of you reading this that HAVEN’T seen the movie or more specifically that scene please check out THIS LINK before reading any further. I promise you that you won’t be disappointed.

While suicide is never funny–and it isn’t, friends, I’ll be the first to say that–that skit has, for me, always signified something different. Every time I see it I think of the end of Fall/Thanksgiving time. While that may seem somewhat demented to some of you reading this consider it before calling me a twisted f*ck. View it again with that thought in mind. Then think of the scene today in and around the Philadelphia area: Gray, cloudy skies; a howling wind; and as my one co-worker observed without the benefit of ever having seen “The Meaning of Life,” the last of the season’s leaves plunging to their respective deaths from the trees lining Green Street in Royersford, PA. It works, doesn’t it? While some might consider gray skies and trees shedding the last of their patchwork, seasonal coats about the furthest thing from “warm and fuzzy” I don’t. Gray skies and barren trees make me think happy thoughts. Like snuggling beneath a comforter with my wife and my daughter watching “Caillou” and “Pajanimals.” Like snuggling under the same comforter and reading “Goldilicious” to my daughter a half a dozen times before she finally concedes that she’s exhausted and says, “read ‘Goldie’ upstairs, daddy” and I concede, “okay, sweetheart. Read ‘Goldie’ upstairs,” thereafter tucking her in with “Goldie,” her stuffed Cookie Monster, stuffed Kermit, stuffed Clifford and EVERY OTHER stuffed animal she keeps in her harem of a crib (you should see it: It’s a wonder she can even sleep in it it’s so full with her “babies”). Like retiring downstairs and snuggling with my wife beneath that same, gosh-darned comforter and watching a movie while the cold, north wind howls outside and time moves onward aimlessly, and without check throughout my… throughout OUR subjective universes. I am thankful for moments like these, friends. And that IS what Thanksgiving is all about, is it not?

Fast forward from 1983 to 2011. This afternoon whilst (whilst = better than ‘kinda… or worse?) I was at work trying to get caught up before my mini, four day vacation from the world of Hydraulic and Pneumatic Distribution I received a phone call from a customer who shall remain nameless for fear of a libel lawsuit. Said customer asked me if I could supply him with an aerosol can of industrial strength lubricant for delivery tomorrow morning. UPS RED, EARLY AM… on Thanksgiving. Admittedly, my FIRST instinct was to either laugh in his ear or ask him if he was intending on having intercourse with a turkey tomorrow morning but being that one of the things that I’m thankful for is my steady job, career suicide? Probably NOT the best idea. So I bit back my initially considered snarky retort and informed him that I did not have any of what he was looking for in-house (which I didn’t) and that the lone source that I had for said-lubricant had already left for the day (which they had). I even checked my inventory though I knew the answer to his question without doing so. The customer understood, thanked me for my time and wished me a Happy Thanksgiving. I wished him the same and we went our separate ways. But that phone call? Well, it ‘kinda got me to thinking. It got me to thinking about said customer’s situation and the fact that instead of being at home with his family tomorrow morning he will likely be holed up in some dusty, dreary, cold warehouse somewhere waiting for a courier to drop off an aerosol can of industrial strength lubricant, AKA WD-40 on steroids from a company in either Canada or Mexico. I feel for that man… I feel horrible for him. Sh*t, guys, I feel terrible for ANYONE that has to work tomorrow in ANY capacity. I mean, I did it for years. 13 to be exact: A decade plus of slaving away in first, lower and then upper Retail Management. It sucks. My own wife has to work until 2:00 tomorrow afternoon and I feel for her. But do you know what? I’m thankful… I’m DAMN thankful that while I am not always the biggest fan of my job, it provides me and HAS provided me with a luxury that–up until six years ago–I never enjoyed: Holidays. Not just Thanksgiving but ALL holidays. I get to spend them with my loved ones, now. As it should be. And while the younger version of myself enjoyed the OT and the free lunches that he got for working holidays, the OLDER version of my same-self? Well heck. Who needs a hoagie platter or a couple of extra bucks when I can spend Thanksgiving morning playing “Peoples” (Fisher Price Little People for those of you unfamiliar with the term) or “Babies” with my daughter while the 6ABC Thanksgiving Day Parade plays in the background. I can witness her “ooh” and “aah” and say things like “look, daddy! ‘Is Santa Claus!” when he arrives despite the fact that when Nicole and I take her to see him this weekend she will likely freak out (as most two and a half year olds do). I am thankful for moments like these–when I get to wonder at my daughter’s innocent fascination with concepts that have grown slightly jaded for me due to time and age, and a day later comfort her when she is scared of those SAME concepts. And that TOO is what Thanksgiving is all about, is it not?

Circle back around to how I began this blog post, AKA the idea that originally inspired it: The scene in CHILDREN OF ENDWORLD so near and always dear to my heart, mind and soul in which William MacNuff is reunited with the family (’cause that IS what they become over the course of the “chronicle,” “cycle” or WHATEVER I end up calling it) he left behind at the end of Book One. While coffee and a combination of rations and homegrown food-stuffs like potatoes, carrots and the like don’t exactly equal a Thanksgiving Day feast with turkey, stuffing, mashed and sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, pineapple bread, pumpkin bread, crescent rolls and various sundry pies and cakes, in a post-apocalyptic world run by a totalitarian “Administration” of machines in which most human beings are little more than mindless pawns in an ongoing chess game against… well, against the futuristic 1%–the few human beings that resist and fight the “Administration”–it’s about the best my hero and his “peoples” can ask for. And in that scene he–William–is thankful not only for the food and the company but for his life. I repeat: HIS LIFE. When I originally wrote that scene some 15 odd (and yes, they HAVE BEEN odd, friends) years ago I didn’t quite understand that. Admittedly I was pretty f*cking miserable. Those of you reading this who knew me back then know the gory details so I’m not going to go in to them here but the prospect of THIS life, i.e. the life I lead now was non-existent. Back then, I called myself a living, breathing facsimile of a smiley face. Now? The grin suffusing my face as I write these words is not a forced one, nor is it a facade that I am putting on for my wife, Nicole, who… having returned home from work… now sits across from me beneath a comforter watching “Mythbusters.” My thankfulness this year is not some BS excuse I came up with to convince my family at dinner tomorrow night that I’m happy. I AM happy, friends. I’m happy for my family and my friends. I’m happy for ENDWORLD, working title RED-HEADED STEPCHILDREN OF ENDWORLD and CHILDREN OF ENDWORLD, not to mention THE [overarching] ENDWORLD… whatever. I’m happy for Monty Python, even skits as “bloody awful” as “Find the Fish” and I’m happy for gray skies and barren trees. I’m happy for cuddling beneath a blanket with my loving wife and my wonderful daughter as the chill outside attempts and fails to impinge upon our happy home. I’m thankful for regular strength WD-40 (it keeps the hinges on the doors in my house from squeaking) and I’m thankful that I’ve never used the phrase “intercourse with a turkey” until today. I’m thankful for “Peoples” and “Babies” and parades and yes, I’m EVEN thankful for the you-know-what season that follows Thanksgiving. And GOD am I thankful for the privilege of seeing my semi-jaded subjective universe through the eyes of a child again.

But MOST importantly, friends? I’m thankful for my life. I repeat: MY life. And THAT is what Thanksgiving means to me. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Now stop reading this and go eat until it hurts/watch football related programming for the next 24 hours.

F.

Anniversaries, Ray Bans, Chronic Migraines, a Little ENDWORLD and the Awesomeness that is Spotify

The Madchronicler2 Comments

Happy October 15th, everyone. Incidentally, October 15th just so happens to be my wedding anniversary so before I write anything, let me first take a moment to wish my words-can-not-describe wife Nicole a Happy 6th Anniversary. For some of you reading this that have been hitched longer than that six years might not seem like much of a milestone but for me it’s monumental. Pre-Nicole the longest relationship I’d ever been in was roughly seven months and most of my relationships averaged between one night (with the occasional breakfast thrown in for good measure) and four months. Amazingly enough, when you factor in the amount of time we’ve dated (or, if you’re more of a traditionalist, the amount of time we’ve “courted”) we’ve been together for 10 years this November 11th. Despite our proclivities towards a more casual, laid-back lifestyle now she still keeps things interesting on a daily basis. She’s about as good a mother as I’ve ever encountered and as phenomenal a spouse as I could ask for. Nicole, I know you’re reading this. I love you with all my heart and always will. OH! And thank you again for the Ray-Bans. I’m nervous as f*ck to wear them (I have a knack for breaking expensive things, sunglasses especially) but I’ve always wanted a pair. In the words of William (remember, friends: No longer Roland) MacNuff: “‘You ‘done good, kiddo.”

It’s been a rough couple of weeks for me. I’m not going to lie. One or two people inquired recently why, in mid-September, I seemingly paused… at least publicly… all activity related to the writing of ENDWORLD. Fact is I did. Reluctantly. I ‘kinda had to. Shortly after I returned from vacation I had an… an incident I guess you could call it. I was beset upon quite suddenly by something that I had suffered from as a child but had, at least to my knowledge, kicked in the subsequent years since: Chronic Migraines. I actually ended up in the hospital for a weekend because of them. While I was released that Sunday afternoon and allowed to return home the damn things didn’t stop. In fact, they became more consistent albeit not as severe as they had been that weekend. I was forced to give up caffeine because the doctors considered it to be the trigger. I was asked to limit any stressful activities (also, they determined, a trigger) temporarily until I could meet with a Neurologist and work up a treatment plan. I was told to start going to bed earlier which sadly meant the end of my late night writing sprints… at least for a time. I followed all of this advice to a tee because no one should have to live with what I had to live with that week or two after I returned from vacation and continued to deal with in the two weeks after I was discharged: Constant pain is not a welcome companion on mine or any one’s journey through their own, subjective universe and if you are reading this and suffering from something similar you have my sympathies. I… truly… feel your pain.

So I did as was requested of me. I finally got to see a Neurologist who helped get me back on my feet via meds and a few recommended lifestyle changes and here I am. I’ve been virtually caffeine-free since mid-September (I am allowed to drink the occasional soda now but energy drinks, sadly, are no longer permitted), have been sleeping better (no more middle-of-the-night migraines, thank God, Allah, Buddha, or whatever deity/deities you worship), and… now that I’m feeling more like a reasonable facsimile of myself again, I’ve decided over the last few days that I am long overdue to return to the one thing that I have been holding off on, i.e. finishing ENDWORLD. So finally–as those of you that follow me on Facebook, Twitter and Google+ are aware–I finished up my read and revise of Parts One and Two and started Part Three (appropriately subtitled “Deceived”) yesterday. And after a five page writing jog (definitely not a sprint) over the course of about six or seven hours yesterday, things appear to be moving along (albeit somewhat less-frantically than before; I guess that’s what a limited caffeine intake does to you). I’ve got my fingers crossed that I can finish this thing by the end of this year. While that’s a significantly longer time frame than I had originally anticipated (the end of August and the end of September have both come on gone as you are all well aware) I’ve come to understand something vital over the last few weeks’ experiences:

I’m not under any pressure to finish this by a set date. No publisher is hanging a deadline over my head and while I hate keeping my editor waiting (I’m sorry, Amy, but I promise: When I’m done it you’ll be the second too know (right after Nicole)) I hope she understands. As for those of you–my friends and my family–that have been waiting for something to “Beta Test” if everything goes the way I hope it will you should have something in your stocking by this Christmas. That’s my new goal. ‘Cause to be completely honest with you? I want to finish this. Why? Because I’ve got some really cool ideas for the re-write of the sequel that I can’t wait to put on paper and because I owe it to myself and to the people that have most supported me to make this happen. That’s pretty much all I’ve got right now on the ole’ book. Thanks for your continued encouragement and advice. Specifically, I’m looking at not only you, Nicole, but you, Matt, Tom, Steve, Pat, Kim, Amy, Renee, Emily… all my “peeps” that have given me feedback and if I neglected to mention your name I’m sorry. Booyakasha. Respect. 

All that said, an unrelated topic: Spotify. Who reading this uses it and who loves it as much as I do? I read about it in the tech mags a few months ago when it first rolled out to the us here in the states and I never thought much of it. After all, I’ve got a couple thousand songs on my four year old iPod Classic. Who needs streaming music for $10.00 a month? Let me tell you something, folks: I finally gave in and downloaded the free service this week with the 15 day trial of the Premium service (the one that you can get on your mobile as well as your PC, iPad, Tablet or whatever you’re using) and in all honesty? I had no idea what I was missing. Pandora? Slacker? Shazam? Move aside. I have no doubt that when my 15 day trial of the Premium service is up I’m subscribing to it. I’m writing this from work right now and before you detractors out there reading this question why I’m blogging when I’m supposed to be working understand that I was working all morning. Now that I’m caught up and have some time to kill I’m blowing time so THPT! (much love). I’ve only created three playlists so far and the one that I’m listening to right now–entitled “The State Pen Years”–is loaded with music from the artists I used to listen to while I was in college. 335 tracks so far ranging from old-school Soundgarden to The Prodigy. Throw in a little Primus, Marilyn Manson and a dash of The Mighty Mighty Bosstones for good measure (shout out, Billy D) and I’m in audio heaven. Half the stuff on this playlist is music I used to own on either tape or CD. If on tape said music was simply lost over the subsequent years since I left school and multiple moves, and if on CD said music was likely sold for beer money back when I was in college or stolen by one (or more) ex-girlfriends. But now? For a couple of bucks a month I have all those songs back in mu possession. Consider the last five songs I’ve listened to while I was writing:

5. Rob Zombie, “More Human Than Human.”
4. Soundgarden, “Face Pollution.”
3. Smashing Pumpkins, “X. Y. U.”
2. The Prodigy, “Smack My B*tch Up.” (I apologize to those of you with sensibilities. Please note: I don’t condone, it’s just a cool song)
1. Soundgarden, “Superunknown.”

Now playing: “Save Yourself” by Stabbing Westward. All in all a well-rounded collection of tunes whether they are your cup of tea or not. Is it wrong of me to presume that this and similar innovations (like the iCloud) are going to eventually kill iTunes and MP3s? Feel free to debate that question if you so desire to do so but as far as this music-lover is concerned? I’m all in on the awesomeness of Spotify. Well done, Sweden. This may be perhaps the best thing you’ve given the western world since the watch. Or perhaps the utility knife. Every so often you come up big. Booyakasha. Respect. 

And with that, I’m about done, everyone. My boss has finally given me the green light to go home for the day and I plan to. I have a sixth anniversary to celebrate, a daughter to play with, a book to write and a soda to drink (I’m due for one: Haven’t had one since Tuesday PM). So with one, final salud and just one more Booyakasha for good measure I’m going to slip on my brand new Ray-Bans and roll. Thank you all, again, for your continuing attention, advice, support and friendship. I thrive on it more than you can imagine. Peace.

11:30 AM; 10/15/11

 

What Thanksgiving Means to Me by Way of Probability and Statistics

The Madchronicler2 Comments

Amazing the things that inspire you to write. Take this morning. I was sitting at work punching in a level sensor quote and suffering from an ailment known as “Chronic Myjobsucksitis,” when out of the corner of my ear (is that even a phrase, or is it another of my infamous “Frankisms”?) I heard the opening bars of “Tuesday’s Gone” by Lynyrd Skynyrd. Suddenly, the sensor quote I was working on became the farthest thing from my mind. My creative juices began flowing. Before I even knew what was happening I had opened a blank Word document on my computer and my fingers were doing their familiar, ritualistic dance across my keyboard. And here we are. “Tuesday’s Gone” has ended and has been replaced by “In The Limelight” by… *SIGH*… Rush. But my inspiration has not waned. I just need to finish my sensor quote before continuing. *DOUBLE SIGH* Be right back.

Okay, that’s done. Amazingly enough, the only thing I have “pending” at the present time is an RMA (Return Material Authorization) for one of my customers, but that can wait. Priorities, priorities, priorities (sarcasm fully intended). Considering it’s the day before Thanksgiving and anywhere from 75-80% of my customers are gone or will be gone by noon, I’ll have some time to work on… well, the sh*t I get paid for later. But for now…

I haven’t written anything in a while, so if this composition seems a bit choppy at first, I apologize. Hopefully said choppiness will pass the more ritualistic dancing my fingers do across my keyboard (not sure why I felt the need to repeat that other than it sounded and continues to sound ‘kinda cool). We’ll see. I can’t make any promises.

As I mentioned, tomorrow is Thanksgiving. In years passed, said holiday played second fiddle to the night pre-¬Thanksgiving. This year, though (and last if I’m being honest), all that has changed. Instead of leaving work, heading home, grabbing a quick shower and heading to the bar, tonight I will be leaving work, picking up my daughter, heading home, feeding her, putting her to bed and thereafter either a.) beginning to review for my Probability and Statistics Final or b.) playing “World of Warcraft.” More than likely the latter considering my Final is still two weeks away and I promised myself I’d take advantage of Drexel’s mandated “Thanksgiving Break” this year despite my cumulative grade sitting precariously close to the C/D threshold. But I digress.

Being that I’ve opted to shelve my wild and crazy life for the time being (sarcasm definitely intended; my life hasn’t been wild or crazy in almost a half-a-decade) in favor of a more stable life of fatherhood, homeownership, husband… hood (?) and school… ership (man, the “Frankisms” are coming out in force in this composition!), I find myself inevitably pondering things that I’ve never really pondered before. Like Thanksgiving. As the virtually insignificant songs that followed… *SIGH*… “In The Limelight” segue in to Green Day’s “Welcome To Paradise” and I feel a renewal of energy course through my system (good Green Day is the musical equivalent of speed for me while “In The Limelight” and virtually anything by Rush is the musical equivalent of swallowing a bottle of Quaaludes), I find myself pondering the question, “What does Thanksgiving mean to me?”

Certainly a shade easier than the Multiplication Principle.

“What does Thanksgiving mean to me?” by way of the Multiplication Principle: “My mother is hosting Thanksgiving Dinner. There will be 4 different kinds of Hors d’oeuvres, 5 different kinds of drinks, 1 type of main course, 6 potential side dishes, 1 type of roll and 2 different types of desert. How many different combinations of ‘Thanksgiving Dinner’ are available?”

The answer is 240 (4 times 5 times 1 times 6 times 1 times 2). A relatively easy problem, but realistically? There are some situations where an analytical mind excels and some where a non-analytical one does. In this particular case, I don’t anticipate trying all 240 combinations in one Thanksgiving. Sh*t, I don’t know if I could do it in all the Thanksgivings I have left in my life! So I’m going to stick with the non-analytical… and less-obese approach. Analytical mind 0, non-analytical mind 1.

“What does Thanksgiving mean to me?” Well, the obvious answer is that it’s a time to give thanks for all the good stuff in my life. And despite my ever-existent propensity towards focusing on the negative and not on the positive (what can I say? Said propensity is about as prevalent a dynamic in my mentality as the “Frankism”), I’ve got to say, there’s a lot for me to be thankful for this year.

First and foremost, I’m thankful for my daughter, Cara and my wife, Nicole. I’m thankful that they’re a part of my life and I’m thankful that they’re in good health. Cara especially considering how things started for her—a month premature, a week in-and-out of the hospital with jaundice, a successive run of colds and stomach bugs back in January of this year that lasted for almost three weeks and virtually undid all the “real food” training Nicole and I had given her. I look at her now as she scampers around the house verbalizing sentences that only she can understand (for the moment), eating everything from apples to chicken, and I think to myself: wow. I really didn’t foresee this early on. I mean, I mused over it, but I was so focused on getting her “right” that I forgot about all the “good” stuff that awaited me. This stuff. This time. I’m thankful that she’s grown healthy and strong, finally eclipsing the 20 pound mark in the last week. I’m thankful that she’ll be able to eat and enjoy Thanksgiving dinner this year, at least whatever portions of it she “likes” this week.

And the other part of that “equation?” I’m thankful for my wife, Nicole, who nine years in to our relationship continues… daily… to intrigue my mind, body and soul. Who continues… daily… to be to most fascinating, intelligent and caring woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. I couldn’t ask for a better life partner… couldn’t ask for a better mother to help me raise my daughter. I know that I extol the virtues of “Nicole” often in these compositions and for some of you reading this, the practice is likely getting a bit tedious. But not for me. I love you, baby.

The above paragraphs by way of standard Probability: “A man has 10 total relationships in his life (I’m speculating; I don’t actually know how many relationships I’ve had in my life but 10 is a nice, round number). What is the probability that of those 10 relationships, 1 lasts forever?” The solution? I will now proceed to abbreviate. P (9 failures) = 0.90. P (1 success) = 1-P (9 failures) or 0.90 = 0.10. The P = 10%. Simple? Yes. But I count myself lucky that I’m in that 10% bracket. Analytical mind 0, non-analytical mind 2.

There are other things that I’m thankful for. My friends and family have been and remain my greatest bastions of support. Daily, they push me to be better than an everyday, Monday through Friday Joe-Schmoe with a bad case of “Chronic Myjobsucksitis.” Even at 35, they realize that I’m never too old… that if my goal is to one day teach and not sit behind a desk doing sensor quotes for 45 hours of every week whilst getting kicked in the proverbial nads on a daily basis by a company that I’ve given my all to, I should keep pushing to achieve it. I speak of my mother and my sister first and foremost, but beyond them? I consider myself a very, very fortunate man in that I remain close compadres with so many people that have been a part of my life since the days of my wistful and at times misunderstood youth. How many of us can claim that the same people we were friends with as Freshman in High School are our closest friends at 35 years young? How many of us can look at our Facebook or Twitter feeds, see the names there and honestly say that we maintain “some” semblance of a friendship with those people? An occasional phone call, email or Christmas card, even? I know people who have a couple hundred Facebook friends. Among them multiple ex-girlfriends, unsavory types and people they haven’t spoken with in years who think everything is “boss.” I have 140 FB friends. Of those 140, I’d wager a good percentage are people I still maintain a correspondence with. Not a bad ratio, friends. How can I not be thankful for that?

The above paragraph by way of Binomial Probability: “A man has 140 Facebook friends and 22 Twitter followers. He maintains a ‘true’ friendship with 110 of his Facebook friends and 19 of his Twitter followers. Given the existing conditions of ‘true’ friends and followers, what is the probability that exactly 1 of 4 friend or follower invites will be ‘true’ and not just some random Joe-Schmoe who follows him because he likes ‘Jeff Dunham’ and so do they?”

The solution? More complicated than previous problems ‘cause we’re dealing with Binomial Probability, but the answer is… prepare for abbreviation… P (Exactly 1 “true” FB friend/4) = 0.029 or 3%, and P (Exactly 1 “true” Twitter friend/4) = 0.009 or 1%. To find the overall probability, multiply 0.029 by 0.009 and get an even smaller answer: 0.000261. The reason being? There’s more chance of getting a greater number than exactly (or only) 1 “true” friend in both situations because said man maintains a higher percentage of “true” friends on both FB and Twitter, namely, 79% of his FB friends and 86% of his Twitter followers. That’s great if you’re in to calculating the percentage of friend/follower invites you accept on FB/Twitter, but really, really bad if you want people to like you. Henceforth, analytical mind 0, non-analytical mind 3. Seriously? If you’re calculating something like this using math you deserve to have your “human” card revoked.

What else am I thankful for? I can think of many things. I am thankful for my job, despite the fact that I’m not exactly its greatest fan at the moment. Not everyone has a steady income and… at least for the moment (or until my boss reads this)… I do. I’m thankful for my health, albeit not as great as it once was (seriously, I know I’m only 35, but I’m beginning to realize that with each year, I feel it a little bit more; nothing too invasive thank God, but there is a noticeable difference). I’m thankful for “World of Warcraft” if only because it provides me with a much needed release from working full-time, going to school part-time, being a parent and husband full-time and trying to squeeze between six and seven hours of sleep a night in (is it scary that I consider sleep a part-time activity at this juncture?). I’m thankful for what I see as a gift—writing—but others see as a means for me to ramble incessantly for a few pages about everything from Scientology to Probability and Statistics. Oh well. “I is what I is.” I’m thankful for Probability and Statistics which—when combined with Industrial Hydraulics—really keeps my brain frosty (and achy, but that’s an unfortunate side-effect sometimes of using it). My almost-completed “man cave”; my deck and my grill; my backyard; my collection of sports memorabilia; my movie and music collection; my ability to play pool (but no other sport); “Sesame Street”; and last but not least…

I’m thankful for my life. All 35 f*cked-up-at-times-but-always-entertaining years of it. If I missed anything? Well, I think the blanket-term “life” handily encapsulates the remainder. “What does Thanksgiving mean to me?” Simply spoken, friends, it signifies happiness…

About 80-85% of the time (at least). Or, if you take the median, 82.5% or 0.825.

The above composition by way of Probability and Statistics: “Given the following conditions, calculate the probability of the variable X (Serendipity). X (Serendipity) = 240 (possible variations on Thanksgiving dinner) times 0.10 (the probability that 1/10 relationships will end up succeeding) times 0.000261 (the probability that 1/4 “friend” or “follower” request ants on FB or Twitter are or become ‘true’ friends) times 0.825 (the probability that Thanksgiving and any thoughts that said holiday inspires signify happiness) = 0.0051678 or a shade over 0.5%. A half a percentage point? That’s it?

I’m not sure, but I’d wager I missed a variable or two. *TRIPLE SIGH* After all that. Ironic, huh? Analytical mind 0, non-analytical mind 4. Point, set, match.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

“Tuesday’s gone, with the wind…”

Retrospection Revisited

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Back when we were all incarcerated for nine months in “State Pen” PA, and no one lived any place else, I had this idea. Said idea was the product of many pensive afternoons spent sitting in the shadow of one of the science buildings on campus. I can’t remember the name of it presently, but I remember I called it “The Shrine of Science” in multiple journal entries and poetry compositions. Hell, it might not have even HAD a name. It was just this really cool, U-shaped building that had its own courtyard. Said courtyard had the usual accoutrements: benches, trees, trashcans (no ash-trays then; society had not evolved in 1996-1997 to the point that it felt ash-trays were necessary). My customary position in said courtyard, however, was not reclining on one of the benches like the sun-lovers, or leaning up against one of the trees like the nature-lovers. No. My customary position was seated atop an steel grate, beneath which howled an ancient generator. Subsequent years and their accompanying wisdom have helped me to realize that what I postulated in my imaginative mind THEN to be a Morlock stronghold or a Gatekeeper of the Beam was, in fact, nothing more than a commercial-sized heater, and my reason for sitting there was not wholly symbolic—an English Major sitting in “The Shrine of Science,” scribbling entries in his journal—but practical, i.e. it gets really fucking cold in “State Pen” in October, and stays that way until late March/early April.

One frigid afternoon… I think it was in January or February of 1997… I formulated this idea whilst warming my ass on the completely pedestrian heater grate inlaid in the walkway that was my customary resting place in “The Shrine of Science.” I was smoking a cigarette and drinking a Mountain Dew (not an uncommon sight, as anyone who was incarcerated with me in “State Pen” for those nine months in 1996-1997 will attest to), and completely independent of anything else, I began thinking about my life. All 21 ½ years of it. Where I’d come from; where I was; where I was going. Admittedly, I was very, VERY confused at the time and this thought process quickly segued in to another: Why not write an epic poem called “Retrospection” looking back over the course of my life from a poet’s standpoint in an attempt to gain some clarity and direction on my current situation? At the time, the idea seemed ingenious. And the initial stages of composing “Retrospection” were quite enlightening. I started seeing my situation with a clarity that I hadn’t had before. The two-three weeks spent working on “Retrospection” were, academically, my best in “State Pen.” In fact, were it not for the sheer amount of “academic” work I did in those two-three weeks, I likely would not have graduated in May of 1997. My 60.7 average in my Ed Psych class would have ended up on the wrong side of the letter “D” and I would have been forced to prolong my stay in “State Pen” for another couple of months. Thankfully, my incarceration ended in May and I was allowed to graduate with my class, thus achieving the goal I’d set for myself of graduating in four years and NO MORE… albeit with a relatively meaningless undergraduate degree and a mountain of debt that didn’t get paid off until the summer of 2005.

Yet something happened around the 10th or 11th Stanza of “Retrospection.” I looked at what I was writing, and realized that what I was writing had absolutely, positively no bearing on anyone or anything but myself. It wasn’t even poetry. It was a glorified journal entry with one or two rhyming couplets per stanza. Was it serving its purpose? Yes. But did I foresee a greater purpose in what I was composing after re-reading the first 10-11 stanzas? No. And as any honest artist—writer or otherwise—will tell you, we do what we do not solely for our “art.” Any artist that tells you that is full of shit. We do what we do because we want our work to appeal to a greater demographic. In short, we want our 15 minutes of fame and god DAMNIT, we want it NOW. This desire doesn’t always pan out. I’m not exactly raking in the royalties from the work I’ve published. But long-term, THAT is my goal. Not simply to spend the rest of my natural life writing for ME and me alone, but to one day write things that will entertain others. Make them laugh, make them cry: kind of like “Cats” (shout out to the Royal Masque, circa 1992-1993, and Barricade Productions circa 1993-1994). Shortly thereafter, “Retrospection” perished, never to be seen again. I don’t quite remember what I did with the 20 or so hand-written, loose leaf pages that contained it, but knowing my propensity for extravagance back then I likely burned it or sacrificed it to the “Shrine of Science” gods.

Amazingly, though, this idea of “retrospection” has never left me. Privately, I’ve done it multiple times. Never publicly. I don’t think that the term “retrospect” or any derivative thereof has ever appeared in a single blog post or email I’ve composed in the last decade plus. Until now, of course. I feel that it IS important to look back over the course of your life on occasion. It helps put things in to perspective. Am I at a point in my life currently where I feel directionless? Confused? Am I sitting atop a proverbial heating grate of my own creation in my own, subjective reality, smoking a cigarette and drinking a Mountain Dew whilst staring out at the steel-grey sky overhead, and the small flakes of snow that alight gently, soundlessly upon the black-iron benches and the leafless trees that dot the U-shaped courtyard of my mind? No. I’m sitting behind my desk at work on a Saturday morning, listening to “But, Honestly” by the Foo Fighters, a Diet Dr. Pepper close at hand and the prospect of a cigarette about as far from my mind as it’s been in almost a decade (my recent bout of “sinusitis” has all but rid me of that nasty habit, it seems). The temperature outside is a balmy 71 degrees (Heat Index: 80+) and the next precipitation forecasted for Royersford, PA (where I am now) and Broomall, PA (where I’ll be in a few hours) isn’t until overnight tonight. Not snow, but thunder storms. “Thunder Boomers” as my little sister Katie used to say.

Directionless? Confused? Certainly not. During my incarceration in “State Pen” back in 1996-1997, I was penniless. I was not jobless, but my job as a nighttime circulation clerk at the Pollock Library paid me a $150.00 post-tax stipend every two weeks, a stipend that promptly went toward cigarettes, alcohol, McDonalds Chicken McNuggets and occasionally my rent and utilities. My relationships usually lasted no longer than 24-48 hours, generally from Friday night at midnight (when I got done work) through Saturday or Sunday evening (don’t get the wrong idea, friends. As anyone that spent any portion of those nine months with me in “State Pen” will tell you, I was not a man-whore. I was just a guy who liked to hook-up with random women from time to time, regardless of whether those women were people I just met or people I’d known for years. Not a man-whore, just a bit of a chauvinist). My home was a two-bedroom apartment on the seventh floor of Calder Commons which I shared with three rent-paying roommates (one male and two females) and one or two non-rent paying roommates (you know who you are “Vato”). I drank copious amounts of alcohol and smoked copious amounts of weed. And I was LOST in every sense of the word.

Now? I work a steady job that pays me well, albeit an, at times, less-than fulfilling employment. My bi-weekly allowance is the $50.00-$150.00 that my wife deposits in my checking account dependent on when our mortgage and our bills are due. I generally don’t see the rest and I’m fine with that (one thing my 34 ¾ year old, 6’ 1”, 280 LB frame does NOT need at this point is a bi-weekly rationing of Chicken McNuggets). I’ve been in a relationship with the same woman for nine years this November (married for five this October 15th) and my home is a three bedroom, one and a half bathroom Colonial on a little street in suburbia that I share with my wife and our 11 month old daughter, Cara, not to mention our two cats Pandora and Roxy, and this week, my “dog-in-law” Melanie. I drink copious amounts of Diet Dr. Pepper and haven’t smoked a joint in a very, VERY long time. But ask me if I’m directionless or confused and I’ll scoff at you before smiling and telling you that no, my friends. For the first time in 35 years on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence, i.e. my subjective reality, I’m FOUND. I’m a gosh-darned living, breathing testimony to “Amazing Grace,” along with remaining a living, breathing facsimile of a smiley face.

“Have a Nice Day.”

But you knew that, didn’t you? If you’re reading this, everything that I just wrote save for the bit about my “dog-in-law” and perhaps my proclivity toward Diet Dr. Pepper is likely not “breaking news” to you. In fact, the last three or four paragraphs completely contradict my previous statement that artists create “art” not simply for the sake of their “art” or for their own, personal purposes, but because they want to appeal to a greater demographic. Before passing judgment on me, though, consider the following: At approximately 11:30-12:00 this morning/afternoon, I will be departing work and heading home, where I will eat a quick lunch and take a quick shower before getting ready to head to a first birthday party: that of our friends’ Sarah and John’s daughter, Ava. Tomorrow, I’ll likely be heading over to our friends’ Caren and Matt’s/Tom and Michelle’s to meet THEIR newborns, Josephine (Josie) Molly and Grace Learned. In less than a month, I’m hosting 50-60 family and friends in my three bedroom, one and a half bathroom Colonial on a little street in suburbia for my own daughter’s first birthday party. Of those 50-60 family and friends, many were in some way, shape, form or loosely connected fashion incarcerated with me for nine months plus in “State Pen.” I say plus ‘cause as anyone who knows me knows, my tenure there only diminished in frequency after May of 1997. Truth be told, I was still a frequent visitor through the summer of 1998. Said people—my fellow “State Pen” inmates—will not be arriving with a six pack of Yeungling or cold, now-defunct Pennsylvania Pizza in tow, but with THEIR little one’s and spouses in tow: “Vato” and Kim plus one; Austen plus three and Tom plus two to name a few.

And it doesn’t end there. Also in attendance will be my little sister Katie plus three and my mother plus three, not to mention my in-laws Mariann, Chuck, Deborah and Andrew plus one. Nicole’s friends whom I met nine years ago when THEY all lived somewhere between South Philadelphia and Temple Pharmacy School and no one lived anyplace else are ALL plus one’s or two’s, with one plus three to boot. And of course, I’m a plus two (plus four if you count my cats whom I’m helpless NOT to think of as my children). All will be arriving at 2:00 PM (RSVP’s pending, of course), and will not be staying until long after a midnight reveler who calls himself “The Mad Chronicler” decides to make a drunken run to the now-defunct Pennsylvania Pizza for “Boones” Malt Liquor. Rather, all will be leaving at approximately 6:00 PM to return home to their respective, nightly routines. Give the baby or babies a bath; get them dressed in their PJ’s and ready for bed; read them their favorite Dr. Seuss bedtime story (Cara’s is “The Lorax”); watch over them as they drift off to sleep in their cribs or beds, their little legs curled up beneath them, their little bodies rising and gently falling as they sleep the sleep of the peaceful… the innocent. Carefully tip-toe out of their room, being careful not to step on the creaky board that lays 14 ½ inches and to the left of the door; being FURTHER careful not to unlatch and re-latch the door too loudly as they exit the room. Retire downstairs and spend the waning hours of the day watching “The Hangover,” and silently muse about how the seemingly unbelievable anecdotes presented in that movie didn’t always seem so unbelievable. Back when we were all incarcerated for nine plus months in “State Pen” PA, and no one lived anyplace else. Silently reminisce… “Remember when…”

…And helplessly return to the U-shaped courtyard outside “The Shrine of Science” where—upon a perfectly pedestrian heating grate inlaid in a perfectly pedestrian walkway—a 21 ½ year old pre-adult sits beneath a steel-grey, central Pennsylvania, winter sky, pondering how directionless and confused his life currently is. As he sips from a warm bottle of Mountain Dew between puffs of a cigarette and watches the first snowflakes from what will eventually amount to a six-inch snow squall alight gently upon the black-iron benches and the leafless trees that dot the courtyard, said pre-adult conceives of a plan: he’ll write an epic poem entitled “Retrospection” in which he’ll look back over the course of his life from a poet’s standpoint in an attempt to gain some clarity and direction. Maybe THEN he’ll have a better idea of where the fuck he’s going. He begins…

“Life is a bloody, ongoing fight… peril is endless and counters the light…”

Said opening lines will eventually grow in to a 10 or 11 stanza, uncompleted epic poem called “Retrospection.” Said 10-11 stanzas will disappear a few weeks later, never to be seen again. Said poet will go on in the next 13 years to graduate college by the skin of his teeth (and 0.7 points in his Ed Psych class), meet and marry the woman of his dreams—the embodiment of his heart, soul and mind—purchase a home with her, begin raising a child with her—the physical embodiment of the his union to the woman of his dreams—and host a first birthday party in which his checkered and LOST past meets his and his fellow inmates from “State Pen’s” stable and FOUND present. “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.” From “State Pen” PA to suburbia, friends, it’s all academic. That’s “retrospection.” To be able to look back on where you were, and see how far you’ve come. To know that the confusion felt by that 21 ½ year old seeker sitting pensively within “The Shrine of Science,” imaginatively wondering if the low hum beneath the steel grate he sits upon is a Morlock stronghold or a Gatekeeper of the Beam resolved itself in to quite a nifty little life on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence, i.e. his subjective reality. Being able to see that isn’t simply something personal to the writer. It’s not “art” for the sake of “art.” It’s something that everyone should be able to do. You, me… EVERYONE. And THAT is a comforting thought.

“Have a Nice Day.”