56. Steve fit a century’s worth of innovation and vision into 56 years. A compact, elegantly designed life.

It’s tempting to mythologize a person once they’ve gone and this is especially true with Steve. Tonight, Steve becomes a simple and beautifully executed idea with lasting impact, not unlike his products. He’s changed the world no fewer than three unique and lasting ways (pc/music/phone) and his closest competitors have only ever managed to copy or chase him. There’s not a sliver of hyperbole in that sentence. 

People love to say Rest In Peace, but maybe it serves us well to think different on this one: I hope Steve is restless and relentless in his next life. I hope he continues to piss excellence and inspire us to do the same.

Even in death, I’d like to think Steve has a final “one more thing” left in him; reminding us that 56 years can be transformed into eternity if we work hard enough. In 56 years anything can happen and the world can be changed, singlehandedly. 56 years is scary and unfairly short only if you let it be; so, be fearless instead. That’s the reminder I need every day, and it’s a helluva “one more thing.”

Don’t rest too long, Steve. 

It’s always the morning after that’s most revealing. Whether it means recovering from tragedy or reveling in triumph, the morning after is what defines us. Throughout each of our personal histories of break ups, and birthdays, and pink slips, and funerals, and graduations, there come those mornings when we can’t believe what just happened the day before. Sometimes we wake up numb to it, like we almost forgot. When we lose a loved one it seems we become surrounded with daily reminders of their absence: a picture, a scent, a sound.

September 11th was the most significant global event that affected each of us personally. For those old enough to remember, it shook us then and the shock of the day is still palpable. The aftermath of that one morning has shoved and wriggled its way into our lives in innumerable ways. But now, looking back 10 years later, I remember September 12th, the morning after. I remember being relieved that I could return to my routine. I remember feeling thankful the chaos was over, and naively certain that the terrorists were done for now. I imagined the potential devastation of repeated, relentless attacks and I prayed for our country’s protection. It was a confusing morning, but eerily peaceful. Pensive.

In some ways, it feels like it’s taken 10 years for the collective morning after to arrive. Reading and watching all the memorials and commemorations yesterday it felt like the last 10 years were just a chaotic mix of reaction and adjustment to the events of that morning. But now, 10 years later, maybe we’ve finally turned the clock to greet the morning after. To reflect and remember and to turn our ‘new normal’ into a better normal: a grateful return to routine but with hearts and minds moved for the better.

It’s the morning after that will define us as a nation and I think the clock may have finally clicked over. Let’s rebuild. Let’s revive. Let’s be renewed as Americans strong in resolve, deep in compassion and ready to lead. Just as 9/11 was a collectively personal experience, 9/12 must be the same; each one of us, making it our personal duty to make life better for one another. And considering the hell we’ve just walked through together, that would be one heaven of a morning after.

22 Navy SEALs among 30 U.S. Troops killed in Afghanistan as NATO helicopter is shot down

This is absolutely tragic. There aren’t enough words or accolades to describe the extraordinary courage and sacrifice of our armed forces, especially when we lose 30 of our finest in one horrific incident. The War on Terror has gone on for nearly 10 years now, and it’s still surreal and sobering any time I hear of soldiers dying; it damn well better stay that way. The death of a soldier should never feel casual or be confused with one’s personal beliefs on war or violence or politics. They deserve better.

A soldier’s life lends itself all too easily to cliche because he is a real life hero. Unfortunately, our limited bank of hero vocabulary has been reduced to over-the-top cliches for the caped euphemisms in our comic books. The words feel empty in real life.

Since the news of OBL’s death, I’ve become mildly obsessed with Navy SEALs; reading accounts of the raid from every major publication and finishing a few great military memoirs along the way (Seal Team Six, Lone Survivor, The Things They Carried). If there’s a common theme to be drawn here, it’s that SEALs are not like you and me. There is an innate determination and resolve that can’t be faked and a sense of duty that is hammered into them through the most brutal training program on earth. These guys live on the edge so someone like me can enjoy a cushy life in the middle. 

It’s been a little over two and half weeks since the chopper was downed in Afghanistan and the world’s moved at a blistering pace since then: Somalia is starving, London riots, rebels liberate Libya, an earthquake shakes the eastern seaboard, Steve Jobs retires, Amy Winehouse did too, in her own way and Bert and Ernie’s sexual orientation remains ambiguous. Albert Haynesworth is a Patriot for god’s sake. August 6 seems like ages ago. It’s too easy to forget nowadays. 

And then I saw this

(photo credit)

That is Hawkeye. He belonged to Petty Officer Jon Tumlinson who was one of the 22 SEALs killed on August 6th. In the middle of Officer Tumlinson’s funeral, Hawkeye walked up to his master’s casket and laid down with a mournful sigh. 

There really isn’t much to say. It’s heart wrenching. It hurts to think about our best coming home in flag-draped caskets and a shame we allow ourselves to move on so quickly. We’ve created an age of perpetual news and narcissism to numb the pain and discomfort of raw emotion. But still, there’s Hawkeye with such purity in his display of grief; there is no politicking, no cry for attention, no agenda.

What must a dog think when he encounters death? It must be such a hopeless sadness. While we two-leggers lean on our collective myths about heaven and hell, a dog is cruelly trapped in a state of consciousness that lives in the moment, but with deeply seeded memories of the past. The dog cannot cope or dwell or even deny; he mourns in bewilderment, lies down with a heavy sigh and eventually follows his new master home. But he never forgets. Nor should we. 

Central Command confirms 6,194 U.S. casualties in Iraq and Afghanistan since 2003. 2,292 soldiers under the age of 22. 4,439 under the age of 28. The world is a terrible place sometimes. Take time to remember. Don’t buy into the asinine notion that “the best thing we can do is move on with our lives and do the things we enjoy.” Fuck you if you believe that. Soldiers don’t die so you can play golf and jerk off. They deserve our time and remembrance. Learn about them, thank them, remember them. Sing, write, dedicate. Do something. Read this. By all means take a minute of self-reflection to be thankful and mindful of how amazing we have it.

And if you pray, then pray for their families and their friends and their souls. Pray for their dogs and that we may be more like them.

Last night my wife and I were debating what position Madden would play on a football team. Then I got carried away thinking about who his teammates would be and spent the next few hours toiling over a roster. My wife moved on with her life. I love dogs. I love football. So, without further ado:

The Ultimate K9 Football Team
OFFENSE

Quarterback - Labrador Retriever
NFL doppelgänger: Peyton Manning 
The All-American. Highly intelligent breed with a passably athletic build and a winning personality. He’s already the most popular dog in the country. It all starts with the quarterback and I want someone steady and poised. A sure bet.

Running Back - German Shepherd
NFL doppelgänger: Walter Payton
There’s speed, there’s power, add in some ferocity and you’ve got yourself Sweetness. This was by far the toughest position to fill considering some dogs are built for speed, and others for power. In the end, the German Shepherd wins the job for his dedication to following orders: take the ball and score. Nothing can stop him.

Fullback - Bull Terrier
NFL doppelgänger: Mike Alstott
He may be stout and slightly undersized, but this dude is built to terrorize anything within 3 yards. Just look at his body, he can only move forward. It’s an under appreciated breed, typecast for its endorsements, but when I need something plowed over, the Bull Terrier will get the job done.

Left Tackle - St. Bernard
NFL doppelgänger: Jonathan Ogden
The big boy. The loyal protector of the franchise and anchor of the offensive line. He’s a gentle giant only cuz no one dares mess with him.

Left Guard - Shar Pei
NFL doppelgänger: Russ Grimm
Here come the wrinkly hogs. The Shar Pei was bred as a palace guard. Stocky, but maintains great economy of movement - perfect for pulling on those counter runs.

Center - Bull Mastiff
NFL doppelgänger: Nick Mangold
Big, smart and mean, that’s what you want. A dog who will fight to the death, but keeps it under control for the team. Also, doesn’t seem to mind having a labrador retriever touching his ass.  

Right Guard - Bloodhound
NFL doppelgänger: Leonard Davis
He may look lazy and slow (cuz he is), but the bloodhound is keenly observant and remembers everything - exactly what I want in a guard. He’ll sniff out the blitz every time.  

Right Tackle - Dogue de Bordeaux
NFL doppelgänger: David Stewart
He’s big and powerful with great balance. The Dogue de Bordeaux could probably play on either side of the ball. He’s got the athleticism to play tackle and a no nonsense attitude to go with his no nonsense look. 

Tight End - Scottish Deerhound
NFL doppelgänger: Tony Gonzalez
The flashiest hybrid position is fitting for the most recent winner of the Westminster Dog Show. Size, speed and an impressive wingspan. Something tells me he’s got hops too. 

Wide Receiver - Greyhound
NFL doppelgänger: Randy Moss
Was there ever any question? You put the tall, fast guys on the edges and let em run. The Greyhound is the fastest dog on the planet and he’s got more than enough diva quality for the position too.

Wide Receiver - Weimaraner
NFL doppelgänger: Andre Johnson
Still fast, still deadly, but more of an underrated possession receiver. The Weimaraner is sleek and quiet, but there’s plenty going on upstairs. Really high awareness ratings on this guy.

DEFENSE

Defensive End - Pitbull
NFL doppelgänger: Deacon Jones 
Not to perpetuate an unfair stereotype, but a Pitbull can get nasty if you let him. His reputation precedes him and strikes fear in every opponent. He’s the guy who gets his own corner in the locker room and his own edge on the field.

Defensive Tackle - Rottweiler
NFL doppelgänger: Warren Sapp
Big and nasty with a bad reputation for good reason. The Rottweiler does not give a damn who you are or what you do, he’s comin to get his. QBKILLA

Defensive Tackle - Cane Corso
NFL doppelgänger: John Randle
He’s got a loud bark and the muscles to back it up. The Cane Corso is gangsta and looks completely uncontrollable. Seriously, avoid eye contact.

Defensive End - Boxer
NFL doppelgänger: Bruce Smith
The technician. A dog with solid fundamentals and an understanding of how to use his body to get what he wants. The Boxer is quiet, tough and hardy - can’t ask for anything more from a D.E. 

Outside Linebacker - Alaskan Malamute
NFL doppelgänger: Junior Seau
A true athlete with surprising strength and speed. The Malamute looks like a ball of fluff but he’s all muscle underneath. Excellent with orders and I trust him to contain whatever comes out of the backfield. 

Middle Linebacker - English Bulldog
NFL doppelgänger: Mike Singletary
Ok, more than a little biased here, but hear me out. For an inside linebacker in a 4-3 defense, tenacity and tackling ability are much more important than size and speed. The bulldog is built tough, can squeeze into the A gap unnoticed and most importantly, will never ever give up on a play. Plus, he’s my son and he gets to start cuz he’s special.

Outside Linebacker - Siberian Husky
NFL doppelgänger: Lawrence Taylor
Is it a dog or is it wolf? He seems a bit unstable and more than a bit wild; he looks like he might revert back to whatever species it was he evolved from. The Siberian Husky has seen some rough shit (in Siberia, duh) and he’s an intimidating physical specimen. He’ll play just fine in space.

Cornerback - Pointer
NFL doppelgänger: Rod Woodson
The ball hawk. Once the Pointer has the ball in his sights/nostrils, it’s over. The Pointer has excellent hands and a great motor, but lacks the speed to play offense. He makes up for it by sticking to receivers like the loyal hunting dog he is. 

Free Safety - Dalmatian
NFL doppelgänger: Ed Reed
Everyone knows the Dalmation, but few appreciate how special he is. Fast, athletic and easily trained, the Dalmation is extremely obedient but unafraid to improvise when the situation is right. He stalks the entire field and is well-suited to be the last defender.

Strong Safety - Bernese Mountain Dog
NFL doppelgänger: Troy Polamalu
Strong and sturdy up front with sound fundamentals, the Bernese Mountain Dog can play up with the front 7 or play back in coverage with ease. His territorial qualities make him an ideal zone coverage safety. Also, big hair.

Cornerback - Doberman Pinscher
NFL doppelgänger: Deion Sanders
Go ahead, look at him -that’s what he wants. Have you ever seen a Doberman that wasn’t shiny and sharp? The Doberman is fast and ferocious and the most likely member of the team to appear in a Snoop Dogg video. 

Kicker - Australian Cattle Dog
NFL doppelgänger: Morton Andersen
The specialist. He can do one thing and one thing only. Don’t ask him to tackle or throw or catch, just ask him to do his one job and the Cattle Dog will do it obsessively. He’s used to being with the guys without really being one of the guys.

Punter - Schnauzer
NFL doppelgänger: Jeff Feagles
Ok, punters are a little… different. They do their own thing, never have the opportunity to singlehandedly win a game (though they can lose it) and usually play in the league until they’re old enough to grow massive schnauzer-like gray beards. 

Head Coach - Border Collie
NFL doppelgänger: Bill Walsh
The mastermind. Too small to play, but smart enough to teach everyone else how. The Border Collie knows the rules better than anyone else and has just enough crazy eye to suggest he did nothing but gameplan and scheme all night. He’s definitely a players’ coach and he’s got a bit of the Al Pacino in Any Given Sunday thing going. 

I’d like to develop a new style of documentary/guerilla filmmaking that delivers immediate and lasting public humiliation against terrible people. Imagine watching a talking head documentary like Waiting for Superman or Hot Coffee build a case against a deplorable figure - maybe a politician or a lobbyist or a CEO. As we learn more and more about his awful behavior, it becomes clear that this person will likely never be brought to justice. He is too rich, his friends too powerful, and special interest groups have been installing shitty legislation on his behalf for decades now. As the case begins to feel hopeless and the victims appear ever helpless, we cut to a scene in front of the greedy/awful/pervert/asshole’s house and a 285lb UFC champ rings the doorbell. The asshole cracks open the door and is immediately choke slammed and beaten beyond recognition by the champ. Ground and pound on the Welcome mat.

If the show were on Fox we could call the series “F*cked Up!” a nice little double entendre that captures what the asshole did to others and what eventually happens to his face by the end of the show. If violence is too brutal, maybe we pelt the asshole with eggs and tomatoes for an hour or so, OR we could always have some huge dude (perhaps said UFC Champ) bang his mom while he watches. Some form of irreparable damage to the ego that he will never live down. No chance for backroom deals or secret arbitration rulings, let’s watch this piece of shit get his. 

Traditional documentaries are great at getting the word out and raising awareness, but I’m craving swift justice. Surely there are legal ways to shame and humiliate someone beyond repair. Who’s got ideas?

Sometimes I listen to music and I feel my heart punching out of my chest, like it’s been prematurely stuffed in a coffin and needs to pound its way out. I’ve been wanting to write about music for a long time and I still can’t summon the right words. It’s just so fucking visceral. Music rips you up and shreds you. I can’t write about music because it’s more than emotion. It’s this indescribable experience where each song is like a life: all the growth and change and harmony and discord of a lifetime condensed into four minutes. This is what makes music relatable and diverse and indescribable - how does one articulate life? Every song is a life. Some are bland and mediocre and others are sung by Donny Hathaway. Some lives are shy and others are Freddie Mercury. Some songs are trite, or boring or unoriginal and some lives are too. I’d argue that our taste in music should expand as we mature and gain a deeper appreciation for life - seeing beauty and value in places we hadn’t before. If you make strong, sweeping judgments about entire ‘categories’ of music, you probably feel the same way about certain categories of people and lifestyles too. Every song is a unique life, don’t be a bigot.

I don’t mean to sound bombastic with some overwrought metaphor about life and music, but music is fucking awesome. It’s 4 AM and I’m psychotic on caffeine and amped from all the fist pumps I threw watching fireworks. I killed the lights to calm down, slid on my headphones and lost myself for a few hours. Actually, that’s not true, I found myself for a few hours. Nothing sustains focus like music. My greatest joy is when a song is allowed to be foreground noise: every high hat, every note, every hand clap, the lightly throbbing wurlitzer somewhere, all of it. The perfectly timed first syllable of a lyric and the breath that comes before it. It’s so undeniably real. It’s life. 

The first musical memory I have is of my dad playing rhiannon on his new hi-fi. That modest-but-unstoppable guitar lick, the light cymbal roll right before the bass lumbers in, the keys tinkling in and out between the snares on every two, lindsey’s syncopated right thumb - and that’s just the first 14 seconds. It builds and brews like the witch it is and a perfectly suited voice sings a perfectly suited melody. Perfect. If you don’t like rhiannon, fuck you. It’s still real to me dammit, not because I understand anything stevie nicks is [ever] singing about, but because it tells me I have a past. The song was a time and place and it’s followed me to wherever I am each time I hear it. It’s a reminder that life has a past and a present. Put life in the foreground and focus, listen for things you’ve never heard, remember the things you’ve already learned. 

I can’t think of anything else on earth that can release endorphins like a good song. Like shots of life racing through your veins. Ever hear a brand new song that you instantly love? Nothing in life is as pure and raw as that. When I hear a new song I love, I know I love it immediately. There is no deliberation. It’s no surprise that the most common subject of music is love; I know what love is because of music. A good song rips your heart out, punches you in the gut and induces a serene, knowing smile. A good woman will do the same. 

Music is truth. Even when it’s sampled and sliced and mashed up and scratched and beat boxed and autotuned and thumped over a tired old house beat, it’s truth. Perhaps a relative truth, but truth nonetheless. We can’t hide from it: we love what we love and hate what we hate. The brain engages in no mental gymnastics to love or hate a song. Go ahead, try to give yourself every opportunity to love a song you hate because a friend wrote it or a respected musician recommended it. It doesn’t work, the ear wants what it wants. The ear remains objective and unbiased because it can only enjoy what is true to itself. What a beautiful gift that is: to know who we are because we can’t help but love what we love. Music hones that gift like nothing else and I have a duty to maintain it for as long as I live.

Sounds good to me.

I never read fiction. I read to learn and I’ve always felt the ROI on nonfiction was so much greater. Also, I find it hard (and a bit foolish) to immerse myself in imagined worlds intended to entertain children. Maybe I’m too distraught when good things come to end and so I don’t let myself warm up to fiction, but from what I gather, the HP series are remarkable works of imagination and narrative. There’s so much to learn there. How does that much creativity and coherence come out of one person? It’s staggering.

Much has been written about Rowling, but my favorite part of her real life story is her date of birth (1965). She started writing the HP manuscript at age 30 and was published two years later. Creativity and genius are always associated with precocity, but the story doesn’t have to end there (Gladwell 2008). Brilliance can come at any age. This, more than anything, gives me hope.

I dread aging. It feels so unfair. So far, life has been a series of improvements - in mind, body, tact, class, esteem, acumen, generosity, love, patience, wisdom… and while I could cultivate intangibles forever, the body eventually breaks down; taking passion and energy with it. Fires slowly dying, remember? This is where adversity comes in, something to light a fire under your ass. Rowling got it when she realized she was the biggest failure she knew - divorced and penniless, unable to support her child. Rock bottom seems a cruel ‘foundation for success,’ but so it goes.

From what I saw in the final HP movie, there doesn’t appear to be a heavy handed theme of fate or destiny in the story. I love that. We have our guides, but the journey is up to us. There is no ‘meant to be,’ only what is. That feels like the type of story that would come from a woman unsure of coming success, ignorant to the mammoth role she’s about to play in history and culture. Harry Potter is many things, but the idea of Potential is most relevant to me. The HP story is about what might be and how one can get there despite both mundane and significant obstacles. One reads through 7 books because there seems to be no predetermined outcome, but Harry’s potential greatness looks like it might be just around the corner. The reader only knows as much as Harry knows and therefore can’t judge his decisions based on knowledge of future events. And it’s not just Harry either, the entire series; every character, every setting, every gimmick, is built on potential. What might happen if? And when “it” happens, “it” simply is. There are no judgments to be made. It happened and that’s the way it is now. Turn the page.

Life imitates art imitating life. There is no causality dilemma (chicken or the egg?), life comes first. Art is born from life. Real life: pain, joy, failure, success, mediocrity, loss, fear, loneliness, love - art lives there. I’ve just gotta find it. No more judgments; simply live. Make decisions and run with it, if it looks like you may have fucked up, try running a different way. Just keep moving, that’s the key. Maybe we’re only in Year One at Hogwarts - there’s always next year. Just keep moving. Turn the page.

All this without having read a single HP book. I’ve got a lot to learn, apparently.

If you ever find yourself in a situation where you’ve been mildly wronged, say, at a car repair shop that told you the repair would be free, but ended up charging $55 for labor, start throwing a tantrum. Do not let your anger rise slowly, reach a flaming hot boil the moment you’re given the bill and sustain that anger to a degree that requires the receptionist to hover her finger over the 911 button throughout the duration of your stay at her counter. Tell her that if she really wants some help she better call your husband because he’s the only one with even the slightest chance of calming you down right now. And when she does call your husband, he’ll greet her in his calm, mild-mannered voice and then instruct her to just do whatever you want because there might be some serious physical and emotional consequences if she doesn’t comply. Your husband’s key piece of advice to this receptionist will be, “Look, you don’t understand my wife. I really don’t know what she might do before I can get down there.”  As she puts the phone down, make it clear through body language that calling for help was futile, and the thin sliding pane of glass separating the two of you will soon shatter under the weight of your stare. Hell hath no fury like a woman overcharged for auto repair. 

Be unreasonable. The ratio of your anger to the banality of the situation should be absurdly disproportioned. Make sure your sanity is in question. Let her know that you don’t have a problem with her personally and you know she’s just doing her job, then proceed to call her a ‘heifer’ and demand to know how many times her parents had to drop her on her big-ass head before she came out dumb enough to work as a receptionist at a car service and lube center. Cause a scene that the elderly couple behind you will never forget - even in their dementia. Give the people a story to tell. Make your anger legendary. 

And most importantly, when the receptionist asks you to ‘please calm down,’ cock your head to the side, wide-eyed and say this verbatim:

“Calm down? Oh you haven’t even seen me. I will be on the news.” 

This is the type of threat that could only come from a woman who has seen some serious shit and done even worse. A woman who has watched a litany of ghetto folk go apeshit on the 6 o’clock news and sees them as role models. A woman who is willing, ready, and able to commit a felony for principle because her mama didn’t raise no fool.

This woman is my sister-in-law and all of this happened at her local Volkswagen dealership on Friday. This is real life and the line “Oh you haven’t seen me. I will be on the news” is funnier and more poetic than anything fiction could ever come up with. I call her G-Unit because that’s her first initial and she has more thug in her upper lip than The Game and all his tattooed butt buddies combined. She’s a 98 pound kindergarten teacher from Atlanta, GA and she will be on the news.

A career is not the dream, it’s a means to an end. What I do is not as important as who I do it with and how much money I make is secondary to why I’m making it this way. That’s where I am now and I’m learning to embrace the struggle. The first step is to understand that passion and income are not always correlated. That’s why they call it a day job - cuz the passion typically comes at night. I used to think this was immensely sad and I still do, but I’m starting to accept it. Greatness comes from limitations, not freedom. It’s the conflict and challenge of restrictions that spurs innovation and originality. The key is to live without fear. Fear of failure, fear of change and fear of judgment - the hulking barriers to living life. Don’t be so damned scared.

I think about death a lot. Not really about the fear of dying or what happens after we die, but my own death and what it would mean. I never think about how I might die and rarely do I think about when, but I do agonize over my funeral. Who shows up, what words are spoken, what music is played. God I hope they laugh a lot. I wish I could orchestrate it all - not so much because I love a good funeral, but because on some not-so-deep a level I think I’m obsessed with how I’ll be remembered. I’m deathly afraid of being reduced to a boring label or one lame aspect of my life. I don’t want to be caricatured. What a self-absorbed twat I am for thinking of these things. It probably explains why I’ll never actually achieve anything great in life - too busy wanting, not enough doing. 

But anyway… 

Prior to my eventual death, I’d like to be crystal clear about a few things that may not be so obvious:

1. For all the hate I pretend to harbor, I really do love people. Especially the honest ones. I love people who stay true to themselves and loyal to their friends. I would die for any one of these people and moreover, I would kill for them. Nothing is more important or valuable than a true friend and I consider myself immensely wealthy here.
2. Beef jerky is awesome and no matter how much of it I eat before I die, I wish I’d had more. 
3. Of all the things I’ve wanted to do in life, the only non-diminishing dream I’ve ever had was to be a musician. It’s also my greatest source of fear and insecurity. This is both sad and disappointing, but perfectly normal for all of us living our lives at half-speed. Shame on us.
4. Seriously, beef jerky in all flavors: peppered, sweet and spicy, teriyaki, some magical new brew that I haven’t even experienced yet, they’re all so awesome. Wherever I’m going next, I hope they have beef jerky. 
5. I’m not lazy; I’m just uninspired most of the time. Life is easy, living is hard.
6. Trust me on the whole beef jerky thing, I’ve had other jerkys: deer, salmon, turkey, they’re not the same. There’s something about the texture and consistency of beef jerky that makes it far better than other jerkys. It’s an unparalleled chewing experience. My favorite part is how shards get stuck between your molars sometimes and the flavors kinda implant themselves into your mouth, kind of like an exclusive after-party just for the taste buds on the tip of your tongue.

Glad we’ve cleared that up.     

I’ve had a nagging prick of conscience lately about eating meat. The more time I spend with my dog the harder it is for me to justify killing any sentient animal just so I can eat it with french fries. My dog has thoughts. Like, real thoughts, beyond the instincts of eating and shitting and sleeping. He calculates and plans. He has empathy. He carries a spectrum of ‘feelings’ from joy to depression. He knows he’s alive. In principle, there is no difference between my bulldog, a cow, a chicken or a pig. I simply view one as my flesh and blood child and the others simply as flesh and blood - this definitely doesn’t sit right in my mind.

The culture of meat in this country is overwhelming (and delicious). There are too many disgusting accounts of the meat and poultry industries and it makes me gag to think about it. But I think I have a deeper problem than ‘how’ the animals are raised and slaughtered, it’s the ‘why’ that keeps nagging at me. I believe in the food chain, the harvest, hunting and gathering and pigs on spits at luaus. I understand the evolutionary importance of our ability to kill for sustenance, but it still feels wrong to raise an animal just so I can eat it later. It just doesn’t seem right. But then again, this whole concept of “right and wrong” doesn’t exist in nature. If we’re all just animals we can go and hunt and slaughter whatever the hell we want. Nature truly doesn’t give a fuck. The great irony here is that my dog only eats food made from organic, farm-raised Canadian salmon. So make of that what you will.

When it comes down to it, meat is an addiction. I know in my mind that I disagree with it, but I do it anyway. I’m addicted. I mean, really, what am I gonna do? Eat a tofu burger on Independence Day? Never. Well, maybe. One day. Don’t hold me to it. Probably not. Forget I said anything. And don’t tell my wife. But really, I don’t know what to do. Try the weekday vegetarian thing? Only eat organic, humanely raised, grass-fed animals? Only eat non-sentient animals like fish and shrimp? Just never eat anything good and die? God I could go for some fried chicken right now. 

I try to stay away from ranting vegans and zealot eco-freaks on issues like this, so I started reading Melanie Joy’s book, Why We Love Dogs, Eat Pigs and Wear Cows: An Introduction to Carnism. Seriously, social psychology can explain everything in 3 minutes (sociology majors unite!). 

Also, read a great interview with the author in Good Magazine:

“When you’re born into this dominant, carnistic culture, you inevitably absorb the system’s logic as your own. In other words, we learn to see the world through the lens of carnism. Carnism conditions us to disconnect psychologically and emotionally from the truth of our experience when we eat meat (and other animal products). It allows us to disconnect the meat on our plate from the living being it once was. When people sit down to a plate of beef stew, they’re not thinking about the cow that it came from. They’re not saying, “I’m eating a dead animal.” They’re saying, “I’m eating food,” and therefore they’re feeling no disgust. However, if that same person were fed a guinea pig or swan, they would likely not be able to help but envision a living being, and feel repulsed eating that animal.”

And yes, I recognize the flip-flop I’m doing here considering things I’ve written in the past. That was fun to write and I love flip-flops.

I won’t lie - I’m a big fan of Urban Outfitters, but that all ended today. Urban Outfitters, Anthropologie, and Free People are all owned by a guy named Richard Hayne. The once liberal, almost-hippy, Hayne is now a conservative republican billionaire who has donated more than $13K to the likes of Senator, Rick Santorum (R) - the biggest dick of them all. The problem is not that Richard Hayne is a billionaire or a republican - I’d love to be the former someday, and I have plenty of love for the latter. But considering the progressive, anti-establishment image that Urban Outfitters projects, it’s fucked up that the brand belongs to a guy who couldn’t be more Establishment. He refuses to sell pro-same-sex marriage paraphernalia in his stores. What a prick.  

I know things aren’t always black and white. I understand there are a thousand ethical dilemmas in a consumerist culture, but I hate manipulative marketing bullshit like this. If one were presented with a slew of UO print/tv ads, flipped through their summer catalog and browsed their retail stores, the words to describe UO would probably be something like: hip, cool, upbeat, progressive, unique, democratic, different, playful, urban (duh). This is a triumph of advertising. Those words were carefully chosen by a group of marketers and Richard Hayne. An entrepreneur saw a gap in the marketplace for kitsch and urban hippie wear and started a business. And when that same entrepreneur changed his personal political/social values, it was advertising that enabled him and his business to exist in conflict of one another. I think that’s wrong. 

I think it’s wrong for a brand to project an image of itself that is not true to its core. UO most likely have some very young, very hip, very liberal buyers; the problem is, that ethos doesn’t flow down from the top. In fact, the opposite occurs: the progressive ethos is commandeered and exploited to turn a profit for a guy who actually lives and breathes the complete opposite lifestyle. It’s particularly lame for a company like UO which projects a very specific image of anti-establishment progressivism (albeit inside huge shopping malls). This isn’t like Victoria’s Secret being owned by a man or athletes shucking for junk fast food brands. UO intentionally markets itself as a series of adjectives that are implicitly social/political. In other words, UO looks like it has an opinion, but those advertised opinions are a far cry from the owner’s true values.  

Everyone needs advertising, I know. Advertising is not inherently evil or misleading. But UO is a great example of cash trumping integrity. UO markets itself as being a part of the young, urban, hipster generation - a cadre of sundress girls and skinny jean boys who are nearly unanimous in their liberal social/political values. Richard Hayne is not one of them, and moreover, he does not support their values. This is wrong and advertising enables it. 

At the end of the day, I’m being naive. Richard Hayne is entitled to own his business and to fill the voids he sees in the market. He’s opportunistic and I’m envious. And really, what else could he do? Dump his empire because his political views changed? Furthermore, UO makes a lot of people happy and fashionable and there are probably hundreds of other businesses whose advertising is in conflict with their ownership’s values. I get it, brands ≠ owners of the brand.

I’m being naive, but I’m not wrong. Brands should reflect their owners’ values, or at the very least, not be in conflict with them. Why? Because people tend to believe what they see. People take advertising at its word*. Most of us don’t google business owners or check out manufacturing practices before purchasing. When we see a storefront that seems to reflect our ideals and values we trust that the money we spend there will go towards the same. It’s not enough that consumers have the freedom to choose what and where we buy: we can’t choose wisely when we’re being bombarded with only one side of the story. Sometimes it feels like we’re forced to hire muckrakers and whistleblowers to hear the rest of it. There’s money to be made in selling shit truthfully; it’s just a shame that the liars usually end up with more. 

*this is why I love and hate advertising

flashes of fury in white and in red
once peaceful mountains now lookouts instead
the kids,
the kids so precious in fear as mortar decays and black smoke appears
a wave,
a wave no greeting from god
rising in ways the structures could not
death scorches sky and billows in full
temples now heaving in pushes and pulls
the earth is a careless brute of a man
knotted by twine to omnipotent hands
where is the savior before all this came?
what good is a shelter after the rain?
power and mercy opposing in name
is ungodly paradox when wrought by the same

__

I wrote this while trying to process what was happening in Japan. The God who controls the wind and waves is the same we call out to for help in the storm. That’s insane. 

December 30, 2007 
(4 weeks after the death of Sean Taylor, the Washington Redskins had just won their 4th straight game setting up a must-win game in week 17 to clinch the final NFC wildcard slot. This is what I wrote that night.)   

It was a sentiment that was echoed in nearly every post-game interview and media quote binge — “one game at a time.” It is the most cliche of all jock-talk word vomit, but today, on the eve of another new year, it offered a most poignant reminder of what it means to be a fan, a coach, a player and a Washington Redskin. The argument could be made that the Skins are the king of heartbreak football. They keep us transfixed — leading us on with fervent first-half optimism, followed by stretches of cruel, almost-hopeless underachievement and just when it seems all but over, we stay tuned-in, only to have the team’s fate determined by a last-second interception, or a botched time out.

But something changed in these last four weeks.

Well, actually, a lot changed. Beyond the injuries and personnel changes, in addition to the attacking defensive and the well-oiled offense, the Redskins had an identity shift that was necessitated as much by higher, unseen, forces as by their own volition. A season marred by injury, uncertainty, and tragedy, could only end in two markedly different movie-script endings: a complete collapse, or a defining series of inspirational victories both on and off the field. But this season is no movie, and while it remains the best, unfinished story of the year, for the Washington Redskins and all of us who say “we” when referring to the team, this season has been all too real.

The uncanny 21-point victory over the Cowboys played in a stadium full of rabid fans attending the most important game of the Gibbs 2.0 era was a reminder of what “one game at a time” really means. Players have been mentioning the presence of their fallen teammate during the course of every game and while we mortal fans may never understand the depth of this presence, we can appreciate the integrity behind each player and coach who speaks the cliche. One game at a time is all we could afford to with #21 in his burgundy and gold. One game at a time is all that’s left to say when the Hall of Fame coach overlooks one of the simplest rules of the game and suffers the “worst moment in [his] career.”  One game at a time is the only speed suitable for a team with a career back-up quarterback at the helm of a shipped rocked off-course. And now, one game at a time is all we’ve got as we enter a single-elimination playoff.
”One game at a time” is the mantra of the Washington Redskins and it is the tagline to the epic story that has come to life these last four months. But that’s not to say that we can’t dream. After all, that what dreams are for, right?

How great would it be if we take revenge on those Seahawks in the January rain, in their own house no less? How great would it be to get the last laugh against that self-righteous, self-proclaimed, “America’s Team?” How great would it be to reach the Superbowl as the anti-Patriots? What would it feel like to celebrate a victory over the national villain, a team that humiliated our proud franchise and handed our hall of fame coach the worst loss of his career?

But there is pain in these dreams as well: the pain of a lost teammate still lingers after every game, no matter the result. The thought of a great playoff run and a dream-come-true Superbowl victory without #21 is almost too bittersweet to swallow. And so, the Washington Redskins, all of us, are left with only one choice: “One game at a time.” Perhaps that’s the way it should be. Perhaps that’s what we’ve been missing all along. Even the most cautious optimism can still fall victim to underwhelming disappointment; but to face the potential reality of just one more game conjures the potential for a sublime effort. A respect and an appreciation of the game that can only come with a singular, all-in, focus. So, here we go as Redskins, both in life and in football, “one game at a time.”

Originally published in The Compass Magazine, May 2008:

My Beef with Vegetarians

It’s a tough life being engaged to a Vegetarian. I never thought I’d be in such a situation – waiting for my fiancée to finish ordering her “Texas Roadhouse BBQ burger with extra Cheddar cheese, mushrooms, onions, tomatoes, lettuce, and ‘can you take out the meat and just put extra lettuce in, please?’” Potential 5-star meals drop to a measly 2-star affair when the main course protein is removed. It’s also a great feeling when the incredulous server at L.A.’s finest steakhouse looks at me in disbelief asking why I’d bring a nice vegetarian girl to a chophouse. To me, vegetarianism is a land of mashed potatoes, French fries, bread, soups and salads. Some call it Naturalist dining, others say it’s the true-Organic way; call it what you will, but there is nothing natural about soybean curd processed to look like a chicken nugget. It’s laughable the extent to which Veggie-meat manufacturers will go to produce artificial food that attempts to look, smell and taste like the real thing – at least it looks real. I suppose, “to each, his own” very readily applies to this topic, but this is not an essay on taste or preference.

In this fascinating issue about vegetarianism I’d like to raise two simple questions and let the discussions rage:

1) Why can’t vegetarians follow the rule of moderation with meat?

“Well, because they are vegetarians.” Brilliant! It is my assertion that the “Vegetarian” title leads to a nonnegotiable state of living that unfairly rejects all things un-veggie. I may be a voracious carnivore, but even still, I am vegetarian for about 22-hours-a-day; I just happen to regularly break my vegetarianism (v-ism) around 12:00 and 6:00 PM everyday. Is that so wrong? The notion of all-or-nothing v-ism is a source of great curiosity to me. In life, what role do I truly embody all-day everyday? Other than being a faithful [future] spouse, I can’t think of much else. Job titles are a 9-5 affair, church roles are relegated to weekends, and sports team affiliations are a more of a mindset than a lifestyle. It seems some are bound to the title more than the principle of healthy living and I call them out: Shallow Vegetarians come forth. Many of the “Vegetarians” I know crave meat; I know this because they tell me. Does a rabbit crave buffalo wings? Do cows dream of eating brontosaurus? I guess we’ll never know the true heart and intention behind a creature’s eating habits. I used to wonder why my Vegetarian friends frequently crave Buffalo wings. Some have gone their entire lives without the taste of animal flesh on their tongues and yet, Wings and Kalbi are probably the most common breaking points for Vegetarian “backsliders.” Curious as to why? Because they are amazingly delicious - don’t feel guilty, feel good. Indulge once in a while and resume your v-ism after dinner, I’ll still tell everyone you’re vegetarian.

2) Why do Vegetarians always feel the need to convert others to vegetarianism and why are they so excited when this happens?

I followed the doctrine of all-or-nothing vegetarianism for about 6 months when I was in middle school after being convinced by several vegetarian role models (Vege-Roles) that meat was unhealthy and evil (they are no longer my role models for several reasons, the sum of which is their beliefs about meat). The elation that poured out of their hearts upon my decision to give my life to Vegetarianism is unparalleled to this day. Nobody has ever been happier or more excited for me than my Vege-Roles the day I ate my last cheeseburger. Ironically, I backslid on a cheeseburger six months later, and have been backsliding ever since – my heels are numb at this point. But the start of my vegetarianism was like entry into an exclusive club of like-minded people, each with fascinating stories. Some had been vegetarian since birth and raised in the life, others had given up a meat-lovers diet and sacrificed many a barbecue in the name of v-ism. Oddly enough, I found myself touting the benefits of vegetarianism to my friends too. I thought I felt lighter and cleaner, more alert even ( although I soon realized I was on edge due to my frequent cravings). Nonetheless, I did my best to convert others, only to give-in to the other side just a few months later. My breaking point came after meeting a vegan, she put my shallow vegetarianism a shame: “Eggs? You eat eggs?!”. A vegetarian can never win.

It is ultimately a question of principle or preference? I lack the authority to cite our church’s well-publicized history with dietary laws and “the health message,” and so, once again, I find myself only able and willing to speak for myself. In my opinion, if I may speak on my behalf, meat is awesome.

I can say with a degree of certainty that I will probably never be a 24/7/365 vegetarian. It’s a needlessly difficult lifestyle for me, and meat is much too awesome. Veggie-meat is gag-inducing for me at times when I think of the poor soybeans getting plucked from the ground and emulsified with wheat gluten to make “Sam’s Chik’N.” As long as I am a responsible consumer and eat based on healthy, balanced principles, isn’t that good enough?

In any case, if I am what I eat, I’d rather be the real thing than a fake anyway.