www.moregoodcampaign.com
Humble little campaign we’ve started by stealing money from church. If you know any high schoolers please spread the word!

Also, if you know any high schoolers, please tell them to stop txting during movies and GET OFF MY LAWN. 

This is me. Well, no, those are my feet, but you get the picture. This was me five years ago at the southern edge of the Grand Canyon. I was driving cross country with a friend from LA to MD after quitting what I had foolishly considered a dream job as a youth pastor. I was 24 years old and recently engaged. I had a useless bachelor’s degree in sociology and the only marketable skill I had was making delicious cold cut sandwiches at home and then talking about it to a crowd.

I was penniless, blowing my $2,200/mo paycheck on a $1200 apartment in Anaheim, $450/mo in car payments and a mountain of school loans. I was unemployed, moving back in with my parents, and applying to fine food establishments like Joe’s Crabshack and the Cheesecake Factory. Thank god for Cheesecake Factory. My goal was to make $200 a day by working both lunch and dinner shifts. I never made that much, ever.

I had no idea what I wanted to do. I thought I wanted to teach, but couldn’t afford to take time off for another degree. The wedding date was already set. I was a reluctant commodity at my local temp agency who sent me through half a dozen cubicle spaces in a span of 8 weeks. Somehow I wound up at a great consulting firm that’s provided more than enough these last four and a half years.

The strange thing about that time 5 years ago? I was never scared. I wasn’t stressed. I can’t explain it now and I couldn’t explain it then. I just knew things would work out. Because when you find yourself on the edge, you jump and hustle your way back up. You’re good enough, you’re smart enough, and doggone it, people like you. I’ve learned that whether I’m serving strawberry lemonade at Cheesecake Factory or evaluating hospitals with the former Under Secretary of the VA, it’s hustle and kindness that get me through (contrary to the notion popularized by the movie, hustle and flow are pretty useless outside of the music and prostitution industries).

There’s no reason to be intimidated. Whether the pursuit is creative or corporate, grind it out. Do work. Hustle and I’ll be just fine. Be a decent human being in the process and sky’s the limit (Sky’s the Limit is an example of a song that has both hustle and flow). I’m on the edge again and I’m ready to jump to another bottom. I’ve got more to lose this time and the fall feels steeper, but I’m not scared. There’s more fear dangling on the edge than there is looking up from the bottom. I don’t fear the bottom. I used to [barely] live off $2,200 a month in Orange County. I used to live with my parents and serve cheesecake to 15 year olds before homecoming. I once bought an engagement ring on a credit card with a 5 year payment plan. I can still hustle. I can still work. I can still create.

Just jump.

Christianity, and other collective mythologies founded on faith in a mystical deity are flawed. (<- Early contender for the most obvious sentence of 2012 award) The highest form of faith is believing in something that can ultimately be disproved. The more impossible the belief, the stronger the required faith. This is irrational and certainly not a virtue. For the purposes of this screed Faith = faith in a god. 

Faith is not a virtue - simply having it doesn’t make one a better person. For many, their morality is steered by faith and religious doctrine, but in no way is faith a prerequisite to moral living. Faith, however, does make one more hopeful. Faith spurs a hope that something bigger and smarter and better is in control or has the power to change our present or future reality. Faith may lead to hope that we’ll all somehow get what we deserve after death. In that hope, people find comfort, but it is not truth. Faith enables hope (good) but it also requires us to believe that which may or may not be true (bad). The Apostle Paul affirms this in Hebrews 11:1: Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.

Hope can be a positive life force when we strive towards the improbable (e.g. beating illness, trying hard at anything worthwhile, etc…), and it can show itself in many forms, but it is certainly not exclusive to faith (in god) or spiritualism.  

For the past several years, I’ve been struggling with this question of why I still attend church and participate in my religious community despite my apostasy. I don’t believe in the Christian teaching of God or soteriology. And while I’m open to the possibility of anything and everything existing in the unseen realms of energy and death, I certainly don’t have much belief in a heaven or a hell or reincarnation or all of us returning to planet Melmac. Upon death, we may become worm food or wormholes, I really have no idea.

But the church is what I know and what I love. It’s where I’ve met some of the best people in the world (and some of the worst). It’s where I’m comfortable and accepted. It’s a place that makes me feel needed and useful. It’s somewhere I can ponder bigger things in life and establish deep, meaningful relationships with others. These are the reasons that keep me coming back, despite hearing things about “relationships with Jesus” and how “God is in control” that make me want to claw my eyes out. 

So, imagine if churches, in their current structure, were to acknowledge that faith was flawed and our own mythologies were no more “truthful” than anything else. How do things change? What does a church look like without the doctrines of our collective mythology? What if we kept all the undeniably positive aspects of religion and threw out the mysticism? Who wouldn’t want to be a part of a community like that? 

The 5 C’s: Things I love about church now.

Constancy: knowing who will be there, the routine and order of service, steady location, consistency of environment and atmosphere, knowing what I’m getting into
Comfort: comfortable surroundings, old friends, welcoming, non-judgmental environment where I can be and express myself, a place to be away from burdens of the workweek - a place to unplug
Connection: seeing familiar friends, meeting new ones, a perfect level of interaction for “acquaintances,” eating together, familial support, collective joy/grief, a place where it’s not weird (rather encouraged) to make a “deeper” connection with people - generally unavailable in the workplace, a safe place to bring children and meet like-minded parents, sharing/venting concerns and helping find solutions for them, having the sense of a shared, collective purpose/cause 
Creativity: opportunity to hear and play live music, learning through lectures/talks/stories/sermons, hearing new ideas and reaffirming old ones, high-tech showmanship (sound systems, computers, projectors, etc…), artistic expression/interpretation of shared values/beliefs, challenging intellectual discourse, 
Collaboration: working on projects as a group to tackle a problem or organize an event for the common good, having an elected, hierarchical leadership structure that leverages individual talents/passions, sports/games/activities bonding through conflict/adversity

If we were to build a formal community that cultivated the 5 C’s I’d be all in. I already am, we just have that whole “Jesus is God” thing that irritates me. A community like this would not be immune to all the negative characteristics of any group: discrimination, gossip, conflict, etc…, but with the right alchemy and leadership it could evolve into a community that seeks the common good. I wouldn’t call it a church either, I’d call it the Common Community. Imagine attending a TED conference every Saturday. TED is the first thing that comes to mind when visualizing the Common Community. Someone like Chris Anderson would be the “Pastor.” The cultivator and leader. The facilitator. The Pastor is integral to the success of the community, but he is not the sole source of knowledge. He curates more than he creates. A true communal learning experience. Ok, I’m getting excited now. 

Elements of the Common Community:

1. No more sola scriptura: Eliminate reliance on the Bible or any other religious doctrine as the sole source of truth. Lectures/talks can reference anything that holds observable truth or otherwise presents itself as theory. 
2. Love Rules: Exploration of love and compassion as the highest principles and virtues - not faith
3. Observation, not explanation: Exploration of science and the beauty and mystery of our world through observation - not mysticism
4. Speak Well: Compelling speakers, experts in various fields speaking with authority
5. Get Real: Discussion of real societal problems and how our community can help
6. No Such Thing as Blasphemy: Irreverence for dogma, reverence for our community and shared values
7. The 5 C’s: cultivate all the great things about religion, without requiring faith

Let’s do it!!!

_____

Update (1/17/12): So I wrote all of that ^ while suffering a bout of insomnia last week. Today, TED (speak of the devil), released a brilliant talk by Alain de Botton who is making way more sense than I am. Atheism 2.0. So brilliant. 

Tim Tebow believes everything he says. I know this because I used to be Tim Tebow. Well, not literally, of course, you dumbass. I mean I used to say the things Tim Tebow says and I used to believe the things Tim Tebow believes.

There’s a temptation among “non-believers” to lump all “believers” into a single category of “crazy religious people.” It’s actually quite easy and fun to do this, especially when the majority of religious people seem to fall so readily into the “crazy religious people” bin. You’ll know they’re genuinely crazy religious people when they take pride in being labeled as such and then proceed to picket military funerals or strap C4 around their belts and ride the bus. I’d like to suggest that this level of “crazy religious person” is actually quite far down the periphery of religious folk and Tebow is definitely not in their ranks.

Tim Tebow is passionate in his belief and love for Jesus. (I’m going for the Most Obvious Sentence of 2011 Award). Although this may be classified as crazy by some, it is not disingenuous. Tim Tebow is a devout, well-intentioned, evangelical Christian in the truest form. This is why he is so beloved. This is why he’s treated like Jesus Jr. within his community of faith and observed like a zoo animal by the rest of the godless horde.

While some may be dismissive of the idea, there actually is quite a large spectrum of belief and praxis within Christianity. The diversity of theology and culture is what makes the faith fascinating (to me, anyway), and what we’re seeing in Tim Tebow is a classic evangelical Christian. Evangelicals wear their God-lovin hearts on their sleeves. In theory, they don’t do it to show off or be prideful in their piety; they are up-front in their expressions of faith because they believe that Jesus is the most important thing they can offer the world. This is the underlying philosophy of short-term overseas mission trips: while clean water and food and a sustainable economic infrastructure are great, the Gospel is the most important thing I can give to my Third World neighbor. Jesus is the bread of life, not you know, actual bread.

So, when Tim Tebow says his annual summer trip to Dad’s orphanage in the Philippines is what makes him most happy, he means it. It is his adherence to a higher calling. It is living life in the most fulfilling way possible - the way Jesus would have done. Evangelicals believe it is their duty to be the hands and feet of God. That means everything they do, whether in word or in deed, is intended to honor the Almighty. As an Evangelical, everything matters: what I say, what I do, how I walk, how I dress, how I behave in front of Brent Musburger.

I’d bet a year’s salary that Tim Tebow has read or heard about a book called, The Prayer of Jabez. It’s a pocket-sized text based on the prayer of a little-known character in the Old Testament named Jabez who invoked a simple prayer: “’Oh that you would bless me and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me, and keep me from harm so that I will be free from pain.’ And God granted his request.” Evangelicals interpret this prayer to mean, “bless me so that more people will be within my sphere of influence.” In other words, “God, help me be successful so others will look up to me and I can tell them all about You.”

Every time Tim Tebow wins a game, his territory is enlarged and when he mentions his faith or thanks God in an interview or Tebows after a game, he’s doing you a favor. He is sharing with you the most important message he knows. Like The Secret before The Secret. He may not be preaching to you directly and he may not be holding a bible study in your home, but he is bringing God into your conversation, and that honors Him. Tebow believes that his actions and expressions of faith, no matter how indirect they may be, will somehow compel you to be like him. The crazy thing? When you’re Tim Tebow, it works! Tebowing toes the line of irony because it’s often done in jest but is also a huge win for the evangelical Christian community. When was the last time words like “faith” and “God” have so dominated the dialogue of sports? Tim Tebow is God’s bulldozing hype man into the secular world.

When asked by reporters about his frequent conjuring of the Lord in interviews, Tim Tebow disarms the questioner by responding, “If you’re married, and you have a wife, and you really love your wife, is it good enough to only tell your wife that you love her on the day you get married? Or should you tell her every single day when you wake up and have the opportunity? That’s how I feel about my relationship with Jesus Christ.” While godless heathens like Chuck Klosterman are surprised by such a lucid reply (jk, CK, i love you, I’ve got all your books), it’s just one of many canned analogies Evangelicals are taught from an early age. There will be more, especially if you start questioning his beliefs. Tebow will explain the Trinity to you by comparing it to the 3 molecular phases of water (ice/water/steam=God/Jesus/Holy Ghost). Tebow will talk about the faith of Abraham and Job and he’ll encourage his teammates by reciting a proverb about iron sharpening iron. This is what a good Christian boy does, and he does it earnestly.

There are more “crazy religious people” within the Christian faith than I can shake a stick at; and at times, it seems the hypocrisy of the church knows no bounds. It’s the diversity of belief and culture that’s led to the proliferation of hundreds of denominations and the unbelievably asinine nature of “church drama,” but if all the in-fighting has honed one skill, it’s our ability to spot a fake. No one is faster to accuse a believer of hypocrisy or impure motives than a fellow believer. I’ll tell you this: no fellow believer doubts Tim Tebow’s motives. He’s criticized for being calculating and throwing religion in your face. Well, that’s because he is. That’s what he’s trying to do. In everything he does, whether in word or in deed, Tim Tebow wants you to look at him and think about Jesus. If Tim Tebow sold steak knives for a living, he’d be the same way. Except he’d be the “crazy religious steak knife guy.” Football is just what he happens to be doing now. He wants to win games and be the best quarterback of all time because it broadens his territory. His final destination is not money or fame or victory, they are means to an end: to hype Jesus on the biggest platform in America; ‘cause Elway ain’t done shit for Jesus.

Tim Tebow is modest about everything except his faith. That’s because he’s following the words of the Apostle Paul: “I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God for the salvation of everyone who believes: first for the Jew, then for the Gentile” (Romans 1:16). In a world full of Jews and Gentiles, Tim Tebow is not ashamed and he’s not lying.

I knew the weed was kicking in when my fingers became cold. My body temperature was dropping and I felt my head bobbing back and forth with the motion of the bus. Not violently, but in a way that made my head feel about 3 pounds heavier.  

And then came the intense focus on listening. “I have super human hearing right now!” was the first thing I muttered when I was fully lit. I could hear everything: the drunken, murmuring up front, the three clowns arguing about nothing a few feet away, every word to Theophilus London playing in the background, the crunch of Fritos beneath someone’s feet. I was taking it all in. I wished my hearing would stay that way; listening with such clarity and focus. 

Everything was funny. Every insight, groundbreaking. Every moment deserved my undivided attention and love. I was hunched over with my arms crossed into my chest and just staring, listening to my terrific friends and being thankful. I kept making mental notes to remember how thankful I was to have such amazingly funny and entertaining friends, each with his own “classic” identity that amplified itself when inebriated, or at least when I was. I’d keep it together and giggle like mad every 2 minutes when someone would say or do something that so perfectly summed up who they were:

“I’m really feeling like opening these shades is what I wanna do right now. Yea guys, let’s open these shades and see the sun.”
He opens the shades and the rays of a perfect sunset splash in.
“Wow, this is the best idea I’ve ever had in my entire life. It’s such a beautiful sunset guys.”
Without missing a beat, someone yells from the back: “Shut the f*ck up.”
I laugh hysterically. So classic those guys! 

I wanted so badly to write on that bus, to remember what I was feeling and record my thoughts about the characters around me. I was high and freezing. My sense of hearing was incredible and moving proved to be overstimulating. So was eating. Someone tossed me a fun sized Snickers bar and it kicked my ass. Chocolate and nougat pounding away at the tip of my tongue. I raised my hand to get the attention of the drunken horde:
“Guys, this flavorful chocolate bar may have been a huge mistake on my part. It is just too intense for me right now. Please be careful.” 
We all laughed. I was hilarious.

While I kept climbing I became more still, listening harder. I was now picking up subtle changes in road noise and hearing the small rattle of a zipper from the luggage packed behind me. My vision was in tilt-shift, adjusting my focus as I listened in on a quiet conversation up front:

“I’m not f*cked up right now. I’m fine.”
“Yes, you are! Don’t lie!” I yelled across the bus.
Everyone’s head turned.
“Why are you listening in on our conversation motherf*cker? How did you even hear us from back there?”
“Cuz I told you, I can hear EVERYTHING right now motherf*ckers!!”
We all laughed. I was hilarious.  

It was fun while it lasted and it lasted a more than a few discomforting hours. Edibles are to be taken with caution, boys and girls. I think it’s real what they say about our true selves being revealed under the influence; in vino veritas. I suppose that means deep down I’m just a giggly bitch who loves his friends and wants to write about how great life is. What I miss the most, even more than the super human hearing, is the courage that comes with the high. Well, not so much courage as it is diminishing fear and insecurity. I needed a guitar and a mic on that bus. I played DJ without giving two shits what other people thought about the music I was playing. It was good enough for me. 

This is all stoner talk and I sound like an imbecile, but I swear I had some genuine bouts of clarity while I was high. I was happy and grateful and brave. I wanted to write and make music. I had deep empathy and compassion for the people around me, as flawed as we were. I was a funny sonuvabitch too. I’d like to think that’s who I really am. I’d also like to have the super human hearing back. Classic me. 

I used to be a snotty little bastard.*

A song would come on the radio and I’d immediately identify everything wrong with it: “The mix is terrible.” “The bass sounds like my nephew farting.” “The compression feels like a baby drill sergeant is having karaoke night in my left ear.” “Really? Another song about making it rain up in da club?” “This is retarded.”

Then it was on to the artist: “Nippleback really need to stop making music.” “Remember when Katy Perry was good? Neither do I. She needs to stop making music forever.” 

It always ends with some variation of, “[so and so] needs to stop making music.” This is what a critic does, because the critic is a coward.

The critic is a coward because he does not create. He does not participate. In the arena of creative sport, he is a bystander: feckless and incapable or too afraid to enter the playing field himself. The critic is a coward. He is the impotent bastard child of self-doubt and arrogance, frustrated by his own failings and driven mad with envy by the unworthy success of another. I am the critic. We need less of me.

Tumblr is full of critics. Well, critics and curators. Curators are people who compile a buncha shit they didn’t create and put it together as if the compilation itself was a creation. Curators love to quote famous people. Curators reblog pictures of Karl Lagerfeld and Tyler the Creator and Ninja Turtle Noses as discoveries that represent their true selves. Collecting items for show-and-tell is not creation, it is curation. If not for HTML, curators would be pasting magazine cutouts on poster board to hang on bedroom walls - desiring piggish squeals and seal claps for their exquisite taste and classiness. High brows and raised pinkies to white poster board and paste. We need less of these.

What we lack are creators; Pros unfazed by critics and oblivious to reblogs and Like buttons and retweets. Creators with integrity and work ethic and talent. People who create because they have to; not for youtube views or passive income, but just because. People who find an empty space and fill it: something out of nothing. Writers who pen originals and musicians who do the same. Artists unafraid to share because their inner critic is stronger than the ones outside. These are the brave ones. Because when the dust settles, the creator leaves behind something of substance. The critic’s opinions die with him.

Creation is forever. I wrote it. I sang it. I drew it. Nothing can ever change that, and no goliath of snarky criticism can ever wipe it off the face of forever. It won’t always be great, but at the very least, it’s original. 

I guess what I’m trying to say is: create something. Be brave. Have no fear of judgment, because once you’ve created it, you’ve won. You’ve conquered the fear your critics could not. The fear will always be there, but the creators fight with courage, daily.  So, write your stories, sing your songs, snap your pictures. Be You. If they hate it, challenge them. Challenge them to participate and watch them wither like daisies.

Be You, and don’t let the critical misanthropes like me keep you down.    

*By “used to” I mean “am” and by “little” I mean “fat.”

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.