Mediman

Hola.

I write thee with weary eyes. Last nite I went to an Introduction to Meditation class in NYC and didn't get home until late. I've been on a bit of a spiritual quest over the past year, and I'm sort of stumbling around looking for that certain... I dunno.

From what I understand, meditation is a great way for you to part the traffic in your head—the thoughts that continually nip at you minute by minute. "Gotta do this. Gotta do that." From what I'm learning, none of the stuff that your head manufactures matters. It's all just noise, and we put too much value in it. So, if you read about my last meditating experience (the one where my leg went numb) you'll understand why I'm taking an intro course.

There I was, in a room with a surprisingly diverse crowd. Equally split between men and women. Ages range from 20s to 70s. All of us there to reach I better state of being. We didn't burn incense and bow and pray and repeat mantras. And we didn't use meditation techniques like concentrating and focusing your thinking on your breath, or to imagining something. This approach was to sit and do nothing. Think nothing. Be nothing. Because that's where we all came from: Nothing. The idea is to let go of every thought that enters your head. Let it be. And it ain't easy.

As soon as you close your eyes, the chatter starts. Layers upon layers of thoughts. You want to pay attention but you're instructed not to, so there's some tension there which isn't necessarily relaxing.

I had moments of freedom from my thoughts, but they were fleeting. As soon as I'd settle in, thoughts like these would pop in:

"What's that singer for the Scorpions doing now?"

"Did someone just cut one?"

"My face itches."

"Peanut butter is yummy."

Then I got hungry.

One more wasted meditation.

G

1022 to New Haven

Harlem 125 disappearing behind me,
swallowed in darkness.

Manual whispering in my ears.
Float away with me.
Up into the cool, black sky
where stars gather and marvel
at the crescent earth.

I type under synthetic light
ash on my tongue.
A couple
with well worn wedding bands
nod off together,
a 50 year habit
that can’t be broken.

The conductor owns the aisles,
confident strides.
Anticipating every rattle and quake
with feline grace.

Noroton Heights
cracks over the intercom.
Sounds like Noronites.
Hairy Ann is next
It’s supposed to be
Darien.

The gentle turbulence
always reassures me

I’m going home.

Knowlesy

I was on the left, Pat Daxon on the right, Andy Daxon stopping and Jimmy Knowles sweeping. The best back line I’ve ever played with, bar none. The four of us were an impenetrable shield in front of the goal. Billy Patides was usually keeping, though Justin Throneburg or Mark Dillman could be back there on any given Sunday. All three of those goalkeepers were amazing athletes.

Pat and Andy were brothers, but nothing like each other. Pat was big, strapping 6-footer, a granite chin, solid as a wrecking ball. Players would litterally bounce off his considerable chest. He never did anything fancy, just played the right pass time and time again, like clockwork. I never saw a guy beat him, he was too strong, too fast, too smart.

Andy was sinewy: A wireframe version of his brother, probably just as strong, though he didn’t look it. He had great leaping ability and would win anything everything in the air. A 70 yard punt would come in and he would pluck it out of the sky before guys 6 inches taller had a chance. Andy’s timing was impeccable. He consistently frustrated other team’s best players rendering them helpless, useless, tired.

Knowlesy, though, was my man back there. If all the coaches I’ve had, nobody taught me more than Jimmy Knowles. His most important lesson, love the game. He taught me how to have fun, and appreciate the time I had out there. That alone elevated my level of play to the point where I surprised myself on the field.

Jimmy was a little Scottish guy who had questionable skill and wasn’t particularly fast. He was 36 when I first met him, too old to be playing against guys half his age. Didn’t matter. His heart made all the difference. It was as big as the penalty box.

He couldn’t have been taller than 5’ 7’ and weighed no more than a buck 40, but I saw him deliver hits on 200 pounders that would make you whince. Absolutely fearless. The fiercest, nastiest defender I’ve ever seen.

He would jaw and crack jokes the entire game. He loved being out there. He called opponents “sunshine” just to wind em up a bit. After tackling the ball away from an opponent, you’d hear, “Next time, sunshine”—his evil grin behind his bushy blonde moustache.

Jimmy never literally told me to love the game. He didn’t pull me aside, arm around my soulder and say, “Greg, just have fun, go out there and enjoy yourself.” He just played with unbridled joy. That said enough. I wanted to share in it.

His lessons stay with me today.

Thanks, Knowlesy.

The Word

I’d like to congratulate to my dear daughter on her first F-bomb. It came yesterday morning just before 9am. I will not reveal the details of why or how she learned “the word” to protect a particular individual’s reputation.

She’s going to learn these words sooner rather than later in our house. Especially, since she attends 2 soccer games a weekend where “effies” and other expletives, slurs, epithets and vulgarities are so liberally distributed.

We are glass-half-full types. The way we look at it, is she just learned the most widely-used, and most popular word in the dictionary besides "and." (BTW, is it in the dictionary?)

Anyway, she’ll be better prepared to handle a wider variety of situations having the word in her holster. The trick, though, is to use it only in select situations.

We all know you can’t toss it out there recklessly. It’s like seasoning your pizza with red pepper flakes—just a few will do. Cover the whole slice and you’ll pay the next day. The point is you can F too much.

Let’s say, if Cam accidentally spills a glass of milk, then barking an F is completely inappropriate. But, say, if the milk splashes into an outlet causing an electrical short and a kitchen fire, then the word probably works.

Now that I’m a little older and wiser, I find I use the word less and less. My vocabulary has grown and, frankly, I don’t need it as much. I can now express myself in many colorful ways. I think I received this gift from my father, who, if you’ve been reading this blog, has the gift of rant.

Don’t get me wrong though, the word is a language in itself. So many meanings. So many uses. It’s punctuation. It’s emphasis. It’s descriptive. It’s active. It’s directional. It’s everything you want a word to be, and so much more.

We are proud parents indeed.

G

Wormcatchers

Whoa now! I’m on the 6:53 train! An unprecedented moment of ambition for this blogger. I was up a clear hour and a half before the crack of dawn. Roosters were double-taking. Crickets froze agog. Even Cam was annoyed. As you can probably imagine, I didn’t actually choose to take the 6:53. I’m meeting with a client, and the client happens to be an early birdie. Chirp, chirp.

It’s actually kinda nice doin the early thing. You feel like you just got a leg up on the crowd. So yesterday was a slow work day. Haven’t had one of those in quite some time. I gotta tell you, it kinda throws you off. Since I had a moment, I scanned a few other blogs I enjoy reading from time to time. One in particluar featured a clip of a speech from Sir Ken Robinson. I have no clue who this cat is, but his speech was fantastic.

He spoke about how we are educating the creativity out of ourselves. The emphasis on math and languages in the current school systems worldwide are devaluing the arts, which is killing creative thinking. He states that the current model for schooling was developed back in the Industrial Revolution when people needed to know math and languages in order to get jobs. Times have changed, but math and languages are still the most prized of the cirriculum, while arts is dead last.

With acedemic inflation (BAs don’t mean a thing anymore—you need a master’s degree or a doctorate these days) there’s a need for creative thinking. The school system needs updating, and people should be embracing the gift of creativity, not stamping it out, in favor of something more “marketable.”

Picasso said, “Every child is born an artist. The trick is to remain one as an adult.” Makes me wonder what Cam will be diving into. Will she be a ballerina? A painter? A video game designer? A composer? A sculptress? A musician? An actress? Or... a writer (horrors!).

Zen-doh

Stop the noise. Stop the traffic, pollution n congestion. Stop the incessant buzzing, the constant chatter. Gotta do this, gotta do that. And when I have nothing to do, I gotta make something up.

Ever try to sprint for one month straight? A gear is bound to grind. A piston will surely seize. Gotta throw it in park, friends.

I went to an NYC zendo yesterday for a 30 minute meditative retreat. Wanted to let the mind go, slow down, relax. Ahhh. A friend of mine works the bell there. She rings it at the start of a meditation and rings it again to end it. She invited me to join her.

Noise alone makes Manhattan the most impractical place on Earth for a Zen monestary. But people can be quite inventive around here. This one was on the 9th floor of a SoHo office building. You walk down an unfancy corridor seeing logos for architecture firms, law firms, design firms and when you see a color xerox of Buddah, you’ve arrived.

It’s amazing what a door can do. Once you walk inside, you are transported to somewhere in Southeast Asia. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. It’s a little strange. Cushy mats line each side of a giant room. You are instructed to bow when you enter the meditation area (I’m sure there’s a term for this area, but I don’t know it), then you bow to your cushion and bow again toward the center of the room. Bow wow wow.

Then you get in a comfortable position (facing the wall) and let go for 30 minutes. Not moving, just breathing and sitting. And sitting and breathing.

During that time you’ll think about everything, you’ll realize how noisy your noggin is. You’ll notice how tense your shoulders are. You’ll concentrate on relaxing which does the opposite for your poor shoulders. You’ll tell the little voices to go to sleep, but they’ll just keep getting louder. You'll do this for the first 15 minutes.

Then your leg will start to tingle because your jeans are cutting off the blood supply. But you don’t want to move, because you’ll be disturbing a sacred moment for others. You’ll ignore the leg, which by now burning and yearning for oxygen. You’ll take a deep breath, reassuring yourself that it takes a solid 3 hours of oxygen deprivation before amputation is even considered. Deep breath.

You'll be feeling better by now. 7 minutes left. Just relax.

Oh, no. Now the poor sucker is numb. You’ll realize that your leg is a dead piece of flesh hanging off your torso. How will you walk out of this joint? You’ll realize you’ll have to shift your weight a little, just to give the capillaries a shot of oxygen. Ahh, that’s better. But the pins and neeedles are stabbing stabbing. The pain! It's unbearable!

A cold sweat breaks out. Breathe! Breathe! For the love of Buddah breathe!

Bong. Bong. Bong.

Bell rung. Meditation over.

I feel so much better now.

Why I’m Not a Video Editor

Been re-working Kimi n Taso’s wedding video over the past day or so. They invited the M 3 out to a Rhode Island beach called Masquamicut to help them celebrate the big day. While I learned how to pronounce Masquamicut, I recorded the events of the weekend on my DV camera.

I’ve shot and edited tons of film and video, and enjoy doing it in extremely small doses. I used to splice film and spin video reels, but now I’m slicing and dicing on my Mac. It’s oh-so easy these days. Just plug n play, brother. If I had iMovie back in the day, I would have kicked out 5x the number of unwatchable student films. “Ten in a Day,” “Hades Hotel,” n “The Microscopic King” would have had sequels for sure.

People say I’m pretty good at shooting and editing, but I decided to switch career tracks and dive into writing. I often think about why I would selectively use these talents. I don’t think the average Joe understands how to compose a shot, or create a visual storyline. Editing takes a discerning eye, and a sense of rhythm (for a white guy, I’m quite rhythmic!). So why did I abandon something that I was good at, and had a promising future in?

Because editing sucks, that’s why.

Don’t get me wrong, I like the finished product and that lovely feeling of accomplishment. But the road to get there is a road built for somebody else, friends.

When editing, you’re usually stuck in a cold, black, windowless room for days, skin slowly turning transparent due to sun deprivation. Your eyes burning n red from cathode rays. You sit n sit n sit until your ass has lost all feeling. Time no longer exists—it could be 2 AM or 2 PM, no way to know. Technical glitches inevitably lock up a good part of the day.

The most grueling part is sifting through days of footage looking for the gems to string together for a video that may last 10 minutes.

If you see someone on the street who wears black jeans, black shoes, black t-shirt, and black hooded jacket, who walks with a slight limp from tight hamstrings and a permanent curvature of the spine, who suffers from Vitamin D depression, who’s skin is so colorless you can see veins, who wears shades that filter out UV rays, gamma rays, alpha rays and all the other rays, you’re probably looking at poor video editor.

Or Marilyn Manson.

GM

The Great Fall

Daycare still down n out. They sent an email setting a tentative opening date of this Wednesday, which we all know aint gonna happen. So the Monaco trio is working on its second week of hysteria scheduling our lives down to the minute. My blogs have been more sporadic lately, and I'm not sure why. Maybe the scheduling glitches have something to do with it. Maybe I'm not as inspired, since inspiration sometimes depends on the moon's pull.

Frost is starting to crystalize on the ground every morning now. Makes the grass all crispy crunchy. Neighbors have decorated their front yards with scarecrows n hay n pumpkins because it's harvest time (?). Not sure what my neighbors are harvesting. Some of them don't even need to invest in their Wal Mart scarecrows, if they'd just stand in front of their house, crows (and all of God's creatures) will certainly back off. Ha ha.

No, seriously. You should see some of my neighbors.

Visited my first pumpkin patch yesterday with Cam and Kris up in the hills of CT. Hundreds upon hundreds of pumpkins scattered everywhere. Little tykes jumping around trying to lift em. The farm provided a fleet of Radio Flyer wagons for customers to load up. You pay for your pumpkin by the pound, some were dangerously heavy, 30+ pounds! They say, if you guess the weight, it's free. I guessed 18, it was 22.

We took a hay ride through their apple orchard, which was quite beautiful. It's on a steep hillside so the views were magnificient with all the fall colors under the bright blue sky. The tractor pulled us through rows and rows of apple trees. Worth the trip, though we didn't sit on hay as advertised. It was more like a large truck bed with bench seating. No complaints, as hay can get a little gamey.

Love this time of year.

Hope you're diggin it, too.

G

Psychic Flood

Precarious start to the week, a pipe burst at the daycare and they will be closed for the week ripping out soggy carpet and installing dry stuff. Threw Kris’ and my schedule into a tizzy. There we were, sitting around the dining room table negotiating who gets Cam and when (very amicably I might add). Pretty strange moment that hopefully isn’t foreshadowing anything. Ha ha.

So, get this bit o weirdness: I'm cooking up some vittles for the little mouth and a random thought entered my head. The name Mooch Myernick just popped in. Glenn "Mooch" Myernick was a player in the pre-MLS soccer league here in the US. He helped coach the US team during the last two world cups and he coached a good friend of mine in college. I hardly ever think of this guy, I didn't know him. There was no reason for his name to enter my head last night, but it did for some reason. So I thought about him. I wondered why people called him Mooch.

What a cool nickname.

30 seconds later, my brother calls to tell me that Mooch Myernick died of a heart attack last night. My brother has no connection to Mooch Myernick either, but we often bring up old soccer players with a touch of irony to make each other laugh. The more obscure the name, the funnier. Mooch was on the list of funny players.

So I'll lay that strange psychic experience out there for ya to figure out. I can't explain why I thought of him 30 seconds before my brother called me to tell me he died. I can't explain why my brother felt compelled to call me then and there. I can't explain why Mooch had such a cool nickname, may he rest in peace.

Some things just can't be explained.

GM

2 (Again)

My iPod's shuffle mechanism decided to grace me with a sweet song from Zwan, Billy Corigan's band after Smashing Pumpkins. Pretty good stuff. Cam is banging away on something in the next room (hope it isn't anything valuable). It's a wonderfully slow Saturday morning. Kris has already left for her soccer game, and I should be on my way to catch the game with Cam, but I don't feel like rushing anywhere. I just want to succumb to the forces of the day. I'd like to float through it without a care or an effort.

So, I felt like writing you, and here I am. Had a lovely evening with a couple of friends last night. Little red wine, nip o' Jameson and lots of laughs. Thanks Taso and Kimi, just what the doc ordered.

Today? What is today? What will it bring? What random occurances? What coincidences? What hairpin turns? Every day another mystery to be solved. Cam's birthday celebration will happen tonight. Ice cream cake, a tricycle, and other goodies sent from the relatives. She's going to be thrilled.

She's growing up, becoming a little girl. She's a love sponge, sensitive and delicate. She's going to be smitten with all the boys when the time comes. Vulnerable, soft and loving. Her heart will lead her. Hope she knows that about herself when the big decisions come. Be careful, Cam!

She's sitting in my lap right now as I type these very words, mesmerized by my fingers as they stroke the keys. She's not quite sure what to make of it. Probably doesn't even know I'm writing about her. Fast forward 20 years, she's off at college or persuing some a dream, or exploring, or contributing—I wonder if she'll know that I'm thinking of her.

G

Parenting Advice

The entire Northeast is dusting off the jackets. The first chill is in the air. Traces of gold, canary, crimson, n ruby dance in the treetops. The maples are falling asleep, so beautiful against the gray sky.

Cam turned 2 yesterday. Her toddler posse at the daycare threw a bangin party for her. She was still in a festive mood when I broght her home, singing happy birthday to me, even though my birthday isn’t until May. We let her open one gift, from Cici, Kris' mom (we’re celebrating on Saturday, when it’s quieter). Cici got her a miniature wooden rocking chair, quite beautiful. We couldn’t get her out of it. She was rocking back n forth, smiling n giggling.

Everything is new to her. She’s quite curious and quite fearless. I love that about her. Makes our job as parents much easier. We tend to let her go and discover stuff on her own, which can be tricky and dangerous. But we have the perfect remedy.

As you know, most kids will sense what’s forbidden—it’ll attract them like buzzards to roadkill. Well, we’ve solved that problem by making forbidden stuff, well, not forbidden. Matter of fact, encourage Cam to do what’s forbidden so she won’t go near it. Mind you, there are a few bugs in this theory, but it's coming along.

You see, we just leave little temptations right out in the open so she’ll ignore them like a decaying houseplant.

The boling pot of water on the stove, for example. Just leave it be. If she dumps it over, well then, lesson learned. We put paperclips in the outlets, so if she gets curious, well, let’s just say hair grows back. Our match collection, gourmet knives, n colorful pills are out in the open. We even point them out to her.

Oh, those babyproofers would drop into immediate seizures if they saw our house. Upstairs windows wide open n screenless. No handrails. We installed the medicine cabinet waist high. And how about that cornucopia of goodies under the kitchen sink? Doors are wide open, chemicals ready for rummaging by tiny hands. If, by unlikely chance, she does guzzle the Cascade, one good stomach pumping will teach her.

So that’s my advice to all new moms and dads. The best way to teach is pain, misery, and skin grafting. We're happy to report Cam is very well behaved, albeit bald.

You’re welcome.

GM

Tuesday’s Need More Cowbell

Senor Sol is particularly blinding today. Was up before he was doing a morning exercise program Kris put together for me. A little stepping a little lunging, got the chambers pumpin. Gotta give a little energy to get a little energy. The tank was pretty empty, thanks for the refil.

Cam was up early, too. She likes to slide into the day with a little Sesame Street and a cool cup of milk. She’s quite grumpy during the waking hours, though. You have to leave her alone for a good 30 minutes otherwise she’ll scrunch her face and start swingin at ya. No joke. Yup. She’s got her daddy in her.

After she shakes off the uglies, the smiles set in. She was running around singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. She knows all the lyrics, even the second verse! Not sure if that’s amazing or not. She isn’t even two yet, so I think she’s a genius. I mean, I finally got the lyrics down last year—took me a solid 35 years to nail em.

Then she started singing the ABCs. She knows the all the letters, except that “elemeno” part. Did you know that Twinkle Twinkle and ABCs use the same melody? Go ahead, sing em.

Aunt Bunny (Kris’ sister) was in town this past weekend visiting and spending time with Cam. Cam was smitten as soon as AB walked in. AB has this uncanny ability to brighten a room when she enters, and I’m not just saying that because she reads this blog. We had quite a few laughs togther. She’s one of those guests you’re sorry to see leave.

She brought over a Will Farrell DVD that had all his best SNL bits sliced and diced together. The Blue Oyster Cult skit with Christopher Walken is hysterical, a must see. AB forgot the DVD. Losers weepers, sister.

What else can I report?

I’m deciding to let my hair grow. How long? Who knows?

I’m joining a networking group in CT. Will that jive with the new do? Maybe not.

I’m bored with my music collection. iPods are dangerous that way.

I’m bored with my soccer team and want to quit. Kris is bored of me saying that.

I’m looking at a disgusting piece of grafitti on the train seat in front of me, but it makes me giggle a little.

I’m looking forward to going to work today because I’m weird.

I’m glad you’re reading my blog, even though this isn’t my best entry.

I’m reconnecting with a lot of old friends, which may mean something significant.

I’m leaner, meaner, n keener than ever.

I’m off the caffeine once again. Makes me tired.

I’m done with today’s entry.

Adios.

Survival of the Quickest

Made the train by the by the hair on my chinny chin chin this morn. Got the adrenalyn a-rushin, heart a-pumpin, head a-thumpin. Welcome to the week.

I needed to re-up the monthly pass and there was a few people in line in front of me at the the olde platform kiosk. We only have one machine. It’s the size of a refrigerator and it’s twice as slow.

Us poor folk got the commuter rookie in front of us who couldn’t make heads or tails of this hunk o technology. He felt the pressure, and, with sphincter clinched, he fumbled and bumbled unable to answer simple questions like “one way” or “round trip.” He froze like a racoon in a flashlight.

It’s a touch screen. This takes a few seconds to register. His index finger hunting for something to touch. He started pecking at the poor machine with wild abandon. The coundown in all our heads running—tick tock, amigo.

He’s a tall, handsome guy with nice dark skin, like he’s from India or something. He dressed up in a pressed shirt and pants and looks like he knows what he’s doing. Non. Just another well groomed dummy.

So there he is mulling and poring over each instruction as if his precious life hung in the balance. As if his hair gel would be confiscated, or his Dockers pleats released. When a decision is finally reached, he then very deliberately pushes (instead of touches) the screen. This reading and pushing goes on as the minutes escape.

We all look at our watches, hoping time will freeze long enough for us to get our pass.

Finally, it’s time for the credit card. Those of us who aren’t geometrically-inclined will inevitably insert our card the wrong way, upside down or, on really bad day, both. This clown went through every wrong combination twice. Then after 2 solid minutes of head scratching and touch screen punching, and card fip flopping, he gives up.

He looks back at the line and muttered, “It won’t take my card.”

Nobody said a thing. Not even a doe-eyed look of sympathy. Now Mr. Genius will have to pony up the on-board fare, which is frighteningly expensive.

Good.