Left Back

The Panhandler's Script

2010-12-20T11:26:00.000-05:00

I travel the subways most everyday and I have seen my fair share of beggars. They make their plea. They have their script memorized, timed out to the exact length of the ride to the next stop. They recite it robotically, just as they did it the past 400 times. Inflectionless, emotionless, lifeless. They numbly get through it, and see mild results: coins here or there, maybe even a bit of paper.

I was thinking about how they give their argument a little soul. Make their script sing. Maybe they can find a way to talk to and through people so they want to open their wallets. As an ad copy guy, I thought I’d give this a crack.

They have 60 seconds to make their case, pitch me, if you will. Why I should give them money? What would make me listen?

Perhaps this?

“I had the job. I had the wife, I had the comfortable home. I’m here to tell you that I lost all of it with a few bad decisions. I’m here to move forward, to put my life back together. And I could use a second chance, starting now.

I have nothing but these clothes. I am staying with a close friend so I am not homeless, but I am penniless. I am asking my fellow passengers for a few dollars, so I can buy new clothes and look decent at a job interview. I humbly ask for anything you might spare. You help me, perhaps someone will lend a hand to you when you need it most.”

Would you be more inclined to donate?

When Dreams Disappear

2010-12-19T10:49:00.001-05:00

Dreams come in with such force—such energy and vitality. Sometimes they shake me awake. I can taste the events, the reality of it all. The love and happiness, the horror and chills. The bizarreness of it all doesn't seem so bizarre at the time. It's just where I am and who I am at the moment. I am completely, fully present. As soon as waking comes upon me, the dream state vanishes, like a puff. An instant distant memory. What was once palpable and visceral, I can no longer put my finger on. I just can't remember it anymore, only just a few random frames.

Saturdoes

2010-12-18T14:13:00.001-05:00

Sometimes you feel like you have it all going on. Got it together. Needle in the groove. Nothing's a struggle. Playin in the zone. Got a taste of that right now. All it takes is a little solitude after an insanely busy week. Nice to take a breath. A little yoga to move the prana. Kids across the street at a neighbor's house. Just me, you, and time to think about my next move.

Morning Imperfections

2010-11-18T12:50:00.004-05:00

The race is on. I gotta make it to the middle of Brooklyn by 10am. Now, that may not be such a tough thing to accomplish for a resourceful and well-conditioned 40 year old. But when you want to drop off your first grader at school in the morning, it’ll key you up a bit.

And how does that anxiousness manifest itself? Well, everything bothered me. Any small detour from my “planned” path to success irked me. Any small request from the kids was met with a short honk. Kylie was in the middle of a “pay attention to me, or else” moment, and nothing would calm her down. Her uncontrollable screeching happening while I’m pressing a razor to my face.

Let the unravelling begin.

My own indecision on what I was wearing kicked it up a notch. Then I boiled over when Cam and Aidan were taking pictures of Jill and I dressing with our iPhones.

Door is slammed. And I immediately regret it. How many times have I told the kids not to slam doors, and there I go doing it. Nice one, Greg.

Looking back at it now. My reactions to these situations were completely senseless. I will make it to Brooklyn on time, as a matter of fact, I emailed my prospect telling her that I might be late. Kylie just needed a hug. Cam and Aidan were having harmless fun. And who gives a crap what I’m wearing?

I want to apologize to everyone in my path this morning. I aim to be a better, bigger person than that.

Let Sleeping Raccoons Lie

2010-11-17T07:29:00.002-05:00

After a dirty, scrappy, miserable loss to a rival team on a cabbage patch of a soccer field, the Monagraham 5 went with our close friends and neighbors to Weir Farm in Wilton. Just the antidote, my friends. Communing with nature fills you with light and life, getting kicked all morning by stinky 40 year olds doesn’t.

They call this joint a farm because, well, that’s what it once was. Nowadays you won’t find a chicken anywhere on its rolling, rocky acreage. What you will find is unspoiled forestland, lakes n ponds, a stream or two, mysterious stone walls, swampy, reedy plateus and trees, trees, trees. Millions of gorgeous trees.

This is what I love about CT, gorgeous freakin trees.

So the Weirs turned their summer residence into an artists’ refuge. Today, everybody can take part in plein air painting and sketching. To be honest, I didn’t know what plein air was, but basically it’s you and your uncoordinated hand vs. nature. They give you a satchel full of watercolors or pastels and you go at it, recording what you see. You’re free to hike the trails, kick over stones, climb a tree, whatever you want—but they encourage you to paint and sketch like Sir Weir once did.

The kids were all over it, tearing through sheets and sheets of paper. Showing off their creations, talking excitedly with pastelly hands and faces. Cam, Aidan and Kylie’s three different styles are quickly emerging. Aidan loves saturation. He will color with intense ferocity, making sure every square millimeter of negative space is filled big, bright, bold color. Cam is has a more delicate touch, allowing figures and shapes to float in space with light washes of color. Kylie prefers the abstract colorful lines weaving within and without each other.

We hiked through the woods and found a 30 foot high ancient rock formation, the kids climbed all over it. The adults attempted to corral them. We also came across some wild life. I scooped up a painted turtle and let the kids touch it. The kids found a “sleeping” raccoon. I told them it was a good idea to back away, so as not to disturb his extreme slumber.

Ridin the Bus

2010-11-15T13:28:00.000-05:00

Spent a good portion of this whirlwind weekend in Mill River MA, at a friend’s country home with the intention of shaping a project we share called “Spiritbus.” This powerful group of entrepreneurs is coming together to change business on a global scale. That’s right. I said it. Global scale.

“If you transform business, you transform the world” is a quote from one of our founding members.

And I think we’d all agree that this world could use a little transformin’, right? We came up with a very simple purpose statement: “Spiritbus is here to bring spirituality and business together for the benefit of all.” Benefit of all. Think about that for a second.

That means everybody and everything. People. Planet. The whole moose, friends.

Not the just the big-gun shareholders. Everyone. The employees, the families of the employees, their children, and their friends. The cleaning crews, and the day laborers, the desk jockeys alike. The benefit of all. Even—dare I say—the “competition.”

We are one. We need to support one another, not take each other out.

Nobody But Us

2010-11-08T10:42:00.002-05:00

Winter’s arrived. Nov. 8. Woke up to heavy, icy clumps falling from the sky. The kind of snow that hurts when it hits you. You can can hear it smash into the ground and shatter. An unexpected meteorological treat.

The weekend was a fantastic one my friends. In low-40 degree temps, we packed up the kids to the beach for a photo shoot. Which sounds like a terrible idea, but it wasn’t so bad, I guess. Our good friend Yvonne, who happens to be a very talented photographer, offered to take some shots of the Monagraham 5.

The beach looked abandoned—the burger stand boarded up, the playground eerily quiet, lonely swings swaying by themselves. Aidan and Cam loved having the beach to themselves. They tore their jackets off and ran around aimlessly, laughing and screaming. They are immune to weather. While my fingers were going numb, they had not a care. It could’ve been 80 to them.

Like a female pied piper, Yvonne managed to charm Aidan and Cam into settling down enough to snap off a few shots. Kylie wasn’t in the mood for the camera. She wanted to be with Jill full time. The second there was one inch of clearance between her and Mom, her mouth would open good n wide.

After the shoot, we went for pizza and hot chocolate—but not at the same time. Pizza first. Hot chocolate later. I love my weekends with my family.

Bum Wine

2010-11-04T13:58:00.000-04:00

First day in three that I’ve been in the office. Unusual for me to be absent from the HQ that long. But in my new role as the new business department, I’m usually babbling on the phone most of the day. And I suppose I can do that from most anywhere.

The days do get a bit lonely though. Kinda miss the office conversation.

If you were to be a fly on the wall at Monaco Lange you’d hear a remarkable range of office chatter. Theology, celebrity gossip, politics, anatomy, technology, physics and, on the rare occasion, sports. And it’s only Jenn and I who talk sports, the rest have zero interest.

We spent quite a few non-billable hours gawking at the de-evolution of Amy Winehouse, gaping at Madonna’s sinewy arms, waxing on about atheism vs. agnosticism vs. nihilism vs. whatever-kinda-ism, and investigating the finer points of bum wine. For a full week, I couldn’t get this inspired jingle outta my skull:

What’s the word? Thunderbird

How’s it sold? Good n cold.

What’s the jive? Bird’s alive.

What’s the price? Dolla twice.

That’s poetry, man. If you go to bumwine.com, you can read a story about how Julio Gallo used to cruise down the skiddy sections of town shouting at bums “What’s the word?” Without thinking, they’d reply “Thunderbird.” Now that is marketing success, abeit a horrifying marketing success—and an exploitation of another human being. But I'm sure it made the shareholders happy.

According to lore, Juilo made the wine specifically for drunks—cheap wine he could sell by the truckload. Something I wouldn’t have known about unless I walked into the office one day.

I Wonder What I Taste Like

2010-10-30T09:19:00.000-04:00

Returned Sunday evening from a somewhat restful Yoga retreat in the heart of the Berkshire mountains. Jill and I went to a joint called Kripalu, pronounced Kri-PALL-oo, which the locals affectionately call “cripple you.” It’s actually more than a joint, it’s a sprawling campus dedicated to Yoga and and other Asian-inspired ascetic disciplines on acres and acres of lovely Massachussets real estate.

We had 4 sessions with renowned Yogi Seane Corn. She’s a tough Jersey girl turned spiritual sage. And that might just be enough for you to imagine what kind of teacher she is. Let’s just say that there was a lot of enlightened cursing going on. She brought levity to the teachings and didn’t get all pan-flutey on us, which was refreshing in a world of gypsy Yogis.

In between the Yoga we enjoyed meals of socially-responsible fare. Well, I enjoyed. Every day they serve 3 meals buffet style of vegetables, grains, beans, and usually a fish or poultry dish if you wanted to go that route. I loved the food, Jill wasn’t so easily impressed. “Hospital food” I believe is how she described some of the dishes. She knows what she likes.

We also had an opportunity to stroll the campus. There, we saw a Zen garden, a Zen labyrinth, a Zen lake, Zen statues, a Zen apple orchard (just past the Zen parking lot).As soon as you check in, they give you a hiking trail map. And we were surprised to see just how much there was to explore.

In between our Saturday afternoon Yoga session and dinner, we decided to take on one of the beautiful hiking trails. Amazing. Jill and I spending time walking through the dense forest, walking, laughing. It was late afternoon, and despite a handful of others we saw coming off the trail, we had the mountain to ourselves.

So we thought.

Out of a not-so-distant outcropping lumbered a beast of a bear. Big black momma bear, with two cubs that could eat your head whole. Momma saw us, but seemed indifferent to our presence. I wish I felt the same way. I minded very much sharing the trail with a human-eating predator. After the token “Holy S” my adrenyl glands were deciding: Fight? Flight? Collapse? The first and last didn’t seem like good answers to me.

Jill and I froze. With one eye on the bears and one eye on the trail I started backtracking. Then I hear faintly behind me, “Greg, wait for me.” No time for chivalry, Jill. I don’t have to outrun the bear, I just have to outrun you. Jill promptly caught up and we walked at a brisk pace retracing our loop. The sun was setting. We had 30 minutes to trek a 45 minute loop. Which, I'm sure would take a motivated bear under 12 minutes. We didn’t look back. We made it out of the woods literally and figuratively. Funny thing is the loop connected where we saw the bears in the first place, so all they needed to do was walk across a small ravine and wait on the trail with their mouths open, we would have walked right in.

How to Induce a Heart Attack

2010-10-21T10:05:00.000-04:00

Good morning all.

Train 10 minutes late. Crowded. The rumble, the gentle quaking.

On my way into the concrete caverns of Manhattan. One passenger behind me is clearing her throat incessantly—like a cat working on a hairball. It’s happening every 10 seconds. What does she have in there? Roof tar? Very pleasant. Headphones! Ah, better.

I wanted to clue you in on a new regimen of mine. If you know me, I’m always looking for ways to improve my days. Shake things up. Experiment here and there to see if anything sticks. A couple of things have stuck, most don’t.

This regimen is something everybody can do. It doesn’t take any extra time, and the benefits are immediate. It provides a natural jolt of energy—you feel electrified. Every nerve ending peaked, every capilary dialated. You can even feel the effects inside your teeth.

If you’re one for a morning shower, give this a shot:

At the end of your shower, cut the hot water and stand there as long as you can man it. One minute? Two? Three if you’re Tundra Man.

Now, you southerners might not appreciate the effects of this regimen due to higher water temps. But us in the north country, where the water comes at us from the frozen aquifers of Quebec, we can fully treasure the horror of ice nards.

You will hyperventilate for the first 20 seconds. Expect a expletive or three to leak out. You’ll experience numbness, nausea, and delirium. Your heart will be in your throat, if it doesn't stop altogether.

But, when you cut the water off. Bliss.

The Economy Has Infected My Soccer Team

2010-10-19T14:11:00.003-04:00

Here’s something from the New York Times: “When Derek Jeter heard the word “slump,” he reacted as if he had heard a curse word in church.” I’ve heard of slumps, and I’ve seen slumps. But I’m not one to experience em. No, sir. I may be 40 but I’m still a man on the uphill. An exemplary 110 over 70. Plenty of leafy greens. Yoga-fueled. Stimulant-free. Socially responsible, citizen of the world. Of all people, how could I be experiencing a slump?

Slumps are for schlumps!

This is a complete mystery. So, I did a little research. They say a slump is a period in which a player or team performs below expectation. A dry spell. A drought. Thanks for the enlightenment Wikipunks.

I want to know WHY it happens. An astrological phenomenon? A dark karmic echo? Solar flares?

Think of our economic “climate,” or “downturn,” or “recession"—come up with your own euphemism. It's a collective slump, friends and it's starting to affect my Sundays. My new soccer team, the Ancient Warriors of Wilton, Connecticut are experiencing this "slowdown," or "funk," or "decline." Last 2 games have resulted in draws. 0-0. That’s zero zero. Nil nil for you Brits. Both to inferior teams. Yeah, all you bright-siders and silver-liners will be all “you didn’t lose.”

Shut it!

Like I heard after the game "a draw is like kissing your cousin." Unsatisfying, ungratifying, just plain un-good.

If you've got an answer here, I wanna hear it. If anything works, I'll give Bernanke a buzz.

Restart

2007-11-25T20:42:00.000-05:00

My last post was July 4th, Independence Day.

The irony is befitting.

Since the days of the hot summer haze, a new reality had manifested: life without Kris. The road of our marriage has come to an end. For the past few months, I've been sorting, coping, dealing, grieving.

The details of the beakup aren't important. All I can say is the past 9 years have been an incredible ride. Kris is an amazing woman, mother, and friend. We had differences that the lawyers say were irreconcilable. They also state that we're incompatible.

That's not the case. We just aren't what we were.

Time to restart.

Creativity Calls

2007-07-04T14:03:00.000-04:00

Been a very active coupla months my friends. Hence the blogging hiatus. Today is July 4th, a welcome break in the middle of a string of frantic weeks. Building a business is an freakish challenge. When we finally got serious about Monaco Lange, intention turned into action and we can't stop it now.

I've never done this before, and I feel at a constant state of unease and discomfort. We are consistently unleveled, unhinged. We're getting bigger, smarter, and wealthier (well, at least the business is getting wealthier).

There are compromises. I feel as if I don't have enough time to dive into anything these days. Distractions, complications, obligations layered on top of one another. I can't give a 100% to anything and I'm giving less-than-enough to everything. Half a brain thinking about his, the other half doing that. I'm surprised at how well I'm working it.

But days are flying off the calendar. I'm unable to savor them. Is this kind of lifestyle going to suit the artiste inside me? Kris has said, more than once, there is a latent novel in me. I think she's right. Or maybe it's a book of poems. Or maybe a painting. Or a film? I'm called to create.

And right now I'm creating a business. No trust fund baby backing us. No venture capitalist pulling the strings. No big, bad, fat cat business connections. We started with nothing more than an idea. So excuse the lack of blogging, creativity is calling.

Recent Conversation

2007-05-16T07:44:00.000-04:00

Cam: Mommy, what’s wrong with your face?

Kris: My face?

Cam: You have dots on your nose.

Kris: Those are freckles.

Cam: Freckles?

Not sure if Cam realizes this, but calling freckles “dots” is infinitely funnier. Cam is telling it like it is, with zero social grace. Bravo, Cammy. It’s quite refreshing. Her job is to observe and announce. Every move you make, every bathroom break, she’ll be watching you.

Wardrobe Negotiations

2007-05-14T16:00:00.000-04:00

8:00, Sunday morning. Mother’s Day. A beautiful day. Spring is in peak form. Trees have sprouted big meaty leaves. Flowers showing everything they have. The pollen count has jumped, gold dust coats everything.

I imagine most families are at home, making toast for mom, or maybe ironing shirts for Sunday morning services. The Monaco house isn’t like that. Kris is training her weekend crowd at the gym. Cam and I are off to my soccer game.

Kickoff is slated for 8:30. I’m 15 minutes away from the field. 10 minutes, if I’m a heavy with my right foot. I’m running behind schedule. I like to get to the field with plenty of time to warm the muscles and grease the joints. But I fail to leave enough time for Cam's "What Not to Wear" moments. She’s a miniature fashionista, so we have to wrestle over wardrobe for 5-10 minutes every morning.

But I can make up for lost time on the road. After all, it’s Sunday morning, on Mother’s Day. It’s clear day, so it should be smooth sailing. And I was right, there are no more than 4 cars on all 6 lanes of I-95.

The officer told me he clocked me three times: Once at 84, once at 85, once at 86 —all in a 55 zone. From the sound of it, I was accelerating through the speed trap. If you've seen me play soccer, you know my right foot is good for nothing. Now it just cost me $249.

Before you go judging me on how reckless I am with my daughter in my car, let me first say you are right. I shouldn’t be going that fast with Cam in the backseat. I have no excuses, no justifications.

It is just what it is. A dumb move, albeit a fast one.

From now on, I leave an extra 5-10 minutes in for wardrobe negotiations.

100%

2007-04-30T12:47:00.000-04:00

“Lactic acid” Monday’s are here again. The day after the game, when every muscle and tendon is screaming for relief. Every step is taken with trepidation. My brittle bones are snapping at me.

Soccer can be a punishing game. At least the brand I like to play, which is all out, leave it on the field, full throttle kind of play. I’m a worker, a digger, and a scrapper. The game didn’t come easy to me when I was a youngin. I was always the 12th man, never a starter. I didn’t have electrifying skill, blazing speed, intimidating size. I was pretty average all around, relegated to a role player.

But I did have heart and, in later years, I developed a brain for the game. But, to this day, I work, I run, I stick my leg in there.

My friends were the superstars, the goal scorers, the MVPs. I received an award or two, but never the kind you want to get. I can’t tell you how many honorable mentions (read: not good enough for a real award) I was graced with. A ridiculous number, actually.

As a senior in high school I was awarded with something called the 100% award. What the crap is a 100% award? I can hear my coach saying,”well, he was here for 4 years, and guy sure worked hard. Gotta give him somethin’.”

That used to burn me up, being overlooked. But that’s not why I played as a kid, or why I play now. I’ve fallen in love with the work. I’m approaching 37 now, and still giving it 100%.

Most of that happens off the field.

Giraffes Are Imaginary

2007-04-24T13:49:00.000-04:00

Finally we have weather worth noting. It only took until late April to get there. After months of winter hardship, enduring the early spring monsoons, the sun mercifully presented its magnificence this weekend. The M-trio took full advantage. Our translucent skin soaking in every ultraviolet.

2 soccer games, a trip to the zoo, yardwork, decktime, and an extended jaunt to the local playground. We paid our winter dues and we cashed in this weekend with an outdoors binge.

The trip to the zoo was a highlight. I have to admit that I have mixed feelings about zoos in general. I’m not a fan of animal caging, but then again, we’d never see a live tiger otherwise. Unless, of course, we safaried somewhere dangerous and mysterious.

I imagine cage-life isn’t a terrible deal; no hunting or gathering, someone cleans up, fresh water’s aplenty. And there's also the vague hope that an over-zealous tourist will fall in with you. Other than that, life’s gotta be pretty boring.

It certainly doesn’t compare to prowling the rainforests, jungles or deserts. I'm sure there's no sensation like felling an antelope with a swipe of a paw, or bathing in a lonely watering hole, or scaring off a live giraffe.

Which reminds me why I wanted to write. I asked Cam what her favorite animal was. And she rattled off a bunch. The monkeys, the tigers, the giraffe, the prarie dogs.

Hang on, the giraffe? You saw a giraffe?

Yeah.

Funny, I never saw one.

Cakeland

2007-04-22T07:50:00.000-04:00

Sometimes you have it. Sometimes you don’t. For the past few days, I’ve been enjoying a healthy dose of self doubt. I’m certain you experience it the same way I do. The flashes of anxiety and the unrelenting questioning. Conversation becomes measured, over-calcuated, wooden. Going the safe route, the default state, retreading old ideas.

Afraid of what stupidity may come out of my mouth, I retreat. What will my words reveal? I feel as if everyone is peering into my soul, rousing the dormant fraud.

It’s crippling, really. And it washes over you and affects your every move, every word you choose, every action you take. There is no freedom in self doubt.

When I’m enjoying something, I’m not thinking. I’m in the moment, letting it wash over me. It’s feels easy.

Right now, I’m muddling through. Getting past the hard parts hoping to find the good bits. That’s Cakeland friends. It’s a place, a state of mind, another dimension. Cakeland is where impossible is possible. There are no negative prefixes, it’s all positive. I’m gonna find me a slice o that cake this weekend.

Yum.

Upward

2007-04-18T08:16:00.000-04:00

Suited up today. Gotta big date. My partner is the chairman for a nonprofit called Career Gear. They help adults who have made a bad choice work their way back into society. They give criminals a second chance; a way to dig themselves outta the hole they dug. Career Gear gives them a suit and job interview skills so they can present themselves respectably, and earn an honest buck. It’s a great idea.

Lange is the big shot of the org. And it’s a great gig for him. Perfect, actually. He’s always been a natty man. Always dressed to the nines (whatever that means)—exemplifying the successful, the made man. If you wanna win the role, you gotta play the part.

Since Lange is the heavy, the ML partners get to sit at the “important” table. I’ll be breaking bread with some biggies (Lange rattled off a few names, most I hadn’t heard of). One name piqued my interest: former mayor of NYC, David Dinkins is supposed to slurp a little soup with us. This is the guy Rudy G, America’s Mayor, succeeded. I hope he shows.

I know nothing about this cat, beyond what I’ve heard about him through the media, which isn’t always a fair way to get your information. I’m not sure what we’ll talk about. But it’s fun just knowing that I’ll be able to have a conversation with a guy that ran the dirtiest, nastiest, most beautiful, most hideous, most racist, most evolved, most diverse, most tolerant, richest and poorest city on the planet.

A city of great polarity. Big and small. A snarled mess of asphalt and concrete. In the middle of it, a massive granite island sprouts the world’s tallest buildings. They point heavenward, defying the pull of the planet reaching, stretching, fingering the sky. An inspiration for the world. A beacon of freedom and democracy.

And this guy ran it. He lead the charge. He rallied the troops, organized the fronts, divvied the cash, assigned the jobs. He was the grand poohbah of the grand poohbahbiest of cities. Respect.

Update:
He didn't show. Bummer.

Talk About the Weather

2007-04-16T23:08:00.000-04:00

And the sunless skies brought forth a relentless rain, sometimes in sweeping torrents. Mother Nature’s weeping.

They call this unwelcome disturbance a nor’easter up here because the winds come from the northeast shoving the clouds and rain toward land.

Nor’easters are nasty beasters. Never heard of em until I moved here from the south. In Florida we get violent thunderstorms that crack and boom with lightning displays that send shots of adrenalin through your heart. They pass as quickly as they come. If southern storms are full of range n anger, nor-easters are miserable and depressed; days and days of uncontrollable sobbing.

Yesterday, Cam and I watched the water level rise in the backyard. The creek that runs behind it was overflowing and inching closer and closer to our little home. Our well groomed weatherman said we received 6 ½” of rain in one day. That’s 2 inches more than what’s expected for the entire month of April (our soggiest month).

Our basement held up remarkably well. We did get some water through the walls, which pooled in a couple of areas, but nothing a few towels couldn’t handle. Not like our neighbor who got 4 inches of standing water.

Someone always has it worse, my friends. Like Kris, for example, who was stranded in Manhattan for hours because the tracks were underwater in the Bronx. I buzzed past the exact area of trouble this morning on the way into Manhattan. The tracks run parallel to the Bronx River Parkway about 50 yards away. The Parkway is still under a few feet of water, roped off so no cars could pass. That means the train tracks must be a few feet higher because we coasted right past. Or hydroplaned through it.

Bad Ice Cream

2007-04-09T09:47:00.000-04:00

Two weeks back, I led a group brainstorm where we worked on names for a new product. There were 6 of us in a small room. I don’t do many group brainstorms, but I do know what it’s like to be invited to them. They can be a bit intimidating because you feel the pressure to produce great ideas on the fly which can do a real number on the nerves.

On top of that, naming is a tough slog. We literally come up with hundreds of options in hopes that we produce two or three killers. And those good ones are then thoroughly checked to ensure that nobody else is using them, or the word doesn’t mean “foreskin” in Thai.

If either case is true, it’s back to the beginning.

With all of this emotional baggage in the room, I felt it would be a good idea to do an ice-breaking warm up for the group to get them in the mood, the spirit of creating. And give everyone permission to fail. Failing is an integral part of creating, and should be celebrated instead of criticized.

Brainstorms aren’t necessarily about getting to the product (though it’s nice when it happens). Brainstorms are about getting in the right space to create—losing inhibitions, dropping defenses, playing fearlessly. All the good ideas live there.

I wanted everybody to take 5 minutes to create terrible ice cream flavors. The absolute most disgusting, unappetizing flavors you can think of, and then name them a la “Rocky Road” or “Cherry Garcia.” Here are a few of my favorites:

Cat Puke Swirl
NYC Summertime Pavement Mocha
Ben and Jerry’s Scrotum
Pralines and Placenta
Rocky Toad
Cambodian Cherry Crotch with Marshmallows
Blisters and Cream
Mint Chocolate Pubes
Bum Foot Fudge

A Simple Plan

2007-03-30T08:27:00.000-04:00

I’ve been writing for about 15 years. I do it because I love to create. I completely dig the process. Whether I blog, write a letter, or create an ad campaign, I go through the same steps.

1. I get an idea (preferably a good one).
2. I feel a sensation like an energy boost.
3. I decisively and passoinately bring that idea to life.
4. Satisfied, I move on.

I would bet that anytime any of us create something, we go through these steps. When we’ve finished our work, we realize we’ve grown a little in the process; we’ve evolved. And then we are compelled to create something else.

What if everybody approached every waking moment with the same kind of passion and energy to create? No hangups about the past. No bitterness. No worries about the present. No fear of the future.

You Look Like Tim Robbins

2007-03-27T06:21:00.000-04:00

Harmless as they may seem, those words have sent my poor, fragile ego into a wicked tailspin yesterday. My self-esteem was disemboweled, feasted on by all the heartbroken women I casually walked away from as a teen. My self image has been shredded, my bubble burst.

5 words is all it took.

I never thought of myself as a visual stunner, but then again I never really had any significant trouble with the ladies. So I thought I had something going on. This, apparently, over-inflated opinion of myself was reinforced with the occasional comparison to George Clooney on my tan days, Mel Gibson on my angry days, even the occasional Antonio Banderas on my long-hair days.

Understandably, I liked those comparisons. They gave my ego the gentle coddling it craved to get through the day, purring the whole way. I ran around thinking my chin could protect our precious borders. All I needed was a cape and a sexually ambiguous sidekick.

But, someone had to mention Tim. And it all crubled away. Do I resemble a dough-faced, beady eyed fifty year old? C’mon. Nothing against big Tim. He’s not a terrible-looking guy. He’s just not a good looking one. Where does that leave me?

Doubled over in pain, whincing as I type.

Or worse—the agony—maybe I’ve been living a sweet lie. What was I doing all those years thinking I was such a catch? Walking around winking, finger snapping and grinning? Saying “Hey Baby.” Exposing the chest hair. Productizing the do.

Could I not back up my game?

Is there a lesson here? Of course there is, my friends. If you take too much stock in your own image, it will eventually crash. I don’t want you to experience Black Monday like I did.

You’re welcome.

What to Wear

2007-03-26T09:54:00.000-04:00

Just got finished spilling my tea down the front of my shirt. Thankfully, it was just tea. Chamomile mint to be precise. A cup of hot tea is a nice way to ease into the day, highly- recommended. Spilling it down the front of your shirt like a spaz, not highly-recommended.

6 months ago, it woulda been coffee and my shirt would have looked like I vomited down the front. Every client would notice. Their impressions of my competence, tainted. I could be wearing freshly-pressed Armani, but with a coffee stain down the front, I might as well be wearing toughskins and a wife beater.

I like to present myself as reasonably put-together. My rationale: If I look like I know what I’m doing, it will help clients accept what I have to say about their advertising and marketing. The truth is, I’d give them the same advice if I were wearing a speedo and an Indian headdress.

“The clothes make the man.” I have to agree, but I don’t like to. We are a judgmental species. We have to be. How else would we make decisions?

I’m kind of caught between two worlds. Part of my job is being creative, coming up with new, interesting ideas. The other part of my job is selling, helping people feel comfortable with our service.

If I show up looking like a “creative” at a “sales” meeting, that’s not going to go over too well, and may be a bit disrespectful. If I show up as the “sales” guy, then how many good ideas are you going to get from a conformist? So, I have many different ways to dress depending on the kind of meeting I’m having.

Today, for example, I’m meeting a potential new client through some friends of mine who are brand strategists. They are doing an interactive session with this company to help them create an elevator pitch. They want me to join in. This is no job for a suit, it’s creative, improvisational, and fun. But there is a possibility of this going further into more business for my company—a sales opportunity, where a suit might be considered.

Partly creative. Partly sales. Partly Vans. Partly Florsheim.

So where does that leave the wardrobe today.

A pair of faded brown jeans, an ironed, striped button-down shirt, black leather belt, black Blundstone boots. Creative, without being too laid back. Business, without a stick up my arse.

Getting Over Me

2007-03-20T10:22:00.000-04:00

Lots on the agenda today, none of which I want to do. It’s a classic struggle I come against more often than not. I constantly battle the forces of inertia. I procrastinate, I dream up excuses, and with a hint of irony, I dedicate a lot of time, energy, and creativity to not doing.

I have a pretty good work ethic thanks to my father’s persistent brainwashing: “Successful people do what failures seek to avoid.” The part of that aphorism that I like most is the “seek to avoid.” Unsuccessful people don’t just avoid, they look for ways to avoid.

It takes work to not work. I can relate.

If we’re all working so hard at not doing, then why don’t we just do? I’ll tell you what goes through my head: Fear. I don’t want to put myself out there for one reason or another. It’s so much easier to do nothing and protect myself. I don’t like to leave myself vulnerable.

I remember trying out for soccer teams as a kid and being completely paralyzed by fear of not making the team. I didn’t want to go put myself out there, and possibly embarrass myself in front of my friends and family. It was a real struggle just to show up. Thankfully, I had supportive friends and family—I never would have gone otherwise. I’m quite sure of that.

The hardest part of the tryout wasn’t the tryout. It was getting over myself.

Nothing's a Problem

2007-03-15T23:56:00.000-04:00

Just finished up with a short lesson on evolutionary enlightenment presented by Jeff Carreira. I encourage everybody to spend a couple of hours in a classroom with this guy. He continues to pop open my perspective on life. His latest tune was about deepening awareness through meditation. I won’t get into it because I won’t do the lesson justice, but he said something that not only got through to me, it also greased a few gears.

When you’re meditating you are usually bombarded by thoughts and feelings. It’s an annoying and frustrating experience at times. But you have the capacity to choose to engage with those thoughts, or not. Sounds easy, but no, it’s definitely hard. I struggle with them; the moment they invade my space, I sense a problem.

Jeff simply said, “Nothing’s a problem. It’s part of it all. Just continue on.”

I understood what he said in the context of meditation, but then I realized that simple statement carries over into everything.

What are problems?

I’m mostly thinking about the day to day problems we encounter. The ones that bind us up. The ulcer-inducers. The fret and worry kind. When does something become a problem?

Problems exist because we look at situations from a particular point of view.

That’s not what I was expecting.
I shouldn’t have eaten that.
I backed my car into a ditch.

Problems? Only if we look at them that way.

We create problems. And they’re based on ideals, comparitives, pre-conceived notions. What if I said that problems don’t exist? What if you accepted every situation that came to you.

Jeff said, "It isn’t a problem, it’s part of it all, just continue on.”

It doesn’t change the situation, but it certainly changes how you handle the situation.

Nobody likes problems. We resist them. They’re uncomfortable. We’re afraid of them. But if we accept everything, we are in a more positive relationship to the situation, and we’re in a better position to act fearlessly.

Just as easily as we can create problems, we can un-create them.

Not sure if that’s where Jeff was going. But that’s where I went.

Lufthansa Is the Best Because They Said So

2007-03-15T12:16:00.000-04:00

We were graced with a gorgeous, sunny, warm day yesterday. Thank you. Now I hear snow is coming. F-you.

I’m in a cantankerous, restless mood today. Not in a bad one, just anxious to make things happen. It all started when I glanced up from my resin-coated naugahyde commuter seat at a terrible Lufthansa ad.

It’s unimagineably bad work.

This airline spends who-knows-how-much buying space to display a message for the public—but they invest nothing in what they say. Too many companies make this mistake—polluting the media with braggadocious meaninglessness.

Advertising is an opportunity to be special. To wake people up. To raise consciousness. To contribute to the world. To offer a new perspective.

But how can that be done in one ad? It can. It has.

Volkswagen, Absolut, Apple, Nike, even freakin milk farmers have done it. You’ve seen em all. You were charmed, delighted, inspired by em—as was the world.

Let me describe for you every crappy Lufthansa ad ever made in 8 words: Photo of contented passenger paired with meaningless headline.

The one I’m reading says “Comfort that carries you to faraway places. All for this one moment.” Let’s take the first half of the headline. Do you believe that the airline is comfortable just because they say the are?

My skepticism kicks right in and I actually believe it less, just because they are saying it. It’s like someone bragging that they’re a tough guy. I’d much rather fight with a self-proclaimed “tough guy,” than one who doesn’t have to say a word.

“All for this one moment.” It’s so dumb, I don’t even know what to say. What is “all” referring to? All what? What “moment?” All I ask is for an ad to tell me something. Anything. This work pure unsubstantiated emptiness. Everything’s signed by the boring, bloated, egotistical tagline, “There’s no better way to fly.”

I’m amazed at how people forgive advertisers like this.

Please rip these ads down when you see them.

Now I’m all fired up.

Must Be the Shoe Buckles

2007-03-09T06:54:00.000-05:00

My good friend Douglas and I are writing a new book on the little known subject of Pilgrim cliches. Dig deep enough into the archives of American history, you might find a few. Oft-derived from regions of coastal Massachusetts like Plymouth and Barnstable counties circa 1620-1684.

Time hasn't been kind to these colorful quips, idioms, and phrasings. They've morphed into the ho hum cliches we use today.

Here's one Doug found that originated somewhere near Boonville, Mass:
"Ye musket in the conjugal bed dampens ones gunpowder."
Modern translation: Guns and sex don't mix.

I happened to remember another one while speaking with James Whitmore VII, renowned Pilgrim historian. He still drops these lines into conversation, hoping to preserve what little Pilgrim heritage we have left. And, yes, he buckles his shoes.

He claims this one originated in Marstons Mills, Mass:
"You can always dry ye brytches on yonder washline."
Modern translation: There are plenty more fish in the sea.

If you have any thoughts or ideas on this subject, we would certainly welcome them. You will, of course, be credited with your contribution.

Snow Whitey

2007-02-26T10:13:00.000-05:00

It’s a sugar-coated land. Everything’s frosted with 5 inches of snow. The sky is an unsettled gray, which shows off the snowcapped rooftops. Colors are hushed; the world’s in black and white. We’re living in a 50’s rerun.

Cam was a little disoriented by all the snow, but gradually warmed up to it and was kicking clumps in no time. Her snowboots look 2 sizes too big and she doesn’t quite have the hang of walking in them. When she puts on her pink puffy winter coat, she wobbles around like a wind-up penguin.

One thing I noticed since I’ve settled-in up here is the phenomenon of a snowy shoreline. That just doesn’t happen in the tropics of west Florida, my home country. It just looks so apocalyptic to me; makes me double-take every time I see it. There's nothing more lonely and desolate than a shoreline with nobody on it.

We’re supposed to get more powder today. When it snows, it dumps. If the it sticks around for a day or two, I think I’ll pull Cam out of school early and go find a hill somewhere, perhaps the golf course down the street.

Action!

2007-02-18T08:58:00.000-05:00

What a buzz yesterday, friends. I had the most interesting and enlightening day. I attended a seminar put on by EnlightenNext in NYC. Jeff Carreira spoke to us about the liberation teachings of Andrew Cohen. I've been studying Andrew's teachings for months now, and every time I dive into a lesson, the more I realize its potential. It's limitless, it has no goal other than progress and creating the future.

And everybody who is a student of Andrew's is fully engaged and committed to creating the future, and contributing to the world in this way. It may sound vague and new agey at first, but when you give it some thought, it makes absolute sense. Who would have thought? A spiritual endeavor that actually makes sense? It's actually the antithesis to new age garbage. And yet it completely shifts your perspective on life. You become a full participant instead of a helpless victim of circumstance.

There were about 30 of us in the room soaking in every word Jeff spoke. He asked us hard questions about our life. "What is your philosophy of life? What are you doing right now with your life? How does that stack up with your philosophy? What are the most important decisions you made in life? What is the purpose of your life?" Gargantuan topics.

Anyway, I met some of the most energized and inspired people. Every single one of them has a light on. Nobody's coasting. They aren't "getting ready" to do something. They're doing it.

Everyone has the power to do that.

Ice and Wine

2007-02-15T11:46:00.000-05:00

Little too much vino last night. K and I had an almost quiet Valentine’s Day complete with a gigantic slice of lasagna she picked up from Italia Restaurant. The wine was smooth and soft, and the pasta, deelish. Their slices are monsterous. We split one hunk in two, and barely made it through that. The other slice awaits in the fridge.

Cam ate with us, and was literally yelling at us as we tried to enjoy each other’s company. If the spotlight wasn’t on her, she had no issue with letting us know. She yelled “Greg! Greg! Greg!” when I didn’t respond to “Dad.” She does the same thing to Kris. “Kris! Kris!” I’m not sure what to do about it. I’d rather her not call me Greg because I’m a little more than Greg to her, but I suppose it’s accurate, so I don’t make a big fuss about it.

Yesterday we got a the worst kind of winter weather. Ice needles, not quite hail and not quite snow, shot down from the sky. Those shards combined with a cutting, arctic wind felt like your face was being sandblasted. A burning chill. A ½ inch sheet of ice rested on top of the snow, so you could literally walk right on top of it. You wouldn’t sink. To shovel it, you had to break the glacier, then do your shovelling. Heavy, burdensome work.

Maybe that’s why I’m dragging a little today. But I’ll get amped up pretty soon though. I’m meeting with my Thursday networking group called “Shiners.” I started this group with a friend of mine and it’s actually a lot of fun. Networking sounds like a drag, but the way we structured the meetings, and the amazing crowd that shows up every week, well I dunno, it’s downright inspiring.

Looking forward to this day.

Shrekerella

2007-02-13T10:22:00.000-05:00

Up and at em early. 530 am is when the feet hit the hardwood. Did my exercises had a bowl of shred, some toast, tea, light reading. Easy way to start the day. Mind is relatively clear. Nothing pressing at work. Should be an easy going Tuesday.

Snow storm is expected tonight. One of those “could get a little, could get a lot” kind of ambiguous forecasts. We've had no snow this season, the shovel is still on its hook in the garage.

Cam was in good spirits again. Kris’ first client was at 7am, so Cam got to see mom when she woke up. Both of them were all smiles. Cam planted a “daddy kiss” on mom, which is Cam imitating how I kiss Kris. It’s funny. And weird.

She puckers up. Presses her lips on Kris’ lips and holds them there as she swivels her head side to side. It’s cute, disturbing, and a little insulting. I don’t kiss that way! Cam has it all wrong. First, you have to keep the lips soft and supple. Then she displayed way too much swivel—it was all herky jerky. She’s a terrible kisser!

Anyway, Cam is making me laugh. She’s watched so many Disney films that she’s amalgamating the titles. Her latest request: “Sleeping Beauty and the Beast.” I think she’s onto something. Disney should intertwine a few plot lines to make things interesting:

Lady and Seven Dwarves: Prissy puppy works coalmine, contracts emphasema.

Jungle Dalmations: Conspicuous dogs “spotted” by hungry pythons.

Winnie in Wonderland: Bear eats acid-laced honey, chases bouncing tiger.

Shrekerella: Ogre eats pumpkin carraige and contents inside.

Maybe you have a few?

A Real Tosser

2007-02-12T10:05:00.000-05:00

Over the past month, life has been tossed into the spin cycle. I suppose that’s why it has been radio silence. But, I dunno, maybe I just needed a break. No excuses beyond that, my friends.

K is working mornings. And by mornings, I mean before sunrise, in the darkness. When the racoons rummage through our garbage cans. When the weird can collector seaches through our recycle bin. When Mark, my Lithuanian carpenter/neighbor, lights his first cigarette. When the whores at Scruples count their cash. When the ravers “roll” into their driveways.

Well, that’s when when the Monaco house is a-stirring. Kris closes the back door behind her at 4:45 on some mornings—like this morning for example.

These days, I’m not only responsible for getting my own lazy ass outta bed and ready for the day, but I gotta rouse a 2 ½ year old from a blissful slumber. And if you know Cam, you know she loves her sleep. Down at 8:30 pm, up at 7 am.

On these early days, I try and let her sleep as long as possible, because the irritability quotient skyrockets for every minute she’s deprived. This morning I rode it out until 7am—she woke up with a smile.

I’ve learned along the way though, my friends. I have a cool cup of apple juice close by as a peace offering. That seems to put her in the right spirit for the day. Luckily, she’s an an agreeable, easy going, playful little cub. Rarely raises a fuss about anything.

But, like all of us, she has moments of explosive, illogical, uncontrollable rage. Very Monaco-esque if you ask me.

Anger is an interesting subject for me. I consider myself an anger extrovert. Kris, I would say, is an anger introvert.

I convert my rage into non-sensical rants, speading the joy to anyone within earshot. I throw objects. Never at people, usually at walls. Like I said I’m an extrovert, so I need to project projectiles, sometimes in the back yard, or even on a neighbor’s rooftop. Here’s a short list of items I’ve thrown because, well, I’m a big baby. (You might enjoy this.)

Pizza Dough
Snow Shovel
Metal Rake
Deck Broom
Peanut Butter Sandwich
Car Keys
Hot Cereal

Throwing food is a big thing for me. I suppose I never grew out of it. Kris, on the other hand, bundles her anger into a knot deep inside. She is mysterious about the whole thing. You never really know what’s bothering her until you dig around for a while and agitate and irritate her enough. This “unearthing” is quite a skill of mine, just ask her.

It’s a fun dynamic—a dynamic only the Monaco inner sanctum gets to see. But I’m here to tell you about it. My resolution for this year and for the rest of my life is total transparency. I'm dropping my defenses, everyone. I am now unguarded.

And it feels pretty good.

Drawing the Curtain on 2006

2006-12-30T16:06:00.000-05:00

Hello druids. The Monaco 3 are bringing 2006 to a close. What a great year! I can't believe all that we've done, and all we've been through. We are constantly evolving, constantly pushing it, never settling. It's exciting, a little unnerving, but always fun. Can't wait to see what kind of crap we pull in 2007.

We made a trip down to Florida for a week. Nice visit. Cam got the chance to bond with Ta Ta (my Mom) and Pappy (my Dad). She took to them like lineman to pizza. She and Ta Ta were inseprable. Nice to see. K and I appreciated the break.

One week isn't enough. It' takes 2 days to settle in, and the last day doesn't count. So we had 4 days. And those days were filled up with many family parties. All good stuff, but I gotta detox. And I say this on the eve of New Year's Eve.

I wanted to see a ton of people but just couldn't muster the time. A million regrets that I couldn't stay an extra week. Richard, the unconventional one, I'd love to catch up with you in person because it's been too long. Dave, the fan, the hockey player, the always up for everything, I usually see you—but alas, we'll have to do it though pictures. Donna, the doctor, the classmate, I think we'd have a lot to talk about, I've always enjoyed our conversations. Steph B and Steph P, the new moms, let's do keep in touch. Steve, I've always wanted to come by the restaurant and see how the boys are doing.

Had a chance meeting with an old friend at a bar. Kris and I walked in and there were 3 people in the entire place (including the bartender). My friend Chuck was having a chat with the bartender as some drunk lady(?) named Fran kept interrupting them. Kris and I had some serious trouble deciphering her gender. Her voice was lower than mine. And on top of that, she did most of the talking. Spittin words at you. Slurring and gurgling in between gulps of Pabst.
The bartender said the only reason she comes here, is because she's been booted from every other bar. Guess that tells you how good this bar was.

I've come to the conclusion that in order to see everyone I want to see I'll have to move back down to FL. Which isn't out of the question. Nothing is out of the question. My parents are going to be selling their house. I want to buy it. One catch: There is no way I can afford it. It'll cost around $700,000. But I like to believe nothing is impossible, so I'd like to let anyone out there know that I'm looking for ideas to keep the house in the family (after all, my parents designed it) It's right on the Gulf of Mexico in a town called Tarpon Springs. Built on stilts.

Sunsets every night. C'mon who wants to buy a house with me? You'll have to put up most, if not, all of the money.

Conductor Chic

2006-12-19T09:49:00.001-05:00

It’s Tuesday and the fuse is short and frayed today. Feel like the tiniest thing is going to set me off. Like a ticking dirty bomb. (Even if I did shower today.)

I gotta really work to reign in the temper. And I have no good reason to feel this way but it’s just got a grip on me right now so, if I sound a little acidic, caustic, toxic, sour, acerbic, corrosive, I dunno, deal with it I guess.

See? I’m so argumentative. I’ve been Ebeneezered, Grinched, Bad Santa-ed.

I forgot to buy my train ticket and it’s gonna cost me an extra fiver to buy it on board. I had all the time in the world to get the dern thing, I just sat in the waiting room and the thought didn’t cross my mind—until I boarded the train. Well there goes X-mas this year for ya. Sorry folks, I spent your gift money on my on-board fare.

Guess that five spot would be MTA’s version of a convenience fee. I’m just glad I can contribute to the silly uniforms they make those poor train conductors wear. Probably the most unflattering ensemble you’d ever see.

Navy plain-ugly-n-straight slacks (you have to call them slacks because pants would be too contemporary). Baby blue pin-striped short sleeve button down with decorative, retard pockets on each breast.

The shirts also come with that extremely stupid shoulder strap thing. You know, the flaps that army generals and safari enthusiasts wear. I suppose, if the train breaks down, they need some way to hitch the conductors up to the head car so the poor saps can pull it the rest of the way.

I haven’t even mentioned the hats. They only word I can come up with is “silly.” And maybe “pitiful.” But the brass “MTA” medallion gives it that real Tonka authenticity. I think you can order the entire kit from traingeeks.com.

I’m just glad I can contribute to the public humiliation of another human being. I just hope they are paid well to endure walking the aisles as a parody of themselves.

If I ran MTA, that’s the first thing I’d change. Yeah, maybe the cars are a little beat up, the seats are lumpy, and the heat doesn’t work, but those poor conductors, they got it bad.

Wow! And just like that, my day got a little better.

Thank ye for the ear.

Can’t Have Too Much ‘Tussin

2006-12-12T09:48:00.001-05:00

1:30 a.m. Cam awakens in a coughing fit. She hasn’t been able to doze off for more than 15 minute stretches without her body throwing her into a coughing frenzy. She’s hacking like a career smoker.

Kris comes to the rescue, bottle of Dimetapp in hand. You know the stuff, the sweet elixir, the cascade of berries, the sticky, syrupy potion of goodness Mom always had close by. Cam sucks down a teaspoon and a half, and her coughing quickly calms.

Just before I resume my slumber, I hear. “Oh shit. Oh no. Greg. Oh shit. Oh crap. Greg!”

Annoyed, I answer “Yes, my tulip in the sea of tranquility.” (Which sounded more like “WHAT!?!”)

I gave her adult Robitussin, not the kid stuff.

That’ll clear her up.

I’m serious! I gave her triple the dosage!

She’ll be fine, down a few brain cells, but fine.

What should I do?

Worry.

What if she falls asleep and doesn’t wake up?

Worst thing that’ll happen, she’ll trip for an hour.”

We wound up waking my father, who is a pharmacist, and I spelled the ingredients to him on the phone.

P-H-E

Pheasantonastick?

Yeah, that’s it.

Ok. Don’t worry about that stuff.

G-O-N

Gonnarehainmypants?

Yeah.

That’s no big deal.

T-R-U

Trumpshaironfire?

Yeah.

Oh. Well, she’s probably going to be a little wired.

And she was. She was all coked-up, talking and talking. Pointing. Spinning stories. Telling us her hands were dirty. The coughing fits were over, but sound kept coming out of her mouth.

A Visit from Argentina

2006-12-11T09:48:00.001-05:00

And a good morning to you, too. Cool, minimalistic beats of Olaf Dettinger are tickling the ears, ushering in wintertime. 38 degrees. Great brushstrokes of gray and blue stripe the sky. Sun playfully disappearing and reappearing.

Spent a little time with friends this weekend. Started at approximately 5:31 p.m. on Friday when I fulfilled on my final obligation, a website I’ve been working on for two years now. This great albatross around my neck has been released, folks. I celebrated with my partners and two tall Sierra Nevada “Celebration” Ales. Deeeefreakinlicious.

After we wrangled a sitter for Mini-mona, Kris joined us, too. You have to know, by the way, Kris looking lovelier than ever these days. She hasn’t been busier, but the combination of school, work, and Cam have been a tonic for her vitality. You can see the light and fire in her eyes (I haven’t seen it in quite some time). She’s has a sense of purpose and direction, and a sureness about her she never really had. It shows that you gotta follow your passions, it pays dividends.

We caught up with Irene and Ele at Telephone Bar in the East Village. Eleonora Litwinczuk, the 8-syllable wondergirl, was one of my many partners at Ogilvy. She’s from Buenos Aires and was in town on business. She is every bit Latina. Firey, passionate, neurotic, lovable, and quite talented, too. She has impossibly long hair is the color of dark chocolate drizzled with raspberry. Every day, she’d come to work in some amazing ensemble. Her signature was a pair of pink Chuck Taylors. She wore incredible color combinations, strange and unusual t-shirts. She reminds me of the cereal aisle: loud and sweet.

Her accent is thick, but don’t let it fool you into thinking that her English isn’t good. She knows exactlly what she’s saying. Here’s a gem from the archives: “Nothing’s right in my left brain. Nothing’s left in my right brain.” That doosey took me 10 seconds to figure out, I love saying it to myself.

Of every creative partner I’ve had, she probably drove me nuts the most. We did some great work together, but it took forever to get there. Sometimes my ego got in the way, sometimes hers, but we’d always manage to get back to the work, eventually.

Where To Start?

2006-12-04T21:59:00.000-05:00

It's been forever, friends. And by forever I mean a week or two. Not that I haven't been thinking of you. Not that I have nothing to say.

On the contrary, I have too much to say. Where to start?

I have been so inspired lately. Kris, Cam and I are firing on all cylinders. We are on the open road of life downshifting and accelerating through corners, winding it out on the open stretches. As AB always says, "It's all good."

But I'm learning that it doesn't matter. Good, bad, whatever. It's life, man. We're all experiencing it. And if you're living it out without covering it up, hiding it or pretending, you're doing it, baby. Fearlessly. Maybe recklessly. Enjoy the trip, man. Yayah!

Here's another good trip. Lastfm.com. If you like music, this is the site! You can create your own radio station on this thing. All you have to do is identify a musical "tag" or a genre of music you dig. I always pop on "ambient." It will compose a radio station of music tagged by users as "ambient." You will be turned on to many many many new artists.

That's my pick for the eve. Do enjoy.

Green Parka Man

2006-11-22T09:51:00.000-05:00

Some guy dressed in a massive green parka stood next to me on the train platform. Let’s just say grooming wasn’t a priority for him.

He had a cellphone pressed against his ear. He looked off sideways as he listened to somebody on the other end. 10 minutes later I saw him again as he limped his way up the aisle of my train car, same cellphone pressed against the same ear. Same sideways glance, listening intently.

I never heard him say a word. Could’ve been somebody on a 10 minute rant on the other end, or maybe a conference call he didn’t feel the need to participate in.

Reversal

2006-11-20T10:04:00.000-05:00

Last night Cam read me a story. I just finished reading to her and, frankly, I was tired of the tales and didn’t want to read anymore. In a moment of inexcusible laziness, I asked her to read me a story.

"OK, Daddy.”

We were huddled together on our impossibly comfortable couch. I rested my weary head (watching football is hard work!) and listened to her little voice.

She read “Guess How Much I Love You.” It’s a story of two nutbrown hares (a dad and son) in a game of who-loves-the-other-more. They one-up the other in describing their love. It’s a gushy piece of sentimentality, pefect way to sugar coat any evening.

Cam started flipping the pages and reciting key words and phrases on each page. Fragments of the story came together. One scene cryptically strung together with the next. She made hand gestures, put emphasis on certain words, she even said “the end” when she made it to the back cover. I was blown away.

Then she proceeded to re-tell the story a dozen times.

That's when I fell asleep.

Damn, she’s good.

Be a Star

2006-11-17T09:58:00.000-05:00

Unseasonably warm out in the burbs today. We’re a bit rainsoaked, but Senor Sol is determined to burn it all away. Sunglasses are holstered for my walk from Union Square to the East Village.

These are giddy days for the Church of Scientology. Tom/Kat will wed and will likely reproduce many more L. Ron Hubbard worshippers. Gotta love dudes that abbreviate their first name. Waddya think? Lawrence? Lothar? Lenny? Whatever it was, Ronny didn’t want to run with it.

I used to live near a Scientologist sect. The Clearwater, Florida HQ. On my way to the beach, I’d see their faithful scurrying around downtown with their baby blue button downs and navy work pants (how come Tom and Katie don’t have to wear them?). Not sure what the Sci-Fies were doing in downtown Clearwater which consisted of a beat up department store, a wig outfit and hat boutique. Apparently, Clearwater was big on the headwear and religion.

Well I’m sure the Sci-Fies are a lovely bunch. And Tom and Katie are a lovely couple, even though she’s a solid 4 inches taller.

Who was Katie Holmes before she hooked up with the Cruiser? And why would the Cruiser ever split with Nicole Kidman? She is the epitome of Hollywood glamor—with a sweet accent to boot. And is Cruise really his last name? C’mon. I’m sure it’s Wojohowitz or something.

Hollywood is a funny place, man. The epicenter for inauthenticity. They pay you gobs of money not to be yourself. Bad name, fix it. Bad nose, fix it. Bad hair, fix it. There’s a Director of Glamor out there somewhere making big decisions. Publicists, creative teams, marketing gurus all brainstorming how you should be.

Your dreams are in Hollywood. Sure you wanna chase em? All you need is a face and a pulse and someone out there willing to sculpt and tweeze you into the next star.

I’ll look for your name in the credits.

Eating Apples Whole

2006-11-13T12:05:00.000-05:00

Great weekend. No homework. No obligations. Just fun. Kris took a CPR for professionals course for most of Saturday, which gave me a lot of time with Cam. We went to the park and I watched her climb and run, fall and laugh. It’s like she’s trying out her new limbs, workin em in, seeing what they can do.

She’s quite fearless. Scares the wits out of me when she manages to climb up the monkey bars to a platform 6 feet high with no guard rail. Who designs jungle gyms anyway? They are made out of skull shattering steel, held together by a foundation of exposed cement packs. Nothing soft and cushy to absorb a fall. I think it's a conspiracy by ambulance companies.

Now that Kris is well-versed in CPR and Himelich manuvers, I don’t bother chewing my food. It takes entirely too much effort. The upside? Meals only last a minute or two. And our knives never dirty.

My outdoor soccer season ended on Sunday with a win against the 2nd place team from Waterford on Sunday. We wound up placing 7th in a field of 10. That means there were three teams worse than us—which is a miracle. We were a mess in the spring; people quitting, getting kicked out of games, yelling, crying, moaning. It’s the same thing now, the only diffence is we’re scoring more goals than the opposition.

Perry’s in town tonight, so I’m sure there will be plenty of laughs to report about tomorrow.

Until then, enjoy your Monday as much as you can enjoy a Monday.

G

Born in Burkina Faso

2006-11-09T12:52:00.000-05:00

I’ve been writing an annual report for an non-profit org that helps the absolute poorest people on earth take their first steps out of poverty by giving them grants to start a business.

It’s a f-ing brilliant idea, I tell ya.

In the process of working for this org, I’ve learned that I’m one lucky bastard. Top .00001% lucky. The valedictorian of lucky.

It’s hard to hear the conditions these people live in and not feel pangs of guilt. Especially when you’re hearing them over a $2 Starbucks coffee.

They live on 50¢ a day. They survive on one meal of fish flakes a day. They can’t put their kids in school, can’t buy medicine, can’t celebrate weddings, can’t even bury their dead. They have no safe water, no sanitary latrines. They live with crippling diseases (literally), they walk around with fist-sized goiters on their necks. They suffer from polio, rickets, malaria you name it, man. They are caught in the middle of political wars. And on top of all that, they can’t read or write.

Even more shocking: 1/3 of the world lives like this. That’s astonishing, frightening, and sad.

And the only difference between them and us? Geography.

As the president of the org says, “we’re members of the lucky sperm club.”

New Eyes for an Old World

2006-11-08T09:59:00.000-05:00

We’re dancing on an eggshell. We’re paving, razing, digging, pulling and pushing with everything we’ve got. Underneath us is a soup of magma at a rolling boil. Pressure’s building inside our lovable blue bomb.

On my way to NY, NY or Asphalt Eden as Mr. Kilbey would say, or Concrete Capital as someone else would say. 1000 miles of road. Bad road. Pot-holed n pock-marked. Terrible for tire alignment. Great for mechanics.

Miles of train track scar the landscape, slicing through backyards. Tunnels, bridges, overpasses, thoroughfares. We have the right of way because we have to get there on time. Time is money. Money is happiness. Happiness is our right. So, outta my way.

It’s acid raining outside and I forgot my umbrella. Nothing to protect me from those tiny pellets as they sting my skin. They hit with a hiss and soak into my bloodstream frying capillaries, red and white blood cells, proteins n mitochondria n nuclei. Perhaps a virus or three perish as it floods my cerebellum, eating away my memories one at a time.

I’m born again. The world sounds colorful but looks looks off key. Right angles mixed with wrong ones. Abstract ugliness. Beautiful in its randomness.

Everywhere I Look, There I Am

2006-11-06T23:47:00.000-05:00

Science says about 14 billion years ago, I was born. Actually, it’s the time all of us were born—entering the scene with a big bang. It just took 14 billion years for us to finally meet up.

In the context of the universe, that’s a pretty far out coincidence. Well, I for one, am glad to meet you.

So what is it that brought us together? Just close your eyes and listen. It’s whisper quiet, but you can sense it. That’s the faint push of energy. It’s glacial in pace put doggedly persistent. Unwavering from its commitment to plod onward. It’s been moving through epochs, ages, eras—and there isn’t anything we can do to stop it.

So here we all are, 14 bill and change later, buzzing along, remanants of our lovely big bang, our bodies brimming with cosmic dust. Just enough gravity to hold us together. Just enough energy to push us forward.

I was walking through Grand Central and was struck at the notion that I am part of the world and the world is part of me. You and I aren’t separate. We are all part of this force of energy, part of this sea of consciousness.

The mumbling drunk. The disinterested cashier. The blackberry noodler. The Jehovah’s Witness. The steroided jock. What separates me from them? The image of myself? My projections? And my perceptions? My envy?

I was born from different people, who intern were born from different people—but trace it back far enough, like 14 bill, and you’ll see that, well, we’re in this together. In essence, part of me is moving through you.

That thought may creep you out, but like it or not I’m there, along with the rest of the universe.

Out of Nothing, This

2006-11-03T10:18:00.000-05:00

Allright then. After 15 loads of laundry we made it to the next day. Cam has survived her bout with spontaneous regurgitation. The contractions have subsided. The floors are clean. A collective sigh of relief. Back to work.

We’re helping an agency pitch a chain of restaurants (can’t say the name because of our agreement) and it has been an exciting week. We are firing on all cylinders and our product is receiving rave reviews.

My company has been working together for years, but I feel like we’re just starting to engage in something breakthrough. There’s an ease to the creative process that I haven’t experienced beyond a short spell here and there.

It’s playful and fun, which is always the case, but now there’s a speed and efficiency that makes it all seem so effortless.

I used to think I was the ultimate creative partner. I came into every brainstorm with an open mind, ready to accept any idea and any possibility. But I’m realizing now that image of myself was propaganda manufactured by an overdeveloped ego.

At my old agency, I had a lot of good moments with partners, but more often than not I needed to fight and argue in order to be heard. And if I didn’t get heard I’d pout and grumble.

What a baby!

They say I used to shake the walls at my old agency. My creative director used to call it “Goin’ Greggy”—which meant having a shit fit. I got paid a pretty good salary for acting like that.

I often blamed my partners for my reactions, thinking they were stupid. But it’s hard to blame a partner when you’re the one slamming the door.

Sometimes getting to a good idea was a struggle. It still is a struggle, but I’ve learned to enjoy that struggle instead of resist it. That proabably sounds weird, but I’ll blog about that at another time.

I cared about the work, and I still do. But I think I cared about myself more than anything else. I believe it was more about protecting my ideas, than coming up with good ones. I would resist letting other people elevate ideas beyond what I could see.

And I was probably addicted to the feeling I got when someone liked “my” idea.

Today I realize that no idea is your idea. Ideas come from nothing, just like us.

Vomitopolis

2006-11-02T08:30:00.000-05:00

Cam has been sick every 20 minutes since 4 a.m. Yesterday was her first day back at daycare. Can you catch something that quickly? With all the disease going around in one of those joints, you're at risk the moment you walk in. It's the epicenter for virus and bacteria.

Right now she's reclining, watching Nemo. She's content. But I'm on edge. In a few minutes, when the waves of nausea return, she'll be back in that hell—taking out everything in a 3 foot radius.

I feel for her, though. What's worse than that feeling? Papercut on the tongue? Turf toe? Jammed coccyx? I dunno.

I loathe that feeling, friends. It unfortunately reminds me of my friend Brad's bachelor party in Tampa. The night started off slowly. 7 or 8 of us at a local pub knocking back a few, tellin lies. Then Bill, the instigator, starts in with the Jagermeister shots. They come fast and furiously. I shot back 5 or 6 and poured another 3 or 4 on the plant behind me.

That stuff is unholy. Part Listerine. Part tree sap. It literally turned me inside out, and wiped 24-hours off the clock. Everybody was in the same pathetic shape. Luckily, Brad and Angela planned for a day buffer between bachelor party and wedding. When the big day came around, we were 50% instead of -300%.

There aren't too many feelings that are worse than the one she's been experiencing. As far as I'm concerned, she can watch Nemo all she wants today.

12 Shots, the Hulk, a Tranny, and a Guru

2006-11-01T08:58:00.000-05:00

A guy walks into a bar. He signals the bartender, “Gimme 12 shots of Red Eye.” Bartender lines em up and pours em out. Guy shoots em back one after the other. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Bartender marvels. “I’ve never seen a guy drink so fast.”

Guy says, “You would too, if you had what I had.”

“What do you have?”

“75 cents.”

BWAAAAAAA. I missed ya over the past couple, my peeps. Kris told me that joke and I think it’s a cracker. I thought I’d break the ice with it.

So, what’s up? Anything gnew with you? Seen any good movies? Transamerica is a pretty good one. Recommended. It’s about a transvestite who is about a week from getting surgery to turn his outie into an innie. Then he gets a call from the son he never knew he had. Yikes!

Cam was a princess last night for Hallow’s eve. Since I’m in the middle of a pitch, I wasn’t able to see her get absoultely buggy about some kid who came to our door dressed as the Hulk. Kris says that she ran inside the house and hid under the dining room table for a solid 30 minutes. After a while she did go to Aunt Rose’s house for some candy. Then she tore the house up until 930 riding the high.

To further my inquiry into this thing called enlightenment, I’ve enrolled myself into a course at a place called EnlightenNext in NYC. I’m studying the teachings of Andrew Cohen. He is a modern spiritual teacher/guru and he founded EnlightenNext.

I’ve heard him lecture on two occasions and I like what he has to say. His thinking, in essense, is that we have to get past our own selfish, narcissitic tendencies in order to live a more fearless and authentic life. A lot of spiritual teachings/philosophies say that, but his brand is pretty radical—it means the demise of your own ego.

Other spiritual teachings help you deal with your ego. His teachings actually help you shift your attention away from it so you live from a more real place. A place free from fear and desire and guilt and jealousy and all those unhealthy feelings we all get.

We are so concerned with ourselves that it distorts how we pursue life. If we’re feeling good, we’re having a good day. If we’re feeling bad, we’re having a bad day. In his mind, we put way too much emphasis on how we feel. And we’re distorting reality.

Makes sense, right?

Well, I’ve heard both good and bad things about Andrew. Many people, including some of his former students, dismiss him as nothing more than a charismatic cult leader who preys on the weak-minded. On the other hand, I’ve also heard amazing things about his teachings. Anyway, if you’re interested, I’m going to be writing a little more about this stuff as I discover it.

Be well. And remember, it’s November 1. Don’t forget your train pass like I did.

Mediman

2006-10-27T07:41:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-26T07:28:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-25T11:57:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-23T10:00:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-19T09:56:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-18T12:13:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-17T09:52:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-16T08:13:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-11T08:23:00.000-04:00

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)

2006-10-07T09:05:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-06T09:53:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-03T09:56:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-02T09:50:00.000-04:00

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.

How to Listen to Manual

2006-09-29T09:53:00.000-04:00

Dreary, damp morning. It’s actually a nice break from the bright skies of the past week. Leaves are gradually succumbing to the change. Some deep greens are turning paler, some darker. The inevitable foliage show is about to begin.

An old friend emailed me the other day and his note reminded me to listen to the perpetually sweet melodies of Manual, the moniker for Jonas Munk, an electronic artist from Denmark. Jonas is in his early twenties, but he is way beyond his years musically. His melodies are so rich and sophisticated, I’m in awe everytime I listen.

Spacey atmospheres accented by textured melodies which gently sweep you away. A broken beat here and there to root it all. It’s so easy to write to. It's my escape hatch. I fall in love all over again with every song. Images float in and out, my eyes becomes a camera to the soundtrack, feelings ebb and flow. Just beautiful.

That is, until Margie coughs up a lung in the train seat next to mine. You all right there, sister? Sounds like she has half a jar of Smucker’s stuck in there. Well that certainly snapped me right out of sweet reverie.

Anyway, if anybody wants a copy of his stuff, I will gladly send it to you. Just send me your address. The only thing is you can’t listen to his stuff while you’re doing something “productive.” You need a stillness around you to enjoy it. Train commutes are perfect. Road trips. Laying on the beach. Walking in a park, even jogging if that’s yer bag.

And don’t listen with the intention of listening, if you know what I mean. You need to let it seep in. Give into it. Let it happen to you.

Sit somewhere and just be. And maybe you'll see.

GM

Welcome to my Dark Cavern

2006-09-26T10:12:00.000-04:00

Did ya miss me?

Were you wondering what happened to your faithful author over the past few days? Perhaps you envisioned a large boulder rolling from Mt. Washington down through the hills of New England straight into to East Norwalk, coming to a gentle stop on my shoelace, trapping me in my front yard as I was pulling weeds.

Or perhaps you saw a herd of wild boar traveling up the Eastern Seaboard hungrily waiting for me to scale down my office rooftop on Lafayette Street? Or maybe you saw the Greek God Pornatheous shooting poisoned arrows at me as Termillion was breathing blue fire at my heels.

All possible. And all, in some way, true. The truth is, I was working very diligently with my partners on a couple our most prized accounts coming up with ideas, and presenting them.

Those are very tense times because they are filled with question marks. What are we going to do? How are we going to do it? Will it be good? Will they like it? Do we have time?

Everytime we create something, we travel into the unknown, which can be a dark place. A place many people avoid because of fear. Sometimes you feel trapped (boulder), sometimes you feel scared (wild boar), sometimes you feel you're up against an all powerful force (greek gods).

I'm learning to crave this place of the unknown. Even enjoy it, a little. Sure it's uncomfortable. But how else are ya gonna grow? How else are you gonna rise up?

GM

Nona

2006-09-20T11:08:00.000-04:00

My grandmother’s 90th birthday is coming up on Saturday. If my left brain serves me, that means she was born in 1916. I imagine she has vivid recollections of the Great War, The Depression, Viet Nam, and pre-Guiliani New York City. Tough times, I imagine.

When I hear stories, I feel like my generation is living in a heavily sanitized version of life. Everything we experience is pre-packaged for us. No work at all. No reason to get your fingernails dirty.

My grandmother experienced life. We watch it.

Her name is Carmella Monaco, but we call her Nona. She’s my father’s mother. 100% Italian, living up to every stereotype in the book. Absolutely adorable woman. Hard as nails one moment, tender the next.

Without the faintest doubt, she makes the best manicotti on the planet. Before you claim that that’s a biased opinion, let me say that I do not tell tall tales about manicotti, my friends. This is a unanimous truth. Nona kills the noodles everytime.

Everything is created by hand: pasta, gravy, she would even milk the cows if he backyard were zoned for grazing.

Nona is a matriarch in every sense. Her table always has room for stray friends n neighbors. I can’t tell you how many folks have sampled Nona’s antipasto. I can’t tell you how many tales have been told at that table. I can’t tell you how many glasses of cheap table wine have been drunk (served in a tiny juice glass, of course). But I can tell you, everyone leaves the table, full n jolly.

Meals at Nona’s are absolutely relentless. Dish after dish after dish. Antipasto first, then a pasta dish, then a meat dish, then seconds of everything (house rule, you must have seconds or Nona will forcibly pack the food down your muzzle with a ram rod), then some kind of vegetable.

There’s a short break to unbutton your pants, exhale and wipe the sweat from your forehead. Then we get into coffee and dessert, which consists a dish of approximately four-thousand different kinds of cookies and treats, two different kinds of pies, and a cake.

Then fruit.

Oh, man, I’m hungry.

G

A Word About Gum

2006-09-19T10:26:00.000-04:00

Nothing major to report beyond the fact that some joker got me heated up when I saw him casually fling his lit cigarette on the train platform. Why is it so difficult to snuff and trash? Selfish mongrel.

I am, of course, a complete hypocrite because I spit it my gum out like a short stop when the flavor’s gone. Sometimes I even make a game of it. I drop it from my mouth straight down and kick the wad in mid air at selected targets: stop signs, telephone poles. pets, anything within 12 yards is fair game.

Which means that more than one person has cursed me after stepping on my spent gum on a hot August afternoon. Stepping on gum is a feeling like no other. Your shoe feels a strange connection to the asphalt. A certain undefinable bond. It doesn’t want to leave, but alas, foot in motion, it must. The connection—almost magnet-like—is quite strong at first, but slips away quickly—only a few strings of fruit stripe hang on.

Gum is such a strange product. I wonder how these companies do with all the competitors chomping at their heels. Look at the ridiculous number of choices we have:

Trident
Bubble Yum
Orbit
Wrigley’s
Dentyne
Freedent
Carefree
Fruit Stripe
Extra
Juicy Fruit
Chicklets
Hubba Bubba
Big League Chew

If you were to create a gum brand, how would you differentiate it from this crowd? I think there may be room for an upscale gum, if you package it correctly and market it smartly. Call it Wallingford’s Chews or something victorian. Wrap each piece in a doiley. Or maybe an organic gum. Made from the natural resins of the Redling tree in nothern Colorado. Or a southwestern gum that only cowboys chew when they’re wranglin cattle. Call it Bighorn.

Jolt, the cola guys, are gettin the idea. They make a caffienated gum. Chew it for that extra kick. Not sure if I wanna get my caffeine that way, though.

G

A Word About Creativity

2006-09-18T09:04:00.000-04:00

I’m shooting 65 mph toward the underground caverns of NYC. Cars on the adjacent highway struggle to keep pace. The is sun rising, its golden light pouring and spilling over the everything I see: leafy trees, flat buildings, manicured backyards, electrical transformers, golf courses, commuter parking lots.

My train neighbors have their waxy heads deep into their books n papers. Do not disturb. They are filling their brains with stuff they’ll forget the minute the train pulls into the station.

I have my headphones on listening to Oophoi's Hymns to a Silent Sky, some sweet ambient music I recently heard about on another blog. I’m contentedly tapping away. I wonder, what’s the week gonna bring? What twists and turns will life present? What plans will be made? What promises will be broken?

Expect the unexpected: a few surprises, some pleasant, some not. But I’ve come to learn it’s a lot easier if you accept everything life throws at ya. Just take it and be thankful for it. Even the most horrible stuff you can think of. Just be thankful.

The alternative is not accepting it. Which puts you in a bad place. Sometimes you can’t control what life tosses your way, but you can control how to handle it. If you’re thankful, you can grow. If you’re not, you’re stuck. These are opportunities to grow. To evolve, to become larger, to influence people, to change the world.

A friend of mine who is an improv artist told me one of the secrets to good improv is to accept everything on stage, from artists, the audience, even from yourself. Just realize there is no right way or wrong way. It’s forcing you to travel into the unknown where true creativity lies.

GM

Greg's Funny Ad Generator

2006-09-15T10:02:00.000-04:00

Gray, dark, n gloomy. The clouds are spittin at ya. It’s one of those days you’re never completely dry. Open your umbrella, close it, doesn’t matter—you’re still gettin wet.

I’m on the train, a temporary respite from the drizzles, and I’m lookin at this ad for a sleeping pill called Rozerem. It makes me smile. It features a beaver and Abe Lincoln on one end of a see saw, the other end is up in the air, waiting for you to join. Abe and the beaver look longingly into the camera. The headline reads theymissyou.com.

Your weird dreams are reaching out to you, hoping that you’ll join them once again. So simple. So perfect. I’ve seen a television ad and a few other print ads born from this idea. Matter of fact, the idea is so good, with a little imagination, you can create one of em, too.!

I’ll prove it with my patented Funny Ad Generator! Just choose one from each category and you have yourself the next Rozerem ad.

Random Character 1:

Wilford Brimley
Joan of Arc
Someone named “Kip”
Cyclops on Crutches
Boy in The Bubble

Random Character 2:

Ostrich
Giant Ladybug
Furby
Crawdaddy
Turtle

Random Situation:

Waiting for a bus.
Whittling wood.
Toasting marshmallows.
Pumpkin hunting.
Playing marbles.

Now have your characters look sad and lonely. Add the headline theymissyou.com.

There you go!

G

It’s Never Like You Think It’s Gonna Be

2006-09-14T09:49:00.000-04:00

It’s amazing what the mind drums up, and how it can affect you, how it can toy with you. Fear can stop ya cold. Fear can make ya crazy. But fear is a fabrication, it’s pretend. Your mind is anticipating what may happen, but it makes you feel as if it already has.

My mind toyed with me yesterday, as I was awaiting a lunch date with Yasuhiko Kimura, somebody I view as in another league. Yasuhiko is a philosopher, and has written a few of books on conscious evolution. His mission is to help individuals author their lives, and help facilitate positive change in the world through his teachings.

I’ve attended two of his weekend workshops, so I spent a lot of time with him in the classroom as a student. He recently contacted me to help him market his company. I was flattered, but I didn’t want to go because of an internal conversation that went something like this:

Fear: This guy is way too smart, he’ll see that you’re a fraud the minute he sits down with you.

Me: But I’m pretty good at what I do.

Fear: Pretty good ain’t good enough, loser. I guarantee in 3 seconds he’ll call your load o crap and ask for the check.

Me: But I want to know this guy. I think I can really learn something from him, and I think I can help him.

Fear: You’re pathetic. You help him? Don’t flatter yourself. I say fine, go ahead, be humiliated. I warned ya, Moron-aco.

Me: I love you, too.

And so I went. And it went nothing like Fear said it would. It was a pleasant afternoon filled with interesting conversation. I slated 2 hours for the lunch, it went closer to 3 because we enjoyed each other’s company so much.

I don’t know if he’ll hire me to help him, but I know I’ve gained a new friend in the process.

Screw you, Fear, ya buzzkilla.

G

Shoptalk

2006-09-13T10:00:00.000-04:00

I talk very little business on this blog. Maybe it’s a way of escaping it for an hour each day, but really it’s inescapable. It’s part of me, woven into my capillaries. It pumps through my system 24/7. I’m constantly solving problems, my head is a slurpee machine, constantly turning and churning.

It’s not a habit. It’s not a discipline. It’s just me.

I’m part owner of a company, a teeny one. 3 people. We create advertising. Each of us has our own agenda, or own reason that we formed the company, but for some reason, it’s worked quite seamlessly. Here’s the cast, in no particular order:

Colin “The Explorer.” He digs and sleuths his way through the day. If he isn’t learning, he’s dying. He’s completing his MBA next year while he’s a full-timer with us. He notices every detail, and reads the fine print.

Tessa “The Contributor.” If she isn’t putting her energy to the greater good, she’s dying. She’s constantly and consistently giving. We have a half dozen not-for-profit clients, and that’s only because Tessa walked into the office of one asking what she could do to help. She, too, is pursuing higher education, in the form of a Psychology Masters Degree.

Greg “The Evolver.” If I’m not raising the bar, I’m dying. I push everything we do to another level. I never settle. That’s the tension I need to create in my life in order to feel alive. That’s me at work, that’s me at home. I’m not pursuing a formal degree, but I’m reading and attending workshops in pursuit of my own evolution.

That’s us. Three different people with three different core values, missions, beliefs, yet we’ve come together to form this little company. It’s hardly an accident, we created it carefully and purposefully. It was fragile and delicate at first, but gradually, it has taken root.

I'm grateful for it.

GM

TV is Even Worse for You

2006-09-12T08:15:00.000-04:00

Not only do they drain yer gray matter when they're glowing in yer loving room, but they also hurl themselves at ya when they're sittin quietly in the corner. It's all part of their plan to dull the senses until our brains are pasturized into an opinionless, dull-witted, gurgling mass of goo.

No joke, folks, I saw an exclusive on it this morning on—of all things—the TV. The Tube is writing its own PR.

Their dastardly plan is to blend in with the wallpaper, and jump at unsuspecting toddlers, crushing their kiddie skulls. 5 deaths have been reported in Houston. 3 deaths in New York. Scores of injuries. The news doesn't lie.

I guess TVs are frustrated with the long and agonizingly slow process of lobotomizing adults. After all, it takes hours upon hours of daily programming to drain ambition. These relentless mind-numbing exercises take time and electricity, TVs aren't able to finish the job until they've exhausted their tubes and wires. They burn out before their human subjects do.

Out of the 400 million TV sets in the US. Maybe 3000 of them have fallen to the darkside, terrorizing famlies. That doesn't sound like much now, but the movement is gaining momentum. After all, it's a quicker, easier way to paralyze the competition.

We must all look at our TVs differently. Every one of them is a suspect. The Japanese jobbies, Korean ones, even those monster TVs built right here in the US of A.

Don't turn your back for a minute.

Just another vittle of advice from your humble scribe.

G$

Can We Rise Above it All?

2006-09-11T12:30:00.000-04:00

It’s ironic that the anniversary of our country’s worst day is picnic perfect. An exact replica of the day it went down. Crisp, cool morning. Sun showing large, as bright as it can be. Deep blue sky. All of these awful 9/11 anniversaries fall on beautiful days. Why?

The bomb machine got a-rollin’ five years ago, which was good because the we had so many of those things sittin in warehouses gettin rusty. Either we take over a couple of countries, or we take out a few million squirrels for sport.

Afgani was too easy, still plenty of fireworks left in the inventory. Iraq was next. We never liked ya, or your leader and his nasty ‘stache. And we’re sure your fertile crescent was full of freshly picked terrorists.

We know yer bent on killing us, building those weapons of mass destruction. Why else would ya kick Mr. Blix outta your labs? Did he hurt your pride? If ya wouldn't have gassed those nice Kurds, we wouldn't be suspicious.

If that’s not good enough, our hidden camera shows your trucks moving in and out of clearly marked anthrax labs. Clear as day. White clouds of powder trailing them as they sped off to their missile silos. But that evidence wasn’t good enough for the Frenchys, Germanics or the Reds. Our CIA even asked a few folks to verify it all, fer crissakes. What other evidence to ya need, nuclear fallout?

We have bombs to drop and time’s a-wastin.

It’s simple. If you don't like us, you’re a terrorist. And we have a zero-tolerance policy with terrorists. You say bad things about us in the press, we take you outta the game. That way, you can’t make anthrax because you’re in jail and your friends have no arms.

Enjoy a few final laps in your presidential pool, because you’re fired. Mr. President. Bombs drop in 48.

Satire on a somber day like today may infurate a few. I mean no disrespect. I was right in the heart of that scary day. I was in a subway car underneath the towers as terrified people told us of the second plane that just hit. All the headshots of missing people posted up the days after. The horrifying burning smell. The teary phone calls from friends and family.

Awful fucking day, week, year. It's still awful. Five years later. And if you knew someone in one of those towers, I can't imagine the pain. Can't even come close. My heart goes out to you.

But I wouldn't be real if I didn't express how I felt about the quagmire our country is in right now. I was in favor of the war when it began, but I’ve come to realize that war isn’t solving anything. I was wrong.

I don’t have a clear answer, it's apparent that nobody does. But one thing is clear, war is old thinking. We need new thinking. And there isn't a better country for that thinking to start.

G

Primed for a Comeback

2006-09-08T07:58:00.000-04:00

I'm the deadline dodger. Snaking and sliding my way through my schedule this week. It's extra extra busy because Kris has become Dominican, she now holds 2 jobs: soccer coach and personal trainer. She's also taking a full schedule exercise science classes. And in between all the workin and learnin she's doing her fair share of motherin.

I'm tryin to keep it together, picking up slack where I can, in between my demands at the office. Not sure how we're going to pull this off, cause, at times, it seems like we're climbing Everest. But we just made it through the first week, settin up base camp preparing for the ascent.

Makes me think of Tiger Woods' golf game. Tiger, the best in the business, could've cruised along through the rest of his career doing what he did in his early years. But he still wanted to evolve. "Everything can always be better." That's a direct quote from him. What a great quote. Simple in its intention but so meaningful at many depths.

Even the world's best still wants to improve. To a lot of people it seemed like an idiot move for him. He dismantled his swing and looked like junk for a while. Junk was still elite for him, but the point is, his game took a hit. But getting better is really the only way to go; if you're not evolving, you're dying.

He's starting to emerge from the fog and could be even stronger than he ever was.

That's exactly what we're shootin for. A revival. A resurgence. A comeback. A bigger, badder, better us.

GM

Ooooh! Snap!

2006-09-07T10:17:00.000-04:00

Two months after the World Cup final, and we finally find out what Marco Materazzi said to Zinedine Zidane to cause the infamous head butt. Quick recap: Mertazzi was marking Zidane and, in the process, pulled on his shirt.

Zidane: You can have my shirt after the game.

Materazzi: I prefer your sister.

BWAAAAAAA. Classic playground stuff. Well done, Marco. You probably first heard it when you were five, but it never gets old. And it never stops inciting violence. I’m sure I got punched the first time I said it to someone.

Yes, it could be construed as a little offensive. But nowhere near as offensive as what the gossip starved, rumor spreaders we call “the press” were drumming up.

Zidane has Algerian parents, so Materazzi called him a terrorist.

Zidane is close with his mother, so Materazzi called him a son of a whore.

These speculative responses are more in line with causing someone to lay down a head butt to the chest, but they weren’t true. Yet somebody printed em. So, who dreamt em up?

I can see how this can happen: reporters are always looking for an angle, relentlessly hunting em down. When there isn’t one, they manufacture em. And I must say, I’m a little disappointed. If you’re going to make something up, then make it count!

The whole “you’re a terrorist” angle was just too convenient. And the “your mom’s a whore” is tired. That’s just lazy reporting.

How about, “That wasn’t me tugging on your shirt, that was a hologram of Oscar Gamble.” Or “Sorry I only understand French with a lisp.” Or “I’ve got a Euro somewhere on my body…” Or “Mmmm bug. Doormat feline soda peel me a racecar. Vrrrrooom.”

I can see the headlines now. “Zidane Headbutts Weirdo Materazzi”

That’s a story! Run with it!

GM

Ode to a Heckler

2006-09-06T10:05:00.000-04:00

NFL season is upon us. Mere days away. The excitement is building at the Monaco house. Sundays will look like this: soccer in the morning, football in the afternoon. From grass to sofa.

We have always been a football family from as far back as I can remember. It all started with me pops. An absolutely rabid fan. My dad has this uncanny ability to sink right into a game and experience it as if he’s on the sideline. He motivates at the players. Predicts the play calls. And, of course, curses the referees.

Referees and my father go way back. My dad didn’t miss a single game when my brother and I played youth soccer. He spent most of my childhood on the sideline yelling at refs. He turned it into a sport, folks.

Obnoxious? Yes. Vulgar? Sometimes. Funny? Always.

At one of my college games, just before kickoff, my father notices the referee looks a little young to be officiating a high-level game. Just after the national anthem there’s a lull, with perfect timing he yells, “Hey Ref, whaddya wanna be when you grow up?”

Game on.

Mom is equally dedicated to sports, but in a more evolved way. She too, wouldn’t miss one of our games. But, by default, she had to assume the role of the straight-man. Dad would spend the game thinking up one-liners to annoy the referee, and she, rolling her eyes in disgust, would to tell him to calm down. A classic comedy duo.

Now that I’m playing up North and they’re still down South, I often imagine them on the sidelines, sitting in their folding chairs. My dad, waiting to pounce on his striped prey, my mom attempting tame the beast.

GM

She Ain’t Seaworthy Cap’n

2006-09-05T10:00:00.000-04:00

A stunningly beautiful day yesterday. Inspired the Monaco three for a little drive into Fairfield, a town a few clicks east of us. Had lunch at a family pub called Archie Moore’s. There’s something about that joint we really like, but I’m not sure what because there’s nothing terribly special about it. It’s not trying to be anything more than what it is, and maybe that's the secret.

We finished in time for some shopping along the main street. K and I thought it would be a good idea to amp up Cam’s book collection. The tales are getting stale. Whacky Wednesday ain’t so whacky the 60th time you’ve read it.

Cam loves books. She devours them. She ran aimlessly from aisle to aisle, pulling them off shelves, plopping herself down, flipping pages, chattering out loud. “Sit, Daddy.” She likes when I join her. I do, of course.

I’m glad the internet boom hasn’t destroyed bookstores. You can spend hours in there sampling this and that. I’ve always enjoyed getting lost in em.

We picked three classics for Cam: Cat in the Hat, Wocket in my Pocket, and Curious George. She loved Wocket in my Pocket and wouldn’t let it go. She had the book open, reading it on the way home, but finally had to close it when she vomited all over herself.

Yeah, I can’t read in cars either.

G

Tennis Gods

2006-09-01T11:36:00.000-04:00

Another historical win for Mr. Agassi. With one foot in the retirement grave, Andre outlasted a 21-year old pup named Baghdatis (sp?). In athletic years, 36 is elderly, so it’s a miracle Agassi was even on the court.

His tennis brothers, Pete Sampras and Jim Courier, packed it in long ago. What a pair of wussies.

I read in the NYTimes this a.m, that, after the match, Agassi was hobbling toward the back gate to leave the stadium, he had to stop, lay down and stretch his legs and his back because of cramping. He eventually gathered himself up, and made it out. Baghdatis followed shortly thereafter. A reporter told him of Agassi’s trouble making it to the gate. The kid says wryly, “He must be out of shape.”

If you saw the match, he was anything but. At moments Andre summoned spirits and channeled energies beyond Earth. He left his body and another force was carrying him through the points.

Technically, he’s the most compact and efficient player ever. Every stroke uses as little energy as possible to provide the velocity needed to move opponents around. His accuracy, what a gift. His response. His mind. He plays the game like Twain strung sentences together, seemingly effortless.

Compared to other top level players, his serve is as very average. Unlike Roddick and other big hitters, he doesn’t need it. He just puts the ball in play so he can go to work, whipping the ball back and forth forcing his opponent into errors.

You have to beat him. He is too smart and too cool to throw a Monaco tantrum on the court. He doen’t give you any points. He’s patient. He’s relentless.

Watch him play. You'll learn a ton.

G

Turdburgers

2006-08-31T12:40:00.000-04:00

Chilly 60 today. Considered a jacket, but in honor of the last weeks of summer I had to say no. Jacketless, I write you now.

Got a call from my old copy chief at Ogilvy yesterday. Seems he’s in a state of distress. “Do you have some time to help me with a heinous IBM project?”

I’ve always admired the way Andy tells it the way he sees it. All real. No crap. If he says it’s heinous, there’s no reason for me to think otherwise. He didn’t try to dress it up, or enroll me, or set me up for disappointment. He served up the disappointment straight out. Now I have zero expectations for the assignment, which is far better than having great expectations that will never be fulfilled.

Good on ya, Andy. Much appreciated.

I’m sure you’ve expeirienced the sales pitch before. And you probably fell for one of two of em. Matter of fact I’ve met salespeople so good at selling a lie, that they actually believe their own ball of crap. They actually share in the disappointment when reality walks in the room. Them's special folks, indeed.

Salesmanship is powerful tool, friends.

I mean, the entire country has been eating turdburgers sold to us by the powers that be. And those powers have been gobbling those burgers right with us. The scary thing is, those powers like the taste.

Most of us think the burgers taste, well, crappy. But they keep sellin and gobblin, enjoying the taste of their own poo.

G

Twitches n Glitches

2006-08-30T10:32:00.000-04:00

Up early on yet another rainy morning. For the love of God, if the sun is still up there, please write me a note and remind me what she looks like. I’ll bet she’s purty.

Did a little Yoga to try and relieve the aches in my back a bit. I chose the ab workout on the DVD for no particular reason, but it appears I made the right choice. The poses were easiier than the upper body and lower body ones, which can only be performed by circus freaks.

This back is effin’ dibilitating I tell ya. I can’t do the simple things like putting on my socks without pain shooting every which way. I just want it to go away. No Advil (waste of money). No doctor visits. No needles. No voodoo. I just want the hurt to exit my body. Quietly.

I’m also draggin the arse a little today due to caffiene deprivation. I’m cutting out the coffee due to an eye twitch I recently developed. It’s a reoccurring theme; when I pump my body full of that stuff, it has lasting effects on me. When I cut it out, the twitch subsides. Today, it’s almost completely gone.

So the body is in a shambles, but the mind? Sharper than ever, folks.

Cam’s back in daycare now, and that’s a little sad, though she’s adjusted seamlessly. K is ramping up her dual career (part soccer coach, part personal trainer). I’m busier with work, so I’m in NYC more. So the house is in more transition, and the balance is off.

I think we’re enjoying it, but there’s so much activity, so much scheduling that we don’t have time to smell the roses if ya know what I mean. Not a moment’s peace.

I’d like to put the brakes on, kill the obligations, disconnect the phone, unplug the TV, and just be.

GM

200mg of Placebo

2006-08-29T15:23:00.000-04:00

Advil doesn't work folks. It's a sham, a ploy I tell ya. You've been bamboozled. I helped my good friend Ben move on Saturday and played two games of soccer and my back hasn't been the same since.

After much moaning and complaining, Tessa was kind enough to offer her last two Advil gelcaps complete with 200 milligrams of ibuprofen. 200 milligrams doesn't sound like much. I mean, I'm sure if you look at a milligram you probably can't see it. So 200 of those can't be significant.

I found this list of references to give us a better understanding of 200 milligrams:

• An average sneeze expells 200 milligrams of snot.

• The average amount of gum trapped in your shoe treads is approx 200 milligrams.

• A spider web weighs approximately 200 milligrams.

• There is approx 200 milligrams of frosting dusted on each mini wheat.

So that must mean ibuprofen is some powerful stuff. I imagine a teaspoon of that junk will bore a hole straight through you.

Or it will won't do a thing.

It's the latter. It's a marketing trick, friends. Don't let the smilers in the $1 million TV campaign fool ya. I could've downed the whole bottle and it would still feel like a 5 alarm fire crawling up my spine.

My grandparents would always say "At least you have your health." It was one of those reflex phrases with them. It meant absolutely nothing.

Now that my poor back feels like it's about to snap, I'm kinda gettin what they meant all those years. Wise folks indeed. When you're healthy, you don't know it. When you're not, you always know it. Apprecaite those times that you don't have an ache or a pain or even a sniffle.

Take it light. Keep yerself tuned up and you'll get plenty o mileage. Or you can move furniture all day then run around like an idiot for 180 minutes like me.

GM

What's Sump?

2006-08-28T07:07:00.000-04:00

And the rains came. And haven't stopped since Friday evening. We have a sump pump in our basement that pumps water out before it leaks in (not sure how it works, really). Well, the thing is going friggin haywire. It's coming on every 3 seconds. I have two 5 gallon buckets down there ready for bail duty, and the plumber on speed dial. Our $10k basement renovation is in the hands of a piece of equipment the size of a saucepan.

Needless to say, I'm not confident in it.

As I write this, I'm imagining water silently creeping up and out of the well, infiltrating and spreading across the basement floor. Creeping into every corner and crevice. My baseboards drinking it up and expanding and warping, pulling nails from the framwork. Drywall no longer dry as the moisture bleeds up the walls.

My basement renovation has become an expensive petri dish for mold spores.

OK. Just writing about that scenario made me take action. I just called a plumber.

I'll write later to tell you about Mr. Plumberman's verdict on the situation, how much he cost me, and, of course, his ass crack.

Stay tuned.

Update 9:32 am: Never saw $500 go so fast. The sump pump was working great when the plumber came. He spent a total of 6 minutes looking at it. He told me a new pump would be $500 including installation. I said "no thanks." The old pump (which looked like it was from the 1930's) seemed to be working fine. I'd just keep my eye on it to see if there were any problems. Then he said, it'll be $105 for the visit. Oh, fuckin' great. $105 for 6 minutes of work? Put the damn pump in an earn your money pipe monkey.

Update 10:10 am: Awww. He ain't so bad. Gave me a price break on it, came to $370-sumthin. The $105 was applied to the install. So all I had to pay for was parts. Now I don't have to worry about my basement flooding. Yay! And no plumber crack, the guy had his shirt tucked in.

Update 1:09 pm: Just found out my next door neighbor had 18" of standing water in his basement. I suppose I got off light.

G

Questionnaire

2006-08-25T09:11:00.000-04:00

Ah yea, another day with too little ticks on the clock. Good Lord I'm in the weeds. And what do I do? I join another soccer team, of course. I'm up to three teams now. What the crap is my problem?

I keep on obligatin' myself to more and more and more. Why do I do that? It's crippling, I tell ya. My mind can't find a moment's peace.

Yet I keep diggin deeper and deeper. Will I ever climb out?

I have so many interests. So many things I want to join. So many ideas. I'm addicted to action. My mind is always churning, craving something new. It's like I'm a meth addict upstairs. I'm doing everything I can, but can't get enough.

Am I looking for something? Or escaping something?

Enough freakin questions.

I gotta go.

G

The Cycle of Life

2006-08-24T10:32:00.000-04:00

The day after I gained a beautiful nephew, I lost a friend. I’d like to dedicate this blog to Mach Arom, who died suddenly yesterday.

I was honored to be part of Mach’s Team at Ogilvy. I see members of Mach’s Team scattered about here and there doing different things. When we run into one another, it’s always “How’s Mach?” “Seen Mach?” “What’s Mach up to?” You are our kindred spirit.

Yes, you strung us together, but you did so much more. Mach’s Team calls me when they need help. Mach’s Team is there when I need them. Mach’s Team invited my family to Kansas for a wedding. Mach’s Team recently opened a business with me. Mach’s Team will always be with me, and so will you.

You simply brought people together. And that’s why you will be so sorely missed.

Love,

G

Quick Word

2006-08-22T09:15:00.000-04:00

Sorry for the short one today, friends. I have tons of catching up to do at work. But I’ll give ya a quick rundown of the events that have transpired over the past few.

Block Island, Rhode Island
Stunning place. Just got back from 4 days there, sans Cammy. Tough on us to separate ourselves from Cam, but a much needed break. BI is simply amazing. 360 degrees of beaches. Rocky ones, sandy ones, wavey ones, placid ones. No car needed, just bike where you wanna go.

Uncle Greg
Welcome Carter Philip Monaco. A little scat cat from the Colorado Monacos. Congrats to Perry. Some scary moments for him because the delivery didn’t go as expected, but all is well, Polly and Carter are healthy.

Under 100
My father broke 100 on the golf course. Only two him two years of relentless work, but he is officially better than 90% of the hacks you’ll see on the average course. Well done, Philip.

Tick Tick
Cammy had a tick on her yesterday. A little guy latched on right behind her ear. Thought it was a freckle. But it looked too sinister to be a freckle. My neighbor suggested I use diswashing soap on a q-tip. Only made the little guy dig in more. Finally got him out with gentle coaxing from a tweezer. We'll watch to make sure no infections or rashes transpire.

It for now. More catching up to do.

GM

Keep Yer Dern Promises to Yerself

2006-08-16T10:01:00.000-04:00

Nice day. Sunny. Warm. Yawn.

I’m in one of the backward seats on my train commute today. Some seats face the future, others face the past. “I don’t know where I’m goin, but I sure know where…” whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold it right there, G. Quoting Whitesnake songs is a mammoth no no on this blog. We don’t want to encourage those morons.

I know Bobby Plant, Mr. Coverdale, and you sir are no Bobby Plant.

Rough moment yesterday, neighbors. I had to tell a client that I couldn’t deliver what I promised. That never happens. Never. Never!

In a moment of insecurity, at a time where I was a little too eager to please, I made a promise that was impossible to keep. It backfired. Completely counter to my relentless work ethic. The notion is like sandpaper to the soul.

Then, later that evening, I get an email from one of my other clients. She was introducing us to a colleague of hers.

“These guys are creative, hardworking, fun and I am lucky to call them friends. I can’t recommend them enough.”

Just when I was set to curl up in a corner somewhere and cut myself off, she has to go and write something like that. Ruined the entire moment.

I was counting the pills. Drafting a will. Dividing my CDs.

But life rocks. And then it rolls.

Pulled from the quicksand of self pity, I am reborn. You may applaud.

On vacation tomorrow, friends, through the weekend. You won’t be hearing from me until Monday. But I’ll try and write one last one tomorrow morning to hold ya over.

No promises, though.

GM

That Damn Morakis Kid

2006-08-15T09:15:00.000-04:00

Low, dark blanket hanging overhead. Air’s hot, humid and heavy. Sky’s gonna explode any minute, you can just feel it. My front lawn could use a good soaking. Blades are curled up, brittle n brown—not that there’s anything wrong or unusual with that.

You see, that’s a perfectly normal state in the summertime. The grass goes dormant in the relentless sun only to spring back to life when the air cools and the water’s aplenty.

I know this because I am lawnman. The grandmaster of grass. The king of the blades. Yes. My thumb is a spring green and—given enough time and fertilizer—I can make any yard look like a putting green.

Not sure what brought this about in me, folks. Never thought of myself as, well, as my father. He was always quite meticulous about the landscaping. He’d grumble when the hoodies would use our slice of America as their thoroughfare.

“There’s that damn Morakis kid. Next time he steps foot on our lawn I’m gonna break his legs. Then he’d have to wheel himself down the sidewalk instead of trample on my grass.”

Something like that, my friends. See me pops always got the creative juices flowing when he got angry. Never heard I guy as quotable as my father in fits of anger. But we’re talking about grass here.

Know what? Screw it. Grass is boring. Let’s talk about my father’s quotes. That’s funny. Let's play a game. Match the situation with my father’s quote:

1. “Shit, piss and corruption!”
2. “I get as much respect as the man on the moon!”
3. “Once is an accident! Twice is stupidity and inconsideration!”
4. “Take your two f-ing dollars! You need it worse than we do!”
5. “There goes the whole goddamn season!”
6. “Take one more step, and I’ll f-ing deck you!”
7. “Get one of those things, and I’ll rip your ear off!”
8. “Financial f-ing ruin!”

a. Said to Greg after repeatedly knocking over Dad’s coral decoration.
b. Said to Greg after wrecking Dad’s Oldsmobile.
c. Said to family after hearing repeated smart-ass comments.
d. Said to some anonymous wanker at a soccer team fundraiser.
e. Said to Greg after asking if he can get an earring.
f. Said to a referee at an Under-14 soccer game.
g. Said to nobody in particular for nothing in particular.
h. Said to TV when any Tampa sports franchise loses their first game.

OK. OK. I know it may look as if my father is a tempermental freak with serious anger issues, which is exactly the case. But we all love him dearly and accept him and his testosterone-fueled rages.

Answers tomorrow.

GM

Randomized

2006-08-14T09:54:00.000-04:00

Got me iPod randomizin right now. No clue what surprise is next. I have 7704 songs that the little robotic brain inside can choose from. Right now, John Hammond is singin’ the blues “Here come the big black Mariah” or something like that. I can’t really tell cause it sounds like he has a mouthful of cotton.

Oh, next up They Might Be Giants. It’s hard to write with those guys playin. So spazzy n quirky. Hang on a few…

Now it’s Miles Davis, that’s better. The words will flow more freely now.

I can only hope your weekend was half of mine. Pure perfection. Kicked the ball around yesterday. The world must be coming to an end, because my crappy soccer club actually won a game against an even crappier side from North Branford. 7-0.

Since Kris passed her personal training exam, I’ve become her test subject. She put me on a program Saturday. Custom designed it for me. She had me lungin, squattin, thrustin, pushin, pullin—and then we went to the gym. Ha ha. It's my blog. I can lay down a cheap joke for ya if I want.

Now Primus is on, talk about spazzy. They are like a cartoon. Impossible arrangements complemented by an impossible voice. I saw them live once and somebody kept throwing shoes up on stage. Not sure if he smuggled a bag of em in, or was stealing them from stage divers. The singer got tired of dodging the shoes and calmly walked up to the mike, ”I read somewhere that people who throw shoes are more inclined to have insignificant genitaila.”

Shoe problem solved.

Not to trivialize the nightmare in the Mideast, but I wonder if some of those problems couldn’t be solved with a witty line or two. A well-timed joke. Perhaps a thoughtful satire.

Blowing up children sure isn’t working. Let’s send over Brian Regan, or that fat guy from Last Comic Standing. I mean, c’mon. Isrealis and Hizbollahs are human beings. And aren’t all human beings equipped with some kind of sense of humor?

All we need to do is find what is universally funny. The kind of comedy that all nationalities and religions can appreciate, like:

• somebody walking through a spider web.
• an unzipped fly.
• a Benny Hill episode.
• white people dancing.
• my lactose-intolerant brother after drinking a glass of milk.
• nerds.
• my 22-month old daughter saying the word “delicious.”
• dog poo.

Let’s use Shakespeare’s formula, infuse a little comedy to defuse the tragedy. Worth a shot, eh?

Well, Devo just came on the iPod. I’ll leave you with one final thought: Whip it. Whip it good.

GM

Old Man Rock

2006-08-11T07:51:00.000-04:00

Woke up to a real gamey cup o joe this am, folks. As it turns out, your humble scribe forgot to change the filter which was full of soggy, day-old grinds. Deee-licious. I suppose that's what I should expect after coming home from NYC at 2am.

Saw my favorite band, The Church, perform at The Irv last night. After 26 years, they're still bangin drums and shreddin geetars. Great show. Pulled some obscure stuff out of the archives for us. Stayed for 2 encores.

One thing I noticed was they looked, well, old. Earth's gravity is starting to pull these guys toward the soil. You can see it in their faces. Grey streaks through their thinning hair.

Come to think of it, everyone at the show looked old. The guy sitting next to me was sporting a dunlap. (A dunlap is when your belly dun-lap over your belt). And I'm no spring chicky with my silver sidewalls.

I should've anticipated the age issue when I bought tickets. Irving Plaza is a standing venue: A giant ballroom with a stage. But, for this particular show, they brought out the folding chairs for us. Our arthritic knees and brittle spines couldn't take a couple hours of standing.

Or maybe they decided on chairs because a post-concert bingo game might break out.

I also heard through the old vine that this was an acoustic show. They were putting down those loud electric guitars and sticking with the acoustic variety. Us geezers can't take too much noise and racket. Especially those of us with tinnitus. Thankfully, the volume knob hardly exceeded a 6.

A variety of Church t-shirts and cds littered the merch table. I imagine, soon, we'll see them hawking kits of old man rock essentials: Ear plugs, aspirin, and branded hankeys.

Rock on, you wrinkled old bastads!

GM

Uselessness

2006-08-10T10:24:00.000-04:00

The weather outside is pleasant, sunny and surprisingly cool, but the weather inside is a little gloomy. I’ve been in a funk the past few days, which contributed to yesterday’s no post. I was too busy finding ways to deflect responsibilities to write to y'all.

I find, when the motivation isn’t there to produce, it’s very hard for me to not produce. It takes work for me to shirk work. Unproductivity is a tough business. I can’t just launch into it. I need a plan for my futility, a course of action.

When I worked at big, 11,000 employee multi-national, I had friends who would cut out in the middle of the day to catch a movie, take a 3 hour lunch, go shopping, or go home to take a nap. They wouldn’t think twice about it. An effortless transition to unproductivity. My heros. (Update: they all lost their jobs and have since moved on to other, I imagine less-productive, careers.)

Yesterday, in my attempt to be useless, I walked around the block a few times, diligently searching for nothing to do. I was on my way to nowhere in particular when a woman broke my very deliberate stride.

She was desperate for directions. Poor thing didn’t realize she was asking a guy with the navigational sense of an earthworm.

When people ask me directions, I freeze up like racoon in a flashlight. I usually have no clue where their desitnation is. But I really like helping people, so I stand there and look off into the distance purporting the illusion that I’m picking the best route.

Sometimes, I’ll point randomly and create faux landmarks, “you see that fruit stand,” or “there was a bank over there.” This buys me a little time while I try and draw a mental map, with crayons.

We were on Bowery and 1st and she needed to find Bowery and 2nd. Easy ‘nough, that would be one street north of where we were standing. OK. Now where’s north? I unconsciously look up. Not sure why, perhaps searching for the north star? I string together about 40 or 50 uhs and ums to buy more time.

This is when I thought of pointing out something behind her and running away when she turned. Luckily somebody else heard my Bevis and Butthead imitation and saved the day.

Her destination was exactly 60 steps from where we were standing.

Now I can go back to being useless.

GM

Rude Awakenings

2006-08-08T08:58:00.000-04:00

Oh, how I loathe the rigidity of my train schedule. I can get up at 3am and still find a way to make myself late. It’s an inevitability, folks.

I send the entire house into a tizzy. I am the Tazmanian Devil. I am a freak tornado. I am Dagwood Bumstead kissing Blondie at full sprint out the door. If my mailman delivered at 7:16 am, he’d have envelopes gently cascading down on his unconscious, twitching body.

My morning crisis never sets the day right, my friends. The body isn’t ready for this kind of full on assult. My pulse rate is clocking in at “hummingbird.” An unspecified dose of adrenalyn just shot through my body causing my sweat glands to misfire—my shins are soaking, the rest of my body, bone dry. My bloodshot eyes are darting back and forth just like a meth junkie.

Is this healthy? Eyes aren’t meant to snap open. Bodies don’t just leap into action. Brains certainly don’t dive into problem solving.

Mornings should be a gentle introduction to the day. We need to work in a little time for aimless wandering, a yawn or two, and scratching areas that don’t necessarily itch.

Early birds do catch worms, but those are the drunk worms who passed out on the lawn the evening before.

Counting Carbos

2006-08-07T07:16:00.000-04:00

An ambivalent sky today. No discernable clouds. No discernable sky either. Just a blanket of neutral gray. The temps have dropped dramatically over the past few days and gave us a sweet weekend.

We saw the Goo Goo Dolls and Counting Crows at Jones Beach Theater Friday night. Thank yous to Taso and Kimi for an unforgetable eve. Jones Beach Theater is arguably the coolest music venue on the planet. The stage literally sits on the water as you overlook the Atlantic. The setting just opens you right up to accept whatever's played at ya. There could've been a dixieland band with washboards n spoons up there and it wouldn't have mattered.

K and I were dubbing them "Counting Carbos," the singer and lead guitarist have serious obesity issues. And the signature crop of dreadlocks spilling from the top of the singer's head was fodder for a little mid-concert brainstorm. What does that ridiculous hair make him look like? Here's what K and I came up with:

1. A Court Jester
2. An Aloe Plant
3. A Big Muppet
4. The Fountain Head
5. A Fat Ass Pineapple
6. An A-hole with a Ridiculous Hair-Do

Today marks K's first day as a licensed personal trainer. Just left the house a few minutes ago to embark on her new career. She will spend the next few weeks shadowing the gym owner to learn ze ropes. If all goes to plan, she'll be abusing her own clients in no time.

Perhaps she should contact Counting Carbos?

G

Runner's Low

2006-08-05T08:45:00.000-04:00

The Emerson Street marathon is happening as I write. Slick skinned runners with pained expressions are filing past my living room window. Faces drawn, mouths open, these folks are clearly pushing their body somewhere it doesn't want to go. Unfortunately for them, it doesn't get any better. They are heading toward a pretty steep hill. The thought makes me giggle a little.

Running is a perfectly awful sport. That may sound weird coming from a soccer player but I can't take it. The mind-numbing monotony, the relentless pounding, the aching knees, all the huffin n puffin adds up to nuffin for me.

Some people claim a runner's high. K says, "I get a lot of thinking done." I don't get it. The only thing I'm thinking of is cutting corners. Pulling that imaginary finish line closer and closer.

To all my Kenyan, marathon-running readers out there maybe you can explain this runner's high to me. I believe it's a temporary state of insanity due to O2 deprivation. But set me straight, if ya can.

GM

Monadamus

2006-08-04T06:56:00.000-04:00

Apologies go round to my faithful readers around the globe. Work time conflicted with blog time yesterday. I promise to make it up to ya. I'll stuff yer stocking with some turkish delight. Maybe I'll write ya a poem, or take yer kids to a picture show. Until then, today's entry will have to do.

My prediction of a blackout was absolutely spot on. It frightens me when I see the future like this. The premonition came to me like a flash. I closed my eyes and saw darkness spill into nothing wrapped in black—I knew what was in store for NYC.

I was a medium for the divine, a messenger of time.

The day started out quite uneventfully. I enjoyed my extra dark coffee and bird seed n milk as I always do. Showered up, worked in little shaping gel for extra strong hold, and Tossed Cam around for a bit.

Then, my prediction came to light, or dark, or whatever. One entire city block in a remote area of Queens went dark. About 600 people lost power. Three shop owners, a few residents, and one deli counter lost power for a couple of hours. Battery sales at the Radio Shaq around the corner (they had power) skyrocketed. People agonized about their perishables for over an hour. The story made huge headlines in all the neighborhood newsletters.

Next time I talk of the future, I'm sure you'll be listenin.

Other big news yesterday: Kris is certifiable. She passed her exam and is officially sanctioned by the National Academy of Sports Medicine to personal train the living snot out of you. To twist and contort your body until you can't recognize your own limbs. To shred each and every muscle you didn't know you had.

She's declared a jihad on fat, and 200 insults will rain down on you if you fail to maximize your rpms on the treadmill.

Asses, prepare to be kicked.

GM

Blackouts Are In

2006-08-02T10:44:00.000-04:00

Oh. My. Lord.

Serengetti heat. Hotter-than-spaghetti heat. The starchies are soaking through their blues and grays today, my friends. I feel all smug in my shorts and sandals. I’m playing their game, but by my own rules.

I’m awaiting the inevitable NYC blackout. If it’s gonna happen, it’s gonna happen in the next day or so.

The last blackout experience, actually, the only blackout experience I had was a few years back, when the entire Northeast grid went down. Everything north of Ohio and into Canada went down.

I was in the worst possible place: a subway car heading downtown—between stations. I was on my way to present some advertising ideas to American Express.

The Account Executive and I were on an express train that was moving along at a pretty good clip. Then it sputtered, the lights cut out, and the entire train came to an abrubt stop—as if someone pulled the emergency cord.

The emergency lighting popped on, which gave us enough light to see faces and shapes. We were sitting in a literal black hole. Any light soaked into the tunnel’s colorless walls.

It took no more than 6 seconds for New Yorkers to start cracking jokes. A big, sassy woman started shouting “Bin Loud-in’s comin’ and I got my water jug, my batteries and my butcher knife. I’m ready for his sandy ass.”

That earned applause.

An announcement came on about a “city-wide blackout” and we were going to evacuate the train. “Everyone move to the front car.” A line quickly formed.

Another voice from the shadows, “I’m a tourist, shouldn’t I go the front?”

“Not here, pal. Tourists go to the back.” A classic NYC line. More applause.

The MTA was surprisingly efficient. We stepped off the train and got to do something none of NYC’s 8 million residents get to do: Walk the tunnel.

More about that tomorrow. Until then, stay cool.

GM

One Less Fortunado

2006-08-01T10:05:00.000-04:00

In the suffocating heat, among the swarming gnats, and on a field that was better fit for a tractor pull, we managed to defeat our opponents 5-3 in a turbulent co-ed soccer matchup.

I’m happy to say, that Monacos were responsible for four of our five goals last night. Kris notched the first one by launching a shot that popped just over the keeper’s reach. I scored two and assisted on one.

So our undefeated co-ed season is still going strong despite a category-four tantrum by the coach’s son, Fortunado Jr. He is one of the three Fortunados on our team and he not only managed to get himself kicked out of the game, but kicked out of the league.

Bravo, idiot.

Fortunado Jr. doesn’t look or act like a soccer player. He’s built like a bouncer: triple reinfoced muscle on top of cinder block. Riveted into his mountainous shoulders is a perfect bowling ball head: equally dumb, twice as hard, and quite shiny.

He’s the worst kind of player, injuring more players than completing passes. Reckless on and off the ball. A freakish temper. And a foul mouth. All of these traits came together last night in the perfect storm.

This is a co-ed league, so men and women play together. Nicely. For the most part, that’s how it goes down. The rules are basically the same except for one big change. No slide tackling.

A slide tackle is an aggressive defensive play where a defender slides on the ground feet-first to tackle the ball away—like a baseball player sliding into second base. This type of tackle is very effective, but also results in a lot of injuries from players taking knees and ankles with the ball. That’s why it’s banned in our friendly league.

Fortunado Jr. forgot the rule.

Some unfortunate guy stole the ball from him. He didn’t like that at all. And like a scud missle, he tracked his opponent down and layed down a viscious slide that left them both tangled on the ground. Their effort to untangle was just as viscous, elbows flying.

The referee was quick to show Fortunado the red card (ejection). It’s usually a yellow card (warning), but Fortunado Jr. has a repuation and he enjoyed a few extra elbow shots after the foul.

He went nuclear. He argued with the referee. Argued with his father. Argued with his Uncle. Argued with his sister. He threw three water bottles onto the field and a pair of soccer shoes. He told the referree he’d punch him in the face. Told his father to go f-himself. He asked to be kicked out of the league and quit the team in the same cuss-infused sentence.

Needless to say, Cameron learned a new word or three.

Good riddance.

GM

Major Minority

2006-07-31T07:19:00.000-04:00

Opressive heat the past few days. A/C units humming their mechanized tunes day n night. Played some early pick up soccer yesterday with "the Albanians" to avoid mid-day heatstroke. The venue was Stamford High School which has a sweet turf field that's forgiving on aging knees.

My friend, Mark, often talks about the Albanians and how "they're like dogs, barking at you all the time." He warns me that if I bark back, it'll quickly turn into a scrap, and they'll gang up on me. He says, "I don't know how much I can help you, Greg. There are too many."

This was a gross exaggeration on Mark's part. They were actually a friendly bunch.

The Albanians take the field at 9am and play until 11am. That's when they relinquish the field to the Brazilians. This is an unoffical tradition at Stamford High School. The field is public, but soccer's subcultures rule it at specific times Sunday mornings.

Albanians aren't the only ones to show up, though. They just happen to be the majority of the players at 9am. A few Mexicans, Africans, and Russians also bring their boots, ready to play.

When the teams divide, it's the Albanians versus the rest of the world.

I have to admit, I had to Wikipedia Albania. I had no clue where it was. Near France? Maybe in Africa? For my geographically-challenged readers, it's on the Adriatic Sea just west of Greece, Macedonia, and Serbia. The country is an emerging democracy and they speak Albanian. I found nothing else interesting to write about it.

Our goalkeeper was a fat Mexican whose real name was Ricardo. But everyone there called him "Two-ffon" because was a much heavier version of the great Itailian goalkeeper Gigi Buffon.

I joined two other pudgy Mexicans in midfield. One liked to call himself "Messi" after the great Argentinian player Lionel Messi. He played nothing like his namesake. The other simply answered to "Alex" and he was a pretty good player.

We had a Colombian and a Lithuanian at the back. A unidentified South American up front with one of the Albanians (who generously decided to play with us to make the sides even).

I was the only American out there, the most major minority that morning. But it didn't matter a bit once the ball started rolling. I got the chance to create with people I would otherwise never meet. That's why I am grateful for this sport.

GM

Fingers Crossed

2006-07-28T07:19:00.000-04:00

I'm-a takin the afternoon off today. Gonna play me a round of golf with a few friends if the clouds can hold in their tears.

I heard a comedian say a better name for golf is "shitngoddammit" cause that's all you hear on the course. And instead of numbering the holes, you should give em names like "aggravation" or "pain in the ass." Agreed.

But the beer cart is always around the corner.

K has her second interview with a fitness club up in the wilderness of Ridgefield this morning. She already received a job offer as a soccer coach for a girls varsity high school team. If this interview goes well, she'll have to make a tough decision. I'm trying to stay out of it.

She been thinking a lot lately, and now is the time to stop thinking and follow her intuition. Don't let money, fear or any other garbage influence her decision. I admire her. She's taking a chance to pursue something she's always wanted to do.

Good luck, K. Fingers crossed for ya.

Love,

GM

Billionaires, Listen Up

2006-07-27T06:35:00.000-04:00

My job this week is to interview hedge fund investment managers: A rare and interesting breed. My company is developing a pitch presentation for them. And I’m digging n sleuthing for info in order to write intelligently about what they do.

So I slip into my starchies, head to their glass offices, click on the recorder and let em go on for an hour or so.

They’re a kahki n polo crowd, but that’s sheep’s clothing. They are a carnivorous bunch, indeed, earning a living by singling out the weak.

To oversimplify it, they invest in bankrupt companies. That’s right, hemmoraging companies, troubled companies, or, as they like to euphamize it, “distressed” companies.

Who wants to invest in that?

I tend to like my investments strong n stable, decades of heritage, an impenetrable reputation and, of course, hearty profits.

Not these guys. They like their investments with companies wiped out by hurricanes or washed up by mismangement. They like em in the middle of legal battles. They like em on the brink.

In essence, this fund is an investment portfolio of 30 crappy companies. So, again, who wants to invest in that?

Billionaires do.

In other words, my friends, their ideal client is you. My faithful readers who own Carribbean islands. My Left Back loving oil magnates. My adoring fans who own casinos in Monte Carlo.

It’s all quite genius. A bankrupt company is a cheap company, so they snap em up hoping for a turnaround. And I’m hoping you’re smart enough to see the logic in it.

I’d invest, but the minimum is $5 mil investment, and I need to keep those kinda funds free for my basement renovation.

So, my billionaire readers, if you wanna go for it, I gotta name and a number for ya.

GM

The Squatter Skunk

2006-07-26T07:10:00.000-04:00

Construction on my basement has been slow going since April. Like a determined driver with a flat, my Lithuatian carpenter is inching his way toward the finish line. 100 weekday nights and weekend days are finally looking like something.

But before all the hammering and sheet rocking, we had a little fun in the name of demolition. We tore up the place like a couple of rock stars. Kicked in walls. Ripped down ceilings. We created a pile in the backyard that, after months of work, grew to the size of a Volkswagen. Rusty nails, wood scraps, plaster chunks, all of it sat there decaying, soaking in what nature threw at it.

We cleaned the pile yesterday. Threw it all in a giant dumpster that now owns half of my driveway. As we were cleaning, Mark started yelling, "Go Greg. Go. Go." I thought he was cheering me on. After all, I was tossing the soggy sheet rock into the dumpster at a pretty good clip.

"Get outta here," he yelled, this time backing away from the pile. Apparently, one critter's junk is another critter's home. A skunk decided to settle in for a few months—and we were tearing the roof off his new home.

Must've been a horrifying experience for him. I felt for him, at a distance of approximately 10 yards.

He scurried into his underground bunker to wait us out. The hole was just big enough for your fist. You could just see the white stripe on his head and his eyes carefully watching you from inside. Frozen with fear, he felt safer there.

Mark came back into the scene with a 6 foot long 2x4. He placed the end of it just outside the hole. He looked at me and said, "Give me the word."

"Are you kidding?"

He just looked at me, didn't need to say a word.

"You can't kill him, Mark."

"Ah, you guys from Florida are soft. Somebody from Maine would've said 'what are you waiting for?'"

GM

All I Ask For

2006-07-25T07:19:00.000-04:00

House is still silent. Only the faint hum of the refrigerator. No cars on Emerson Street. Golden sunlight washes neighboring houses. The occasional ironed and gelled commuter walks by.

Baby's still asleep. Birds chirp and tweet.

Listen to the morning. Sweet sounds of beginnings. What'll this day bring? I'd like to place a few requests:

A cool plate of watermelon.
A kick ass driving song.
A fit of uncontrollable laughter.
A sweet kiss from my wife.
A giant hug from my daughter.
A good idea, maybe two, if I'm lucky.
An unexpected phone call.
A check in the mail.
A quiet evening with a glass of wine.

That's all I ask for.

GM

Mondaze

2006-07-24T09:51:00.000-04:00

Well, I awoke with less ambition than I had the night before. I always have more zip at night and commit to promises I never keep.

I’ll hit the sunrise Yoga class at the gym! I’ll head into the office early and get a jump start on the week! I’ll iron all my shirts!

I’ll hit the snooze bar for the 4th time.

When the initial alarm sounds, that’s when I start bargaining with myself:

I don’t need to go to Yoga class, I can do it right here. Kris gave me that DVD. Thank you Kris for these 9 minutes.

Oh, I don’t have to go to the office early, I can get it done right here on my laptop. Oh thank you Apple for these 9 minutes.

I’ll just wear a t-shirt to work tomorrow. No ironing necessary. Thank you Hanes for these 9 minutes.

Like most of you, my alarm clock sits next to my ear on a nightstand. I have it set to the one station with a signal. When it goes off at 6 a.m., some craggy talk show host greets me growling about politics.

The first click of the alarm sends my snoozebar arm in motion. I’m barely conscious, yet my arm exits the sheets like a military cadet. With the speed and accuracy of a Jackie Chan karate chop, it crashes down on the snooze bar, going limp when mission is accomplished.

Ah, sweet slumber.

Then Cam wakes up.

No snooze bar there.

GM