There’s an action you’ll take today that could be your last.
When the holidays creep closer on the calendar, we conjure ghosts of the last.
The last Thanksgiving with a loved one. Or a friend. A favorite pet.
A last Christmas with a spouse or child headed off to college, and you wonder if he or she will come home again for the holidays.
What is life? But a series of firsts and lasts. As we age, the tables turn to where the lasts outnumber the firsts. And that’s where wonder goes to die.
Don’t let it happen.
So, it’s up to us alone to shift the laws of the Universe. A big but achievable job. We must rethink, reinvent, and circle the lasts back to firsts.
But how?
Look at the same old things with new eyes: When I watch my puppies sleep together, all huddled and close, I think of it as the last time I’ll see them fighting for space on the same bed. I linger and appreciate the special scene. Any day, I know this space will be empty, and I want to relish every moment. I switch the last into a first. I’m happy, grateful, and mindful of the honor of caring for them.
Take the extra step: In the rush of the day, step back, text or call someone, and communicate how much you appreciate or love them. How grateful you are. No big fuss. A few words then on with the day. This exercise scares your last moment and emboldens your first. In my head and most important, my heart, I feel the last move up to a first. Every word embraces me and anchors a stronger memory. A deep appreciation. Freezing moments is a great way to turn your inevitable lasts into perpetual firsts.
Thanksgiving is a great opportunity: to rearrange lasts and firsts. Look around the table, and take a snapshot for your mind’s eye. Who may be with us next year is out of our control. Who is with us this year acts as a marker for a memory, a smile. A first.
And that’s all you need to do to create stronger circles. Ones that will keep you warm and less alone when inevitably, the last arrives.
Remember. Never forget: Lasts can blossom into Firsts. They’re a necessary evil and yet a blessing. And nobody can take that gift, that metamorphosis, from you.
And with a last breath, these moments will exhale a first.
In a field of smoke, looking at the sky, their light succumbs to blackness.
In a trench, staring at a compatriot, longing that all will be ok, blackness comes.
On a beach, squinting through webs of blood, searing thoughts of a wife, a girlfriend.
Family.
Then again, the call of blackness.
In this darkness, born of sacrifice, the blood of patriots forges the path of freedom we all share.
Until today.
The shared colors of America are rapidly fading. The darkness faced by patriots, and the shadow of their sacrifices are dissipating into the ether.
The spirits of those soldiers who fought for our freedom are dying again. The love of and allegiance to country they sought to spread among us, is fading.
But not out of sacrifice, but of self-absorption and hate. Free speech, the rule of law, and the demise of allegiance to freedom overall, are placing our dead back into battle only to find them fading into a blackness that today, signifies nothing.
Imagine – there is no longer the warmth of sacrifice that overwhelms the cold of graves. There is no fire, just the dark, charred remains of what we were.
Oh, I’m not counting out the spirit of Americans or America completely. However, our foundation is cracked, and larger breaks are quickly appearing.
Our fire is going out.
Let us choose Memorial Day to fix them, reignite the blaze.
Let us never forget how the darkness of our past protectors feeds the light that allows us to move forward as individuals.
But most important, as a nation. An American nation.
And a family with warm candles that light the path of the souls who fought for us to exist.
I watch several films repeatedly until my eyes are so weary it’s like seeing through Vaseline. Here’s my list. Don’t get crazy. You have yours. I have mine. Let’s not have a Civil War over films.
Don’t we have enough better reasons to start one already?
Ok, here’s my top ten:
Roadhouse.
Next of Kin. (Check it out).
Gladiator.
The Godfather Part II.
Night of the Living Dead (and all its Dead-ish progressions).
John Wick (except 2 – meh).
Giant.
Anything James Bond (except for Pierce Brosnan – too pretty).
Wall Street.
Bride of Frankenstein.
Gladiator, an epic film by Ridley Scott, came out in 2000 with a script Russell Crowe tried to rewrite on the fly. He called it ‘underdone’ and ‘half-baked.’
GARBAGE, even!
Characters in the original script were stuffed pasta shells with no cheese; Maximus was a cartoon character solely out for revenge (sometimes that works, but it’s iffy). So, the mission was to give the Roman General some raw heart, brooding pathos, and a kick-ass focus on vengeance.
Mission accomplished.
Critics hated it. But critics hate everything unless the coastal elites find it complex and pretentious enough for middle America to tune out because, you know, if you don’t live on the coasts, you’re a dolt.
Oh, and unless some dude is wearing a wig and heels, then it’s a MASTERPIECE.
The film’s first draft focused on Commodus, a deplorable, ethically broken character. The first rule in screenwriting (mine anyway) is you need to know who the good ‘guy’ is and like him or her. Maximus was indeed likable. Stoic, too.
Also, Russel Crowe is not too bad in gladiator garb if you’re into that sorta thing. I’m sure Gladiator Wars played out in many bedrooms after the movie premiered. Can you imagine Marcus Dadbodius and his pillow sword?
I prefer not to.
Now, besides the bombastic dialogue (again, which Mr. Crowe disdained, although I believed it fit for a military icon of Rome), there were character actions carved into the movie-watching psyche that sprouted the little voices in our heads to further guide us through who Maximus was inside. His depth enhanced his arc – from a revered leader of the Roman army to a slave to, finally, THE GLADIATOR.
EPIC.
What a saga. A comeback story. We love comeback stories. Well, we used to love comeback stories. Now, I’m really not sure. Now I think we love – pull out, come on my back, stories.
Anyway…
Maximus loved his family. They were brutally obliterated by the instruction of the evil Emperor Commodus, who killed his father, Marcus Aurelius, for the privilege.
In a tiny burlap sack, Maximus carried figurines of his slain wife and son- his inspiration to go on. Whenever Maximus opened that damn bag, removed those figures, and kissed them on the head, you just knew conflict was imminent.
He longed to join them in due time; he smoldered over them. And if you haven’t watched Gladiator already (it’s out over two decades, for God’s sake), I’ll happily go ahead and ruin the ending for you – He reunites with his family in the afterlife after saving Rome from the Clintons.
Oh, I’m kidding about the Clintons. Hillary was just an infant at that time.
Now, you may recall before Maximus engaged in battle, whether at the sweeping location of Germania or before entering a coliseum to fight men as hard as statues and even tigers, he bent to the ground, scooped up a hint of dirt, and rubbed it carefully between his hands.
Why?
From a character perspective, such a small action tremendously impacts our overall impression of Maximus. It’s a subtle, ritualistic motion, certainly. However, so powerful because Earth and dirt return us to who we are, who we miss, and forges a connection to the part of our lost selves.
Rolling in your own dirt is a path to rebirth and self-awareness. And I’m not talking about bathing literally here, although I hear mud baths are healthy.
I believe Maximus rubbed dirt in his hands to focus on the present. As a farmer as well as a warrior, he understood the power of focus because FOCUS meant LIFE over DEATH until it was time for him to die.
Sometimes, death is a rebirth, albeit sad. So is the conclusion of the film. But you don’t need to die to be reborn. I mean, you can, but that would be a damn shame.
So, here’s how to stay grounded. Like a gladiator.
What kind of simple action can you take to rewire your brain to focus on where you stand and not where you stood or will stand tomorrow? For Maximus, it was dirt. For you, it may be deep breathing. For me, it’s music, writing, or listening to the wind through pine trees. Whatever it is, engaging your dirt is an appreciation for even the smallest blessings you possess today.
Identify your enemies. You have them. Work to cage the demons that cheer for you to bleed out and get a thumbs down from the Emperor. We all have an evil Emperor or entire empire inside us who seeks harm. Go ahead, name them: Complacency, procrastination, tribalism, negative self-talk. You must “WIN THE CROWD” to gain your freedom. Like Maximus the Gladiator did.
Grow something. Anything. Maximus was a farmer at heart. He loved his land and the fruits and olives that thrived within. To stay grounded, you must grow something. A new skill, a refresh (like fertilizer?). Hell, grow something literally. Gardening can be therapeutic. Growth leads to self-awareness, appreciation of gifts, and overall well-being.
We are all gladiators. That’s why the story resonates. We all fight. The internal battles are the toughest. Gladiators were willing to die not so willing to kill. I say, take your time on the death thing and kill those thoughts and feelings that crush your spirit.
Sadly, to stay grounded, you’ll also need to remove people from your lives who repeatedly test your resolve. I’ve done it. I can’t contact enough friends to play checkers, but that’s my road, my choice, my dirt.
My actions are bearing so much fruit,
Maximus would be proud.
Now it’s your turn to ground yourself like a Gladiator.
We’re living through a period of rancid word salad.
Like when pulling the baby spring lettuce you bought last year from the back of your fridge – what once was green and vibrant is now brown, drippy, and moldy.
That baby lettuce is dead.
Admittedly, some of the tactics we witness from the DC machine of word alcedama, hold enough gas to light up a small city, but, there’s a way within your brain to cleanse the words.
Yes, you are a word launderer.
A mental salad spinner that can gyrate the distress out of your harmful self-talk.
Listen, salad spinners were a big thing in the 70s and 80s.
Here are five ways to spin SPIN words to your advantage:
LESSONS vs. GIFTS – A lesson seemingly sounds bad. We tend to use the word negatively. “Boy, I learned my lesson.” But every LESSON is indeed a GIFT. Even a terrible LESSON is a huge GIFT to self-growth. Marcus Aurelius lamented – “Convince yourself that everything is a gift from the gods.”
CHORES vs. ACCOMPLISHMENTS – I get a big kick out of little things. Doing laundry, vacuuming, sweeping up the patio because I focus on the END RESULTS. Clean sheets accomplish better rest, vacuuming creates those lines in the carpet that keep me sane. Sweeping the patio clears debris so my pups can walk more easily.
LAZY vs. RECHARGE – We don’t spend enough time recharging our internal batteries. Taking a nap, getting away for a quiet lunch or reading are ways to ease the pressure. From Daily Stoic – “The mind must be given relaxation,” Seneca said, “it will rise improved and sharper after a good break. Just as rich fields must not be forced… so constant work on the anvil will fracture the force of the mind.”
OLD vs. EXPERIENCED – Personally, I disdain the word OLD. To me, it smells of giving up. It’s an excuse not to try. Mind-limiting nonsense. If you speak the word old you’ll do old things. You’ll place tight boundaries around your physical and mental growth.
SETBACK vs. BLESSING – A chronic ailment, a physical illness, every setback must spin out of your head as a blessing. Reframing setbacks as blessings leads to resiliency to face challenges. Years ago, I lost a kidney due to high blood pressure from stress during a civil lawsuit. Today, my overall kidney function is within normal limits, my weight is off 40 pounds, I exercise hard on a regular basis and my diet over the last 5 years is primarily plant-based. I’ve never been so healthy and I probably wouldn’t have been if the blessing of losing a kidney hadn’t catapulted me to a more robust physical health regimen.
Words can make or break your spirit. Especially today.
‘Magic’ elixirs were all the rage from the mid-1800s through the early 1900s.
Peddlers, or ‘snake-oil salesmen,’ traveled the country, hawking these elixirs along the way. Most formulas indeed made gullible customers feel good as they contained heroin, alcohol and cocaine.
Hell, who wouldn’t be happy with that combo?
But…
Words are the new elixirs. Words crafted to make you feel good but contain nothing healthy for your brain to absorb.
Such are many of the words that come from the White House (we know elixirs are crafted in various potencies in every administration).
Specifically, when “Bidenomics” whatever that is, touts the robustness of middle-class wages and growing from the middle out? These words are the latest ingredients in this administration’s “Morley’s Liver and Kidney Cordial.”
Listen, there are lots of cool things in the middle. Creme in the Oreo, that stuff that explodes from a Twinkie, the white blop in a Ring Ding, but words are the emptiest calories that exist today.
I take solace in numbers. They’re non-partisan. They don’t require emotional stroking, which means, Bidenomic’s Numeral Elixir for wages isn’t working.
Real wages (adjusted for inflation) moved steadily higher through the Obama admin and exploded higher during the Trump stint.
During the current period (and it isn’t over, in all fairness, so we’ll see how it goes), real wages have fallen, thus negatively affecting the middle class.
You can’t point to the place on your body and tell me where numbers hurt you. I’m not buying it. Nor am I touching anything on you that hurts.
I call that “Rosso’s Cootie Principle.” But numbers are numbers.
When any politician makes a statement: Don’t fall for the narrative, avoid the heuristic, lizard nature of your brain to pounce, and do your homework.
Coincidentally, today, from the Wall Street Journal:
In 1982-84 dollars, which takes account of inflation, average hourly earnings were $11.39 when Mr. Biden took office but started to decline immediately and didn’t stop falling until inflation peaked in June 2022. They have bounced up a little but were still back only to $11.03 in May. That’s a 3.16% decline in real earnings for the average worker across the 29 months of the Biden Presidency.
I write in my sleep. No, literally. I’ll create a song, a scene, an idea, then wake up and write it out.
I keep a notebook on my nightstand. It’s one of my best creative times. I’m sure this isn’t news to my artist friends, who probably maintain 100 notebooks by their beds.
I’ve come up with the premise of two award-winning scripts this way and hope my third with horror king and good friend George C. Romero follows a similar path.
Anyway, two nights ago, I kept thinking – Don’t stare out the window of a speeding train. You’ll live better.
Candidly, staring out the window of a train was one of the things I loved to do the most, riding NY subways and then the Long Island Railroad as a commuter.
And I guess today, based on the crime in NYC subways, it’s best to keep your head on a swivel and not stare too long at anything to survive a mugging or worse.
Plus, nobody gets undressed with their blinds open anymore, which was sort of cool to see a long time ago. You can be a voyeur without admitting to it.
“Oh, I was staring out the train window, and you won’t believe what I saw!”
And then it came to me about all this speeding train and avoiding windows stuff:
When you stare out the window of a speeding train, life is a blur – The present and the future fast forward into the past.
You miss things.
You forget moments.
Your focus is consumed by the past.
Frankly, the blur, where all moments are a pastpourri (see what I did there?), stultifies your brain. You no longer grow. You can no longer hold a conversation unless it’s about the past.
Your brain is stuck in some mental freeze when you can’t shake something that happened to you or somebody else in 2013 and can’t stop bringing the shit up. And then, your friends disappear.
You’re trapped in the speed, man. (Say that like Al Pacino in Heat).
Until – You turn your eyes from the window. Back to reading, watching commuters, or whatever the hell isn’t out the window and in the blur.
Life slows or stops. The moment freezes.
You can’t go anywhere, yet you’re moving fast.
You’re living fully in the present.
What if you could spend more time freezing small moments and living in the present?
Sometimes I focus on the click of the keyboard when I type and enjoy the sound of it.
So I’m getting weirder. Who cares?
Regardless, you get the lesson, and Tuesday is one of the worst days for lessons.
My mother was tough to love and at times, a challenge to raise.
As a divorced parent, she was just trying to figure it all out, and as a child, so was I. So let’s say we were co-parenting – the spirit of a growing boy and that of a woman who wanted to be a child again.
You see, in an odd way, we raised each other. We lived a turbulent existence. At times, we leaned into each other. Oh, we leaned out too and hit walls; enough walls to bloody us physically and psychologically.
My mother was an alcoholic and saddled with drug addiction but most important, mental illness. Mental illness that could only be treated with shock therapy which resulted in memory loss.
I saved her from suicide twice. The second time was close. I stayed out of school for 6 months to nurse her back to health.
There was much resentment but after she died at 59, I learned to understand and love her again. Perhaps I began to relate to her situation and thankfully today, there are less draconian treatments for those who suffer from severe depression.
I learned many important lessons from mom: Unconditional love, blinding rage, humility, frustration, but most important – empathy. I abhorred drugs and never tried them. I walked in her ugly shoes, absorbed her darkness and tried to spit out daylight.
After all, she was my mother and she could do anything – I had blinding faith in her to heal. She couldn’t. She wasn’t a mother in a true sense. She was a frightened little girl who couldn’t handle the obstacles that came along and happened to have a baby.
She was a human with many scars. At times, my frustration wasn’t about her, it was about me. I couldn’t save her from herself and I felt like less than a person. A failure.
I promised myself that I’d work as hard as possible to not be in the situation we were in just trying to pay the rent. Being on welfare was a complete embarrassment; using those dreaded food stamps at the local supermarket made me want to hide. I ran away often.
I began to write to self-medicate. I created characters who were flawed, strong, stupid, and funny. I was a voracious reader. My safe space was the library. Oh, and the movies. Oh, and Westerns!
I stepped outside myself to save my sanity and became an observer. I’d picture my life as a movie and this stage of my life as merely a role. As with every role, the story would end and I could move on to a newer, brighter one. I guess that was my version of hope.
On occasion, it was the church where the nuns would feed me and talk to me as if they were surrogate, tough mothers. They told me that life is about change and I can rise above all that was going on.
I share this because I wouldn’t change a thing. I’ve learned to appreciate the lessons my mother taught me. I wouldn’t see life the way I do now if it weren’t for her. I like who I am and wouldn’t change a thing.
We can all do better to understand our moms. Their amazing strength, love, and protection. And also their weaknesses.
Let’s not wait until they’re gone. Celebrate them now and not just today.
They were just trying to figure shit out. Just like you.
A photo of her at 40 – gray hair unevenly cut like a boy with an errant lawnmower. Wrinkles, double-chin.
Oh but that smile. In 1974 at age 40, she looked 70.
Nana was what you called a ‘custodian.’ At my Brooklyn New York public school.
PS 215. Gravesend.
Custodian: Fancy word for janitor.
She cleaned toilets. She would wave to me in the halls and I’d purposely evade her attention. Occasionally, I’d flash a courtesy furtive grin in her general direction.
But grandma? Her wide smile never quit.
I loved my grandmother. It doesn’t sound like it, but I did. With everything I had. As a boy under the childish haze of immaturity, I was embarrassed.
As an adult, I realize she was the wisest person I’ve ever known.
I’m thankful she loved me so much.
Grandma’s life lessons stick with me. At five-years-old they went in one ear, rambled around between my ears. Over time, they found a place in my brain to settle, take root. Frankly, I think her wisdom is cordoned in a mental space not even dementia could set its long, dead fingers.
So, here’s to the grandmas.
SCREW STEREOTYPES – Nellie loved people for who they were, not their appearances. Many days I recall her providing food to families at the school who were having financial difficulties. Often, she’d provide lunch money to students who forgot theirs at home. Grandma held fundraisers for the less fortunate and ironically, she was one of the less fortunate.
BE NURTURING TO CHILDREN – Nellie would dress as Santa every year, saunter down the school halls in full beard, drag a sack and hand out pounds of candy to the kids in every classroom. The students and teachers loved her for it. Even the principal. Can you imagine someone dressing as Santa delivering candy at a public school today? So politically incorrect. You’d be fired – possibly arrested.
BE PROUD OF WHO YOU ARE – Grandma dressed matronly, slovenly at times. Yet her heart was thread in gold. I’ll never forget her battleship gray and white-collared school uniform that made her appear twenty years older. People couldn’t care less. Neither did she.
MAKE A KILLER BLT – Grandma wasn’t a cook, she was a worker. She helped support a family – brothers and sisters at a young age. She owned businesses, made dolls, spent hours on charities. But those BLTs. To die for. I know her secret to a mind-blowing sandwich and I’ll take it to the grave. Cook or make sandwiches for the ones you love.
SMILE & SAY HELLO – Nellie’s bedroom window faced a busy street. It was a little, unassuming house in a row. Today, all gone, replaced by a high-rise. One of her favorite pastimes was to sit on a high stool at the bedroom window and listen to a beat up AM radio and her favorite station (1010 WINS – GIVE US 22 MINUTES, WE’LL GIVE YOU THE WORLD). She’d watch people walk by. There was always a wave, sometimes a hearty hello and a smile. Even when people didn’t return the courtesy.
SAVE, SAVE, SAVE – Grandma was a Depression-era kid. Nothing went to waste. She wasn’t a hoarder; she just found a use for everything. My grandfather abhorred how she’d have him pull over the Ford Maverick because a salvageable treasure in a neighbor’s garbage out by the curve caught her keen eye. One year she found the coolest red wooden sleigh complete with ornate wood-carved reindeer. We had to lug it ten blocks to her house.
EASY FORGIVE – My dad was always out on the town with some gorgeous woman two decades younger. He’d tell grandma he was coming by and never show. She would shake her head and lament that’s my Benny, smile and move on. She told me – ‘you can’t control what others do. Only what you do.’
ENCOURAGE – Grandma always told me I could do what I want. I was smart enough. I could be the first in the family to attend college. She owned multiple businesses in the 1950s – a laundromat, a candy store. It was rare for a woman to take the bull by the horns. I think unfortunately, grandpa killed her spirit so she relented and gave up the businesses. Men weren’t excited about their wives doing better than they were. Unfortunately, I think that’s somewhat true today.
BE A GOOD FRIEND – Nellie was a loyal and loved her friends. She listened, supported and engaged. And most important…
TODAY IS EVERY DAY – Grandma’s shot at Stoicism. She wasn’t educated but she was wise. This lesson remains the most challenging and the most valuable. If I talked about my future or grew frustrated by my current situation, Nellie advised me to make the best of it, learn from the experience.
Today is all that counts.
Today is everyday.
Then she’d give me a hug.
And a BLT.
Sometimes, all you need is a hug and a sandwich by loving hands.
“The biggest bully I ever faced was underneath my own skin.”
Johnny Cash.
Paulie Greco emerged. Rising like a boneless demon between the cracks of schoolyard concrete. I couldn’t focus on anything else after that. For hours. Through massive, lead-paint thick Brooklyn public school windows behind heavy-gauge steel grating, I could still see him. Lurking.
I couldn’t stop seeing him. Waiting. For me.
I felt the ice, the fear coursing through veins I didn’t even realize I had inside my body, my head. Until they started throbbing. 2:15pm. He’d been out there. Since noon. High noon. I recall shaking uncontrollably at my desk the closer the hands of the large black & white super-ticky clock hanging above the chalkboard inched towards 3.
My heart beat heavy in both ears. I wondered how I was going to live with no blood, no teeth. No spleen. I heard somewhere you could live without a spleen. That oddly seemed to calm me.
Would I be able to walk? Please god not the face was all I could think. Thinking positively – Perhaps a good pummeling would work off some of the belly fat I carried around thanks to Drake’s cakes, Yodels to be specific.
Let me tell you: I didn’t do anything to him. In fact, I stayed far from him. I was always aware of his space so I could purposely avoid it. He hated me because I was fat. I wore green corduroy pants in the summer (thanks mom). Come to think of it, I get why he hated me.
I was diverting the attention of a spic-guinea (an exotic, smarm-raised blend of Italian & Puerto-Rican and that’s what she called herself) beauty in spandex pants who didn’t give him the time of day – she liked my brains over his brawn. Go figure.
I was friends with his girlfriend (cute girls always liked to be friends with me because I was a non-threatening, funny troll-like figure). I had bigger pimples, maybe. For one reason, many reasons, every reason, this guy hated my guts. All I knew? I was dead soon.
No more pencils, no more books, no more teacher’s dirty looks. Rest In Peace. Your life shall cease...
Smashed behind a city school by a leather-jacketed beast. There he was – leaning against a shaky schoolyard fence. Greasy dark hair. Black leather with chains (as I think about it, looked stupid in June). He’d deftly bounce off the chain link, then shuffle – from one foot to the other. Right. Left. Right. Left. Rocking.
The cadence of a psycho planning a pounce on chubby prey. I’m sure he noticed me through the smudgy glass and steel-cage monster panes of glass. I know, at the least, he smelled me. My fear. I think it made him rock faster.
3pm was here. I couldn’t feel my legs, not sure how I rose from the desk…Numb. I walked slow. To the bulls-eye. Not sure of my fate. Listen, it was never leave or die. I didn’t want to live in the dank vastness of the mysterious boiler room, the beast anchored in the school’s basement.
Throughout your life they just re-appear. Those bullies…
Large corporate masters live to bully. Because they can. And since the pandemic, we as consumers have given them even more power to do so. Shareholders, Boards of Directors seem to encourage them (mostly by demanding greater results).
Bullies hate the truth, corporate bullies are seduced by narratives. They diminish in power once they know you’re not afraid and you possess the strength of the truth.
Today, many companies can pay less in wages, avoid raises, ask more out of you, work you out of a position for others less skilled, because they have the power. Yet, out of the other sides of their PR mouthpieces, they can preach social justice all the while pandering to China to preserve their profit margins. China knows this. They are not afraid. They think we’re dumber than Paulie in algebra class.
As for you, you can take your dollars and walk. They won’t care but you will. You can pick up and leave their captive cubicles and prevail in finding greater more lucrative ventures.
Get to know your inner bullies. The bullies who push against you from within. They do stick around until death. You know them. You’ve faced them. The ones who constantly, mentally pummel you. Telling you you’re going to fail, fall, falter. The ones who nag at you. Cajole you until you give up. It’ll take some strong self-analysis to understand your interbullies as I call them, but if you remain aware, you’ll face your internal Paulies head on.
Sure, you may stumble short term; oh, they’ll rock you, shuffle you up, but you’ll persevere eventually. It’s inevitable. The more you fight, the greater understanding you’ll have of a bully’s crude method to shake you. Your mind will grow smarter than your interbullies. It’ll take time but it shall happen. Never give up.
Don’t be bullied to be stupid with money. There’s a lot out there to taunt you to overspend or misuse credit. Stand your ground. The less you spend the more empowered you will become. The more secure you will become in your future. A bully should possess a negative net worth but not you.
Discover your reinforcements. Seek and then never forget what/who supports you. Understand the need to train for battle. Find friends (some you never knew you had) – exercise, a good diet, sleep, deep breaths, meditation, reading, heartfelt discussion, all need to be employed as you fight the bullies.
It’s ok to wallow in Yodels a bit (if you can find them). However, too many will weaken your body and spirit. Know when to shut down the devil’s food (which is a devil’s food).
I couldn’t feel anything. The greater Paulie became in my line of sight, the more steadfast my pace. I wanted to flee but I kept walking. Straight.
Closer. Closer.
I recall closing my eyes to stop my legs from heading out of Dodge. I wasn’t going to run. I didn’t do anything wrong. If I got beat so be it. With all the adrenaline running through me I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have felt a thing. So it appeared to be an opportune time for a thrashing.
I just wanted one good shot. One good kick. One surprise that would shake him. I stopped close to the rock-a-bully. He was in mid-swing. About seven feet away. I tried to move in but couldn’t. Frozen. He moved towards me. He spoke. Rough Brooklyn. Mostly hoodlum. Mumbled.“You talk to my girlfriend?” “Yea,” I said. What was I going to say? “She’s in my homeroom class.” “I know people. I’m related to gangsters. You understand that?” I knew that.
“I know people too. I hang out at Torragrossa’s Funeral Home. I watch them embalm dead people after school. You think my mother could get a discount if you kill me?”
I continued before he could say another word: “You need to realize I won’t die so easy, though. If I can take you with me, I will,” I said. No reason why. Anger perhaps. All I know is I meant it at the time. I had nothing to lose.
At that moment his girlfriend, my friend, ran up (reinforcements) and screamed at him not to touch me or it was over between them. He backed off.
Pussy 1, Bully 0.
A few weeks later I found out that he was a bit scared of me after that incident. It wasn’t his girlfriend’s threats. It was the fact that I watched the dead being embalmed and it didn’t shake me up.
It was a bit of information he wasn’t expecting. It was a surprise. A shock.
Bullies hate surprises. Shocks. The truth.
And apparently the embalming process.
Who knew?
9Robin Franks, David Perka and 7 others2 Comments1 ShareShare
Welcome to the parade! When turkeys weren’t racist and we enjoyed holidays together.
1974.
Thanksgiving Day fare in Brooklyn was full of gluten and the best of what Hollywood has to offer. Yes, the day was an old movie paradise for a teen boy. There seemed to be a penchant for apes that got off terrorizing crowded metropolitan areas. And yet, I’m sure I wasn’t the only kid rooting for them to bust a bridge, climb a skyscraper.
It was Mighty Joe Young, King Kong (and other movie classics), playing black & white on WWOR Channel 9. On a cold day when tree branches that resembled long, bony fingers reached for the sky and a sheet of gray cloud cast everything in shades of brown. The decay of sycamore leaves the only semblance of color left.
All the while, I never understood how the divine choosers of television programming decided Thanksgiving was a perfect day for savage gorillas.
Overall, it seemed the choices seemed to fit.
Oh Joe, the things we do for love.
Anyway – I overdid the container eggnog-like dairy product (as usual), felt the edgy excitement about how the family-run stores in the neighborhood would be decorating for the beginning of Christmas shopping season (Black Friday), and listened to my mother who already overdid the vodka, try to wedge processed turkey breast (with gravy-like substance included) into a gloss-white Tappan oven.
Tiny kitchen, tiny stove, tiny poultry-like something. Big dreams, big hearts, big excitement.
All I heard was that tin-like cooker hit the blue-speckled sides of the oven multiple times before it awkwardly met its fate, settled in a hot tomb.
The more noise I heard, the more vodka I know mom had consumed. It was a holiday culinary symphony. And ironically, I miss and recall the holiday with fond memories. It was both of us against the world, even if it was for a time. A time and space when she thought only of me.
The best fake turkey I ever consumed was on those days.
Walking around early Thanksgiving morning back then is something I’ll never forget. Unusually solemn for city daybreak.
Quiet suffocated the apartment complex. The stillness was a priority. Not even the bustling subway trains ran on a normal schedule. Their odd disappearance generated vacuum-deafness louder than any roaring speed of steel meeting steel on elevated tracks.
Everything about Thanksgiving Day was magically different. The calm was so out of place, especially for a city. I’d get on the empty F train and travel its entire route on holidays.
I rode the subway out of curiosity. Behind speeding glass, the wonder of what was going on in the compact kitchens of other 3-room walk-ups captivated me. Most of it was in my imagination, but a comfort, nonetheless. My brain created all kinds of stories about Thanksgiving Day when even urban settings seemed quaint and provincial. The common threads among all these fellow dwellers were love and gratitude.
The quiet gave me a chance to breathe, gather thoughts, and stress out less over how the hell was I to eventually escape from the brick, cement, and tar crap hole.
Listen, we are all trapped in crap holes at times. Thanksgiving gives us a chance to break free. The holiday allows for warm thoughts and blessings bigger than ourselves to enter the crowded real estate in our heads.
We have a chance to appreciate those we love, whether they’re still with us or long gone. Sometimes, we give permission for old ghosts to sneak back in, and there’s a sad excitement to that too.
On Thanksgiving, we’ll strive for peace and gratefulness…
Like the feeling when a clanky, quiet holiday re-emerges from the deep of your mind. Or whatever your choppy memory of what Thanksgiving is. Or was.
When the sun is low, narrow, and yellow-sharp against a blue pitch, we think about all we have lost.
We try to let it go. But we never really let it go.
We just put it aside. And sometimes we don’t.
We allow in shadows of those we love and some we may not love so much.
We give them a free pass.
To follow alongside.
Invite them to feast with us.
And find comfort in what they were.
Good or bad.
Because at Thanksgiving, the peace and the quiet in our souls overrules everything.
Random Thoughts of a Money Muse 