Last chance to one-up '09 and perhaps reflect on the year gone by. Not sure I can put it in perspective, but I'm inspired by Robert De Niro's interview in Esquire, there's some real wisdom there.
Not sure what the new year will bring, but have to figure out a way to have the creative cells grow like microbiotic ones feasting on complicated sugars in the digestive tract.
Perhaps it's time to throw down the gauntlet, construct a discipline to utilize my time and life more efficiently as TIME LIFE runs out of money.
Balance is key. A new mentor might help. Who knows?
Of course I must give thanks and recognize the existing balance in my life. The good fortune and wonderful people I know and love. I realize if nothing more is to come of it, that's fine, but I suspect this is only the beginning and I should gird my loins.
A champagne toast to pain, a sham or a shame depending on your view through the pane.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne?
When the lights came up at the conclusion of the film, I hid my runny nose in a white tissue under the guise of a common cold so that no one would suspect me of being too emotional and I could not get home fast enough to write a review, which I seldom do.
From the beginning, a man's head was in my direct line of vision and two chatty old ladies behind me were telling one another irritating versions of how they arrived to the Pavillion through the remnants of a mammoth urban snowfall. The guy next to me subtly offered his share of the armrest which I politely declined, but appreciated his acknowledgement of this sliver of personal space in an otherwise crowded room.
Black Swan tormented me nearly as much as its torn cuticles tormented the guy next to me. The only scene that horrified him more was when Mila Kunis ripped off Natalie Portman's underwear, which I did not mind. The two beautiful A-listers were like chocolate covered pretzels, savory and sweet, and still I was uneasy as if climbing a mountain at high altitude.
Darren Aronofsky artfully muses through Vincent Cassel's character about the ability to let go to achieve perfection, to lift the boundaries and become ethereal, to achieve an outer body experience so powerful it shakes those who witness it like the Old Testament. To the artist, this quest is to reach a peak higher than Mount Everest.
Then like a bolt of lightning the strange music takes over like Hunter Thompson's prose and the triumphant transformation from white swan to black swan and back again makes every cell in my body ecstatic, moving me to tears which I insist is merely a cold and the astonishing Natalie Portman pulls off a magical feat: to be lost in a moment we can not describe, to be a vessel of energy more powerful than our own, to be perfect.
Accolades will fall like flowers on the stage during this film's run, but I dare not watch it again as a perfect moment is fleeting while it's memory is indelible.
I have been thinking of that call by a young sports journalist in the 1980 Olympic Games when the United States Men's Hockey Team led by coach Herb Brooks defeated the mighty Soviet Union by the score of 4 to 3. With three seconds left to play an exuberant Al Michaels put to words what the world had just witnessed.
That victory seemed to ignite a sense of hope in America that President Ronald Reagan was able to seize and put an end to the Cold War and the feeling of impending doom we children of the eighties felt hanging over our heads each day.
Recently I have been entrenched in my own feeling of doom. I have chronicled my battle with Crohn's Disease on the blog and the latest chapter will be written this Thursday when I go in for my second ileocolic resection in three years.
So far I have suffered through seven months of sharp pain and withering away. I am now 145 pounds, down from my jolly 200, and find myself singing that catchy Pants on the Ground song made famous on American Idol as my trousers, cinched like a potato sack around my waist, prove gravity right with every step I take.
I am fortunate to have a trusted gastro in Dr. Barry Jaffin who has thrown every treatment available to us to try and curb this latest inflammation: Flagyl, Cipro, Levaquin, Remicade, Entocort, Pentasa and Tylenol 3, but my last CT scan proved the course of this disease to be irreversible and another appointment with my surgeon Dr. Randolph Steinhagen inevitable.
I was hospitalized this June after I showed up to Dr. Jaffin's office for my first Remicade treatment in acute pain. He and Dr. Anthony Weiss wasted no time in sending me to Mt. Sinai despite my stubborn refusal. After all, I had a conference call that afternoon with important clients.
I was admitted through the emergency room, which was packed and I was reminded by the yellow body next to me and the desperation abounding that although I was grinding my teeth in pain, my problem was not the worst. In a panic, I scrambled to clear my schedule that afternoon, which was thwarted by AT&T's lack of service from the ER, but as I could not bear the thought of letting my clients down, I convinced an attending physician to take me to a spot where I might get reception. Unfortunately my Blackberry was still not working, so she agreed to take it outside the building and search for a signal so the e-mails I had written to my clients and colleagues could be sent. She saved the day.
Later that evening, I was wheeled into the CT room and there was a hold-up as a signature was missing from a form. I could hardly stand up at this point, the pain was fierce. They were about ready to roll me back to the ER when suddenly the door opened and Dr. Jaffin appeared out of nowhere and completed the paperwork so the test could proceed and afterward I could be sent to a room where I would spend the next five days.
I left the hospital with a sense of hope that I would not return for a long time. I was confident that I would respond to treatment. I was having a good year at work as a salesman and like a pitcher whose team is depending on him, I did not want to come out of the game.
Turns out the treatments kept me in the game through October and enabled me to see my second six-figure deal of the year close. They allowed me to celebrate my third anniversary with my beautiful wife, Jackie, whose love and support has been overwhelming during this time. Of course, like a prisoner on death row waiting for the mayor to call, I met with Dr. Jaffin once more to see if surgery could be avoided. For us Crohn's folks, we know that surgery can alleviate symptoms, but it cannot cure us. It's frustrating to think I may face another recurrence again and the odds say I will, but I am still fueled with a sense of optimism and have recently become a member of the Crohn's and Colitis Foundation of America. Perhaps it stems from the many calls from mom (each day) and dad and sister Dee and Aunt Peg and Dom and cousin Kev and colleagues from work and cue the music in the middle of my speech before I thank everyone who has helped me throughout this ordeal.
Although I don't consider myself a religious man, I do have a strong faith in God and His Son and I have prayed daily for a miracle that this Crohn's Disease leave my body and let me be. Maybe after surgery it will. I am not afraid and I know the Lord has listened to me. All the while I have been praying for a miracle, He has been bestowing them upon me.
The crypt door is about to close upon my numb yet tingling toes while the medical bills continue to stack compounding interest on a chronic attack as the doctor shakes his head in disbelief and the loved ones do all they can to hide their grief the tomb is quiet with time to think siphoned by new media's boundless ink we suffer and voice our genuine despair for whom we don't know, nor do we care but yearn for life like a wonder drug bulging on the skin like a greedy bed bug life feeds off life and ends in death daring each of us to hold our breath while the cost of living sings with glee there ain't no such thing in the world as free so we come and then we go leaving others to reap and sew the same conundrum we all must face that nothing lasts in this holy place except this notion that pushes us on in spite of odds it may all be gone to tighten our belts and remain thrifty and hope the good outweighs the bad fifty-fifty.
It begins slow. A few beers at a friend's apartment adorned with Indian skeletons and comfortable couches. Off to a cocktail reception in a cab to midtown. Eat light, drink from Tom Collins glasses while chattering idly about things present and future with old acquaintances. Across the street to a hole-in-the-wall for contrast. Jimmy sitting in the corner playing video poker. Shots and beers, gay conversation and a beautiful woman in a blue dress who has simply had too much. On to another bar for mozzarella sticks and vodka in short glasses. Revelry highlighted by the Mets winning after a rain delay that did not catch you although it did others. And then, alone, you settle the tab and hail a cab. Call the wife while zig-zagging through the financial district across the Brooklyn Bridge where you stop in the corner bar and your neighbor is happy to see you. Then home where your wife fixes you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and pours you a tall glass of water to go with your aspirin. The dog is happy to see you and licks your hand and you realize when you look back at your wife that the night is not quite over. Life burns bright and you are intoxicated by its stare.
People laugh when I tell them I would sweat bullets in Buffalo, but they never had a bat the size of a 747 buzz them while they were strumming chords on a stairway landing in the
The Bosche Lofts, Buffalo, NY
main foyer of an old building causing them to drop their guitar with a reverberating bellow and retreat back to their apartment.
I'd sweat through my t-shirt as the heat seemed to suck the air from the one-time factory that faced Main Street with its back on North Pearl Street a few blocks from Artvoice's office where I secured a summer internship. My bedroom window faced Main Street and was opened wide letting in the heated arguments between lesbian lovers that would spill out from the bar nearby late at night. I'd lie awake listening and invariably find myself taking sides based on whose case was more convincing. This steady stream of drama piqued my curiosity and I visited the bar one day to take a look. It was daytime and there weren't many patrons. Upon inspection, the bar was no different than any of the other ones in the neighborhood, so I hopped on a stool and ordered a beer.
Roxy's, Buffalo, NY (1999 - 2014).
Since then, Allentown has undergone significant renovations. The old building at 916 Main Street has been restored with modern lofts and amenities galore. The lesbian bar nearby has been converted to office space. The Artvoice office is now a parking lot, but the old building still haunts me. Perhaps it was the gigantic bat whose sonar locked in on my musical vibrations or the heated arguments on those hot summer nights, but I can still feel the vibrant energy of Allentown pulsating amid the ruins of an abandoned metropolis and I've never picked up my guitar more than I did back then.
On this day when Health Care Reform was signed into law with two boxes of pens and an unyielding left hand, I received confirmation from my doctor that I have a recurrence of Crohn's Disease at the point of surgery I underwent just over two years ago to remove it. While I am fortunate to have had coverage throughout my life, I shudder to think what may happen if and when I lose it.
To President Obama and the bleeding hearts in Congress, your actions today have done more to preserve freedom for Americans than a thousand wars ever could -- the freedom of the sick to suffer without the added burden of knowing the potential financial liability their illness may have on their loved ones. That's a big fucking deal in my book.
Haunted by the misuse of letters
and a generation of bed wetters, Haunted by our government debtors and casual Super Bowl bettors, Haunted by the beauty I can not possess and the empty bottles to subdue my stress, Haunted by the things I can not confess and the image of a devil wearing a blue dress, Haunted by a disease with no known cure and the politics of business I seldom abhor, Haunted by the feelings I'm not so sure who it was outside my door, Haunted by the memory inside my head and the Sunday evenings right before bed, Haunted by the letters which are still unread and the dreams deferred that end up dead.
Life and love are four-letter words spreading their wings like soaring birds Rising high and pristine like a snowy peak only to fall like a salty tear down a cheek Happiness comes when we least expect it and then a tragedy greedily affects it No one can fathom an explanation and no one should turn their back on a hungry nation We are one in our humanity puzzled by the world's insanity We must lay down contrived polarity and help our brothers and sisters in solidarity Surely where there is death and pain Life and love will rise again Even if it's for only a moment The people of Haiti have always shown it.
Haiti - Food for the Poor by Worship In Action (2014)
Last chance to one-up '09 and perhaps reflect on the year gone by. Not sure I can put it in perspective, but I'm inspired by Robert De Niro's interview in Esquire, there's some real wisdom there. 
