Worry

I'm worried this won't come out right.

I worry that I eat too much and drink too much.
I worry that I'm not getting my money's worth.
I lie awake at night worrying about not getting enough sleep.
I worry that I'll say the wrong things or that I won't say anything at all.
I'm worried that people will see the real me and not like him.
I'm worried that I'm not as good as I think I am.
I'm worried about not enough time and not enough money.
I worry that I've made the wrong decision every time I get dressed.
I worry that my sons are going to turn out like me.
I worry that they will learn as I did, the hard way.
I worry that I haven't learned enough.
I worry about who may read this and who may not.
I worry that the joke is on me.
I worry about the outcome of football games even when I don't bet.
I worry that I've made the wrong decision at the checkout line.
I worry about home invasion and infestation.
I worry that I may lose control.
I worry that I that I was never in control.
I worry that I'm not as sophisticated as I need to be.
I'm worried that I'm not rugged enough.
I worry about getting old.
I worry about saying goodbye and saying hello.
I worry that people I know won't remember.
I worry that I won't remember.
I worry about paying the hard price for telling the truth.
I worry about being eaten by sharks.
I worry that I worry too much.
I worry that if I ran out of worry, I'd really be worried.

Winter's Coming

The hyperactive squirrels have been working overtime gathering their harvest for the winter and driving my retriever nuts as they always appear just out of reach.

On the road, there was a squirrel whose crossing ended midstream with a shattered acorn beyond its frozen grasp. Consumed with preparations for the future, the present blindsided it with swift, silent speed.

Halloween is a reminder of the grim worm-eaten world beneath our feet, rising up to cast its shadow in the overheard illumination we've constructed to ward off such creatures of the dark.

Winter's coming. Gather the game and the wood and the spirits and the furs and do your best to hide from those things that go bump in the night.

(Insert Vincent Price laugh here.)

Boo!

Liz Cho and Josh Elliott Are Engaged

Liz Cho and Josh Elliott are engaged according to Page Six and People. I guess some guys do in fact have all the luck. Weird Long Beard Press wishes them the best!

Liz Cho and Josh Elliott.

Awkward

Awkward is defined as lacking ease of grace in movement or expression. It can be a moment or an absolute as in chemistry. I'm no stranger to awkward.

Anna Kournikova

Exit the front door of my house and turn right with my dog comfortably ahead on his extended leash. He's on a mission, pulled by a scent I can not detect. I affix my bleary eyes and labored breath on this humid day to a vision of Anna Kournikova headed my way with an equally attractive Golden Retriever pup in tow.

We draw near, it's not Anna Kournikova, but a younger, taller version who seems nervous at the sight of me and my eager Labrador.

"He's friendly," I say.

Just then, my dog lunges at the beautiful pup who side steps and pounces on him in a fury of wagging tails and gaping, playful mouths. Their leashes bind together and suddenly I'm playing Twister with this long-legged woman in short shorts and tank top and there goes my flip flop and I'm all bedhead and morning breath, bloated from years of over indulgence when I nearly lose my balance and fall back like a sea crab exposed to the vulturous gulls circling above. This woman somersaults in mid-air while throwing one leash over the other and frees herself and her pup as she has freed her long, blond hair from frizz on this muggy day. I regain my composure with the grace of a Weeble wobble and fill the momentary silence with: "Beautiful ... I mean, she's beautiful ... the dog, um, what's her name?"

We continue on our circuitous route toward home when our paths cross again. This time the woman has her back turned to me, her dog held near and my head is down, firmly fixed on the ground, keep walking, boy, keep walking ...

Awkward.

Matt Foley, Motivational Speaker

Write What You Know

"All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know." - Ernest Hemingway

Nature kills, human nature, too, I wish that wasn't true.

"This above all - to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man." - Shakespeare, Hamlet

There was a man who cut in front of me at a crowded rooftop bar overlooking the Chrysler Building which popped against the deep blue Manhattan sky on a pleasant summer night. I brought it to his attention and he shrugged his shoulders. I recalled the wisdom of Queen Elizabeth, who when asked what lesson was the most important to learn in life replied, good manners.

"I don't know much, but I know I love you." - Written by Barry Mann, Cynthia Weil and Tom Snow. Performed by Linda Ronstadt and Aaron Neville. 

I was sitting beneath a tree having lunch on the campus of a large corporation when I called home. My mother and father, sister, nephew, wife and sons were 53.8 miles away from me and contemplating ordering Chinese food. I would have swum the Sound for an egg roll.

World Cup: A Fan's Note

I admit it, I only watch soccer every four years during the FIFA World Cup. While I do appreciate the sport, I don't have the bandwidth to keep up with it, but every four years, it's no trouble at all.

Crowd at Heartland Brewery in Midtown.

I have stood six deep at a bar near Plaza Meyor to watch Real Madrid play Barça and I've taken a long lunch to watch the Rangers play the Celtics in a dark hall where the comedian Billy Connolly was in attendance. It's hard not to get swept up in the atmosphere of these rivalries.

Now that the USA has emerged as a global contender, it is wonderful to see this country get on board with the rest of the world, which is to say that everything stops when the game is on. For example, I was in a crowded restaurant near Bryant Park this past week when a voice nearby said, "shouldn't you be in Connecticut?" I turned to see a friend I haven't seen in quite some time due to our busy work schedules.

I do understand the complaints of loyal soccer fans who feel encumbered by all of the new faces crowding around the set, asking which team is the USA and shouting orders at the barkeep, but I gently counter with a bet that they haven't watched a giant slalom since Sochi when a NBC reporter badgered Bode Miller to tears after he won the bronze.

Hooligans at a bar in Queens.

What if we could harness the enthusiasm and shared sense of purpose an event such as the World Cup produces and carry it through each day? There's certainly worse ways to spend an afternoon. What if we could all turn to each other with a knowing smirk at the dramatics of some players when pleading their cases to the refs? What if when we lose, we still win as was the case with USA vs. Germany thanks to our foe turned friend, Ronaldo?

I like to imagine what the world might look like then. Would we still see pictures of men lined up in front of a firing squad and satellite photos of recently moved earth where a mass grave was dug? Wouldn't it be better if the only evidence of violence we saw was pink teeth marks on a player's shoulder while he pleads to the ref?

I, for one, am glad there's a game to look forward to this Tuesday!

Dylan Penn Treats Us to a Smoke Show

That didn't take long. Dylan Penn has signed on to do her first movie, a horror film titled Condemned. In the meantime, she grabbed the lucky number seven cover of Treats! Magazine with a scorching portfolio by Tony Duran. Check it out:

Dylan Penn, Treats! Magazine, Issue 7.

Dylan Penn, Treats! Magazine, Issue 7.

Dylan Penn, Treats! Magazine, Issue 7.

Dylan Penn, Treats! Magazine, Issue 7.

Dylan Penn, Treats! Magazine, Issue 7.

I'm Out Like the Fat Kid in Dodgeball

People of Earth:

That was how Conan O'Brien began his statement to alert the world that he was leaving The Tonight Show, a statement he ran on PR Newswire, the company that has graciously employed me for the past 15 years. Today, April 30, 2014, concludes that run.

As I gave thought to how my statement should read, I reflected on all of the exit emails sent from colleagues through the years and there was one line that resonated: I'm out like the fat kid in dodgeball. I believe it was written in the summer of 2001 by a woman, Jen L., who was a natural born comedian. She could make us laugh in those stressful earnings periods, often at her own expense.

I spent the bulk of my time with PR Newswire at 810 Seventh Ave in Manhattan, located next door to the Ed Sullivan Theater, home of the Late Show With David Letterman. As Mr. Letterman has recently announced plans for his own retirement, I thought it would be appropriate to create a Top Ten List.

As I think back through the years, the colleagues I have worked with at PR Newswire have been some of the best people I've known. Chances are, if you're reading this, you're one of them. I began to think of the watering holes my colleagues and I would go to after the overnight shift at 8 a.m., or the Friday happy hour at 5 p.m., or when visiting another city. Believe me, it was hard to narrow them down to ten, but I managed. Here we go:

10. Checkmate Inn (East Setauket, N.Y.)
9. The Map Room (Cleveland)
8. Jimmy's Corner (New York)
7. The Dresden (Los Angeles)
6. Old Castle Pub (New York)
5. Houston Hall (New York)
4. The Iron Monkey (Jersey City, N.J.)
3. The Big Hunt (Washington)
2. The London NYC (New York)
1. Nice Guy Eddies (New York)

Nice Guy Eddies, NYC

    -0-

Time

I often think of time, moving from one place to another, remembering my meals and appointments, cognizant of schedules and every now and then I pause to consider it. Today, I was in church and a couple renewed their vows in celebration of their golden wedding anniversary of 50 years. Tomorrow, I will meet with the legendary Harold Burson to discuss the year 1954 when PR Newswire was founded. Remarkably, he was one of its first customers. Through the years, I've come across many wonderful descriptions of time, here are three that stand out: 

From The Tudors: Death of a Monarchy (Season 4; Episode 10) (2010):

King Henry VIII: [Opening lines] In these last days I've been thinking a great deal about loss. What loss, your grace, is to man most irrecoverable? 
Charles Brandon: His virtue. 
King Henry VIII: No, for by his actions, he may redeem his virtue. 
Charles Brandon: Then, his honor. 
King Henry VIII: No, for again he may find the means to recover it, even as a man recovers some fortune he has lost. 
Charles Brandon: Then I can't say, Your Majesty. 
King Henry VIII: Time, your grace. Of all losses, time is the most irrecuperable for it can never be redeemed. 

King Henry VIII (right) and Charles Brandon from The Tudors

From "Killing Time," by Mumia Abu-Jamal, Forbes ASAP (November 30, 1998):

"Time is as elusive as a thief, silent as death. Only later does it appear, on the day you look into a burnished metal slab solidly riveted to a cell wall, and ask, 'Who is that old man?'

"For most prisoners, time is oppressive and liberating. At the beginning of a sentence, time stretches ahead, almost insurmountable in its height, almost unreachable in its distance. At the sentence's midpoint, time seems more navigable, for the time one has to do is measured by the time one has already done. Toward the end, time becomes a sweet promise."

Mumia Abu-Jamal

From Prince, Purple Rain, New Year's Eve (2000):

"Time ... Time is a trick ... How many birthdays did you have? ... One ... You had one day of birth ... You continue to count birthdays ... Your mind gives up ... Your body deteriorates ... This is the trick of time ... Man was never supposed to die ... We were given everlasting life ... By The Creator ... The Father of Jesus Christ ... There is no other King ... There is no other King ... Only Jesus Christ ... Time is a trick ... 1999, huh, I don't think so ... We could be in the third millennium perhaps ... It might be 1492 ... Who knows? ... I only want to see ya in the Purple Rain ... if you want to sing with me, it's alright ..."

Prince in the Purple Rain, Super Bowl XLI (2007)

Thoughts at The Turn: Jennifer Lawrence, Blake Wingtips and Ernest Hemingway

Jennifer Lawrence, Hunger Games
NY premiere.

Back breaking snow shoveling storms sabotaged my strategy to sip 18 taps of Blue Point brew on eastern Long Island before it gets trampled by Clydesdales, but now have time to dive into old blues albums while I jot down diversionary thoughts rather than face The Turn.

I've always liked Tom Chiarella of Esquire and his piece 40: When You've "Made" It  is a great pep talk.

Speaking of Esquire, was it just me or was the February 2014 issue, Weird Men, not too weird? Then again, what would I know about it.



Jennifer Lawrence, Film Independent
Spirit Awards.

Can't wait for American Hustle to be available on Netflix. Something about that movie trailer with Jennifer Lawrence parading around in her underwear coupled with rumors of a kiss with co-star Amy Adams sounds intriguing.

Why is the whole world obsessed with Jennifer Lawrence anyway? I mean really Jack Nicholson, she's old enough to be your daughter's daughter. I guess I have nothing new to add to the tomes of internet adulation, but JLaw does seem like the girl-next-door type who liked to smoke pot and listen to The Dead until wham-o, she's hyper glammed up and doesn't have a moment to say hey, I know that dude, he lived next door to me, but I digress. I guess like every other man, Jack Nicholson included, I'd like to smoke pot with Jennifer Lawrence -- the legal, medical variety of course.

Jennifer Lawrence, 83rd Oscars.

Big, big fan of Rancourt & Co. Shoecrafters located in Lewiston, Maine. They rolled out the Blake wingtip not long ago and I have had a shoe-porn like obsession with it. Yet to figure out how I can justify the purchase and quell the likely barrage of "Imelda Marcos" quips from my wife.

Going to Key West at the end of the month to celebrate a dear friend's betrothal. Will certainly visit the Hemingway house again, even though I already know the tour by heart. Good time to replace my Sloppy Joe's t-shirt with a brighter version for the summer, but quite frankly, I'll be happy if I escape from the Southernmost Point in one piece.

Bonobos, big fan. Will buy more Bonobos this spring.

Now that's a compelling midlife crisis portrait: Safety Pink Sloppy Joe's tee, navy Bonobos shorts, tan Blake wingtips sans socks, medical marijuana license, obligatory sunburn and delusions that, if given the chance, Jennifer Lawrence would totally go for it.

Ernest Hemingway, Key West.

The Origin of My Story Telling

It's funny how some memories lodge themselves in your brain like a poppy seed in your teeth. I have ones that have followed me for nearly three decades.

Waves at Tobay Beach, Long Island.

I recall being at a beach on the south shore of Long Island, most likely Tobay. I was playing in the waves with my friend. His mother loved to lay in the sun and since she worked nights, she took us there during the week when it was not crowded.

The sea was choppy that day my friends.

We were playing in the surf and I recall being thrown about by the waves like laundry in a dryer. It was exhilarating. As soon as I'd drift to shore I would look for my friend, eager to describe what had just happened. As I jabbered wildly, he nodded looking out to the horizon, lost in his own experience. I had this amazing feeling and this eminent desire to tell someone, anyone about it.

The emotion has never left me. It has aged like a fine wine.

Shortly after the summer, I had a writing assignment due in class. Not knowing where to start, I asked my dad for help. He was lying half asleep on the couch, resting between his two jobs with a cup of coffee half-full in his hand. The story was to describe a trip around Manhattan holding on to a red balloon. Dreamily he took me past the Statue of Liberty, between the valley of the Twin Towers and over the 59th Street Bridge until the balloon popped and I landed in the golden glove of Mets First Baseman Keith Hernandez. I couldn't write fast enough, amazed by how real it felt. Later that week, after the papers were returned to the class, mine was held by the teacher and read aloud. I can still feel the flush of embarrassment in my cheeks and the exhilaration of being thrown about by the waves on the beach.

Whether or not he was aware of it, my dad had passed on to me the tools to build something from my imagination and share it, after you've had time to look to the horizon and come back from your own experience.

The Ascendancy of Dylan Penn and Ireland Baldwin

In the wake of holiday feasts when family and friends gather around the table for coffee and dessert, I'm often intrigued by the subjects that come up, especially when the group digresses into the did-you-hear gossip about celebs.

Last year Ireland Baldwin was the center of attention, but this year's belle of the cream-and-sugar bowl was Dylan Penn. For those who have not been introduced to either one, yet, these women are the exceedingly beautiful progeny of Hollywood couples Sean Penn and Robin Wright and Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger. Behold:

Hopper Penn, Robin Wright and Dylan Penn

Dylan Penn

Alec and Ireland Baldwin

Ireland Baldwin

I'm going to go out on a limb and predict that we will be seeing and hearing a lot more about Dylan and Ireland in the new year.

Message in a Bottle

It's hard for me to think of a message in a bottle and not hear the high pitched voice of Sting ringing in my ear. Then, of course, there's the man in tattered clothes with a ragged beard stuffing a scroll into a wine bottle that he hopes will one day lead to his rescue. This message adrift at sea, where will it end up and when might that be?

Not long ago I moved to the suburbs where my wife grew up and this past summer her best friend's parents sold their house to move to the California wine country. As such, we inherited many of the things they chose not to take such as an antique clock, a mahogany buffet and a hand-crafted Olhausen pool table, timeless treasures that were immediately put to use.

Every time my wife would send me to their home I went like a kid sliding down the banister on Christmas morning eager with anticipation. On the last trip, there were miscellaneous items set out on the driveway for collection, among them were some unopened bottles of wine and a half-full bottle of scotch, which I thought would be a shame to go to waste, so I took them.

Fast forward through the colorful autumn as the temperature drops and the first snow falls beyond the front door. A chill permeates the house even though the heaters whistle with steam and the balsam fragrance of the Christmas tree warms the heart. I decide to build a fire, which takes me about as long as it did to read that famous short story by Jack London. Coincidentally, I receive a text from my wife's best friend's husband who I have befriended as some men do the husbands of their wives' best friends. Prattling on about football, my feet are starting to warm by the fire and I'm thinking a nip of scotch would be grand. I get up and walk past the empty bottle of Glemorangie sticking out of the sea of items to be recycled and in the dark recesses of the liquor cabinet, I find the half-full bottle of scotch that once washed ashore the asphalt beach of my wife's best friend's driveway. I take it to the table and pour a glass, but something is off.

The label on the bottle reads "Jewels of Speyside" with an antlered deer proudly peering back at me. What could be more fitting in the hunting lodge atmosphere I've created for myself? While I've never heard of it, the label says it's a single-malt scotch aged 27 years, so I give it another try. As I do, my wife joins me on the couch and stares at the bottle and then at me. She likens it to a handle of Jockey gin that we left in the coat closet of her apartment on Bleecker Street when she moved out. It proved to be undrinkable even in the throws of her and her roommates infamous late-night holiday parties. As she studies the label quizzically, her eyes grow wide and she is hit with a revelation: "We used to sneak shots of that back when we were in high school, then we would add water to it so my friend's parents wouldn't know."

The next morning there's the clanging of glass as the bottles roll from the recycling bin into a larger receptacle and through the prism they create, I see the image of the deer staring back at me.

Twitter's IPO Conjures Shining City on the Hill

Bob Pisani and Scott Cutler at the NYSE.

This morning's initial public offering of Twitter's common stock was brilliant in that it allowed a level of transparency that was sorely missed when Facebook debuted in May 2012. CNBC reporter Bob Pisani (@BobPisani) was at the post alongside the New York Stock Exchange's Scott Cutler (@CutlerScott) to allow a level of public access to an event that has long been shrouded in mystery. "Ten million at 35," barked the designated market maker from the pit through every TV tuned in to this historic event as NYSE CEO Duncan Niederauer stood nearby Twitter CEO Dick Costolo (@dickc) so that the public was being informed alongside the investment community at the same time, which to me exemplifies what Twitter's all about.

I recall when events unfolded in Tahrir Square and later in Damascus as news organizations and citizens from around the world learned first-hand from eyewitness accounts via Twitter that this social media application had become a legitimate source for breaking news. It's ubiquitous, real-time dissemination of news quickly sparked conversations that led to actions and debates after being parsed through each individual medley of filters and follows. In my mind, it was then that Twitter became the tipping point of the information age by democratizing media and accelerating transparency faster than a bullet. From the starlet who "accidentally" uploads a nude selfie, to the frenzied rebels dragging their wounded to safety while under fire, the parameters of public access fell like the Berlin Wall leaving in its wake the question of not where, but will we ever draw the line again?

At the NYSE this morning, the public watched as Twitter's Costolo and Jack Dorsey walked among the ebullient crowd before positioning themselves on the floor below the dais of the opening bell where among the crew stood none other than Captain Jean-Luc Picard to lead this voyage into the next generation.

Cheryl Fiandaca, Vivienne Harr, Scott Cutler and Patrick Stewart ring opening bell at NYSE for Twitter.

Pencil Skirts

Bryant Park autumn breeze
quaff a half-dozen Long Island iced teas
among a swarm of honey bees
circling burgers smothered in cheese
and girls in pencil skirts above their knees
whose allergies to cats make them sneeze
while handling lobbyists with grace and ease
until happy hour's over and she flees.

Jennifer Aniston