If You Need Bail Money, Give Me A Call

In the last few weeks, I began posting on Facebook something called a “Random Start”. It’s an idea I stole from Riley Breckinridge’s blog Hermitology. Basically, my reason behind beginning this mostly-daily ritual was three-fold: to hopefully reintroduce myself to some of the music on my iPod I may have become estranged from, to maybe reintroduce some of my friends and followers to a band they have forgotten about, and finally (and maybe the most important reason) was to get myself writing again. I’ve slacked a bit in the creative writing department this year. (Honestly, I think somewhere along the line I lost my muse.) I noticed how RB writes a little bit each day about his “Random Start,” and thought it was a good way to get my creative juices flowing, even if it’s merely a quick little thought.

Since I began, twice (haha Thrice) Pearl Jam started my day. When “Faithful”, the second Seattle wake up call happened, it brought me back to my first Pearl Jam concert experience.

It was the summer of 2005 and I had recently begun working on Hack, my first paying job. The show took place at Hershey Stadium, and my good friend Suzanne was my partner in crime.

I have a strict concert policy I like to follow: No alcohol in my body. I don’t like to drink at shows. I get enough of a rush feeding off the energy of the live show and I want to remember every inch of what happens on stage. When I attended punk and hardcore shows, I didn’t want anything to impede my coordination as I crashed around in the pit. Suzanne begged and pleaded for me to go and buy some booze. After an intense verbal struggle, against my better judgment, I gave in and we went and bought 40s. See, Sue was a month shy of her twenty-first birthday, so I was the one of responsible drinking age who could legally make the purchase.

Hershey used to allow the occasional tailgating. I, trying to keep things as low key as possible, made sure were came prepared to the parking lot. We had opaque Y100 plastic cups and kept our bottles in a small cooler under a blanket on the floor of the backseat of my car.

We had a great time hanging out in the field turned parking lot across the street from the stadium. While we were drinking our first 40, we noticed a group of high school kids across the lane having a grand old time with a beer pong. At one point, two of the boys ventured out among the cars, presumably to track down other friends. Upon their return, Sue yelled to them, asking if they were two of the guys with the bong. They confirmed her suspicion and invited her to join. She declined, but not before a bicycle cop rolled up on the situation. Now is where the fun begins.

The cop makes the four of us line up and present our IDs. I, being legal, handed my driver’s license over no problem. They came Sue’s turn. I looked over and she was almost in tears. Damnit, I forgot: a month shy of turning twenty-one. The two other guys admitted to being underage right off the bat. Now, to the competent observer, you could easily draw the conclusion those two guys were not with us. They were yelling at us from several cars away. But no, this cop [read: pig] completely ignored the facts and began to ask me, rather condescendingly, why I would buy beer for my extremely young friends. My reply was simply the truth: “I don’t know those guys at all and I didn’t buy them anything.”

Officer Shitdick, “Bullshit, Don’t lie to me. I’m a cop. You know them.”

Oh, so we’re gonna play that game. I explained to the officer several times I didn’t know them, never met them, and in fact, still don’t know them. Literally seconds before he rolled up on his high horse, I didn’t even know they existed. Hell, I never even spoke to them. He didn’t buy it. Sue tried to explain it to him. The two high school kids explained it to him. Nope, still didn’t believe us. Finally, a second, female, officer rolled up on the scene and butted in. Lucky for me, she was a very nice woman who listened to my side of the story, and believed me. I think she assumed Sue and I were dating and wouldn’t be hanging out with younger kids anyway.

Seeing he was temporarily defeated, the first cop pulled me aside and began in on me again.

“Now obviously you and this chick here are here together, and since she is under age, you bought the booze for her.’ I agreed with his statement. I figured he saw our licenses and would give Sue and me a free pass since she was so close to being legal. Nope, wrong again Mallick. I always forget how much the law enforcement in Pennsylvania loves me. He started to threaten me with a thousand dollar fine and the possibility of three months in jail.

Oh, look, it’s my turn to roll the dice.

During his threatening speech, my cell phone rang. It was Josh Richards. I proceeded to cut him off and told him I needed to take this call. He stood there in complete shock, mouth agape, just cutting him off. Josh had called me, forgetting I was home for the weekend and not around to hang out in Philly for the night. I explained to him the situation which was unfolding. He laughed, and said to me, “Well buddy, if you need bail money, give me a call.” What a great friend. Love that man.

I went back to the cop, who had reteamed up with his female counterpart, and he was explaining to Sue the consequences of her actions. The male cop asked me who called. I told him it was my boss. “I hope you don’t get fired for getting arrested.”

“Nah, actually he thought it was pretty funny. I worked in television man. I could get busted with a pound of coke, and no one would give a shit.” I was so over this guy trying to belittle me with his inflated head. I then proceeded to have a lengthy discussion with the female cop about my job, getting all chummy. As it turned out, Hack was one of her favorite shows. She ended up giving me what was left of the high schooler’s beer; like a case and a half of Bass (who bongs Bass Ale?! amateurs) and their bong. All while the male stood there, fuming.

I walked away pretty unscathed from the whole situation. I got fined a hundred and fifty bucks and was charged with, and I quote, “Creating a situation that served no legitimate purpose.” That’s actually something pretty funny to have on my record. Sue got the worst of it: a couple hundred-dollar fine and a loss of her driver’s license for six months.

The moral of the story: most cops are dicks, but there are those few, wonderful little loopholes, which let you go with a slap on the wrist. Also, it gave me another really entertaining story to tell people.

Belief in the game, controls that keep us in a box of fear… We never listen…

Failure Leaves Such A Bitter Taste In My Mouth*

“What would school have been like if you never had to worry about getting an F? Students at West Potomac High School in Alexandria, Va., are about to find out…”

A few days ago, I came across this article by Mira Jacob on Yahoo and it really got under my skin. To give you a summary of what is taking place in Virginia, school officials have done away with the standard failing mark, the “F”, and replaced with the letter “I” for incomplete. The argument the article is trying to address is if this is “…an inspired move to get those marginal students on track and learning, or just another way in which we’re coddling underachieving kids and hobbling the rest [.]”

I think we’re coddling the little fuckers. Failure should be an option.

Back in the day when I swam for the once glorious Mountain View Crawdads (my summer league team) there was a rule in the league stating if you team lost every meet, they were to move down a division. On the contrary, if you won every meet, your team advanced to a higher echelon. There has to be consequences on both sides of the spectrum to give incentive and make kids work towards goals.

There should be a threat of failure; no child likes to be left back. My junior year of high school, I almost failed my Honors history class; history was not my strongest subject by far. By the end of my first quarter, my teach informed me I should drop the honors class and take the standard Academic level course. I didn’t want to leave the entertaining and more advanced learning of the Honors level course, but at the same time, failing would have been a huge blemish on my academic career. This fear forced me to sit down and read my notes over every night; I rewrote every page of my notes until I remembered every word that was taught to me that day. I sat down with my folks and had them quiz me every night. It was probably the hardest I ever worked for any type of class in my life, high school or college. And by the time mid-terms came around, I was back on track, scoring “A’s” in the class.

By telling student if they fail, there is a chance to fix it, you’re teaching them a skewed life lesson. If I didn’t have the fear from my teacher, I might never have worked as hard as I did. I believe the notion of failure in a child’s development shows them life isn’t fair, that you have to work hard if you want to get ahead in this world. If students believe they don’t have to be their best to move on to the next grade, and there’s is always time to fix things, there will be no sense of urgency to better them selves.

If a student is really have trouble keeping up, the school should have different education levels. At Bishop McDevitt, where I did my time, there were three different tracks: Honors for the more advanced students, Academic for the average kids, and Basic for those who might have a little trouble grasping the material. I’m not saying one level is better than another. Everyone learns differently. This system gives students who absorb knowledge differently, options.

There is a flip side to my argument however, because of course, the world isn’t black and white. The problem is the threat almost gives you the feeling that if you mess up, your whole life is over. Parents and teachers like to stress that every decision and choice you make early in school has a rippling effect on your success in life and your career. This is obviously not the case.

I was asked at age fourteen, in my freshman Algebra class, what I wanted to do with my life. I needed to know, so I could plan the rest of my math and science courses correctly to be advanced enough before going away to college. I said I was interested in computers, so I had to make sure I took multiple math classes sophomore year, then I could take this other math class junior year, to make sure I was in Calculus and some other intense math class by my senior year. I hated math; I didn’t want to do that much math. So I said to my Algebra teacher, and I quote, “That’s a lot of math. Eh, screw it, I’ll work in television.” (Luckily, my teacher was a sexist drunk who had more heart attacks than letters in his name, so I didn’t get in trouble for saying screw it.)

You’ll never hear me say this again, but I think a little bit of fear does kids a favor. Learning from one’s mistakes and failure is priceless. The value of learning from losing is one lesson everyone should learn.

Be still and know that they won't lie to you every single time you're facing lies…

[*Easily one of my favorite song lyrics of all time.]

Within A Mile Of Home

The staff of The Hotel arrived in Venice five and a half years ago, during the summer of 2005. When it came time for Thanksgiving, the three of us decided it would be better to stay in Los Angeles for the holiday. We invited old friends and new friends and hosted our very first Hotel Homeless Thanksgiving – a celebration for all those who either couldn’t go home to family or decided against to sit down and eat a very large meal.

As a joke, I put together a call sheet listing the day’s schedule and what everyone was bringing, in case any of our attendees didn’t know what was happening that day. It worked out pretty well and the meal and the event was a complete success. Johnny and I basted the turkey a little too much, and the pan overflowed and caused the gas stove to smoke up something fierce. We couldn’t even see a foot in front of our faces the smoke was so thick. This began the tradition of Johnny, Roger, and I hosting Thanksgiving every year since (the call sheet has since gone the way of the dodo). Every year we have had different dishes, different attendees, and different after meal activities, but there was always one constant: one giant as turkey. Johnny hunts down the biggest turkey possible, with no regard to how many people were actually going to partake.

Traditions begin and end every year. Grandparents pass away, children move, relationships change – there are many reasons why traditions are born and die. For us, it was to save money since we had only recently moved into the new apartment. Tradition is a funny thing, especially when you watch one change. Every year on Xmas eve, my family eats the same seven-course meal. It’s steeped in Polish religious tradition. Sadly, once my grandmother moves on, the meal might not be cooked again, being replaced with different foods, with the single remaining bond being that we all sit down together as an extended family and enjoy each other’s company and gorge ourselves until we pass out watching ELF.

This was the last Thanksgiving with all three original members still living under the same roof. However, the tradition we all share, gorging ourselves to the point of paralysis, will most definitely continue on. Nothing can replace the fun we have waking up early to lather up a thirty pound bird with fake butter, sitting around watching football all day, baking dairy-free pumpkin pie, and making dirty jokes involving a thawed out turkey neck. The tradition may alter itself in someway, maybe the location, or one of us will have a family, but the central core ritual will always remain.

May your day be filled with a full stomach, the love of family, and company of friends.

Happy Thanksgiving everybody.

But take my advice; you'll have to bury me twice ‘cause the first time I won't rest easily… But don't let die still wondering what it was I left behind…

More Than Flashing Lights And Sound

(I started this piece back in September, but due to my emotional connection to this piece, it took me a little time to finish)

November 27, 1980 – September 19, 2001.

Nine years ago I lost my best friend – Alexander Randolph Spotts.

Around two in the morning, Alex decided to head home from a mutual friend’s house. He made a bad decision. He drove drunk. While on Devonshire Heights Road, he lost control of his Chevrolet Cavalier and slammed into a tree. The engine from his car was pushed up onto Alex’s chest where he slowly bled to death. He was pronounced dead at 4:58 A.M., dying less than a mile from my parents’ house. It is unknown if he was awake or unconscious during the hours the engine was resting upon my friend.

A few weeks before he died, Alex called with two tickets to see Stone Temple Pilots. Throughout high school, I rarely went to a show without him. This time I passed because I made the stupid mistake of going out on date with a really shitty girl. It was a completely forgettable person, and I say that because I honestly to this day couldn’t tell you her name.

I vividly remember the moment I found out about Alex. It was junior year of college. I was living in St. Theresa Court, which was at that point in La Salle’s history, the most “remote” part of campus. Around eight-thirty at night, I decided to call my good friend Suzanne to ask if she wanted to join me for lunch the following day. (Sue went to high school with me, so she knew Alex. She joined me at LSU, where I convinced her to join the rowing team. You’re welcome!)

Anyway, I called… When she realized it was me, she asked, “Oh hey, are you calling about Alex dying?”

“Excuse me?” I replied.

“Oh, you didn’t kno…” she trailed off.

I was walking out of the kitchen, where I froze mid-step. I was speechless. I lost all sense and went numb all over. I almost dropped the phone. I didn’t believe her. I spent the next hour calling every one I could think of to find out if it was true. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. It was.

As if the news and stories surrounding the passing of my friend wasn’t enough, when I got ahold of one of my best girlfriend’s Jenna (who was also a dear friend of Alex), I discovered her mom had passed away the same day. She went into the hospital for dehydration where she mysteriously passed away when her lungs willed with blood and she drowned.

I lost my best friend and my best friend’s mom the same night.

I spent the remainder of the night sitting on the couch, clutching my legs sitting upright in the fetal position. A 3 Doors Down concert was playing on MTV (I was in shock). Eventually I tried to get some sleep, but it was pointless. I laid on staring at the bunk bed above me, fighting off tears, trying to think of anything besides what had transpired that evening.

Not to push off any of what happened with Jenna’s mom, but I definitely felt the affects of Alex’s passing much more. In fact, nine years later, I still get upset each year as his anniversary begins to roll around. I'm still not over his death. I can't seem to forgive myself for missing out on that last chance to spend time with him.

Alex was an amazing friend because we always brought out the best in each other. He was the instigator; he was the spontaneous one and often made me do things very uncharacteristic of myself. (We used to get our folks to call us both in sick on the same day, and then when they left for work, we'd ride our bikes to the music store.) In his memory, each year on his anniversary I try to do something great, something which breaks the monotony of my life, something inspiring because he’s not with me to experience it himself. I also like to spend this time with someone, who is extremely important to me. I want them know how important they are to me; I would never want to miss out on the opportunity to tell those vital people the affect they have on me and my life.

I’m a lucky guy. I have a fuck ton of amazing friends in my life, and I always try to do right by them. My friends come first, and they always will.

Late night, brakes lock, hear the tires squeal… Red light, can't stop so I spin the wheel… My world goes black before I feel an angel steal me from the greedy jaws of death and chance, and pull me in with steady hands…

Transcendental Consequence

It’s been a while since I’ve written. I really have no excuse; only I haven’t found anything I really wanted to post about. I was going to rant a bit about the evils of Las Vegas a few weeks back, but the piece I began writing somehow went missing, so I abandoned the endeavor.

I turned twenty-nine this year, a pretty random birthday for someone who spends a month celebrating this yearly landmark. This year, I had the pleasure of spending my birthday holiday with both my dad and my sister. I’m so close to being thirty, a major milestone in anyone’s life. I can’t wait to reach it. I did however take a moment, like I do from time to time, and look at where I am in the universe.

In a previous post I mentioned how I have finally discovered myself. However, during the last year, I seem to have forgotten who you are as a person is continually in flux. I know who I am at my core, but the person as a whole, will always be a work in progress. Obviously, the person I was in high school is not the same person I was in college, and that person is far from the person you meet now.

I’m a runner now. I’ve done a marathon, and continue to race any chance I get. I ran a 10K in Culver in June. I plan on doing a half marathon in October, most likely in Long Beach. If you would have asked me ten years ago if I even wanted to go for a run, I wouldn’t cringed. Now I go out for an hour and don’t think twice.

Among the personal changes I’ve discovered this past year is I realized something I believed very strongly in, has now changed. Stuff I've adamantly written about here I no longer adhere to. I like to think it’s a positive change.

The main revolution came when I met someone who I saw spending the rest of my life with, even wanting to marry. A situation I never thought I would find myself in, let alone even considering. (Although others apparently knew I wanted it all along.) I realized the option of marriage could be a possibility in my life. I also now understand opening yourself that much to a person, especially if things don’t work out, can really destroy you. It almost makes me want to guard myself more, even if it means holding back on letting a significant other in.

I hope I’m wrong about this situation, and I hope I can find happiness with this person again. I’ve always been of the school that if you believe in something strong enough, life will steer itself in that direction.

Last year when I settled on who I’ve finally become as a person, the person I always wanted to be, the person I am completely happy with, I guess I lost perspective and became lazy. I need to continue learning and striving to become a better person. It took someone else to remind me and reinvigorate me to explore life again. I’ve grown as a person a great deal recently, and I have this person to thank.

Sometimes it’s hard for people to forget who you used to be, and sometimes they don’t like the idea of that person going away. I know friends from home who always want me to be that lunatic who took on any dare, regardless of consequences. They want me to tell them every sordid detail of my relationships, while I’m the person who likes to keep stuff like that between myself and whoever I am with. Maybe I lost a little of my edge. Maybe I'm just growing up

I thought I knew who I was. I lived for myself, always strived to make myself better. If I only take away one thing in my twenty-ninth year, it’s that I learned to live for someone else and because of this person I grew exponentially.

In the great words of Abed from Community: “When you really know who you are and what you like about yourself, changing for other people isn't such a big deal.”

I guess it’s nobody’s fault now but my own...

Epitaph Reissues REFUSED: The Shape Of Punk That Came

The following is an article in today's LA TImes. Refused's "The Shape Of Punk To Come" is easily my favorite album of all time. Epitaph has seen fit on this great day in history, to re-release this seminal album with a whole bunch of extras. If you've been living in a cave the last twelve years, read this great piece by August Brown on the band and the album which changed the punk rock landscape.



Refused wasn't the first punk band to incorporate drum machines and synthesizers (that would be Suicide), nor the first to turn hard-core's regimented song structures inside out (that would be the Minutemen). But they were the first to very seriously suggest that both of those things belonged in stadiums of thousands.

Released in 1998, "The Shape of Punk to Come" was as sonically ambitious as its title was fantastically arrogant. The album didn't just make room for free-jazz breakdowns, glitchy sampler wrangling and scalpel-sharp guitar interplay alongside Refused's noise detonations -- they made them inseparable and necessary to each other. But even more unexpectedly, the end result wound up sounding absolutely huge, maybe even with the potential of a "Nevermind" to bring brutal, innovative music to a very mainstream audience.

A three-disc reissue of "Shape," out today on Epitaph, underscores that potential, sadly never fully realized as the band broke up soon thereafter. "New Noise" still feels like a jock jam for Marxist eco-terrorists, "Summerholidays vs. Punkroutine" takes the dry-cleaned guitar licks of ESG and gives them Fugazi's fangs. The great irony of hard core is that, at heart it's an orthodox, conservative genre, and Refused was one of the few bands in that tradition that could capably upend it.

But the package's extras add some necessary context as to why Refused was both special and sort of doomed. The accompanying live album finds the band just demolishing a festival in its hometown of Umea, Sweden, while the accompanying documentary "Refused Are F- Dead" has a title as prophetic as that of "Shape." Ambitions like theirs often comes in a difficult personality, and singer Dennis Lyxzen is as flinty in person as his band is on record (and the band's members seem to know what fate awaits them the whole time).

That said, let this completely essential reissue be a hint to Paul Tollett's reunion-alchemy department that they would be really, really nice to have at Coachella 2012.

A naive young secret for the new romantics... We express ourselves in loud and fashionable ways...

Counting Bodies Like Sheep To The Rhythm Of The War Drums

I want to tell you about Anarchism.

I want to tell you what Anarchism is, because I think it is well you should know it. Also because so little is known about it, and what is known, is generally hearsay and mostly false.

I want to tell you about it, because I believe that Anarchism is the finest and biggest thing man has ever thought of; the only thing that can give you liberty and well-being, and bring peace and joy to the world.

I want to tell you about it in such plain and simple language that there will be no misunderstanding it. Big words and high sounding phrases serve only to confuse. Straight thinking means plain speaking.

But before I tell you what Anarchism is, I want to tell you what it is not…

It is not bombs, disorder, or chaos.
It is not robbery and murder.
It is not a war of each against all.
It is not a return to barbarism or to the wild state of man.

Anarchism is the very opposite of all that.
Anarchism means that you should be free; that no one should enslave you, boss you, rob you, or impose upon you.
It means that you should be free to do the things you want to do; and that you should not be compelled to do what you don't want to do.
It means that you should have a chance to choose the kind of a life you want to live, and live it without anybody interfering.
It means that the next fellow should have the same freedom as you, that every one should have the same rights and liberties.
It means that all men are brothers, and that they should live like brothers, in peace and harmony.

That is to say, that there should be no war, no violence used by one set of men against another, no monopoly and no poverty, no oppression, no taking advantage of your fellow-man.

In short, Anarchism means a condition or society where all men and women are free, and where all enjoy equally the benefits of an ordered and sensible life.

“Can that be?” you ask. “And how?”
“Not before we all become angels,” your friend remarks.

Well, let us talk it over. Maybe I can show you that we can be decent and live as decent folks even without growing wings.

(Alexander Berkman, Now and After: The ABC of Communist Anarchism)

One of my biggest pet peeves is people assuming since I don’t align myself with republican ideals that I'm a democrat. I’d like to set the record straight: I'm not a democrat. I think democrats are just as idiotic and awful politicians as republicans. In the great words of Lewis Black, “Democrats are a party of no ideas and Republicans are a party of bad ideas.” I’ve even become disgusted using the term “liberal” to describe myself anymore because of the lazy, hippy-ish type of people it now refers to.

It is my belief the United States needs to do away with the two party system, or at least incorporate a few more parties into the system. There are great political principles in other parties besides the big two. We need to be more like England or Canada in elections. It would be nice to see an election between more than the two parties who have the most monetary backing. I’m not political science major, but there should be a way to even the playing field; it might be something as simple as limiting the campaign season to one month like England, instead of our year-plus campaign trail.

I was a strong opponent again the “never-truly-elected-president” Bush. In this last election, I was against McCain, but not because he was running on the Republican ticket, but rather because I didn’t agree with a number of his policies. (I can give the guy some props too for taking time to appear on “The Daily Show” and holding his own.) Now, Obama was a better candidate compared to McCain, but not necessarily the candidate I wanted to run my country. He had a few policies I didn’t agree with either (ahem, healthcare). I didn’t vote for either one due to the simple fact I didn't really want either to run our country (I wanted Ron Paul to win). I don’t want you to think I wish any ill will on Obama or his presidential term. It is great to see an African-American in the White House. I think it's a huge milestone in our nation's history and I can get behind what he stands for and represents.

When it all comes down to it, personally I don't think it matters who wins. The president is a puppet who has lobbyists and billion dollar companies calling the shots. We should as citizens of this nation take a step back and look at our political system and realize maybe the type of president isn’t the change we need, but maybe the change is in our political system as a whole.

Disconnect and self-destruct one bullet at a time… What’s your hurry, everyone will have his day to die…

My Favorite Albums Of 2009

It’s that time of year again folks. It’s coming in way late, but due to last year’s lack of income, many of the albums I wanted to get under my listening belt didn’t make their way into my collection until early this year.

2009 was an amazing year for music. Many of the artists I listen to put out very inspiring albums this year, so narrowing my list down was a little more difficult than last year.

You may notice there are a few more popular acts not on my list. Rise Against’s “Appeal To Reason” is a decent album, but so far the least impressive in their catalogue. Hey, even Bad Religion put out an average album over their thirty-year history. Green Day’s “21st Century Breakdown” is a piece of shit. Easily the worst album they have put out; it’s almost as if the band members hoped their fans would forgive a sub-par album after their innovative “American Idiot.” I’ve been told the songs on the album make more sense when you go see the play based on “American Idiot,” but standing alone, it sounds like a group of junior high students wrote this album. It killed me not to put Kill Hannah’s “Wake Up The Sleepers”, Poison The Well’s “The Tropic Rot”, and CKY’s “Carver City” (which are all great albums) on the list, but after going over them several times, I feel like there was one little thing missing. To reiterate, there is nothing sub-par with these albums, I just didn’t feel like they stood out like the rest.

Much like last year, a couple of albums I listened to immediately caught my ear and rocked my mind, while a few others took a couple of spins to recognize their genius. This year I’m going to do things a little different. I’m going to give you a little review of each album on my list, supplying a little insight as to why they made my list, culminating with the runner up and album of the year. So without and further adieu, here are my choices for my favorite albums of 2009.

Whole Wheat Bread – “Hearts Of Hoodlums”

Utilizing the raw energy and cultural background these three African-American musicians bring to the table, WWB have released one of the best punk albums I’ve listened to in a very long time. Combining the spirit of Bad Brains with a slice of southern rap, WWB have changed the landscape of classic punk music. Instead of combining these two differing styles, WWB simply compose both style songs independently of each other, seamlessly bouncing back and forth between the two styles. Also, “Bombs Away” is easily the strongest opening track on any of the albums I will talk about this year.

P.O.S. – “Never Better”

P.O.S. does it again, pushing the boundary of what true hip-hop is. Flaunting his punk roots, within the first three minutes of “Never Better", P.O.S. takes stabs at the government, laughs at the recession, uses Macho Man as a verb, references The Dude, and shout-outs to his crew and his label. Like always, P.O.S. not only breaks the mold, but also shows the worlds of punk and hip-hop were never made in one.

Silverstein – “A Shipwreck In The Sand”

The last, great screamo band. I give Shane Told props for taking a massive creative step, penning the bands first concept album. Two paralleling stories weave through the album, one of a crew set sail on a course for the new world before getting lost at sea, and one about a family losing it’s dream of living in America when their house burns down. Silverstein does an amazing job writing aggressive and poetic music, bringing out the true emotion of the characters in the story.

Thrice – “Beggars”

I saw Thursday play last fall at the Glasshouse in Pomona. Geoff Rickly mentioned their band has been together for eleven years, equally as long as Thrice, and they promised to keep trekking as long as Thrice did the same. After the interesting concept album(s) “The Alchemy Index”, Thrice is back, pushing their sound to even greater lengths. You notice a definite grown up feel in “Beggars”, but Thrice draws upon a lot of the old emotion you felt on “Illusion of Safety” and “Artist In The Ambulance”. “Beggars” effectively showcases each musician’s talent greatly. If Thrice continues on this way (and brings Thursday along with them), they will definitely go down in history as one of the two greatest bands in the history of post-hardcore.

Alexisonfire – “Old Crows/Young Cardinals”

With three years off since their last effort, Alexisonfire is back as the powerful post-hardcore machine that they are. The one-two-three punch of vocals from George Petit and guitarists Dallas Green and Wade MacNeil has long-elevated Alexisonfire over many of their contemporaries, and “Old Crows” continues this long tradition. The most noticeable difference on this album is George Petit’s voice, which has been switched out from screams to a more grating vocal style. While at first, it’s a big jarring, but after a few spins, you find this new direction very comforting, and honestly, there is no loss of aggression or energy.

Converge – “Axe To Fall”

Hardcore at it’s finest. The melting of hardcore punk and metal, which Converge is known for, has matured greatly both lyrically and musically. Through everything that Converge brings to the table, there is a hint of order and meaning lingering in the background to each and every track, making for a remarkable album.

Every Time I Die – “New Junk Aesthetic”

ETID have done it again. I didn’t think a better, full-on fist pumping metal album could be written after “The Big Dirty”, but the boys from Buffalo pulled another one out of their ass. With each subsequent album, ETID has gotten better and better, and you think they can’t outdo themselves, and each time, they surpass themselves. Something about the energy ETID bring to both stage and album always drives me to thrash and run into a pit like a madmen.

Patton Oswalt – “My Weakness Is Strong”

It’s all there. Everything that made Patton Oswalt one of the best stand-up comedians of the last five years is all well accounted for on his latest album. There are moments of volatile enthusiasm and bewilderment that positively contradict his sense of bitter, aggravated disappointment with himself and the rest of the world around him.

Between The Buried And Me – “The Great Misdirect”

The way Between The Buried And Me composed their latest album is almost symphonic. The composition is divided into movements rather than songs. They followed up their masterpiece “Colors” brilliantly, again showcasing the talent encased within BTBAM. Perfectly balancing beauty with brutality, BTBAM give us another faultless album. It is musically the best album of the year.


RUNNER UP:

Strike Anywhere – “Iron Front”

“Iron Front” brings me back to why I fell in love with punk in the first place. Bursts of pure energy fueled with the type of political lyrics making one want to get up and make a difference; change the world for a better place for future generations. Strike Anywhere have found their niche as a punk powerhouse, and with each album, continue to point out the foibles of our government and society. Lead by Thomas Barnett’s commanding voice, “Iron Front” begins with some harsh Amerikan propaganda, “The blood for your freedom / The horror that you taught to them / To kill all your sheep / In the fold your power fades without control” (Invisible Colony). Strike Anywhere have produced an album, which not only resonates with history, but also gives a new future generation looking for their anthem, a home.

ALBUM OF THE YEAR:

Thursday – “Common Existence”

I had to do it. Honestly, if this album didn’t drop, Strike Anywhere would have easily won this award. With “Common Existence”, Thursday continues to pushes a genre of music forward. Instead of trying to mature with this new album, Thursday went back over their career, and the careers of their peers, and wrote an album which brings it’s listeners back to the classic era of punk and hardcore (and post-hardcore), while still evolving as artists. Thursday has composed their best album since their masterpiece, “Full Collapse”. Geoff Rickly has again written some of the most poetic lyrics of his career. To find the “maturity” in this latest release, the New Jersey quintet branches out to include a powerful political psalm, “Friends In The Armed Forces”, and even invoke the spirit of the legendary eNVy with “Circuits Of Fever.” Even aesthetically, the album artwork is a callback to the model punk cover: simple, black and white, of two nuns walking through construction scaffolding. Thursday has produced the most diverse album of their career, which is at the same time, of the purest albums of their career. “Common Existence” is one of the best arguments I have for Thursday not only being my favorite band, but also one of the greatest bands of all time.

They want to know which side you’re on… But it doesn't matter because we're all being used… To train, to fight… To disregard all human rights…

John Stewart Beats Me Again

Obviously I am not as timely and on the ball as South Park or The Daily Show. I wanted to write a rant targeting the group Revolution Muslim and their threat against Trey Parker and Matt Stone, but tonight's Daily Show beat me to the punch. Stewart covered every point I wanted to make, and did it in a way more entertaining than I ever could. Enjoy!

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
South Park Death Threats
www.thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Political Humor Tea Party

Booty And The Priest

This aired on the Daily Show last Wednesday.

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
Pope Opera
www.thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Political Humor Tea Party

Now, in case you didn’t do all the extra work, here’s the story. The current leader of the Catholic Church, Pope Benedict, prior to his pope-ship, as Cardinal Ratzinger, he was the Vatican official in charge of child molestation cases in the church during the 1990’s. During this time, he refused to dismiss (read: fire) Father Lawrence Murphy, a priest at the St. John's School For The Deaf in St. Francis, Wisconsin. Murphy is known to have molested around two hundred boys between 1950 and 1974. He would call them to his bedroom, or visit them in their dorm beds late at night, jerk them off, and leave. Sometimes, if he felt frisky, he would abuse several boys in one night. Murphy was also known to hear their confession in a second floor walk-in closet in the boy's dorm and molest them there as well.

You’d think once the church found out about such a vast abuse of authority, punishment would be swift. Charges were brought up, but were dropped soon thereafter. Ratzinger looked the other way because of a very touching letter Murphy wrote to Ratzinger saying a trial wasn’t needed because (get this) he already repented for his sins. The Vatican deliberately chose not to act and allowed Murphy to go unpunished before his death in 1998.

Everyone knows I’m not a fan of organized religion, but if believing in a higher power helps you with your life, go for it. But seriously, how does a group like this continue to exist? And more importantly, how is a group like this allowed to exist? Where is the United Nations on this one? And it’s not like this is the first time. Continually priests are being caught for molestation and are moved to different parishes and hidden in new cities. Its mind-blowing crimes of this nature go unpunished. Can’t their tax exemption be retracted? Any secular individual who touches a little kid at the very least gets arrested. If I touch a little boy, my ass goes to jail to be used like a sock puppet.

The Buddha teaches us religion is merely a path to find the truth. Once the truth is obtained, religion is no longer needed. What truth is the Catholic “Church” looking for? I can’t even think of a comical comparison to use here which isn’t completely revolting to my female readers (assuming there is one or two).

Now, priests are coming up to defend Ratzinger and are upset by the media coverage of the case. What the church is most upset about is people finding out about the abuse, not the actual abuse itself. It’s like a wife being more upset with her husband getting caught cheating than the act of adultery. What the fuck?

I was brought up catholic and one of the things I was taught was when I make a mistake, or sin, I need to take responsibility for my actions and whatever punishment I have coming to me. When Ratzinger, now as pope, was confronted with this, you would think he would practice what he preaches. Instead, he merely brushes it aside. How can anyone follow what this man teaches if he doesn’t do it himself? Isn’t that why all your conservatives were upset with Clinton when he was president? Yes, he lied about it, but you couldn’t serve under a president with such a lack of moral fiber?

I am just appalled by this entire situation. Its things like this which make me wonder why anyone would ever wants to be associated with an organization like this. And more and more people are joining every day; either born into families and raised in this potentially hostile environment, or by finding god late in life and signing up. I can continue on with my anger and disgust, but Jon Stewart pretty much conveys the insanity of this event much better than I ever could.

There’s no justice… Just a cause and a cure… And a bounty of suffering… It seems we all endure…

First Place Desire In The Backwards Marathon

I did it. Crossing the finish line sometime around one o’clock in the afternoon, completing twenty-six point two miles: my first marathon. The sense of accomplishment is indescribable, the array of emotions you go thru over the course of the race, it’s all something I’ve never felt during any other competition, and it’s something I don’t think you can understand until you’ve done it yourself.

However, I didn’t feel as good as I hoped during my marathon. As I stated in my previous post, I felt so ready for this, spending four months preparing, but there are a few factors which I feel inhibited me a bit making me do as well as I hoped.

My typical pre-race routine consists of stretching and meditating while listening to music blasting through my headphones, mentally preparing and getting myself pumped. (I’ve found artists like Rage and Rise Against and Strike Anywhere, bands of a political nature, get me the most energized.) This did not happen.

I had to make a mile trek to the starting line due to the massive back up on the 101/110 freeways trying to get to Dodger Stadium. I missed the start of the race while I was stuck waiting in line for my pre-race constitutional. I had to fight through the runners who had already begun because the first mile of the race was around the stadium and the startling line was in the center of the loop. As expected, my heart-raced, pumping adrenaline through the miles of my mile veins, a feeling I am rather familiar with from my time as a collegiate varsity rower. However, not being able to relax at the starting line before the race messed me up mentally a bit.

Since it was my first marathon, the training regimen was new to me, and I think I tapered a little too much before race day. I felt amazing when my long runs reached distances of up to twenty miles, but because my last week of training never broke the four-mile barrier, I think I lost my distance running edge.

I had to maintain my cool for the first five miles, which I spent fighting through the sixteen-minute pacers, to get to a place where I could get into a rhythm. The field didn’t really open up until about halfway though the course, somewhere around Hollywood and Highland.

My exhaustion kicked in around mile seven or eight, much earlier than I expected and way too early for the amount of training I did. Also, the important night sleep, two days prior to take off, didn’t really go so well and I didn’t sleep well or long enough.

Holy shit did I hit the wall. I was warned the hardest couple of miles usually pop up around the twenty-mile marker. For me it was mile twenty-one: The VA hospital. I needed to stop to use the rest room, and after I couldn’t move again. My knees locked and didn’t want to bend. I had to walk like a quarter mile to get the joints moving again. The fight to get my momentum back was brutal, climbing slowly up hill; the only thoughts in my head were, “Fuck this. I’m never doing this again. This is a once and done deal for me. I’ll finish this, but never again.” I felt like I was running though mud. I wanted to stop and walk and sit and crash right there on the road. I battled my way through mile twenty-two and twenty-three up hill on San Vicente. Our names were on our bibs, so people seeing the dismay on my face, screamed my name and supported me up the last incline.

Then something happened. Mile twenty-four. I was exhausted, beaten up, but not beaten. I made a promise to myself passing under the mile-marker I was going to finish strong, running across the finish line. I don’t know where it came from, but I must have had a secret stash of adrenaline, because my body kicked into gear. I practically sprinted those last two point two miles. I can’t believe my legs carried me the way they did.

After way over four hours of running, with sweat streaming down my face, a look of pure fatigue, my legs burning with lactic acid, and a fist in the air, I crossed the finish line.

I ran passed all six points: Dodger Stadium, City Hall, The Walk of Fame, The Sunset Strip, Rodeo Drive, and the Santa Monica Pier.

I ran from the stadium to the sea.

I ran across the entire city of Los Angeles.

I am still in awe of what I did last weekend. It’s pretty unbelievable and I actually did it. I ran a fucking marathon. The athletes who run them for serious competition, my hat is off to you (the men’s winner did it in a time of like two hours and five minutes which is stupid fast). Anyone who finishes a marathon deserves my upmost respect. It’s an amazing accomplishment, and it takes more dedication and heart than I ever thought possible. I am very proud of myself for going through all of the training and finishing the race. It’s something I never thought I would do, or could ever do.

And, goddamnit it, I want to run another one.

I have worked and will keep working... To keep the tradition of my one true motive in life... Music…

Prequel To The Sequel

The modern marathon commemorates the soldier Pheidippides running from a battlefield at the site of the town of Marathon, Greece, to Athens in 490 B.C., bringing news of a Greek victory over the Persians. Legend has stated Pheidippides delivered the momentous message "Niki!" (Victory), and then collapsed and died.

During the first Olympic games in 1896, athletes invoked the legend of Pheidippides by completing a 24.85-mile (40,000 meter) run from Marathon Bridge to Olympic stadium in Athens. At the 1908 Olympic Games in London, the marathon distance was changed to 26.2 miles to cover the ground from Windsor Castle to White City Stadium, with the 2.2 miles added on so the race could finish in front of royal family's viewing box. Over the next sixteen years, over extremely heated discussions, the 26.2-mile distance was established as the official marathon distance at the 1924 Olympics in Paris.

This coming Sunday, thanks to my dear, dear friend, Bridget Blitsch, I will be invoking Pheidippides spirit and running in my first marathon.

Let me expound. Four months ago, during my involuntary hiatus from the TV business, Bridget had begun to train for the 2010 Honda sponsored Los Angeles Marathon. Over very few Facebook conversations and threatening text messages, Bridget convinced me to sign up and run along side her during this test of both mental and physical stability. Mind you, she has since (due to work her busy work schedule) withdrawn from the race and I am now running solo, with twenty-five thousand other people.

The last week of November I took my first steps toward completely this life-changing milestone. Training began rather well, however the future of my training was very uncertain. I had only recently begun to run again after about six months on the injured list with a bruised ligament in my right leg. My legs felt strong, but to be safe, I told people, “I plan on running, as long as my leg holds out.”

December arrived and workouts began to grow in length and difficulty. I began planning my trip home for the holidays and preparing for the eight days I would be outside running in the blistering cold of the Pennsylvania winter. I would have to be outside for five of the days I was home, and only one of those days would leave me in the cold for more than an hour. I could handle that. Easy. No problem. That was until I received a call from Joe Capital V to work on his new pilot for Spike TV with Bam and Dunn. Score!! Hiatus over. SHIT! Where’s that calendar? My eight days of training now extended to eight weeks.

I became nervous, recalling the winters from my youth, walking around in the cold for five minutes here or ten there, and thought there was no way in hell I would make it two months, six days a week out in frigid temperature of New York City. I was having second thoughts about the race, my job being first priority. If I couldn’t fit the training in due to long work hours, or sub-zero temperatures, then fuck it, I’m out. Thankfully (read: sarcasm), and I wish I could remember who said it, someone threw the ol’ Dodgeball reference at me: “Well, I mean, if Lance Armstrong could overcome cancer and win seven Tour’s, you should be able to invoke his spirit and make it eight weeks in the cold.” Goddamn it, I was in.

I went at it full force. Every weeknight, no matter how cold, I ran around Brooklyn. Every weekend, no matter how much the wind burned against my face, I crossed the Williamsburg Bridge into Manhattan. No matter how much snow, I walked the mile to the YMCA to do my secondary workouts. I felt stronger and more excited the faster I got, the longer I could run, and the closer I got to my goal.

I spoke to a lot people during my training and they all had awesome stories to tell me. A woman from Canada recalled the twenty-two mile marker of her first marathon when she came upon a woman, straining to make it that last four miles. Her husband, on a bicycle, beside her, cheered her on, “You’re doing great honey. You look beautiful. You look amazing.” The woman was deliriously exhausted already, so much so, she failed to realize she shit herself (that’s right folks, apparently it’s a common happening) and continued to run the race covered in her own excrement.

My dad regaled me with a story from Idaho of an ex-marathoner who ran a race with a number of pros. A fellow runner was hired to sprint ahead of the pack early on in the race, to make sure the professionals didn’t take the race lightly, much like a fake rabbit in dog racing. The normal job of the “rabbit” is to keep the pros on their toes (I rhymed, damnit) and die off somewhere around midpoint. Well apparently, the professionals, knowing about the hired gun, decided to take it easy and wait for him to quit. He never did. He sprinted the entire length of the course, winning the prize money, and embarrassing the professional runners.

Now here I am, five days out. How do I feel? Physically, I feel sluggish, but it might be due to the fact I’m tapering for race day. The longest stretch I am running this week is four miles (today) and my last workout is Thursday. Despite this, mentally I think I am ready.

Two weekends ago was my longest and most difficult workout. The one where all my training my meant to culminate: I had to run twenty miles; from my front door, to the Manhattan Beach pier and back. The previous weekend I ran eighteen and felt completely exhausted and defeated by the time I finished. This particular Saturday I was ready. I started slow, but after about four miles, I thought to myself, “The slower I run, the longer this is going to take to finish. I wonder if I begin running at pace now how long I can hold out before I die? It’s worth trying, and if I die, I die. At least I know. Funny thing. I didn’t die. I ran the next fourteen and some odd miles at my race day pace, and held it. Well, that is, until the last mile and a half or so the clouds bowled in, hiding the beautiful sun I had leading me, and began to pour. And by pour I mean dump, like monsoon rain. And there I was, so close to the end, worn out, and some how I had it in me to SPRINT the remaining mileage. I don’t know where it came from, but it was there.

Okay, let ask myself again: So do I think I’m ready? Hell yeh! It was a long four months, but an awesome four months. I’ve never felt this healthy or ready for a race in a long time. This is the going to probably be the hardest thing I have ever done. I’m not gonna lie, I’m a little nervous, but I know I’m prepared. I got my two rest days planned out with meals and massages. I’ve done the workouts, I’ve logged the miles, I’ve eaten healthy (you heard me), and drank a shit ton of beer (wait). I’m so ready.

Sunday March 21, 2010 is race day. Twenty-six point two miles.

I’ll see you at the finish line.

This homestretch… I've saved my last breath… I push full throttle, no rest till nothing's left…

The Answer Is "Haircut"

I think I’ve pretty much had my fill of winter. I mentioned to my mom on the phone last week how my family needs to either start having Xmas in the summer or come to my place, because after spending the better part of the last two months in New York (and prior in Philly) I’ve had enough cold weather and winter to last me a few years.

Now, a lot of people might say I have developed the thin blood of a west coaster. Not true. Cold doesn’t affect me as much as my roommates in Venice, but spending day in and day out in freezing temperatures does take its toll. Remember, I spent the first twenty-four years of my life living through bitter east coast winters, but I had enough sense to move away to warmer climates. It’s not that I’m weak; I just hate being cold. Hell, I will always love Philadelphia, it’s where I grew up, but I would never want to live there again.

Sadly, I feel a lot of the negativity I have towards winter has tainted my view of New York City. I almost have the same feeling like I do when I go to Vegas. Vegas is cool for about twelve hours and then I’m over it; leave me enough time to see a cool show and walk through a casino to take some colorful photos, and I’m good.

New York is a great city. I’m having a lot of fun here with a grip of really great friends. I’ve had a great opportunity to see a lot of the wonderful things this city has to offer. Alas (and this may be due to the winter), I’ve had my fill of the big city and I am ready to head back to the beach.

New York just isn’t a city for me. God bless all of you who live here; I’m not here to berate and put down you place of settlement. There are a few things, however, which make it hard for me to get comfortable.

First, obviously is the weather. Fuck winter.

Second, the lack of “friendliness” which is running rampant in this city, and all of the east coast for that matter (another reason I wouldn’t want to be in Philly again). Now, I’m not saying people aren’t friendly, I’ve met and know amazing people who reside here, but I’m talking on a grand scheme. People are trapped in their own world way too much. I get on the subway in the morning and everyone (including myself) has his or her ear buds in, listening to whatever podcast or Indian hip-hop album, which gets them up and at ‘em. Now, I’m not a morning person. I like to listen to my Adam Carolla on my way into work and not really speak to anyone, but you’d think if you saw the same person every morning, eventually you’d start saying hello. Nope. I see the same woman every morning, even run in to her at the gym, she sees me, recognizes me, but doesn’t acknowledge me.

A variation on this is something I noticed last Xmas while I was home in Philly. No one really goes to the bar alone. In Venice, I have a tendency to stroll to the pub myself when I feel parched, and make friends when I get there. Of course, now, I know a number of people in my neighborhood, so I have friends waiting when I arrive. Here though, it seems you can’t walk in, saddle up to an interesting person, and engage them in conversation without them either giving you a strange look or ignoring you. Again, nothing wrong with it. It’s been saving me money because when no one goes out, I stay in and stay warm.

I have a theory: I feel people on the west coast have a skewed view of people from the east coast. Every time you meet someone from the east coast out in LA, they are super nice and friendly. Then when they come to see the east coast, the locals are a lot of the time total dicks. It’s almost as if all of the nice east coasters got sick of all the impoliteness and got the hell away.

Which leads me to this story: I was running in Manhattan my second weekend here. I came to a section of the running trail which is really only wide enough for 2 people to pass, and in front of me there were two gentlemen, one walking one of those tiny little shit dogs. Now, normal politeness would suggest one of the gentlemen step aside and let me pass. Not in New York. Neither person changed their gait or position, leaving me to squeeze by sideways, only slightly slowing down due to the assumption one would give me room. After I accidentally bumped the man without the dog with my shoulder, he gave me a nasty look and “pfffft”ed me, like it was my fault. Oh I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was rude to have to squeeze by you while you took up both halves of the sidewalk. My fault, next time, I’ll swerve into traffic praying I don’t get hit by the salt truck, just so you and the rat on a leash you call a dog can continue on with your day. Hey faggot, go home and fuck your dog with a rusty dildo.

It’s a total cliché, but there are a lot of rude people in this city. Again, a broad generalization, which does not include anyone I know, but the stereotype that New Yorkers are rude, rings true. There are rude people in LA, and trust me, I point it out to them, but here I feel they vastly outnumber the civil population.

I feel it is often inconvenient to do things in the city; getting out to do things always seems like a chore. You need to take two subways, then a bus, and take a cab home because you don’t want to be drunk on a subway at three in the morning. Or maybe you use a car service, which is nicer, but you’re still spending money. Now, in LA, I have a horrible habit of never leaving Venice. It happens to everyone and I’ve discussed this before so I’m not going into too my details.

In New York, there is a little deviation to this concept.

New York has a great public transportation system, in theory. Subways are always running, but your stuck next to a thousand other people sweating in your winter coat for thirty minutes before pouring back out onto the streets, now back soaked in sweat, fighting off the flu virus. If the subway doesn’t run, you’re screwed. You can pretty much find a cab anywhere if you wait five minutes, but there’s always that chance you get a cab driver who has no idea where he’s going and barely speaks English, so you’re using your iPhone to look up the directions and tell him where to go. I don’t know about you, but if I have to tell the cabbie how to take me home, that negates your tip.

The last reason I am ready to leave The Big Apple, is the buildings. I love cities, I love going downtown LA, I love walking through Time Square, SoHo where the Capital V office lives is great. I love walking around, but at this point, I feel almost boxed in, almost as if I haven’t seen the sun in decades. I have developed a slight case of claustrophobia since I’ve been here. Downtown LA is great, but I get to leave it and go back to the nice wide-open beach.

These are all personal preferences of mine. And don’t let my rants deceive you. There are a lot of positives to this city. Although subways are a little cramped, the availability of public transportation is awesome. Also, being the center of the world of commerce, New York is the most culturally diverse city I can think of, which makes for such a clash of ideas and ways of life it makes your head spin and proud to be part of such a melting pot.

I know plenty of people who are happy living here and can’t get enough of winter and snow, and love taking the subway every morning to work, but for my dollar, I’ll take the ground not making me slip and fall down. And traffic on the 10 freeway with my iPod blaring, windows down.

Home… Now that I’m coming home… Will you be the same as I saw you last… Tell me how much time has passed…

So This Is Xmas? Look What You're Done

Coming from someone who doesn’t believe in god, it seems odd I still celebrate the yearly holiday known as Christmas. (That is the last time you will see me use that spelling.) Outside the reality of my disbelief, I can give you a number of reasons why it couldn’t have happened, some of which being: the North Star only appears in the sky in that part of the world in the spring, putting Jesus’ birth most likely in May; the shepherds who apparently were hanging out would not have been in the fields in the middle of winter; The Bible never mentions Jesus was born in a stable, only a manger, meaning he could have been born in a cave for all we know; etc, etc.

The main reason we celebrate on the twenty-fifth is because it masks the pagan holiday of the celebration of the winter solstice. The twenty-fifth is the first day the Egyptians noticed daylight was getting longer after the solstice, December twenty-first. Still, despite all of the negativity surrounded by such an arbitrary holiday, I still travel home every Xmas.

I think for me, Xmas (and by a larger extent, the entire holiday season i.e. Hanukkah, Festivus) has taken on a new meaning, a meaning, which I feel more people should embrace due to the over-religiousness and the over-commercialization of the true holiday season.

For me personally, I think the holidays are less and less about the celebration of the birth of a fictitious character, but more about the celebration of family. It’s one of the few times each year I get to sit down with every member of my immediate family and members of my extended family and see each other and spend time together. That’s the tradition I want to pass down to my family, if I ever get drunk enough to get conned into one. It’s less about how many courses there are in the holy supper, but more about sitting together, wishing each other a great forthcoming year, and reconnecting for one day regardless of where we live in the world and what we believe.

Thanksgiving has become more about good friends who are far from home spending time together and sharing in a shit ton of food, but the holidays are always about family. The city of Los Angeles empties out and rush hour on the 405 freeway is nonexistent. Everyone goes home to the their family to celebrate in whatever way makes them happy to see each other. The looks on my grandmothers’ faces when I return from the west coast, talking video games and cycling with my cousin Shawn, doing shots of Boilo with my dad and sister, and an infinite list of other great memories are what makes the holiday season important to me and gives me a reason to celebrate the Xmas every year.

A very merry Xmas and a happy New Year… Let's hope it's a good one… Without any fear…

Ten Seconds Left Until Midnight...

Okay, so we all have felt the effects of 2009. It was a shitty year for most, if not all of us. I know for me, despite working a good majority of the first part of the year, and getting to spend almost all of those hours working with some of my dearest friends, the year-end brought me back to a really tough place. Honestly, the only major, awe-inspiring moment of my entire year didn’t even take place in this country. Every day of this past year has kinda sucked in some way, except for the glorious alcohol induced euphoria I felt while in Ireland with Fever and Johnny.

However, I’m not here to dwell on the past. Well, yes I am. In the midst of all this crap hole of a year, I did stick to a few of my New Year’s Resolutions. Let’s recap:

1) Get my diet back into gear.

I was pretty successful here. I got it back on track, gave up eating pork, and amazingly, lowered my cholesterol to normal. My family has a history of high cholesterol, which I of course inherited from my dad, but I managed to eat well enough to fix it. Sadly, I put a little weight back on b/c I bruised a ligament in my right leg and couldn’t run for about four months. I began rowing again, but rowing a single just doesn’t recall the love I have for the sport of rowing. Find me a pair partner and I’m in.

2) Record a song/EP.

Okay, in all fairness, I’m going to say I achieved this one. I have written six complete songs and have another three or four, which are started. I am totally ready to record my album.

The reason it hasn’t been completed is because my good friend Pascual Murderface (who I was going to record with) was selected to be the new lead singer for the most brutal band, Pathology, and they recently got signed to my favorite label Victory Records. I say that is way more important than my bullshit, but once they are done in the studio this February, Mr. Murderface and I are going to start arranging the debut album from A War For All Seasons. (I copywrote that shit!)

3) Keep in touch with friends more.

I tried. It worked a little. Getting better. Gonna work on it more this year.

4) Ask Zooey Deschanel out on a date.

Never happened. I went to her yoga class to try to find her, but she never showed up. Oh well. I did have the most excellent pleasure of seeing her in concert earlier this year, and that was pretty awesome. And I’ll probably go see her play again this upcoming April.

But now 2010 has begun. It already has a better feel than last year. I was saying towards the end of last year that I needed a little break from LA, not like I’m over it, just felt like I needed a little rejuvination, and I got it. I am writing this post from Dooner’s couch in Brooklyn, New York, where I am working on a pilot with most of the Viva la Gang and a few new friends we’ve made along the way. I have high hopes for this year. So with no further adieu, here is my plan for the new year.

1) Run a marathon.

This is actually something I decided to do back in October. I am just about halfway thru my training. My good friend Bridget ran it last year, and she convinced me to give it a try along side her this year. My leg has healed, and I haven’t been this driven to compete in or complete something in a long time. I am so stoked on it, my training is going swimmingly, and not even the winter wind in New York can stop me.

2) Break my routine and try new things.

This is a little vague. One thing I promised myself when I moved to California, I was going to take up as many hobbies as I could and try things I couldn’t necessarily do easily growing up in Pennsylvania. Again, I acted on this one already too. I joined a softball team this year with a lot of old friends from Punk’d while making a grip of new friends along the way. Total Protonic Reversal was born and for once in my life, I look forward to Mondays. Maybe I’ll travel more, not necessarily aboard, but maybe more weekend trips, or maybe come home more. Just want to broaden my world a little bit more.

3) Stop taking the beach for granted.

Okay, I’m an asshole. I live four blocks from the ocean; seven minutes and forty seconds from my front door to the water’s edge. I was in the ocean twice last year. TWICE! And once was in Oceanside with the Holemans. That is sad. Growing up as the kid who would jump in the swimming pool on day one when the water was fifty-eight degrees, only to say he was the first one in the pool, it’s sad. Being the dude, who after the fall rowing season would go to the beach for a weekend and go body surfing mid-November, it’s no bueno. So this year I’m going to get off my ass, and do more than run along the boardwalk. I’m definitely going to relax and read more at the beach, take time to watch the sunset, definitely take the brand spanking new Magic Slipper to cruise some tasty waves, and soak up as much sun as humanly possible.

I think that’s a good start. Like last year, I’m sure I will end up picking up a few more things along the way to add to my list. But until that time arrives, I will push onward with my workouts, with my spontaneity, and with more frequent trips to the Pacific.

[My album reviews are on the way. Once I get some pesos from the job, I’ll go out and pick up all of the 2009 albums I’m behind on and I’ll give you definitive list. I know you are totally worried about my musical picks for best albums of this past year. Screw the Grammys.]

Nine chances to drown ourselves in black hair dye… Eight faces turned away from the shock… Seven windows and Six of them were locked… Five stories falling… Forever and ever… Three cheers to the mirror… Now there are Two of us…

Can we have One last chance?...