Voxacrush

...you have to cut yourself to remember you're alive.

Life is what you make it, and make of it. Yeah. I'll die someday. I'm working towards accepting my mortality. But, for today...

There's nothing like a moshpit in front of Metallica and 19,000 head-banging lunatics to remind me how fragile and beautiful life is. Teenagers and fortysomethings. Raw vitality and awkward resistance. Generations apart, but united and tangible energies. Living. Alive. And nothing else matters.....

Its been well over a month since my last post. My time on Vox has slowed to a fraction of what it was a couple of years ago. There's many reasons. Some of it is Vox's fault. I don't need to go into detail as its been well documented both here and in my hood. Some of it is that my hoodies have disappeared, or simply abandoned me as a neighbor. I'm easy to miss if I'm only updating my Vox page once or twice a month. I understand that, and no hard feelings if you're one of those that used to drop in. That leads me to the third and most prevalent reason for my minimal Vox time: Me.

Sure, the nanobots in my corporate IT department finally got wise and blocked Vox from my desktop. Perhaps they noticed that I spent as much as an hour a day here. What they haven't noticed, I'm certain, is that my productivity has likely dropped significantly by removing Vox as my daily distraction from the grind.

Ah yes...the grind. The grind has all but killed my spirit these last couple of years. The grind is primarily responsible for my withdrawal...Microcosmically from Vox; and macrocosmically from life.

I am not a defeatist, but I feel defeated. Life has finally got the better of me.

Have you ever read the articles that discuss the top stressors in a human's life? About 10 years ago, I slogged through 8 of the top 10 life stresses simultaneously. (The list was compiled from a survey of doctors and published in some some health/fitness magazine. They update it every year.) I'm not really excited about looking for the list right now, but you can guess most of them....  Divorce, loss of a job/unemployment, general emotional or physical trauma, loss of an immediate family member, financial troubles, addictions, health problems, moving, raising a young child, etc etc etc  Anyway, I simultaneously battled 8 of the top 10 and remember being emboldened by the fact that I was beating it. Life tried to kick my ass and I fought back. As I emerged beyond these stresses one by one  and over the course of a couple of years, my confidence never wavered. In fact, it made me stronger and more confident than I already was, in the knowledge that I could conquer the most stressful things that life can throw at you.  I did it without the support of a significant other. I did it without the crutch of prescription drugs. I did it alone. I did it.

Today, when perhaps only 2 or 3 of the top 10 stressors plague me, I am ready to throw my hands up and wave the white flag. What happened? Where did the confident, proud, breast-beating man go? I can make little sense of my emotions these days. I'm neither happy nor unhappy. I am thankful for what I have, but discontent in it. I yearn for a better life, or perhaps, just the life I used to live. What's missing? Can I regain my confidence and reemerge happy and content in my own skin? Or, is it necessary to shed my old skin, and rise as a Phoenix with new feathers just to cope? Or, has the grind finally caught up to me, exhausting my finite God-given pool of ability and capability forevermore?

The answer is within. That much I know. But today, as I stare into the abyss, it is empty. The very skin that has served me well in all my years before this, is weathered and scaly. My armor is rusted and the elements have seemingly won. The fire that I need to burn within, instead burns all around me, scorching my now-naked skin. The Phoenix is late in coming to this metaphor of life....

As some of you may or may not remember, I penned a list of 29 'Life's To Do's' at age 16. It's been the cause of much angst recently, as I am realizing I will never be able to cross 3 of those items off. EVER. Life has simply passed those opportunities by. While I hold 'the list' to the highest level of confidentiality, I'll share one example: Item #20 was to play at least one game of NHL professional hockey. And, while I rose to the semi-pro level briefly, playing for a regional team for a couple of years, I won't be needing Scott Boras or Jerry Maguire anytime soon. The game is simply too competitive for an old fart like me.

But, 'the List'-induced melancholia of recent days was tempered with a dose of exaltation today. I ran 10.5 miles today in my training for the half marathon in September. Item # 10 on the list? 'Run 10 miles without stopping, ' in verbiage that gives away my mid-teen authorship. ;-)   Anyway, even during the days of triple sessions summer workouts in high school, Navy flight training, and semi pro hockey, the most I ever ran at one time was 6 miles. Today, I eclipsed that mark--some 20 years later at age 40 something, and crossed the 17th item off the list of 29.

So, if 3 items just aren't achievable at this point, that leaves 9 more to-do's before I become one of the lost souls in my own Thriller video. When that time comes, I hope my dance will be one of celebration and victory, having kicked the ass of this crazy and sole go-around we all get.

Carpe Diem, my friends!

...my annual male bonding week, of course.

Every year, my old squadron buddies and I meet up in Vegas and plunder the city for everything its famous for. Well, maybe not everything, but you'll have to determine which of Sin City's sins Crush will partake of.

My buds and I, about 4 to 6 strong annually, have been meeting in Vegas since the Tailhook days. If you're too young to remember Tailhook and the horrible escapades, press and publicity for the military, here's a link:

Now, I obviously don't condone sexual harrassment or any other form of abuse, but let me tell you: Until 1991, when the wheels came off the funbus, Tailhook was a blast. In the four years that I attended (by the way, I missed 1991 because I was deployed overseas), I never once saw any incident like what transpired in 1991. Drunken revelry? Sure. Nudity? Yep. Men and women engaging in consentual adult activities? Absolutely. Rape and/or harassment? Never.

Tailhook was a celebration of youth for a bunch of young men and women who put their lives on the line in the name of freedom. Men and women who could land a screaming, rocket-fueled beast, strapped to their asses on a postage stamp in a raging sea. It was a time to forget the responsibilities of being a military officer, and a time to forget protocol. We try to recapture the bacchinalia and carpe-diem of our 20's each year when we return....

Really though, all it is is a pathetic attempt to try to retain a modicum of our youth. Me and the boys are all 40 somethings now... failed marriages, custody fights, battle scars of life in our wakes now. No tales of victory from the front lines. Just embellished stories of yesterday, mixed with a bit of hope for tomorrow.

Though we're all in decent shape for our ages (competetive eff that I am, I am the hardest bod of the lot ;-) ), there's a pot belly and a bald head or two in the bunch. We've lost a step or three since the 90's. Now? We are the lecherous and gross old guys among the 20 somethings that flock to Vegas. But, we don't let it get to us one bit. We know we're still the shit. And, we'll outclass the poser males of gen-Y and have them buying us drinks while we're showing them up.

My fly boy buds would give the shirt off their backs for me and for our country. They love their kids and their families. They are generous, honest guys and I wouldn't be surprised if we're still meeting up in Vegas in our 60's and beyond. How pathetic cool is that?

Back in the saddle again...just a handful of days, but it can't get here soon enough. Sin City may never be the same...

...my first opportunity to pull up Vox in well over a week. I feel like I should post something, but I just spent the last hour catching up on all the posts in my hood and now I'm late for my run. BTW, I started training for Kilimanjaro last month. I'm already up to 6.5 miles with a half marathon in my sights for September. Other than that, not much new here. Working like a dog and working for the man still aint no fun.

Miss you all. I'll check in when I can.

...for my beloved Bruins, and for my Vox life. This has not been a good day for me.

I haven't posted here nearly as much as I used to. But, Vox has remained a welcome, almost-daily distraction to my workday. Its become routine, almost like a cigarrette, where I would pull up my Vox 3-4 times a day when I needed a break from the intensity, emotion and frustration of the day.

Within my small hood, and beyond, I've found such talent and amazing insight here on Vox. Art, photography, music, poetry--its all here---incredible, award worthy stuff, at my fingertips. Its helped me retain my sanity, which was often called into question over these past months.

But, now, alas...its all over. Having escaped the firewalls, security and proxy settings of Big Brother since I first became a member in Dec 2006, my dark little secret has been discovered and all access blocked. Vox just won't feel the same as an occasional weekend Vox warrior or late night troll.

Vox never needed me. My talents lie outside of the realm of anything Voxable. But, I've needed Vox.

Perhaps the timing is right, for this to have happened now. I've been extremely frustrated, having lost more than a handful of posts after toiling hours on a story or life snippet. And then there's the PMs that have been smashed into a bazillion electrons and scattered throughout cyberspace, but never reaching its intended recipient. And now, with Vox's sister, Twitter, the minutia of life is more popular than ever. I just can't relate to that. Much like a teenager to a parent, perhaps I've outgrown Vox. I feel I still need it as a part of my life, but I really don't. Or, do I?

The bonds I've made here are stronger than my diminished presence. You know who you are. I'll still be around. You'll just have to do without my witty banter and clever commentary while I figure out just how infrequent my visits here will ultimately become.

Have a good weekend all. See you around the hood...I'll just be that creepy old guy down the block, that you only see every week or two...

Almost forty years after release of Morrison Hotel, and 38 years after he recorded his final note, Jim Morrison still kicks ass. Period. Today's music is, by and large, shit by comparison.

It had been a while since I had a music post, so...enjoy this little 3 minute psychedelic trip back to the 70s.

JM

Peace Frog

The Doors

Lizard King

*Thanks to my music guru, Heather, for reminding me how great this music still is!

1. Don't do this:

Sure way to get swine flu

2. Don't do that.

B

Bye bye, Habs...Not this time. Not this year.

Habs fail

Bring it home, baby...

uh huh

Who's next???

By the way, Montreal, isn't karma a bitch? Booing during an opponent's national anthem is simply poor taste. This Boston/Montreal rivalry is intense and full of great history. As much as I despise the Habs for how they frequently beat up my Bruins, I respect the history and the great players enough to know that jeering during 'O, Canada' is not acceptable under any circumstances. (Isn't it enough satisfaction to know that O, Canada kicks the Star Spangled Banner's ass as far as anthems go???) You should similarly respect my anthem, but you frequently choose not to. I think this blogger put it best, although its apparent that it bothers this guy a bit more than I :

" And to you motherfuckers that boo national anthems: sadly this is not something that is limited to Montreal, as it would give me just one more reason to hate all your asses. When the song is being sung, clasp your hands in front of you and Shut. The. Fuck. Up. If it's your national anthem, put your hand over your heart. You don't need to sing, but you need to Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Don't take a sip of your beer, don't point out something to your buddy, don't do a fucking thing. Stand there for the sixty seconds and Shut. The. Fuck. Up. This goes for every national anthem. I don't care if it's Russia's or Iraq's or fucking Kerplakistan's. I don't care if it's obvious that some poor little country "wrote" some fucking song that sounds exactly like "Wake Me Up Before You Go" by Wham!. Shut your fucking suckholes and afford some fucking respect to a country's song.

And God fucking help you if I'm within choking distance when I see you disrespecting a national anthem, you classless assclots."

I've written frequently, of late, of my fears for our country, its citizens,  and our economy. To a lesser extent, I've specifically referenced my own personal financial catastrophe. While I don't feel the need to have to clarify myself or justify the thoughts in my own blog (that's a what a blog is about, for chrissakes!) I do want to expound a bit on some of the things I've written. Because, though none of you know me personally, I don't wish to be misunderstood or viewed in a light that is undeserved...admittedly self-serving reasons for why I write below.

These days, I am consumed with the US and global economies, the stock market, our banking system and all of the concurrent work stresses associated. All of those things are true, but the casual reader may be under the impression that the source of my stress and depression is simply money and lost dollars. Money is not the issue. While my career centers on the creation of wealth, the largest and far more important factor is the preservation of wealth and the extension of that wealth's utilization. Further, the way I view my career, is that I am a facilitator, purser and steward of my client's dreams. I realize that denouncing any connection to money would be foolish and delusional, and that many of my clients may be the money-grubbing, material-possession-consumed simps that you believe I cater to.  (Speaking only to those that view me as one of those Wall Street fatcats that got what I deserved.) However, through the years and in the process of building my clientele, I have gravitated towards the people that have commendable and, in many cases, charitable lifetime goals. I wont say that I don't have a handful of clients that simply want to get their hands on mo' money and only want to impress their 'friends', family and neighbors with their flashy cars, houses, and jewelry. Whether they have 5 million or 50 million, it would never be enough for them. Honestly though, I can count those clients on one hand. The majority of my day is spent trying to ensure that the wealthy widow can leave a legacy to the runaway foundation that helped get her through her teen years some 60 years ago. It is making sure that the parents of a 20-years-ago cancer survivor (who is now 32 years old, recently married and has a child) can give back to those that helped them, by helping to build the new wing in the Joe DiMaggio Children's Hospital. It is leaving a pool of money large enough to send every grandchild to college, when they, themselves, were not afforded that opportunity. It is being comfortable enough that you can assemble an extended family of 40 people for a 10 day cruise to essentially 'say goodbye' after being diagnosed with Hodgkins.

It is NOT about getting your hands on as many dollars as you can, and having more than your neighbor. It is NOT about a year end bonus. It is NOT about having to live in a duplex versus a 6000 square foot home with 6 bathrooms. It is not about driving a 2009 Bentley versus a 1993 Honda Civic. Those of you that believe it is can stop reading now.

Anyway, I really don't want to get on a high horse here, but...my bane is not so much about wealth being destroyed as it is are about dreams being crushed and promises not kept. All I have in this world is my word, and while many things are beyond my control, I cannot help but feel remorse and sympathy for the hundreds of dreams now shattered upon the rocks of a broken capitalist system of questionable trust. That system, misguided though it may be, was the vehicle upon which my worth (NOT money), my life's work was based. This was never a job for me. Let me say it again...It was my life's work. It was the work of my life...my calling. Though it compensated me well through many of those years, there were many meager years as well. It didn't matter how much I made. I consistently helped others and felt good about it. That has all changed in the blink of an eye. Perhaps it is the same eye that sits atop the pyramid on the back of our currency.

My hands were at the controls. The plane crashed while I was the pilot in command. It may have been due to mechanical failure and not pilot error, but that does not dissolve the human tragedy of the lives that have been lost. No hearts have stopped beating in this case, but this tragedy has similar repercussions upon those that have been unfortunate enough to have felt the long reaching fingers of its devastation. While I realize I am not personally responsible; moreover, that 99% of my clients do not hold me personally accountable, it is little consolation to see so many promising and deserving futures smashed in the matter of a few short months. Trust me. I realize the loss of wealth is nothing compared to loss of life. I have not lost sight of that fact. But, I am not a doctor. I hold no one's physical well being in my hands. I am merely my client's (and my own) dream weaver and keeper. Those dreams, once vivid and within grasp have suddenly gone dark. In some cases, the bright, colorful and happy visions are now menacing, demonic nightmares.

Overly dramatic? Perhaps, but it is MY world, and it has crumbled before me. Try explaining that to the family that saw you as the figurehead of a system they trusted. You were the guardian of their dreams, and their dreams were pure, noble and benevolent. They were not dreams of 80 foot yachts and $60,000 diamond encrusted Rolexes. They were dreams of charitable foundations, reciprocating good deeds and higher education. Then explain it again and again until you've done it 100 times over. Finally, explain to your own 12 year old daughter why she can't go to the school she loves so dearly next year...see if that doesn't make a lesser man fall to his knees into a desperate heap of self-loathing.

Money? Fuck. This isn't about money. I had it; now I don't. This is about worth, in the most non-monetary sense of the word. Its about self respect. I'd just like to feel like my life's work wasn't founded on an ill conceived notion that trusting and entrusting others is ALWAYS the wrong decision. I was entrusted. With their trust firmly in hand, I then chose to trust others, when there were only lies, deceit and greed to fill my cup. I passed that cup to far too many, and to the benefit of none.

I've lost my desire to help my fellow man, because my fellow man has repeatedly kicked me in the grapes, and yet, somehow....

I am solely to blame for all that is evil and ailing in this world. The world needs a scapegoat. And so, I am it.