Do The Write Thing

I thought I wanted to be a writer. But the idea of it was too overwhelming. And I assumed it would be too lonely. So I never pursued it. But now, at 40, I think my high school self was on to something. I often remember my past self as the smarter version of me. I'm only getting older and more cynical. I have a pit in my stomach that life has passed me by. Not because I can't do what I assumed I would, but because my age is yet another excuse to never try. Because trying is work. I want to play. I get stressed just worrying about if people like me. I can't add to that stress by worrying that I maybe wasting my time writing something no one will care about. My college self marveled at all the books in Gustavus library. Most of them that hadn't been touched in decades. These author's hard and long thought-out words ignored, forgotten. I don't want to be forgotten. I think it's my biggest fear. I want kids, but not because I want to raise the next generation, but because they can carry on my legacy. It's selfish really. But, in my defense, I think we all are concerned with our own legacy. I'm worthy of legacy. You are worthy of legacy. But I think back to all the relationships I've been in that have faded (romantic and platonic): Life is telling me that I'm wind, just passing through. I'm not important enough for them anymore, the ones who really knew me, so why would I be important to a future generation of strangers?

Ready for a tangent? Good. I'm skinny. I always have been. Like, painfully thin. I can't remember who first called me that but it still makes me chuckle. The past few years, though, I've noticed a gut forming. A belly I can jiggle. It's kind of fun. It's something new I can play with. Unfortunately I also wish I didn't have it. My grandpa had diabetes. He used to be rail thin before drinking enough beer and candy to force his body to fight back. I don't want to be him. I want to fix my gut. But, honestly, I don't want to put in the work. If I just disciplined myself to doing sit-ups every night, I believe I could get rid of this tummy. But my mind stops me. THIS is what I want to spend my time doing? I hate the gym bros who live in the weight room. Who are they trying to impress? Women? Their friends? Themselves? I don't want to get caught up in that mess. That waste of time. I'd rather obsess over legacy.

What I'm trying to say is this: I lie to myself all the time. Anything that doesn't seem like it'd "pay off" in the long run, I avoid. I may be lazy, but it's more than that. My mind bounces to career goals, to societal and community ones, to romantic fantasies so fast that I never get anything done. Because even IF someone assured me that if I put 10 to 20 years into ONE thing and that it would make the world a better place, I might STILL opt out because it's too hard or monotonous or I'd lose interest and wouldn't give my best. So, I tell myself that writing comes with a risk: that nobody will care. So write for you. Write because it's like walking the dog or feeding the cat- it's something you have to do. But writing, for me, seems so self-indulgent. I create for others. And that's my problem. That's my current cross. I'm hung up on the WHO [am I doing this for] rather than what do I want to say. I'm publishing and critiquing it before it's written. But I'm not a publisher or a critic. I need to be in control. I need to guarantee success in order to motivate myself to do it.

Maybe I should take up line dancing. Or sign up for guitar lessons. Or enroll in a biology class at the nearby community college. I need to be okay with DOING without any expectations. I need to fail and continue because I like the challenge. And I need to do it alone so I don't blame or rely on anyone but me. Because I have a difficult time being alone. Just the thought of it makes me ask a friend to lunch or say yes to helping someone out or going to multiple movies in one week. I want company. My fears over shadow my desires. I talk myself out of my desires because there's always tomorrow. Don't be so hard on yourself! But if I'm not, I might not do anything. I might sit at home, alone, and do nothing. Now that sounds like a waste of time, space, and life. So, at 40, I fight the urge to do nothing. I also fight the spark of ego that tells me I'm greater than. Humility is unforturnately a core value of mine. My brain is staging a fight between my morals and passions.

It's 1:28am. Sleep is a good reason to stop this pattern of frustration. I can just turn it off. Or maybe I stay up until 5:43am arguing with my fears until I figure out a game plan. Force the fears to show themselves, explain themselves, make a case for staying around. Because fears aren't irrational. In fact, they're very logical. Maybe they'll make some convincing points. Or maybe they're all talk, all bully, all facade. As much as I like wasting time guessing what could happen (I've listened to too much sports talk radio over the years), I'm going to sit in it. I'm going to confront my doubts- most of which I have manufactured myself. But I'm going to stop asking questions. I'm going to channel my high school self and go for it. When I find something precious, I usually hold on to it too long. This time I'm going to share it. I'm going to push the boundaries of perceived possibility. I'm going to pretend I'm back in 9th or 13th grade- I had nothing to lose when I was brand new. And that's when I'm historically at my best. That's when I experiment and my creativity comes alive.

I'm getting drowsy. My dreams are whispering "We want to play!" Okay, okay, I'll put my spiral of conscious disappointments aside in exchange for wild imagination- none of it which I'll remember. When I wake up, though, I'll be ready to continue that strangely common lucid, realer-than-life dream. I've been having a lot of those lately. Time to embrace it instead of mourn it. This will be my entertainment. No need for solo movie theater outings anymore (or as much...I think the concept of balance was created for a reason). No more helping others over yourself. No more avoiding sitting down to write. And if I'm lucky, maybe, just maybe, a nightmare will rattle me out of any fears that prevent progress. I'm exhausted and sleepy enough to try. I'm nodding. I'm gone. Let the dreams begin.

'Celtics City' Documentary Review

 It's not just about basketball. Sure, this HBO documentary series is focused on the Boston Celtics - the most decorated NBA franchise of all time - but, like the outstanding sports documentaries before it (i.e. Hoop Dreams, ESPN's 30 for 30, The Battered Bastards of Baseball), it's about history, culture, people. Besides having a flare for the dramatic like The Last Dance (Netflix, ESPN), it doesn't shy away from the good, the bad, and the ugly when it comes to truths about race relations in Boston - a central theme throughout. Or the mental and physical toll of high-level competition. Or causing me to reflect on my own journey. 

I grew up playing basketball. I loved it. Yes, I was always tall for my age, but I would have played regardless. My grandfather, Henry Bishop, played for the University of Minnesota. That was my first life goal that I remember making: To play Division 1 basketball. I never reached that goal. I ended being recruited by Division 3 schools and ultimately chose Gustavus Adolphus College (St. Peter, MN) over St. Olaf College (Northfield, MN) because they had a better basketball team and gave a more enthusiastic campus tour. I didn't even end up playing my Freshmen year because I was diagnosed with Marfans Syndrome and was recommended not to. After my first year of college, I sought out a second opinion. This time my doctor communicated with an expert from Johns Hopkins and cleared me to play under one condition: No weightlifting. Perfect, I thought, I hate weightlifting. After varsity try-outs with the assumption that I'd make it, I was humbled to find out I that I'd start the season on JV. That's right, D3 schools have JV teams. I started, but was still embarrassed. I quickly realized that without hitting the weights, I'd never be bumped up to varsity. I had underestimated how strong, talented, and competitive D3 schools actually were. My altered dream of transferring to a small D1 school like Drake after a few successful years at Gustavus started to slip away. In late December of that sophomore year, I twisted my ankle pretty badly in a pick-up game. I needed to have my ankle taped the rest of the season and after losing my starting spot, I hobbled out of the game I thought I loved. I shifted gears to focus on theater and extra-curricular activities and organizations that I wouldn't have had the time for if I was dedicated to the sport that had engulfed me since 3rd grade. But I didn't just love the game. I loved what I got out of basketball: teamwork, service, exercise, strategy, camaraderie, problem solving, understanding assholes (basketball players are some of the biggest punks I've ever met), character, dealing with disappointment, selflessness, taking direction, toughness, flexibility- I can go on and on. Sports are a crash course on what kind of person you decide to become. The lessons I learned on the court have served me well as an actor, teacher, manager, driver, and all the other odd jobs I've had over the years. 

Celtics City is compelling because it's relatable. And you don't have to have been an athlete. It pulls the curtain back on why people act the way they do. It digs deeper. I could relate to Celtic Great Bill Russell. Maybe not the player (I can't imagine the weight of winning 11 championships and being a Player/Coach) or the black civil rights activist in the '60s, but as a person who questions his purpose beyond a day-to-day job. What's my responsibility to my community, our country, the world? Am I doing enough with the platform I have? What do you do if you don't receive the respect you know you've earned? Now Russell's sudden retirement makes a lot more sense. Sometimes you need to remove yourself from a situation when you're not getting as much as you're giving. I could relate to former guard Quinn Buckner saying "We're all trying to prove we're worthy." He's right. This is why Larry Bird played through back issues towards the end of his career. This is why I continue to act in Los Angeles instead of heading home to Minnesota to become a full-time teacher. I could relate to journalist Howard Bryant reminding us "There are certain sounds and certain games that don't just take you back to the game. They take you back to where you were at that point in your life." These time markers stir up memories of who we were and remind us of who we are. I can name dozens of games I played in and attended that make me reflect on my past: Am I honoring my 9th grade self who never quit and fearlessly led the charge to slay the giant (aka Mounds View) in my middle school back gym? Additionally, I appreciated the idea that the fans love a guy who was unapologetically themselves: Bob Cousy, Russell, John Havlicek, Dave Cowens, Robert Parish, Bird, Paul Pierce, Kevin Garnett, Rajon Rondo, Jrue Holiday. These Celtic legends encourage me to continue to push back against impulses to be a people-pleaser. The right people will like you, Michael, when you stop trying to be everything to everyone. "You can't change who you are," sportswriter Jackie MacMullan muses (in reference to Bird who many speculate would have had a longer career if didn't recklessly throw around his body as much). These lessons go beyond basketball. 

Sports, and basketball is no different, have been branded as gritty and tough as a marketing tool, but Celtics City celebrates sensitive moments throughout: Interviews with daughters and wives of deceased players and coaches, honoring the tragic deaths of Len Bias and Reggie Lewis, former Celtics fondly sharing stories about their beloved teammates, and a memory lane conversation between Bill Simmons and his dad, William, who shared "It was neat to have this common thing to go to that we both enjoyed watching. We enjoyed being together. And that was the most important reason for me to have the [season] tickets." Yep. It's not just about basketball.

This docuseries is a beautiful tribute to what basketball represents. It's a sport that will continue to teach life lessons long after I'm gone. Its history will not be forgotten because of films like these. Most admirably, Celtics City has something in it for everyone. It holds a mirror up to a slowly changing culture. It's a reminder. What did racism look like in the 50s? What does it look like today? Are we getting better as a society? What did a team, a family look like in the 80s? What does it look like today? Are we coming together or moving apart? Is winning a true mark of success? Like any great work of art, Celtics City asks the questions, provides some insight, and by the end, challenges us to consider what kind of future we want to see chronicled in a documentary 50 years from now. The ball is our court. 

It's been awhile!

If you're reading this, thank you.  If you're not, go f- why am I speaking to someone who's not there?  Shake it off, Michael.  Dear Reader, I appreciate your curiosity.  Even if you simply had a few extra minutes and you're bored of scrolling through your News Feed, I'll take it.  I haven't been writing very much in the past few years.  I'm starting up this blog again to change that.  For me, writing is an opportunity for internal growth and external encouragement.  I think a lot.  Sometimes so much that I prevent myself from being in the moment and experiencing the life right in front of me.  I need to get my thoughts on paper or else they swirl around my head until they trick me into self doubt.  Writing is therapeutic.  And a release.  It's also a way to share my story.  When I'm acting on set or the stage, I'm reciting someone else's words, someone else's story.  This is a good thing.  But what about my story?  Lately when I have been inspired, I've been journal-ing (pen to paper is a refreshing break from LCD screens), typing emo poetry (a term used with pride), and starting to write a few short films/web series' I hope to one day finish.  So, to stay motivated and disciplined, I've decided to dust off the 'ol blog and will be gracing my social media with a a weekly post.  Maybe you can relate to my poems, stories, and thoughts.  Maybe they'll make you think.  Or maybe you're the guy who I aggressively told to go f- once again, Michael- why are you speaking to ghosts? 

A quick thought before sharing a short short story and poem.  Are you a complainer?  Now God knows I've done my fair share of talking trash, so I'm not leaving myself out of the mix here, but why does there seem to be an overwhelming desire to talk about how much you've been wronged?  I mean on a daily basis I overhear and directly listen to more gossip, character assassination and bitching about how I'm right and they're wrong than I hear about how sweet their friends are or how they plan to rise above the adversity.  It's come to the point where I refuse to even vent because I know how quickly that can turn into complaining.  And often times when I finally hear friends, acquaintances or strangers speak positively, they do it in the form of self indulgence.  Where has humility gone?  Well, I don't want to beat a dead horse here or fall into the trap of complaining about complaining, so I'll stop.  But for the record, I have a whole lot more to say.  And now for that story and poem...

Interruption

Walking briskly in the light April rain, Morris lifted his head and smiled at the charcoal sky. He always enjoyed quiet hikes in the forest. Leaving the city reminded him of how simple and beautiful life used to be before technology sped everyone up. Morris slid his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Wait a minute, he thought. I'm missing my wallet. He always put his wallet in his front right pocket instead of the traditional right butt pocket for two reasons: One, he hated the feeling of being uneven when he sat down. And two, he figured it would be exponentially more difficult to pick-pocket him this way. Morris looked around at the ground. No black leather to be found. His heart dropped. He checked his pockets one more time. Hold on. Why didn't he notice this before? His cell phone was no longer in his front left pocket. Once again, he frantically scanned the ground. Nothing. Morris started to panic. How are people suppose to get a hold of him? What if someone is maxing out his credit cards right now? And even if they were, he wouldn't even be able to call to cancel them. He instinctively reached in his pockets again. Shit. This can't be happening. No keys. Both pockets, completely empty. Morris was stranded. He had lost the three most important items in his world: phone, wallet, keys. He began retracing his steps. Nothing but brown, wet leaves. The rain started to pick up.

She's Just A Friend(?)

I already went down the rabbit hole.

It's too late.

When I work up courage to ask and you say no,

I'll have to recalculate.

This heart can only be stretched so much 

Before it deflates.

The risk of having hope 

Has become too great.

So how do I find a balance

When I'm searching for a soul mate?

Stand-Up Bit: The Entertainment Industry

     I have a lot of free time. I'm an actor. Not one of those, “I'm an actor...well actually I'm a waiter who hopefully one day will be an actor.” Those people are the true heroes. I'm the asshole who has a goofy look so commercial casting directors are like “He's hilarious...looking! Hire him!” I mean, I'll never be a movie star- Hollywood only has the capacity for one character actor every year (yay, J.K. Simmons! It only took Hollywood 20 years and 40 Farmer's Insurance ads to realize your talent). So, since my odds of being a movie star are the same as it is for black, Latino, and Asian actors (slim to none)- the joke is ultimately on me. When is being a white male going to benefit me in the fantasy world like it has in the real world? Anyway, as long as I'm booking these commercials I don't need another job which frees up my afternoons. I don't need another job because the money you get from commercials is asinine. I once was in a DiGiorno's spot where I was on screen for this long: one missis- DONE! I almost made 6-figures on that commercial. I don't deserve it for a second. But it's mine to waste as I choose. Yeah, the Fair's in August- I get it- but in acting, the fair NEVER COMES.

     So, as I'm living “the dream” by being a working actor, I get pretty bored. So, I try and volunteer and teach and whatnot. I do it because giving back is truly important, but I'd be delusional if I didn't also do it because I don't know what else to do with my time. You can only watch so many episodes of Mad About You eat so many handfuls of Raisenets. When you sit around and do nothing you feel like you're wasting God's time. God, Buddha, your spirit animal- put you on this earth not just to sit around your crappy apartment all day wishing you were somewhere else. If I don't do something- I'll be just as worthless as when I'm on the set of a commercial. “Michael, they'll be shooting your 1 second clip for a product you could care less about in 8 hours, so just relax, grab some dried seaweed, relax, and let me know if you need anything.” Meanwhile, the crew is getting yelled at for not going fast enough. It's a mess. Welcome to Hollywood. Ba, ba, ba-ba-ba-ba (Farmer's theme song). Man, that's catchy. If these jingle-makers put their efforts into something actually useful for society, we wouldn't have to hear Michael Jackson's Heal The World for the millionth time. I've got nothing against MJ, but can we have a cool version of a quality social message instead of cool versions of people singing about “Face down, booty up” and “Baby I'm preying on you tonight.” Pitbull and Maroon 5- what a waste of talent.

      I hate top 40 music with a passion. It was the original YouTube video. You know, something everyone watches because they're told they should? After you see it you're like “That was awful...but if everyone else liked it, maybe I should too.” And once you watched the video, your view is used as “proof” that it's popular. You can't take back a view on YouTube even if you hate it. 80 million views! Yeah, but it has 40 million thumbs down and 20 million sarcastic comments. Doesn't matter. 80 million views! Any publicity is good publicity. Right, Bill Cosby? Such bullshit. Why am I in this industry? I would sleep much easier at night if I was doing something valuable like teaching 5th graders. So why don't I quit? What, and leave entertainment up to the “Face down, booty up” people? Not a chance. I'm J.K. Simmons- thank you for your time!

We Are Robots

Ah, the trials of pursuing an acting career!  Here are the realities of chasing what the unknowing would call "The Dream."  Hopefully "Stay In Character" and the Spoken Word piece "Extra By Way Of Specking:* Day 1 (Welcome To The Dream) provide some insight on the entertainment industry.

*Specking- slang for those who are not hired for a job but show up to the job site anyway in hope that if someone already hired does not show, they can work in the absent person's place.

Stay In Character

“Thank you for your time! It was great meeting you!”

Forced smiles have become natural as she waves goodbye to her next hope at living the dream,

Of getting one step closer to that one role that would make all this worth it.

She closes the door without turning her back the casting directors-

Leaving them with one last image of her cast-able face

(She's been trained well).

Once safely out of the room she releases a muffled sigh-

Not out of the clear yet.

Don't give them an excuse to throw your headshot in the trash.

The receptionist, casting associates, the intern-

One wrong move....

If she's not professional, smiling, responsive,

The blacklist is waiting.

She's replaceable.

There are thousands who look like her.

She knows this.

Fears this.

Ignores this

Because out of all these pretty girls,

She has to believe her

Hair shines brighter, eyes spark more intrigue and curves attract extra attention.

They have to...

They must.

She's going to make all the right moves and meet all the right people.

Otherwise she might as well move back home and live the life she knows

(Her mother wouldn't mind).

“Thank you for your help!”

The receptionist is on the phone and gives her a nod with a instinctual smile.

She walks through spotless glass doors to the outside, swings a right, and

Takes in a deep breath of smog-soaked air

With the looming sun-drenched sky beating down on her-

No sign of happiness,

Just relief.

She walks briskly- the last thing needed is another parking ticket.

Approaching a '91 Toyota Camry with three missing hubcaps

And a peeling, unrecognizable college window-sticker,

She opens the door, gets into the sauna and quickly rolls down windows.

Air conditioning stopped working four years ago-

Which was when she considered majoring in elementary education.

She starts the car with three and a half turns of the key

And quickly pulls out of her metered spot on Highland.

She has 13 minutes before her shift starts.

Reflections On Moving Forward

As I'm in the process of writing a new spoken word piece titled "Let Go," check out my other reflections on using the past to move forward.

From Same Page To Different Book

What happened to that acquaintance who exclaimed "Let's hang out!",

Then never responded to my text?

How about that co-worker who confined in me when his Dad was dying,

Then never brought up anything personal again?

Why did she say she wanted to date,

Then start dating someone else?

Lost connection. Miscommunication. Not worth it.

I need to know where I'm losing people.

Why do first impressions matter if the long term isn't valued?

I need to love and be loved.

And so do you. Just not by me.

My ego wrestles with practicality:

I'm not as desirable as I hoped.

I was a fad, mistake, or someone to hold you over

Until you found an acceptable support system-

I was tolerated.

What hurts the most is

We had a connection that meant more to me than you.

I am embarrassed at being left out in the cold

When the door was propped open just a feeling ago.

And I'm sorry,

The careless "I've been super busy" excuse

Doesn't work on me.

You take time for what is important.

In the moment I was important,

But being convenient is emptying.

So as I mourn my loss,

I force gratefulness on your gain.

Thank you for the connection we shared before you

Found more meaningful relationships to pursue.

My only regret is taking our moment

For granted by assuming

It would never stop.

Dear Brothers and Sisters...

So far, I have 8 Spoken Word pieces on YouTube.  Here is the second one I posted titled "Weakness Strengthened By Audrey (What Else Is New?) - a salute to all the strong women in my life:

And here's my most recent poem...

Need Vs. Want

“Want to come over and watch the game?”

It's not about football- I could just as well not watch the Vikings lose again.

It's about what happens in between snaps.

Conversation. Thinking out loud. Serious and ridiculous.

Adverting potential loneliness is always welcome with two single, hopeless romantics.

But quoting Seinfeld, going on rants,
And making fun of commercials (while wanting to be in one)

Are moments of purpose.

We're not solving world problems. We are creating trust.

So when one of us celebrates, it will be meaningful.

And when one of us gets pissed, we can calm the other down.

This is friendship.

And although my heart aches for a girlfriend, wife, family-

I'm happy.

Happy to know that watching the game

Isn't a waste of time.