Lessons From The Mosh Pit

 

DC Space. Lights blinking on and off. Warm up band is already breaking eardrums. Bass drum kicking. Guitars chopping riffs like machine guns. A tidal wave of kids rocks the floor. We start bouncing into each other. Lights dim. It’s too warm. Adrenalin flooding through my legs, which are shaking out of beat with the music which with the lights, is now on and racing at full volume.

As the music hits and bodies roll it’s time to get moving. Letting the music fill me, I leave this earth for a while, a kinetic burst of energy streaking across the DC skyline.

From the outside it does seem like pandemonium. I mean seriously. The music is incredibly fast. But there is a logic in the flow. There are codes and meaning.

For example, the physical layout is not chaos. Bodies are actually sprawling around in two zones, two circles one larger surrounding a smaller core.

The larger circle starts at stage front and winds about the perimeter of the show. The inner circle starts just a few bodies back. It is the eye of this sonic storm. Unlike a hurricane though, it’s here that the action is the most intense.

That’s where we are. It’s a mosh pit. Bodies colliding into and off of each other driven by the maniacal drummer. Goaded on by the guitars and finally and absolutely whipped into an utter frenzy by the lead singer.

The band is called Fugazi and when they play a show, it’s going to get rough, wild above all else, real.

Here’s what I learned as a kid going to East Coast shows.

  • Law 1: For every Action There Is an Equal and Opposite Reaction: Even though the action is intense if you take it personal and actually hit someone the show is over for you. So you had to keep you cool and more importantly spot the danger zone and keep out of them.
    • Proof: Fugazi were notorious for stopping shows. I was at the 9:30 Club in DC when things got a little too rough. Ian MacCaye, the lead singer, promptly stopped the show and began, yes, interrogating the meathead who was throwing punches. The band refused to play until that guy left. What was so memorable was Ian’s language, “I hope my comments are falling on deaf ears tonight folks because we have a concert to put on and when you throw punches at my friends then you, sir, are not our friend and we want you to leave.” It was hard to come back from that kind of pressure. In fact, I never saw anyone do it.
    • I was at a Frank Black (Pixies lead singer) show with my buddy Fitzy. He asked if we were going into the pit. I said, the last time I got in there some neanderthal hit me. Not three songs into the show someone grabs my shoulder. I turn around and bam. Right in the face. It doesn’t knock me down. In fact, for his size, he should have been able to take me off of my feet. I didn’t do anything but laugh at the absurdity of the moment. Before I can react, the pit takes him under. He disappears in a flurry of kicks. The music sounds good. I turn facing forward and let it take me on that wave.
    • From the man himself, Brian Fitzgerald: “It’s amazing the similarities rather than the differences between, say, a mosh pit in Tempe, Arizona and one in a GI bar in Seoul, South Korea.   A mix of different types of people–genders, yes, but ethnicities, too–who are there for a good time.  As a group they get so caught up in the music that the mosh is just a physical expression of that, at once jarring and aggressive but within weird group-imposed limits.  In other words, there’s a Code of the Pit.   I love that the group knows when the rules are somehow violated, and works together to eject the offender.  
    • Two vignetttes:   A big Native American getting pissed at you at the Frank Black concert and taking a cheap swing at you, knocking your glasses askew.  Before you or I can react, the group takes him out and he’s gone and ejected and likely bruised a bit.  
    • Another:  South Korea, a pit filled with expats and big G.I.s stripped to the waist–big dudes with shaved heads.  A little punky Korean chick goes down, hits the floor.   Next thing, she’s picked up, crowd-surfed somehow to the edges and gently deposited there, ready for more, while the action goes on.  
    • The Code is universal….and it’s about harmony and keeping the flow going.  Any interruption just ain’t kosher.   
  • Law #2: Music can change the world, beginning, yes, even with teenagers.
    • Proof: I woke up politically not by listening to politicians make false promises, but rather from a little band called the Clash. Nobody rocked political beats like the clash. My first introduction to this band was the album Rock the Casbah. Shortly thereafter I heard an album that changed my life, London Calling. To my 12 year old mind, this was not making any sense, but I wanted to figure it out and so I did;

 

“Spanish Bombs”

Spanish songs in Andalucia
The shooting sites in the days of ’39
Oh, please, leave the ventana open
Fredrico Lorca is dead and gone
Bullet holes in the cemetery walls
The black cars of the Guardia Civil
Spanish bombs on the Costa Rica
I’m flying in on a DC 10 tonight

Spanish bombs, yo te quiero infinito
yo te acuerda oh mi corazón
Spanish bombs, yo te quiero infinito
yo te acuerda oh mi corazón

Spanish weeks in my disco casino
The freedom fighters died upon the hill
They sang the red flag
They wore the black one
But after they died it was Mockingbird Hill
Back home the buses went up in flashes
The Irish tomb was drenched in blood
Spanish bombs shatter the hotels
My senorita’s rose was nipped in the bud

The hillsides ring with “Free the people”
Or can I hear the echo from the days of ’39?
With trenches full of poets
The ragged army, fixin’ bayonets to fight the other line
Spanish bombs rock the province
I’m hearing music from another time
Spanish bombs on the Costa Brava
I’m flying in on a DC 10 tonight

Spanish songs in Andalucia, Mandolina, oh mi corazon
Spanish songs in Granada, oh mi Corazon

 

  • Proof 2: In DC when we saw a problem, AIDS, Homelessness, we righted the wrong ourselves. We had benefit concerts and gave the money directly to those in need. We didn’t need a middle man taking their cut for the greater good. We were strictly DIY.
  • Law 3: Do not multi-task. I asked Bill Donnelly for some help on this post and he reminded me of two lessons.
    • The first, don’t bring a drink into the pit. It’s going to end up on your shirt first, on the ground next and probably at some point used as a projectile when someone steps on it and sends it flying. That’s a great lesson. Ever the mathematician, here’s his version of the equation: Low center of gravity and hips…hip check+drinkie=problem
  • Law 4: Size is deceptive. One of the funny things about moshing is pit physics. People with a smaller center of gravity tend to stay on their feet, using their hips to check the tall ones. It’s not what you have, but how you use it that counts in this world.
  • Law 6: When Moshing Choose Your Friend Wisely: I have never co-written a post before. Why did I need help with this one? Because moshing and going to concerts is something best not shared alone. We all have people in our life that bring us equal measures of joy, thrill and why not, our inner mosh pit.

So take a look around you. Who would have your back through the decades, through the changing sound of the world, through the heads, shoulder, knees and toes? If you see someone in your daily life who doesn’t fit that criteria. Do yourself the favor of upgrading. Chances are you may just find yourself needing someone if not deep in the pit, then many years after those days have passed. Someone to not only listen to music with, but someone to bump shoulders with when the kids are asleep and the only sound is the world you have both temporarily returned to, if only for a song. . .

Fire on the Plain

 

Most of the summer Winthrop, Washington was on fire. By July almost 250,000 acres had lit up the evening sky, covering much of the Methow Valley in smoke, dust, evacuations and homes burning to the ground. When the rains came in August, they were a reminder to be careful what we wish for: lightning sparked new fires and flash floods rolled unchecked over the charred earth, burying homes and adding to the chaos.

All residents suffered. None escaped the smoke or the power outages. Many residents lost their homes, cut adrift like the very flames that set them into motion. Some ended up staying with neighbors. Others packed up and left. Most found a way to get by.

Every Labor Day I take my daughters deep into the canyons near Winthrop for a camping trip. My wife stays home to get prepared for the upcoming school year. I get a few days a year alone with my girls. It’s one of my favorite things to do.

This year the campgrounds were closed until the day before we left. We woke up on the day feeling lucky that our biggest concern was where we would stay. We saw online that the annual rodeo was not only a go, they were asking people to please come because the town needed the business.

When I called the ranger station the lady on the phone said, “Yep, campgrounds are open. We are not advertising it though. If you build a fire, we’re handing out $100 tickets. You got it?”

Yes I got it.

When we arrive at our spot there are only a few campers here. Most of the sites are vacant. The people next to us light up a roaring fire as the evening overtook the canyon.

I walk over to them and say, “What’s up? I thought there was a fire ban?”

As I get closer I get a closer look at them. They are shot through. Wasted. Whatever you want to call it, not ready for me being a smart ass.

“We’re exempt,” she says.

I look at her, eyes blinking, smile fading.

“Damn fire took our home.”

Her husband nodding into the fire, not even looking up.

“And we were evacuated from our house,” says a man in his 60’s with a face that says 70. “It’s all burned to hell around it. It’s not what we call home. So we are out here and yes, this fire feels good.”

After that they just kind of stare into the fire.

I see all of their camping supplies laid out in moving boxes, over a dozen spread out like toys in my children’s room. Walking back to my camp I hear a beer crack. I am happy they have that, at least. I don’t hear them laugh tonight. They hardly talk. Only drink and stare into the fire.

The next night we drive into town. For the first time in over a decade we find parking downtown. No parking by the red barn and doing the walk of shame into town.

If you haven’t been to Winthrop, here’s the skinny. It’s literally about a block or two long. No traffic light. Just a 90-degree turn on Hwy 20. The town is dressed up in an old-west costume. Brewery, tourist shops, bookstore. . . that’s about it. People don’t come here for the town. They come here for the lack of a town and a landscape worthy of any artist’s eye.

Eating dinner Friday night we sit outside in the one upscale restaurant in town, Arrow Leaf Bistro. Nobody out there until the end of the evening. Two couples sporting “ranch” clothing and slivered hair sit behind us.

As my girls drift on and off the deck looking for snakes I can’t escape their conversation. I sat out on the deck to get away from people. Not to eavesdrop.

“Well you know we sold off some of our properties and rolled them into a bigger yacht,”

“Ha. That’s bad. Now you have a bigger hole in the water to dump money.”

The sound of wind in the trees. Always the river, in the background. A gentle reminder of the glaciers melting deep in the canyon of the Cascades.

I’m trying to drown them out, but they are too close. The backs of our chairs touching as they sat down.

“You hear about Tim? He’s sold it all off. Besides, their house, down to just a condo. He and Kim are going to go travel.”

“Wait. Sold it all off?”

“Hell that’s bad as being homeless when you are just down to a condo.”

They erupt into laughter. I’m swirling the wine in my glass, wishing there was more. But I’m driving precious cargo. More will come later.

My kids start screaming. Apparently they have found a snake and are chasing each other with it. I sip my wine.

The people behind me, well their food arrives and so does their complaining: It’s over cooked, yeah, do you think they even know what saaaalsa verd is? This is nothing like we get in LA. . .”

I finish that glass of wine. Say goodbye to Winthrop for the year and head back to our own campfire – the ban was lifted earlier in the day.

They are still talking trash about the food when the wind comes up and sends them scampering indoors, holding their wine glasses as if their life depended on it.

We count deer driving home. There’s an unusually large number in the field, more then 20 eating peacefully, watching the traffic with one eye, the looming darkness of the hills with the other. We get back to the campsite after dark. Besides the cracking of cans next door, there is no sound, but the wind and the always that water and my kids drifting off to sleep.

I light a fire. The evening rolls out under my feet. I feel the warmth of the fire on my knees. It feels good to sit there for hours. Time passes. It occurs to me looking up at the Milky Way deep in the night, that maybe we are all not so different.

We each suffer loss in our own worlds in our own unique way.

I think the issue is in scale. To the restaurant people, a meal (let me guarantee you it was nowhere near bad) and selling your possessions is a form of abuse. It sounds pathetic, but to them, make no mistake, it is a form of suffering.There is still a loss that takes place, perhaps the drama dresses up the boredom of a life without need for struggle.

To the people next door, they lost everything, or so they told me.

As for me and my camp? To quote Barton Fink, I am a tourist with a typewriter. Just along for the ride, but not really. By now, I’m participating in the dance.

Through the starlight I see them next door. Knees almost touching each other. Soft murmur of conversation, not punctuated by laughter. A sort of mournful discourse losing itself in the currents or air playing in darkness.

Hell, I think, taking a sip of Laphroig, maybe they are forgetting that which is closest?

I tilt my glass to the fire and say prayers for those I love who no longer have the opportunity to overcome such hardships. I say thanks for giving my oldest daughter and myself, back to my family.

In the stark outline of trees against an evening sky it’s obvious there are lines that divide.

If you are on this side you still have a chance to fight. You have it in you to rage against the tide. You have the responsibility to burn brighter than a firestorm in a dry summer.

Grab the ones you love, because nothing in the world replaces that kind of loss.

Let them know how you feel.

Let them know that the fires of this world can come and go as long as they are there with you, sitting by a river, listening to the wind crackle through the same burning wood that took your home.

Image from: http://northwestnaturalmoments.blogspot.com/2012/09/smoke-filled-sunset-from-four-fires.html

Leaves Are Turning

Life is an odd thing isn’t it? We begin life as one thing. Change for a while. Adopt another thing. And then, in the end, find ourselves back at what we once were.

With change being the only constant, what should we focus on? People? The times? Our things?

When one of China’s greatest doctors, Wang Ji Wu, turned 100 years old, he was asked to write an article on what it meant to him.

My own history is from the end of the Qing Dynasty, through the period of the Republic to the People’s Republic, already over a hundred years.”

In this brief essay he told about his life and times. The short version is that he studied martial arts and medicine as a young person. He became quite famous as a body guard and doctor. He finished his life as a world renown fighter and doctor. Sounds good, huh?

“All of these events served as a means of of cultivating my sprit, and afforded me the opportunity to practice the “gung fu” of living in the world.”

The fact is in the old days if you practiced martial arts in China it was seen as a lower class activity. Why? It’s a Confucian ideal, that if you make your living with your hands then you are inferior. Confucian ideals glorified the mind, and denigrated the body and its efforts.

Even though people thought ill of Wang’s profession they desperately needed help during these brutal eras in China’s history. The streets were dangerous. The only way to be safe was to hire the greater threat to act on your behalf.

In his 20’s Wang began studying medicine as well. He fit the archetype of warrior/ healer perfectly. His fame continued to grow in not only the martial, but medical fields as well.

This was an interesting time in China. Successive wars with Japan left much of China unable to defend itself. Chinese government saw that the country was weak and lacking in pride.

After much deliberation the government of China hired people to intellectualize the Martial Arts. The goal was to make martial arts a package combining: physical, spiritual, and philosophical elements. They even got so carried away as to marry health and martial arts.

Martial arts taught people how to fight. There was no implication that fighting would somehow improve health – it’s in fact quite preposterous, isn’t it? You  don’t get healthy learning how to take people down. You know what you get? Injured. 

Health practices in China were called Qi Gong. Martial arts and Qigong are two separate disciplines. That’s usually a show stopper in the West. Most of us were introduced to martial arts as a philosophically inclined, often dazzling display of intellect, power and strategy.

Who knew this version of the martial arts was cooked up in think tank designed to militarize the population of a country reeling after too many years of continuous war?

And so the spin began. Martial artists moved from thugs to community leaders. To be adept in the martial arts meant more, now, than just fighting. They fused together the physical, mental and spiritual aspects into one highly sought after package.

Wang was put up on a national pedestal as a treasure for his prowess in martial arts.

Life was good. For a while.

Then came the Cultural Revolution. Mao Tse Tung declared war on martial arts and medicine.

“With the Cultural Revolution, disaster once again overran the country and I was forced out of business.”

After the Cultural Revolution was over martial arts, spirituality and medicine made a huge comeback. Guess who was put back on the throne? You got it, our man Wang. He finished out his life as a rock star for Western students. He lived, as he died – a national treasure.

“My life has seen its ups and downs, times of poverty and hardship, honor and dishonor, the changes of the seasons, all of which have left a deep impression on me. . .”

It’s September. The world is changing. One question worth asking: What are you paying attention to?

As for Wang, here’s his parting goodbye to the world: “With a clear heart, I do not contend with others or make demands upon the world, but rather seek to contribute what I can for the benefit of all, aiding those in need and protecting those in danger.”

Feels like to me, not so much of a goodby, but an introduction to the kind of life worth living.

 

 

If you are interested in Wang Ji Wu’s philosophy I highly recommend Xing Yi Nei Gong, by Dan Miller and Tim Cartmell

The Bell Is Ringing

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The line of cars snakes out around the school for a couple of blocks. No chance getting in there. Not today. Not like this.

Parking the car up about three blocks, my kids are vibrating with anticipation. My youngest is literally hopping sideways down the street. Horribly, it’s been over a year, singing out on max volume, “let it go, let it go”

My oldest has my hand clutched tight in hers. She’s talking low. Trying to figure out who will be sitting next to her. The catalog of names spreading itself out in front of us like falling leaves.

Last night an hour past bed time, both kids awake.

“Go to bed!”

“We can’t we’re too excited.”

“Yes. I am getting excited, go to bed!”

It takes them hours until finally they cave in. There is no trace of fatigue or sleep deprivation on them this morning.

It’s the first day of the new school year. And my kids are ready.

Dropping them off, I have to laugh. I feel the adrenalin rush, walking them each to their classes. Each of us going into that school are taking place in group thought. Instead of a concert or a sport’s game we were all heading to education, to learning, to meeting new friends and teachers.

And we are happy.

So what or when, in our adult life, did we hit the brakes on that one? At what point did challenging ourselves to learn become a luxury or a hardship. When was the last time you acquired though conscious effort a new skill?

Being as this is the first week of school for Washington state students, I put it out you, our readers, to take up the challenge.

Learn something new this week. Get a book on a subject you are interested in. Could be history, mathematics, logic, biography, the possibilities are endless.

Not a reader?

Then take an online class. The way they are set up these days it’s a breeze. Google, online course/class on whatever subject holds your interest. Audible.com and their parent company Amazon.com have many courses at very reasonable price.

I am currently finishing a course on great American thinkers. My kids and I have just started on a Beethoven class.

School is in session. Only this time you get to decide what you are studying.

What will it be?

photo credit: <a href=”https://www.flickr.com/photos/29233640@N07/7846338906/”>** RCB **</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/”>cc</a>

 

Alone Is A Long Way From Lonely

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It is a hot day. Climbing cutbacks in the mountain. Not a lot of water. Tired from a long night of work and thirsty from an even longer night closing down a pub.

Pollen from pine trees blows across the path, an airborne reminder that spring is here.

My friend Mongo is leading the way, puffing hard. He pauses for a minute. His eyes still red, foggy from last night.

“Wait. Wait. Must have my medsin.”

He pulls out a cigarette and lights it.

I have learned to wait these moments out. He pauses, sitting on his heels.

“Drink.”

He passes me his water bottle. I agree, downing what little is left.

“Are we there yet?”

He looks at me. We both laugh at the same time.

“Same Korea, America. We there yet? Oma! Opa! Drive us crazy. You get it? Drive. Crazy?”

We giggle for a while. He stands up and it’s off and up. About an hour passes. We’re clearly not cut out for this climb today I think staring at the mountaintops in the distance.

“We stop. Go cross now.”

He heads off to the side, leaving the main trail, for a smaller, much fainter one.

“Up here, monk live. People always think monk on top of mountain. Monk no like it on top.”

He’s grinning maniacally at me. Yes, I get it, I nod.

“What do they do up here?”

“Meditate. Eat. Drink. Use bathroom. Argue. Sleep. Eat. Meditate. Bathroom. Fight.”

“Fight?”

“Yes. Take long time to sit with just you self. In beginning too many people in your head. Talk. Talk. Fight. “

We come to a small temple. Mongo bows at the gate. I try to copy, instead end up mocking – the joys of being a foreigner. There is a small temple up ahead. Not big enough really to be called a temple.

“There. That’s where training monk live. They lonely. So spend most time with passengers. Us? They haven’t been here long. No not at all.”

In the hillside, further up, more temples. Each one further up the hill, further away from us.

“Who is up there?”

“How do you say, senior monk? Old monk? They live furthest away. They are,” he’s thinking hard, “all alone.”

“Lonely? Do you mean, that?

“No. Lonely for beginner. Lonely” he says, pointing at the monk who is clearly bothered by our presence, but doing his best job faking a smile, “is a long way from alone.”

 ________________

I didn’t really get what he was talking about back then. At the time I figured the one’s who didn’t see people would feel lonely. Hell, I felt lonely half the time I was with people.

Years later. Hundreds of hours in meditation. It began. The process of stripping away the chatter. First I tried to take care of the others. Spent a lot of time separating myself from people. Long hours alone. No peace.

I thought there were too many hostile voices in the outside world. That’s a joke, right? Most of us say worse things to ourselves than any enemy could even imagine.

I had effectively walled myself within myself with a deranged and very hostile prisoner. I taught him everything I knew. I was easy prey.

Thankfully, my mental self-mutilation gave way to opening up again to others. This time the tidal pull reflecting the compelling drives of sun (community) and moon (isolation). I began to be very selective with my company. Cut out the deadwood.

Know what that is?

Scott Paglia’s Dictionary defines Deadwood: They are the people who suck you dry. You leave them feeling worse than before. They are poison we are the delivery vehicle.

Make a list of the people you spend the most time with. See who adds or subtracts from your life. Not just today or this month. Look over the course of a year. The one’s who don’t give. You are not friends with them. You are both locked in a codependent relationship. Spend time with the good ones. No, not the ones who agree with you. The one’s who are strong enough that you have to up your game just to keep pace. The strong ones don’t care about your feelings they care about the truth. The kind ones put out a hand so you can lift yourself up. But they won’t do it for you.

Can you see it? Socializing with deadwood does nothing constructive for either party. It’s impossible to feel anything but alone in that fell company. The first step is easy: getting rid of the external noise.

Now the hard part. You are faced with a decision at this point. List all of your traits, good and bad. Take a hard look at them. Next, put the negative traits in the cross hairs. A good sniper shoots long before their mark even knows what’s happening.

A patient told me, retired SEAL sniper, that he never pulled the trigger until he got bored with his mark’s routine. That’s how well he knew them. He was famous for a shot he made through a window. I asked how he did it. His reply, I pulled the trigger before I even saw him. I knew where he was before he did. And I got out of there long before they knew what hit them. What happened next?, I asked him. I did it again and again. That’s what I do.

So take aim on the broken down parts of yourself. This is what matters most in life. Not the external fights, but the one’s inside. All the leaches and parasites in the world are meaningless if you don’t do the work that matters. The work on yourself. As the saying goes, one enemy within the walls is far more dangerous than thousands outside of the walls.

So you’ve got your list, right?

Let’s do one together. We will start small. Let’s say you are short tempered. Do something that stretches your emotional muscles. If someone or something tends to piss you off, try to think like them for a while. Walk in their shoes. See the world through their lens. It’s harder than it sounds. It’s also hard to hate something you understand.

Let’s try a harder one. Lets say you are a selfish bastard. The best cure for this? Devote yourself to a cause each week. Pick somewhere or someone to donate your time to. Want to earn bonus points? Donate your time helping someone who pisses you off.

Even harder. Let’s say in the end you correctly conclude that your chief complaint against yourself is that you are no longer in control of your mind, moods, or body. You have gained weight, act like an ass and your best days are behind you.

Now we have a problem here. Let’s get rid of the program. How? Simple, we have to re-populate the idea you have of yourself with something better. So start meditating, praying each day. Carve out enough time so you can think and feel the difference between the habitual you-the one with such easy buttons to push-and the best version of yourself. When we reprogram our perception of the world and ourselves we are capable of breaking new ground.

Stripped of the dead weight, both externally and internally, it’s possible to be alone and have so much to do, so much to explore that you will find yourself, just like those monks, seeking higher ground.

These days I choose solitude. No time to be lonely. No one to be alone.

Do Before You Judge

Even Hollywood, for all its faults, teaches valuable lessons. You just have to cut through the chafe and recognize what is really at play.

Three masters left us in the last year: Robin Williams, Phillip Seymour Hoffman and James Gandolfini.

Gentlemen you are missed and thank you for enriching my life.

First lesson: there is a sharp price for brilliance.

Second lesson: Pattern Recognition. When something happens people like to put things in easy to understand boxes.

Let’s look at how the media reacted to each of these sorrowful deaths. Both Hoffman and Williams took their own life, they just used different methods.

 

Hoffman ended his life on the wrong side of an overdose. And so, many hours were spent covering the ills of drugs. Really? I didn’t know that taking drugs was bad for you until Hoffman died.

 

Williams took his own life in a more direct method, suicide. So now we have two camps in the media battle ground: he was a victim of a disease or he was a coward.

Coward?

Blaming someone for committing suicide when they have a long history of mental health and drug addiction is like blaming someone with heart disease for having a heart attack.

Wait. Who does that call to mind?

Gandolfini? Well a very unhealthy lifestyle (poor eating choices, inability to control appetite, lack of exercise) plus genetics, left him with a fatal heart attack.

That’s the playing field. Three deaths. Many attempts to make sense of these tragic deaths. People start looking for boxes to put all three of these people in. But not really, one of them has escaped the harsh, cutting criticism of his peers.

Which one?

Williams has been bashed by the right-wing media as a coward, a loser, a has-been even due to his last tv show, which I liked, by the way.

Hoffman? Well he cut a tragic figure on and off screen. His epic battle with drug addiction was well known. He was handled roughly by the media as a broken person who choose to play a drug addict in his final role. No wonder he got back into drugs, they said.

As for Gandolfini, well that’s the interesting one. Not a lot was said about the nature of his passing. There were no harsh diatribes indicting him for every imaginable ill character trait ever born on a high horse.

There was, in fact, an eerie silence from the masses.

Why?

Well, it’s collusion. Gandolfini was just close enough to us to remind us of our own choices. He was so close that the collective “we” didn’t feel comfortable pointing that finger.

It’s a matter of familiarity. How many of us deal with suicidal tendencies and massive drug addiction?

Not many. I’m not saying these aren’t huge problem. It’s just in my circle I don’t know anyone who has drug addiction problems. I don’t know anyone struggling with suicide either.

On the other hand, most of the people I know need to make lifestyle changes: more exercise, better food choices, meditation, prayer, letting go.

You see, to point the finger at Gandolfini is to point that same finger at ourselves. Out of all three of them he is the only one who could have made the same choices you and I make every day. For that we didn’t criticize him. We didn’t even really bother to mention the obvious. Wish he had made better choices and got on a health program early in his life.

So ask yourself, next time you are staring at the National Enquirer. Why bother with this stuff?

More importantly, ask what can I do right now to change my life for the better?

So, reader, what are you willing to do?

Me? I’m doing what I have done to stay at the top of my game. Meditating, giving thanks, eating well, spending time with people I love, exercising, spending time outdoors, helping ease pain and get rid of disease, cooking, talking, writing, listening to music. . .

And reflecting. What did I learn from these three men?

Hoffman taught me to stretch myself. He took on roles nobody would ever want to touch. He was a chameleon. In one movie, daring and brave in the next, a sniveling backstabber.

Williams taught me to care. He conveyed so much emotion and compassion. His roles as teacher, therapist and homeless man were pivotal in my development as a young person and adult. He is my go-to guy when I need inspiration.

Gandolfini is the gentle giant. The one who with just a look conveys more emotion than an entire movie. It’s amazing to see how he works a scene without saying anything. Nobody else could do that.

You know I can’t finish this post without a story that Bill shared with me about Gandolfini.

Billy got a part in the Taking Of Pelham 123. So here it, is: We were shooting a scene on Lexington Ave where the Mayor (Gando) and his security detail(Me head securer….) are coming up out of the subway to meet the police commish.

Between takes, a couple trying to enter the subway with their bikes were attempting to enter the station, but were very apprehensive given the fact that a set surrounded the entrance. As they gingerly approached the station, captain cool and the rest of the detail just stood there too cool to help the woman who was struggling to lift her bike as she walked down the staircase into the station.

Gando disgusted, but laughing, called us a bunch of savages and politely offered to carry the woman’s bike for her. The shot was then held up as Gando walked all the way down the stairs and on to the subway platform with her bike. The man.

Goodnight you princes of Hollywood,

You Kings of the screen. 

O Captain, My Captain

Saturday would have been the 70th birthday for TH3RDFORCE friend and first mentor John T. Keane. As a fitting tribute to Keane, who was a massive fan of the arts and in particular classical music, I spent Saturday night at Lincoln Center enjoying the Mostly Mozart Festival Orchestra. It was a magnificent performance and the kind of evening he would have relished. 

One of the main themes Keane used to impress upon our young and undisciplined minds, was the idea of living out of our imagination. To shun the precepts that would encumber our mind and keep it free of the garbage that would serve to enslave it.

I can think of no bigger polluter than today’s news media. The incessant and unrelenting hammering into our consciousness of all the ills that infect our world today. Doc P wrote a great piece last week on how to clean your mind and improve your mental health http://th3rdforce.com/?p=377. I’m going to piggyback off my buddy and suggest how we can keep the mind working on our behalf.

The widely prevalent idea of what constitutes news results from a narrow brutalizing concept and is imicable in the development of human potential. They are betting on our stupidity and our reluctance to create our own vision. They give much time and prominent space to violence and consistently underplay good news.  They go out of their way to prey on your fear.  James Altucher says it better than me in Commandment #10, from his book, I Was Blind But Now I See. Here is a short excerpt:

One time a show booker called me and said, “Do you believe in X?” She wanted me to fight for X because they found someone who would fight for the opposite of X. I said, “Yeah, I strongly believe in X!” An hour later she called me back and said, “We lost our anti-X guy. Can you argue for anti-X?”   

Talk about manipulation. I’ll gladly plead ignorance at the next dinner party, in favor of keeping this nonsense from poisoning my brain.

These fabrications give the consumer the idea that important events that happen are various types of destructive activities. Consistent and repeated emphasis on bad news creates anxiety and tension that instills the belief that there is little except violence, accidents, destruction and devastation in the world today. All of this wrapped up in hyperbolic, apocolyptic headlines meant to terrify and entrance the consumer.

As a consequence the consumer of such news gradually experiences a shift in his outlook on the world. Leading to the formation of feelings of alienation and separation. The world is increasingly perceived as a threat as the viewer becomes anxious that violence and mayhem can be perpetrated on him at anytime in this strange and unpredictable environment in which he lives.

There slowly grows the conviction that it is safer to withdraw from such a world. The tendency to isolate from such struggles and to allow others to make the decisions, instead of becoming an actively involved in their own promotion. 

An even more fundamental and insidious development can arise from such exposure.

The erosion of the trust factor. The consistent emphasis in the news on criminal violence and assault makes slow but progressive inroads into our reservoirs of trust. As we hear and read about the acts of hate and violence that man perpetrates upon one another, year after year without any real emphasis placed on the loving, caring, nurturing, and humanitarian acts of man, we begin to trust our fellow man less and we thereby diminish ourselves.

This by no means is to meant to convey that we employ a pollyanna outlook on life and our circumstances. But rather it serves to clarify a system in which we can become closer to realizing our truest and best self. By undermining our trust we become estranged from one another. Existing in a state the continually provides an import of ugliness our imagination can become confined by the conditions that result from such an environment. We can miss out on close meaningful relationships that will serve to strengthen our position in a volatile world.

James Allen in As A Man Thinketh, likens the mind to a garden, it can be intelligently cultivated or allowed to run wild. But whether cultivated or neglected it must and will bring forth. If no useful seeds are put into it than an abundance of useless weed seeds will fall therein and will continue to produce their kind. A man may tend the garden of his mind weeding out all wrong useless and impure thoughts and ideas and cultivating the flowers and fruit of right useful and pure thought. Admittedly, this is pretty flowery(pun intended) language, but it effectively demonstrates the point of limiting your exposure to information that may inhibit your ability to function at your highest level of productivity. 

We imagine a thousand of things of course, but if we understand the power of the imagination we realize that, that which upon our imagination becomes fixed tends to turn into our reality. This can be good or bad. Just as we can imagine wonderful things and conditions, we can also imagine unhappy tragic situations and whatever our imaginations become fixed on tend to become real in our lives. That’s why control of the mind is so important. Control in the way we control a car, we want it to take us only where we want to go. We don’t want it to take us into a ditch or another car and so we are alert and control its speed and direction. It is the only way to drive successfully.

If we decide upon a goal we think is right and worthy of us our imagination becomes like a pair of hands holding that picture in our mind, exploring it, turning it over and loving it and as we hold that picture in the hands of our imagination we are led toward it. The enormous power of our mind can set the task of achieving it and the amazing answers begin to come to the surface of our minds. Soon depending on the difficulty and complexity of the image it is ours. Its real and it exists in the world. It is an entity, when before it was only a picture in our imagination. We can harness the power of our imagination and make it a servant, a genie to give us anything we desire.

One of Keane’s favorite writers, George Bernard Shaw said,” Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire. You will what you imagine and you create what you will.” Notice Shaw says Imagination is the beginning of creation not its end. Work still has to be done to achieve what we can perceive in our minds. That’s why it is so imperative to keep all that junk out of our minds and allow it to paint the masterpiece that will be our life’s best and greatest achievements.

This is not a new formation it is as old as philosophy itself, but few of us realize how we can put it to become an integral part of our own personal philosophy. To become a self- fulfilling prophecy for use for good in our lives. 

One of the wonderful things about human imagination is that it can break out of the barriers that tend to limit us physically. It can fly away to greener pastures. It can see things not as they are now, but as they can be. It can foretell the future at least in-so-far as we as persons are concerned with an unexpected expansion. It can supply all the colorful mental images that we one day hope to turn into reality. Imagination is the beginning of creation.

May the Th3rdforce be with you.

 

Taking A Vacation From Yourself

 

It’s kind of funny, what we do to ourselves on vacation. Some kind of demented off-balancing act: too much food, drink and not enough exercise and forget about the sleep – booze destroys the last half of the sleep cycle.

Yet in this great escape there is no solace. What we do find are hangovers, bulging-waist lines, anxiety and more credit card debt.

Not exactly the recharge you were looking for, was it?

It makes sense though when you think of it. Ever hear of the American Syndrome? Researchers studied health and vitality of people on Friday and then asked the same questions to the same people on Monday.

Guess what they found?

People were worse on Monday. The weekend compounded unease and stress. People were in no way rejuvenated. They did not come to work ready to tackle new issues. They came back more tired from the weekend they had planned.

So what’s really going on here?

The annual vacation is simply a repetition of the cycle we replay all year. We train ourselves to misuse vacation time throughout the year by making poor choices each weekend.

Most of my patients have described to me the following scenario.

“Well Doc I got really stressed out before my vacation. Started working late so I would be caught up by the time I left.”

“Excuse me are you catching up or doing the work you would have had to do if you were here?”

“Both. So then I’m getting home later and eating later. Have a few extra beers to take the edge off. More tired in the morning and so I load up on the coffee. Working out? Yeah, right. No time for that. So my vacation starts”

At this point I interrupt and say, “most people get sick before their week or two off. Did that happen to you?”

I’m surprised at how often, they say yes. It’s over 50% of the time. Working all year to have a week off and they are sick.

That’s sick.

Ok, let’s say they didn’t get sick. This is how it unfolds.

“So I spend the first two or three days unwinding. Sure, I’m drinking too much, just trying to come off the roller coaster. Resting. Trying to recover. I hit that sweet spot. The one where I can actually rest and recharge for a day and then it happens. It’s Thursday or Friday. I can actually feel my mind thinking about work on Monday. It’s awful. Like a black hole dampening out the light.”

Usually there is a prolonged silence. They do look like a black hole has sucked them out. Bags under the eyes. Shoulders slumped.

Well the math breaks down a little different. So they said, Wednesday maybe Thursday, those were the good days. So that’s not a week off. That’s two days, a weekend. So we are back where we started.

DON’T DO THIS TO YOURSELF.

So, can agree that this model is broken? It’s a complete failure and will break you the longer you try to play with it.

Agreed?

Let’s start by looking at our weekend. The single most important thing you can do for your mental health is have some down time. The human mind and soul thrives on quiet time.

What to do with this time?
Here’s a list, pick at least two this weekend:

1)   Meditate, 15 minutes in the morning and evening.

2)   Pray: 15 minutes in the morning and evening.

3)   Read: 30-60 minutes – it has to be something you love.

4)   Stretch: 30 minutes, no music, turn off the stimuli.

5)   Listen to music. See no problem, just don’t pretend to mulit-task. It doesn’t work.

6)   Cook. Make something spectacular. Eat something with purpose.

7)   Take a walk, 30-60 minutes.

8)   Go Outdoors.

9)   Watch the sun rise

10) Listen to running water, wind.

11) Sing  

12) Write 

13) Make a cup of tea and read poems or dig out one of those classics. Something that expands the confines of your mind’s eye. Wow yourself.

Reality dictates that stress will kill you over time. In his ground-breaking work, Hans Selye documented the effects of stress on health, the nervous system and our sense of well being.

Stress works on the body in a very peculiar way. Let’s say you get stressed out. Anxiety and tension are becoming your new best friends.

Stress levels range from 1-10.  When we get stressed out we start at 0, then go up to an 8.

Popular wisdom would say we get stressed out and go back to 0. That’s not true. What really happens is that stress did not return to 0. What happens is that instead of 0, our new set point moves up a notch, to 1.

And that is how it gets us. Over time what we have is an ascending relationship to stress. It takes only a few years in high-stress environments to turn that stress starting point up to 50% of it’s maximum.

That’s how people snap.

They run too long on too much stress and before we know what is happening, the train comes off the rails. It’s almost never the particular event that causes people to loose it. Right? It’s the build up and breakdown. Suddenly that person who cut you off did it on purpose. They woke up with you in mind and won’t be happy until you are run off the road. Right?

So do yourself and those that are around you a favor. Pick two of the activities today to do over next weekend. Do this for a few months and you will have begun building a foundation in which you rest during the weekends and actually have fun on vacation.

You have a great vacation the same way you do anything that shines. You practice until you get it right.

Chumming For Sharks

Dreadful Sharks Free Screensaver  For Windows HD Widescreen Wallpaper

 

A few weeks ago I answered a question on Quora. Someone wrote, basically, I have a kid with a disability and they are cutting into my free time, my work life and overall, my enjoyment of life.

If you haven’t been there, it’s easy to tear into the poor guy. How can you say those evil things? Says the single person whose chief issues in life revolve around their own schedule. Or the finger-pointing parent who is unhappily spot-welded to a gaggle of screaming maniacs.

It was obvious from his query that he was at his end. His mind had succumbed to stress and the shockwaves of his life were sending him into retreat mode.

Been there before. St. John of the Cross calls it the Dark Night Of The Soul: http://th3rdforce.com/?p=231

The reason we started this blog is to help our readers prepare for obstacles in the road, because we all know they are coming. You can close your eyes, but that wall is still in front of you. Our model is clinically and culturally proven: Strong Body (First Force) and Strong Mind (Second Force) leads to Synergy (TH3RDFORCE) of the body, mind and spirit.

Rather than tearing into the young man, I told him the following story, based tongue-in-cheek on real, life events.

Enjoy:

Question: I have a one-year-old son with cerebral palsy. . . taking care of him is cutting into my social life (can’t go to movies or dinners or travel) and work (not making as much money due to medical appointments and time off of work). What should I do?

Answer: Don’t worry about it I went through this years ago.

So my wife and I had a kid and she had eczema. We had to take time out of our day to give her herbs and make creams. This sucked but it worked.

Then she got asthma: ER trips are such a bore, all that waiting. So we did the whole herb thing again and lucky for her it worked.

When she turned 2 she was diagnosed with type one diabetes. I was like hold it! I’m taking this sucker back to the factory.

I explained to them at the disabled-baby-return center that I stay up all night drinking bourbon- that’s Scott time. Was not about to trade that in for blood tests every two hours.

So they led me to the disabled-babies-who-interfere-with-bourbon-consumption pile (it’s bigger than you think so make sure you hit the gym a few times before you go) and I grabbed an ankle and wrist and with one fluid twist of my beautiful torso I was free.

Life was good until we had our second kid. Turns out due to all of the anomalies of our before-mentioned-returned kid, the new one would need genetic testing.

My wife was getting a boob job that day so I manned up and took her – I even skipped the tanning bed.

Nobody told me genetic testing meant holding down my one year old while they lanced her heel with a pick. I sprained my neck holding that little sausage down. All the screaming and blood gave me a headache.

Made an executive decision on the way home and went to the baby return center. I explained that she was under warranty and I wasn’t going to be doing any of this.

My neck still aches thinking of that mess. It chills me to this day.

So we went to 2nd-offspring-with-potential-genetic-issues pile and I got creative. She was small so I just shot put her to the top – she went out a winner!

Hey, it’s harder than it looks.

Life was good again. We had it made and then lordy have mercy, you won’t believe what happened next.

We got refund checks for the kids as well as a bonus for my ailing neck.

Figured I could live twice as long on the money if I got rid of the wifey.

I 86’d her in a flash. Cuz you know she was the asthmatic one. That’s where the runts  got it.

Now I can go to movies when I want. I can eat poppa Murphy pizza three days in a row, yahoo.

So there I was just watching movies ( my choice now ) on skinamax and was bored because for some reason once you make it people don’t like you any more.

I decided to go on a cruise for people like me – I saw the advertisement in my costco mag.

There I was with my kind, the winners. We were all single. It was fun for a while but all those people did was talk about themselves and compare the size of their refund checks.

They had an artist on board and she was, like, a face painter, only she did images.  Her specialty was drawing pictures of people. I had her draw a picture of what I thought my wife and kids looked like so I could look at them when I felt like I wasn’t living up to the nickname I gave myself on the cruise: Captain Koool.

Here’s what she came up with:

image

 

Hell yeah, I thought, as I sat alone on the back deck of the cruise boat chumming for sharks.

I made the right decision and you can too.

Starting Over (Part 2)

Many very strange and perplexing adventures later I found out my parents were going to be in Arizona for business.

I was holed up in Washington state, drinking with a friend while I looked for work. Well there was plenty of imbibing, but no actual jobs – shocking I know. 

As I had no anchor, why not drive down to see the folks? I left Washington and drove back down south. I wanted to run with Edward Abbey screaming armageddon under a full moon bright enough to cast shadows in the desert. Who wouldn’t?

I met up with my parents, at a very swank, valet only hotel. So here I am driving into the parking lot, passing Porsche’s and BMW’s. I had camp gear crammed up high enough in the back seat I was having trouble seeing out the rear view window.  I recall, seeing a pot with a cheap plastic handle jammed against the back window, as my car rattled to its new, if temporary, home.

Even worse, I could smell my feet while driving.

The valet was young, about my age. He kind of laughed as I told him not to go all Ferris Bueller on me. I went into the lobby. The front desk had my name on register so they had to let me in. I figured based on how I looked and reeked, it was the quickest check in, in history.

My parents were out sightseeing. I made myself a sandwich – only got half in, just couldn’t eat more. Went into the bathroom, showered, just my luck, they had a scale: 137 lbs.  Not good. I could see my ribs as well as the notches in my spinal cord leaning down to start shaving the mess that had taken residence on my face.

When my parents came back from shopping, we made small talk. Or more accurately, they pointed out how small I was getting. Not in a great, hey you’ve lost a lot of weight, but rather a, are you dying of some disease unnamed in the Northern Hemisphere as of yet? No, mom and dad, that comes later. Well, thinking I would turn pity into plenty, I asked for some money. My parents declined seeing as I had a great job but I turned it down. I saw their point. Yes, you reader are nodding your head, too. Who? Me, three months ago, that’s who. Anyways we spent a few good days together.

I headed up North towards Sedona to do some hiking. It was then that the arrow of tragedy found it’s mark in my engine. I broke down in the national forest just a few miles outside of Sedona.

I was broke. My car was broke. But I was in great shape. Could hike the Grand Canyon in day, go a dozen hours without eating and I couldn’t even smell myself. I’m still puzzled to this day why I never dated much during this time. 

Called home. Got the same answer. No cash for you, son. When are you coming home? My dad’s advice was, get any job. I asked for a loan so I could drive to town.

Again he declined citing the same reason, you had something good and threw it away.  For my part, the same lack of defense on this position led me to not argue the point. 

And so, the next day, I walked four miles to town. Went to every lousy tourist trap I could find. Nobody would hire me without an address, local references, etc. I was holding my resume in a messenger bag. The feedback I got months later was that they all thought I was selling perfume, essential oils or watches – not exactly the best first impression.

Note to self: Next time you find yourself penniless and homeless chumming for minimum wage jobs, leave bike messenger bag home. Check.

I kept this up for a few weeks, going back to the same shops until they got to know me. Night time was hard. I was shacked up right next to Cathedral Rock. All night New Age zombies would be out there banging bongo drums and spitting into their didgeridoos. They wanted Nirvana, all I was looking for was some freaking sleep.

Finally I got hired selling t-shirts – the gag shirts littering tourist town t-shirt shops. You know the kind with the gag placed right at the entrance. In my sleep I can still hear people laughing and saying, “Ass Whuppin’ Hot Sauce, Best Served with Warm Road Kill, haw haw haw.”  An endless linguistic nightmare on perpetual, soul dividing rewind/repeat/rewind/repeat. Yes I am screaming into my pillow, have some!

But, things were looking up. Within a month I had enough money to get my car towed and serviced. I was officially mobile and had enough money for more than rice. For some strange, unexplainable reason, my feast meal was eaten on top of Cathedral Rock: warming beer, and imitation crab meat with no sauce and something called squaw bread, which I am sure could only be sold in Arizona.

Belly full and wind in hair, the next obstacle was finding an apartment. I needed first, last and deposit. Earning minimum wage in Arizona meant that Sisyphus would have that rock up that hill long before I had my first, last and deposit.  So I answered ads for a roommates. Most of the people that interviewed me were sure I had a mental illness. If I wasn’t mentally afflicted by this point, it was certain my spirit was under assault. 

Every once in a while I can feel the universe messing with me. It was a time such as this, that I felt that deft hand. I was living in the New Age Mecca at the center of the universe and still, I couldn’t find a do gooder that was good enough to take me in, so that kind of sucked.

Eventually I found a place to live. Fell in love with the lady whose extra room I rented and started applying for jobs. I landed a job writing obituaries for a newspaper. The woman and I dated. I got hired on to the paper because my obituaries were so awful they had to find something else for me to do.

My boss pulled me aside and said, college boy there are only a few rules with obituaries, we call them details, and you seem unable to focus on them. I figure I could field more phone calls from grieving people telling me the names and dates are screwed up or let you write something else.

Years later I asked him why he didn’t outright fire me. He said, you seemed to know how to write and I liked the challenge of transforming you into a newspaper man.

He was right.

Within two years I was an award winning journalist, was in a good relationship with that same kind woman who took me in, had lots of friends, was meditating, hiking and being outside as much as possible. 

Everything was great until I got promoted to run the paper in the next city.

That was the straw that broke this camel’s back. I could see my whole life unfolding in this saccharine dream of canned news, picture books, Martha Steward (pre-jail time, so def not cool), and hard time in the rainless desert.

One month later I land in Korea. I had quit the job, got kicked out of the apartment by my girlfriend and hit a giant, Karmic repeat button and had to start over again.

But this time, I lost much more than weight and gained the blueprint to leave an exceptional life.

But that is another story for another time.