TED.com

Today a good friend sent me a link to a video from a TED convention (Technology, Entertainment, Design) by hotelier Chip Conley. Chip Conley began purchasing small hotels in his mid twenties and has assembled a collection of over forty, all with unique themes and motifs. He credits his unique philosophy, stemming from Maslow's famous "Hierarchy of needs" pyramid, in aiding him in crafting a business model ultimately based on happiness. Recently, he traveled to Bhutan, the worlds youngest democracy -- only two years old -- to study their one of a kind system for measuring the internal joy, and sheer satisfaction of living amongst their citizens. Where most turn to the cold, emotionless facts of the GDP figures in gauging economic health, Bhutan has set a new standard by concocting a measurable method by which to record and track the pulse of their people, not by taxes, or property, but by satisfaction in life. Conley goes on to explain how it has been this organizational revelation that has enabled him to breathe leadership and life into his Joie De Vivre ( Joy is living ) company that despite being centered in San Francisco -- the heart of the dot com boom & bust -- managed to grow thirty percent when competitors all around him suffered some of the hardest losses in America. He has implemented company wide reforms based on his new satisfaction centered cultural abacus. Yet, it was not only this one particular talk that piqued my interest, but rather the source, TED.com, that really quenched my cranial thirst. 

I had heard of TED before, casually, but never enough so that it would stick securely in my mind. Yet after watching this particular talk, and then another, and another, followed by yet another, it is surely something to be cemented in my mind and routine for many moments to come. Here is a website, void of premiums ( FREE ) that collect and broadcast informative, inspiring and innovative speeches from some of the worlds greatest minds, for all to feast on. TED promotes itself as a non profit organization. Its origins began by hosting two conventions a year, one in Long Beach, one in Palm Springs, and lately has added a third in Oxford, U.K.. At each convening, premier speakers from around the globe descend upon the attendees to share fifteen to twenty minute talks on a collage of topics. There are scientists, ministers, authors, economists, musicians and more. They challenge norms, make extravagant claims -- One of today's speakers argued that we need our ideas to have sex with one another more -- yet do so in eloquent, well prepared, and delivered fashion. The site sorts and filters by genre, topic, emotion, as to ensure almost any visitor can discover a topic of interest. 

Being a self proclaimed non-fiction, "Self-Help" book vagabond, this collection of brilliant minds deciphering and sharing their brilliant, oft-inspiring viewpoints, is tantalizing. The talks are of brief enough nature to not lose or snooze the viewer. The speakers are professionals, more than adept at hooking and intriguing an audience, and all carry the credibility and aura of experience and consequent success. I enjoyed all five particular speeches that I viewed this evening. One by the hotelier, one by a author, another by an economist, an Internet mogul and the last by a minister ( For those who know me and my religious view points, no, that was not a typo ). All shed new light, new angles and new challenges on topics from all corners of life's spectrum. 

I strongly recommend TED.com to anyone with fifteen minutes to spare. The speakers are compelling and educating. You leave with a feeling of refreshment, as if you are showering in wisdom. The stories are varied, the themes equally so, but to have this medium at your command, to access and enjoy the viewpoints and learning's of such accomplished, and distinguished individuals proves more satisfying than any play list, chapter, or sitcom. But of course, you only watch documentaries, right? 

Check it out. It might be worth your while. 

www.ted.com 

Welcome To The Q.L.C

The mid twenties have more ups and downs than Cirque Du Soleil. With every day comes the optimism and hope knowing you have so much life left in front of you. With every night comes the inescapable conscientious whispers, hauntingly reminding you of things left undone, goals not yet met, and the ability to sadistically spin your age into a number that more resembles the decade you were born. This time of life is where we cut our teeth, prove our worth, identify the path on which we wish to embark and fling our inhibitions to the wind. This is where we "Go for it!" It is this moment our professors preached about, our families longed for, and we have dreamt of since the days of "Astronauts, doctors and presidential" aspirations. the moment where we nose dive from the nest and hope we pull up. 

Yet more and more in today's social climate it seems that those of us in this genre are leaving the safety and comfort of our upbringing, educations and family care, with the hesitation and self doubt more resembling a virgin skydiver. Over a volcano. Those who do spring from campus to cubicle quickly are slapped with the realizations of the working world. The allure fades, the truths emerge and the tolls -- mental, physical, emotional -- begin to garnish our bodily wages. The lucky (and few) have expected this, they were trained, prepped and hardened like lacquer. But it is the majority that panic, they initiate the questioning. "Am I happy?" or "Did I make the right choice?",  a naturally programmed mental escape system designed to systematically help us "Punch out." Amidst our struggles we look to our peers, we compete, stack ourselves, and draw comparisons. It doesn't help that this phenomenon has been exponentially enhanced thanks to social networking and communications technologies. "He already has a PhD.  She's an attorney. What about me?" we harp. And lest not believe that these thoughts and sentiments cease at careers. In the scope of one's self evaluation everything is thrown in the pot. Love life, friends, fulfillment, accomplishment, we grind ourselves through the gauntlet. All the while hoping that the answer(s) will lie emboldened and lucid just beyond the next hurdle.  Ladies & gentlemen, I welcome you to the Q.L.C. 

The Quarter Life Crisis is a social plague sweeping through the 20-30 spectrum quicker than Danica Patrick piloting the space shuttle. As quick as today's younger generations have utilized technology and educational advancement to arm themselves, so to have they developed self pressures and standards that are more often than not proving to be overpowering. Today's world harvests and delivers success to our doorsteps in minutes and through every imaginable medium. Consequently so does it with failure, and disappointment too. One great accomplishment is immediately overshadowed by the next. Every minute it seems we can find proof of some sort of success or accolade from a peer. Be it a beaming new career, an engagement to the love of their lives, a flash new car, a vacation to the other side of the globe, even an immutable sense of happiness, this list goes further than Hubble. Because of this trend more young people are burdening themselves with self doubt & disappointment, combining the best of everyone else and placing upon themselves expectations that dictate and often demand immediate answers of "Why haven't you done this? Or that? Because they have." It's a vicious strain of self inflicted suffering and it raises negative questions of how it all came about. 

As children our parents instilled upon us the beautiful sense of unbridled optimism that told us we could grow up to be anything our hearts and minds desired. They wanted to give us every tool in the shed, as many advantages as possible to aid us in our aspiration ascent. The support lines were always open, always encouraging, always nudging us forward in our quest to find and define ourselves. Yet were they too soft? Did they fill the encyclopedias with the best parts and neglect the difficult? Did the part on "Paying your dues." somehow slip out? Or could fault have lied within our education systems? I for one never remember hearing a teacher or professor say that before we became the executive, we'd have to make one hundred cold calls a day and argue in doorways with potential clients, struggle to make due on commission and juggle insurance payments. Were we too sheltered? Too blissfully naive? 

Perhaps it was the options. When you are raised to believe you can be anything you want, it is unavoidable that a halo of divinity is placed upon your chosen path. For the doctor, life will surely be filled with glamorous operating rooms, notoriety and prestige. Never mind the paperwork, pricing, decade of post graduate studies, more paperwork and the rest of the "Grunt work." Should we have been trained and conditioned on what to expect immediately following our studies rather than lured with the end goal? Would the details of our educations taken a stronger root in our minds and hearts had we had greater acceptance and idea of their real world application? It is because of this trend that many of us begin our intended dream careers and quickly find ourselves soured with the reality of the role. We quickly panic, convince ourselves we were wrong and misguided in our aim and take drastic action to jump to the next option on the list, the plan B.  Or are we just too spoiled? Too soft?

Life and happiness within it obviously contains much more than work. What about love? A good friend of mine expressed to me her discontent and worry due to the fact that she was still single at this stage of life, when every day it seemed a friend or colleague of hers was poster-izing their recent relationship success stories for all to see. Why not her? Was there something wrong with her to sentence her to such painful anxiety and singularity ? Was she a cyclops? Have a third arm? In fact, I have spoken with many friends and acquaintances about this issue. It's human nature to want to be loved, and to have someone to love yourself. Furthermore it is also human nature to envy, dare I say be jealous, of an other's happiness when ones self is still searching to find their own? We all are guilty and can any of us truly help it? This behavior is only accelerated in the QLC, when it seems everyone is slipping a ring on an other's finger, announcing a child, celebrating love. Luckily for us, in today's society and with our incredible social technology, we can all be alerted instantaneously on these declarations. Lately for myself I feel as if it is nearly daily that a peer is making one of these. They say when it rains, it pours, and I believe it. For those of us not yet ready to "Settle down", to make a life commitment, or even those who just have not found the right "one", it's only human to wonder why? This is often a very hard, emotional thing to do and to do it without comparison to our peers is even more strenuous. 

How do we escape the clutches of the QLC? Is there a cure-all method to the mid twenties maze? I believe it starts with action. To theorize and ponder is easy. Our minds can create and envision everything this world has to offer. But to implement the plans, to throw ourselves at the coals and start the odyssey to our envisioned climax takes an entirely new, and quite courageous set of skills and behaviors. We are taught that we won't know if we like something until we try it. This must become a staple in our lives. If your life was diagrammed as a foods pyramid, treat this sage advice as vegetables. We must sample, experiment, and wander from the confines of comfort. Each and every one of us possesses but one life, one shot. The great thing about this is our ability to craft and customize every aspect, constantly adding and subtracting substance until we develop the perfect mix. 

With careers, let us do what makes us truly happy, cliche? absolutely. For some, finding this satisfaction may prove daunting and seem lengthy at stages (Cough, cough...) But let us take pride in where we have been, what we already have done, and mobilize these feats and landmarks to guide us further on in our own epics. With love let us prescribe the same. Nibble, sample, embrace variety, for how else does one become a connoisseur without experience? 

Let us reject the impulse to compare. However easy it is today to find someone with something you envy, we mustn't. Instead, look within ourselves and embrace our strengths and experiences that have made us the women and men we are today. Envy is a two way street, and you can best believe that when you are staring, wishfully at what someone may have, chances are more often than not that they are looking right back, yes, at you. Appreciate all you have done to survive this far, be prideful of your accomplishments, for we all have but one critic whose opinion matters, and their identity is of no mystery. 

The QLC does not discriminate. No one skips this stage of life. We all move at our own paces, develop in unique ways and succeed in a myriad of others. No two lives are alike, thus the reason why we should never think they may be. Let us take solace in the fact that we are all of the same design, susceptible to the same emotions, be it elation or sorrow. Let us consult where we want so bad to compete. May we learn of and not long for. Embrace the technologies of our time but yield their ability to influence our self satisfaction. There is a reason we have made it this far and conquered so much. The same reasons will launch us through the rest of our life, like a roller coaster where everyone rides, one that may be scary as hell but in the end damn, what a rush. 

 

Shut up and adapt.

Today I left my physical therapist in worse shape then when I walked in. Physically, nothing had changed in my knee. The same problems were present, pain unaffected, swelling still apparent. Yet, in "feeling out" my knee to see how it had progressed in the past week she was able to deduce through my facial expressions and pain tolerance that something undetected previously remained unsolved within the labyrinth of cartilage, ligaments and bone. "It doesn't feel good" she remarked, hardly helping to put me at ease. A moments later she phoned my doctor, who immediately wrote a referral for an MRI. Great. 

Mentally I walked out dejected, frustrated, and could feel the anger simmering within myself. I could of drop kicked a puppy. In the world of stopping pucks, aside from your eyes, ones knees are arguably the most pivotal parts of the body. Consequently they are subjected to the most intense strain, pressure, twisting and contorting in the midst of play and thus the reason why so many goalies, in every level, suffer knee problems at some stage of their career. I simply have great timing. Being only two months from the end of what had been stated as my last competitive hockey season, I could not of picked a better time or way to potentially bring the curtain down on my hockey career. As I drove I thought about this, what it would mean, and how I could handle coping with such an abrupt halt to a passion I have shared a love affair with for over twenty years. The anger was now at a rolling boil. 

I mashed the gas pedal, ripped the wheel at every turn and stomped the break and clutch with authority. I found a fitting "Angry" track on the stereo and let my emotions continue on their incensed ascent across Canberra. "Couldn't this have waited until September?" I repetitively questioned myself, "Why now?" I demanded. No answer. Temperature still rising, I could sense the distinct need to physically strike something. With no suitable objects in arms reach I compromised and instead settled on the decision to go to the gym to work off some steam. 

While sitting exhausted and irritated, glaring at myself and accompanying bandaged joint in the mirror I noticed a younger guy repairing an adjacent machine bench. Now, I have seen this guy before, I know he works for the gym. He is in his early twenties, broad but hunched shoulders, a blank almost unassuming face always drawn, constantly trekking around the gym floor in a slow but steady demeanor, often examining each piece of equipment akin to a forensics expert. He never looks unhappy or irritated, he simply and methodically conducts his business and moves on to the next task. Yet, it wasn't until I heard him speak and converse with another person that I realized the handicap he lived with. I don't know his hardships, nor have I asked, but I have occasionally found myself in a kind of quiet admiration of his work ethic and persona. He seems happy and acts with purpose, furthermore you can see the pride he infuses with his hands when working on "his" machines. It's something that can very easily slam everything into perspective if one lets it. 

Here I am, throwing a mental protest, letting circumstances out of my control ruin my thoughts and day alike, completely oblivious to the fact that despite my current hiccup of self health, I still have for the most part all the tools, capabilities, freedoms and privileges that so many less fortunate would give so much to possess. Someone like Albert maybe, the "go-to" gym repairman. And yet there he is, smiling, content, fulfilled and productive despite the odds being stacked on him more than a pancake buffet.  For a moment I couldn't help but to be embarrassed.

Fifteen minutes later I left the gym. While walking to my car I noticed a figure emerging from their vehicle. Something was not right, this person, a younger woman, struggled with even closing her door. She fought with her gym bag to get it comfortable on her shoulder, she dropped her water bottle and had to contort herself downwards just to be able to retrieve it. I watched curiously, albeit with concern. As she made her way out of the cars I was able to see exactly what type of circumstance she was met with. A massive bulge in her upper spine, visible despite the jacket draped around her shoulders. Her hip protruded awkwardly out from her torso, legs bent inwards, feet dragging across the asphalt with each step and her shoes marked and worn from such efforts.  Her body was wracked with hardship. Nothing was easy for this woman, nothing. But again, there she was, taking dynamite to the stereotypes and misconceptions people might hold when they see her. Sixty percent of the healthy population alone can't summon themselves to do personal fitness, but this woman, who has had to juggle and survive so much trudged on, gym bag packed, water bottle filled, towel ready, and no one, herself included, was to stop her from getting a workout in. She was there for the exact same reasons we all were. 

Enter embarrassed part deux.  

Climbing back into my van I had to simply sit and think for a moment. As hard as you might think you have it, as unfair as you might feel the chips have fallen against your favor, and as miserable and sulking as you might feel you should be I tell you this, there is ALWAYS someone else in this world who is worse off than yourself. Lest we forget so often, so caught up in our own concerns, our own hardships and well-beings that we neglect to pick our heads up and look around at others. Some might prefer to ignore the problems and obstacles so many of our peers must confront and surmount, this is simple and minute in nature. But what if we challenge that in actually seeing & recognizing these parallel hardships, and instead of blissful ignorance we embrace and admire their courage in these efforts. Will this lead to a greater feeling of perspective and ability to handle difficulty and hardship in our own endeavors? I believe it does. 

It is a plague of human nature to litter ones mind with self pity. We love to play the victim, for obvious reasons. Victims are the center of attention from others. They receive notoriety, care, and compassion, all invaluable traits to our self psyches. And when given a reason, this self induced defense mechanism triggers, creating a realm revolving completely around ones own self interests and status. Today, using my knee as an example, for over an hour I could not tear my mind away from the negative and "Drastic" effects this injury will cast down upon my lifestyle. Every thought a connection of the previous, all of them falling in congruence with self interest. I let it control my emotion, narrow my thoughts, and blind so much else that makes up not only who I am but how I feel. It took my witnessing of someone with their own challenges so much more great than my own, whose minds and moods appearing so much more mature, more content, more joyous, to rouse my conscience and tell myself to "Snap out of it". We love focusing so much on the past, and what HAS happened, particularly to ourselves, that we neglect to plan our future, our next move, our "What now?"

Life ceases for no one. Challenges will always exist. They may take many forms, through many mediums and affect us in many different and unique ways. It is this time when the strongest prove their talents, their abilities to stare difficulty and friction in the face and brush them aside. Adaptability. Of this we are all capable. If we come to doubt ourselves fear not, for we may merely look around at others, for they are always there. Anything we doubt we can do, someone has done. Any time we say we cannot, someone can. Whenever we believe things are at their worst, they aren't and comparatively when we declare something or someone to be at their finest, it should not be looked at as merely optimistic to say that their best is still to come. Although an inconvenience, my injury leaves much to be desired in terms of magnitude and direness. Where earlier I harped on "Why?" and "How?" I should of been asking "What now?" and "How fast?". 

The challenges of life will not define us. What we do about them will. Adapt. 

Sport. It's everywhere you want to be.

I look at sports like my credit card. No, not a hellacious curse of plastic gold ensuring time delayed cringes with each swipe, hear me out! As youngsters we play, we learn, get catered to and educated on the fields of sport to no end. We max out our proverbial limits buying coaching, mentor ship, competitions and skills.We show up on frosty mornings, dressed before we step out of the vehicle with our sole responsibility being to charge head long onto the playing field like a rabid Grey Hound and simply to give it a fair go! This method progresses and continues as our careers do, gradually more is expected, more demanded of us as athletes and eventually as teammates too. Slowly and subtlety the interest kicks in. It's bred through the growing maturity in our passions of the games. Slowly we begin to 'want' to help others succeed, to improve not only ourselves but others 'games' as well, trading secrets and tactics alike for the betterment of all involved.  And with all good things, the end eventually comes, varying in shape or form, and we must hang them up -- Skates in my instance -- and move on to the next stage of our sporting lives, our debt. This debt is when we must give back, settle up our accounts, examine all we have reaped and extracted from the games we love and sit down with our inner athletic advisor and devise a plan to pay it all back, if we can. 

Last week my friend and teammate Sean Scarbrough & myself ran the annual Canberra Knights hockey school for Canberra youth. Wrangling kids like sheep we clawed our way through five tough love days of hockey enlightenment, finally collapsing Friday afternoon exhausted and defeated by relentless youthful exuberance. I'd be lying if I said there was zero fiscal compensation attached to this position but in relation to hours, and headaches, the money hardly made sense. 

Yet, this is our debt as hockey players, our unspoken responsibility as benefactors who have enjoyed countless memories and experiences from the game we've eaten, slept and breathed so devoutly, for so long. Coaching, managing, mentoring, you name it, for this is how we give back to the hockey gods, and in every sport for this matter. Sport is a cycle, a fluid circle of progression and advancement we all must take heed of and recognize and respect. We must not reap the spoils of countless athletic withdrawals and naively forget that it SHOULD be debt we plan on repaying. 

The options are wide and varied for this service. Sport has payment plans for every type of person, custom tailored to even the most demanding of schedules. From a lesson, to a practice, to a conversation, to taking a aspiring athlete to a game, the choices we have as athletes are infinite, and more accessible than wi-fi. For myself, I've been a private goal tending coach for many students for over five years, I've done hockey schools, clinics & camps. And despite occasional spikes in frustration levels, or youth tolerance, these experiences have paid not only monetary dividends through college and a semi-pro career but also and more importantly emotional deposits in my inner vault as well, these which can never be withdrawn.

It is a strong belief of mine that all who can, should. This pertaining to taking up a mentor ship position in their chosen sport. Service towards others is a quality all should aspire to include in their personal skill sets and lives. Sport acts as such a rich source of so much, and for so many in life. The athletic mediums of our upbringings can be traced to the development of many core values and competencies we hold within ourselves. These blend and synergize with one another deep inside each of us to create exactly who we are, not only as individuals, but as teammates, friends, family members, and mentors too.   

One only need to coach one child for one day to get a sense of the impact and magnitudes that your presence and capabilities forge. The connection that is fused is indescribable when you see their hope, potential, and excitement. Most especially when their passions and energies are pointed squarely at you, asking for your help in ushering their advancement in obtaining their athletic goals. 

As it lies today, many current and ex sportsmen & women make countless contributions to mentoring tomorrows athletes. But as in anything good, more is never a bad thing. From my experience I estimate about a fifty percent rate from teammates I have played with who have chosen to begin paying back their athletic debts through coaching and other mentor positions. And while this is good, connecting and inspiring the other fifty percent would do unthinkably great things for sport and its social impacts on our worlds youth. At times it can be frustrating, draining, even stressful working with children. Yet for all the minor headaches and sacrifices required, the rewards and inner fulfillment obtained from giving back, being able to see the positive effects of your efforts, will ultimately make the process completely soul enriching and gratifying in the end. 

Sport is the credit card without limits, spend all you like, take from it everything you need and do so sans regret. For this is a card whose payment plan is riddled with inner reward and its interest rates composed solely of charity towards the passionate athletes of tomorrow. Heck, some organizations might even throw in a t-shirt or vacation for your commitment. Simply remember, the swiping of this proverbial plastic will always be encouraged. 

Facebook Killed The Reunion Star...

What do luxury car rental companies; escort services and suit rental places all share these days? Within each lies an incensed, seething, mutual resentment for "The Book".  Facebook. The online monolith that makes it a daily habit of snatching up millions upon millions of devoted souls to feed its ever sprawling, ever-expanding bandwidth empire.  And why has it targeted these unique business niches?

Facebook has sucked the fun & surprise out of the high school reunion quicker than a Dyson. That’s right, kaput. At least the best parts of these awkward jaunts back in time.

Ten years ago, Chuck, the uncomfortable band geek who never was really seen in sunlight, could pull up to Montego High’s 10 year reunion in a 2000 Corvette – the C5  -- as Chuck would never be a guy to drive the base model, come on! Super glued to his elbow would be Svida, a bomb shell blonde who looked like she had been manufactured in the clean rooms at Intel, and both of them would be dressed to the nine’s in their choice of Versaci, Hugo Boss, Gucci, Prada, and more. Chuck probably in pinstripe, sporting a two button, as three’s aren’t set to return for a couple more years in the fashion world. 

And the classmates, the same social rulers of his youth, the one’s who gnawed on his every flaw, sent the guy home in tears for kicks, built themselves up by blowing the doors off other self esteem’s, would flock, enamored, asphyxiated by this apparent ‘Swan’ story.  They’d have questions but you know our man Chuck would have the answers. He’d worked on this bit for months. An astronaut? Navy Seal? Foreign film star? You name it; Chuck could of pulled it off. The dude rehearsed harder than kid who landed the lead in Slumdog. This was to be our mans long awaited masterpiece. His redemption. 

 This of course before a man by the name of Mark Zuckerberg and his social networking cronies at Facebook went and extinguished the party quicker than a hook and ladder on a trash can fire.

Fictional confession; Chuck still lives in his mothers basement and runs internet scams off e-bay but that’s neither here nor there.

You see, by the time you or me shows up to our reunion -- I prefer social status realignment -- every other plug in the room with a Ethernet connection is going to know our background, employment, marital status, interests, hobbies, favorite quotes, sexual orientation, what we drive, if we are more of a swinger or someone who takes what they can get, our travels, our religious beliefs and twenty two thousand random mind dumps we affectionately classify as “Status Updates”. Sweet.

Just try to pull a fabricated bio over your Internet trolling mate’s heads, I dare you.

Thanks to Facebook you can’t hide from anything anymore. Worse yet, people you absolutely wanted nothing to do with in high school, perhaps despised, can still track you more ferociously than a FedEx parcel. Surprises are extinct, no jack in the box here kids. The fact is that your life, in all its glory is clipped to the laundry line, flowing in the wind more free than Mel Gibson’s groin area in Brave Heart, for all to gander. Ah…technology!

Yet who knows, maybe all this preceding information might help the reunion vibe.  Maybe instead of everyone posturing, doing their best Meryl Streep or Michael Douglas, projecting an aura of success and happiness no matter their current circumstance, maybe we can all show up and simply enjoy one another’s company? Leave the rank and file, self worth competition on the sidelines, talk about the good ol’ days, when we loved few, liked some and despised many. Maybe facebook has made it all a little more “Real”.  Which in itself is another attribute to how disgusting the social networking phenomenon is really becoming. Yeesh.

Facebook is the future; there is no getting around it. Every day it taps into our behaviors, our collective souls, and mining information and reflecting it back in shiny new features we foam at the mouth to ‘add’ to our walls. Yet, for all the good press and praise, and functionality this techno-organic being brings to our 2010 lives, surely it has to have some flaws, and the death of the reunion is one of them!

The cool Chuck stories of old are gone. The curtain has been vaporized and our virtual lives get more hits online than 'Charlie bit my finger!'.  From here you have two options folks. Firstly, you can merge onto to the moral freeway and clean up your act, live healthy, fulfilling, joyous lives that you are proud of. If you aint that kind of guy get wise, upload a Lamborghini to your wall pics, change your relationship status to “Engaged to (insert exotic Russian woman’s name). “ For this of course you must ask the next super model you see on the street for a harmless pic, hugging preferably, and lastly set your employment info to CEO of Chuck Co., international marketing agency.  You see the Chucks still have a chance; it’s merely the game that’s changed! 

Going For Broke...er....Broken?

One trait I have never endorsed as a strength would be my ability of monitoring & consequent preventative action. The section for recommended maintenance somehow was ripped from my text book a long time ago. From the check engine light, to that peculiar smokey smell in the kitchen, from the fraying skate lace to (and most importantly) that tweak in my back/knee/foot/(insert every other body part imaginable). Maybe I'm an optimist, a dreamer, the guy who thinks everything will work itself out, the ice fishermen who thinks a couple cracks are all part of the plan, a guy who puts his head in front of ninety mile an hour pucks, shielded only by a centimeter thick piece of steel, bent already to his nose, and "thinks" "Ah, it's cool". Or maybe I'm blissfully naive. He who believes will achieve, right?

I hate prevention, I despise slow, and for this, lately I am feeling the effects. My body is madder than Christian Bale at the odd greenhorn lighting technician. My current injury report looks like the print out for the Pamplona emergency room. 

This current "Streak" began in April when I effectively asked two tiny muscles in my lower back to hold onto an anvil being dropped of a proverbial cliff in the gym. They bent, but they didn't break. Some mild pain, slight discomfort, a warning to take it easy? Please! Yet for me, this simply translated into a clean bill of health and no cause for concern. I could still make all the motions of my athletic routines so why change? Three days later cut to me on the ice, crumpled like a empty bag of kettle chips, dragging myself off like Tom Hanks on the beach in Saving Private Ryan. The punishment, 3 weeks of intensive electro-therapy, and daily visits to my chiropractor or "Pain Practitioner" who put me through more body contorting, lip chomping, eye popping pain than Henry VIII's dungeon staff. 

Next came what I like to refer to as "Lowe versus beast." My team obliged to a gentle men's challenge from the local under 18's team for a "Friendly" scrimmage to prep them for an upcoming tournament. With the invitation to skate as a forward too delectable to pass up, I patch worked a gear set-up and took a left wing slot. Little did I know the under 18's had a secret weapon likened to Priceline.com's "The Big Deal" chomping at the bit to prove his effectiveness at demolition work, using opponents bodies as his wrecking balls. This Kodiak Grizzly on blades caught me looking the other way late in the game and sent me hurling through the air further than a Red Bull Flugtagger and my right upper rib cage doing its best play-dough impersonation against the merciless boards. For a month now I've cursed this kids name daily through every imaginable basic activity, especially coughing. I tell ya, you never think about what you need your rib cartilage for until its the fleshy equivalent of potato mash. Over a month later and I still walk around convinced if someone were to punch me in the side I would tear up faster than Terrell Owen's defending "His Quarterback". 

My feet have never been right. Maybe it's the fact that they live most their life suctioned into a skate boot tighter than Serena Williams tennis shorts. But lately I've been getting a nagging dull, nothing but annoying pain on both feet's outer edges. Being the online medical professional that I am, I've diagnosed this problem as Cuboid Syndrome. Granted, my accuracy rate is probably more akin to Shaq's free throw percentage, but whose to say I'm wrong? A doctor? Common web knowledge suggests rest, icing, and a chiropractic adjustment known as a Cuboid Whip but in this instance I didn't even have time to flip to the "C's" in the Canberra yellow pages. 

And why? 

Because yesterday in net, doing my thing, which lately seems to resemble a block of Gouda in a mice colony, I felt a slight pop in my right knee on a harmless squat to stand recovery. Up to this point I had survived a few shoves, a couple post-whistle hacks, and a death threat from the AIHL's Kimbo Slice equivalent. But leave it to the harmless skate push to screw the pooch. I finished the game, yet in waking up today I am hobbling worse than Kurt Gibson in 88', after he's downed six rum and cokes. I don't know the diagnosis yet, but the outlook looks about as bright as the US economy at this point. Fantastic. 

The one constant in each of these health calamities has been the recommended prescription of rest. Unfortunately it's a luxury I don't have, or don't want at this point. Maybe that's my issue, and it is probably why I seem to be making it a habit of digging myself a deeper hole than Sammy Sosa at a congressional hearing health-wise as of late. But I can't stop, activity is my drug, and if I can't do something at least mildly athletic each day let's just say I make Courtney Love look straight edge. I'm a fitness junky, maybe it's my vice, but nothing stirs more aggravation and frustration from my core than being restricted by my own means. If my mind is the American Militia, my body is quietly becoming a full fledged Benedict Arnold, or Lebron James? (had to) 

The worst part, the thing that stings most lies in the truth of the signals, the ones that say I need rest, I need to take care of myself, to call the dealer and schedule a service check and of course my blatant lack of will to heed this advice. I've always believed in my ability to beat it, to stay the course, even speed up at times, thinking I can work through it, sweep it under the rug.  This seems to of been about as effective as Clinton trying to hide his cigar Olympics. 

If my body is listening, I'm blasting White Snakes "Give me more time", just until September, please! I've made little secret that this hockey season is my Alamo. I'm Custard and the injury Apache are screaming at me from 360 degrees. I know I've probably neglected the necessary maintenance and service checks every couple thousand saves and I don't doubt that I'll have to pay for the mileage at some point down the road, take it out of my re-sale value. But can't we just push the last pit stop back a bit. Maybe I should of listened to my bodies crew chief and re-fueled fifty laps ago, but the line is so close, wrong or not I am going for it baby, fumes don't fail me now. 

Ring Wanted, inquire within.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Lebron James today took one great step for him, and the 362,000 Miami residents he just became neighbors with, and one unforgivable leap from the countless more he leaves weeping and seething in Cleveland. Champagne & Red jerseys illuminated the Cleveland sky Thursday evening as many distraught Cav fans looked to burn away the betrayal. The jerseys that survive undoubtedly will be shuttled from the "Go-to" selections of Ohio wardrobes straight into the "Painting, oil changing, home repair" attire drawer. Dan Gilbert, the owner of the Cavaliers, who saw his franchise grow in estimated value over 100 million dollars since Lebron suited up, didn't just take a couple parting shots at the King, he skewered, shish-kebabbed and powder slapped Lebron & his effort in a no holds barred letter to his fans, scrambling to reverse their chicken little outlook of their teams future sans James. "Betrayal, coward, juvenile" and most scathing "Quitter", all slithered their way into Gilbert's tongue lashing of the Akron native. The incensed owner closed his far from timid mind dump with the declaration that guaranteed, no questions about it, his Cavaliers would bring home a title before the newly spawned three headed hydra of South Beach. You have to appreciate the guys heart. 

Initial reactions see far more people questioning, and berating Jame's decision than backing him on his new home. Six teams courted the guy, and the simple facts of life are that only one team what be left smiling when this was all said and done. More surprising though to me is the fact that the sports networks, analysts and reporters all seem to be joining in this initial frown citing such quotes as "Jordan didn't have to run to Detroit to win a championship" to imply that Lebron was surrendering of sorts, saying he needed help, that it takes more than him to bring home a ring, which of course is priority numero uno to furthering the dudes dynasty. 

And THIS is where I have a issue. Look, the Miami heat just added three NBA Superstars to their lineup. They are automatically a title contender, regardless of the fact that they might have to inflate the remaining two positions on the court to make the financials of this weeks signings fit. Pat Riley aggressively courted and wooed Bosh & James and they obviously picked up what he was laying down. Captain Ahab didn't just bag Moby, he nabbed the whole pod. These three stars just did the very thing that so many for so long have harped on, griped about and stressed in basketball pertaining to star players, they called for help. 

Kobe Bryant did become a better teammate between 08, and last & this years championship. His assists grew, his attitude morphed and a nice addition of a seven foot gangly Spaniard surely didn't hurt either. He needed help. In 08 in bean town it only took the compilation of three ring deprived, starving stars in Allen, Pierce & Garnett to bring home a ring. They needed one another. But now that Lebron, along with Wade & Bosh are ultimately stepping out, waving their theoretical arms above their heads, declaring to all that maybe they can't do it alone, maybe each, with all his godly talents and potential needs a sidekick, or two and that they took the steps to make it happen. Of course this suddenly comes across as atrocious, unfair and incomprehensibly shocking to so many avid NBA followers. These guys knew they would be risking their individual empires, diluting their star power, all for a better chance at hoisting some hardware. I'm sure countless advisors, consultants, and entouragee's warned and pleaded that they should take more green, more lights, more market appeal from the larger cities (Chicago & New York most notably). Yet all three knew what each needed, they put their ego's down for a moment, maybe analyzed the game and saw an eerily emerging trend on the hard court, that it really does take a TEAM these days to obtain the O'Brien. 

I know I know, 3 guys do not a team make. But, this is arguably the strongest core to build from in the league now today. And let's not doubt the architect in Miami, the dude wearing seven rings, Pat. He just juiced three enormous ego's into one arena, how hard can it be to fill out a couple more starters and bench players? 

But back to the message at hand. The one that Bosh, James & Wade just forwarded out to the basketball world this week. That although great, all accomplished, none, alone could achieve what makes their palates water most, a championship, without a little help from their friends. Just ask Wade about a old amigo of his who goes by "The Diesel". I mean it's incredible, three super stars, playing in perhaps the most individually centered professional team sport in the world, admitting that their skill sets, no matter how celebrated or admired, are quite up to snuff to tick all the boxes of the championship check sheet. 

The nucleus is fused. The goal is distinct. The sacrifices surfacing already on street corners, around water coolers, smoldering 23's in trash can fires. James, Bosh & Wade have formed something great. Their ego's might be more cramped than frat guys in a phone booth, but they've accepted it, signed it, and done what so many have known needed to happen but none wanted to accept, that these guys all needed a wing man, er....men? Overnight they've become a title favorite, and they know it. All that's left is 16 postseason wins, all done with the grandest, brightest, flaming bulls eye ever painted on the backs of an NBA lineup. With rivals in LA, Boston, Orlando & more licking their chops to take on this three headed monster and do what so many are already planning, pleading and predicting, the chance to send this store bought dynasty home. No pressure fellas, enjoy the ride, and ignore the vultures. 

Writing Revelations.

I couldn’t stand writing in college. The topics irked me, made me loathe the long nights, catalyzed my procrastination and left me with an empty feeling of accomplishment. I knew my products would pass when they went under the professor’s pen, that wasn’t the issue. I took pride in my pieces; yet felt out of control, dictated, as if my talents and nocturnal keyboard mashing sessions were trivial, their sole purpose to mint a check mark on an assignment list next to my name.

In the years since San Jose State I neglected to write.  I’d digest article after article on sports sites, I’ve engulfed books at an alarming rate, no sooner finishing one than scrambling to snatch up the next.  And as rewarding as reading renowned content can be, something lacked at the end. I felt for, as much time as I had spent absorbing the thoughts, beliefs, practices and disciplines of another, I wasn’t giving enough time to myself. My mind churned and processed many thoughts during this period. In the gym, on the ice, in an airplane, I created and connected many a concept and idea, yet ignored the satisfaction that comes with putting your word into record. And I largely felt that I was wasting my own ends to my means.

Since starting this blog a mere three months ago in a tiny bedroom on the fourth floor of a townhouse in San Jose, my interest, passion and inspiration for crafting written pieces continues to bloom. It’s become an outlet for me. A drainage pipe for the smorgasbord of mental material I produce, ponder and preside over on a daily basis. You know the feeling you get when you finish a conversation, or debate, or even an argument and as you walk away you feel “Damn. I should have said….” Or “Why did I say that…”, of course you do. Well writing never sentences me to those regrettable thoughts. With writing I feel empowered in my thoughts and unchained in the pressures of conveying them correctly. Every blank template is my canvas, I am in control, and the world and those in it produce an imminent stream of delectable material for me to use and will continue to do so as long as I am able to exist.

As the number of essays I produce grows it’s easy to see that Sports captivates a large portion of my literary affection. Perhaps it is because I’m familiar with the athletic realm. I am who I am in large thanks to athletics and all the trials and tribulations that accompany the passion. But the greatest attraction for myself in sport is the stories of those who play, which coach, who cheer and who exist within confines of the competition coliseums. If the spectrum of emotion is a dartboard, sport is a shotgun blast. It hits everything. Anything you seek, any human-interest story, any trait of human nature, controversy, query or success you can find within athletics and those who partake. I love that. I love writing about that.  Of course I do not intend to limit or restrict my subject supply chain only to sport, as the world we survive in daily, if watched closely, will never fail to provide insatiable article fodder for even the most inept and closed author. But Sport is my muse; it knows my weaknesses and reels me in to its plots and cultures time after time.

I did not create this blog with intended goals or objectives. When I feel like writing, I write. I have no deadline, am the responsibility of no one, and have the freedom to directly dictate what I feel, think and forecast directly into my own words, exactly when I want to do it. But, as I have not only written, but continued to read more and more authors, particularly those with similar, essayist writing styles the natural competitor and prideful fire within me have continued to throw logs on the smoldering ash in my furnace, pushing me to improve and expand my literary skill sets.  I want to be better, I make no secret that when I invest myself in something, and I do it with the intended purpose to consistently improve, to what ends are of no importance, as long as my progress remains positive. I love to study those of high esteem in their fields. The champions, the titleholders, the Pulitzers, the Nobel’s, for there is so much captivation and interest flowing from these great people. The hockey player within me would sit at NHL games, transfixed on the goaltenders, from how they strap their pads, tie their skates and snap their masks to their skating styles, save selection and on and on. I enjoy playing goalie, these guys are better than me, what can I do to be like them. This was my typical thought process. And the same holds true in my newfound writing interest. Now when I read, I analyze, I study, and abstract from the texts the certain traits, literary birth marks, and styles that have propelled these authors to the upper echelons of their crafts. I find such methods exciting.

Tonight I read a story on the late, legendary Coach John Wooden, written by world-renowned sports writer Rick Reilly. While only a couple pages in length, this essay portrayed flawlessly to the reader on a sincere, poignant, and touching cross section of the life of the masterful collegiate basketball coach.  But it didn’t focus on basketball. Reilly does an impeccable job of creaming away the glitz and flash of this mans career that if allowed to star, could so easily masque and conceal the true methods and behaviors that made Wooden, Wooden. From his simple mid-western upbringing, through his coaching methodologies to his incredible love for his wife, Reilly, in so few words, absolutely captures and conveys the greatness of this man for all to read.  Basketball made us know John Wooden, but it didn’t make him great, his morals, disciplines and ethics did that all on his own. But my point is this. Reilly, through his writing, captured and infused so much heart, meaning and sincerity in so little. Via the power of written word. This is why writing is great, why it has withstood the sands of time, the technology revolutions, the I-generation, because it is inimitable.

Writing is possibly the purest form of communication in existence. Consequently, for myself, is why it has become so addicting. It takes what you invest, records for you to remember, and if allowed, reveals and parades it for others to enjoy, critique or disagree with. It is a solid form, more so than a conversation, or an image, its meanings and motifs are distinct and recognizable and because of this its readers are able to digest and enjoy the fruits of its harvests with relative ease and simplicity. I have found an outlet in writing, a socket to plug into the countless volts of opinions, thoughts and emotion I produce daily. Moving forward, progressing, I aim to continuously improve, absorb and enhance my literary capabilities. The art of the written word has never been more enjoyable to me. If you have given me the compliment of reading some of my blogs, I thank you and encourage you to stay close, as I vow to invest myself continuously in striving to create more meaningful, effective and interesting pieces on all the worlds delicacies. 

I like my wine like my women and my art like my mind.

Wine intimidates people. The drink of the gods, the staple of France, the blood of Napa, with wine comes a sense of pomp and sophistication few other luxuries can offer. To the novice, the massive breadth and scope of the “Wine World” can make even the most curious patron cower in the corner, scared to be exposed as a beginner. With a dictionary all of it’s own, countless varietals, infinite vineyards and a devout following from primarily the higher class, wine carries many barriers of entry that keep many the would be drinker sticking to other alcohols and beverage options.

At a restaurant I used to work at we would routinely hold wine education courses, typically featuring representatives from various vineyards running seminars and tastings to better educate our staff in the pro’s, and pro’s, of their selective bottles. More often than not, the educators would rattle off facts and notes pertaining to the blends, the processes, the types of grapes and aging processes that usually left us as students bored and disinterested. Of course tasting the wine was another matter. Once we could hold, swirl, smell and sip the fermented grape juice our senses and curiosities rose sharply. We sought out hidden flavors, often trying our hand at pin pointing obscure flavors as tobacco, nutmeg, chocolate, even red bell pepper! And despite our attempts being more than a bit on the comically sarcastic side, the representatives would always find a way to encourage and attempt to diffuse and or explain our tastes. As long as we liked it, we would sell it, and they would have done their job.

I distinctly remember one particular educator who likened each wine to a different kind of woman. “This red is a classy, dark, intellectual wine. Think of a vintage Hollywood starlet.” Or “This white is light, sweet, and innocent, it is a lot of fun. Think of your high school sweetheart, when life was simple and carefree!” Abstract, yes, but these analogies worked, they helped us identify with each wine, develop character and opinions and enhanced our waning curiosities in a topic we could always afford to learn more in. I enjoyed this representative’s speech, and consequently will always remember how he closed the class. “Look” he declared, pressing both knuckles into the long wooden table, “People love to make wine complicated, it makes them feel distinguished, exceptional. The truth is wine is like any luxury in life in that if you like it, nothing else really matters. To some a Lamborghini is a dream car; to another it is a Porsche, or even a truck! If you find a wine you love, do not let anyone tell you otherwise, drink what makes you happy! For that is the purpose and enjoyment of it all.” What he did in that conclusion was empower us; he put us on a level playing field with every wine novice and wine connoisseur on the planet. He let us know we could not only belong, but stand on our own, hold a conversation, defend our selections. I now no longer scan menus searching for a popular name, or sort by price, hoping to randomly obtain some wine credibility. I have slowly found what I enjoy, and the stress and pressure of it all has been evaporated from my shoulders.

Today I made my way around the National Gallery of Australia, home to hundreds of world class pieces from artists as distinguished and noted as Picasso, Monet, Warhol & Pollock. As I strolled the open aisle ways, pausing to read descriptions, admire classics, investigate others, I had the same type of  “Wine” moment. Art has always been a curious subject for me. For those who follow it, and study the subject, I can’t tell you how many times I have stood facing a piece, that for the life of me I could not “grasp” or even pretend to enjoy. Many of these created by world-renowned masters of their mediums. For the longest time I would feel embarrassed, like I simply did not know enough about the work to truly enjoy it, that I wasn’t qualified to be a critic. I would nod and agree and guess just like I had done on wine lists for so many years.  Often I would creep behind a tour group to hear the host give his or her opinions on what made these often “questionable” pieces of art, such “masterpieces”, and rarely was I satisfied. I just didn’t get it, I guess?

Today however I sat and admired a wall size masterpiece from Jackson Pollock titled  “Blue Poles”. His trademark paint scattering style completely saturating a canvas twenty feet wide and 12 feet high.  Bright splashes of orange, leapt from the wall against a background of blues and grays, whites and blacks also masqueraded in the background giving further effect. I loved this painting.  I told myself “If I like it, what else is there to debate? No one can tell me otherwise.” This quiet confession emboldened me. It gave me a new sense of art critic confidence. Many before me may have distinguished these artists as “Masters” but no one could tell me what, or whose artistic expressions I enjoyed, except myself.

With each gallery I found new favorites. Most were from artists largely unknown as well as a few classics from the stalwarts. Comparatively there were also quite a few selections I disliked, again, many from legendary artists.  But this was my show, my art critique and it made the whole experience that much more enjoyable. For reasons I cannot quite explain, it is almost empowering to be able to stand and make a judgment or critique on something that so many others try to sway your opinion on.

Like wine, perhaps that is why art is so grand, and will forever stand the tests of time and change. Both allow you to find your own flavors, favorites and style. The options are endless and surely there must be one “masterpiece” for every person, of every type and discriminations. The key lays within ones self. To be able to block the hype of the masses, to search and discover ones own unique tastes and visions is what makes these two genres so forever rewarding. I thoroughly enjoy some wines, and I dislike many others. I love select art, and I am confused and even disappointed in more than a few pieces. If beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, so does good wine and incredible art. The only hurdle we must mount is the ability to be able to break through the commonplace perceptions, dispel the praise and critiques of others, develop our own style in selection, and when we do this free of persuasion, our end results will be nothing short of masterful.