Courage and Love in a Neighborhood not Served by the Culver City Police Department

Because Exposition Blvd. is not considered part of either the Palms or Culver City but rather the all-encompassing city of Los Angeles for god-knows-what reason.

Photo Credit: Aaron Phillips

For fear of sounding preachy (especially if that has become my status quo), I want to begin with the caveat that despite my worldly, all-encompassing tone at times, my writings really are a very selfish, narrowly-scoped pursuit. Except maybe that graduation post (which still alluded to my own feelings and thoughts) most of my production is a result of personal examination. That's not to say that I don't care about other perspectives or ideas. My writing just serves as necessary catharsis. I care about all of you, but I care more about me.

When I was growing up, one of the things that troubled me the most when playing sports was dealing with failure and/or mistakes. These two ideas ought to be contrasted, as failure to me is more large-scale. Mistakes happen far more often, and when compounded they result in failure. At the age of 25 I have become well versed at dealing with failure, but I still struggle mightily to brush off my mistakes. Especially when I played baseball, striking out was horrifying. I worshiped Tony Gwynn and contact hitters who batted for average and rarely struck out, so when I did so I felt like...I don't even know. It was such a nagging, frustrating occurrence for me that it almost always ruined my focus on the rest of the game. I prided myself on being a great hitter, and in baseball you typically have to wait 20-30 minutes before another opportunity to bat arises, so picture a younger me stewing over a poor approach or attempt for half an hour without a chance to redeem myself. Not a pretty sight.

I can say with 100% certainty that I am not afraid of failure; I've picked myself off the ground (literally and figuratively) more times than I can count. But I still dread making mistakes. Introspection leads me to believe this is because of an obsession with proving myself adequate and worthy as well as yearning to re-do things successfully. Though I consider myself humble, I have not necessarily an absurdly high opinion of myself but rather high expectations. Perhaps I set the bar a little too high, but I'd rather be disappointed and hungry to achieve more than easily satisfied, fat, and happy.

This aversion to making mistakes has carried over into my adult life, and I'm so beyond done with it. I'm making a resolution from this point on -- and I'm not waiting until New Year's because if you want to improve yourself you don't need the calendar to change -- to get rid of that nagging, "woe is me" voice inside of my head. The self-pity is pathetic and counter to everything that I believe in. I'm going to continue making mistakes, and my goal is to reach a point where I don't let it affect my outlook. I want to stay positive and forward-thinking, and dwelling on mistakes and pitying myself negates all progress.

Zane and I talked about stoicism a fair amount over the summer, and one of the ideas I recall is that successful stoics will use adversity as an opportunity for growth; they'll try to find a beneficial side of any instance instead of viewing an obstacle as just that, an obstacle. Far be it from me to anoint myself the patron saint of stoicism, but I feel like I portray that characteristic well enough on the outside. Now is the time to delve deeper and tweak my innermost thoughts and tendencies and chisel down a sculpture that I can be proud of.

Here's to hoping that this contribution is the first in a spree as we approach the holiday season. I'm hellbent on putting more of myself out there (not necessarily in an outgoing sense but more in a productive sense), so I'm going to be setting up a personal SoundCloud to serve as a locus for rough, shitty, trite recordings of songs that I wrote years and years ago. Sometimes I lose touch with my musical side so let's rekindle that fire.

And for those of you waiting on pins and needles to know the musical theme of this post, do yourself a favor and listen to "Falls" by ODESZA. I'm rotating between my three favorite songs off their new album, A Moment Apart, and this one most aptly fits with my current purpose. Also know that your life will not be complete until you have seen them perform live. 

Until life strikes again,

ATM

Courage and Love in the City of Angels (Or a Christmas in July)

Photo Credit: Aaron Phillips

Everyone experiences recurring dreams. A bizarre aspect of our reality, I believe dreams to be almost as impactful on our lives as our waking moments. Unfathomable creativity, complexity, and lucidity lead us to contemplate existence and consciousness from a position of complete vulnerability and openness.

One of my most common recurring dreams puts me somewhere back in high school, playing basketball for my varsity coach Eric Swain. Now let me explain Coach Swain to all of you who never attended Buchanan High School:

Standing about 6'4" with a gut to match, his most renowned trait was his tendency to scream directly in your face to the point where you'd have to wipe his spit off your cheeks. A fiery titan of fury, he would prowl the sidelines whenever he was looking for a sub, somehow looking angrier at the eventual replacement than the player coming off the floor. Once he found a victim, he would seize you by the front of your jersey and basically fling you in the direction of the scorer's table. On more than one occasion some of my teammates were caught unawares and suffered mild whiplash when coach threw them into the fray while they were looking in the other direction.

Charming individual, that Swain.

Well anyone who has played organized sports at the high school, college, or professional level can attest to the fact that all coaches have their own, intricate style. Some are more analytical, some are methodical, some are screamers, and some are lunatics. Whatever the means, coaches are always trying to get the best out of their players -- as athletes AND as people.

To this day I know that the reason I have this recurring dream of being at practice is primarily to do with the fact that I still feel like I never got a fair shake with Swain. For my senior year, our squad had about 19 guys on it -- far larger than the average basketball team. The starting lineup was set, and minutes were hard to come by. And despite not truly emerging as a talented basketball player until well after my high school years came to an end, I am still bitter that Swain never gave me a shot.

But the lingering sense of pride I retain from that experience, from those four years of enduring Swain's diatribes and verbal baptisms, is because I never gave in and quit. I never gave him that satisfaction.

And so I have to reflect on these dreams and those years in his tutelage positively, and I can still take away a nugget of wisdom and understanding that helps in my mid-20's: Coach Swain's intention was to "break us down...so he could build us back up."

It all derived from a place of love and trust. Mentors, leaders, and coaches will all tell you that it takes adversity to grow as an individual. That's how I know that my time with Coach Swain made me stronger, more durable, and determined. Though it may be to a fault at times, I do not give up on anything or anyone. This is perhaps my greatest strength.

I can see this ideal of rebuilding oneself manifested too in life events and non-sports related adversity. I fucked up royally back in May, but it gave me a greater perspective and understanding. I had grown accustomed to taking many things for granted, and I have had to deal with the losses of privileges and pride subsequently.

But I am not to be pitied or mourned. I recovered, dealt with the adversity, and somehow grew up enough to plan trips and follow through with my plans, sometimes relying on public transportation and city infrastructure that makes me want to vomit, but I persevered. And in my perseverance I found wonderful times with my best friends yet again, and I found my way to a basketball court next to the Santa Monica Beach.

Oh boy, did I prove myself worthy.

Having not played 5-on-5 full court since about 2013, I was tepid about jumping into the fray, but I played to my strengths and asserted myself on a brand new court that I'd never graced before, and I proved that I belonged in a group of grown men with an average of 5 years my senior. Over the course of four games I neither dominated the ball nor wowed anyone with fancy plays; rather I played basketball the only way I know how: hard.

And I had some moments, a curling three on the right wing that would not have been likely 7 years ago in high school; a driving floater/hook over a 6'7" defender; periodic steals and some nice set-up assists; many strong defensive possessions in the post where I played that 6'7" stiff to a standstill.

My favorite part of those four games, though, has to be...that I won every single one.

And so regardless of the tough times that I experienced in high school and the obstacles I've faced as an adult, I know not only that I will come through unscathed, but also that I will succeed. It's been awhile since I mentioned a song in one of these, so go listen to "Heart of a Champion" by Nelly and "Till I Collapse" by Eminem.

With that being said...I'm gonna go pump some iron. Get some.

Big Bear Lake, California

Courage and Love at 6533 Del Playa Drive

"How does it feel to know you created someone who is biologically-engineered to be incapable of playing basketball in the post?"

By Austin T. Murphy

 It truly is a wonderful feeling when the years-long-held assumption that your publications are simply a medium for self-expression is superseded by the realization that there are those on the other end who appreciate and ask about your work. I thought it was about me; I was wrong, and I couldn’t be more pleased.

    Recent events have forced me to reexamine my numerous flaws, the first of which has often manifested itself in my pieces; many of them have been personal to the point of selfishness. I am also arrogant; I have a tendency to operate in a bubble and assume that I always have the best of intentions; my excessive internalizations lead me to presume that I’m older and wiser than I actually am, and that’s where I sometimes hurt others.

    I don’t want this time to be about me. Despite Zane’s repeated insistences that I rallied harder than anyone this weekend, I don’t deserve that credit; the recognition more appropriately belongs to the people who gave me a reason to keep going. This was their graduation weekend; this was their time in the sun.

    So, to finally begin, I suppose I have to give a shout-out to the most wholesomely wonderful family I’ve ever met. The Browns are the most literal embodiment of the American Dream I’ve experienced thus far: their oldest son is going to be a goddamned American hero, their middle son plays college baseball for crying out loud, and their youngest son is both the most promising die catcher I’ve seen at his age, and about to attend the University of Texas. You’d be hard pressed to find a better example of love, dedication, and values; their generosity and open-mindedness was on full display this weekend, and was appreciated by many. Thank you, Kevin and Susan.

    We were also joined by Larry Legend himself, and despite the repeated insertion of my foot into my mouth, I’d like to believe that he understood the competitive dynamic between myself and Michael; if not, I hope that he’ll give me a chance to redeem myself someday. Or not, in which case I’ll have to take him into the post and put him through the spin cycle. 

    On a personal note, one of my most intriguing moments was perusing the halls of my once-famed fraternity house. While the sad realization that I wouldn’t be spending any more time there hurt, it was a peculiar moment of strange juxtaposition: Kendall and Phil represent my long-gone (but never forgotten) college years, and Nikita is the heart and soul of 33. Seeing the three of them standing together in Beta (a place as foreign to her as it was familiar to them) was curious, to say the least.

   And then there was the actual ceremony, where E.J. thrice blew my mind with anecdotes about his family that I will refrain from repeating; rest assured that there are people in this world with whom you DO NOT want to mess. 

    I could ramble on all day about each and every one of these names until my eleventh page, but, in the interest of brevity, I’ll quickly mention Alanna, Alex, Austin, Brandon, Christian, Cori, Danielle, Fletcher, Ha’jime, Hannah, Jade, Nate, Randi and Brandi (but mostly Brandi), Scarlett, and others who couldn’t be with us like Aaron, Brian, Diego, Jack, and the rest of the wolfpack. And Zach.  

 In summation – and this is to you, graduates, Class of 2017 – take nothing for granted, don’t sweat the petty stuff, don’t pet the sweaty stuff, and remember that you earned every bit of this, and are consequently worthy of celebration. You are perfect just the way you are; we are all unfathomably proud of you, and we look forward to the next 50-60 years of conquering the world and eventually purchasing that $3M shack of debauchery that will someday crumble into the ocean… But not before I dunk on Larry Burg and adopt him as my second son. 

    Congratulations.

Photo credit: The Brown Family and Nikita Michelsen

"We Ain't Ever Getting Older"

By Austin T. Murphy

This world, if one chooses to see (the beauty/its beauty), is a place full of amazing people and experiences. In less than a quarter century, I’ve had the great fortune of meeting the best of these amazing people, and have witnessed truly miraculous events. Though there are few limits to how incredible our respective lives can become, there are undoubtedly some truly deplorable aspects of this world.

From childhood, we are forced to accept consumption of media through two (channels/avenues): the big, black box in the living room, and the voices in our car. The meaning of a life worth worshipping is determined entirely through its exalted presence on TV, at the top of the charts, or in the World Wide Web. Figures with such presence are glorified beyond reason, and inevitably fall short of our impossibly lofty expectations that may only be aptly described as Messianic. These people exhaust their respective selves in a futile pursuit of the perfections we expect from them, and once they falter, even slightly, our natural proclivity against imperfection results in rejection of the fallen star, and a search for yet another ‘savior.’

You’ll forgive the religious metaphors; the annual War on Christmas was purportedly waged again not so long ago.

So the cycle begins again; our painfully ironic idolatry continues with a new hero who might accomplish the impossible and best immorality. The sad fact is that they never will; the sadder fact is that we, as followers, are so deeply impacted.

The Chainsmokers released “All We Know” in 2016, and although the song and accompanying video each focus more on love and relationships, the refrain of “’cause this is all we know” seems to speak more to an idea of blissfully ignorant innocence and a sense of helpless following. We do what we do because we see our elders, parents, and heroes do it first. We consume copious amounts of alcohol because we are told by its purveyors that it is cool to do so. We smoke tobacco and weed for the same reason, and we experiment with drugs because, once upon a time, Eve demonstrated for everyone that followed how to disregard the rules (we tend to ignore the ensuing lesson). It stands to reason, then, that when the older generation turns around and informs us that we are wrong, lazy, and impure, and that the shortcomings of their ideas about our lifestyles are our fault, it feels disingenuous. After all, they were wonderfully effective teachers. I want to know where the end of the cycle occurs, and when the great machine breaks, because at this point, all I know is that I don’t ever want to give up and play by their rules.

Maybe someday, things will change: the stigma of youth will fade away, and the young and old will coexist peacefully. Until that day, however, I’m going to keep drinking more than I should, listlessly staying up until 4 am, and driving countless hours to see my favorite artists play my favorite songs far louder than they have any business playing.

And if you can’t understand why, then all I have to say is:

Lasers, baby. Beautiful… fucking… lasers.  

© Austin T. Murphy 2017