Courage and Love at Exposition Park

By Austin T. Murphy

Photo Credit: Aaron Phillips

Over two years ago I wrote the following words:

"For me, it's a reminder that it's okay to let go of some people and grudges, and it's okay to let new people into your life--people you can trust. And the memory can be brought forth just by looking into someone's eyes, wherein you'll find an implicit understanding of goodwill, benevolence, and love."

If you'll offer me the moment and forgive me for the vanity, I truly believe the ideas and words I wrote on that day, in a different city no less (and with the most important people in my life living less than fifteen minutes away), are some of the best I've ever logged.

We've come quite a ways in these past two years. Some of those people have circled the globe while I remained a sentry at post safeguarding the state of California -- though even the strongest could not save Santa Barbara from its fate. It's very possible that the fires, mudslides, and floods are a result of the Messiah returning to the Valley, and woe betide any who deny his coming.

My watch will come to an end soon, though, as the road calls for me to see that which I so earnestly desire. And I'd like to believe that I deserve it; I'd like to believe that I've earned it.

I have my good days and bad. This shouldn't come as a surprise. A moment is coming, though, and I don't know how I'll react. I want it, so so badly. I want that phone call to free me from a temporal purgatory, to give air to my sails and sustenance to my imagination. We weren't made to stay in one place forever. 

Still I feel, though, as if I need to earn it.

So I'll work each and every day, and I'll allow myself the liberating break from time to time. And I hope that when the time comes I can graciously accept an offer. It has become especially crucial because the have's chose recently that I have to go -- I cannot stay. It was my intention all along but now that it is out of my hands I can't help but feel a sense of apprehension alongside this uncertainty.

It's possible that this instability, lack of control on my behalf, could actually permit me to take flight. I'm reminded of a line from "Lose Yourself": 

"Success is my only motherf***** option; failure's not." -- Marshall Mathers

Full steam ahead, as we dive headfirst into the unknown.

The liberating break from this past weekend was everything I needed. And yes, that includes the 3am shots of tequila oh so generously offered me by Trav. 

Possibly the most appropriate interpretation of my two-years-old-quote is the part about letting new people into your life. We found a new one, a fresh young whippersnapper ready to take DP by storm. 

The amount of generosity on display and the timeless show of consideration from oh so many wonderful people sustains me and gives me the strength necessary to last another 15 days (and just 11 work days) until the next go around.

This is where you might be expecting me to bring some closure. I want to, but there is yet an opportunity, nay, a gap remaining that must be filled. That quote also mentions "letting go of some people and grudges." I can see that I've let go of some from my past given that I rarely think of them anymore. It doesn't pain me like it used to.

I hesitate because I am not one to write passive aggressively and assume another will read and feel an intended emotion. That ain't me. I write for myself and no one else. 

Suffice to say, momentum is difficult to fight. I can't live for anyone else but me, and I won't allow others' insecurities or grudges to dictate the way I feel about myself.

"What's comin' will come, an' we'll meet it when it does." -- Rubeus Hagrid

An Analysis of the Unheralded Wisdom and Literacy of Modern Rappers

By Austin T. Murphy

I do not own this picture

Several years ago I endeavored to write an essay on the cultural, musical, and racial undertones in the movie Alpha Dog and wound up referencing rappers like Eminem and Tupac Shakur.

I'm 26. I was probably still sucking my thumb when Shakur was murdered.

I'm also white as hell. The closest I've come to gangster life is the fact that I know a guy who was once shanked. I wasn't even there to witness it.

But I pride myself in my literary skill and my ability to glean further meaning from text. Earlier today a commercial played -- I cannot recall the product -- but it was playing a hip-hop song I'd heard many times over. The moment must have struck me just right because I discerned something of a contradiction in the opening two lines. I flashed back to my days as a music journalist, and sent the following text to my friend (who then responded in like and carried us into as interesting a back-and-forth as you'll ever read).

Enjoy.

---

AM: Rae Sremmurd's literary genius is on full display in "No Type," as they present themselves as respectable and wholesome, insisting on having no preference in regards to female companionship, though this true relatability is undercut in the next line when the rapper contradicts his lack of preference by asserting he only likes "bad bitches," an ironic dismissal of the initially noble characterization.

JB: Exactly. It's a classic modernization of the unreliable narrator. In this context, the entire song can be seen as a nuanced critique of what the genre of rap has become in today's society, and why children these days should not look to those who benefit from its calculated manipulation as role models, as they are contradictory and lack any trustworthiness that is necessary in any figure worthy of emulation.

AM: It echoes and contrasts starkly with Eminem's hit "The Way I Am." Where so many narrators and lyricists insist on perpetuating a false, upstanding persona, Mathers is straightforward and unabashed about his true, malevolent nature -- a refreshing reminder that a flawed hero is shameless in his imperfection.

JB: Ah, but Eminem's entire caricature is built around brutal honesty, his enlightening and layered song "Criminal" offers a direct refutation of any logic that bases itself on the assumption that Mathers' work is to be taken at face value.

AM: We would be remiss, however, to ignore the subtextual passage in his adaptation of Aerosmith's "Dream On": "If my music is literal and I'm a criminal how the f*** could I raise a little girl? I couldn't...." thereby reinforcing his message that art is meant to defy expectations and destroy the age-old reliance on superhuman characters.

JB: Exactly! Were he everything his songs boasted, he "wouldn't be fit to" raise [his daughter] Hailey; the fact that he is, of course, only underlines my point.

AM: His antihero aims are further evidenced when he names Reggie "Redman" to be the greatest rapper of all-time in "Till I Collapse," stalwart acclaim for a modest individual who also defies cultural and musical stereotypes.

---

The unintentional irony that arises out of this back-and-forth has to be the fact that even though we are extolling artists, I'm 99% sure Marshall would be absolutely livid if someone were to tell him that some 20-something white boys tried to find literary merit along the lines of Shakespeare in his lyrics. That man hates the media with a passion, so I should probably give it a rest before he puts me to rest ("Go To Sleep").

Some days I wonder what I would do without the English language. Other days I cut down trees in the Santa Cruz Mountains.

Why I’m Not Watching the 2018 Super Bowl

A Soliloquy to Denounce the Pig-Skin

By Austin T. Murphy

I have no idea who created this, but it isn't mine.

There are a few practices in the yearly life of an American that are assumed to be mandatory. We are all expected to celebrate some sort of religious holiday during the month of December. We are all expected to love Budweiser (despite the fact that it tastes like a Texan's piss). We are all expected to choose a career by the age of 22 and work 30-to-40 years in an effort to raise a family and conceive children who will continue striving for the "American Dream."

And we are all expected to watch the Super Bowl.

I will admit, for the umpteenth time, that I am not omniscient. I am not perfect. I am woefully uncultured. But in my (near) 26 years, I have formed bonds with folks from all over the United States AND from all over the world: Japan, Sweden, New Zealand, Australia, France, Austria, Ireland, Britain, Ohio, Maryland, New York, Colorado, Washington, Indiana, Tennessee, etc. These people have opened my eyes to the bigger picture, and they have helped me come to the conclusion that the United States is no longer guaranteed to be the country I want to spend the rest of my life inhabiting. There are very serious problems within this nation.

Above all the subordinate cultural identities that make one an American, it really isn't hard to see that there is a disease plaguing our (once) great nation. There is a man living in the White House right now who doesn't deserve to be there. There are people running this country that shouldn't be trusted to run a grocery store. And there are pathetic ideals being propagated from sea to festering sea that are ruining our people one gullible mind at a time.

Understand that I am not purporting any sort of nonsense along the lines of "We should derive our morality and forge our character in accordance or from professional athletes and sports leagues." But we've really reached a point where a semblance of correlation is undeniable. Our posterity is a generation of children who worship athletes and musicians and TV stars. How can we expect them to save the future if we won't show them the true America?

The National Football League is lost. Led by a spineless cretin in Roger Goodell, the league -- despite enduring for decades as a beacon of the American spirit -- is crumbling away as its integrity and ideals lay beaten and bloody in our rearview mirrors. This isn't anything new either, but rather a trend nearly two decades in the making.

One might say that the league peaked in the '80s and '90s. Joe Montana was the epitome of the modern American hero: a good-looking quarterback with a golden arm who won championships while playing for the NFL franchise named in honor of Manifest Destiny. It doesn't get any more American than Joe Cool.

 The '90s were a golden decade too (or rather, silver?), as the Dallas Cowboys won three more Super Bowls. Cowboys! Texas! The heart of America and the Wild West embodied, the league could do no wrong.

But then 9/11 happened.

I don't want to sound like a conspiracy theorist, but do you really think it's just weird coincidence that the first NFL championship after the towers fell was won by a team named the Patriots? Is it just weird coincidence that the prevailing dynasty ever since has worn the colors red, white, and blue and is led by a pretty boy who shares a name with a certain Mark Twain character? I suppose it's a good thing we didn't see the Vikings or Redskins emerge as contenders or else our uniquely American identity might have been tainted entirely. 

The New England Patriots. New. Not England. New England. Not those sassy Tories on the other side of the Atlantic. We're here, American. We're rich, powerful, and by god are we good-looking. 

I've read the argument somewhere online that we should stop bleating about Spygate, that the Patriots weren't the only team cheating by videotaping their opponents illegally. That's a fair point, and you're totally welcome to believe that. Just know that if you feel like that's the right attitude to adopt any sort of criminal activity I'm going to have to echo your mother and 3rd grade teacher in that "Just because everyone is doing it, that doesn't make it right."

If we really pride ourselves as Americans as being the best of the best, and for sure better than them over there, then you'd think we'd have the mental capacity to understand that accepting criminality as being natural and a bedrock of our culture is fucking pathetic.

And you know the worst part of modern American culture? The Outrage Epidemic, especially with how prevalent it has become in the last 5-to-10 years. "Woah, so-and-so said something-or-other mean/rude/crass to so-and-so and it bothered you? Well mark my words we'll catch that fucker and make him pay! And then next week we'll find something else to be butthurt about! And the next week! And the week after that!"

There is no integrity. It's exposure through social media with no filter or verification, and instead of checking our facts before we click "Submit," we put every skewed take out in the open and sort out the facts after. That's about as logically sound as trying to climb into your jeans by pulling leg over your head.

But I'm supposed to just forget about Spygate because, "they did their time."

Ha. My fucking ass. Was their championship vacated? Did the repercussions prevent them from contending for a significant period of time? USC did their time. The Minnesota TimberWolves did their time. The Patriots cheated and laughed about it afterwards, fat and happy sitting pretty at the top of the league (and don't forget that Goodell's brilliant mind decided that destroying the evidence was a rational course of action. Nice).

Well we fans were given a modicum of relief in the way of the New York Giants. Two straight upset Super Bowl wins and you'd think everything was set right, and then 2015 happened. I'll admit, I have to hand it to the Patriots, because all five of their titles were a result of team success. Note the word "team." Terrific Tom's championship record would be rather spotty at .500 had Malcolm Butler not saved his ass. But in 2015 Pete Carroll had a stroke on the sideline and was still able to call a passing play, and Russell Wilson basically handed New England their first championship since 2005. The Big Bad Wolf was back.

And not only were they back, but they were still the epitome of cheating and corruption in the NFL. Deflategate was uncovered, and Terrific Tom was suspended for four games. Four. Whole. Games.

As the coming seasons would play out, Brady's suspension was vacated in federal court, and when he finally served his suspension in 2016 it was really just a formality before the franchise clinched yet another championship (in stomach-turning fashion) that would earn Tom the title of Greatest of All-Time.

*Jerry Rice begs to differ, but modern American culture requires us to forget history in favor of the present.*

Picture a young adult striving to make a name for himself in the early 21st century. This optimistic young man makes mistakes just like anyone else, and he pays the price for fucking up dearly in some situations. He faces setbacks, but that unquenchable spirit helps him to keep moving ceaselessly forward.

As he grows he learns that the world is a much colder place than originally envisioned. There are bright spots, no doubt, but it is far more difficult to maintain that optimism when you see people for who they really are, when you see your nation for what it really is. And he still churns forward.

But then he sees the hypocrisy inherent in the system. He sees a brave, martyred hero blacklisted by a league that butchered its handling of suspensions and bans in the last decade -- Adrian Peterson...Ray Rice...Josh Gordon -- and he finds it within himself to understand the hero's message. He finds it within himself to consider an alternative perspective to his own, and he chooses to support a nonviolent protest as American as Ford fucking Motor Company.

This martyr lost his profession, but elsewhere in the States you can find Tom Brady and Bill Belichick continuing to reach and win Super Bowls because they're white and rich and powerful. You can find Tim Tebow continuing his dream of making it last in a professional sports league despite lacking the proper talent. Note that I'm not condemning Tim, I'm just pointing out that he wouldn't be getting so many opportunities if he wasn't white, charismatic as hell, and a loyal servant of "Jesus Christ."

What are we if not slightly smarter monkeys wandering around this rock, wiping our butts and talking out of our asses. Jerry Jones is really that guy that we should all be dying to work for. Ungrateful "sons of bitches," am I right?

Well to be honest, nothing is going to come of this rant, it just pains me to watch the American spirit trampled through the mud and obliterated in favor of a regime that promotes xenophobia, arrogance, narrow-mindedness, corruption, and deceit. Sometimes I need a chance to vent and a place to remind the outside world that #45 has been supported by guys like Tom and Bill. But it should come as no surprise that individuals as morally flexible as those two would prefer having a fellow cheater in the White House than...shudder...a woman.

Regardless of whether you consider yourself to be a citizen of America or a citizen of the world, you should be cognizant of the declining standards to which our nation and its leaders hold themselves. I can only hope that the dawn is coming, because I'd hate to have to boycott the Super Bowl in perpetuity just to prove a point.

But Super Bowl LII is just two weeks away, and if I'm going to stand for anything it has to be morality, truth, and justice. I will not support or condone corruption; I will not be watching the 2018 Super Bowl. Should you? That's not for me to decide. What do you stand for?

Courage and Love in the Arizona Desert III (Return of the Gnaw)

For the record "The Last Jedi" sucked but I'm hard to please

Photo Credit: The Star Wars franchise

Imagine my chagrin when I came back here fully intent on writing a passage devoted to our third trip to Decadence, only to find that the one I wrote last year has a title completely unrelated to Star Wars or a trilogy. Therefore this summative passage will have to serve the purpose of a bookend and reinforcement of a trilogy ideology -- and know that if I had titled last year's write-up properly it would read "Courage and Love in the Arizona Desert II (The Ecstasy Strikes Back)."

*And the inaugural passage would include the parenthetical title (A New Fam).*

It feels like a fitting passage to write at this specific moment in time while I'm watching Scrubs re-runs and the current episode is about J.D. leaving Sacred Heart. Super emotional, much montage.

I must also confess myself guilty of not fulfilling my previous inclination when I said I would be setting up a SoundCloud for all my crappy recordings. This was a real ambition, but I just sat down to record an acoustic cover of Coheed & Cambria's "The Suffering" and found myself cringing as I listened to it after. Maybe I will get around to it eventually, but I'm a bit of a perfectionist so it will likely still take some time to find the courage to just upload some originals and let it be.

In the meantime you can peruse my friend Temme Scott's SoundCloud here: https://soundcloud.com/temmescott. She's gonna be famous someday, mark my words.

What is there to say about a third trip to the desert? What is there to glean from the experience?

I suppose the first thing that comes to mind is the truth that things do change. What seems to be irresponsible, naive debauchery at the start turns out to be a more premeditated, ambitious gesture at the end. What began in desperation as an earnest means to an end has evolved into a celebration of what we have learned and embraced in the past 24 months.

I did learn, also, that I appreciate the planning stage so much more the third time around. Kudos, again, to the same person I saluted in year one. Keep doing what you're doing, and thanks for the past 6 months -- I really needed it.

The other aspect of a change that I enjoyed is in regards to making these lofty plans. You have to be adaptable, and without being open-minded I never would have found myself delirious from lack of sleep coming up in the southwest wilderness singing "Circle of Life" while the sun rose. There aren't many people I could endure that nocturnal drive with, but I'm beyond ecstatic that I was with the Katman for that experience. Meow.

In this spot I feel like giving a shout-out to those excellent individuals (apart from myself) who made it to all three years: Earth Jesus Eddy, Nikita "The Master" Michelsen, Brando "The OG" Gillespie, and (No Longer Young) Fletch Krawczuk. You guys are basically Obi-Wan, Leia, C-3P0, and Luke (and I'm obviously Darth Vader because I'm evil af and look awesome with a bandana covering my face).

And another shout-out to those not yet mentioned: Jade, Danielle, Nate, Randi, ZP, Dog, Jon Snow, Daddy D, Mrs. Daddy D, and Justin(e). It takes dedication and courage to commit to flying or driving out into the middle of nowhere and finding something special. 

And know that this "something special" is undefinable. Some of you may feel differently about things than I do, but I'm supposed to be the writer. I'm supposed to find something to say about the indescribable. It's my job to attempt (even in a cliche, trite manner) to lend something concrete to the abstract and ethereal. 

Last but not least, a shout-out to those who came in the past or who will be joining us for irresponsible antics in the future. And if your name is Jason Brown, you need to stop reading and go do some push-ups.

Lend me courage, because I'm getting a tattoo this weekend,
ATM

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