Kept Promises, Coach K, and Key West

This week's posting is historic, and not because it comes one day after Unionists and Sinn Feins agreed to share power in Ireland, but rather because it is the first time since I have posted in consecutive weeks since I unveiled the blog in mid July, 2005 to much acclaim and adulation within my mind's depraved and self-obsessed world. This marks a siginificant step forward in my work ethic, although some could claim it is the day I should post under the pseudonym
La Definición de la Ironía, considering, first off, I have nothing to write about, and second, in still taking the time to write, I am doing so in detriment to actual writing assignments I have do for school.

Nonetheless, a posting I promised for this week and a posting I am delivering. Ideally, the posts should be more substantial, filled with polished and entertaining writing. Between fraternity and ignorning school work, though, I am too busy to offer any Gonzo like rants such as last weeks. Instead, I offer a brief book review and a link to the place I want my soul ascend to, or descend to depending on your social consciousness, when studying for the Massachusetts Bar Exam in ten years kills it. Enjoy.

About a month ago I realized I had not read a good sports book since July and picked up Will Blythe's To Hate Like This Is to Be Happy Forever: A Thoroughly Obsessive, Intermittently Uplifting, and Occasionally Unbiased Account of the Duke-North Carolina Basketball Rivalry. Having put it off until I shot dead the literary corpse that was Norman Mailer's An American Dream and went off for my third shot of The Rum Diary, I am now halfway through, and can only ensure you that it deserves every bit of praise it is being given as an instant classic of sports journalis. Blythe, an ardent UNC Tar Heels fan, does a remarkable job of detailing the life of a fan whose emotional well-being is often controlled by the performance of a basketball team, the coaches who orchestrate the rivalry, and the players who pass through the rivalry as if on a conveyor belt, and without whom there would be no teams to compete. What makes the book so good, however, is Blythe's ability to relate how the rvilary can affect families and relationships, how your existence can be defined by the side you root for, and the struggle of a decidedly subjective writer to referee the battle between his inner Journalist (the impartial observer) and his inner Beast (the thoroughly obsessed fan). The book offers some surprising glimpses into the lives of the players and coaches; for instance I leave the book with much less hatred for JJ Redick and yet for less of an opinion of Roy Williams as a coach and person. Whether you enjoy basketball, studies in group behavior, the modern sports zeitgeist, or just quality sports journalism, the book is a definite must read.

Also, this resort in Key West is my newest obsession: http://www.hawkscay.com/. Granted it offers little in the way of the dirt covered streets and shots of cheap rum that inhabited Hemminway's Havana or Thompson's San Juan. In fact, it could not be further from the life I romanticize about daily, and is perhaps the exact dreadful and depressing visions Hunter S's Paul Kemp had of an Americanized San Juan (i.e., resorts, shops, no discernible appearance of local culture or history) in The Rum Diary. I don't care. Just click on the accomodations section, view the Conch or Sanctuary Villas and tell me you would not to spend the rest of your life there. The first $30,000 of disposable income I come across, obtained legally or otherwise, I am taking my family here and spending two weeks sipping glasses of Sailor Jerry's rum drowned in ice, taking the time to awaken from my rum induced slumber to witness the sunrises and sunsets, all while making sure to pour a drop out for my deceased literary homies. Amen.

What? If you are going to sell your soul, you might as well reap the sunny and palm tree related benefits.

Desperation, Thy Name is Life After College:
How Hunter S. Thompson, Canadian Beer, and Eric Maynor Could Make Me Fear and Loath the Impending 50 Years


There are 61 days until I graduate from college. Read that again. 61 days. Two months. Some 1,400 hours. Or the number of days minus 61 that Sarah Jessica Parker has been attractive in her life. However you choose to look at it, that is a short period of time, and a big pointy nose in the case of Sarah JP.

To say I am growing nervous and wondering what it is I will have to look forward to in the next 50 years besides moving to a Jewish retirement community in Delray Beach, Florida, is an understatement. Rather, I am moving into a state of paradoxical fear: on the one hand, the notion of leaving behind the security of my family, friends, and the only state I have ever been in for more than 2 consecutive weeks, for the 1 in 1,000,000 chance of succeeding as a professional writer is unnerving. On the other hand, however, settling into my current surroundings, having never experienced the world, and with each passing year putting my dreams and soul on the furthest back burner on the big Sears model electric stove hell that is the real world, is a terrifying world of dirty diapers, tuition, and worst of all, compromised hopes and values.

Confusing, self-centered stuff, right?

Well, to better understand my current mindset, you must up with a few hundred words from my neverending love letter to Dr. Hunter S. Thompson.

During the first half of Spring Break, I read Hunter S. Thompson's The Rum Diary for the third time. For those unfamiliar with the novel, it is Thompson's semi-autobiographical account of working as a journalist for the English language newspaper, San Juan Daily News (the San Juan Star, in real life) in late-1950's Puerto Rico (right about the time revolution in Cuba was forcing American government and big business to find a new tropical destination to exploit).

I had previously thought the novel detailed the romantic existence of a professional writer: escaping the trappings of a shirt-and-tie, chained to a desk, winter doldrums existence; and rather being paid to write by day while filling your stomach with warm rum by night, all against the back drop of a tropical paradise. My god, I thought, how did life get better then that? I mean, knowing that when you went to sleep everynight, while the palm trees swayed outside your window and the alcohol drfited happily through your body, that you were a "professional writer", living in paradise while at the same time perhaps saving a bit of your soul from the real world. With his lenghty, at times poetic verses about the promise of the San Juan mornings and the breeze that gently rocked you in your alcohol induced stupors on the San Juan nights, Thompson was laying the template for every Jimmy Buffet song that followed.

Upon closer inspection, however, the novel is anything but the beautiful love letter to the life of a vagabond journalist that I once imagined it to be. Rather, it is a terrifying and all to real account about realizing there is no reward for those who seek fufillment outside the 9-to-5 world, or as Thompson puts it, those who want to escape the bag coming down over their head as they reach their early-20's, as it will forever trap them in the two cars, house and a family in the suburbs life. Like he does in most of his works, Thompson works with the theme of chasing that invisible dream and almost getting over the top, before you start the back slide, realizing quickly that too many people love money and power and normalcy, and that it is easier to give up on the hope for a better and less corrupt world, and give into the allure, and inevitability, of the stable life (i.e. an apartment, a closet full of collared shirt and ties, and a fridge full of bottled water and imported beer). That late nights filled with boisterous talk, big dreams, and hard alcohol are for those who are going nowhere, not when there is money to be made and democracy to practice with the rising sun.

Suffice to say, for a soon to be college graduate who desperately wants to avoid going to bed May 20 and waking up in 30 years to a mortgage and a driveway filled with snow, it is a veritable nightmare.

And that is why I use The Rum Diary to put my point in focus. Thompson masterfully captures the feeling of being over the hill before you have even begun to climb it. With two months until I graduate college, I am not certain the path I want to take. No question there is the part of me who wants to test my mettle as a writer and discover if I have what it takes to succeed on levels similar to Thompson, or Chuck Klosterman, or Bill Simmons. Whether that takes me to Chicago and Second City, San Diego, Wyoming, or NYC, I feel with hard work and a few breaks, I have the talent to make it to the top. I say, let me graduate today and show people what I can do.

So, what is the problem?

The problem is that a sizeable part of me that wishes I was starting law school in the fall. That I would have 3 more winter breaks & spring breaks, and that I would leave college with a six figure salary that would buy me a big house in the suburbs and take a family to Cape Cod in the summer and the Bahamas in the winter. At the very least, I know would be with my family every Thanksgiving and Christmas. I came to this realization during the first two rounds of the NCAA Tournament. On Thursday, I spent from noon-4pm on my couch with a beer, and then 4:30-midnight at a bar with several beers watching every second of tournament coverage. Sounds like a good day, right? It was Friday, however, that was the kicker.

As the snow began to fall heavily in the late morning hours, I knew a run outside would be impossible. As a result, I opted to stay in my hooded sweatshirt and warm up pants all day, park myself on the couch, and drink Labatt Blue (yes, imported beer) and Molson Ice from noon-midnight while again watching every moment of basketball coverage. And that's exactly what I did, with my brothers and mother coming in and out of the living room all day, sometimes to watch the games and sometimes just for a beer and small talk, and other times to bring me a white russian (the beer began to run out). And as I sat in my $800,000 temperature controlled house, staring at my 50inch plasma tv on the wall, while the snow blissfully piled up outside and the Canadian blissfully piled up in my stomach, and the only people in the world I truly love other than myself joined me sporadically, I felt a feeling of contentment I had never before felt. It was a truly amazing moment. After all the years I spent thinking that a sense of worthwhiledness would only exist for me if I was writing and criss-crossing the country, travelling with the sun and making my home wherever there was a writing job, I began to think that maybe it was the material trappings and family that made me happy. Could I really be satisfied with a little money and no certainty of when I would be home again? I am beginning to wonder if that is the case, and quite frankly, it scares the hell out of me.

So, where does that leave me? Well, probably no different than the thousands, maybe millions, of others who will be graduating in May. Is the stability of a family and forgotten dreams more promising than taking a shot at your dreams, even if you fail? After all, there will always be time later on for a family and that house in the suburbs, right?

I do not know the answer any better than the few of you who might read this, but what pushes me over the top is the story Jerry Seinfeld tells a struggling young comedian in the documentary "Comedian". A quit background: The comedian is approaching 30 and tells Jerry that he is thinking of forgoing his comedy dreams so he can make some money like his high school friends who are succeeding on Wall Street; in short, he feels as if he wasting his life. Jerry is mystified that the kid would want to do anything else with his life, and is disgusted that anyone would want to earn a living like his friends are. To put the comedian back on the right track, Jerry shares the following story about the Glenn Miller Orchestra:

It's the dead of winter. The members of the Glenn Miller Orchestra are headed for a gig when their bus breaks down. The musicians grab their instruments and, with no other option, begin slogging through the snow. Eventually, they come across a cozy little home. Gazing inside, they watch a family gathered around the dinner table, talking, laughing, reveling in the warmth of each other's company. Damp and shivering, they stare a little longer at this Norman Rockwell painting come to life, complete with apple-cheeked children, before one turns to the other and says: "How do people live like that?"

Put simply, the story describes the decision so many of us will face: Stability vs. Satisfaction. Manufactured Happiness vs. Achieving Your Dreams. Is is better to be the family in the comfort of the home or the orchestra members earning a living the only way they could ever imagine? Thanks to the efforts of Dr. Thompson novel written in 1959, I realize we will make that decision, either by conscious choice or a slowly evolving process, at somepoint between the next 61 days and 50 years.

In the meantime, I could use a rum and coke in my hand, the palm trees moving gently in the warm night breeze, as I listen to the lonely sound of time passing on a long Caribbean night.
In the meane