Six Minutes And Back

It was 5 years ago, the last time I stepped foot into a downtown St. Paul hospital. I was there to see my grandmother after they had placed several stints in her heart. Trooper she was, her cadence and wit remained just as sharp after she went under the knife than before. Although Carol’s socialite skills always impressed, it was her unflappable confidence to take stake in her loved ones that awe struck me most throughout her time on earth. Sprawled out on a table after heart surgery, she still was able to reprimand me for being at odds with my mother and not having a place of my own yet. One can care, but to express that feeling under duress falls into the realms of unconditional.

I remember sitting in the waiting room, watching Good Morning America, half asleep. The other half of me couldn’t shake the idea that this might be it- this could be the end of the road for Carol and a long life of family, Irish Catholicism and compassion. In that moment, I wanted to curse the wallpaper for being such a drab color, blame the rug for not holding a more hypnotic pattern to trap my attention- everything in the room spoke to me… and all it would whisper was “Deal with this”.

In a hospital, there is no room for escapism. Only reminders of why you’re here, how you handle grief, and our undeniable mortality. Waiting to see Carol, I flash grinned at a passing thought of hospitals reminding us we’re human.

Now, entering the atrium, Carol is almost a year passed away- there is never a day that goes by that I don’t think about her- and I am entering, yet again, a hospital in downtown St. Paul. Under quite the contrary of circumstances, a new life in our family has blossomed. To what degree of joy and happiness the new life has brought us all, the moment is also accompanied by a complication and reminder that we are fragile as ever.

Barring details to my reasons for visiting- Entering prenatal care is something I never imagined I’d have to do in my lifetime.

Curvy stars, of different colors and sizes, speckle the path to the next door after I receive my badge to pass thru the first entrance. Something of a yellow brick road, the walls and windows of the hospital entertain the eye as anything & everything in a children’s museum. Unlike the whispers of the waiting room five years ago, this building is cordially smiling and attempting to empathize with its visitors.

Passing the first colorful hallway, entering the 2^nd entrance, the room goes cold and pastel. Chairs line the walls. A woman at a desk asks me a few questions, checks my badge, asks me a few more questions… and then gives me an elevator look. The security in any prenatal care is triplicated beyond any standard hospital, due to the potential circumstance of infants being stolen. I can’t imagine the pathology that runs behind such an act, but apparently it’s a thing. The woman at the desk gives me the go ahead and points me toward a hallway vividly opposite the last I passed thru.

Double doors open and spill me into a world humbling my senses to taking a deep breath just to make it to my new family member’s room. Doors ajar or partially creaked open reveal glass cases containing newborns. Machines, producing high-pitched beeps and low-toned pumps of air, breathe in and out of the cases. I struggle to keep it all in.

Turning a corner, I panic that the room number, the woman at the desk gave me, isn’t here. I’m lost. I stumble by a family, crowded around a room, in thick focus. I could spin a thousand stories from the picture of them. My imagination unravels.

Finally, arriving at my new family member’s room, there he is: A beautiful child and miracle in his own right. It is at this moment, in this place, betwixt the joy of life and woe of potential untimely tragedy that Carol finds my heart to remind me a family does not decrease in size, but grows in compassion.

Cedar, welcome to the family.

May this world offer you every opportunity and joy it has to give.

The Zimmerman Debt

A coffee shop will be whatever you want it to be as long as you’ve paid for something.

He sits with a blue-collar bronzing tan along his arms next to a Mountain Dew and round of chewing tobacco atop the table in front of him. He stares at the table with seemingly nothing going on for the Sabbath, but to partake in being out of the sun for a few hours.

At the cash register, a man chats with the barista about the Zimmerman trial while shuffling about. The chatting man looks stifled and eagerly discontent.

A new customer enters the shop. The barista must bid the chatting man adieu. Turning his prattle toward the sitting bronzed man, “Yeah man, I’m from Florida where that boy got shot” says the chatting man.

“Ya don’t say” replies the sitting man, somewhat endeared he’s made a new friend aside from his Mountain Dew.

“Yeah man, my mom was in a Wal-Mart out there when the verdict went down and people started flippin’ out. They had to take all of the Caucasian customers and line them up in the back storage so they wouldn’t get hurt” continues the chatting man. “Everybody wants to jump to a conclusion y’know.” He looks over to me.

For a moment I expect he expects me to chime in on his rant. Perhaps because he and the sitting man are white, and I am not.

The sitting man leans back from his table, “Yeahhhh… it’s a crazy world we live in” he says.

“Ain’t it the truth” the chatting man replies, and then opens the door to exit the coffee shop.

Unlike him, I don’t need a publicized act of sociologically charged injustice spattered across the headlines of every social media to know America can be whatever you want it to be for the right price. Unfortunately, for the less privileged, that price is our lives.

The Epic Run of the Engine From '97 (2/2)

Feb. 2012

If I can convince myself I only feel like I have to use the bathroom, but actually do not, I can buy time to get this car to my house before I have to actually leave it running in the middle of the street while I dash to a gas station. You idiot- go to the gas station, fill the gas tank while it's running and use the bathroom there. Genius- I make a dash for the nearest gas station, Honda & I barrel down Nicollet sweating, eyeing down the streets watching out for police. Whether or not the car is legal at this moment isn't important, what's palpable is the feeling of it being street illegal. I called that f---ing department of public safety at least a dozen times to make sure they cleared that ticket about that thing with that thing. F it all, Honda's destiny either lay with the law in a greasy scrap heap of broken dreams, or in the hands of the one man that's never cared more for a machine than it... me.

Screeeeeeeeech! Swinging a hard loop into an ambiguous gas station at the end of Nicollet just before 46th, I kept the engine on and filled the tank like a potential gas & go. Christ, either I look sketchy or I just feel sketchy. I needed to turn my brain off, and go into what Niger Williams has coined as "Beast Mode". Nothing matters, nothing is real, no one is watching except for you. Go Toussaint... go.

Ten bucks should be enough. Screeeeeeech! I peeled out of the Nicollet Ave. station still feeling the weight of a ticking death clock growing heavier in my chest, I whipped the ride to my house, escaped the car at stuntman speed, sprinted toward the door, made sure to leave all my valuables at my house and not in the car. If this thing were to get pulled over and the plates actually weren't legal, then everything would hang in jeopardy. I can't have that. Can't risk the backpack, the mini HD, the camera, the theatre notes for GTC that remain eternally in the back seat. Everything must go.

Screeeeeeeech! We're back on the streets, running through residential areas at break neck speed (40mph) and soon coming to a halt. To continue, I had to make a right on Cedar Ave. Honda wasn't in shape to make turns as sharp as a right. Maybe a left, but not a right. You had to caress the acceleration, not push it. She bubbled once or twice giving way to a potential stall out in the middle of the f----ing street, but saved by a steady soft foot on the gas. Once the car got straight, we were kosher.

Cedar leapt onto 62, which connected to an obscure main highway, which connected to a dirt road. I wouldn't settle for being pulled over on 62. It'd just be too much, the traffic is always racing the road, rush hour is a pestilence to the soul when caught in the gridlock of it on 62, and the police surveying the area would be merciless. They would make example of me, entertainment of me, and soon the end of me... ever driving on the road again, let alone Honda. Multiple scenarios swept my imagination: Honda giving out while passing someone decreasing speed to create a dozen-car pile up of a murderous collision, a cop signaling us to pull over while I give the finger and mouth "go f--- your mother" which soon turns to an all out manhunt, or the simple occasion of stalling out and having to buy out a $150 taxi ride back to Minneapolis abandoning Honda for good... forever.

NASCAR racer Brad Keselowski put it best, "It's not about the fastest car in the race, it's about the man who refuses to lose". I've refused so long with this car that one could call it a delusional state of cemented denial. Had I put too much at stake for a simple car? Have I been so blind that nothing could be salvaged for the life of this machine in the end? Would I condemn myself to the ranks of Fuck-Up For Life sheerly over the pride of having Honda?... the answer is an undoubted, ambitious, fearless 7 mile stare into your soul YES.

Man handling Cedar onto 62 and then onto the obscure stretch of highway that would prove the nail in the coffin, I passed a police car and nearly sh*t my pants after realizing I had done so. My anxiety with the fuzz lay upon a news report I'd once watched about a device atop police cars that automatically read a bar code on every license plate they come into a 20 to 30 foot radius of. It just wreaks of Terminator in my opinion- the sizing up of every moving machine on the streets you come into contact with.

The sun was getting low. One of the headlights was out- if there wasn't enough reason to already pull over the moving mechanical deathtrap, I couldn't have this thing on the road at night. Pulling up to a gravel road, the highway trek was finished... and then it stalled. Taking the short baby right turn onto the gravel, I had gotten pretentious with accomplishing the breadth of the highway trip and smashed the turn too hard. The engine bubbled, then died. "Dammit! F---ing Sh-t!", cursing the roof of Honda did no good. I revved it slowly back to life and took to the curvacious country road somewhat resembling Mario World. It was only a few miles to the Empire of Engines.

Hugging soft twists, curves and dips in the road, Honda and I proceeded down a hill that ascended back uphill. Thinking nothing of it, I caressed the pedal going into the uphill- "p-p-p-p-p-p-put put put phhhhhhhhuuuuuuuu". She stopped again. "Puh-puh-puhhhhh...", and wasn't starting again. So we're here. Where the story starts. At the bowl of a gravel road, between previous descent and forthcoming ascension... One could see it as a rock bottom of sorts. Honda and I traveled downhill, and now do not have the engine to make it uphill. We're fucked.

At best, I could have Schrein concoct some sort of makeshift tow truck from his garage of wonders, but I doubt the kid's even home. Matter fact, I'm damn sure he's not home, as he texted me that exact information earlier today.

The sun almost gone, I stepped out of the car. "Madness", I whispered to myself. Just wrapping up employment at the school for my final one-on-one paraprofessional job, this would be the end of mobility for me for some time. I'd accept it, just not now. I'll accept it... just not like this. I lean against the passenger window of Honda, stare at that big beautiful ball of insatiable fire in the sky. Christ, whatever that thing is made of is as stubborn as hell... and perhaps me. A few important moments of reflection pass, I re-enter the car to what feels a reconciliation. Slightly, gently, slowly I rev the engine in parallel with the pressing of the pedal. They cooperate for a slim opportunity pushing successfully uphill.

A few miles later we arrive to the Engine Empire. Schrein's father exited the house as if he'd seen me coming 5 miles down the road, felt me on the farm's presence, or just heard the shitty rattle of the engine pull into their gravel driveway.

"Alright, what's the case here?" Schrein's father said as I exited the car. A glint of sarcasm, humor, and experience all traced thinly beneath his statement, I smiled at the mere sight of the man. Father of Schrein has a pace and patience to every movement and word his body exerts that can put you at an ease in any given circumstance. The level of calm in this man could crush your sense of urgency upon arrival. "Well, we're gonna put a new engine in it." The only rationale answer I could give. "Schrein know you're bringin' it?" He checks. "Oh yeah, Schrein knows. It'll be an overhaul situation", I return and smile. "Alright, well good luck with'er", he says.

I hop my ride back to Minneapolis from Carver County, carless, Honda hanging in the balance. The one sure thing is that the engine from '97 is no more. I don't know if there's a soul to the car, but a piece of it will definitely be replaced with another's. If any resolve in it's afterlife, it should know it's final run was nothing short of epic.

Leonard the 2nd Grade Unbeknownst Rockstar

After handling a January long stint as a one-on-one paraprofessional at the Hathaway Elementary, my tenure was up. The timing couldn’t’ve been any better as I’d just landed a role in a movie and was to start shooting in a few weeks after the para job finished. The kickstarter project went off without a hitch and I would need every moment outside of the movie to be writing as well. Now, months later, it’s a little bitter sweet looking back at Hathaway Elementary, so when I received a text from O’Mally the gym teacher to take over for him for a day, I silently said “F--K YEAH” in my head which translated to “Sure, what time should I be there” via text.

Honestly, I hadn’t been up before 9am for a few weeks and was groggy showing to the gym teacher’s office. Mandy the assistant gym teacher, eternally wrapped in warm-ups and running shoes (if I saw her on the street in anything other than a track suit, I wouldn’t recognize her), sat in the windowless office. She laid down the schedule for me as she would be taking O’Mally’s position, and I hers. It was simple, a “free choice day” if you will.

Ever recall the days in elementary dubbed “Options”, “Field Trip”, or the basic “Free Choice Day”. They were the purest form of “Hey, cut loose, take it easy, breathe deep homie. We’re gonna put this school-thing on hold and do the damn thing for a lil’ bit.” As a kid, you always felt some right to your freedoms during gym class, and when they were cuffed away with forced games of floor hockey or jump rope circuit you began to understand when an actual free day of gym was. I choked on many a hoola hoop, Frisbee, badminton, and other odd-shaped objects I may never physically care for, catch or toss throughout my adult life. Somehow in the end, we always encounter a reunion a badminton or two.

Today’s free choice was different. Not so much the “let the dragon out the cage” mentality, but more a “earn it, and ye shall be set free”. The “earn” part involved running laps around the baseball field. O’Mally had set it as ritual to run before anything get started in gym class. Although some kids walked at a snails pace around the entire field, the rule was still set that you will be moving your body before any reward or free time is given.

Daunting, fenced, yet somewhat attainable in one view to the human eye which could per chance deem it small, the baseball field lie a full 400m around. Pending where some classes were at with behavior or past indictments, determined how many laps they were to kick out before free time took place. Still groggy and wound up from the weekends past tour, I hadn’t ran or worked out in 4 days. This felt like a millennia to me. An overdramatic state of “Christ, if I don’t work out, I think I’m going to drown myself in food for the rest of the week and never retain the inkling to sprint or lift a push-up again”. Something had to be done, something quick. I could stand and watch these kids run laps for the rest of the day… or put my money where my mouth is and run with them.

First up were the 4^th graders. I lined up along side the group prepped to run 3 laps. Mandy announced the schedule for the day, peppering reprimands to children speaking out of turn, and then turned us loose.

Just before the run began, it coursed through me like a drug. The feeling- the feeling just before every swim meet, track meet, football game, gymnastic feat- the feeling just before it all went down; vulnerability in its purest, at its best, clutching the moment in its teeth-

“SWIFF!” scrapes my dusty old New Balances against the ground to take off at Mandy’s command.  Several kids beat me out at the first 20m, they fade. Three kids remain with me at 40m, they fade. Then there was one, a shorter kid with a parachuting oversized black t-shirt and baggy basketball shorts speeding against the pavement twisting round the baseball field. He begins to fade and I remember what I actually came out here for. “Keep your arms in, don’t lean forward so much” I coach him now running at his pace. It’s the moment you realize “Holy shit, I sprinted out the box like a f’ng mad man and now I’m paying for it dearly”. I would supply the angel on his shoulder to navigate through the cramping pain and lactic acid building up. We streamline the rest of the lap, maintain a safe pace for the second lap, speed up during the 3^rd and start kicking out at the last 200m. “Toes, toes, toes- lean a little bit forward- arms in” I bellow at the last stretch.

He finishes, breathing deep as his 9 year old lungs can capacitate. Usually this kid has nothing to run faster against and/or rival his speed amongst his peers. I’d take the rest of the day to challenge each class- better yet, every fastest kid in their class to running a well-paced stride and finishing as strong as they possibly could. After that, reverting to getting the walking kids to jog, as a warm down for myself and some kind of participation for them.

My remedy for the walking kids, after pacing the fastest kids in the class, was to promote “Hey, let’s do a little fox trot!” jogging along side them. The popular response usually went “I don’t DO running!”, to which I’d say “Hey, ain’t nobody runnin’ over here. We’re just fox trottin’. Trottin’ the fox! Foxin’ the trot- check it out”. Jogging at such a slow pace, everyone was enamored to at least try it for half a lap or two.

The day began to wrap up. I’d treated myself to a delightful meal of orange chicken  and rice prepared by the cafeteria, posted a blog for Big Villain, and was pondering laying off running with the 2^nd graders for the final half of the day. At this point, I’d already run well over 8 miles and didn’t need to go any further to workout for the day. Enter Leonard…

A tall-ish skinny kid draped in sweat pants and t-shirt. Something about his shoulders lead you to believe that he was going to grow a tall body, however his legs seemed to be already ahead of his torso. Something was different about this kid, something I couldn’t quite label… but was curious enough to find out. I was usually able to pick out each kid in every class that would keep up with me for the first lap, which I would then coach to the end of the run. Leonard was unseeming, awkward in his stance, a genetic misfit of sorts. Ears protruding, shoe size ahead of his class,  arms swinging uncontrollably about- I’d almost swore Leonard grew taller within the first minutes of meeting him.

Mandy reprimanded the out-of-turn talkers, laid down the day’s law, and “GO!” she shouted to send us off on a 3 lap tour de Hathaway Baseball Field. I put out my usual feel for the class and paced behind two or three kids to see where they were at. Leonard streamlined along side me, letting up none at all.

At 20m, several kids remained with our stride; at 50m, two kids stayed in stride; at 200m, Leonard paced along side me as if he were about to give a clinic. My mind went docile for a moment, reset, and came to. It hit me that I’d been running all day, eaten orange chicken way faster than I should have, and had also been skimping out on water for the day. “Sweet Christ of Kenosha” I thought to myself. I’m fading.

Leonard’s pace was anatomically sound as a Kenyan veteran marathoner. Arms swinging tightly square to his shoulders, knees driving up like Ray Rice plowing through a defensive line, and a slight lean forward. Most 5^th graders couldn’t hold a candle to this kid, and now here I am drudging through a thick lunch and lack of water trying to keep up with him. We race paced for the first lap. I let up none on the kid and he stuck with it the whole time.

Coasting into the 2^nd lap I could sense Leonard beginning to fade. He hit his wall just as every other fastest kid in their class had, it’s just his was at the 400m mark… not the 50m mark. Still with impeccable stride, lapping the rest of the class, I coached him through the 2^nd lap and told him we’d be lifting the pace a little bit at the 800m mark and then kicking at the 1000m mark (which on the U of MN track team I ran for Freshmen year, the coaches referred to it as the “Run to Jesus” portion of the workout).

Hitting the 800m, Leonard’s form began to wobble. “Arms in buddy, arms in. Put that elbow in.” I hollered from ahead of him. We were moving faster than any pace I’d been on throughout the day. The rest of the class was really balling up in front of us. Crowding the track path, I shouted ahead that we were coming through. Walking 40m ahead of us: Girls with gellies, clogs, rain boots; boys with high tops, oversized Jordan’s, dress shoes. Approaching the unsuspecting glob of children, something happened that hadn’t happened throughout the entire day… and enthusiasm like no other shot into the crowd as they all began running with us.

Like lions amongst a pack of antelope, or that one scene from Jurassic Park where the paleontologist and the kids run for cover as a flock of sprinting dinosaurs heads their direction just before they duck underneath a giant tree trunk. Leonard and I float like fish through a river apparatus of rocks and debris. Where I thought he or I would totally plow into a classmate taking them to the ground in horrendous fashion (imagine a purse thief cutting through a State Fair-thick crowd and colliding with an elderly using a walker, yeah kinda like that), nothing of the sort happened. At the 1000m mark, the bleachers, I drop the hammer for Leonard to kick. I swear the earth had spun an inch more than usual once his feet began plying the ground on the last stretch. Perfect form, knees piercing the atmosphere driving toward the yellow finish line, he left nothing on the track.

Breathing heavily between words, Leonard admitted “It’s easier to run it with shorts”. Forgetting he was dawning baggy sweatpants, I laughed “You’re absolutely correct, it’s easier to run with shorts than sweatpants”.

Free time commenced to a vicious game of kickball and side play of double dutch. I stretched until I felt like I could handle the next class. “That kid is damn fast”, I said to Mandy. “Yeah, O’Mally said he was one of the top 3 runners last year… when he was in 1^st grade”.  Great Mother to rights of Miranda this kid is going to put a dent in the school record and the egos of some poor high-schoolers when they find that 8^th grade Leonard is faster than the entire 800m relay team.

Mandy and I administer the game to a civil boil, let the rest of the classes go about as the sun slowly set on another day of school.

Panic At The Clevelander

The view from the rooftop of the Clevelander set like a swank 80’s movie scene. Clientele mixed from dark skinned French bombshells to Caucasian broughams, you didn’t have to fit it- Miami did it for you. Blake, my host for the stay in South Beach, was nowhere to be found. I either had the choice of finding him and sticking tightly to him, or making the breathtaking base jump into a social oblivion of Spring Breakers from around the globe.

Retreating back to a sofa Blake and I were just at, with hopes I’d run into him, a group of guys & gals had already occupied it. Sitting at the edge of the couch, I made a small gesture I was just going to sit and text for a moment. A tall European woman from the group gestured back that it was ok. Turning before I could receive the "ok" from the European woman I flipped open my phone. Yes, I have a flip phone and love it. It draws more attention than polka dots on plaid and doesn't occupy every second of my livelihood with email alerts. Thought to say something to the group for entertainment, but couldn’t tell if they spoke English or not- my thoughts tunneled to my phone. When in doubt, text. I shot a sentence to Blake just to get a feel for where he was... if even near South Beach. This could be awhile.

Don't get me wrong, there is nothing better than getting lost in a tropical climate filled with travelers from around the world, liquor flowing like KRS-ONE, and a dance floor the size of a gymnasium- it just never struck me that I'd be fending by myself throughout the duration of this trip. Meh, at worst I get chops for creating my own scenario- might as well start with Euro woman right behind me. 

I make a quick turn towards her to make sure I wasn't intruding on their sofa space, she again gave me the ok. "Excuse me, I'm curious, where are you all from?"- Horrible opener, please don't ever use this. It gets you nowhere unless you actually have something to follow it with. I was feeling venturous at the moment with really not a thing to lose but time until my flight departed at 6am in several hours, so what of it. "We're from Boston." answered the European woman... not so European. And all of a sudden it clicked. From the looks of her crew I had made a total sweeping judgement. Euro woman was sitting with 4 other people; an asian guy with quaffed hair and shades on looking like he was coasting off kind bud, 2 asian women dressed in threads that could qualify for a charity gala or vip section at a rock concert, and then the last woman who kinda gave it away- racially ambiguous and smiley sitting in the corner with no intention to speak much but just to simply wave and smile. 

"So you go to Harvard" I said. Euro woman went dumbstruck looking back to her friends. Shit, perhaps I had totally pigeon-holed this people, weirded them out and now they were going to seek retribution by- pause, the worst isn't close to the worst I can imagine. There is no such thing as failure in socializing, only learning moments. "Did you see us earlier, or over hear us talking?" she responded. "After you said Boston, it struck me that you all went to Harvard- or at least that's how you know each other"I said.

Still perplexed, "Ok , how did you know that?". I edged my position on the couch from back-turned to slightly turned toward the group to respond. It was too easy, so easy that explaining it to them would prove more a task than guessing their college. "Well, look at you all- this might sound crass, but there really aren't too many interracial circles of friends in Miami. Colombians hangout with Colombians, the French hangout with the French, etc. Whereas with your group, you look like you're only brought together by either a company or a college. You could be a group of friends from high school, but what're the chances you've stuck together 'til 21 and willing to meet each other in Miami for spring break?" Ahem, I've already said too much- but for good reason. The way Euro woman turned towards me was almost as if she'd never been contended in years, dawned the title like Jon Bones Jones, and wasn't willing to let this one slip by her. She looked as if she had to prove me wrong. 

"Ok... ok... But there're almost a dozen colleges we could've been from in Boston-" she retorted. I cut her off "Yeeeeaah, but where else are ya comin' from? BC? Nope. None of you have Boston accents- at least from what I've heard- and BC is mostly comprised of locals to the east coast. Also, their is an eire of confidence with your group. Less than half of you are drinking, you're not looking to jeopardize your future any worse than it looks at the moment, annnnd- well, that's it." I staved away from telling them that they're the only group of people at the Clevelander that look like they wouldn't ditch each other. Miami is comprised of individuals constantly breaking and reforming about- perfect for meeting people, exchanging numbers, and escaping your culture for a moment. These kids looked like the New X-Men, wouldn't break away from the circle even in the face of certain death or chaotic evil.

Euro woman and I went on to guess each others names, spar with wit, and converse for the next half hour- too long, keep in mind, this is at the biggest nightclub on South Beach with clientele zooming in & out like central station. An hour at the Clevelander passes by like a montage from Rocky. Blake and I have been known to step into the club and walk out by the time the sun is coming up. Caution: enter the Clevelander on a Friday, dance with a beautiful woman and chat afterwards, next thing you know it's Thursday, you've missed your flight and lost your job. By the end of the conversation I though I had already missed my flight, we bid adieu and marched separate ways into the night. Blake and I would meet up later, I'd introduce ourselves to a group of Indian women from Tennessee who thought me to be Indian as well- just didn't have the heart to break it to them later on that I wasn't. Simple omission.

Back to LeBlanc's pad, phone now full of foreign area codes and texts that would vie for Texts-From-Last-Night's top ten, there was a mere 1 hour of rest to be had before I had to get on the road and catch my 6am flight back to Minneapolis. 

JumpKickFireStarter

I hadn’t heard the name “Adam Bernard” in some time and couldn’t quite remember where or when I’d last heard it, however it found its way onto my gmail inbox. The title read something of “My top 10s for 2011”. “Ooooooohhhh”, I thought to myself. It’s the guy from the phone conference Jeb had set up months ago for the Segregated City Tour. Although Jeb had done a fine job of setting up press and online presence for the tour, I wasn’t able to attend it. Honda was going down hard in the paint, and my funds at the time were insanely low. I also didn’t want to go out on a tour if I didn’t have a new project to promote or some kind of plan behind it. In the end I bailed, but somehow this “Adam Bernard” is still emailing me. Perhaps he goes through everyone he’s emailed throughout the year and sends them his top 10 list for the past 365 days.

Clicking on the link, a url of “RapReviews.com” pops up unfolding a list of artists below. Next to each artist was a write up from Mr. Bernard with a link to their work or album. Some artists had music videos embedded in their write-ups, some had simple artwork from their album. I noticed Astronautilis from the Guthrie show we’d done this past summer amongst the list of the Top Ten. Astronautilis is an artist newly relocated to Minneapolis from Seattle in a love affair with indie hip-hop officials Doomtree. I’m forever enthused to see collaborations and networks built between artists shearly off an appreciation for one another. It’s a beautiful thing.

Scrolling down the list, I wonder why the f--- this man sent me his Top Ten for? Did I just get spammed? Am I going to get to the bottom and get totally Rick rolled? Is it to tell me how unworthy I am of his bloggage? Bah, I kill the imagination of it and move on. If anything, his Top Ten seems to be a genuine likening of underground hip-hop- not your a-typical Top 40 of Pop, but a research into what actually intrigued this guy to write about all these artists for the past year. At what I thought was the bottom of the list rested a picture of Dessa, the cover to her new album Castor, The Twin. I’ll admit I went a bit flush at the sight of it, nothing due to the picture but more the outing that occurred over the summer when Dessa had booked a band of mine, Lazlo Supreme, for a hip-hop show at the Guthrie Theater. I’d rather not go into details, it’s one of those see-me-at-a-coffeeshop-and-I’ll-tell-you-all-about-it type’a deals. I dunno, I just got flush… crackin’ away at this for so long and all your left with is to watch friends, co-workers, and fellow artists take the cover page. Jealousy or envy wouldn’t properly define the feeling, just a little bit empty. As much as I hate to write about vulnerability to the public, it’s literally a natural course of action of the human heart. I can act it as much as possible that the coming-up shorts, close losses, and near successes don’t affect the everyday train of the thought and that I’ve come to personally thrive on self-considered failures in life… but I don’t… sometimes. Taking it personal is definitely not one of the 4 Agreements or a step in the right/healthy direction, however ask any artist and they’ll tell you it’s part of the job.

As of late, the personal thing has somewhat faded to the background, and that good ol' feeling of not-giving-a-fuck has taken the wheel. Personal is rough and there’ll be plenty of time to take it to heart in the future with film and theatre, whereas what we’re doing now is releasing mixtapes. I’m finding it day by day that the nature of the mixtape is to grind out the work and take it personal later- to write first and ask questions later. Not for ego, not for manhood, not for saving face, the apparatus of the mixtape is to seriously put yourself out there for people to dig what you do. I honestly could’ve never done mixtapes first and then live bands later. If I’m not into it, I’m not putting it up for free download. The risk of misrepresentation is something I fear more than an album being ill received. If I can step back from a poem, play, or song and know I put my all into it, then the public eye almost comes tertiary to the whole process. Staying true to what the f--- you’re saying is something that breaths so much more life into your day-to-day than going for a look, style, or image.

Next to Dessa’s album cover listed a “1-A”. I didn’t understand it. Why the “A”? What the f--- is this man doing, breaking them down to sub-categories? Reading closer, I discovered the “A” was meant as an honorable mention sorta thing in that Castor, The Twin was a duplicate of Dessa’s past album just with live arrangements of music behind the lyrics. I inch the scroll bar on the right side of my screen to see the top of a name “Toussaint Morrison Is Not My Homeboy” listed as “1” next to it.

Lazlo Supreme… but even then the press was damn hard to come by and a rarity with being a new name. This however- this is just fucking awesome. Plain and simple, there’s really no other way to put it.

I privately reveled in the new found public success, made a tweet, headed to the Spyhouse and made a plan. Credit it to Adam Bernard or the Dogwood highly-caffeinated coffee I’d just delved into, but it all came back to me that I’d had a grander vision for all this mixtape hutzpah when it started… just never had the funds to get it going. With several more months left in Minneapolis, I’d also have to find a way for the mixtapes to be finished by the time I left, on track towards some kind of national campaign, and versatile enough so that Dr. Wylie and I could keep it going between Minneapolis and Los Angeles.

An hour later, I’d written out the entire goal. The first step starts with you reading through this painfully long blog post, and the action takes place on Tuesday (tomorrow) at kickstarter.com

Stay tuned… Oh and by the way, here's that article by Mr. Bernard: http://rapreviews.com/year/11adamb.html

Year Of The Villain

The tall Russian gentlemen carried on his conversation with a petite grad-school aged gal next to the bar. The bar being a fold out table covered with a blanket covered with every possible version of vodka sold in the Twin Cities... or just the MGM liquor down the block in Roseville. Still standing in St. Paul proper, in Dr. Wylie's basement, awaiting the ball to drop to ring in 2012, another grad-school gal took it upon herself to approach the man-made bar and without hesitation grab one of the variations of vodka and take it to the neck. Where I'm from when we say “take it to the neck” we mean “straight no chaser”, “drank it straight from the bottle”, “took a pull”. Different cities support different jargon, but for my sake you should start getting used to hearing “take it to the neck”.

There was something sexy about it. When a woman with a clear conscience and sober composure takes a straight pull from a bottle of vodka at 10pm on New Year's Eve there's nothing not sexy about it. Although I'm a little shy to admit it, I have an affinity for firestarters and people that don't wait to be told what to do- people that just go. She held the bottle high with one hand around the neck of it. For what seemed like a full minute, while in reality was more likely a few seconds, I swear she looked at me and winked as if to say “Tonight we burn this business to the ground and party like it never mattered anyway”. Whatever “it” was, it would not be acknowledged this evening- be it mortality, feelings, or the entirety of 2011.

Several conversations, one drink, and half-a-dozen songs later I found myself peering over at the bar again. The large Russian gentlemen was not bartending any longer, he'd been replaced by a woman decked out in New Year's Eve attire- attire you'd wrap yourself in to make dress code for an upper-echelon nightclub. The same grad-school gal that took the pull a half hour ago returned to the bar again. Evading conversation with the woman running the bar, she struck again... grabbing another obscure bottle of vodka from the table, tilting her head back and smiling as she put it down. This time she glanced cross the room, held a quick conversation with the woman at the bar and pranced off into the party.

Something glowed about her, something infallible. Putting on these displays of immunity to vodka was perhaps practice for her- practice that if the longest pull of hard liquor can't affect her, then nothing can. No substance, no man, no rules, no law. There lie the attraction, emanating from her tolerance for alcohol I assumed she could tolerate anything. King Kong, the Cloverfield Monster, and Godzilla... as they say “ain't got shit on her”.

Limitations are everywhere, more so in our minds than anywhere else. The power is in walking thru them legitimately. Taking them down in a manner that we can progress past them with a stride that we hope will lead us in the right direction. The flip to this is taking the limitations to heart, simply flashing our fangs at them to strike fear into the exact apparatus that scares the shit out of us. It's tough. I'd always give a Clint Eastwood eye squint at the 10 hurdles ahead of me just before any 110m high hurdle race... in the end it was the conditioning, muscle memory, technique, and absolute disregard for anything else going on at the moment but the race to accomplish my fastest times. The Clint Eastwood eye squint never changed anything, it was the respect for the hurdles that manipulated the race. Respect your boundaries, challenges, hurdles, opponents, etc... and you'll never find it easier to walk through them. In some cases, simply respecting the limits is all it takes to make them vanish.

Again in the treacherous basement of Dr. Wylie; we drink, we dance, we ring in the new year with champagne & dubstep... and again, the grad-school damsel returns to the bar. Her stride, this time, slightly off balance and rhythm. She grabs the tallest bottle, takes it to the neck hard. This time she holds the pull for longer than the last two... combined. Spitting in the face of her tolerance for vodka several times over finally resulted in the vodka spitting back... hot flaming fire. She sets the bottle down, wobbles to a chair in the back of the room, and sits down.

Lost in the fray, I ventured upstairs to sing a few show tunes with Linden at the piano; we rap, we sing, we laugh. Knowing a few covers by simply hearing them on the piano can never be a bad thing. It's been scientifically proven that when people sing together, a chemical in the brain is released that creates a feeling of trust. Bonding with strangers at a new year's party can never be a bad thing, however neither is dancing. To the basement we go...

Turning the corner from the kitchen to the staircase, there she was... grad-school girl. Sitting sideways on the staircase, crying into her hands, a guy knelt next to her struggling to console the intoxication. Her cries got louder as I descended the stairs.

The equation was simple and she lost. A sad sight of basic math with fiery intent and drunkeness. I wonder if at the first pull of the vodka that this was in her plan... nasmudgery of make-up.

Earlier this week, the Vikings turned in one of the worst seasons in franchise history, The Blend played it's final show in Minneapolis before departing for Los Angeles, Alistair Overeem beat Brock Lesnar into retirement, and now grad-school gal's crying in a heap of alcohol fueled frustration. This year will surely be the end of a few things. I hope one of them to be the failure to understand that passing our walls and limitations takes respect. Failure to do so will result in the limitation getting the best of us.

Breathing By Default

My car has a 4 cylinder engine. Of the 4 cylinders processing compression, spark, and (I forgot the 3^rd step), 3 of them are working. When you turn Honda on, he reverberates a sound that can only be distinguished as the Guinness book of world records performance for most hand claps by a human being in 60 seconds. Although they're not hand claps and more so the power-steering belt competing with the alternator's belt for loudest performance before the engine warms, Honda rolls like Atlantic City dice to and fro on 94 to make the magical trip to work and back... safe.

That single non-operational cylinder- that singular son'bitch is my alibi, my excuse, my crutch- the sole reason I don't dangerously greyhound it to the west coast and take up a friends couch while busting arse at the nearest Starbucks day-in-and-out. The choice could level my sanity entirely.

You know your friends that take pride in knowing where the salad fork is, keeping their cubicle organized, and returning redbox vids within the same day they've rented them... this is not the lifestyle for them. What would level my sanity in a week, could potentially destroy their moral compass and sense of gravity in 10 minutes flat. So... I can't make this choice to bust ass to Los Angeles, as I had planned so discreetly and publicly, as fast as I want to. I can't say “can't” because it wouldn't be true to the situation. Yes- I could move to Los Angeles right now, say “fuck your mother” to all the bills I'd plan on paying when my weekly income entered the 10,000's and put this whole half-reality on hold... perhaps the better word is “won't”. Yes- I will not- I won't move to Los Angeles like a Tony-Scott-film helicopter making a emergency landing to salvage what's left. Although I could... I won't.

For now, I take the trips to work (which praise be to Allah they gave me back, after shuffling the staff once again... this time in my favor) as practice for Honda and I to make the trek to Los Angeles as early as Spring, late as Summer. The trips to work finance Honda's new engine, finance a new laptop, and that savings side of the bank that could use a little more than a pick-me up.

With a debilitated engine such as Honda's, it requires a tad more TLC than the average machine. Whenever filling it with gas, it's mandatory I look underneath the hood and check the oil. Every time after stabbing the oil rod back into it's test tube valve, I'll find myself staring at that cylinder- that motherfucking cylinder. In my mind I curse it to death and wish it'd taken the beloved nice treatment to the new spark plugs I bought for him and his 3 buddies... obviously shot down, literally. Then I go to pondering the positive. Could the cylinder be saying something?- that perhaps I was supposed to stay in Minneapolis longer. A reason to all this, you say? How could I not think so and/or take up the challenge.

After hearing The Blend's new album, setting up the final tour dates for their CD release and farewell show, it was as if this was the way it was always going to be- as if there were no other way gravity or the rotation of the globe would have it. For me, and I know for Linden (The Blend's keyboard/saxophone player) it couldn't've happened at a better time. Linden leaves early January for his new apartment on Wilshire Blvd, a la California, whereas I stare at a cylinder in a 1997 Honda Civic per chance waiting for it to tell me why it decided to crap out before straddling Midwest to West Coast- how it failed to follow the crowd (the other 3 working cylinders).

What I've found from these episodes with the hood open, and the gas flowing to the fuel tank... is that dead engine cylinders don't talk. They simply stick with the piece of machinery that they were destined to be a part of- frozen in funeral amidst the turning cogs and lively parts still pushing forward in the process.

I shut the hood. Hop in the Honda, and head toward my daily destiny (j.o.b.) to take care of a handful of kids with autism, go home to write afterwards and finance a new engine with cylinders that reciprocate with California. As of right now, where I am, this engine reciprocates perfectly with Minnesota.