To Say "Thank You" 186 Times

I am on a plane from Idaho to Denver…. The connecting flight from Denver to Minneapolis might leave before we get there. If this occurs, I will most likely seek out hard drugs or something that can take me into the immediate afterlife. I am in the worst physical pain I’ve ever felt- well only second to that time I had a hernia surgery and tried riding a bike to the coffeeshop only to tip over in slow motion against the sidewalk.

What kind of pain would drive a man to such heights of extremism, you ask? Hmm, it's comparable to a time- a time almost ten years ago… I awoke one morning to find that my contact solution was gone. Being the resourceful asshole that I am, I decided to use my roommates. Half-hazard I disregarded the printed red band around the bottle of my roommate’s solution, soaked my contacts in the liquid and placed them in my eyes.

At the slightest touch of my right cornea, I felt the sting of a thousand suns. Whatever the solution was made of had grazed my eye like a razor blade. “HOLY FUKIN SHIT FUCK  PERRY WINKLE STAR BRIGHT!”. Sidenote: I curse like I have Tourette's. Credit it to my high school friends and I freestyling at lunch over beatboxing, stirring ourselves to think of the most immediate thought on our minds and connect it to our mouths. Sometimes it landed me in the principles office, and other times I wound up writing a script to take stage for hundreds to spectate- I’ll take both. So, cursing whatever’s at the forefront of your attention span is… fun. I figured it’d just been awhile since I had brand new solution and tried to place the contact back in my eye- ZZZZZZAP! The sting struck again, my eye went bright pink… and it was then I noticed the large red band wrapping the bottle of my roommate’s solution “WARNING 3% PEROXIDE”. I’d voluntarily burned the life out of my eye.

Flash forward to now, this is what it feels like. The only difference between the two is this feeling won’t go away, and something keeps refreshing the sting in my left eye to the point it’s at a constant drip- something similar to Jinno resurrected as half-robot/half-human (ref: Afro Samurai). Following suit, the left side of my face has begun to submit to the pressure of the flight cabin hinting that I might blow an aneurysm. One more anime metaphor, if I may: it feels like I’ve been slapped in the left-side of my face by Fist of the Northstar- not hard enough to make my head blow up, but just enough impact to make it swell to the point of me making it want to blow up.

Phone stolen, face swollen, and the only thing I’m truly pissed about is the laundry basket full of metro area kickstarter packages to send out. When staring at the stack of 150+ t-shirts I had to mail out to the backers/investors of the kickstarter project, I went still with intimidation. What had I created, who was going to help? The answer lie in the action. Essentially dodging people and extra curriculars for a week straight, I was able to get all the out-of-towners mailed in 7 days, and the locals prepped. What kicked my ass the most was the personal Thank You letters, and also what kept me going as well. Every one or two notes, I noticed a familiar name. When I thought I had nothing genuine to express or unique to say, it kept coming to me naturally. Hell- I’d do another kickstarter project just to write thank you letters. More than writing lyrics is writing a play, and more than writing a script is writing  a slam poem, and above that… the thank you letter. I can’t think of any way better to spend an afternoon, morning, evening- I can’t think of a better way to spend my time than to write a thank you letter.

Where a society has gone addicted to digital text, in-and-out boxes, sitting down and writing a letter to someone creates its own place in the world for you. Its tangible enough you can see the words, touch the paper, and read it again without having to reboot a machine. It’s the epitome of giving someone your time. To disregard a letter is to rip it up, throw it away, or even not open it- all in all, you know it’s there. Those words have been put out into the world, written on earth for you.

My grandfather used to write salutations to my grandmother just whenever, at random, from his heart. Dude didn’t call her for a week (ref: gangster) after he first got her number, and just started writing her salutations since they began dating. And now, I’m here with a sickly face sitting on a situation with 40+ thank you letters for people that more than deserve it. Got-dammit, these people will have their mail whether my face turns a droopy Quasimoto or not- I vow to get the packages there.

With all that said, I’m thoroughly amped for this week to play out. We release the mixtape online, we go live with national radio, and I leave town for a week to do educational theatre for GTC Dramatic Dialogues. Priority still stands, getting the packages to the locals.

Even in the utmost rock bottom of physical pain, it’s a soothing thought to be near the finish line of completing what you said you'd do- to say “Thank You” 186 times. It didn’t actually hit me that 186 individuals contributed to a project that hadn’t even begun to get it’s engine started, until my colored pencils started sketching bubble block letters to each backer. I’m in the 2^nd most physical pain of my life (which could be worse), but also believe I may be the luckiest guy on the planet. For what it’s worth, thank you again- can't wait to release this mixtape out into the universe.

Four Hundred Meters of Redemption (1/2)

I have nightmares.

One of them is a reoccurring haunt. Reoccurring and occurring for the past 12 years of my life.

How do I explain- Where to start...

I was bit by a deer tick. The bite panned out like Spider-Man, but in reverse. I had trained the entire year to make it to the state track & field meet in the 300 Intermediate Hurdles, had won my conference in the event and was en route to qualifying for the big show. However, after a game of splat ball  in Hinckley, a deer tick found its way to my right shoulder blade and burrowed a poisonous life-threatening/altering  bite mark.

I had contracted Lyme Disease and didn’t know it at the time. My legs slowed, muscles atrophied, and energy dissipated to nil all before my own very eyes. I raced my heart out, but came in a lowly 5^th at the regional finals. Only the top 2 go.

Now, when I close my eyes and take on any kind of nap or slumber, a scene plays out within the recesses of my mind. A gun fires, the racers leave their blocks, the crowd screams- everything moves with such an elusive fluidity to it that it becomes a smear of colors streaming through space, painting the track, leaving behind shadows of their former silhouette. Old friends smile with great expectation that I will set a personal best, or even win the race. It is a beautiful thing, as the sun is always shining in this dream… and this is my nightmare, for one thing is always wrong with this picture- one horrifying part is absolutely wrong.

The moment I try to advance from my blocks, or even from a stand still, my thighs seem to float like balloons pushing through space. There is no force behind the movement, no muscle, no chutzpah, no nothing. I am a slow motion figure in a fast paced world of trained sprinters. I am worthless.

To my friends, to my family, to the sport, to myself- I am of no worth to watch or cheer. I fail. The race leaves me, and I stay behind… everytime.

As I write it, now, I find the nightmare more in the reliving than the happening. As Prometheus was banished to a rock for his transgressions toward Zeus, he faced an eagle daily that would fly down and eat his liver. However, this was not the bane of his punishment, the curse lie in Prometheus’ liver growing back everyday just to be eaten by the eagle. I find it parallel to dreaming of racing for my goal just to lose… every single time.

I have struggled with this dream turned nightmare for 12 years, now.

Perhaps watching a 34 yr. old (Felix Sanchez) win the 400m hurdles in this year’s 2012 Olympics has turned my daily 30 minute jog to sprinting hurdles on a track… or maybe it’s the ultimate resentment for the piece of my brain that can’t let the past be finished- the part of me that clutches the loss as hard as it did the goal.

Working with two children this summer as a youth mentor, I decided to take them to a track at the edge of the city to run time trials- develop some sort of penultimate summer goal of measured progression. I’d run my morning sprints on this track in the past to prep for high school meets, and hone hurdling techniques. It scared the shit out of me to be back there.

After dropping the kids off, I headed back to my house- picked up my track cleats and drove straight back to the secluded track, my sanctuary. Jog, stretch, plyometrics- I began my hurdle routine. This wasn’t for enjoyment, this was to slay a dragon- to kill the echo rung from my final high school track race. After three-step speeding over several hurdles, I noticed an old white man enter the field. His strut was slow, but tall. He eyed me like I had trespassed onto his property- watched my every move over the hurdles. When he wasn’t in my range of visibility, I could feel his attention on my back as I still ran the hurdle routine.

“What ya’ runnin’ for?” murmured the old man.

My heart went cold. A breath escaped me a beat. Although the disbelief in me pulled back the notion, I still trusted my instinct that I knew this man. I recognized his voice. The circumstances were simply improbable- beyond chance that we’d ever run into each other again.

But here we are. 15 years removed, at the edge of the city, on a track only few have driven by let alone set foot upon.

This man was a ghost, to me. He’d been present in a few of the nightmares watching the race. And now here he is asking what I’m running for while I’m wide awake.

Hard In The Paste

I went this one alone. Factors contributing to the solo mission go as follows: Ralph is soon to be a father and has a laundry list of responsibilities a presidential candidate couldn’t handle at the moment, therefore he had to split right after performing the show; Todd had to be at his cousin’s wedding reception- notice how I said “reception” and not “ceremony”; And Patrick- well, Patrick just had to go be cool elsewhere. Watching him grow into his mid-20’s I’ve noticed his interest sway from the party & bullshit to the finer things in life. Can’t blame’em, Pat’s his own man- and a good one at that. Him and Linden made, and make, a perfect combo for Lazlo Supreme- both music picky, very detailed when it comes to live performance, and natural born introverts.

I don’t know it yet, but this would be the last hurrah for my old running shoes. They wrapped my feet tight enough to maneuver the upcoming apparatus, paired well with my running Nike shorts and overpriced simple tank top. Although the event was dubbed as the Midwest Tomato Fest, the entrance sign read “This Way to the Tomato Fight”. The fight was all the mattered, and I had to come back after performing with The Blend earlier in the day for the full day event to find out. To say the least for the anticipation building toward the Tomato Fight was incomprehensible at the moment. Kamal, a youth I had mentored and taken care of back when I had just graduated high school, now a full grown man and University of St. Thomas graduate had told me the tomatoes being used for the fight were soft as salsa. I would find this to be discreetly untrue in about 60 seconds.

The crowd is clearly drunk. Crushed cans of Grain Belt Nordeast bedded the pavement leading to the fenced tomato fight area. Women shouted obscenities at their male compatriots, perhaps to relieve the excitement or anxiety an outdoor food fight was capable of producing. The tomatoes seemed harmless at a the view of several layers of crowd from the entrance. A drunken woman and her friends began leaning over the entrance fence to blindly launch tomatoes in the air upon the crowd in waiting.

A glimpse of clarity streaked my conscience. The gentlemen to my left were wrapping their belongings in plastic, hiding it away in their shorts or underwear, a visibly drunk couple prepped their protective eyewear (goggles)- Sweet Mother of Breakfast, this fight was going to get downright immoral. SPLAT! Debris from the drunken girls next to the fence hit a foot away from me. Another gentlemen dodged it as well. The clarity ended with a strong voice in my head declaring, “Are you bullshitting me?!? There are 60,000 lbs of tomatoes ahead of you in an empty parking lot soon to be pitched with the furor of Curt Schilling (circa 2004, game 6 vs. NY Yankees) and you’re shuttering at a little bit of tomato paste? Negro, please!”

No prep signal, no moment of silence, no countdown….

VOOOOOM- the fence dropped to the parking lot. The people in front of me baby stepped pushing the crowd ahead of them. Video footage of soccer stadium riots riddled my brain for a split second thinking I’d be trampled to death. Press on, damn you, press forward! These people are unrelenting drunks, you must overpower the pace!

A woman went down hard in the pavement. One of her legs was caught in the crowd, stepped on, soon her skull at this pace. I pause to reach back to her. I couldn’t live with reading the tabloids tomorrow morning “YOUNG WHITE WOMAN SKULLCRUSHED IN TOMATO FIGHT ENTRY”. Dammit lady take my hand! Die during the fight, not before it!... Alas it was not to be- I was too far ahead. She’d become a casualty to the game… or her friends would help her up.

Toppled the first mountain of tomatoes. Kamal’s analysis wrought false- the tomatoes were less the consistency of soft salsa, and more the density of a softball. Before I could let one rip, before I could commit my arm to the destruction of someone else’s face by vegetable- BAM! A tomato disintegrated into my neck. Thrown at the speed of a bank robbery, I turned to the direction I thought it came from- BLAP! Another vegetable straight to the thigh. There was no time to think- adrenaline surged to the point the pain had forced me into a blind rage of melee. I couldn’t feel, see, or hear anything. It was at this exact moment I said one thing, and one thing only. It was the one quintessential phrase that need be uttered at a moment while standing atop a mountain of tomatoes- the sheer embodiment of what needed to be done, what a mercenary with no country to go home to says, the words of a samurai with no living family left declares…

“BRING THE RAAAAAAAAAAAIN”

The phrase exploded from my vocal cords out of its own volition. I quickly grabbed several tomatoes, clutched the lot of them into my left hand, jut my left knee out as if to make a twist to throw a shotput and whipped my right arm around palming but one tomato. It was a swift and deadly shot. I’d directly struck a man in the chest 5 feet in front of me. The blow was merciless, bloodless, and absolutely uncalled for. He looked me in the eye for a moment, speaking with his eyes “What the fuck bro?!? It’s just a tomato fight, chill out!”

There would be no chilling out, I stared back at him, blood pulsing, eyes cold, veins pushing away from my neck and forearm as if I were bench-pressing the world… There would be no chilling out whatsoever. The one sense that came back to me was fleeting, but helpful. My sight. When you’re in the belly of the beast with vegetables flying at over 30 miles per hour, the one thing you’ll notice more than anything is the air and sky before turn to red. To put it bluntly, you can’t see shit. If you have goggles, make sure they are strap-ons, because 2 minutes into the fight, the regular goggles were strewn about the ground

BLAP! “Shit!” Another neck shot, this time straight on to the larynx- BOOM!... … …

My right ear went deaf for a few seconds. This hit had pushed my sunglasses, doubling as goggles, into the bridge of my nose. Blood began to let from my face. The combination of hits was ripping my psyche to shreds. I’d exuded the confidence of an undead monster returned to wreak havoc on a small village, but the larynx shot had rendered me gasping for air while trying to remove my sunglasses to wipe the sauce from my eyes from the earshot. I had to find someway to defend myself. The shots were coming from everywhere.

After a few painstakingly close shots to the family jewels, I cupped my groin with my left hand and scooped tomatoes with my right. I had to protect the groin. These rapscallion sons of bitches were slinging faster than Strasburg before the Tommy-John surgery- if one were to strike me in the groin, I’d have to leave for surely. I didn’t want to leave though. I wanted to make sure everyone that entered the arena knew my pain. So, I made a rough draft of a plan… and committed to it.

I staked out the first mountain I’d encountered and kept close to the crowd.  The more open space you find around yourself, the more likely you are to catch a death shot. Average tosses don’t scare. In the red swarm of sauce flying amidst the air directly in front of you, the adrenaline and sheer fun of the fight numbs you to a simple strike. However, should you find yourself near an open space where no on is nearby, then I have no remorse or sympathy for the danger you put yourself in. How it works is the more open space you leave between yourself and the next crowd, results in the more elbow room an on looking participant has to wind up and deliver a game changer straight to your clavicle. I digress, I stayed in close to the crowd, gathered as many tomatoes with my left as I could, stayed low- always stay low! The second you pop your stupid ostrich head up is the second you catch a 50-mile per hour vegetable to the forehead. It’s not fun and games at that point- I looked towards the entrance. Then, with a vengeance I sped a fastball straight to the dome-piece of a newly entered participant.

The goal was to have each of them know they were entering the dragon- for each of them to understand there was no love, mercy, or human compassion on this side of the fence. Recourse, adjudication, accountability would all take a leave of absence until the final vegetable was thrown.

The fastballs I delivered became more deadly and precise as time went on. I made strident effort to pitch them as far back as I could, to take out the onlookers that per chance just wanted to pay witness to the senseless violence taking place. If they were to watch, they would have to pay a tax. The tax was the line of fire. If I could reach’em, they would be touched by the tomato.

As time passed on, the ground became awash with tomato paste. The pavement slowly drowned beneath 3 inches of sauce and water. At this point, all the tomatoes you could actually grasp and let rip had disintegrated to mush. To fight at this juncture in the event was to be a chicken hawk. The company released the hose, sadly only one hose, to wash down the participants looking to leave.

What became an obstacle was to make an exit after washing off. The hose was in the field of play, so after hosing the acidic stick of tomato paste from every orifice of your body, you still had to trek through a long line of douche baggery participants looking to sling hand-fulls of sauce on to your newly washed skin.

An overweight gentlemen with a cut-off t-shirt stood near the hose; Discombobulated, drunk, staring aimlessly at the last of the sauce being tossed in a lost tomato fight. A good solid tomato unleashed from the small fray of fighters at the end of the war, striking the overweight gentlemen square in the chest. He did not flinch, his eyes rolled toward the culprit in his view. The audience surrounding him carried  looks of astonishment, as if they paid witness to a stray bullet taking out an innocent bystander. Then, the only words that could be given to the moment a tomato fight has turned to mush and a lone asshole who pocketed the last fresh vegetable decides to peg an innocent in cold blood... were spoken. “Fuck you man” said the overweight gentlemen to the culprit. It resonated through the air as somewhat of a poetic conclusion to the madness.

Sauce continued to fly through the air, but the fight was over for me. What felt like at least an hour of insanity, was only 20 minutes. 20 minutes of absolute fun, senseless violence, and immaturity well worth it. Given the chance again, I will formulate a team, make t-shirts, and ransack the hills of tomatoes once more.

Until then, I tip my hat to the Midwest Tomato Fest and all its greatness it had to offer for several thousand people amidst a downtown block on a Saturday afternoon that would otherwise be assuredly spent in a less fulfilling manner.

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.

Maria On My Mind

“So who wants to go first?” Mandi’s eyes jot between the three of us, hoping to pressure an answer. None of us budge- “Ok, well I’ll let you all figure that out and we’ll get going in twenty, k?” It wasn’t a question. We absolutely will get going in twenty.

Dozens, if not hundreds of chairs sat on the student union’s front mall lawn. Not a single person sitting in them, I assumed they’d be for the event we were here for. The chairs stared back as I gazed at them. Couldn’t figure out exactly why no one was sitting in them, however there were a few chairs reserved with pieces of paper taped to the back ends of them.

Clouds hung low with the temperature ominously threatening a storm at any moment, we sat on a bench nearby Coffman Student Union dawning brand new turquoise blue t-shirts reading “I stood for mental health”. Myself and two other students were chosen to perform poetry for Mental Health Awareness Day at the University of Minnesota’s campus outdoors. A dozen student groups have rallied together to make the event possible and put on shindigs all throughout the week.

The two other performers, Nance and Dennis, look reluctant. This isn’t the place to be performing poetry- students whisking by, bikes speeding through the venue to get to class, and a general crowd of folks that don’t know what the f--- the entire setup is about. The event would have to be taken by the throat, performance-wise. Hardly the place or subject matter to be passive about. We’d have to raise our voices, be volatile, interrupt the pattern for a brief 10 minutes in every passerby’s daily agenda.

“So, the best way to figure out who goes first would probably be to go by subject matter- Nance, what’s your poem about?” I ask, to hopefully get some kind of fire lit underneath us. “My poem is just generally about mental health.” Nance softly replied. I could tell her demeanor was misleading in correlation of her performance. She’d most likely step to the mic and Queen Latifah the damn thing into the ground. Nance wasn’t requested to speak for nothing. Her soft tone predicated a talented wordsmith. “Ok” I said. “What about you Dennis?” “Well, my poem is about my recovery”. “Great, you go last” I said. Nance smiled in agreement. Neither of us was talking on our behalf of our own mental health. “Cool, we’re set”.

Nance, Dennis, and I slowly meandered from our bench to the area we’d be performing for the passerby audience. I noticed the mic was turned away from the chairs- wait- what the f---- is going on here? If our backs are turned to the chairs, what are they doing there in the first place. I wasn’t grasping the intent of this affair, and really had no means to, given the subject matter. I’ve made a career of working with children in special education and simply couldn’t disrespect the message. I decided to flag down Mandi, the head chick in charge of the event, she’d be able to fill me in.

Approaching Mandi, several display tables down from me, a young woman held on to a piece of paper she’d written her name on with tape attached. Like dogs sense a seizure, you can pick-up on a preliminary emotional breakdown. Her pale skin went flush, cheeks gone up in slow flames- no convulsing, just a simple submission. The agreement between her and her tears worked its way to public. Something was on that paper causing this woman to cry, and it wasn’t her name.

I looked out to the now hundreds of chairs strewn about the lawn, puzzled. She was heading towards the chairs, but somewhere in the midst of her breakdown several friends caught her and embraced in a group hug before she could reach where she was going. “Jeffrey. We miss you, love you, never forget you” read one of the signs on the chairs near me. This was less a platform to a present audience than it was  display for those that’d been lost to mental health related issues. The 1100 chairs packed into the lawn represented the number of college students who commit suicide each year.

No need to fire up for performance, in fact this thing didn't need any of us- the message was already loud & clear. Nance, Dennis, and I were simply the literal in an event paying homage to those that conceived the notion of killing one’s self. On the surface you could take it as us the living amongst those that refused to live on, but in reality it was us the spirited acknowledging those that didn’t have the privilege or circumstance to find peace of mind.

I’ve watched a four-year old draw scissors on a teacher, stand on a table and threaten to cut her if she came any closer. For the next several months the teacher and I would spend our time with this student caring for him and bringing him back to the understanding that nobody was here to hurt or endanger him- that we are here for your livelihood. Regardless of the inequities the child had suffered in his mind or classroom, there is nothing more pure than our convictions to help one another. This is what we were here for amongst 1100 chairs recognizing those that had been lost in the moments of loneliness, sheer angst, pain, the cracks and crevices separating a beating heart from loathing existence.

I grabbed a piece of paper, wrote in big block letters (as best I can, having learned from all my friends that graffiti’d throughout the city) in red marker “MARIA”. Post scripted with a message to her if she were or able to ever read it. She’d been a best friend to my sister for some time, I would run into her every now and then in Minneapolis while she was still in high school, so although our relationship was limited she merited as a good family friend. 

I would run into Maria’s sister more often than her. We’d carried a running bet that if Maria were to get married before her, then I owed her five bucks. At the time, Maria had a long-time boyfriend and in the spirit of wishing her well- we bet on it.

Down the road, the wager never kept... and to make a very long story too short- Maria now represents one of those chairs. 

The mind is as daunting and foreign to us as it is blessing. Amongst the emotions moving over you like giant waves brilling your skin to goose bumps and butterflies in your stomach, there is a split second you must have recognized there is something larger than life and undoubtedly out of your control here on earth. To grasp that concept might scare you, but for some it might mean the make or break of their mental stability. It's up to us to keep it from breaking. 

We performed our poems, taped the names of those we'd lost to chairs, and went about the rest of our day. Maria's been on my mind since.

Hell, Heaven, & Hospital: Give Me Nothing In-Between

Hospitals carry both the heaven and hell we make for ourselves. As I sit in the Fairview Urgent Care clinic as my mother gets her foot examined reading ESPN the magazine of how Robert Griffin III’s grandfather suddenly died at the age of 43 from a brain aneurysm, it strikes me that I was ready to go awhile ago, but somewhere along the way found a purpose to pave a better future than what has passed. I remember it clearly: I was touring with The Blend, in some town, headed to some after party, speeding down some stretch of highway… drunk. I sat on the passenger benches with the rest of the band either sprawled on the floor or bunked in an advanced yoga position. As our short bus sped against the country road I stood up on the bus in a fit of laughter (most likely due to a joke Spencer had told or something Linden said)… and as we all laughed, drunkenly pumping our diaphragms swimming in comical hysteria, I looked out the window. You could see the moon bright as hell, the night black as beauty- I thought to myself "it is here- right here I could die a happy man."

Now, back at Urgent Care the purpose I couldn’t see then lies before me. A man has just burst through the hospital doors speaking to himself. Moaning, mumbling, slurring speech like whips of aimless paint throughout the room, “Uhhhhhh, I told yooooooouuu… Son of a bitch!” Everyone of his words slacks the air with sporadic aggression, but when the man curses, he hits the consonant perfectly. This man has shouted “bitch” and “shit” more perfectly than I have ever heard in my life. There is perfection and poetry to his madness. It is in the wily glare of cold disdain that he delivers my direction- a glare that says “fuck the world for everything it isn’t worth” without speaking a word. It’s vivid, palpable, and quite possibly the most genuine thing in this hospital right now.

He’s trying to operate a phone attached to a wall with numerous editions of Yellow Pages surrounding it. Shouting and speaking into the phone, the receptionist tip toes cautiously from behind her desk. She’s visibly scared and is not prepared to handle communication with this man. “Umm, I don’t think the phone works…” she mumbles to the man. “Uhhhhhhhh, fuck! Gave me the wrong numberrrrrr anywaysssss” he speaks to himself and her. He asks for a pen and paper. She delivers. He spends 10 more minutes carrying the conversation on in his head aloud, drops the pen, brings it back to the secretary and dizzily meanders to the exit.

With the mad man out of the room, one of the receptionists says, “Why don’t we get a code for people to use to come in here- y’know and change it everyday?” “Well, I don’t know, it’d just get so complicated” returns the secretary.

In a building built upon the intention to take care of sick individuals, it has single handedly performed the opposite. In a building with a farce phone plugged into the wall, they question the man who picks it up. We all would, but when it comes down to it: my mother has me and the mad man has no one. 

Our time here is of important value above most anything else in the living world. It is the one thing we cannot buy, get back, or manipulate. It is a force of nature we are born into. Above that value is our actions- what we choose to do with that time.

From drunkenly gazing through a tour bus window watching the world whizz by with a wreckloose band of talented thieves (musicians), purpose came and went as it wished. You become the happened as opposed to the happening in those situations, choosing to let time have its way with you and “enjoy the ride” as they say. But what happens when we speak up, bleed for something, simply take action on our own without waiting for approval of peers? I believe we become our own saviors in that moment, and right now I have to be my mother’s… my own, and prepared to be for everyone else as well.

In such a backwards development where you are asked for proof of insurance, ten bucks, a ten minute form to be filled out before someone can say “yes, I’ll help you”, “yes, I’ll care for you”, “yes, I’ll heal you", it'd be more cordial to ask them why they have a broken phone attached to the wall first. Just in case someone were to try and use it, whether they be mad or not.

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.