I'm keeping the goat-strap.

I work at Home Depot. I've been working the overnight shift for a couple months now in preparation for our big inventory coming up in February. I stock shelves, drive machines, and do other kinds of crappy little manual labor-type work. And, during the hours when the store is closed, I fucking love my job.

Part of the reason for that is the crew of people that work on the "Freight Team" with me. We are five guys who are all at different places in our lives. We get along great (thanks in no small part to the incredible music of Poison).  Our boss (one of the five guys) is kind of a weirdo. He gets into the whole team bonding thing, regularly scheduling breakfasts together and setting up strange pictures of the five of us screwing around in the store. A couple weeks ago, it was decided that we should all grow the same type of facial hair in order to get one of these aforementioned photographs in the store. (Strange, I know, but feeling like part of a team really does help make work more fun and interesting, and Bob's starting to get the rest of us to buy into it.) The facial hair that we were to share in a chin strap beard with a full goatee on the chin and upper lip. A look I appropriately dubbed, "the goat-strap".

Well, we all grew our beards. Two black, one blonde, one brown and one salt-n-pepper. We got the picture. Due to itchiness and other factors, most of us decided to shave off or otherwise alter the goat-strap immediately thereafter. I myself was fed up with the thing. I thought it looked alright, but it itched like hell near the corners of my mouth. I was ready. Then, when I got out of the shower this morning, I didn't do it. I shaved the areas around it, cleaned it up, and then washed the shaving cream off of my face. I kept the goat-strap. It was a decision I came to in the shower, where I do my clearest thinking.

I didn't keep it because I wanted to hold on to the bond we'd had; that didn't matter anymore, they were all changing theirs anyway. I kept it because I felt like sticking with something. I felt like putting my faith in something and completely selling out for it. Like not holding back or being afraid that maybe it wouldn't work out. Sure, there may be people that think it looks stupid. I don't care. I like it. I'm going to make this the best damn goat-strap that I possibly can. Do I wish my hair was a little darker? Yes. A little less stringy? Of course. Do the corners of my mouth still itch? A little bit. But you know what? Nothing's perfect. That's one thing that I can say with absolute certainty thanks to what limited knowledge I have accrued in my 24 years. Nothing is perfect. Therefore, what you need to do, is find something you like and make it the best you can. Sometimes, you're going to be wrong. Fuck it. If it's a mistake, if it doesn't work out, if you come up just short, learn from it and find something else to pour your soul into.

I've done that with one thing in my life. There was one thing that I went all out for. One time when I, to use the cliche, put all my apples in one basket. I held nothing back. I got over the fears of failing and gave it every ounce of energy that I had. One time I've done that. That time, I failed.

For a long time I was bitter about it. I regretted it. I wished I hadn't been so focused on that one thing because it ended. I'd given everything I had for something only to see its time with me run out. My singlemindedness had ruined me--or so I thought.

It took me a while, and it wasn't sudden. So many times in my life answers have come to me in an instant revelation--an epiphany where it all becomes clear. This was not one of them. This was a process. It took me a while, but eventually, I realized that my one-track mind had not been a mistake afterall. Because the pursuit of that one goal had brought me nearly as much through my supposed failure as it could have through success. It wasn't a failure. Going after something you want and never getting it isn't failing, it's trying. It's living. That's life. That's what we do. The Rolling Stones said, "you can't always get what you want," and nothing's ever been more true. We're not supposed to get what we want or even what we think we need all of the time. Sometimes, it really is more about the journey-- with all of its back roads and sidestreets, all of its characters, situations and lessons, all of its bumps and bruises and battlescars--than the destination.

To use a lyric that my friends at work would apprecaite, "sometimes the rainbow, baby, is better than the pot of gold."

I'm a letter waiting at your door...

...deliver me.

Right now, I am happy. This is probably the longest string of consecutive happy days I've had in a really long time. This is awesome.

It all started with a revelation I had about permanence--that I needn't worry about it. Not now, maybe not ever. I spent so much time trying to look ahead to where I would want to be and what I would want to be in five, ten, fifteen years and far too little time thinking about where I wanted to be right now, at this moment (or at least for the next few months or so). 

Once I made this change, turned the dial in my mind to adjust my focus, things have been swell. Sure, I'm still bored from time to time. You'll have that. My boredom is very nearly over. This is good. I like to have things to look forward to. This goes back to the whole permanence thing. I don't know if it's a fear of it, or just a love for change and endings and beginnings. 

I think that's one of the things that I really like about Ohio--the four very distinct seasons. Sure, winter lasts too long, and spring and fall are slowly starting to fade with this crazy-ass weather, but they're all still there. I love them. At the end of summer, I'm ready for fall. At the end of fall, I'm ready for winter. At the end of winter, I'm ready for spring. At the end of spring, I'm ready for summer. It's awesome. I know that they have seasons in other places, too, but I'm just realizing a little more every day how much I appreciate the place where I grew up. Like it or not, this place has shaped me beyond what I can even realize. And there's a certain pride in that. When I uncover something that I realize is a product of my upbringing and this area, I fully embrace it; I'm proud of it.

This place is going to shit. It has been for a long time. Now, with the downfall of the American auto industry, it's going to get far worse. It's coming. It's here. But something about that makes me appreciate this area even more. I can't explain it. It's backwards. It's wrong. It's sick. But maybe I am backward. Maybe I am sick. I don't know, but for some reason it makes me want to stay. It's an unspoken bond with the people. People come together when they have a shared tragedy or difficult experience. People overcome. These tough times are what pull people together and bring them closer than those on the outside can ever realize. It's a fraternity. 

I think back to the days I was playing baseball in college. I know that it's trivial compared to real problems in the world--compared to economic disasters and wars on foreign soil and all that--but it's what I have. That's my experience. We relate with what we know. With what we have. During those times, those 5 a.m. workouts, those times when I wanted to quit and wished I hadn't been so stupid as to chase a silly boyhood dream, when I wanted to strangle my pitching coach and punch all my teammates in the face, I realize now that I was building some incredibly strong bonds with those very people. It's a common experience that we all share. It's our adversity. We all hated it. We were all miserable. At each other's throats. But in the end, we made it through (those of us who stuck with it). In the end, we were closer for it. We were better for it. And now, looking back, those are some of the things that I miss the most about those times. The shit. I'm glad for it. It's the tough times and the unpleasant things that make the good times good. To quote Jason Lee in Vanilla Sky, the sweet ain't as sweet without the sour. 

Tonight, that is where I stand.

Do you remember that night at the Minah Bazaar?

You were meant to be mine, you were meant to be mine...

So, I've really been digging on the Sam Roberts song "Taj Mahal" for the last few days. I looked up the lyrics the other day and was surprised to find out that I had absolutely no clue what it's about. Here they are:

I'm Shah Jahan you're Taj Mahal
Do you remember that night at the Minah Bazaar?
You were meant to be mine
You were meant to be mine

I saw fourteen children in your lovely brown eyes
To be king and queen was just a disguise
You were meant to be mine
You were meant to be mine

Keep on keep on keep on singin' baby
Keep on keep on singin'
Taj Mahal

Sitting with you on the banks of the Ganges
Stealing a kiss on the streets of Bombay
Caressing your hair like the wind through the palm trees
I never dreamed that anyone could take you away

I'm building a beautiful statue
To make sure that no one forgets you
Taj Mahal

I mean, I knew enough to recognize the words "Taj Mahal," but was curious as to why I'd never heard of Shah Jahan, or that Taj Mahal was actually a person that the beautiful structure was built for. I guess that I suffer the same as many or most Americans when it comes to our recognition of famous, important, or otherwise notable figures from cultures other than our own.

So, I did what you do nowadays when you want to know more about something: I looked it up on the internet. As it turns out, Shah Jahan was a successful king of the Mughal empire for about 30 years in the 17th century; his reign is referred to as his people's "Golden Age".

The story told in this song is that of he and his favorite wife, Arjumand Banu Begum, whom he dubbed Mumtaz Mahal, meaning "Jewel of the Palace".

Apparently, Jahan was so smitten by this woman, that he basically forfeited all of his polygamous rights with his previous wives, and the right to take others after her. He fathered jsut one child to each of the wives he'd had before Mumtaz, showed them little or no interest after taking her.

The two went on to have fourteen children together. Unfortunately, Mumtaz died while bearing the fourteenth, prompting Jahan to erect to amazingly beautiful Taj Mahal (meaning the distinguised palace) that still stands today.

So I got to thinking--why don't I know this story? Where's Hollywood?!  I mean, come on! This is a perfect plot for a Hollywood love story. King falls so in love with woman that he ignores his other wives, thus facing persecution from everyone around him for breaking the tradition of polygamy...this is good stuff... I'm talking Titanic type shit.

Well, there you have it, Hollywood. If you can see past the fact that these folks had brown skin there's an incredible love story waiting to be written for the silver screen.

Our day will come

So, I was fantasizing the other day about when the Pirates are finally good again, and how crazy Pittsburgh is going to be the night of their first home playoff game. It's got to happen. It's inevitable, right? Okay, maybe not, but let's not burst my bubble here. Sometime in my life, I am going to see the Pittsburgh Pirates in the playoffs. It's coming. It has to. There's no way life can be that cruel. I mean, sure, Cubs fans have it rough. But at least they have winning seasons. At least they have good teams. At least they have the hope that this could be the year. Pirates fans, for the last 16 years, have had not even a glimmer of hope. Maybe a little during the '97 season when Warren Morris and Kris Benson burst onto the scene and the Bucs were just a few games out at the start of September...but that of course fell to shit. This year, I've got as little hope as I've ever had--for this season. There is a bit of hope on the horizon though in the minors. Huntington, I will say, has at least tried to bring in some talent. Sure, he's traded away our best players and probably not gotten enough in return. But at least he's got something in return. There's a bit of hope. It's not like we're giving up Aramis Ramirez for fucking Bobby Hill any more. At least Tabata is supposed to eventually be a stud. At least there's a bit of hope for An. LaRoche and Moss...maybe...hopefully. I really like Moss. I hope he has a sweet year. And there's Pedro. He's a can't miss, right? I mean, now that we finally signed him? It's coming. I know it. Anyway, back to the fantasy...(is it pathetic that my fantasies are of when the Pirates finally returning to prominence? Shouldn't I be fantasizing about hot sex with famous chicks or something? I mean, of course there's that too, but the Bucco fantasies are much more often and I think I actually enjoy them more...but, I digress.)

In this particular fantasy, it's the night of the Buccos first home playoff game and Pittsburgh is electric. For some reason, (probably money and the fact that I'm not a large corporation or season ticket holder) I'm unable to secure tickets to the event at PNC Park. I am not discouraged. I travel to Pittsburgh, and hit up the horrendous dive that is the one and only 222 bar. This is a bar on the corner opposite of 115 Federal Street. It's probably been there for 75 years. They've probably had multiple offers to be torn down as part of the gentrification of the north side, but they're not budging. The people that run this place are badasses. They don't care how much money they're offered, they like their bar where it is, the way it is. And, it happens to be right on the way to PNC Park if you chose to park at the Allegheny Center parking deck, which happens to be my spot of choice. I love this place. We often stop in on the way to the game to enjoy a few ice cold I.C. Lights before he enter the gate and have to pay seven fucking twenty-five or whatever it is for the same damn thing.

It's usually pretty dead inside. A few druggies come in and out of the bathroom. One time there was a fight. The bartender with yellow teeth slides the beers down the counter. This place is full of the down and out. It's the perfect place to stop when you're a down and out fan of the down and out Pirates. But on this night, the night of the first home playoff game since 1992, the place is alive. The place is electric. The 222 is on fire. Sure, the other, nicer bars that line the street outside of PNC are full, but they're not the real fans, the ones who have waited nearly a quarter century for this. They're out having a good time. The 222 is filled with people who didn't have the connections or the dime to get in the game. The tiny televisions in the corners and the tall boys of I.C. Light are the only focus.

And to this point, everything's pretty realistic. I can see it actually happening (eventually). But here's where the lines of fantasy and reality start to blur.

The bar is full. Packed to the gills. And during the pregame talk, I look around to gather myself. I've got a seat at the bar because I've been there for hours. I look around to see that the place is full of former Pirates players in uniform. Not classic, hall of fame Pirates players, but the down trodden nobodys that filled the rosters during the losing streak. From Kevin Young to Kevin Polkovich, the place is jam-packed with guys who have been through the shit. Not all of it like the fans, but some of it. Kevin Young in one sleeve and pants that look like the bottom half of a zoot suit. Al Martin with both wives and chomping his gum. Alex Cole in his rec specs. Lloyd McClendon's there. Sure, he tasted success as a player for the Pirates, but his years as manager were some of the worst. Cam Bonifay and Dave Littlefield know enough to stay away for fear of being lynched. And Derek Bell too. This is the kind of crowd that would do it. Rowdy. Raucous. Rejuvenated by the Pirates' recent successes and reeling with anticipation of what's to come. Brant Brown stands in the corner with his high socks. Fat Daryle Ward is at a table eating chicken wings by the handful. Jose Silva, Kip Wells, Josh Fogg, Mike Williams, Solomon Torres--they're all there.

Ryan fucking Vogelsong is at a gay bar downtown eating his shitty salad with Dan Potash.

There are more players that will go unnamed. If you had a Pirate favorite during these tumultuous and trying times, he's there in uniform. The place is wild. Ready to go. Then, the game starts. At the first bad call, Lloyd McClendon goes nuts and rips a bar stool straight out of the ground just like that base he once stole.

McLouth makes a great catch in the late innings to save the game and Turner Ward in a fit of excitement crashes through the wall. The foundation of the 222 is shaken, but not defeated. The crows continues to stir. As the Pirates somehow eek out a victory over their heavily favored rivals, (probably the goddamn Cardinals) the place just can't take it anymore and Mark Smith, the hero of Francisco Cordova/Ricky Rincon's no-hitter, strikes the match and the 222 is burned to the ground. And it was worth it. Well worth it. 18 years of frustation and humilation, finally gone, over, done. It's a home playoff victory for the Pirates. For the city of Pittsburgh. For the faithful fans who stuck it out.

I cry like a baby and party in the streets with the rest.

There must be something in the air...

...some kind of answer to my prayers

Well, here goes. I've had this wordpress blog for about a year now, and have yet to actually leave a post up for anyone to see. Today's the day we change that. I figure I write this crap anyway, I may as well do it the new-fangled way and let everyone else (who knows it's here) read it too.

The fact that the theme I chose is called "Quentin" is somewhat worrisome. If I'm anywhere near as neurotic as my theme's namesake, I'm in far worse shape than I previously thought.

To catch up, and bring the internet up to speed with the things revealed in my recent writings that are trapped away in an old fashioned journal, here's where I currently stand in my life situation: I am attending YSU this spring--18 hours worth of classes on the track to becoming a high school language arts teacher. It's something that I kept coming back to, and a recent night spent with a close friend helped to realize that it wouldn't be so bad. I am also coaching baseball again, and this time I'm getting paid. Any migration back to the South has been put on hold--at least until I can cash my $2,000 check for coaching, which I figure would be enough to keep me afloat until I could find a job in my new locale. At least in a few months I will have the freedom to decide on way or the other. Time will tell which way it'll go.

I've also realized that I might as well forget trying to plan things in the future; I can't see that far ahead. It's all I can do to see a month or so in front of me, so I've decided to focus on that. Sure, it might end up screwing me over, but it's a chance that I really have no choice but to take.

I am fucking thrilled to be starting school and coaching soon. I have been bored. It has been a long few months. Life is better when it's full.

"When I was a boy, I said to myself that I'd never lean on anyone else..."

Peace.

**edit: I have since changed themes after seeing the first one in action.**