Just Dance Wii Trailer – featuring footage from America’s Funniest Home Videos and several user generated clips from dancers around the US.

Thank you for Left 4 Dead 2.

Love,
Greg

Left 4 Dead 2 at E3

Pepsi Max & Chimp

But I am different because the process of becoming different is just as important. It’s the subtle change, the unoticable growth that slowly molds us into the people we are to become.

Ironically, change for me meant consisency last year. My mailing address has been the same for 15 months. That’s 9 months higher than my previous average not counting growing up with my parents. My paycheck has been signed by the same person, twice a month, for the last year in a row. A feat I had never before accomplished.

I wouldn’t trade the stability I’ve had for the last year for anything. But on the other hand, the consistency in residence and employment has allowed things deep within me to rise to the surface and rear their hideous heads.

For instance? you ponder…

I desire to be alone way more than I ever pretended not to be. I say I am a leader, but I can’t find a more passive person around. I am a complete volume of half-made decisions continually reaching out to satisfy longings I have yet to grasp. I spend friviously, I harbor anger, I hide behind deceit, and my isatiable lust makes residents of Gomorah look like Sandra Dee lousing in all of her vigirnity.

I didn’t make that list to overwhelm you -or me. I made a list because it looks similar to the ones I’ve made in years past. I made a list because I’m beginning to understand the cyclical nature of my flesh.

Stay with me here…

Every autumn, trees take a shit. A big giant crap that children all across America joyfully frolic in. Seriously, every year trees push up all the dead and sick cells from the roots, trunk and branches out to the leaves which fall to the ground leaving the tree to recover.

And after a period of barren reflection the tree emerges green; stonger and larger. Only better for passing the decaying matter it had hiding in its root system. And so it is with me. With us.

The process is painful, and sometimes the dead leaves decompose back into the roots and we deal with the same shit next year. But it’s all we have, and the tree always emerges green. That’s not the varible.

(This is where we raise our glasses)

This year we toast not to the spring we know will come. This year we recognize, realize and begin to understand that barren reflection matters. These quiet moments that our soul clings to and longs for. This year mourning matters. Peaceful rejuvination until the tree emerges green again.

Change alone is unchanging. The beginning of a circle is also its end. The world says all is one, and yet everything comes in season.

Cheers,
Sam

So I am going a new direction. Mine.

I have been working on a book for the last few months, and I want to share with you my thoughts to more or less “field test” the manuscript. The tentative title is It’s Me: Collected Writings.

I hope you’ll let me stick around for awhile…

It’s Me: Collected Writings

– Author’s Note

I want to change the world.

But not in the Miss America, greasy politics, black-tie affair way.

I want to change the world. I want to see pain, hurt, loss, despair and hopeless because I don’t know what those are. What they feel like. I grew up in the suburbs, and it makes me sick that those adjectives exist in real life.

I want to change the world. Because I believe it is possible. My thoughts are not radical. They are not earth-shaking. And in most cases, not even original. But in the short course of my life, I have explored the application of these ideas and for the most part, they work.

For the last two years, I haven’t had direct access to television. I haven’t had a personal connection to the internet. My transportation needs were met by either the mass transit system of metropolitan Phoenix or my used (and now stolen) mountain bike for more than a year. In some cases, when the weather was agreable, or the distance feasable, I even walked.

These were all things that furthered the supreme dislike I already had for the ideals of the American Dream. Realizing that survival is possible without ESPN, instant access to eBay, or an SUV forced me to contemplate why they exist. Why people desire them. Why the illusion of those needs is so prevelant here in the States.

I want to change the world. But my faith gets in the way. I believe in an awesome God. The powerful Creator of all things created. The great I Am. And it is this same God that offered us, as wholly devious creatures, a solution to our depravity. But Jesus dripped with humility. Oozed compassion, and embodied every literal, contextual and connotated definition of the word ‘grace’.

Jesus never openly admitted that he was Christ, unless he was asked. He never ignited a philisophical or theological debate or discussion. The Jesus I follow lived his life in such a way that drew people to him. People saw him interact with other people, saw him cope with painful situations, and wanted to learn. He was the ultimate exemplar.

I want to change the world.

I want to change myself.

Last night I was enjoying the sunset while I was eating my single, animal style burger at In-n-Out (A loosely veiled named for the cosequence of eating at said establishment), and had this thought:

What do we deserve?

The sunset was gorgeous. The edge of the horizon was crimson red and the purplish-black White Tank mountains were offset by the traffic cone orange clouds creeping across the sky. Like I said, gorgeous. But it took me awhile to actually appreciate this. Beautiful sunsets are common here in the dusty desert of Phoenix. The pollution, smog and dust all help filter the last moments of sunlight and create a prism effect that is second to none. Anyway, the point is that I take them for granted. In fact, I take pretty much all the small gifts in life for granted. I expect roses to smell wonderful and bees to enjoy their splendor. I expect children to run wildly about with beaming faces and cheery voices debating who is, and who is not “it”. I expect amazingly complex combustion engines to get me from one point to the other. And I expect that the operators of these machines understand the rules of engagement on the road.

All these things that I take for granted. All these amazing everyday miracles. I don’t see them as miracles because I have come to think that I deserve them. I deserve sunsets, flowers, advanced trasportation, entertainment, a beautiful community. But the truth is that I can never truly appreciate or understand the value of anything until I fully believe that it is a gift. An undeserved gift.

That’s all I have tonight. I’d love to hear what you have to think about this, though. That is, if you think I deserve a comment.

Cheers,
Sam

“So I commend the enjoyment of life, because nothing is better for a man under the sun than to eat and drink and be glad. Then joy will accompany him.”

King Solomon

I can still hear my grandpa retelling his favorite tale, his laughter so genuine I feared he’d forget to breathe. I’ve dreamt of him these past few weeks. I imagine him on his porch waving once alongside my grandmother, then alone, and then growing faint as we drove away past fall leaves and dried-up corn fields. I can still hear his booming voice fill the dining room with tales of the Navy and his tool shop. His eyes would squint through weathered skin as he recalled stories decades past. His contagious laugh is scarred in memory. I never knew the richness of his life – just glimpses into eighty-five years. If only I’d listened more. If only I had taken the trip to see him again.

A couple weeks ago, I cleaned out his basement. I recklessly sorted a lifetime of items into ‘trash’ and ‘to sell.’ I priced items precious to my grandparents for people who would laugh and bargain for his memories. I packed away a few items that I couldn’t bear to see get sold. I dusted off an old weathered box marked “Cribbage Board.”

When I was a teenager, Grandpa introduced me to a game of cards, pegs and point counting. “Cribbage, Gregory?” he asked. I was at that age where I preferred cartoons to card games. However, he pulled that board out and a page of black and white instructions tumbled out with it. It was a simple game: 120 holes and a handful of brightly-colored pegs slipped away in a compartment. He started shuffling the cards. Clearly, playing Cribbage wasn’t an option. Because my grandparents lived in another state, I saw them only a handful of times each year. Then it became twice a year; finally, about once a year. My time with them each year was brief, so when Grandpa said, “We are going to play Cribbage,” that meant that I was going to play. So there I reluctantly sat, imprisoned by an old man with his cards and a crib board. And he was ruthless. Even as an unskilled youth, he gloated when he double-skunked me and mercilessly taught me to count my own points. If I’d miss a point, he’d challenge, “Don’t make me play cutthroat! If I catch your points, I’m taking them for myself!”

I was thirteen years old.

I think it was the only way to learn that game – cutthroat. Cribbage was a rite of passage for me with Grandpa. Despite my age, this was the one arena that he treated me as an adult. If I beat him, he’d admit defeat. If he beat me, he’d admit my defeat. When we first started playing, I didn’t win many games, but I learned a lot about Cribbage. He taught me how to count my cards, the strategy, and understanding one’s opponent. We’d open up his Hoyle Card Book and look at the top winning hands and then count them out ourselves. “15-2, 15-4, 15-6 and a double run…” I can still hear him counting. In the moments we’d shuffle the cards, he’d talk about the techniques to growing a prized tomato in between sips of his favorite beer. He drank Natural Light or some discount clone of Milwaukee’s Best. To this day, when I see a tomato plant I can still hear him say, “Tomatoes love beer too, Gregory.”

I had a garden in Phoenix when I was a teen. It was a terrible mess of desert, dried-up dirt and weeds. The prized tomatoes of my garden couldn’t pass as cherry tomatoes. But I wasn’t discouraged; they just looked thirsty. When my dad wasn’t home, I’d sneak a few of his beers for their parched roots.

Years progressed and upon every visit, Grandpa would have that Cribbage board sitting out waiting for me. Some nights we played cards until one or two in the morning. By the time I was 18, I was Grandpa’s match. Gone were the days where he’d trounce me five games to one. We’d split most of our series, and I’d leave his house with the score tied up. He’d met his match, and he knew it. It was at this point that I’d threaten him, “Don’t make me play cutthroat!” When I beat him, he’d put up a fuss then make me run down to the basement and grab him a warm beer. Consolation, I suppose.

The conversations while we shuffled cards changed over the years. His hands were crippled by arthritis, and he’d pass me the cards and tell stories. No longer did we share discussions of gardening and tomatoes. He now spoke about his own life. He talked proudly of his Polish heritage. He told tales of making beer with his father in the basement during the Prohibition era. He’d even slip in a few dirty jokes that I was too naïve to understand. I laughed only because he laughed. There was one joke that he told me for three years until I finally understood it. And every game he taught me a bit of Polish. Rather, he would repeat “Today not tomorrow” in Polish. I was always a bit slow counting my cards.

When I turned 21, I had a landmark moment. I had just arrived from Arizona, walked into the house, ran down to his basement, grabbed two warm Natural Lights, cracked them open, and handed the cribbage board to him. Never had a beer so dreadful been so sacred.

But something had changed. I started beating him in Cribbage. It started with one or two hands. Then I’d take a game. Then a few games. I assumed age had claimed his edge, but that wasn’t the case. Even to the end, my Grandpa was as sharp as they came. It was because the things we’d talk about while shuffling the cards changed. It was no longer conversations of Poland or gardening. He started to tell me about his experiences in the war. He told me about his Navy buddies, the pranks he pulled on ship, and the card game “Bulldog” that he and his buddy would play in the barracks. By “play” I mean that he and his shipmate cheated to take several hundred dollars from unsuspecting shipmates. “I was never dishonest! I’ll tell you why…” That was just like my Grandpa – never wrong. He talked proudly about his plane, the TBM Avenger and how scared he was in bombing runs. He’d nervously recall how he’d jerk his legs to his chest as anti-aircraft guns sprayed the belly of his plane. He proudly spoke of his accuracy in combat training. The stories of the war were no longer confined to the time we’d shuffle the cards. They now spilled over into the game itself. And when he spoke, his expression changed because it was a topic he was clearly proud of. At times he’d lay down his cards so that he could make hand gestures and draw visuals on napkins. Some stories he’d laugh so hard tears would come to his eyes. His war memories were precious to him. Sometimes I’d have to remind him to count his cards.

Cribbage wasn’t just a game. It was how I met my Grandfather. I can’t explain what it is like to open that weathered box and stare at a board so plain and rich and beautiful. The smell of dust drifts into a flood of memories of those late nights at his kitchen table. I can hear his heckling as the pegs bounce around the wooden compartment inside the board. I recall the precious days where I had to count the pegs for my Grandpa as his eyesight faded. I run my fingers over the holes of the board, and for a moment, I’m back at the kitchen table.

“Your crib,” I offer.

But it’s too late. I close the box and can only hope he knows.

I love this time of year. Ahh, the cooler weather.

I wrote this on Friday, and have been working on it since. Let me know what you think. What you feel. I’d love to know.

I’m Outside, The Coffee Is Still On The Table

Today is a story that will be
Retold another day when
The retelling is needed

The crisp breeze of mid October
Did more work for the senses
This morning than my cup
Of coffee
Or last week’s mail.

Both were on the table, along
With half of my right arm
This notebook and a forgotten
Taco Bell wrapper.

I sat down hoping to piece
Together what today is, piece
Together what yesterday was,
And,

And,
Got as far as three sips into
The second cup
Before the artificial atmosphere
Was too much for me to swallow,
to think.

The first bite of firm,
Ripe granny smith apple
That was this morning,
This mid October breeze morning
Taught me more about yesterday
Than thinking ever could.

I have known no night
That has conquered dawn.*

And when walking with a
Trusted craftsman respected
For his mastery
Of a named skill
Does my aptitude matter?
Or trust
in the master of that named skill?

Namely,
Living.

Breathe. Keep one foot in
Front of the other. Breathe. Again.
There,
That was easy.

Today will be a story
Retold another day.

Until then find me
Breathing, walking. Breathing

Namely,
Living.

*quote found on the wall of the men’s restroom at onePlace

I’ll try poetry. Will you guys like peotry? I’m just trying to please you, oh Constant Reader!

Trails

Hey you, it’s me.
I’ve just spent the day on well-worn paths
Worn well by happier faces
With less severe cases of missing you.
You missing the humming bird’s victory
Over the big black bumblebee bids me come home to retell
The homecoming of the baby cub to its
Mother bear.
And how it reminded me of us.

Here’s two more…

The Time Capsule

The mayor declared from the bottom of his
Pot-bellied pride,
“Today is a day not to be forgotten. And this,
A decade to be remembered.” And we,
Five hundred strong and four generations deep
Listened long to his beseeching speech
From the makeshift pulpit
Where remembrance was preached.
And there, the band also played
Above the soil in which
Our memories decay.

Tattoo

I am art on art.
Media; ink. Canvas; skin.
Beauty, meet beauty.

I’d love to hear what you think. Even if it is, “Where’s the poems about poop and silly bears wearing women’s underwear?”

Cheers,
Sam