I wrote a long update about Thailand, as well as a fictionalized account of boys being boys in PY.

I am doing it in installments, each installment is a separate piece of art. The installments are queued up for one a day over the next couple weeks. It starts here. Chris, hang in there until the end. Its sort of like an OTB novella. The art at the head of this post is the album art for a fictional album by a fictional band that is headed by a sort of second rate Rivers Cuomo.

Excerpt:

Mike drove back to his Mom’s from Geneva on Route 14 instead of Preemption. The Route 14 way took a little longer but put him down by Seneca Lake and would run him past the location of their old house. As he approached, he first saw that the old barn in the field on the northern most part of their land finally bowed to gravity and neglect and sank to the ground.

 

The old farm sat on the western slope of the gently rolling hill that bottomed into Seneca lake. Once upon a time, the Indians of the Iroquois nation managed the land. Family lore had it that a great grandfather with Indian blood somewhere down the line dynamited the railroad that lay several acres down the hill closer to the lake. …

PY at the Bug Jar

A friend of mine died a few days ago. Cam called to tell me so as I was parking my car on 41st street in Astoria, NY. I was the perfect combination of distracted and my usual social moron self to say “you’re kidding, really?” :facepalm: Social faux pas machine, I am.

John Grabski III was a guy I went to high school with. He’s the beaming smile between LisaLisa and myself in the photo above (click for higher resolution.) I guess I could say that I really only knew him tangentially; I don’t recall being in any class other than maybe gym with him. But somehow, over the years following high school, we kept crossing paths. It was very sporadic, and I would go for a year or two without actually seeing him, but it seemed we always chatted on AOL Instant Messenger. Shit, I’m pretty sure that at some point we were the only people still using AOLIM. (I still do.) We were both kind of nerdy, with an affinity for computer hardware and web development. Naturally, we ended up talking about other stuff as well: football, favorite local hiking spots, music, our mutual friends, etc.

I knew via the small-town grapevine that he had had cancer, and that it had been pretty serious, but I never knew the full extent of it until yesterday. I never asked for details, as I tend to feel it’s not my place to go prying into someone else’s life unless they volunteer information in the first place. I finally understood the full brunt of how much he’d endured and for how long yesterday when I read a link someone posted to Facebook in which John is quoted detailing exactly what he’d gone through. I had no idea that it had been so extensive, or that he had come so close to death.

This got me to thinking. In reflecting on my own experiences with Grabski, it occurred to me that I had kind of known three different people in him. The first was, even by his own admission, an average guy living what I would deem to be an average life in an average part of the world. John was just a guy; a “worker ant” by his own description. This is pre-cancer John I’m talking about. He liked to play video games and he liked big pickup trucks and he liked a little bit of recreational chemistry. He went to work and came home at the end of the day and he did whatever he did in between. After his cancer ordeal, he became a really really interesting person. I suppose it’s a bit cliché to characterize him in this way, but it’s the truth—at least the way I see it. Facing death and living through it has a way of making a person seem really appreciative for anything & everything in their life. I use the word “seem” simply because I have no personal frame of reference; I am a year older than John Grabski III was, and aside from being 15-20 pounds heavier than I was when I graduated from high school, I’m really none the worse for wear. John, on the other hand . . . well, his tires were a bit worn. That’s to be expected when you’ve stared death in the face and won, I suppose. As a result, he was a pretty introspective kind of guy at that point. I tend to be so by nature, though with nowhere the gratitude and appreciative tone John had adopted. Last June I wrote a little piece about being alone and kind of wishing that I was more outgoing or social or whatever. In addition to posting it here, I published it on Facebook. John posted a very interesting response to what I wrote:

This a wonderfully-written missive, Chris, and I find myself agreeing with a lot of what you’re saying.

One word of advice: When you said “I’m 34 and it’s doubtful that I’m going to change dramatically at this point”; I find that to be one of the great tragedies of the human condition, and an avoidable one at that. It’s not that I want everyone in the world to throw out that convention en masse, but a the same time I believe it to be supremely liberating to not necessarily “change dramatically”, but to at least allow yourself to always believe that you could change if you wanted to.

For example, I’m at a personal fork in the road, and each fork is a dramatic change, which at 33 isn’t as easy as it would have been if I was 22 or so.

(note, I must preface this with an explanation of “part-time father”… I know that I am a father every day of my life until I shuffle off this mortal coil, but like many other American males I am bound by circumstances created by a younger and much more foolish version of myself to not be with my children anywhere near as much as I’d like to be; something I tried to change dramatically over the last couple years but got pushed back by arcane conventions of the NY state legal system and now have to “make the best of what I have/don’t have”)

Fork 1 – Small-town-bound-low-income part-time father, likely a factory worker, part-time cook, hampered by lingering effects of cancer battle which inhibit workplace progress as well as optimal social interaction… this is similar to a path that many fathers in my situation end up feeling like they have to choose out of obligation and pressure from the maternally-preferring legal system, but it often leads to unhappiness, bad choices and alcohol (or other substance) abuse on a large scale, as well as unconscious shifting of lifestyle to unhealthy eating, a loss of the arts in one’s lifestyle, and depression.

Fork 2 – Debt paying and debt-accruing semi-professional part-time office hound attending college and trying at age 33 or 34 to make the football team, and part time father; advancing my professional skills for vocations I don’t really love all that much, increasing my already astronomical debt to new heights… doing ONE thing aside from spending time with my kids (this time however would be severely compromised) that I truly love (that crazy idea of playing Division III football for Hobart William Smith)… and not really having the energy, time or resources to work with the arts & music. An interesting fork, if I felt that the artistic part of me had died.

Fork 3 – Musician, artist, loner, eccentric, traveling part-time father; existing in the unpredictable world of the arts as a non-educated schmuck who however has more enthusiasm for what he does (and sometimes foolishly tries to do) than the majority of art & music school grads… traveling and touring with a rock band in his 30s, hopefully settling into a decrepit grotto on the outskirts of his favorite Finger Lakes hometowns (Penn Yan, Canandaigua, Naples) with an ugly car and uglier dog in his 40s-50s, teaching himself everything he wants to learn about the arts in a dangerous manner, taking impromptu and well-documented trips to odd places such as the southern California desert and the rocky cliffs and beaches of Maine, and learning to be a teacher to my children in a likely difficult and non-conventional way… likely suffering bouts of almost extreme poverty as well as loneliness, ending up stranded in weird places for weeks at a time, but all the while being happy fitting into not fitting in, in the name of creating a legacy of a man who had something to say that hadn’t been said before, but had to spend his whole life looking for the words.

I’m not sure if I’ve properly described my three forks in the road, but regardless of that, each one of them involves a lot of change on my part, and I feel that if I thought that I couldn’t change and be dynamic, I likely wouldn’t even see the other two forks in the road, and I’d easily morph into a dirty-handed/missing teeth guy always at the corner bar stool at The Keuka who replies to “what’s new?” with “same old same old”, a man too tired and defeated to really give his children any worthwhile insights on life.

Maybe my cancer battle helped me see that I can look at life like I’m 18 and brand new at any age, and regardless of circumstance. I don’t shun responsibility by any means, as my #1 responsibility is making sure that I aid in the life trajectories of my two children in a positive manner; but I do however feel that this can be done a number of ways, as the normal small-town formula for this in my eyes often results in an an unhappy man, a man who settles for less, almost out of fear of being different, all in the guise of responsibility. A single and separated father does not in my opinion have to be a broken man.

I’ve had to consider this third fork very heavily (I’m working VERY hard and aggressively at helping Cheebahawk succeed), and it is where I feel that I want to point myself, even knowing that it will require me to be alone a lot, knowing that many wouldn’t understand the means which I would employ to still have a positive effect on the lives of my children, knowing that this path does not in any way insure “success” by American Standards… the key for me is that I know I see and hear the world uniquely, and whether it’s on paper, canvas or in a musical note I want to express that, whether it’s to one person or a billion.

A fourth fork could emerge and I could, like an ADD-addled canine undecided on whether to pick up a stick, a ball or a bone, suddenly head off in the direction it points me. And I feel that no matter what my age, no matter what point my life is at, if I had forks in the road that all involved massive change, I’d certainly rather have forks than no forks, I’d rather be open to dramatic changes and shifts than being closed off to them.

Chris, you may be very different from me in many ways, with different life circumstances, different challenges, a different family etc., but this letter/story/journal entry, while focusing primarily on the joy of being alone (a joy I share with you), you mentioned an inflexibility which, if jettisoned, could free you a bit. I hope my words haven’t polluted yours.

John posted this roughly a month before his cancer came back.

When it became apparent that he wasn’t going to beat it this time, he sort of transformed again into the guy everybody is eulogizing on his Facebook wall. Everybody is reiterating a sentiment John said and wrote many times over: fuck cancer. As I read through all the things people are writing about him in the days immediately following his death, and going back through his Facebook timeline reviewing all the things he wrote and did over the last few years, a light bulb kind of came on in my head: John’s cancer made him into the incredibly admirable person that he was. It gave him incredible focus and drove him to accomplish his goals. It pissed him off in just the right way.

The epiphany I had was that in a way, John’s cancer was a tremendously positive force. Don’t get me wrong: I wouldn’t wish cancer on anyone. Words cannot express how much I hate the fucking bejesus out of cancer for taking my friend. But I look at the outpouring on John’s Facebook profile, and I can’t help but wonder how many of those people John wouldn’t have affected if he never had cancer. How many of them he would have never even met in the first place were it not for his getting sick. How many people wouldn’t have seen him play music, or heard what he created. And I had to wonder if he would have been capable of writing what he did in direct response to what I wrote.

Sexy Grandma

The point here is that we are all better for having known John, and I especially think that we are all incredibly fortunate to have known post-cancer John. I am loathe to use this word, but in the last few months John Grabski III really became a truly inspirational figure. He fucking lived. He made a fucking kickass album. He managed to maintain his sense of humor; he was a really sexy grandma. He ate lots of weird shit. And he imparted an unmatched vigor for living to everyone he encountered. All thanks to the simple fact that he had terminal cancer.

I know this will sound horrible, but I’m thankful that Grabski had cancer. In no way am I thankful that cancer took him, but I’m thankful that he had it. Lots of people have cancer. Some live through it, some don’t. Most of those who don’t live seem to try to stay comfortable and maximize the time they have left. John basically said “fuck that, I’ve got shit to do.” And the shit he did was incredible. Most people wouldn’t have influenced so many others in such an incredibly positive way if put in John’s situation. Cancer pushed exactly the right buttons in that guy. It made a regular dude into a fucking machine. He got shit done. He made people think. He asked questions and made people ask questions.

John Grabski III

And yes, he inspired. Look, I don’t want to deify him here; he was a guy. I’m just saying that he was the perfect guy for the job. I’ll miss the shit out of him, but I’m unbelievably glad to have known him, and especially so over the last couple years. Thanks to John, I’m trying to figure out how to jettison my unchanging mentality. It’s not easy. I suppose I just have to learn to trust the flow. Thanks, ragejg.

All images used without permission. Please don’t hate me.

When you wish upon a star
Makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires
Will come to you

I still wish on shooting stars when I see them. For some reason, I seem to spend a lot of time stargazing, so I’m privy to a fair number of flaming meteorites. It’s safe to say that I’m sort of drugged by the fairy tales of youth; that is to say that I still believe the sugar coated version of reality presented in Disney movies (or John Hughes flicks) where everything working out in the end is a real possibility. A couple weeks ago I watched The Little Mermaid and Aladdin while sitting around, sucking down PBRs. I know, it’s escapist—but I like it.

At one time or another, everybody wishes they could change facets of their own reality with the wave of a finger. It’s a great conversation starter: what would you do if you could wish for anything? Pinocchio wanted to be a real boy, Ariel wanted to be human to get her prince, Aladdin wanted to be a prince to get with Jasmine, et cetera. They had fairy godmothers or genies in lamps to grant them wishes, but for us in the real world it’s strictly a hypothetical. Still, it’s fun (and sometimes therapeutic or cathartic) to think about—especially when reality has kicked you in the teeth. Now, a lot of people answer this question with things that seem superficial to me: “I would travel the world” or “I would win the lottery.” I can’t help but think that those kinds of things would eventually either get old or just run their course and die, essentially leaving you right back where you started. Don’t get me wrong, I’d be ok with a lottery jackpot or an indefinite vacation, but they’re just not my style.

Maybe I’m out of whack, but I have incredibly vivid memories of being a child, living on a 21-acre farm and essentially having free reign over the place. That’s what I would give anything for – to be 8 years old indefinitely. Riding my bike, climbing trees, mowing the lawn, playing with cats, exploring barns, building forts, playing with Legos, running errands with my great-grandpa, pestering my dad by asking every question that popped into my head, flying kites, watching Star Wars in the theater, performing “shows” with friends for our parents, hanging out by the creek, traipsing through vineyards, reading books because they were way better than whatever came in on the antenna tv, tormenting my little sister, camp-out sleepovers 20 feet from the house . . . . it never gets old in my mind. Essentially zero responsibility, and all kinds of time left to my own devices. I honestly can not think of another time in my life when I was as completely happy as when I lived on that farm. It was like a scene right out of Peter Pan, except I was the only lost boy.

I think that everybody has their own internal version of Neverland, whether it’s based in reality or not. It seems to me that most people either forget it, or just push it to the back of their mind because they’re forced to deal with the day-to-day events of their lives, and they “outgrow it,” so to speak. But not me. I still think about it all the time. Part of me thinks that it’s just because I have no real commitments outside of work, and my job is so insanely boring that I’m afforded all the time in the world to ponder things like this. But I like to think that on some level, consciously or otherwise, I’ve structured my life as such in order to enable frequent visits to my Neverland. I’m too in love with the very idea of it to let it go. And while chances are that I’ll never even get the opportunity to make it a reality, there’s no way I’ll stop wishing on those shooting stars.

Here is this game I am trying to develop. The whole thing is at www.opensourcechess.net or .com

Josh and Pat came over when I was in the middle of working on this thing when it was in a very early beta version. Josh’s hazy memory of my description was that it was a chess game that could only be played through snail mail and it had something called a bomb pawn.

Forrest Gump

While Forrest isn’t slow enough to be oblivious to the various personal tragedies that befall him, he certainly doesn’t dwell on them. This is partially due to his inability to do anything of his own volition; there’s always someone to tell him what to do. He is so blindingly innocent, he just turns his attention to whatever he’s been told to do. His genuine good nature sets him right, and he’s back to being blissfully dim-witted. That’s the problem I seem to have developed with this film: it’s essentially saying that in order to actually be happy, you have to be a simpleton.

I know, that’s a seriously reductive take on a movie that’s rife with all kinds of plot lines and historic cameos, but I think it’s legit. No matter what happens, Forrest simply puts it behind him, declaring “that’s all I have to say about that.” The implication that anyone with an IQ north of 100 is simply too intelligent to be happy is offensive, and a bit depressing. I’m pretty sure that Albert Einstein might have something to say about that.

But still, it’s as if the film is telling the viewer that if only they take everything at face value, not questioning or considering anything critically, that this is the only way to not drown in your sorrows. So you say your mom died? We can placate your sorrow: just mow lawns. Girl of your dreams ditched you? Just go for a nice 3-year jog to ease your mind. I can’t say that it doesn’t sound a hell of a lot simpler than actually being an active part of your own reality, but I’m pretty sure I already covered that over a year ago.

The simple fact of the matter is that we aren’t all developmentally disabled people, able to gloss over the bad times and just carry on in ignorant bliss. The way this movie looks down its nose at someone like me, who has a hard time just being genuinely happy, is offensive. Sorry, Mr. Zemeckis, but next time I’m channel surfing and happen across this one, I’ll just keep clicking the remote in hopes of finding Back to the Future.