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Let’s Stop Calling It Ground Zero

I’ve written a lot about 9-11 in this blog. How could I avoid it? Nothing has fueled the fear, anxiety and depression of a nation like that terrible day. Whenever I’m here, I visit Ground Zero.

Part of it is a need to pay my respects to all who died there. Some of it is an obsessive-compulsive impulse. A lot of it is that whenever I see the construction workers hauling ass down there, it inspires me.

Mood music:

I’m here for my company’s annual Security Standard event in Brooklyn. Before setting my sights on the work at hand, I dumped my luggage and sprinted over the Brooklyn Bridge to Lower Manhattan.

Last year at this time, you couldn’t really see the scene taking shape at the WTC site from the bridge. Now you can. Walking over the bridge and looking to the left, there it is, rising up like a middle finger in the Manhattan sky:

One World Trade Center is taking shape. They’ve made major progress on it since I was here last September.

We’ve all been calling this Ground Zero since 9-11, but I don’t think it’s appropriate any longer. Too much life has returned to this place to keep calling it that.

I find the site extremely symbolic of the human condition at the heart of this blog.

We go through parts of our lives walking tall and feeling indestructible, just like we once thought the Twin Towers were impervious to life’s cruel twists of fate. Then something unexpected happens and we end up in ruins.

Then we have a choice to rise from the ashes and start over, or just go away.

I’d like to think I rose from the ashes of my earlier years. Crohn’s Disease and mental illness have taken their best shots at me and I’ve been reduced to rubble more than once. But I got up and I’m still standing.

I’m no special case. We all take our blows and most of us get back up.

Terrorists took their best shot and knocked those buildings to the ground, snuffing out thousands of precious souls in the process. But this city got back up and started over. Now new buildings are rising up, hopefully stronger than what was there before.

It’s like that Metallica song. We rise, we fall, we’re down and we rise again.

Perhaps I have a hyperbolic brain. But when I visit this place, that’s how it makes me feel.

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I’m Told I Repeat Myself A Lot

Update March 19, 2012: I touched on this issue in today’s Salted Hash blog post on @CSOonline. There has been some good discussion on the matter of how often to tweet and how best to achieve variety. After reading this from my friend @Beaker, I remembered that I had indeed touched on the issue here as well…

I’m asked a lot lately why I push out multiple posts through the day and why many of them are repeats. Here’s what it’s about — and what I’m trying to do about it.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/7v4umdrtWtg

There’s a professional and personal reason behind it. The professional part is that as someone who works in the media-publishing business, a big goal is always to get your content in front of as many eyes as possible.

I don’t apologize for a few reasons. One is that I don’t write this stuff so it’ll sit there unread. The other is that in the world of social media, people are coming online at different times of day. If you only post something in the morning, you miss the evening readers and vice versa. That’s why with new posts I typically post thrice daily: In the morning, around lunchtime and in the evening.

Social media is also like a rushing river. Especially Twitter and, to a lesser extent, Facebook. You put something in the water and it’s immediately flushed miles out of view by all the other waves people make. Some call it an echo chamber where you have to yell to be heard. That’s an accurate description, too.

As for the repeats, I do that because many of the posts in this blog are meant to be lessons you can retell when they can do the most good. At other times I like to think of them as songs worth replaying when the right mood strikes.  Also, sometimes people will see a post for the first time months after it was first written.

Now for the personal side: It’s not your imagination. You ARE seeing one of my OCD ticks in action. Someone once called me an obsessive poster, and they were right. I’ll post things repeatedly just as someone with OCD might check a door lock or wash their hands repeatedly.

What am I trying to do about all this? The simple answer is that I’m working hard to post less each day. If I write something new, it runs three times, spread out as I described above. But I’m throttling back on repeats of the older stuff, because I do take your feedback to heart and want to do the right thing.

But when all is said and done, I will never be able to please everybody, nor should I try. I do what I do and if people want what I’m pushing they’ll stick around. Those who don’t want it should just unfollow or defriend me.

Or, as they used to say when all we had was radio and TV, if you don’t like what’s on, change the channel or turn it off.

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They Say You Shouldn’t Go To Bed Angry

When Erin and I were still engaged, we did the two-day marriage course that the Catholic Church makes you take before you can get married (Pre-Cana). We got this priceless advice early on: “Never go to bed angry with each other.”

We’ve worked hard in 13 years of marriage to follow that advice. When we argue, as any married couple does, we always try to work out our differences and make up before going to bed.

It has worked pretty well, though most still-madly-in-love couples will still tell you the angry to bed, angry to rise part still happens.

We all get self righteous and even a little pissed at the inconvenience of being disagreed with. It’s part of being human.

Today my younger brother Brian married the love of his life, Sharane. During a brief but beautiful ceremony, the man who officiated over the vows gave that same advice we heard all those years ago:

“Never go to bed angry.”

It’s not always easy advice to follow. But trying to follow it has served me and Erin well.

May it serve the newlyweds well, too.

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Losing Friends

I find myself worried this morning that, by opening up in this blog, I’ve lost another dear friend.

That’s the challenge with expressing one’s feelings publicly: Even when you think you’re taking care to protect one’s privacy, leaving out names and such, you find a way to hurt someone anyway.

Writing this blog has been a lifesaver most days. A lot of people have told me it helps them.

But sometimes I curse the day I started this thing.

For now I just have to walk away and hope time heals another wound.

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A Relapse Isn’t The End Of The World

When a person relapses back into addictive behavior, it seems like the end of the world. Everything they’ve worked for is in ashes, and they embrace their old demon with reckless abandon.

It shouldn’t have to be that way.

Mood music:

[spotify:track:1JKiRbc7uA6B9QrO3I1zZH]

I’m thinking hard about this because I came close to a relapse recently, and a friend now finds himself in a full, free-falling backslide.

A lot of people have a hard time seeing compulsive binge eating as an addiction on par with alcohol and heroin. But it’s just as effective at destroying a man’s life and health as those other things. And since you still need to eat to survive, there’s a lot of fear around this type of relapse, because it seems to suck us in deeper more quickly.

Anyway, this post isn’t meant to convince the skeptics. It’s directed specifically at those who have relapsed to their addictions, whatever the substance. It’s the same message to be had in today’s mood music, from the Sixx A.M. “Heroin Diaries” soundtrack:

You know that accidents can happen

It’s OK, we all fall off the wagon sometimes

It’s not your whole life

It’s only one day

You haven’t thrown everything away.

The best thing to do is accept the relapse and start over. But when the feeling of failure overwhelms you, it’s easier said than done. The point was brought home to me the other day when talking to my friend who relapsed.

He noted that this is his third relapse, and that he wasn’t sure if he could return to the halls of Overeater’s Anonymous. He correctly noted that there are some people in the program who look at relapse cases as pariahs. Most people will embrace you and try to help you regain your footing. But the ones who look at you like an exploded zit can be overwhelming and keep you from going back.

Shame takes on a lot of insidious forms for the relapsed soul.

Talking to this fellow makes me realize just how lucky I was this time. I came to the brink and started getting sloppy. But I pulled myself back before falling off the cliff and going on a binge. A lot of good people aren’t so fortunate.

I really feel for my friend. He’s stuck down the hole and doesn’t know if he can ever find his way back out. He says he’s knee deep in the food and won’t leave his house because he’s putting on weight so fast that he doesn’t want to be seen.

That is one of the shittiest things about compulsive binge-eating: You can’t hide it because your behavior is obvious in the fast weight gain. This disease hangs off our belly like a sack of shit. And when it keeps you from leaving your house, you are in a very bad place. I know, because I spent a lot of years avoiding people because I didn’t want them to see the mess I’d become.

Hell, in my journey to a near-relapse, I didn’t gain weight but still felt bloated and didn’t want to be around people.

In the week since I realized how far to the edge I’d come, I’ve tightened the bolts on my program considerably. I’m starting to feel better, and I’m close to having a new OA sponsor. Like I said, I was lucky this time.

But I feel a little anger toward some of the people in this program for making my friend feel so ashamed. We’re supposed to help each other up when someone falls, not treat this like some powder puff popularity club where the folks with long term recovery are rock starts and the fallen are zeroes.

I shouldn’t feel the anger, though, because that kind of behavior is just another part of this disease. None of us were playing with a full deck to begin with, and even in recovery, it can be hard not to be an asshole.

But as I told my friend: “Fuck them. It’s not about what they think. It’s about what you do to get better.”

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Before You Punch That Guy In The Teeth, Play These

Like any human being, I have days where my attitude sucks and I want to punch someone in the teeth. I never really would, but I can see how easy it is to cross the line.

Today is one of those days. It’s been a tough week, though it has been highlighted by some beautiful moments. When a week is rough, Thursdays are usually the day lava starts pouring from my eyes and ears.

That’s when I turn to some heavy, intense rock to squeeze out the anger. So take my advice: Before you smash the asshole next to you in the head with a cafeteria tray, play these songs. You’ll feel better afterward.

If you don’t, go take a nap.

Let’s start with Pull Trouble From The Fire. I’m a bit biased in favor of this band because I’ve known a couple of its members for many years. I care about them deeply, in fact. When I heard of their band, I wasn’t sure what to expect. But ever since their songs became available, I can’t stop playing ’em. What’s not to like about lyrics that involve planting a seed up an insect’s ass and watching a tree sprout from its back? This isn’t that song, but it’s a good anger-squeezing song and a nicely-done video from Bill Fennell:

This soundtrack would not be complete without something from Pantera, a band I always turn to when I’m good and pissed off — which seems to be a lot lately. I listen to Dimebag’s guitar shredding and mourn over the music we’ve been denied since his murder in 2004.

http://youtu.be/_7EQlfprV9E

Henry Rollins speaks my language, and this is one of my favorite examples of that:

http://youtu.be/louQ7s1ZkGU

Let’s end with another local band, The 360s. I have friends in this band as well, especially singer-guitarist Audrey Clark. She has told me this blog is helpful to her. I’m glad, because her music is certainly helpful to me.

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The Wit And Wisdom Of Duncan Brenner

Today is Duncan’s 8th birthday, and we’re all very proud of him. In honor of this special day, I share with you some of my favorite Duncanisms. Let’s begin with his retelling of the morning he was born:

Mood music:

What happened:

Erin’s labor pains came on violently and we rushed to the car. I sped out of the driveway and slammed the pedal to the floor as we approached the train tracks. As we went over the train tracks, the water broke. At the hospital, I accidentally slammed Erin’s hand in the car door.

How Duncan tells it:

“When I was being born, you drove over the train tracks and mom cut her finger from breaking her glass of water.”

Now for the random stuff I hear from my precious boy on a daily basis:

–Me: “You’re a good kid, Duncan. I’m proud of you.” Duncan’s response: *rolls eyes* “Go away, Dad. You’re spoiling my fun.”

–Casually uttered from the mouth of Duncan as he walks by, strumming his severely out-of-tune guitar: “Nobody puts Baby on the shelf…”

–Duncan, puzzled to learn that Darth Vader killed the Emperor in “Return of the Jedi”: “Where does he get off killing his own boss?”

–Duncan, catching me with my shirt off: “Really, Dad. Do you have to be such an ape?”

–Duncan, upon learning he’ll be an attendence monitor in class: “Wow, that’s great! And I don’t even know what an attendence monitor is.”

–Duncan pounced on me, pounded his elbow into my spine and kissed my bald head, telling me he just gave me a “love ambush.”

Duncan and his good friend Gabby

–Duncan, watching a rack of CDs fall on a girl in the bookstore (the kid was freaked out): “I hope those CDs don’t get a scratch in them.”

–I threaten to smack Duncan in the butt (I’d never follow through). His response: “You don’t want to. You don’t know where this butt’s been.”

–Discovered the password Duncan uses for his online “Poptropica” game is “Farts of Doom.”

–Duncan, in full tattle mode: “Sean threatened to punch me out if I talk during the car ride. Now go punish him.”

–“You’re a stupid old shoe everyone steps on cause it’s ugly.” — Duncan’s attempted crusher on his dad (He was angry because I got Sean some gum and he was feeling left out. In hindsight, I can’t say I blame him.)

–“Hanging out with you is challenging.” Duncan, after I wrestled him to the floor in a good-natured game of rough housing.

—Duncan, twirling his toy lightsaber: “You can call me Jedi Bob.” Sean: “I’d rather call you an idiot.”

–Duncan on Santa: “If you don’t believe you don’t receive.”

–Duncanism of the day: If the inside of my head was empty, I’d be light-headed.

At bedtime, I read Duncan a book about how to deal with your feelings when you’re angry. One page notes that it’s OK to get angry with God for life’s unfair twists, as long as you keep praying and get over the need to blame Him for everything.

Duncan says something stunningly insightful for a 7-year-old. Or, perhaps, he’s just proving again that kids have a clearer picture of the world than we grown-ups have:

“Dad, I don’t see how people could get mad at God,” he says.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because while we’re all busy getting upset down here, we have no idea what God is doing up there.”

That’s probably the best way I’ve ever heard someone explain that God has a plan and we have no idea why things happen the way they do.

But Duncan is pretty certain about one thing God’s not doing up there:

“I know this much,” he says. “God’s not picking his nose, because he doesn’t like that.”

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I Miss The Fighting

In yet another sign that I’m not playing with a full deck, I realized this morning that I miss the fighting between my best friend and his father.

Mood music:

It’s another stray memory that came to the surface as I went to the wake and funeral for Al Marley. Al and Sean used to have some blistering arguments at the dining room table over religion and politics, appearances — you name it.

At the funeral this morning Father Dick mentioned how he used to have a lot of conversations about faith with Al. One of those talks was about Sean’s tendency to dye his hair multiple colors. Al was conservative and dressed that way. Sean was the opposite. Father Dick said it took a few conversations to convince Al that Sean’s hair dye was no big deal.

Erin suggested I have a sick sense of humor — which I do — because it takes a sick person to enjoy a situation where two people are erupting into anger.

But here’s the thing: To me, it was always a lovable anger, the kind you might identify with friends and couples who bicker constantly but hug and smooch afterward.

Al and Sean used to have a battle of wits. Did they often get angry at each other? Absolutely. But their love and respect for each other was always there on the surface.

One afternoon during the 1988 presidential election season, Al looked at me with those intense, sparkling eyes of his, took a drag on one of the many cigarettes he’d smoke in one sitting, and warned that Michael Dukakis would be as disastrous a president as Jimmy Carter.

“Carter didn’t do what he had to do during the hostage crisis,” Al said. “He just sat there in the Rose Garden wringing his hands.” Al rubbed his own hands together for emphasis.

“That’s total bullshit,” Sean bellowed from the other side of the table. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I don’t remember the rest of the conversation. But the next hour they were hugging, laughing and bantering about something else. They always made up.

The arguing was always over meaty subjects. Religion was another one they would get into intense debate about. Al was a traditional Roman Catholic, but Sean liked to challenge all the traditional beliefs. He just loved to pick an argument over the deep stuff.

Looking back, I think that sitting there watching the arguments made me smarter. It definitely inspired me to do a lot of research and challenge conventional wisdom. Watching two sharp guys go at it is a good educational experience. It’s one of the many gifts those guys gave me.

I’ll bet they’re going at it right now, and loving every minute of it.

I hope so.