4.01.2024
Insert Loved One Here
3.31.2024
Describe in single words only the good things that come into your mind about your mother
3.17.2024
Nickisms
3.16.2024
Say Uncle
2.12.2024
True North
1.21.2024
Silver
"He who has his why can endure any how." - Nietzsche
Greatness, as it pertains to sport, the arts, and achievement, is the result of majestically broken individuals. It shines the most forgiving light on the most productive illnesses. I've been seduced by the pursuit of greatness. But make no mistake, all greatness is born of sickness. It is for those who dedicate their lives to unclimbable hills, who will give everything to edge their competitors, and sacrifice their sanity to make a dent in the universe. And while I do not sit on the throne of Mount Olympus gazing at the peasants below, a fire burns within me to join them at the summit.
But, like, who gives a fuck? The podium won't bring you Gatorade and magazines when you're sick. Your trophy room won't call you on your birthday. Awards can't spoon you at night, nestling your Achilles heel between their big and long toe.
Why then? Every Olympian dedicates their life to an endeavor. They all can't be Rocky. Some of it has to be biology. Lance Armstrong has a super human lung capacity. Michael Phelps is biologically engineered like a fish. Alex Honnold's Amygdala literally doesn't fire. He is sinewy Daredevil, the man without fear. Let's leave aside the GOATs.
Let's assume it a pure meritocracy. That effort in approximates performance output. Competition measures our proximity to gods. To what extent can we leave behind our bone shelves and skin curtains and execute perfectly?
Every GOAT necessitates a generation of losers. Imagine a world where Gauguin fucked off to the tropics and painted like shit? What fascinates me are the ones who sacrificed everything and came up short. The gamblers who bet big and had to answer to the loan sharks.
What drives a person to chase achievement rather than human connection? My first thought is that they are interrelated. People seek out the best. However, this argument quickly disintegrates under scrutiny. Experience shows us a long history of those who would leave behind personal connection for the pursuit of excellence.
Excellence is a chronic disease. Once it's infected you, there is no turning back. It's a high whose withdrawals are crippling. And anyone who's glimpsed it, who's basked in that sun, knows there is no substitute. The faint echo of greatness is a siren song louder than a Black Sabbath concert. It whispers to you like the One Ring.
My best friend's Dad once said, "We're all heroin addicts. Some of us just don't know it yet." To those who've never been haunted by the ghost of greatness, be thankful. This life is a drag.
12.03.2023
Bad Manners
11.23.2023
40
11.11.2023
Physical. Let's Get Physical...Media
11.04.2023
Tux, Timber, Match, and Han
10.04.2023
Obsession Is A Young Man’s Game
9.28.2023
It’s Getting Thrifty In Here
9.24.2023
Long Press The Start Button
Revolution or reformation? The question is a boot pressed to the neck of the distressed, the downtrodden, and the disenfranchised. Can the system be saved or is it so forgone it must be vanquished? Should our bricks be used to rebuild or hurled through windows? History does a remarkably poor job at exit interviews. The haze of war obfuscates our decision making. We are forced to act with imperfect information. And yet we must decide and own the consequences.
In pinball there is a sneaky escape hatch for a game gone wrong. As long as you have credits available, you can hold down the start button and begin a new game. Revolution. The slate is wiped clean and you can abandon your failed endeavors and begin anew. Looking over your shoulder, hoping no one notices your Irish Goodbye, you sneakily ask for a do over. All it costs is a credit and your pride.
It is an act of sheer cowardice, a stunning lack of faith. All one needs is a ball and a dream. It offends me when people give up. Quitters. We have the untapped capacity for third-ball greatness. A righteous comeback for the ages. Right?
As I've grown older (read: more of a coward), my sympathy for the do-over has increased. My existentialist island has turned into a peninsula. Sheer tenacity and will can only get you so far. Much as I begrudgingly admit, sometimes the world is larger than your ego. We exist not in a vacuous world under glass, but in an exceedingly complicated network of social, societal, and personal entanglements. Many, if not most, are beyond one's control.
To ignore the soil a plant grows from is irresponsible. Tenacious roots are no match for an 11-year drought. Some years grow better crops. Some fellas just ain't out to make good wine. And yet, what does this realization yield?
What good does it do to recognize these limits? I prefer a reckless, youthful, and wholly unearned optimism. Believe in yourself. Never tell me the odds. I’m talking to you now. I’ve been failing lately. I’ve been a bad friend, a worse lover, and an absentee artist. I’ve been the worst version of myself. It’s ball three and I’ve got nothing setup. I started this blog twelve years ago when I moved to Chicago, knew no one, and was cripplingly lonely. Fast forward a grade school education and I’m in the exact same place. I’ve made the same mistakes. Learned nothing. Hurt those worthy of love.
Can I be saved? When people say, “Some of y’all need Jesus,” I’m y’all. But the big man left me on read so, I’m going it alone. Well, alone with some great friends, a therapist, regularly talking to my pops, and a well-used gym membership. I’ve made promises I intend to keep. If I’m going to fail, it’s going to be righteously. I’m going to be a better man. This hunk of junk can be repaired. I’m betting on me.
6.24.2022
5-4
I left academia as an 18th grader with the middle-child version of a degree. And without my faith. In defense of my incredible professors, they nailed rigor into my bones. Baptized me in evenhandedness. And exorcized the logical fallacy demons from my soul. This was my re-programming. But some intolerable old man once said, "One repays a teacher badly if one always remains only a pupil."ٰ ¹ Caught somewhere between betrayal and transcendence, I offer a reckless, unchecked, emotional plea.
I was raised in a religious household. In my infinite seventeen-year-old wisdom, believed abortion was wrong. It actually seemed rather simple to me. A baby in progress ought to be preserved. Wherever we might land on when a fetus becomes a person, it's clear the fetus is on the journey of personhood, and that ought to be protected. A prima facie truth born from my gut. I'm not sure I even needed the bible to experience this truth. It just felt right.
Viewed from a purely bioethical standpoint, abortion is one of the most difficult and unique issues facing our civilization. There are a number of confounding issues ranging from what constitutes a person to the peculiarity of its singular impact on uterus havers. There are legitimate concerns, debates, and implications on both sides of the issue. Personally, I found Judith Jarvis Thompson's "A Defense of Abortion" and specifically her violinist argument most persuasive, ultimately supplanting my instinctual leanings. And I urge you, stop reading my words, and please read hers.
But the modern discourse is neither driven by philosophical rigor, nor science and least of which, the majority of the American people. Jarvis' argument wasn't supplanted by a better one. It wasn't defeated in the marketplace of ideas. Let us be clear, this is not the result of new biological discoveries which gave rise to a new understanding of personhood or consciousness. No, a 50 year precedent was erased because a corrupt narcissist stacked the deck in the name of fundamentalist christian values. And because of it, three tenured voices will loom over America for decades.
To those who do not see a woman's right to her body as primary, I implore you to explore the literature. It may change your mind as it did mine. It took years of introspection and consideration, but ultimately I was persuaded. As I explored the world beyond the one I was taught, I accepted new ideas, remained steadfast in others, but was willing to make the voyage.
As my studies progressed, an ocean of ideas pummeled me. The hull of my identity began to crumble. It stripped the wind of faith from my sails. But I always looked upon my faith with a sympathetic eye. And though I found the Christian god untenable, like an aging Dostoyevsky, I entertained the possibility of recommitting myself. I championed the humanity of Brothers Karamazov and Kierkegaard as beacons of God's lighthouse steering our wayward ships home.
Now I find it detrimental. All Christians are responsible for the actions done on behalf of their extreme fundamentalist kin. Your lack of condemnation, disavowal, and outrage is inexcusable. And I no longer view you as separate. Until you rebuke the categorically unchristian behavior exhibited by your leaders in the name of identity advancement, I will paint you all with the same brush. It is done in your name, and it is your name I denounce.
Today is the moment where Christianity reemerged as an active threat to the health and safety of women. I was wrong. Both about abortion and subsequently about god. And I am grateful for being wrong during a time when Roe wasn't up for debate. And as control is relegated to the states, it is imperative we address the issues with the utmost clarity. Women deserve better.
__________________________________________
¹ Nietzsche, F. Thus Spoke Zarathustra Part One, Of the Bestowing Virtue, based on R.J. Hollingdale and Walter Kaufmann translations.
7.01.2021
Let It Go
A League of Their Own is not a sports movie. Much like its misunderstood predecessor, Rocky, it is a magic trick. We are lured into thinking that the Women's World Series and the championship bout against Apollo Creed are important. They are not. They are magnifying glasses to the soul. They reveal us, our choices, and our time. For Rocky, proving his worth isn't a matter of winning or losing, but a tenacity of spirit. For Dottie Hinson, it is a tug-of-war of values. With her husband fighting in the second world war, she must decide the kind of woman she is. A League of Their Own is about choice and being rooted in historicity. Family and competition. Personhood and duty. The film is an attempt to answer these incommensurable dichotomies.
The film begins with the dead ringer for older Geena Davis giving her grandsons advice. Using her actual voice in the uncanny valley of ADR, a wise Dottie Hinson presents the thematic overture: warning the older boy it is his responsibility to give his brother a chance, while imploring the younger boy to, "Kill him." It distills Dottie's wisdom into a single innocuous scene. This moment is a microcosm of the dramatic question posed by the film: Did Dottie drop the ball on purpose?
Dottie is a sports goddess. Her athletic prowess is never at issue. She is the best player. Her journey isn't about athleticism. She easily impresses the scout, barehands Doris' sassy pitch ("Some of them are going home"), and can drop into the splits to catch a pop fly when the league needs a little boost. Rather, her dramatic struggle is rooted in her relationship to her kid sister, Kit, and her husband fighting in World War II. So when Kit charges home plate in the Women's World Series, with only Dottie standing in her way, are we to believe Dottie was overwhelmed by her kid sister? The answer is a resounding, infuriating, and painful no.
The film goes out of its way to present us with evidence to the contrary. At the midpoint of the film, Dottie is charged by an opposing player. When the dust settles, Dottie emerges ball in hand for the game-winning tag out. We are shown that Dottie can handle the battle for home plate. In the post World Series reunion scene, the ladies do not talk about Kit's ascension to baseball greatness. Building upon her victory at home plate, Kit didn't go on to be the best player in the league. No. The ladies marvel at Dottie, hailing her as the GOAT despite only playing one season. This is because Kit should have been thrown out at home. Kit was thrown out at home.
Kit's entry into the league is predicated on the scout's gambit to recruit Dottie, whose declared value is that she only cares about her husband, but her actions show otherwise. Jimmy, her coach, notes she plays like she loves it. But Dottie insists it's a trifle. It's not clear Dottie has even admitted to herself how badly she wants to win. To have an identity of her own. To not be a soldier's wife. To not be shackled to her place in time. Her very existence as the taller, more beautiful, married, and talented sister is a constant source of pain to her kid sister.
Dottie reveals her character in her actions. During the big game, Dottie and Kit square off in the penultimate inning. Dottie crushes a line drive at Kit's head driving in the go ahead run. This devastates Kit, who implodes in the dugout from the shame. Dottie's motivations are blurred between her desire for baseball glory and her duty as a big sister. From the scout's first look at our heroes, we see Dottie imploring Kit to "lay off the high ones." Kit patently rejects Dottie's advice, protesting, "I like the high ones." She strikes out and the scout rightly overlooks her. At the start of the final inning, Dottie remains faithful to baseball, though her fidelity is waning. She instructs her pitcher to hurl high fast balls at Kit.
Can't hit 'em. Can't lay off 'em. Dottie is willing to let Kit make her own bed. If she's incapable of taking advice or playing smarter, she deserves to be struck out.
Miraculously, Kit grabs a hold of one. It's a deep three-bagger to the wall. The Peaches hit the cut-off woman in great position to defend home plate. But despite the protestations of her coach a petulant child decides to make the game about her need for identity. Her move isn't bold. It isn't heroic. It's stupid and should have cost her the game. Kit has learned nothing. She hasn't become a stellar player. She barrels right toward the best player in the league: Dottie Hinson, who took a hit from a player twice her size just 30 movie-minutes ago.
Dottie Hinson, who Kit perpetually accuses of holding her back, is faced with a choice. She can square her shoulders, defend home plate, and destroy her sister. She's already witnessed Kit's total meltdown in the previous inning. She knows Kit can't handle it. She knows her desire for baseball and her desire to protect her sister are at odds. And when faced with a heartbreaking choice to kill her (and the Peaches') dream for glory, or her sister's well-being, Dottie chooses her sister. She lets it go.
Kit is a royal pain in the ass. She is a bratty, annoying, and reckless little sister. She is a sapling who rages at the imposing shadow cast by the tree that is her older sister. Her entire identity is a reaction to her older sister. She fears (rightly) she'll never be as pretty, as beloved, or as talented as her big sister. She is starved from living in the shadow and it has rotted her roots. But she is family. And in her time, individualism isn't a well worn path. The pull of duty wins the tug-of-war with her self-actualization.
And if you are still unconvinced, look at the smile on Dottie's face while Kit celebrates. Jimmy looks at his ballplayer and knows. He can see it on her face. He knows she can handle that hit but she has chosen family. She can barely look at him. When he confronts Dottie about her decision to quit, Jimmy argues "Baseball is what gets inside you, what lights you up." To which Dottie replies, "It just got too hard."
Dottie loves baseball. She is a ball player. She wants to win. After quitting to be with her husband, she doubled back for the seventh game. It's in her heart. But for a woman in the 40s, a woman was to consider family and duty rather than her dreams. And while the infuriating end of this film is a heart-breaking tragedy for Dottie, she lets it go so the next generation of women can hold tightly to their dreams and break their kid sisters' hearts.
Did Dottie drop the ball?
It depends on whether you ask a big sister or a kid sister. As an only-child, I find this movie to be one of the most infuriatingly satisfying endings in cinema. As I'm not a big sister, I doubt I'll ever fully understand.
6.17.2021
In Nick's Hands
6.22.2020
On Failure... Again
5.30.2020
See The Wind
Our American meritocracy depends on the notion that our successes and our failures are ours and ours alone. To acknowledge privilege is to undermine one of the deepest held American values. This is perhaps why we are so reticent to recognize it. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps, assuming you were born in a family that could afford to buy boots? It doesn't have the same ring to it.
Even if we were to assume this was the extent of privilege, it would still demand our attention. Even if we leave aside the idea that a black biker is more likely to be stopped by police, those situations are more likely to result in heartbreaking escalations where lives are lost. Even if we leave aside issues where women are knocked off their bikes and assaulted, if they did make it to work, they would be paid less than men. Even if we leave aside hate crimes committed based on who you fuck when you get off your bike, many refuse the very notion that privilege exists.
Until we are ready to acknowledge that not all journeys are equal, and that many struggles are invisible, we can never begin to approach a solution. Until we can admit our country isn't a pure meritocracy, we will forever be doomed to overvalue our successes and downplay the plight of others.
Admitting privilege is not a solution. It is a bare minimum for understanding our relationship to the world. And to those with the wind at your backs, try to imagine why your friends and coworkers are sweaty and exhausted by something so effortless for you. Your calves aren't that majestic.
5.07.2020
If It's Worth Doing
It's a subtle distinction, but my affinity for order isn't rooted in being perturbed. I have a remarkable ability to ignore things. I don't care about your lazily hung art. I didn't invest the time, energy, or cognitive real-estate. Did I notice the placement wasn't symmetrical and that the viewing height aren't consistent between rooms? Of-fucking-course. But I clocked it and moved on. Dwelling on the negative isn't my deal. I'm not going to get twitchy sitting in your living room because you haven't calibrated your television to THX standard with cinema quality blacks. I will, however, turn off motion smoothing while you're in the bathroom because no human should have to endure that soap opera trash.
The gap between prints 2-3 is the same as 1-2. It's the camera angle. |
My buddy Jawsh considers framing old show posters a hallmark of the aging punk's existence. Guilty as charged. Punk records on a turntable that costs a month's rent is my brand. Classy trash; high low-brow.
After measuring, re-measuring, and obsessing every detail, they were hung. And hung they were. Magnificently. Majestically. Gloriously. And here, dear reader, is where we reap what we've sown. The elusive and orgasmic payoff is at hand. Gazing up at my walls, I get a hit of dopamine, a chemical pat on the back from my brain.
Whether it's measuring my cocktails down to the tenth of a milliliter, or building internal braces into my Ikea Kallax to ensure every record is perfectly flush with the face, I am painfully aware I expose my streak-free glass house to your rocks of criticism. I get it. But to the good enough breed among you, I ask, How do you get high on fine? How do you not yearn to experience the unadulterated joy of true level?
Or do you not build your sense of self on arbitrary, empty achievements?
Pinball. Cough. High scores. Cough.
Do you get your feeling of efficacy from the love of your children or the unyielding care and affection of your spouse? Is it from your work? Your art? Tell me. Where do you get your supply? I want to know.
My drug is excellence. It pays dividends in my heart. Perfection is my porn; I sniffed it once and now I'm chasing that dragon to the grave. I still giggle when I see how perfectly calibrated my TV is when I'm watching a dark film. No grainy purple shit blacks up in here. My mouth waters at a 17.42 to 1 water-to-coffee ratio, measured on a scale which Bluetooths to my phone and graphs my brewprint. I dare you to listen to a dust-free record, playing on an inch thick acrylic platter, with a perfectly balanced 1.8g tracking-force cartridge from the optimal equilateral triangle listening position and tell me you haven't felt the touch of God.
Or enjoy your good enough.
5.05.2020
What We Repeatedly Do
It needs to be said and triple underlined, that I love meat. I'd take a steak over being loved. My Dad and I would grill steaks on Thanksgiving because fuck turkey in its dry, dry ass. Side bar, I miss watching Rocky movies and eating steak with my pops. Giving up meat was not easy for me, but I had my reasons. But over the years, the ghost of meat stopped haunting mealtime. My love died and I accepted my new reality.
Menus shrank. My eyes only processed meatless dishes. I had created a fortress of belief which governed my behavior. I never broke. Never gave an inch. Never took a weekend off. But one night, in a shitty Wrigleyville bar, with friends, I ate a chicken wing.
I couldn't remember the Nick that took a principled stance against animal harm. He was a yearbook photo. He and I were connected only by technicality, a dim awareness of truth which created no meaningful bond outside of habit.
The Nick who tore chicken from the bone that night had been separated from his philosophical belief for years. That Nick stopped caring about animal cruelty long ago, his behavior propelled by the ferocious and invisible hand of habit. But Habit, oh Habit, You quiet monster. Your torrid relationship with time is toxic. Habit glosses over your sense of agency. It obscures your immutable freedom, outlining a well-trodden path when every direction is sensible.
Quarantine has been a reset button for my habits. Everything is up for grabs. I deleted Pokemon Go which I had launched fifty times a day, everyday, for three years. After losing my sense of smell, I found alcohol aversive and didn't drink for a month. I have since found joy in having the occasional drink, particularly the Gold Rush which is a phenomenally refreshing little ditty. I've started making food at home instead of defaulting to delivery, but also started staying up until 4AM because time is a flat circle. In a few short weeks, my wiring has been fundamentally altered. It's shocking how quickly what is can feel like what always was.
So I've been putting my habits under the microscope. Some serve me phenomenally well, like making coffee as the first thing after waking up. Others, like my desire for beer, are quelled by putting a lazily flavored carbonated beverage next to it. It turns out I choose La Croix every time.
I'm not interested in prescribing habits to you. I don't have any idea whether my decision to start eating meat again was beneficial, but habits aren't occasional jaunts; they are the foundation of our behavior, creating the framework of our everyday. They should be vetted, scrutinized, considered and then reconsidered. I've operated under the ghost of an older operating system for years at a time. And what we do over and over, with near robotic automation, should be carefully considered. We should choose our habits precisely because we are slaves to them. I'd rather crash a plane than land safely on autopilot.
Do you hear me, Habits?
This is your Captain speaking.