Shutrbug

It’s a cliche but it’s true: life is fragile. And it’s precious.

My family lost an amazing human being last month. It was sudden, it was shocking, and it’s left me to sit in a mixture of numbness, disbelief, and unimaginable loss.

Writing this is difficult and I feel like it’s a very small step in what it might mean for me to begin to heal.

(Please forgive me if I inadvertently repeat what some other have so eloquently conveyed)

My uncle Chris was an amazing person.

The first thing I’ll mention is that he was an amazing photographer. Amazing as in, top 1% of the top 1%.

He had that rare combination of raw talent, technical expertise, artistic sensibility, and literally countless hours of refining his craft.

As my wife Jami mentioned to our family, he was there for every big moment in our life together—he shot our wedding, our kids birthday parties, Christmases, and so many thing in between. He loved our girls—loved taking their pictures, which often included chasing them around the Orpy Land Hotel or crawling on the floor in a toy store to capture the perfect image—and they loved him right back. In fact, all of the photos of me on this website are his.

But what’s even bigger than his immense talent was that everyone I know who met him had an experience with him that they won’t ever forget.

When Chris took your photos, you not only walked away with an incredible product, you walked away having experienced him. He poured himself into you the same way he poured himself into your photos.

He would grab you by the face and kiss it “old-country” style.

He listened with such intensity that his glare could almost be unnerving.

He was ferociously loyal. When someone wronged you, there was never a question as to whether or not he had your back.

He did nothing half-assed. Whether it was running a successful photography business, making homemade dog treats for Harley from scratch, or organizing his garage, he put all of his effort and attention into it. (Seriously, you should SEE his garage!)

His relationships were the same way. Being known by Chris was being loved by him. 

For special occasions and such, he made these honey-bbq wings that were the best I’ve ever had, and I made sure he knew it. I’ve wracked my brain and I think the last time that I actually saw Chris was a couple weeks after my back surgery when he called me out of the blue to see if he could deliver some wings. I was over at my parent’s house, so he met me there with a tray of wings that could have fed 10-15 people.

He never settled for “good,” and I mean that in the best possible way. If he could make something better—no matter what it was—he would. This included himself. Just a couple days after he passed, his daughter remarked that at age 65, he had become the best possible version of himself.

This was definitely true. I knew Chris for roughly fifteen years and the change was drastic. In his final years, he became his most selfless, his most passionate, his most loving self. He didn’t quit because of age, ingrained ideas, or whatever. He never dug in so hard that he wouldn’t allow himself to morph into something more beautiful.

And that’s a beautiful thing.

There is so much about Chris that I aspire to emulate, and I suppose that is the legacy he leaves behind for so many people whose lives he touched. 

But right now, there’s just a heaviness. His absence is palpable—more like a punch in the gut. I could go on writing, and someday I’m sure I will, but for all that I would like to express, there still seems a hollowness to it that I can’t quite seem to quantify, almost like anything else I would say would just be a platitude in comparison to what’s in my heart.

If you didn’t know Chris, I wish you would have, because if you did know Chris, you are a better person for it.

Fog

One of my big struggles emotionally is the feeling of dread at the idea of forgetting things. And I don’t mean like, “where are my keys?”

I mean forgetting the big things…

The important things.

History is terribly important to me… Having some clue about how we got to where we are and not forgetting where we’ve been. So I read history books. I watch documentaries. My writing even drips with it.

But it’s also important to me on a personal level.

I want to compile video, photos, documents, stories, articles of clothing, writing, whatever… Just so I don’t forget.

The other day, for some random reason, I thought to myself: I don’t remember feeding my youngest daughter Brooklyn when she was a toddler.

I mean, I have beautiful memories of her from those years, but I don’t remember ever feeding her.

And it about broke my heart.

I have all these wonderful memories of times that her older sister Natalie and I would spend together when she was in her high chair. We would listen to music and laugh and joke and I would feed her and it was an event. I introduced her to new foods, and when she was that young, to my shock, she liked most of them. It was a beautiful, beautiful time.

And I can’t remember one single time doing that with Brooklyn.

I know that I did... I just can’t remember it.

Which makes me mourn for my grandparents all the more.

I recorded some video of my grandmother on my mom’s side telling her story about a year before she passed. We barely got through her teen years and quit for the day.

I never went back and filmed any more.

I had the time; I just didn’t do it.

Now, in that last year I spent many hours with her. I comforted her, held her hand, and listened to her stories… but I didn’t take them down. I didn’t preserve them.

And now I’m gripped with guilt.

Is her story is lost?

How did she meet my grandfather?

How did they decide to emigrate to the U.S.?

What was her first impression of New York?

When did she start feeling like she belonged in America?

What did she think about Miami the first time she saw it?

Had she ever had mango before that?

How did she feel about the Vietnam War?

Thousands and thousands of questions I want to ask her. 

And that goes for all of my grandparents.

I’ve got memories. I remember stories they told, but how accurately I can remember is a giant question mark.

In mulling over these things the last few days, I think I realized that my struggle to remember is ultimately a struggle with my own mortality. I want to remember because I want to live and I want these things, these people, to live on.

But you know what? We don’t.

We die. And even before that we forget.

And that’s okay.

It’s part of the human experience. 

And even that is beautiful, because we are human. 

I don’t have to remember the details to know that I have loved and loved deeply, and that’s the important part.

I might not remember all the things my grandmother told me, but they still have played their part in making me who I am.

I may not recall specifically those early dinner times with Brooklyn—and neither will she—but they still happened. 

I still loved her well. 

And that will live on in her and she will pass that down to her own children some day.

So I have started to come to grips with this idea: 

It is better to have loved and lost in fog,       than to have never loved at all.

Cup

Funny story...

I couldn’t have anything to eat or drink after midnight before my surgery. The last think I had was a glass of water around 9:30pm. Woke up the next morning super early, peed, showered, got ready, and showed up at the hospital. When they take me back to prep me, they draw blood, hook me up to an EKG, take a chest x-ray, and then tell me that they’ll need a urine sample. I’m like… not sure I’m going to be able to oblige you there. They laughed and said, “Oh, you’ll be fine, just keep trying.”

An hour later... no dice. I’m thinking to myself, I really wish someone had TOLD me they were gonna need a sample, otherwise I would have saved it up that morning! 

(How do you forbid a person to drink anything for eight hours and then demand urine on the spot!??)

So I ask the nurse, what happens if I can’t give a sample? 

She tells me they’ll just have to put a catheter in.

OH.

MY.

GOD.

PLEASE... NO.

So they start wheeling me up to the surgical waiting area and tell me I can try again before they put my IV in.

I’m about to have fairly serious back surgery, and 98% of the anxiety I’m experiencing is about the potential of having to be catheterized. 

As people are buzzing around and I’m just laying there stressing, the anesthesia doctor comes over and is asking a bunch of questions, and the nurse tells him, “We still don’t have a urine sample.”

And to my ever-grateful delight, he replies, “Why did they order that?”

She shrugs, and says, “I guess to check for a UTI?”

He responds, “That’s a bit of overkill, don’t you think?”

She shrugs.

He turns to me and asks, “Do you have any trouble peeing?”

I reply, “Not usually.”

He laughs.

She laughs.

I laugh. 

We all laugh.

Then they put me to sleep and cut me open, remove the giant disc fragments that had been crushing my nerve, and glue me back together.

So, by way of update…

Thanks to everyone for all of the well-wishes, prayers, and happy thoughts.

I’m incredibly thankful, once more for the care, expertise, and kindness of all of the medical professionals who handled me. From the x-ray technicians to the nurse who hooked up my IV to the anesthesiologist to, of course, my surgeon and his team, everyone was amazing and helped put me at ease and fix my back.

In addition, my wife Jami was super amazing. This is the first time during our 12+ years of marriage that I’ve been truly “down and out” with something physically, and she took such good care of me and the girls. I truly felt loved and at ease and able to recuperate.

I’m about a week post-op right now and seem to be healing up nicely from what I can tell. My incision is still a bit tender, and I’ve had flashes of my “pre-op” pain, which is apparently normal, albeit still a bit disconcerting, but nothing remotely close to the constant, debilitating pain I was in before. In fact, I’ve been on my feet at times for stretches of ten minutes or more and have been in no pain whatsoever.

So, yet again, I’m thankful.

P.S. Thanks to my parents, as well, who took care of my kids a few nights and were there for me (and more importantly) my wife at the hospital.

Slice

No.

Not that kind of slice.

Sorry.

In less than a week’s time I’ll be having my first major surgery since I broke my arm jumping out of the bathtub at age seven (I had to pee!).

2018 has been a rough year for me, mostly stemming from my physical condition.

I’ve had low back pain on and off since I was a teenager, but starting in January, it was different than normal. It was more in my glute and down my leg than ever before. And I have no idea what caused it.

I had a few massages from my friend the incredibly talented, co-low-back-pain-sufferer Nick, which usually help big time, but no dice.

I had a steroid shot in my butt which nearly cured me for precisely eight hours.

Started seeing a chiropractor, which also helped in the past, but my condition got way worse after his treatment—to the point of not being able to stand up straight at all.

So, since early April, I have had debilitating pain in my low back and left leg to the point where I can’t be on my feet for more than two or three minutes without crumpling into a chair. I have numbness in my foot intertwined with shooting pain in my glute region (pain the ass to the layman), knife-like stabbing pains in my ankle, and tightness at the top of my calf that’s had me convinced at times that my muscle was going to literally explode.

I did six weeks of physical therapy, including dry needling, which helped improve my pain to a degree, but not enough for me to get my life back.

I’ve had an epidural steroid injection which also alleviated the pain to an extent, but wore off after only a few weeks.

Well meaning acquaintances and even total strangers have offered solutions to my back pain—everything from hand stands to taking a cold shower to switching to a strictly vegan diet.

 (not my mri, but you get the picture)

(By the way, if you see a person in non-emergency-type pain, please don’t offer a half-baked, home-grown solution, even if it worked for you once. I can guarantee you that if they’ve been in pain for very long, they’ve probably tried it already and you’re only the twenty-fifth person that day to tell them how they can just get rid of it, as if they wouldn’t have already done that if they could…)

Thankfully, another friend and co-century rider, Amy, is a top-notch P.A. at an orthopedic clinic and got me in to see a top-notch spine surgeon’s team. I had an MRI and sure enough, (in the doctor’s words), I have a “massive herniation” of my L5-S1 disc, which is “absolutely crushing” my sciatic nerve.

So on Wednesday the 22nd I’ll get cleaned up in there.

Oddly enough, I’m not that nervous about it. I’m sure my anxiety will increase as the time draws nearer, but as of now, I’m kind of handling it. The pain I might experience really can’t be much worse than the pain I’ve been in.

Which has given me so much appreciation for those of us suffering with chronic pain. It is exhausting physically, mentally, and emotionally. It causes you to snap at the people you love (and be sure to apologize immediately), it makes you miss out on important things, and even makes you miserable during happy occasions. I haven’t been on my bike since I rode my first century on November 11 of last year, and that’s depression inducing.

I have also realized how thankful I am for the gift of modern medicine.

Less than one hundred years ago I would have been a cripple by the age of forty with no hope of recovery. I wouldn’t be able to support my family, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy my kids or my wife or my favorite activities.

So in light of that, I am thankful.

I’m thankful to soon be off my steady diet of naproxen and acetaminophen. 

I’m thankful I’ll be able to play with my kids again.

I’m thankful for my wife who has picked up major slack in the absence of my ability to do perform normal tasks.

I'm thankful for the kindness, grace, and patience my daughters have shown.

I’m thankful for my family who have helped cart the kids around, make meals, mow our yard, and a host of other things.

I’m thankful for friends who have used their professional skills to knead me, needle me, support me, and advise me.

I’m thankful for life and laughter and sorrow and the ocean and warm breezes and hugs.

I’m thankful that I’ll soon be able to ride my bike again.

I’m thankful.

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Fists

I scroll through my Facebook feed and man… are we ever talking over each other’s heads.

One friend posts a meme with false, faulty, or disingenuous information with a comment such as, “See, President A, B, or C is the DEVIL INCARNATE!”

Very next friend posts a meme with false, faulty, or disingenuous information with a comment such as, “See, President A, B, or C is the SAVIOR OF ALL MANKIND!”

And I’m like… Really?

I once confronted someone who posted a photo with a comment that was verifiably, and quite easily so, false. I showed him the evidence that the photo was fabricated. 

Did he remove it? 

Nope. He wrote that even though he acknowledged it was false, he “still liked it.”

I get so frustrated by all of this because we’re so focused on winning. And it’s on both sides of the aisle—people who condemned stuff the last guy did accept it when their guy does it, and vice versa. 

Here’s a quick example… 

During the debates for the Obama/Romney election, Obama mocked Romney’s statement that Russia was the biggest geopolitical threat to the United States. He said something to the effect of, “The 1980s called and they want their foreign policy back.” Laughter.

NOW, I’ve heard people on that same side of the aisle say, “Russia is our sworn enemy and we’ve known this for decades!”

And it’s the exact opposite on the opposite side of the aisle. People who lauded Romney and jeered at how out of touch Obama was back then are saying, “Eh, you know Russia’s not that bad,” today.

Give me a break, people.

The fact of the matter is, we have a lot more in common than we might realize, but we have to LISTEN to each other if we’re ever going to learn that.

We are all people who have very limited grasps on very complex issues.

And we won’t change a damned thing by hurling figurative rocks at each other.

Can we unclench fists long enough to allow the idea that we may not be right about EVERYTHING? That others may actually have a point of view that we can learn from?

And can we for the love of god, drop this whole, “You disagree with me, therefore you’re a terrible person business?”

Also, just as a reminder… As I stated at the beginning of this blog—I have friends on BOTH sides, from staunch, Bible-belt conservatives to outright Communists, and I am not willing to sacrifice a friend over a political disagreement.

I have disagreed with many of you (and still do). 

But I have listened to you and will listen more. 

And I have learned from you… SO much.

Let’s change the world for the better, but let’s do it with kindness, humility, and a dash of respect for our brothers and sisters of the human kind.

Release

Cast No Shadow is out today!!

Available in paperback, Kindle, & Kindle Unlimited.

I am thrilled to finally be able to share this story with you!

This is one of my favorite pieces I’ve ever written. I took some risks and really stretched my comfort zone, and I think the result is a piece that reads fast, hits hard, and asks some important questions.

I hope that you’ll enjoy it and maybe it will leave you better than when you started.

Thanks for following!! -Brandon

Shadow

A brand new short story, Cast No Shadow, comes out on Friday and the usual jitters have overtaken me. 

This is probably my favorite work that I’ve produced to date. I feel like it’s honest, raw, and asks some important questions. It’s undoubtedly the most gritty thing I have written, and I think the ending packs a good punch.

With Cast No Shadow, I did not set out to write anything other than the story that literally popped into my mind one day. Now, obviously, the thought that hit me was in great need of development, but I didn’t go into the writing process with any sort of agenda as far as its meaning, other than writing from my heart.

One of the truly fascinating things about writing fiction, to me, is that a story is a work of art. What I mean by that is that the value of it is in the eye of the beholder, or the reader in this case. 

I sent the new story to several people over the last few months and it’s struck them all in different ways, which is interesting to me, because in some of the cases, these “pre-readers” mentioned getting things out of it that I did not even intend, but quickly realized were just under the surface of what I was thinking about and going through at the time it was written.

And that’s the beauty of it.

Art is not created in a vacuum. Every artist, performer, or writer, that pours themselves honestly into their work leaves something of themselves behind for others to see—perhaps things that they themselves did not even see.

So that’s the give and take of it.

I hope, if you do me the honor of reading it, that you’ll come away with something from it—even if at the very least you’re left with questions. 

Apollo

This will probably sound pretty silly, but do you know what my most irrational fear is?

Tumbling out into space.

The crew of Apollo 13.

I was recently watching Apollo 13—classic film!—and the thought struck me, they very easily could have completely lost navigational control of the vessel and jettisoned themselves out into space, with no hope of return to earth.

That is truly terrifying.

Which brings me to another thought…

Where are we?

I mean, really…

Who knows? Who knows where everything we know actually IS?

We are hurling through space, circling a gigantic star, and up, down, left, right, forward, backward, weight, shape, and even time as we know it are completely relative. The truth is, we can’t really know anything, can we?

Which leads me to this question—is the universe a cold , dark, and dangerous place?

It might be, but I honestly don’t know if I could live with that idea. I don’t know if I could stay sane.

The one thing that continually draws me back to inner peace and reason is love.

I hold my beautiful wife. I play with my witty daughters. I hug my mom. I sense kindness in the smile of a stranger.

There is love in the world. There is love in the universe. 

I’m letting that sink in. 

No matter how scary, no matter how isolated, no matter how cold—the universe hums with love, and as long as I can cling to that, I can cling to hope.

Oh. And, the earth is round.

Pub

I heard this story over a pint of Thatcher's Cheddar Valley Cider in a charming village pub in the south of England. I can't swear to it's being a true story, but I can gladly assure you that it is true that it is a story.

A man’s wife planned a trip to the city for a day of shopping and lunch with her girlfriends. She left a “honey-do” list:

-Patch the leak in the roof

-Trim the hedges

-Fix the gate latch

Have a lovely day!

At ten, the wife dialed home from a payphone (this story takes place prior to the days when we all traipsed the globe with handheld space-satellite-projecting miracle machines). No answer.

“Hmm,” she thought to herself, “He must be on the roof.”

During lunch, she excused herself to call again. A second time her husband failed to answer.

“Perhaps he’s moved on to the hedges,” she thought with some delight.

At afternoon tea she rang a third time, to no avail.

“He must be fixing the latch.”

From the train station she phoned once more, but alas, again there was no answer. A flash of panic pierced her breast as her mind raced toward worst-case scenarios:

“What if he is hurt? What if he cut himself with the shears? What if he fell off the roof?”

She immediately phoned the village pub and asked the barkeeper to send someone to check on her husband’s wellbeing.

“Why, love?” the barkeeper asked. “He’s been sitting right here for some time.”

She clutched her chest and a long puff of air exited her lungs. Her relief was palpable, but her mind soon turned to the list of duties she had left. “May I speak with him, please?”

“Of course, love,” said the barkeeper, handing the phone to the woman’s spouse.

“Hello, darling,” said the wife cheerily.

“Hi,” answered her husband.

“How did the list go?”

“Not as well as I had planned,” came the besotted reply.

“No? What did you get done?”

“I had a lovely day.”

Moment

I struggle with balance sometimes. Fortunately, at the moment I have no inner ear problems... I’m thinking more in terms of the concept itself.

I have a lot on my plate.

Husband.

Father.

Worker.

Friend.

Son.

Writer.

Marketer.

Blogger (sometimes? Haha).

Dreamer.

Thinker.

Road cycle enthusiast.

Arsenal fan.

Homeowner.

Debtor.

Tax payer.

Sleeper.

Lower back problemer.

And so on.

Sometimes I only feel like being a husband and whisking my wife away to some tropical beach. 

Sometimes I only feel like sleeping.

Sometimes I feel a sharp pain in my gut that says, “Be a better father.”

Sometimes I regret having spent an hour watching reruns of The Office instead of working on something that might last.

Sometimes I don’t like to write because I don’t think I have anything to say.

Sometimes I go weeks without reading.

Sometimes I feel great about myself.

Sometimes I wish I was completely different.

The fact of the matter is, I can’t find balance between all these things because it doesn’t exist.

There are times where all of my focus is on being a dad.

There are times when I have to work in order to keep the house note paid.

There are times I push through writing because I’ll never finish if I don’t.

There are times, when the writing is done, that I have to sell what I’ve written (as little as that process may appeal to me).

There is no perfect balance. 

There is ebb and flow.

There are moments.

And in this moment, what is lacking?

You have a big bill looming? No, this moment.

You have to get up early and get the kids ready for school. No, this moment.

You don’t have enough saved for retirement. No, this moment.

You’re afraid of dying. No, this moment.

When I ask this question and answer honestly, I recognize that all of my feeling of lack are related to anxiety about future events that may or may not come to pass. 

When I focus on this moment, I am free.

Present

Normally, on a weekday morning, the rush is on.

Getting the first grader ready for school, lunch packed, and dropped off on time.

The four year old getting toys packed, slung in the carseat and off to my parent’s or in-laws house so that my wife and I can get to work.

This morning, however, I took my little one out to eat.

We went to Waffle House and let me just say, Waffle House is never a bad idea. It’s one of my favorite things about living in the south.

We ordered and talked and took a couple goofy pictures, and then, right before the food arrived to our table, she got out her seat across the table from me and slid into the booth on my side. She said she was so cold over there.

She put her head on my chest and when I put my arm around her, she clutched it to her tightly.

When the waitress came with our food, I was nearly in tears.

Such simplicity. Such need to be loved and need to love. I think it was one of the best moments of my life.

I didn’t wake up this morning knowing that my soul needed that, but it sure did.

Reminds me to slow down and to be present.

Slow down.

Be present.

Mission

A small excerpt from a short-story in progress. Enjoy!

---

…A moment later he tossed the black bag on the passenger seat of his pickup and started up the old, faithful truck. Down the row of trailers, under the orange lights, a few teenagers straddled their bikes and drank cheap beers. They nodded to him as he waved to them.

In twenty minutes he was parked behind Clyde’s bar, two spaces from the dumpster. Within five minutes, the brothers Avery and Sterling Merrick pulled in to his right. At ten twenty-one, Bronco parked to the right of them. Two minutes later, Miles Hickson parked to his left. At ten-thirty on the dot, Lynn Marshall pulled in. All soldiers were accounted for. They piled into two trucks and headed down 83 toward a ranch they’d staked out on the western outskirts of Laredo. They were mostly silent, aside from a couple reminders about operational specifics.

In about an hour and forty minutes time, they pulled off on a dirt road and headed a couple miles down before shutting off their headlights. They stopped on the east side of the ridge and geared up.

Twenty minutes? asked Sterling.

Twenty-five, answered Lynn, after glancing down into the well-lit valley.

Okay.

The brothers stayed behind while the band of four pulled black masks over their faces and then disappeared into the darkness round the bend. Sterling unpacked his sniper rifle while Avery began surveilling the scene below with binoculars.

What you see?

Two.

How far apart?

Hundred meters.

Anything on the north side?

Nothin.

Good.

They made their calculations and bided their time.

Been twenty-five yet?

Thirty seconds.

Sterling peered through the scope on the rifle.

I’m gonna give them another minute—at least until this sonofabitch crosses back in front of the truck.

Avery nodded silently.

The guard wore cowboy boots and hat, blue jeans and a white shirt, an M16 slung round his shoulder. When Sterling pulled the trigger, the heavy caliber round blew the heart clear out of his chest. He spun and collapsed, face first into the pickup and then into the dirt. His myocardium still throbbed on the earth beside him.

For dust thou art and unto dust shalt thou return.

Amen, answered Avery…

10 Thoughts on Arsenal's Upcoming Season

With the Premier League Season right around the corner, here are 10 thoughts on the upcoming campaign.

1. Arsenal is improved.

I’m excited about the signings we’ve made so far. Sead Kolašinac (a FREE signing!) appears to be a BEAST, and Alexandre Lacazette is the perfect addition upfront—fast, young, and clinical in front of goal.

2. I like our look with a Back 3.

Far too many soft goals for far too long—a change was needed to sure things up defensively. I love the way Rob Holding fit in alongside Koscielny and Mustafi, and after the way Per Mertesacker played in the F.A. Cup Final, I would love to see him slot in as often as possible. While I also feel good about how Nacho Monreal played at Centerback, I would prefer to see him stay at Leftback and see Kolašinac in the middle in a pinch, given his bigger frame.

3. Xhaka and Ramsey need to be a thing.

Can I just say, I am a gigantic fan of both of these players, and especially as a pairing in the midfield. 

About Granit Xhaka, firstly… the guy has gotten a very bad wrap in regard to his discipline record. He’s an aggressive player, no doubt, but some of the calls against him were just terrible (I’m thinking in particular, the straight red against Burnley). He did show, however, towards the end of the season, that he understands the kind of reputation he’s garnered, and that he has the ability to temper his aggression in order to stay on the pitch. I am also amazed at his passing ability—left and right footed. He’s a great distributor from the back and can really pick out a lob pass.

And then there’s Aaron Ramsey. Him in the center of the pitch with the freedom to go forward is where he belongs. Again, having 3 at the back with Xhaka behind him allows him to get up the pitch and join the attack. He may not have scored that many goals last season, but he was absolutely electric when he was in that position.

4. Sanchez.

As much as I hate to say this… I would rather see Alexis Sanchez be sold this summer than be a distraction all year and then lose him for nothing. The only way out of this horrible situation is for us to win a major title, and convince him that we can win more with his continued help.

5. Ozil.

I’m a bit biased here, but Ozil is my favorite player. Period. The guy is a wizard and is a much smarter player than people give him credit. He plays a dazzlingly beautiful game and makes everyone around him better. The good news, as far as I can tell, is that he seems to want to stay. Please... Just pay him already.

6. Wenger.

I’ve had my share of frustration with the boss, particularly his stubbornness in adapting to change at times, but let me just say it was absolutely disgraceful the way he was treated by some  "supporters" last season. He is still world-class, a living legend, and there’s not a single person on the planet who I’d rather see managing Arsenal. 

He has recently, and to my great delight, shown a willingness to listen and make appropriate changes. I’m thinking the Back 3 systems, I’m thinking going after some big players this off season...

7. The Europa League.

I can’t say I’m thrilled about watching us play in the Europa League, but it’s still European Football and is at least a winable tournament. I mean… if Man United won last year…

8. I hate Spurs.

God, I hate them. And as much as it pains me to say, they are an up and coming squad with loads of talent, energy, and creativity. 

That being said, I think playing in Wembley will be a major challenge for them. After all, it is OUR house.

9. Making room for Ox and Giroud.

These are two players I would HATE to lose. They both bring unique and important elements to the squad. 

As far as Alex Oxlaide-Chamberlain, his speed, creativity, and drive are tremendous assets we should cherish for years to come. I see Hector Bellerin as our Rightback going forward, but the Ox deserves a regular spot in the team on the wing.

I am also loathe to think of losing Olivier Giroud. I know he’s getting up in age and is something of a one-trick pony, but gosh is his trick a good one. He scores timely goals and he towers over opponents to get them. Being able to lob crosses into the box and have someone with the wherewithal to go get them is a must-have for any team in this league. It will be a challenge for Wenger to keep Olivier happy, but I sure hope he figures out how to do it.

(and who could EVER forget...) 

10. Seeing a game at the Emirates.

I’m going to be in London in September and am hoping hoping hoping to be able to get tickets for a home game. It’s a bucket list item and one I know will keep me on a football high for years to come… especially if it’s a win!

Thanks for reading! Come On You Gunners! Cheers. -Brandon

P.S. I'd love it if you'd check out my work on Amazon!

Primordial

The following is an excerpt from an untitled, in-process work of fiction. Hope you enjoy!

---

Do we love the ocean so much because it’s our primordial home? It’s possible that the roots of our deepest psyche go back that deep, to the day when one of our earliest ancestors crawled out from the abyss onto dry land. I’ve always felt connected to the ocean in much the same way I’ve always felt connected to the stars, and perhaps for much the same reason. It’s crazy, though, isn’t it? The ocean is a source of endless mystery and beauty, while simultaneously being unflinchingly savage and unapologetically terrifying. But in a paradoxical way, it’s always felt like home.

My parents used to take us down to Wildwood for two weeks every summer. Some of my happiest childhood memories were spent riding waves, and catching clams and horseshoe crabs. I would always get hot and sweaty walking down the beach, carrying umbrellas, chairs, and a bucket of toys. I’d make myself wait until I just couldn’t stand the excitement, or the heat, for a minute longer. I would run with abandon and freedom, like I was making a break for the prison gate—that is, until that water got up to my knees or so. It didn’t matter that it was July, that water was always freezing. I was determined, though. It would take concentration and sheer determination to make it to my waist. And then more to get to my chest, and finally I was up to my neck, and strangely warm. A piece of seaweed would brush my leg and make me shiver—a gentle reminder that I could never really be sure what lurked beneath the surface. 

I’d swim out far enough where I couldn’t walk. It was like being in outer space—another set of elements altogether, yet intimately connected. I’d just bob up and down, basking in the glory of what must be the collision of the heavens and the earth. I would just let the tide direct me—wouldn’t fight it, wouldn’t try to change its direction. How could I?—I was just a kid. Which makes me chuckle. I would inevitably be pushed and pulled so far—and so gently—that the lifeguard would blow his whistle. I would dutifully swim back in ten yards or so. Was I any safer there? I doubt it, but it was enough to appease the eighteen year old high school graduate on an authority trip. He probably ended up pouring concrete for a living—not that there’s any shame in that. 

What was I doing out there all day? It wasn’t just relaxation—it was something more spiritual, although I wouldn’t have called it that at the time. Even as a little boy it felt like reconnecting to the source. For those two weeks a year, I could reconnect to my life source, and just have to hope it would give me enough charge to last the rest of the year. Then when school started, at Halloween and Christmas, and through the snowfalls and thaws, I was like an exile away from my home, longing for communion with the deep beyond.

And all this was even before I started smoking pot.

I sat on the hood of the car and dried off. I watched families arrive—children making a break for the sea before their parents even had the umbrella up. I listened to the rhythmic pulse of the surf and the wind blowing through palm trees. I tried to take it all in and just let it be...

Curling

It took me twenty-five plus years to let go of belief systems that weren’t working for me.

I was raised in a bit of a bubble, and have really only recently started to realize the implications of life on the inside. No one from my parents to grandparents to teachers, etc., ever wanted anything but the best for me, and partially because of this, I was bubble-ized from a very early age.  

Granted, everyone grows up in a bubble. And that’s part of the beauty of the human experience. We all have ingrained biases based on our upbringing, our culture, and how we’ve been taught—or taught not—to think about the world.

Some bubbles are more harmful or beneficial than others, and there are pluses and minuses to all of them. Growing up poor can suck; growing up poor can also give you an unflappable sense of self-reliance and gratefulness. Growing up religious can instill massive amounts of shame and guilt; growing up religious can also help ground you in loving community.  

The point is, for many of us—the more introspective, let’s say—the sum of our upbringing isn’t enough. Now, this isn’t an indictment of our parents or caregivers. In fact, I hope to raise my girls to be introspective. I’m humble enough to admit that as much as I love them, I am not a perfect parent, nor am I a perfect human. (I often jest that the greatest investment a parent can make in their child is pre-paying for therapy when they are adults).

I had a great childhood, no question. But there are radioactive isotopes lingering around in my adulthood that just have to go. And fear is a big one.

Fear that I can’t measure up.

Fear that if I wander it means I’m lost.

Fear that I don’t belong.

Fear that I have to conform.

Fear that if I let go of the “essentials,” I’ll be adrift in the universe.

Fear that I will lose friendships if I admit who I really am.

Fear that the gods are angry.

Most of my fear has revolved around religion. I was brought up in a church environment that desperately “defended” the faith.   

Questions were dangerous.  

Doubt was sin.  

Unbelief was damnation.

Yeah.

That didn’t work so well for me.  

So.

Some of it got ejected like a fighter pilot in free fall.

Most of it got released like a curler releases the rock. 

(Hat tip to the brilliant Bill Burr for the brilliant analogy)

I just

let

that

shit

go

.

Ahhh.  

Breath in that freedom with me now.

Real

Well, it certainly has been a while, hasn't it?

I am so grateful for the positive response I've received to the release of Camino Real (get it on Amazon). Releasing your work "into the wild," so-to-speak, can be terrifying, but it's the point of it all, I suppose. Anyway, thank you for your kind comments & reviews.

We're still in the process of final edits on The Wages of Grace, as well as cranking through recording it on audio. Cover art is still in process, and we're working on some video promo ideas. I'm hoping for a June release at this point, but it's still up in the air.

Our short film Insomniacs Anonymous has been accepted into a few film festivals, with a bunch more still in "decision time." Can't wait to share it with you!

In other news, I'm torn about the #WengerOut movement. Heartbroken more than anything. I don't think there's another (current) manager than can touch what he's accomplished, and I'm not saying I mind Champions League football every single year, but what seems like the same result every single season (start strong, crash in the middle, go on crazy point streak in April-May), is getting old. Let's be honest, though... I just mostly don't want to lose Mesut Ozil.

I promise I'll sit down and right something a little more thought provoking soon!

Thanks for all of your support & love!

Brandon

Reach

Happy New Year.

Seems like a good day to say:

You’re not crazy.

You’re not boring.

You’re not a victim.

You’re not ugly.

You’re not dumb.

You’re not too old.

You’re not too young.

You’re not too short.

You’re not too tall.

You’re not the color of your skin.

You’re not unforgiven.

You’re not in the way.

You’re not a stereotype.

You’re not a loser.

You’re not depressing.

You’re not disgusting.

You’re not terrible.

You’re not an animal.

You’re not a machine.

You’re not a piece of property.

You’re not a punching bag.

You’re not a slave.

You’re not inadequate.

You’re not your family.

You’re not the sum of your choices.

You’re not the sum of your abilities.

You’re not all the things your mom said.

You’re not all the things your dad said.

You’re not unloveable.

You’re not a mistake.

You’re not alone.

And you will never, ever be beyond the reach of hope.

Machine

I’m afraid of wasting things. Time. Money. Resources.

Yet I seem to do a lot of precisely that.  

I procrastinate when there’s work that could be done.

I buy another cup of coffee when I’ve already had three.

I lose pens all the time.

Sometimes it feels like our culture has set up these impossible standards of how “successful,” or “influential,” or “wise” people live.

“Carpe Diem”—seize the day! 
Take advantage of every opportunity that comes your way!

Work yourself to the bone because there is no tomorrow!

You never get this day back so make sure it counts!

This kind of thought has made me anxious about the work that I do as a creative person. I’ve often thought about how many authors have kicked the can in the middle of a project. Oh, if only they could have finished! Maybe they spend too much time drinking or too much time playing cards or too much time surfing or whatever! If only they had been slightly more dedicated to their work…

After all, the world needs our work, and if we waste our time, we rob humanity of what we have to offer.

Last summer I was woken up pretty early one morning by a thunderstorm. Once I decided that I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, my thoughts immediately turned to the days work. This will be great! I’ll be able to get a two and half hour head start on this project and that project—I should get up this early every day!

And then I rolled over and saw my beautiful wife lying there in the dark. I curled up to her and lost an hour of cosmic time to snuggling. I’ll never get that hour back. I may die without writing whatever it was that I could have during that time. But I’d never wish it back.

It made me human.

It fed my soul.

It reminded me that I am not a machine.  

Sikh

This speaks to me. Deeply. 

So I’ll just leave it here...

There's almost more beauty here than I can handle.

It's worth 8 and a half minutes of quiet.

And it might just change your life forever if you'll let it.

“I often ask people, 'Give me another word for love,' and they struggle. And I console them and I say, 'There is no other word for love, I will tell you.' The nearest word is sacrifice. If you cannot sacrifice you cannot love.”

Sum

This post has nothing to do with math. You’re welcome. Relax and enjoy your coffee.

Our thoughts can be powerful… and maybe, at the end of the day, they’re all we have.

They have the power to make or break our day, our week, or our year.

They have the power to mend and heal or tear down and destroy.

They have the power to recreate or stagnate.

So often, they depress us, they drag us down, they keep us locked away from the outside world in fear.

We all live in our heads, and like a good friend of mine is fond of saying, “When you’re stuck in your own head, you’re behind enemy lines.”

That’s why I so often need friends to bounce things off—isolation is a killer. 

Some of the most rewarding conversations I’ve ever had have been with people who have simply told me I’m not crazy for thinking or feeling a certain way—that even if it’s the wrong way to think about something, they can understand where I’m coming from.

That opens up the door to this rush of freedom. 

So when you’re down, when you’re stuck, or when you’re convinced you’re crazy…

Talk to someone. Because after all...

I promise you're not alone.

We are not the sum of our thoughts, and just because you think it, doesn’t mean it’s true.