Comedic Inquisition: WTF with Marc Maron

It’s been many months since I wrote about a podcast, although I casually mention them when I write about comedy, which seems to happen weekly now, but I’ve been inspired lately by many, choosing to listen to interviews and discussion over music. I also seek it out, and as I’ve mentioned with music and fashion and other art-forms, I do the opposite. So clearly I’m wrangling on some sort of addiction here, but it feeds my soul so much and fills me with this strange hope and belief that I can foster whatever form of satire I’m pursuing into something worthwhile. The top of the list for me is What The Fuck (more notably, WTF) with long-time stand-up Marc Maron. Marc is a comic’s comic. If you enjoy stand-up comedy and have followed the movement even loosely over the past couple decades then you should know who he is. I’d be willing to bet many of you don’t simply because you’re living normal lives, not obsessing over weird podcasts and the intricacies of humor. Leave that to geeks like me. The staple in choosing what to write about comes from an enthusiasm placed in my brain that I then want to share, ultimately to a public who doesn’t give a fuck. But my hope is those who are reading this do, and even if you don’t listen, you’re now aware of this existence, of this phenomenon that is podcasting and how much great content there is now via this medium.

Marc is in his late 40’s. He’s lived everywhere a comic should live, now settling in Southern California, still touring clubs like genetically motivated comedians do, and frequently now conducting interviews out of his garage, with some of the best comedic artists of our time, from many decades ago through today. Since I was a kid, watching old Chevy Chase, Eddie Murphy, Bill Murray, and Richard Pryor films (there are many more you can fill in, Steve Martin, Dan Akroyd, etc.), I longed to get to know these people better, know them for who they really are. A far-fetched notion and dream, but I felt their stand-up, sketch performances or film/TV roles, coupled with interviews on Johnny Carson provided a glimmer into their psyche, into how they became who they were. Sometimes it was not a pretty picture, and for others, it proved to be very enlightening and encouraging. Nothing I’ve seen in the past has provided the depth of background into these human beings like WTF, and for that reason, I am addicted.

Marc’s stand-up has evolved into this self-effacing, abrasive, intelligent rant, daring you to dislike him as much as he dislikes himself. He seems to be a man of integrity, painfully honest regarding his mistakes and past and present forms of psychosis, and seems easily nonconformist, not adhering to cultural role-playing or our societal script. In the beginning of the WTF podcast, Marc takes us through his current metamorphosis and growth, either via the description of who he’s interviewing that day, how that person has affected him or merely his take on them as a comedic artist, and ultimately how certain psychological revelations has informed and manifested into his comedy and his interaction with others. Or he may simply be experiencing some personal challenge, whether it be a relationship, an encounter on the road, or just too much time alone. I resonate with how his mind seems to work. He’s constantly questioning, wondering, dissecting and exploring the inner workings of his and others’ minds. On top of his insight, he knows his shit. He comes from an important class of comedians, knows deeply the inner workings of comedy legends and the lesser known artists also involved during each era and therefore he’s a part of a very small cluster of human beings that can call themselves comics. Stand-up is his forte but Marc is aware and involved with comedic artists of varying genres and so the beautiful conversations that emerge are beyond informative, cut much deeper than entertaining and are a catalyst for epiphanies and growth as an artist and a human being.

This seemingly natural wordiness and inquisitive mind leads Marc to be an excellent conversationalist, beyond what we see as a smart interview or a top-notch journalist, Marc very casually and effortlessly takes his cohort on a ride through the depths of comedy, the why and how, exposing the truth and meat of every story. He typically starts at the beginning of their careers, taking a linear road trip with occasional stops to let what is clearly an interesting and very genuine moment unfold. We learn how artists, both well-known and practically unknown, became who they are at this moment, how familial, religious, political, geographical, psychological influences made a mark on how their journey transformed, how their careers evolved, grew or stifled, through peaks and valleys. Naturally, the most memorable episodes of WTF are not with well-known comics everyone already loves, although those provide insight and previously unknown information as well, but for me the interviews with artists I was either completely unaware of or only vaguely familiar were so pleasantly surprising and thought-provoking.

Marc has referred to himself as a farm-team comic, alluding to perhaps his perceived mid-level of success in the comedic world. Similar to some truly remarkable music, film, painting and other art out there, your level of value and success is often determined by your financial worth, your level of fame, the amount of twitter followers you’ve acquired or some other arbitrary measure of achievement. It should be obvious that despite this lack of millions, in dollars or followers, Marc and many other artists out there have been propelling some genius, unique work for a long time. And I believe it’s because he hasn’t risen to a Dane Cook level that he continues to progress and is now changing our world with such a special podcast. Sure there are certain “stars” he’s excited to interview or hopeful to get into his garage, but he knows more than anyone the depth of talent out there deserving of a conversation with him. The podcast has catapulted him to more fame, more followers, potentially more money, but he remains true to the club comic scene and to his objective as a podcaster.

The podcast has opened my eyes and delved me deeper into my comedy geek world, but it’s also affected my depth as a human being. I’m grateful to know more about so many artists I already respected and to have the exposure to dozens more I never knew. Recently, I’ve re-listened to episodes with those we’ve lost, Patrice O’Neal specifically. I cried, actual tears, upon not only hearing the news of Patrice’s stroke, but in particular hearing the sad news of his passing. These artists, and Patrice in particular, are as one of a kind as you can get. Him, Marc and others deserve more success than this difficult world has given them but they’ve retained their integrity and a painful level of honesty, disguising harsh truths in the most clever, wise jokes. They give me hope and courage. If I can be true to myself in my endeavors as a teacher, writer and human being, then I can feel less like a rat in the race and more of a success internally, and hopefully the external will show itself eventually.

I find it confusing and daunting to process just how important comedy is to me and the world. There are people I know fairly well, who I’d never wish any ill-will or negativity of course, but who’ve left for whatever reason and I felt sad for their loved ones and them personally, but held no sadness within myself. I’ve never met Patrice, Marc and many other comedians out there, but their impact on me has been nothing short of profound, and with the podcast, we not only get to know those we already love and respect even better, but we also remember them, honor them and have a format to share them with others. And that is a damn gift. It makes you ponder your own impact and inspires you to absorb more and to have the courage to influence in your own positive way. It is my dream to meet these artists and have my own conversations someday, and because of this incredible podcast, the bar is set high and I’m grateful to have learned and been affected by this.

This podcast has well over 200 episodes and is free, with many avenues to subscribe. There's also an excellent app for iPhones and Droids. I'll warn you, it's addictive, but in the best way.

Listen. Actively. Reflect. Laugh. Project. Enjoy.

A Buoyant Heart

I’ve been so appallingly fortunate my entire life to have been surrounded by good people. Even those dealing with personal demons still retained their humanity and their ability to love. Since becoming an adult and encountering different walks of life, while still fostering existing relationships, my fellow earthlings have taught me invaluable lessons, inspired me to tears and extracted an even better human being out of me, slowly. I think I was born with a really big heart, full of compassion and gratitude, but I’m also plagued with an overactive mind, that at times seeks to supersede my slowly evolving heart. When I’m with those of you who’re impacting me positively, whether it be family, close friends, Yoga students, fellow teachers, or those I’ve yet to know personally but the effect of your influence has stuck, I feel enlightened, uplifted, full, warm, and almost explosive with what I feel is a collective potential. I just want to hug everyone, it’s almost nauseating my level of happiness. Then, at times, in my off hours, alone, under the gray wintery skies, out of communication, when it’s just me, the voice in my head is louder than the beat of my heart. I have to remind myself to breathe deeply, to feel and hear the sound of life moving in and out and to quell the cynical, lonely voice seemingly screaming I am not enough. I’d say 90% of the time, I feel content, joyful, appreciative and full of love. It’s that pesky 10% that closes the door of my heart, brings out the inner and outer judgement, and makes me feel stuck. I scramble to interact with others, via text, via social media, via coffee shops, public transportation, via life. Perhaps I have difficulty being alone and allowing the love I feel the majority of the time to be reflected inwardly as well as out. The irony is how independent and self-sufficient I encourage myself and others to be. The truth is I need you. I need others. And just admitting that feels sad, but I’m learning to surrender and accept that and to do my best to give to you what you’ve given to me. And that symbiotic exchange and knowing will pull us out of the self-doubt, the loneliness, the confusion, the darkness, and bring us gently back into the light, the warmth, the support and the love.

Below is just a reflection of those moments where I felt my heart closing up again, the skepticism creeping back into my thoughts and the voice in my head sliding toward the negative. So often I experience such profoundly positive highs from the interaction with others that when I return to normalcy, I sometimes feel low. My objective during these moments is to bring awareness, feel it fully and handle it honestly. All I want for others is to feel the love I’ve felt and to feel that most of the time, and when they don’t, to remind themselves they will again. I’m so grateful, even when sad, and I hope the truth of who I’m unraveling to be is someone who has affected you in a positive way, whether it be subtle or more profound, through my writing, teaching, friendship or casual encounter. I wish you Love. Buoyant Heart

Sardonic, demonic Charred and scarred Black, bleak Enigmatic, mystique Enlivened by promise Distempered by lies Heavy and wounded Achey and guarded Prayers for amnesia Begging for mercy Laborious, treacherous Searching for light, hope Desperate to float Reparation required Overwhelmed by the task Progress out of necessity Please find the opening Relax, receive Uplift yourself Surrender the pride Love is worth the risk Go for the ride Do not drown You cannot sink Stay above No guard, no glove Exhale, release Have the courage to start Carry within, a buoyant heart

Two Films, One Truth: I AM & Life In A Day

Our bodies and brains do not recognize the emotion or cause for our tears, only the catharsis it brings. I love a good cry. And I especially love when this cleansing process is brought about after some epiphany or moment of clarity. This happens more and more to me due to the truly remarkable people I’m fortunate enough to communicate with on any given day, and because I’ve opened my heart more, I’m more readily in a receptive place to be moved and changed. Since leaving college and the structure of academia, I’ve pursued education on a much purer level, based on my needs and interests, not by some set of standards, requirements or recommendations of others. I suppose I’m a geek for philosophy and the more artful sciences, and therefore I seek out material that may ask more questions than it answers. The wrinkle now permanently residing on my furrowed brow shows my incessant inquisition and what I’ve noticed as I’ve slowly evolved is the quality of the question has changed and my need for a concrete answer has diminished. As a beautiful artist and friend put it “...come enter the world of gray.” I love and often prefer the very personal experience reading a book provides. No one is there formulating their opinions that inevitably make their mark on yours. It’s you. A chair. And a book. Sure you can discuss and analyze the details with others, in a book club or one on one, in two chairs; but I still prefer to read, recommend, and release it. People so often feel the need for their opinions to reflect others, especially those they love or respect, whether they know them well or not, and as I get older, and a tiny bit wiser, I realize more and more how each human being perceives each moment, each comment, each piece of art, is unique and special to them. And each of those opinions, perceptions, ways of processing information, are valid and meaningful whether no one or everyone agrees. In high school and even now I tend toward disliking what everyone likes, probably my ego desiring to be elitist or different, but if I’m being kind, I think it’s because of my very naturally inquisitive nature. And so it is always with care and even a bit of trepidation that I write and recommend passionately. And today I’m filled with such vigor for life, such hope for humanity, and such unadulterated Love that I must encourage you to experience two films; I AM and Life in a Day.

I’ve been seeing movies alone for years. Call it sad, pathetic, weird, cool, whatever you want, I love the experience of absorbing a film alone. It has the same quality of reading a book for me, material that I take in without the influence of others. I make up my own mind and heart. This is not to diminish watching movies or TV with others, as that is what I do most of the time, at home or in the theatre, but when I have the time and I think it’ll be something to benefit from alone, that’s precisely what I do. I highly recommend it.

On a chilly spring morning in Chicago, I went to an 11 am (before noon tickets are $6, I’m a broke broad) showing of the soul-stirring documentary, I AM. I’d read numerous articles on this film leading up to its release, and watched an interesting interview with the filmmaker on Oprah (yep, I used to watch Oprah, judge all you want). I AM is a mantra I sometimes repeat while seated and breathing, the simple act of being and not needing to finish that sentence with a descriptor. I am Danielle. I am a woman. I am Italian. I am blah blah. None of that is important. What Yoga and various introspective teachings have led to is the truth behind Being over doing or thinking. I am. That is all. This film seeks to not only point to this truth but also to put the power in your hands, recognize how you’re contributing to your world and how you can be fundamental in improving it. This movie succeeded in doing what is probably the main objective of any artist, the provocation of thought. What a mind and heart fuck.

I AM is directed and narrated by Tom Shadyac, the successful director of such comedies as Ace Ventura 1 and 2, along with most of Jim Carrey’s best 90‘s flicks, Bruce and Evan Almighty, Patch Adams, and the Nutty Professor. He has given some good to the world; to me, comedy is a gift, artful generosity, and aiding in laughter of the masses is most certainly a positive contribution. During his rise to success, Tom found himself acquiring more, more things, bigger homes, more cars, more materials, until he became slowly defined by style and somehow lost substance. He recognized no matter how much he had, there was still a void, an unanswerable question, an unfixable problem. A near death accident was the pivotal catalyst for his enlightenment, the journey to find his own truth and ultimately the answer to those big questions. The film begins asking what is wrong with the world, the answer easily pointing to “I AM.” We travel with him around the world, speak with experts on human nature and conditioning, see his awakening and others’ happening with our own until ultimately we ask what is right with the world, with the goal answer being “I AM.” See it. Let it open your mind and heart a little wider, and find the simplicity and power of the mantra I AM. What is Love? I AM. What is life? I AM.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IhKmlIXE2Xs

The other night I had a nearly opposite experience to seeing I AM, but only in superficial detail. Instead of being alone in a theatre, I was at home in front of my television, with the two greatest roommates any person could ever have, my brother and my man love. Three weirdos, one couch. We excitedly added this film to our Netflix instant queue after unsuccessfully seeing it in the theatre last summer. All we knew was Ridley Scott was involved and in order to make the film they solicited people from around the world to submit a video of their lives on July 24th, 2010. Hence the title, Life in a Day.

This movie is so rich, so dense, so full of beauty that I cannot possibly describe it adequately. Words are never enough, and without spoiling the experience by providing a boring synopsis or too much information, I’ll simply describe my perspective and my joy. This film has a pulse. It’s told from the perspective of the human race, from every continent, covering a spectrum of ages, races, jobs, families, lifestyles and points of view through out one day. It showcases in many creative ways the duality in which most of us live, through love and fear. What we love and what we fear ultimately predicate our thought and action/inaction. How we answer these questions affects our programming, our operating system and processor, and witnessing that in ourselves and others delves us deeper into fundamental truths and connection. Answering those questions through our genetic make-up and the circumstances surrounding our environment tells us everything about who and why we are, and if we could just work backward, asking what causes positive and negative outcomes, I’m fairly certain the answer lies in either fear or love, whats wrong or right, I AM. We are. I finished this film and immediately wanted to watch it again. I was spell-bound, inspired, shaken, and energized. It carved out a space for me to see what an incredible species human beings are and how there seems to be more good in the world than bad.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bT_UmBHMYzg

The world is an endlessly fascinating place. I want to observe and be changed by all of it. I hope to gradually and essentially be what is right with my world, the ripple effect being simple but profound. What is different is beautiful. I am no better than you, and you no better than me. What fires me up is the perpetuation of ignorance, the stubborn and hateful ways some speak of others, the arrogance and condescension inherent in the attitudes and behaviors toward fellow human beings, the cycle of misinformation gathering tremendous steam and clout without any validity or kindness. Questioning, laughing, conversing and eating get me through. These films are food for the mind, heart and soul. See them alone. Watch them with others. Share the experience. I truly hope you benefit in some way, at the very least enjoy what you may already know.

Laugh. Think. Inquire. Live!

A portal to my heart. A relief for my hunger. An adventure for my senses. The Athenian Door.

Despite my brain’s need to dissect, question, and analyze human behavior, I love and appreciate simplicity, satisfying primal urges and keying into my sense perceptions. I’m grateful to have all my senses in tact at the moment, but mostly I’m driven by taste, by flavor and texture, by bouncing food around each of my taste buds, challenging my cheeks and jaw by taking the biggest bites, chewing slowly, eyes rolling back in my head in sheer foodgasmic bliss. I plan my days around my meals, no longer satisfied by a handful of nuts or shoving a granola bar down my throat on the go (I never achieved satisfaction, just placated my appetite for 45 minutes), I must want and enjoy every single bite I take. A close second and a partner in crime to the taste bud is the often under-appreciated sense of smell. Many cannot eat certain foods, brussel sprouts, leaks, seafood to name a few, simply because of their sensitivity to the smell. Unless it smells like a plastic bag with 20-year-old farts I can typically get past a strange look or smell and give the flavor a shot, but nothing gives me more pleasure than to spike my serotonin with the waft of fresh, warm food. I went to the Athenian Room to use the bathroom and immediately decided to come back that evening for what was sure to be some incredible fare. I’ve never smelled something delicious and then hated the taste, so you know I was happy to find a cozy Greek restaurant not too far from my door. I love Greece. Greek people. Greek food. Greek drink (oopaa!). Greek tradition. Greek history. Greek bodies. Greek islands. I even love that silly romantic comedy about that Greek wedding. And I really love that Chicago has a Greek town. What I love even more is this charming little eatery is in Lincoln Park, a good distance from Greek town and therefore a nice walk or a short train ride from my apartment to their location, a splendid red door just under their unassuming sign, illuminated by the white lit trees lining Webster avenue, just west of Halsted. Walking inside that small, bright red door your amygdala is immediately overwhelmed by the most exquisite aroma. I swear I felt high, a beautiful head rush, pure nirvana and enraged hunger was now pumping my blood and diminishing my patience. It smelled fresh, bold, the musical sounds of crackling grilled meat and vegetables now translating into a smokey, succulent scent, titillating my appetite and lust for Greek culture.

Upon entering, taking in a panoramic view of the small but charming design, the smooth dark-red brick at your feet, the narrow brick archways bridging the foundation and the ceiling, the romantic lighting; I’m immediately snapped out of my slow-motion romantic in-take by a powerful woman standing at the curved, tiny brick countertop serving as the entrance to the kitchen. She is tall, older, confident and magnetic. For some reason watching her move and interact made me think she’s probably a dominatrix at home, not necessarily the image you want while trying to stimulate your appetite, but I had to distract my mind from it’s hunger and people watching with a like-minded soul is just what I needed. We told her table for two, she kindly said to wait 10-15 minutes and without taking our names she carried on, business as usual. While observing the diverse walks of life also awaiting their meals, I took advantage of the bird’s eye view we had into the kitchen. A few, hard-working men and women, standing over fire for hours on-end to execute impeccable dish after dish for the endless onslaught of customers on a Saturday night. I am in awe of every employee working at family run restaurants such as this, all pivotal to the success of their business, night after night, year after year, surviving and thriving through a long recession. I do my best to make eye-contact, smile, tip and give any extra nod of respect and appreciation I can. These strangers are a huge piece to my happiness puzzle and they deserve even more gratitude and admiration than I could ever give.

After twelve and a half quick minutes full of humorous observation, my curly-haired soul sister and I were summoned by our kind fem fatale to a comfy table for two, nestled in between elderly couples on a double date, a group of girls enjoying a friend’s night out, couples with children, and larger tables full of celebration and joy. I was immediately transported to the countless restaurants in Greece, Italy and throughout Europe donning their unique facade and decor, the heart-warming staff, the enticing smells, and the even more spectacular tastes. Each of my favorite restaurants and experiences throughout my life had their own unique quality and nuance, but all exhibited the same formula for success; quality ingredients, traditional recipes, genuine care for customers and an atmosphere that wraps all of it together in a memorable, soulful package.

I kept expressing how happy I was before I took even one bite of food. I loved being inside what I felt was such a special place, a place to be enjoyed with those deserving of good company and good eats. I kept taking deep breaths, almost yogic in quality, to fully fill my lungs and nasal cavity with that intoxicating aroma, so reminiscent of my mother’s kitchen, but again, with special, Greek distinctions. Opening the menu I was pleased to see a small list of items, as usual the focus being quality, being tradition; if it’s not broke don’t fix it. The Greeks mastered many things (maybe not economics, but that’s another issue for the EU to tackle) and similar to French, Italian, Spanish, and the long list of others with incomparable feasts, the greatest restaurants stay true to what their ancestors conquered long before preservatives and the creative ways we fuck up perfectly stunning food more than a million years of evolution brought our way. I miss my family’s cooking and the tiny but powerful individually owned restaurants in Europe, but living in Chicago and finding places like this quells that yearning and sadness, bringing the smile back to my heart through the complicated conduit of consumption (you’re welcome for that epic display of alliteration!).

Now for the nitty-gritty, the important piece, the grub. I’ll say that I watched a few entrees placed in front of other patron’s seats and every single one made me green with envy. I’m not one who always wants what someone else is having. I want what I’m having and yours too. Give it. I’ll eat it and I’ll moan and roll my eyes with pleasure, sinking this visceral experience into my bones. I will kick your ass at eating. Not sure why I resorted to my old competitive ways but not to worry, I will not steal all of your food if we dine together, but we’ll certainly have a better time if you’re not a picky pain in the ass and you join me in the adventure of sharing a bunch of delectable treats rather than selfishly hoarding your one. And that is just what we did. We shared a simple, fresh Greek salad, full of savory kalamata olives, smooth feta cheese, juicy cucumber and tomato lying on a bed of crispy lettuce lightly drizzled with a vinaigrette. Accompanying that was a favorite of mine, Spanakopita, a spinach pie baked inside a flakey, puff pastry until golden brown. Seriously, so damn good. For our meal we shared another traditional Greek dish, chicken breast kebab, smokey and juicy, alongside some peppers and onions, on top of the most delicious Greek style steak fries I’ve ever had, somehow maintaining their crispy texture while absorbing the marinade resting at the bottom of the plate. In addition to that magic we also received a warm, pure piece of pita (more alliteration, I’m really on it today), with tzatziki sauce. I took some baklava home and was again pleasantly surprised, as that is not only one of my favorite desserts, but a challenging one to make and therefore rare to find in quality. I left somehow happier than I went in, having had excellent conversation and equally fantastic mastication.

It is very important I mention what an unbelievable deal this place is. We ate like queens, each taking something extra to go, all totaling $27 American dollars. I do believe you get what you pay for, but that payment does not just come in money. You pay attention, energy, focus, love and hope on things everyday. What you get back from the Athenian Room will far outweigh anything you put in. You won’t even be disgustingly full. Your experience will be so well-rounded, a treat for your senses, a snuggie for your soul. Go. Now. And then go again. They deserve your patronage and you deserve the experience.

Eat, spend, speak with consciousness. Enjoy.

For the love of DOG

I’m inspired today not by some feat of modern man, some impossibly delicious meal I challenged my digestive system with, or a piece of comedy or art currently playing in my mind. Instead, I sit comfortably on my couch with my pound puppy sleeping next to me, and my dog version of Bob’s Big and Tall at my feet. I realize how I rarely feel alone in their presence, and as much as I value and encourage alone time, there’s something about the company of such simple, pure beings, full of nothing but unconditional love and affection. They are far better listeners than even the wisest monks, are genuinely thrilled with your presence and grateful for your care. It’s not necessary for me to harp on about the value dogs play in our society, from the numerous therapeutic effects, a successful part in the rehabilitation of prisoners, their ability to lead the blind, detect a seizure, or the instinct honed to determine if your blood sugar is low; each of these monumental endeavors proven to enhance and save lives. I don’t need to recount the plethora of human beings I know who are alive because of their dogs. I can only pull from my experience and for this I speak from the heart, because my head is far too insufficient.

I remember the day I met my first dog. I can still see the crimps in the fur on her ears. I can smell her awful breath. I can hear her whimper from excitement as we walk through the door. I can see her face and body when she knows she’s in trouble; for instance, when she couldn’t take it any longer and ate the entire contents inside our kitchen trash can. I can see her swimming into our deep end to fetch a toy. I can see her playing dead, with her tail still wagging. I can hear her shake water off herself as she emerges from the pool. I can feel her nose on my face. I can see her lightly hit walls as a result of her blindness. I can still feel her kindness, her smell, her personality, her soul I suppose. Whatever that is, that essence, that light, that love, THAT is what God is. I had this epiphany at 16, after putting down Liza Minnelli (our nickname, not her actual name), and feeling heartache for the first time. I can still feel the crease between her eyebrows (dogs have amazing eyebrows, my current dog, Bear, has wonderfully expressive eyebrows) and that tells me all I need to know.

My dog taught me real love in a strange way, because all I’d learned from about 9 years on was that adults are flawed, love is fleeting and conditional, and certainly don’t count on it. My dog dared me to believe differently. She didn’t care if I got a B on a test, if I had acne on my face, if I had money, clothes, a hot older brother or something of value to others, she was happy to be in my presence, just as I was. I enjoy the cynicism that accompanies me through adulthood, it protects me against the total bassackwards pricks that frequent some streets, those potentially dangerous streets feeling safer in the presence of my dogs. I have the lessons that my dogs, Yoga and beautiful human beings have taught me to find my balance, to regulate, and to progress. I learned the lesson from animals first. Just be.

Being responsible for the health and care of a dog has forced me to confront my own mortality. You don’t need a pet to do this, you can simply contemplate your own existence and pontificate on death, if you wish. But dealing with the emotional and financial toll during an animal hospital visit is an un-welcomed reminder to engage in preventive medicine, take even better care of myself and appreciate my currently level of health. My pups are never as stressed as I am when they’re ill. It looked like a crime scene in my apartment and all Bear could do was lick my kneecap. He was happy as can be, blood escaping out of his furry sphincter. What a lesson. Chill out, someone will remedy this, we’ll find out how this happened (pork chops by day, twinkie’s by night?), and never do that again. Preventive medicine. I give my dogs their heartworm and I take my multivitamin and flaxseed like some yuppy drone. The way I see it, the fewer doctors visits, the better. No thank you.

My point to this pointless article is to suggest you spend some time with animals if you’re currently living without one. I know plenty of animal lovers who simply cannot have dogs or cats, for whatever reason, and their beautiful houses are missing something, that fur covered joy shape that makes a house a home. I’d be reticent to trust anyone who doesn’t like animals or dogs, and I’ll boldly exclaim (with plenty of evidence to back me up) that on average, pet owners (especially dogs with all the walking and playing and such) are healthier than those without their presence in their home, mentally and physically.

I’d even go so far as to suggest you could save the planet and your wallet and opt for a dog over a child. Harsh, offensive words, I know, but hear me out. This world is over-populated with a widening selection of not great people (there are many great, but that’s not the point), we’re depleting natural resources rapidly, polluting our air and water, and brains, and bodies, our empire is coming to an end so we need some fornicators to take a break and hold off on spawning until we’ve become the next Great Britain, home to many excellent dog breeds. Adopt, plenty of reasons to do that good deed. And educate, experience, achieve and save before you bring a child into your world. You’ll be an even better parent if you wait until you’re wiser and more prepared. You can work long days, travel, or be hungover as hell and just have a neighbor take care of them or leave them for a few more hours. Little frowned upon if you had a human baby.

A dog allows you to feel needed, responsible, loving, compassionate and worthy. And they shit outside on their own after a little training. Their instincts will tell them when to comfort you. They’ll never resent you. They’ll never live long enough to need a college fund. They’ll rarely embarrass you. They’ll never point out your failures, or blow up your ego because of any successes. They’ll only make you feel whole in a moment of real emptiness. A comrade in moments of loneliness. And the sound of their snoring will soothe the stark silences. Yes, you are buying into a tiny tragedy, it will most likely die before you do, but death and suffering bring about major catharsis. Through the scariest, loneliest and most trying times, I learned, I grew. And through it all was my dog, present as the buddha himself, playful and insightful all at once.

I miss my childhood dog every single day, if I think about her too long, I cry. This article, however playful and lighthearted its been, was difficult to write because the emotions attached to her death are still potent, she’s left a legacy even deeper and more impactful than some humans I’ve lost. I cannot imagine the challenge of losing either of my current dogs, as they’ve been with me since I became a we, they’ve grown into adults even quicker than I’ve managed, humbling me everyday. I find their hair in everything and instead of following that uptight, everything must be perfectly tidy and sparkling type, I opt to feel gratitude and joy when I vacuum their hair everyday and buy their food every other week, because they’ve enriched my life in an invaluable way. They’ve made me better.

Adopt. Walk. Donate. Love an animal.

Not this, that.

All I ever wanted was a relationship.Not marriage. Not a suburban family. Not a status symbol. Not something to complete me. Not something to replace me. Not something to sedate me. Not a ring. Not a wedding. Not a meal ticket. Not a steady. Not a political opinion. Not a spiritual leader. Not a father. Not a protector. Not a director. Not a roommate. Not a dead weight. Not a suit. Not a squatter. Not a target. Not a backboard. Not a mirror. Not a register. Not a trophy. Not a cheerleader. Not even a believer. I want someone to show me the world through their eyes. Someone with a different color in their sky. Someone to laugh with. Someone to chew with. Share a brew with. Someone who elevates me. Someone to elevate with me. Someone whose happiness diminishes self-doubt. Someone whose contentment inspires my own. Someone with whom to roam. A catalyst for courage. An artistic thinker. A fun drinker. An impassioned lover. Someone who uplifts my character. Someone to challenge my level of integrity. My level of humility. Someone to withstand my civility. Not two halves become a whole. Simultaneously two, and One. Second to none. Someone to appreciate irony. Someone warm to lie with me. Someone to patiently evolve with. I know what love is. I can smell it. I’ve seen it. It’s listened to me. Embraced me. Tasted me. It knows me. I breathe it in. Let it out. I know now. I’m free.

11-11-11: The beauty of ONE

I am not one that gives credence to superstition, astrology, or numerology. I’m fairly fact based, über logical, teetering on unromantic. Boy what love will do to drastically morph your perspective. I do believe there is no reality, there is only perception. And how I perceive the world, and days like today, changes depending on my current physical and mental state. I’m drawn to Yoga and the unique manifestations inspired by Love because of how it’s reformed me; a recovering cynic, someone plagued by their own expectations, the worry I’ll never meet them, and the vicious cycle of placing them on myself time and time again. Where will I be by this date? This age? This stage? This page? It doesn’t matter. What matters, of course, is where I am in this moment. And if in this moment, I’m corrupted by the soul squandering thoughts of disappointment and self-doubt, then how am I possibly affecting my world? Not well, or certainly not well enough. So, Yoga allowed me to relax, dip into the ooey gooey, lovey dovey parts of me I was too fearful to extract on my own, so I let people and practice do it for me. Like most of us, I place importance on uplifting my friends, encouraging them in a way I can’t seem to turn on myself. They of course give that right back to me, but why can’t we give it to ourselves first, truly, genuinely live by example, through the love of self? Intellectually I know I’m worthy of love, otherwise it would lead to a lack of standards in my external life, in how I allow others to treat me and treat those I love. And so I’m recognizing how relationships are teachers in the school of treatment. We get what we give and slowly I’m opening to treating myself how I treat others and how they treat me. I hope we all can do the same.

We all have significant numbers in our lives. I’ve mentioned in a previous article that mine is 22; interestingly enough a multiple of 11, a double-digit repeat, and a number more readily seen in the western world of digital clocks and a love of sports. 11 conjures up a mixture of emotions. Coincidence often predicates significance. Instead of placing too much importance on fatalism or these random occurrences, I choose to let them remind me to love and be grateful. Those reminders are never bad, never overlooked.

Perhaps the truth of today is the emphasis on the number 1. All numbers are divisible by one and when multiplied by one the result is itself. Many conscious beings on this planet, regardless of the deity they choose to believe or derive inspiration, adhere and adorn a universal truth: Everything is One, We are all One. It is in this vein, in this truth, that I write today. I feel more deeply connected to humans and other sentient beings today than I have any previous day, this having little to do with 11-11-11, and more to do with the epiphanies and revelations I’ve had on my journey to this point. Like a trek, climbing Mount Everest, I stop at base points to restore and reflect on what I’ve acquired up to now. Today is an opportunity to hold, ponder, breathe deeply while still, listen profoundly while silent, allow the past to sink in and the future to unfold while being one with presence.

I woke up this morning, unable to speak, frustrated for a moment and then empowered by other facets of communication. I will smile as I usually do and connect in the greatest way nature gave me, in a sincere recognition of one’s presence, a notion of gratitude and an inherent knowledge of giving and receiving Love.

I am One. I am All. You are Love. So am I. We are One. Love One. Love All. One Love.

Numbers mean nothing Sentiment is contrived emotion To feel deeply, let go To experience love, give

Where are we going? Where’s the value in doing? Significance is determined by perception Dream the result of conception

We underappreciate being Overappreciate speaking Disrespect stillness Negate realness

What is my real voice? Where do I belong? I am at once all and none You, Me, Him, and She. We’re ONE.

A thinking man’s movie about a thinking man’s game: Moneyball

I had such a tremendously satisfying experience at the cinema the other day, alone, just me and a toffee nut latte at my favorite AMC in downtown Chi-town. There was no sex, no violence, no romance. But Danielle, those are the essential ingredients to a good American film, how can this possibly be good? Because of Aaron fucking Sorkin people! Writing. Story-telling. A good film, television show and of course any form of literature require stellar composition. Many of us were transfixed by a film about Facebook because of Aaron Sorkin’s remarkable ability to tell a story through compelling dialogue. And while the Social Network also had the directorial stylings of Mr. David Fincher and the soul-stirring, story driving tones of Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross’ score, Moneyball develops and succeeds on good writing and good acting alone. I was spellbound, felt like I didn’t breathe or blink, until the very end. I loved every second, held my pee to the brink of infection and it was worth it. Whether you love or hate baseball, this is a must see. Let’s get this out of the way. Brad Pitt is only getting better, getting sexier, my god that bottom lip, I get angry being forced to stare at that masterpiece for longer than an hour. And of course the world is cruel and men get older and they somehow get hotter. That’s why there are almost zero female pedophiles. Women, for the most part, like men, not boys. Men, as we know, like barely legal looking hairless, fatless drones. Anyway, I’m not bitter. So yeah, still want to bone Brad, just incase that wasn’t clear. Mainly, he is becoming a better and better actor. You know he must have been one of the first Hollywood tried to Colin Farrell or Ben Affleck, meaning forcibly turning great character actors and writers into leading men. Of course they all are leading men due to their charisma and sex appeal, but for a few years they were all forced down the SWAT/Forces of Nature/ Meet Joe Black path and I’m so glad all three of those men are back this decade with some high brow quality shit. I’ll take In Bruges, The Town, and Inglorious fricken Basterds any damn day of the week. Since Fight Club (any of my fellow ladies and gay fellows remember his pants in that movie? I dream about those weekly.), he’s only gotten better, choosing interesting films and challenging himself as an artist. Despite his excessive level of fame and affinity for adding children to his family he seems to be generous, smart and giving the world the gift of his talent.

Ok, back on track, promise. Brad McHottenstein stars as the Oakland Athletics (A’s for those completely ignorant of baseball) general manager, and former player, Billy Beane. A promising talent right out of high school, Billy made the difficult decision to decline his opportunity at Stanford to go play professional baseball for the New York Mets (boo). We see how that decision affects his life as the story of the 2002 A’s season unfolds. And that decision now drives him as a GM and as a father with each choice he makes throughout the film. The plot develops and weaves together so seamlessly, without effort, leaving you emotionally involved without explanation. And let me just point out, this movie is not melodramatic. It piques your interest by giving you such rich characters to pull for and the dialogue between them is just eargasms. Couple that with telling a true story about a great underdog and how that tale made history and subsequently changed the game of baseball and you’re hooked, or at least I was. I will not regurgitate the important details of the story. It’s true so it’s out there already as a book, a thousand articles in Sports Illustrated and the like, but the telling of this story through film gives it the life and attention it deserves. I’m pumped, enlivened, want to spread the word. Go see it!

You cannot argue with 95% on Rottentomatoes and yet people still have the most appalling attention span. They need something to explode, blood to splatter, a boob to pop out, or some seriously extreme emotion from a character in order to be entertained. I understand and resonate with the need to escape reality. I love a good action flick, but still the best are beyond Michael Bay’s puny scope. We need a story, we need to be drawn into something, invest in a character, be curious what will happen next and concerned for the outcome. This movie gave me a raging writing boner. I was simply blown away, almost bummed out because Sorkin is such a maniacal genius, similar to many unmatched artists out there, whose skill level and creative brilliance cannot be fully fathomed, replicated, understood or ever reached. I just resort to being inspired, fueled to learn and become better at whatever minor level I’m achieving at the moment. My point is the majority of credible opinions out there completely vouch for this film and slowly the American public is as well. If you’ve yet to give it a chance or are still unsure of it’s worthiness, give it your first or second shot. I cannot wait to see this film again.

Besides diehard New Yorkers, and I love NYC, don’t get me wrong, I’ll live on that tiny island again someday, but beyond those with an actual reason to root for the Yankees, it’s commonplace to hate them and everything they stand for. The richest, most spoiled, ego-ridden team wins, again, how fun for the rest of us. Of course the Yankees aren’t alone, less than a handful of other teams are on that list as well. I won’t bore you with my opinions on the salary cap issue, steroids, or why this country has slowly lost its respect for what may be our best past-time. Just like this film requires maturity, intelligence, patience, and strategy, baseball does as well. Other faster-paced sports and games do, of course, but there’s something magical about baseball. The decision of one, during one moment, has a ripple effect on the rest, in a subsequent moment, as opposed to all needing to perform together in the same breath, the individual is a pivotal part of the sequence to success, just like a film. It’s no coincidence some of the people I respect the most love this game, even through it’s ugly periods. I’m slowly recovering from a football addiction and a love of hockey. I still watch and enjoy, but I don’t predicate my mood or invest any emotions in the outcome. It satisfies my ADD need for action every 8 seconds, for perpetual movement and change, but similar to nonstop explosion heavy movies, I prefer a game and a story to unfold at a thoughtful, intelligent pace, major conflicts and solutions arriving at the right moment, often unpredictably with pleasant surprises throughout.

I’ll simply say that this film restores my faith in baseball, sports and in the American dream. The dream is not about following this very specific path known to bring a narrow scope of success (doctor, lawyer, CEO=$). The American dream is about discovering your path to happiness, as clichéd and lame as that may sound. Your path may be a big family with lots of children, spending over 100 hours a week as an investment banker, singing on stage in front of millions, playing a sport, pursuing an art-form, owning your own business, or whatever you can fathom. The dream is having the balls and the freedom to choose it and stick to it, despite the challenges, in spite of the nay-sayers, and beyond all semblance of hope. Pursuing your dream in your way, not the path of least resistance, or the road to the most attention, more money, bigger homes, a closet full of labels, and a stadium full of adoration. You pursue it because you have to, something gnaws at you to do it, regardless of financial or pragmatic implications. I see that dream and that spark in many eyes, currently burning in the love of my life and I admire how my friends just live what they love, regardless of the current or future result. I’m doing my best to responsibly follow that course as well and a movie like Moneyball keeps my hope alive.

This film is worth our attention. I believe it will provoke thought and allow a dream to bleed back into our existence. Please do yourself a favor and enjoy it, and the likes of similar quality art and sport as well. Don’t make the easy decision, remember a great quote from another fantastic baseball film, “It’s supposed to be hard. If it was easy everybody would do it.” Let’s all commit to respecting the other’s chosen journey and being unapologetic for our own. If it imbues passion and love and hurts no one, what can be wrong?

Quality. Quality. Quality. Expect it. Give it. Receive it. Live it. Enjoy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AiAHlZVgXjk

EuroAmerican Swedish Yum Yum: Ann Sather's

I’m currently sitting slightly hunched (very unyogic in posture), fat and full from what was another comforting breakfast on a windy morning here in Chicago. As I walk the city blocks full of autumn leaves, now donning sweaters and my precursor to winter layers, the sting of this city’s wind at my face, I’m reminded time and time again why I chose to live here, the food. Sure, our architecture rivals other famous city’s, and those with shoe and handbag fetishes are sure to be satisfied here, but I awake feeling grateful knowing there is a warm, satisfying meal under ten dollars within blocks from my stoop. On this crisp fall morning, I sauntered a mere 5 blocks for some sticky buns and then some, at Ann Sather’s. Boasting 4 locations around the city, including their largest one on Belmont, also specializing in catering, Ann Sather’s has become a staple in warm, hearty foods, generous portions for a tremendous value. Claiming Sweden as its roots, each location provides a homey atmosphere and soulful fare. It’s delicious all year round, but given Chicago’s propensity for frigid, I am most drawn to Ann’s on those cold, dreary days. Eating here is an emotional equivalent of drinking hot cocoa next to a fire or eating s’mores while camping, comfort and nourishment.

I grew up eating my Grandma’s Swedish meatballs, just one of many meals venturing off from her Italian roots or her African upbringing. She married an Irish/Scottish/American man, so being the true culinary artist she is, she began exploring other continental cuisine in her own kitchen while continuing to perfect what she knew best. Swedish meatballs, corned beef and hash, or Swiss steak were always welcomed treats, special occasions, and they perpetuated a truth already engrained in our hearts and minds, the way to anyone’s heart and happiness, is of course, through our stomachs. And so whenever I feel adventurous I try a meal my Grandma had already perfected. It’s actually easier for me to throw down things like bone barrow and horse panini because my grandmother didn’t ruin me by perfecting it beyond comprehension. This is why I almost never order lasagna (a dish well conquered by my Momma), a long list of Italian and other ethnic dishes, and many American greats as well. My point is I suppose those standards are difficult to meet or beat, and so if I reluctantly try a childhood favorite and I love it, you can be sure to trust it’s damn good.

It was with that trepidation that I tried Ann Sather’s Swedish meatballs during my first visit. I hadn’t had my family’s in a while and it was one of those days where meat and potatoes seemed like the only remedy for my hunger, emotional and biological. I was so beyond pleasantly surprised, not that I should be, it’s a successful Swedish restaurant in Chicago, but I’ve been let down before, so to taste the familiar flavors and textures and feel simultaneously soothed by what I hoped it would taste like and also blown away by the excellence in execution sent me into one of my favorite states, food bliss.

Lunch and dinner are fantastic here, full of hungry man meals sure to satiate any craving and bust the buttons right off your pants. I’m going out on the limb and claiming breakfast to be my favorite meal at Ann’s. They provide 8-10 savory and sweet specials daily, including a mind-blowing mascarpone cinnamon roll french toast, let that one sink in for a beat...mmm, yes. They’ve perfected a slew of breakfast favorites with Swedish spins and nuances, burritos, omelets, benedicts; but their version of biscuits and gravy takes the fricken cake. It’s the best I’ve ever had the pleasure of stuffing into my all too active mouth. It’s a happy marriage of an eggs benedict and a traditional biscuits n sausage gravy, consisting of a flaky homemade biscuit, a delicious sausage patty, an expertly cooked poached egg, topped with the house sausage gravy. Most meals come with two sides and average around $10 bucks. Each entrée is so generously portioned and appeasing that it’s easy to share with a willing partner. You will not leave hungry or dissatisfied.

What has driven their success and brought foodies back for more is their famous sticky buns. I love a good homemade cinnamon roll, a lot. I even enjoy slathering that fake sugary strangeness on those rolls from the grocery store. The buns at Ann’s taste like love. Sounds like something a 600 pound sincere food addict says, food is love. But what I mean is I can see, smell, feel and taste the love that went into it. They’re special, unique, not a confusing mess, but a superbly accomplished process I couldn’t even begin to understand. They taste simple and delicious but so down-home, right out of the kitchen of my North Carolina family’s or some of my favorite pastry places in Northern Europe. I’d be happy to die drowning, stuffed like sausage, in a bathtub full of Ann Sather’s buns.

On this occasion we took visiting relatives and friends to the tiny spot on Southport Avenue, at the end of a long line of ritzy boutiques I could care less to afford, kids clothing, pet grooming, bar after bar, until a home away from home emerges just before the el station. I pride myself on providing worthwhile suggestions for restaurants or bringing the experience to you myself. I want to share what I love with those who appreciate and resonate with my enthusiasm. That’s all. To physically sit and enjoy, then see the look on others’ faces, the pleasure, the joy, the relief, is unmatched. The least I can do is encourage my fellow readers, however many that may be, to share whatever makes you feel this way, food, art, love, and hope you’ve benefited from mine in some way.

Spread the ecstasy. Explore your palate. Share with deserving people. Enjoy.

Occupy Your Mind

The past 48 hours the modern world has been unavoidably inundated by the horrific news of a certain faux celebrity’s relationship demise to what was the 19th love of her life. Was the relationship a sham? Is this really news to her husband? Is it possible she really is all style and no substance? Does any of this matter? No! Is any of this interesting? No! Are these people worthy of our trance-like attention? Once again, no.  

Before you assume I’m a hypocrite or some sort of liar or snob, know that I understand the need for guilty pleasures, I love and watch probably too much television and I can easily admit that Kim Kardashian and her excessively large family are ridiculously good-looking and apple bottomed. I’m grateful as a woman with junk in the trunk to see the fruits of JLo’s labor. The women high on fantasy lists today include the Kardashian brood, Christina Hendricks from Mad Men, Sophia Vergara from Modern Family and the likes of Scarlet Johansen, Beyonce, and other fuller figured ladies. Horray for heroin chic being out and eating a healthy meal being in. My concern lies mostly with the lack of substance these television shows and their characters possess. I’ve given these shows a shot, because a few people I actually like and respect inexplicably vouch for these useless half-wits and I recognize I should judge, watch and then decide if my initial prejudice was in-fact correct. Guess what? It was. These people are not only unbelievably vain, material obsessed and spoiled, they’re emotionally stunted and uninteresting. And most likely, they’re not even real.

Do they deserve to suffer, die or be treated horribly? No, absolutely not. But they certainly do not deserve the endless array of admiration, attention, undeserved fame and the exorbitant amounts of money they’re receiving on a second to second basis. They have no right to complain about any negative press, haters, or mild drama they experience because they bring it upon themselves and they’re certainly enjoying the excess so arrogantly projected right there in our living rooms. Any time I’ve been bored and standard-less enough to watch these pointless wastes of air-time, someone loses a piece of jewelry, gets a pimple, or some other meaningless non-event, inducing tears and melodrama and the most boring, bullshit conversation. It bores me, it angers me. As someone who knows a slew of very passionate people with an actual work-ethic, myself included, it’s frustrating to watch reality stars publish books and acquire undeserved success because of who they’re parents are or how much money they were born with. And there seems to be very little effort on their part to give back, give thanks, or showcase any semblance of sincerity and I’m over it.

More than my distaste for this mundane, brain-cell killer TV, is the throng of citizens who keep these idiots employed. Kim Kardashian made 65 million dollars last year alone. The rest of the famous for no discernible reason family acquired a hefty share thanks to our diminishing expectations and intelligence. You’d think Kim would be semi-smart or even shut off her selfishness for 5 minutes to recognize marriage is worth fighting for, especially one that tricked a lot of people into paying for it and watching it, over and over again, as the soul-less E! network tricks Americans time and time again into watching inarticulate drones move in and out of contrived scenarios where nothing actually happens but some manipulated problem is presented and subsequently, happy-ending is fostered. They’re worse than the awful romantic comedies piped out of Hollywood every other month because most of these absurd reality stars aren’t even working actors, or working at all, they’re phony label whores who can barely read, spell or articulate a sentence and yet are given credence to influence people through spoken and written word. Please stop listening, watching and reading (or stop watching and actually read something worthy).

I was guilty of being a drone, a sheep, of avoiding reality and delving into this fictional sense of a wannabe life on reality TV. I woke up. Watching people less intelligent and less evolved than you should not make you feel better. We should feel like brainwashed, lazy robots for investing any energy or time on people and material disproportionate to what we deserve and what we’re capable. You want drama? Watch college sports. Watch Mad Men, Breaking Bad, Boardwalk Empire. Bring in some levity to the downright and depressing state this country is in and watch comedy. I’ll even recommend the broad stroke predictable humor pervasive on CBS and ABC over the exaggerated buffoonery exhibited on E! and MTV. Expect more out of your brain and your life. We’re all dying, don’t waste what time you have, you’ll probably live longer if you sit in front of the blank screen watching, listening and absorbing nothingness. Not to be self-righteous, but we should also think about what this is teaching the younger generations. We have girls wanting to get pregnant on purpose! They derive their identity by the label at the bottom of their shoes, on the sides of their handbags, rather than the unique characteristics of their minds and hearts. I want more for my friends and for my nieces and nephews.

I’m not writing all of this to make anyone feel bad, mostly I write about positive subjects, experiences and art I want to share, passion and enthusiasm for life and my personal revelations and lessons while in it. I have a lifetime of learning and improving to do and while I do appreciate and understand the need to shut-down at the end of the day and let go of thinking and doing, I maintain that need can be fulfilled with substance, depth. Comedy. This is what comedy is for, shedding light on an otherwise dark, heavy existence. It requires great mental acuity, keen perception and a depth of understanding unmatched by any art form and certainly any reality show.

There’s a reason we’re not surprised when these people fail, in relationships or other aspects, because they’ve built on their negativity, given nothing of value to the world and operate with a sense of entitlement. I fully support our country’s right to protest and their frustration with our government and the world’s dysfunction. I’m also privy to a great secret. My level of happiness is within my control. No I cannot help the fact that there are 5 people applying for each single job and I cannot change the fact that Wall Street took our billions of tax dollars as a bail out and managed to spend it unwisely. I also cannot change the fact that many people occupying the airwaves and the New York Times Bestsellers list have not earned this success or even read an entire book. What I can control is what I absorb and how I react. What I absorb is inspiring me, opening me, and improving me. I will apply for 50 jobs, online, door to door, over the phone and in the mail. I will save my money where I can and spend it at worthy establishments. I will feed my body, my mind and my soul with substance, not wolves in sheep’s clothing, chemically built food, hyper-produced shows aiming to resemble life, and not people who are unimaginative, unkind, unfunny, and ultimately un-evolved.

The reason we’re in this current state of humanity is because we are unconscious, unable to get a real grip on actuality, on genuine reality, so we insist on living the status quo, expecting mediocrity from our government, our jobs, and our entertainment. Change begins with us. Adjust small habits. Expect more out of what you ingest, physically and mentally. Turn the monotony off and turn your better self on. We all deserve more, we certainly expect more and assume we’re entitled to more. Instead of demanding or complaining, let’s command it with our action, earn it. Let every aspect of our lives be worthy and reflective of the quality imbued in our expectations, in our American dream.

The occupy movement starts with us, in our minds, hearts and living rooms. Raise the barometer on even your guilty pleasures. Have quality fun. Keep only the best, most encouraging company and don’t be afraid to make adjustments to align yourself with what you really desire. Revise your standards, your dreams, the details that encompass your life, and try not to let doubt or fear obstruct your presence and your future.