Empty Mind

Have you ever tried to sit in the lotus position? It's not easy. In fact, it hurts. I would think that even for people who are in shape, prolonged exposure to this pose would become uncomfortable. I suppose it would be bearable if you were enjoying a Bell's Two-Hearted Ale or a Penguins hockey game, at least for awhile. But zazen is usually practiced in front of a wall. That's right. With head slightly bowed, eyes barely open, and slow, measured breathing, the dedicated Zen Buddhist is able to confront himself, to see himself and be aware of himself in the most pure form available. I never imagined that true enlightenment could be obtained by staring at a wall. Yet, the practitioners of Zen Buddhism tell us that this daily practice is absolutely essential to one's spiritual well-being.

Do you pray? And if you do, how do you do it? And to whom do you pray? I don't think I'm speaking out of turn when I say that the Zen Buddhists don't really consider zazen to be "praying". It's more of a natural daily exercise that allows you to face yourself without any inhibitions or illusions. But "prayer"...that act of closing your eyes and speaking to a being that is above or beyond you...has always fascinated me. And I'm equally fascinated about the fact that I know so very little about it.

I was raised as a Roman Catholic. I spent 8 years in a Catholic grade school, 4 years in a Catholic high school, and three years in a Catholic seminary. I was surrounded by the idea and the act of prayer. I was taught prayers from a very early age and I figured that I had a reasonably good handle on what praying was supposed to be. Then, in seventh grade, I met Sister Dorothy. She was a bit of a rogue. She liked to twirl her rosary beads around when she lectured in front of the class. Sometimes after class she would talk about sports, as well as about her former boyfriends. Luckily, she spared us the intimate details. She also liked to talk about prayer. One day she asked, "Matthew, what do you pray for?" I had never been asked that before, and I felt a bit uneasy talking about prayer and other spiritual matters outside of the confessional box. I mentioned that I prayed for my family and that I asked God to make sure that nothing harmed them. I neglected to mention to her that I sometimes prayed for the Cleveland Indians, especially when they played the Yankees, although it never seemed to help. Then she said, "Prayer is conversation with God. One doesn't just have to ask for things in prayer. Tell God how your day turned out. Express your satisfaction to him when something goes well for you. And if you're angry with him, tell him that you're angry with him." Tell God I'm angry? Are you nuts? But, realistically, I had never really looked at prayer as "conversation". Prayer was "supplication by rote", and I was pretty good at it, or so I thought. Heck, I could even mimic the priest's prayers at Mass during the Eucharistic Prayer.

It wasn't until I went to the seminary that I really began to be exposed to other methods and techniques regarding prayer. It was the time that I first encountered people who were interested in the practices of the Byzantine Church. And it was also the time when I was first introduced to Zen and the practice of zazen. We were required to have what is known as a "spiritual director", a priest, nun, or brother whom we would meet with on a regular basis to discuss...prayer. This is also the time when I realized how truly infantile my approach to prayer was, and still is. I remember being quite embarrassed during those first few sessions with my spiritual director, Fr. Joseph Hendricks. Father Joe was a priest who practiced what we liked to call "rugged individualism". He disciplined himself to get up every morning to run 5 miles. He would only allow himself to have a half-cup of coffee. And he favored long periods of prayer and reflection. He was a fan of the "Ignatian Method", the spiritual exercises of St. Ignatius of Loyola and those practiced by many Jesuits. He would ask me if I had read the various suggested readings that he would supply regarding the "Method". But the Ignatian exercises bored me. I told him of my interest in mysticism and Zen koans, but he would have none of it. I suppose he figured I wasn't a good candidate for "rugged individualism".

Years after the seminary, I'm still perplexed at the embryonic state of my prayer life. Since those days in Columbus, I've dabbled in a variety of spiritual exercises, but I always come back to those words from Sister Dorothy about "conversing with God". I try, but logic wins out and I convince myself that this supreme being has better things to do with His or Her time than to hear about my day. Then, I force myself to try zazen, but sometimes I find the act of being with myself in front of a blank wall for thirty minutes absolutely frightening. So, unfortunately, I end up simply reading about prayer and meditation, when I should be practicing it. I then usually revert to my old ways and do a good deal more "asking". I ask Him to protect me, to help us sell our house, to gain more clients for the business, and to help in the decision-making process. Then, after the supplications are over, I feel embarrassed for not having a more complex and educated method regarding my conversation with the Divine. Depression generally ensues.

So between my petitions, I'm back to staring at the wall. After multiple failures, I'm still intrigued about this seemingly simple task of spending 30 minutes with myself doing nothing, thinking nothing. And even if it isn't technically "prayer", it's better to try to do it than to merely read about doing it. And after about 15 minutes, your knees are so numb that you actually don't feel the pain. Now that's rugged individualism!

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* Why not grab your favorite beverage, cop a squat, and groove to some DEMOS at www.mattmultimedia.com

This is your Captain speaking...

I don't like take-offs. Never have. Maybe if the pilot left the ground on a less-steep angle then I'd be a little more inclined to be able to relax during flights. But, I always have this feeling that the plane is going to capsize and I'm going to perish right there on some tarmac at Hartsfield-Jackson airport. I had planned on a much more elaborate way to kick the bucket.

It was a whirlwind trip last week. I needed to head to Pittsburgh to see my doctor, so I thought I'd go there via Cleveland or Akron so it would give me a chance to see the family. Mother Nature almost prevented this trip from happening. St. Louis has had record-rainfall during the month of October, and this huge swath of ominous-looking weather appeared imminent around take-off time. But, a break in the action allowed us to leave for Atlanta on-time. No lightning. No torrential downpours. No capsizing.

I find it interesting that airplane travel continues to be one of the safest modes of transportation. But, sitting there in my window-seat, I also realize that my life is in the hands of a couple of people whom I've never met. At 33,000 feet, there's nothing I can do to spare my life should something go dreadfully wrong up there in the cockpit. And if something does go wrong, I can't even have a final meal. Those little bags of pretzels just don't stack up as fitting culinary fare.

Leaving Atlanta for Akron, I thought of several more things that irk me about air travel:

* I understand the debacle involving obscenely obese people versus the size of seats; however, the seats are incredibly small! If I ever had the extra 49 bucks for the Business Class upgrade, I think I'd do it.
* Can the FAA put on the do-not-fly list anyone who feels compelled to tilt back in their seat? Talk about lack of space. It's an hour flight, people. Can't you wait to get to your hotel room to sleep?
* I don't like to check bags, either. It's annoying to have to go to Baggage Claim and wait for the carousel to spit out your luggage. But if a carry-on bag can't fit in the airport, then it should not be allowed to be brought on to the plane and attempted to be jammed in to the luggage space above the seats. Whatever happened to that little steel box they used to have that stated "if your bag can't fit in this box than it has to be checked"?
* What happened to all the hot flight attendants? I think standards are lacking a bit.
* If an airliner traveling at 400 miles-per-hour is headed into the ocean, is that seat belt really going to help me? I don't think I need it, really. The guy in front of me is leaning back and has pinned me in, anyway.
* On Southwest flights, I'm always in Group "C". And on Airtran, it always seems that I'm in Zone 7. Oh, well.

Even with all my incessant whining about the airplane experience, all of my flights were on-time and without incident. When there are no delays or cancellations, I suppose that's a reason to celebrate.

After renting a car, I drove over to Pittsburgh for my appointment. I miss Pittsburgh. It looked great! The fall foliage on Mount Washington was in full grandeur and it was a mild, enjoyable day, weather-wise. I can't say that I miss all of the Steelers' gear, but I saw equally as many people sporting Penguins colors, so I suppose that made it bearable. I also drove past the Pens' new arena, and it looks fantastic. The only thing I wasn't impressed with was the higher toll fees on both the Ohio and the Pennsylvania turnpikes.

Aside from getting a brief visit with the parents, I also was able to see my high school play football on Friday night. Coincidentally, it was a game against our arch-rivals, the Central Catholic Crusaders. My brother Mark, my sister Ann, and I stood behind the end zone and watched the game, which just so happened to turn in to a 21-7 win for the St. Thomas Aquinas Knights. I must have been "good luck", because we haven't beaten Central in 6 years. Because of the win, I allowed myself to indulge in a couple pints of Great Lakes Dortmunder Gold afterwards at Krause's. It always tastes better after beating your arch-rival.

Then, it was back to the airport to re-trace my steps on the journey home to St. Louis. A short, quick, but good trip home. It looks like we'll be headed home for Thanksgiving, too. So, the airline industry only has a couple of weeks to fix all of their problems. If some guy leans back into my space next time, I should at least get two bags of those pretzels. Or maybe a Business Class upgrade!

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* Why not grab your favorite beverage, cop a squat, and groove to some DEMOS at www.mattmultimedia.com

Those damned thunder-boomers!

So, there I am, casually standing at the bar in my Armani jacket, taking a long drag off my Dunhill, and admiring the complex malt profile of my wee dram of Laphroaig when she walked in. With wind-tusseled dishwater-blonde hair, lip-gloss, painted nails, and a provocative trail of Rive Gauche, she strode towards my end of the bar, her high-heels coinciding gracefully, or so it seemed, with the band, as they deftly moved through their rendition of "Blue in Green". She walked past me, brushing ever-so-slightly against my jacket, and moved in to a spot next to me.

Without asking, she grabbed my Imco off the bar and quickly lit her cigarette. She dropped the lighter next to my scotch, exhaled loudly, and exclaimed, "They do Miles Davis pretty well." I took a slow sip of my drink, pausing briefly after I swallowed, and looked down but in her direction, careful not to look directly at her red cashmere sweater, or the contents therein.

"Not bad. Drummer's a bit sloppy, but not bad."

This wasn't the first time she'd been in this place. The bartender had already placed a glass of what looked like pinot noir in front of her. Williams Selyem, I figured. Probably a '93. She looked like a '93. Out of a possible 100.

She took a deep, long drag from her cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray I was using, and turned fully towards me.

"You planning on staying through this band's whole set?"

I turned to face her. My, how I do enjoy red cashmere sweaters.

"As a matter of fact, I am," I replied, carefully, so as not to hyperventilate.

She stared at me briefly, then at the band, and then back at me. Crossing her arms. she said, "There's something more interesting to look at on that stage?"

I turned away from her, drained the remaining Laphroaig, and lit another Dunhill. "Do you see the microphone in front of the piano player?"

"Yes."

I exhaled slowly and then motioned to the bartender, pointing to my empty glass. "I bought it from him. And when he's done singing tonight, I'm going to take it home."

She looked towards the stage, the light from the bar bouncing seductively off of her lip-gloss . "Let me get this straight. You're being given the opportunity to legally violate the most voluptuous woman in the room, and, instead, you're going to opt to spend the remainder of the night listening to some pathetic Miles Davis cover band...so that you can take home...a microphone?

I slammed my glass down on the bar. "A microphone? No, hon, that's not a microphone. That's a Telefunken ELA M 270 Stereo Tube Microphone, one of the most well-crafted and most highly-sought-after microphones in the world! That microphone is a Lamborghini! It's Beluga caviar! It's a freaking Steinway! It has dual 1-inch, gold-sputtered, 6-micron CK12 capsules placed one on top of the other, offering three polar patterns per capsule: cardioid, omni and figure-8. That thing you call a "microphone" has a GE JAN 6072a tube and two Haufe T14/1 output transformers. Two! And you know what, hon? It's mine! MINE! I've waited my whole life for this microphone and as soon as he's done playing tonight I'm going to run up on that stage and...

BOOM!

...and there's my wife waking me up at exactly 4:37 this morning by whisper-screaming, "Was that an earthquake?" And I was, like, "What?" And she says, "You didn't feel that?" I stared at her momentarily, throwing aside my CPAP mask. "An earthquake? No, I think it's just thunder." She continued to look at me, dumbfounded. "I swear to God that was an earthquake. I can't believe you didn't feel that!" And as she was getting out of bed, she stopped. "Oh, let me guess....red cashmere sweater again, right?! Geez."

No, actually, it was a Telefunken ELA M 270 Stereo Tube Microphone again. And I still haven't been able to touch even one of those. Damned thunderstorms.

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* Why not grab your favorite beverage, cop a squat, and groove to some DEMOS at www.mattmultimedia.com

When the Cat's Away....

I went downstairs to the basement, opened the refrigerator door, and just stared at them. There they were, resting snugly inside their little temperature-controlled compartment. They looked so happy, content. The bottles of Great Lakes Commodore Perry IPA stood stoically in a row. Next to them, three offerings of Troegs Hopback Amber Ale waited patiently. And lodged majestically in the corner in all its voluminous beauty lay a 22-ounce selection of Hoppin' Frog B.O.R.I.S. The Crusher Oatmeal-Imperial Stout. They appeared to be solemnly gratified. Yet, I know, secretly, that they longed to be brought out from their semi-arctic reclusiveness, allowed sufficient time to basque in their new surroundings, and then have their contents carefully deposited into a perfectly-chosen glass. However, trying to strictly adhere to the laryngopharyngeal reflux manifesto, I sadly closed the refrigerator door, went upstairs, and rewarded myself with a generous helping of apple juice.

I find myself going through this little exercise several times a week. That's what you do when you're a craft-beer lover and you've been forced to endure over 5 weeks without a precious libation. It's also probably a good thing that Donna doesn't drink beer. If she did, I'd be harrassing her for the occasional sip, I'm sure. I've been on this journey several times before but always managed to find a way to eventually retrieve one of those lonely bottles from the refrigerator below. However, this has been the longest period of time that I've gone without regularly imbibing. Do I feel better? Not really. The LPR pundits tell me that true healing may not occur for several more months. Great. Three more months of staring at the 'fridge.

I've been a bachelor again, as Donna is spending the week in Tennessee helping out her son and his wife. During her absence, I'm always amazed at what a dull routine I involve myself in during the week. During the day, I'm fairly immersed in work. Since I'm not supposed to have regular coffee, I usually start the day by brewing up a batch of Teeccino. It's supposedly healthy for you, semi-organic, and completely caffeine-free... which means it tastes absolutely nothing like coffee. If the only thing left to drink were some black sludge in the bottom of a pot that had been sitting on the burner all day, I'd choose it first over my new-found concoction. But, in my attempt to stay on the program, I silently slurp my Teeccino while ingesting the day's top stories from Robin Meade and CNN Headline News.

Of course, the work-day is a mish-mash of various projects. Today, for instance, was quite busy. We had liner and copy requests from our client stations in Milwaukee, Greenville, NC, Richmond, IN, and Champaign, Illinois. I also participated in several auditions (none of which were successful in obtaining the gig) and some automobile spots for a small agency we work with in Nova Scotia. Between projects, I try to use some time for marketing (which is to say I send un-invited emails to prospective clients that invariably wind up in somebody's spam folder) or fine-tuning some demos for the website. Before lunch, I might lay down occasionally to rest my voice, where I generally fall asleep and dream about....beer.

When the work-day ends, Maggie the wonder-dog and I usually go for our power-walk. This past month, I've been doing more walking instead of running. I'm not sure why that is, exactly. I've been a runner (or, better put, a slow jogger) for the past 15 years or so, mainly so that I can claim an exemption from the sedentary lifestyle. I generally loathe it, though. The past two years my hips have really bothered me from the pavement-pounding. So, I started to do some research on running vs. walking and found out that, although running is probably a bigger calorie-burner, the cardiovascular benefits of each are about the same. So, I've been walking. Quickly. And Maggie has had no trouble keeping up (although I'm sure she'd prefer to run), so it's actually been enjoyable.

Then, the evening gets particularly crazy. I usually take a shower, feed Maggie, and then pour myself my nightly offering of apple juice. There are those times when I might take an unexpected diverent path and opt for cranberry-pomegranate juice, but apple juice has generally been a staple lately. The insanity continues when I grab my Kindle, put on the "Soundscapes" music channel, and read while Enya serenades me. I usually pop an anti-reflux pill, too, which really adds to the chaos. After that, it's dinner time. Yes, a sumptuous feast of broiled salmon, a few Tostitos chips and a bottle of water is generally enough to move this party into high-gear. When I can feast no more, I grab the remote control and really kick the excitement up a notch by... flipping through the channels with reckless abandon, deftly moving from some esoteric college football game over to a movie that I've probably seen a half-dozen times. Things evolve to a stunning climax when I blow out the candle that I've lit, turn off the television, set the house-alarm system, and casually put on my CPAP mask, typically falling asleep while pining for...beer. Now I know what you're thinking. "Does Donna know about the madness that fills up your life while she's away?" No, and I prefer to keep it a secret, if you don't mind. The less she knows, the better.

Oh, sure, I could turn my time of bachelor-hood into complete lunacy by, oh I don't know, raking leaves, cleaning the bathroom, or, God forbid, leaving the house and driving to the mall! At my age, though, I'm not sure I could handle that. With the big 5-0 looming, I need to conserve my energy, play it safe, make smart decisions, and not do anything that might put me on You Tube. So, when Donna forces me to become a bachelor, that's why I usually confine myself to the basement, where I can take occasional breaks from studio work and wander over towards the refrigerator and stare at the bottles for another 5 weeks or so.

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* Why not grab your favorite beverage, cop a squat, and groove to some DEMOS at www.mattmultimedia.com

Ya Gotta Do What Ya Gotta Do

A young student approached Master Dogen in the garden one day and asked, "What are the necessary steps to take in order to achieve enlightenment?" There was silence at first as the master continued to prune the flowers, and then, without looking at him, Dogen asked, "Have you eaten yet today?" The student seemed mildly puzzled but replied, "Why, yes I have." The master said, "Then go clean your bowl."

Over the years I've drained several Dale's Pale Ales while thinking of this Zen koan and have both marveled at its simplicity and been downright flabbergasted over its complexity. Don't get me wrong. We don't spend an abundance of time here at the Anthony household sitting around tossing out Zen riddles at each other when there's nothing left to watch on the DVR. Donna's more of a Scrabble gal, actually. But my long-time interest in eastern spirituality has made me very curious about the meanings behind this particular koan. And you thought finely-crafted ales were made just for sporting events!

Being neither enlightened nor a Buddhist scholar, my gut-feeling tells me that Dogen is fairly big on "taking the first step". Satori is a pretty tough nut to crack, so they say. So if one is to aspire to enlightenment, one has to get the ball rolling by doing the simple things. The boring things. And sometimes those things are the most difficult, as anyone who's attempted a diet on the Monday morning after the Super Bowl will tell you. However, I'm not sure the drudgery of convincing yourself to have a fruit cup instead of a cheese omelette in the morning is the largest initial barrier. For me, I think it's fear.

I've always wanted to ride a motorcycle. But I think I never learned how simply because I was afraid of what might happen to me. Or perhaps it was what others have said might happen to me. Hey, I'm just as scared of road rash as the next guy! Regardless, I hesitated to sign up for a class, but I finally did. And even then I canceled at the last minute, simply out of fear that I would fail, or crash, or be laughed at by some huge dude on a Dyna Glide. However, after watching numerous You Tube videos about the training class and convincing myself that I wasn't wasting an entire weekend, I joined up and I did it! I know, though, that having an M-class license doesn't make you a good rider. That comes with experience and time. But the scooter and I have done a couple thousand miles together and I now wonder why it took me so long to get started.

I have a feeling, though, that our friend Master Dogen was sharing with the young student something even more rudimentary than merely what it takes to finally decide to start a diet or go back to school or learn how to do in-line skating (my next journey). My guess is that Dogen was speaking of the tedious, ordinary everyday tasks that have to be done in order to accomplish anything...the "ya gotta do what ya gotta do" stuff. Hey, wouldn't we all like to spend Saturday simply playing video games or laying in a hammock on the beach. But the carport needs swept. The carpets need vacuumed because we have another Open House on Sunday. That giant package of toilet paper needs to be purchased at Sam's Club. And those bowls on the counter need cleaned. (or in our case, rinsed off and put in the dishwasher)

I'm not sure exactly why Zen Buddhism intrigues me. My interest probably started while watching the show Kung Fu as a boy. Sure, the fighting was great, but I remember being much more entranced with the dialogue between young Caine and Master Po. The gentle yet pointed way that he shared insight into the world around us seemed very calming and believable to me. Later in college, I was able to read and discuss Buddhism and other eastern religions with students who had much more experience with them than I did. (interesting, huh? Having the chance to discuss eastern meditation in a Catholic seminary!) And it was there that I realized that this seemingly simple philosophy required much more effort than I would have ever imagined. Sitting zazen and staring at a blank wall is, on the surface, one of the most mundane tasks that you can imagine, and yet actually trying it was one of the most harrowing experiences of my life. But I know that if the end-result is to be experienced, the baby-steps must be taken.

Ya gotta do what ya gotta do. It's inescapable and unavoidable. I grudgingly remember that as I approach the one-month mark of living the beer-free life. All of the pundits point to the fact that my acid reflux-demon will eventually depart the scene thus making it easier to do my job. So, I continue to believe them while taking baby steps towards enlightenment, exchanging my Dale's Pale Ale for a pint-glass filled with ice cubes and apple juice while I watch the baseball playoffs this weekend. I'll also have a clearer head, should the game get boring and I decide to ponder that "if a tree falls in the forest and nobody's around to hear it, does it make a noise?" riddle.

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* Why not grab your favorite beverage, cop a squat, and groove to some DEMOS at www.mattmultimedia.com

Blame in on "44"

There we were, sitting in a darkened corner of Shenanigans, a rather run-down-looking sports bar on the main drag of Belleville, Illinois. Donna had on one of her long-sleeved Browns t-shirts and her Browns football-helmet earrings. I had on my now-oversized Bernie Kosar jersey. The fragments of already-eaten chicken wings lay on a plate in front of us, along with her half-filled Diet Coke. I bounced the straw up and down inside the ice cubes in my glass of water, wishing that the contents could have been a beer. Several of them. Before us, one of the big screens displayed the ongoing massacre that ensued between the Browns and the Ravens. The carnage looked even worse in analog. You have to at least win a game to be worthy of high-definition, I guess. We left with 4 minutes to go. Driving home, I thought a good deal about the choices we make. And I could have kicked myself because with a little bit of prepubescent dexterity, the fiasco that I just witnessed could have been avoided.

I wasn't always a fan of Cleveland sports. My father was a Green Bay Packers fan, so early on, I, too, pretended that I was Bart Starr or Ray Nitschke. My dad even made us a lamp using a Packers helmet. But all that changed when I started watching NFL Highlights, the show hosted by Pat Summerall and Tom Brookshier. It was on Sundays at 11 o'clock, prior to the start of the football games, and I quickly fell in love with the Kansas City Chiefs. Quarterback Len Dawson was from nearby Alliance, Ohio, which was a good thing. But that wasn't the reason. It was the fancy offensive schemes and the strange huddle they used. Halfbacks and flankers always seemed to be in motion. There were loads of end-around plays and trickery abounded. Plus, I thought their colors were pretty cool.

This fixation with the out-of-the-ordinary played a huge role in the teams that I chose to follow as a youngster. The Indians? Who cared about them when you could follow a flashy team like the Oakland A's? I loved 'em! The "Moustache Gang" were a blast, especially with guys like Gene Tenace, Sal Bando, and Rollie Fingers. And I could have cared less about the expansion Cleveland Cavaliers when there was the always-in-contention New York Knicks! My favorite player was the one-and-only Walt "Clyde" Frazier. I would practice for hours his behind-the-back dribble and his peculiar jump shot. Yes, my teams were easy to spot and easy to follow because they were winners of Super Bowls and the World Series and NBA Championships. So what would possess a seemingly bright, intelligent kid to trade in all these gifts in exchange for the downtrodden squads from the city known as "The Mistake by the Lake"? I blame it on an autographed picture that I received in the mail.

In between playing sports with my friends, I decided sit in my room and draft letters to professional athletes requesting them to send an autographed picture. So I grabbed a handful of paper and started writing. I ended up sending a stack of notes to various teams and players that I had watched on NFL Highlights, as well as other games on television. And then I waited. And waited. Each day the mail would arrive but amidst the bills and other things there were no autographed pictures. Until one day a large, flat envelope came in the mail, a package that the mailman could barely fit through the slot on our front porch. My mother handed it to me saying, "It has your name on it". Indeed, it was addressed to me, and the return address on the envelope said "Cleveland Browns". I hurriedly ripped open the envelope and out popped an autographed picture of running back Leroy Kelly. I liked Kelly because I, too, had a shirt with the number "44" on it. "Wow," I thought, "my first autograph!" I grabbed some tape, ran upstairs, and plastered it to my wall.

In the upcoming days, I waited. No autographed picture from Walt Frazier or Earl Monroe. Nothing from Joe Rudi or Sal Bando. Zilch from Len Dawson, Mike Garrett, Buck Buchanan, or Elmo Wright. I was stunned and a bit bummed out. A friend then said to me, "Why don't ya just like Cleveland. Everyone else around here does".

Yep, it could have been avoided. But, no. Leroy Kelly had to send me an autographed picture. In reality, though, it's really all my fault. I'm the one who would later lay in bed at night listening to Joe Tait broadcast Cavs games. I'm the one who had to go to the Stadium and watch Rick Manning roam center field. And I'm the one who felt abject pain when Brian Sipe threw the interception into the end zone against the Raiders. The full understanding of my choices had not yet come to fruition in those early days. Why couldn't I have had the decision-making prowess of my friend Kyle in Nashville. His Cowboys have won multiple Super Bowls. His Lakers are the reigning NBA champs. And his Dodgers are on their way to the post-season.

So as I read the forums in The Plain Dealer and the Beacon Journal online, commiserating with other bad decision-makers, I think about what could have been...and I do find some amount of solace, even amongst a pathetic 0-3 start. The Chiefs are also 0-3. The A's will finish last in the American League West. And the Knicks are one of the most chaotic organizations in sports. The only thing that would comfort me more is to be able to sit at Shenanigans and watch the Browns squeeze out a win against the Bengals. That, and to be able to trade in my water for a beer when they don't.

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* Why not grab your favorite beverage, cop a squat, and groove to some DEMOS at www.mattmultimedia.com

Mean People Suck

As I was growing up in Canton, Ohio, there was a boy in our neighborhood named Ronald. Ronald was our age but he seemed to have a bit more "bulk". He was stronger. He rode his bike a little faster than everyone else. He tackled a little harder in football and he seemed to hit the baseball just a little further than the rest of us. He was also, well, more mean than the rest of our friends. He was the kind of person who would catch a bug, take a magnifying glass, hold it up to the sun, and use the bright, hot rays to sizzle that bug right there on the concrete. Ronald was also the kind of person that you didn't want to fight. Once, for no apparent reason, he flipped me on my back, thrust his knees down on my shoulders, and proceeded to pound me, hard, on the chest. Repeatedly. Being the pacifist, I writhed back and forth and begged him to stop, but he continued to pound on me because he was....just a mean kid.

That same feeling that engulfed us in the old neighborhood when Ronald would show up is the same kind of feeling I've been getting lately with many things. It's a creeping, enveloping sense of dread, a kind of existential angst that permeates things, not unlike some mutant, toxic form of The Force. Robin Meade gives me the bad news about more job loss within our economy in the morning as I sip on my Teeccino. Clients tell me of cutbacks, and guys who once gave me instructions as Program Directors are now emailing me asking me if I know of anyone to whom they can send their packages because they've been down-sized. Disinterested voices from insurance companies on the other end of the phone inform us that they can't underwrite a policy for us because of pre-existing conditions. But the feeling of dread is more than just recurring bad news about the overall state of things. Perhaps the general malaise caused by double-digit unemployment and the health-care debate has allowed some of us to vent in unpredictable ways. And some of those ways have demonstrated behavior that has been, interestingly enough, quite mean.

I have found the health-care situation to be both fascinating and disgusting. Lately, we've been on the "front lines" of this debate. Our insurance premiums over the past two years have been stratospheric, similar to A-Rod numbers. So, Donna embarked on this long, drawn-out journey to do something about it. What we discovered is what most people already know, that insurance is: a) really expensive and b)intent on not covering anything. Because we have been between policies, we've also had to pay "sticker price" for some of our prescriptions. $246.00 for a 30-day supply? Are you kidding? That's a piece of studio gear. Or 7 cases of Weyerbacher Blithering Idiot. Talk about dread setting in.

But even though I'm absolutely aghast at the price-tag on one prescription, I couldn't bring myself to stand there in Wal-Mart and sling a profanity-laced tirade at the pharmacy assistant. That would have been pretty...mean. Not to mention fairly embarrassing to my wife. But that's what some people at town-hall meetings do. Some of the footage of irate Pennsylvanians standing there in front of Arlen Specter screaming at the top of their lungs and spraying him with saliva was simply unbelievable. It's as if our anger has given us carte blanche to say or do anything in the name of protest.

How about some of the signs at the rally in Washington, DC last week? Believe me, I'm the first to say that it's our duty to speak out against waste, hypocrisy, over-spending, injustice...or just plain political stupidity. However, I found some of the signs at that rally to be outright vile. I didn't vote for Barack Obama and I don't toe the line on all of his policies. And as Donna will tell you, I'm not the most patriotic person in the world. I'm much more quick to point out our country's faults than she is. But he is the President and he does deserve some modicum of respect. Call him a Socialist? Fine. That's your right. Super-imposing Obama's face, though, on to the body of some Islamic terrorist surrounded my machine guns and ammunition is just...mean. And this rally, and others like it, have given some a clean getaway on expressing their own racism. I saw the signs depicting Obama being hung from a tree with a noose around his neck. That's hardly a protest about the price of Prozac.

Perhaps that's the cause of my overall feeling of occasional angst. The freedom and the anonymity of the internet has allowed us to, in a way, say anything we want, whenever we want, and, more importantly, however we want. We've dispensed with the "nod and a wink" and have gone straight to the jugular. We've traded in the deftly-written op-ed piece for a expletive-laced burst on Facebook. And the cleverly-drawn political cartoon has been replaced with an anything-goes sign at a rally. It's epidemic. Robbers just don't take the money; they also have to shoot the clerk. It scares me sometimes, and it detracts just a little bit from the feelings I have about my own country.

I don't think I'm the only one who senses it. The other day, a cop pulled Donna over because Matt forgot to renew the license tags on the car. Now, $75.00 poorer, I journeyed to the DMV, which, as any red-blooded American will tell you, is the perfect storm for volatile transactions to occur. I had spent the better part of an hour waiting, and the woman who helped take care of the "Car Tags" department kept looking in my direction, seemingly sensing my growing impatience. I kept waiting to hear my name called from her clipboard. Finally, she got to me. I must have had that "I-could-spit-in-Arlen-Specter's-face" look because after explaining why I was there, she said, "Honey, you just look like this is the last place you want to be right now". I chuckled and so did she, and while she was retrieving my new plates I thought, "Hmmm....someone at the DMV not being...mean? That's a switch".

So, I thought of Ronald today. And though I don't spend a large amount of time anymore trying to figure out what made him so mean, I do give pause and reflect on myself and others. Somewhere amidst the chaos and uncertainty, I wish we'd step back and dial it down a notch. If someone at the DMV can be nice, isn't there hope for us yet?

-30-

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