‘I’m going, to Sandy Hook okay?...'

I’m both asking my wife and daughter permission and telling them. Ann knows I have to go. Maitreya, in her own way – knows the same. Its dark out, night’s fallen. Ann holds me in a loving, stern look, says ‘Text us, promise?’, delivered in the concerned tone of someone who knows sadness comes in pairs, and doesn’t want grief’s twin visiting her with news of anothe
r, untimely accident.

But since the tragedy occurred, I’ve been of little use at home. Disengaged, absent. A cardboard cut out, taking up space, incapable of being fully dimensional. Until tonight, laying in bed at 5pm when suddenly I heard myself say ‘Go there’. It was the first thing that’s made sense since sense was lost to the blur of shock. I gather my cell phone, wallet, keys. Kiss the girl’s.

And feel Ann stare after me as I walk out, because she knows two very important things about me: 1. I have a big heart. 2. I have an astoundingly bad sense of direction. We both know she could walk outside in an hour and find me stuck in the driveway, trying to find the road. But thanks to GPS, I escape my own driveway. And I’m on my way.

I stop to buy flowers, not wanting to show up empty handed. I walk the aisles, and the enormity of what’s happened uproots me momentarily. I’m no stranger to grief, sadness or death. And I am well familiar with the country called despair in which they are located.

I also know firsthand, that access to that country is only granted to those willing to have their emotional passport stamped by fear, reluctance and heartbreak. I walk around the grocery store sad. As if, by acknowledging I will visit devastation personally, I may not return. I feel light-headed and look fondly at strangers from the corner of my eye – I may never see people again, and I’m taking in all I can before I depart.

And then I leave. My body. I don’t know if it's a talent, or a curse. And I can’t do it consciously. It seems to happen only when other people are under real duress. It's a kind of parlor trick for the sensitive. Our mind slips out of body like a naughty school kid sheds her jacket on the playground. Maybe the body can’t handle the emotional pain, so we leave – and do our work in the aethers sans flesh.

And probably, it’s why I want to be on the ground where people died. I want to extend the goodness of mind to the children, try and embrace them in kind intent, help guide them at a time when they are truly, lost. The only problem is, I’m still at Stop ‘N Shop. Trying to buy $9 flowers wrapped in plastic while viewing reality from an oblique right angle. Because the downside of consciousness-slipping is I see everything as if I’m lying on my side.

I fumble for my ATM card. But my fingers are like #2 pencils and after a few seconds of stabbing at the hard plastic I mange to spastically fling it across the counter. It falls on the conveyor belt. I make a lame joke about being spaced out. The cashier is from Heaven because she hears me say between the lines ‘I am going to Sandy Hook. My fingers, are pencils’. And without a word, swipes my card while I punch in numbers.

Interstate 95 gives way to the Merritt Parkway, which melts into a dark, single lane road. I ask my protectors to protect and my guides to, well – guide, because I suck at it. I also ask – myself – out loud, ‘what’s the plan?’, as I angrily turn on the radio and Stevie Wonder comes on, reminds me ‘…I hope and pray each day I live, a little more love I’ll have to give, a little more love that’s devoted and true…’ And right on cue I see a house with a huge white sheet draped over the door – the words God Bless Sandy Hook spray-painted in blue. I am here. The town is achingly quaint – single roads, charming stores. And police, media and road blocks everywhere. The road to the school is closed, so I walk the half-mile.

I pass numerous young Japanese couples, giggling and laughing. I pass people crying, a young couple arguing where to go for drinks. I keep my head down, ashamed with my cheap flowers and out of body delusions I can help. And then, I’m there. Or at least, as far as I’m willing to go. A memorial to the children, teachers.

Police are everywhere. I stand numbly, looking at the cards, flickering candles. Angel Wings, hung off the Sandy Hook School sign. But what stands me up straight are the stuffed animals. Plush friends meant to comfort, oddly atop hard concrete in dark of night where no child would ever be. What in god’s name am I doing here.

Media in every language, every country vying for real estate. A pretty woman with an intolerant Brit accent curses the ‘fucking crowd…’ as she pushes her cameraman between people for a live shot. A mother – three kids and husband in tow, walks to the memorial on stiff legs.

She has a bag of stuffed animals. She manages to take one out, lay it down, then collapses in tears. Her husband leads her away. Her teen kids, unsure what to do, leave the bag of teddy bears and quietly, dutifully follow. A grim faced woman shouts at her son, pulls him to the memorial. Where they turn and slap on big smiles while her husband takes a picture.

A young girl next to me sobs out loud, turns, apologies. It is a strange, uncomfortable amalgam of opportunity, grief and non-sense. I walk a few feet, kiss the plastic covering the flowers and lay them down. I am also sucking in breath through my open mouth, because suddenly it is hard to breathe. I no longer want to be here. It's a burial ground and I’ve trespassed. I would give anything to be sideways again, out of body. Unfeeling.

Like Dorothy clicking her heels, I’m now trying to consciously will myself away, ‘There’s no place like home…’. But it doesn’t work that way. Spirit, mind, consciousness, love…knows where you should be, and how you should be there. And right now, I could not be more sober, conscious or aware of exactly where I am.

Walking back to the car I pass people as they head to the school. Someone grabs my arm, a woman in her 50’s, two teen girls by her side. She shouts at me in a language so ancient its carved in stone somewhere. Estonian? Balkan? I don’t know what she’s yelling, but she’s desperate. She is imploring me and I cannot help her. ‘School…? The School…!?’, I ask, scared.

I want to both help her and to tell her ‘Don’t go…there’s nothing we can do’. I find a store, buy beer in a can. Find a dark parking lot, drink. And cry. At home, Ann says ‘How was it?’. And for the first time, I realize – it’s unfinished. You can feel everything there. It’s oddly still, but the air’s full of emotion and energy. Ours. The children’s. Teachers. You can feel them, amid flashing lights and camera’s and sadness.

It is raw and palpable. Bluntly touchable and achingly sad. And – if we are lucky, we’ll never whisk ourselves home. Not if home is unfeeling, uncaring, forgetting. But if true home is the place where we can’t help but hurt, can’t help but feel and cannot turn away from the sadness and need of others, then we are there. And we should never, ever leave.

Playing Cultural Catch Up...

I've been trying to reconnect to my Latin heritage a bit. Inspired by the continued increase of Latin / Hispanic participation during the last two Presidential cycles and the proliferation of Hispanic Oriented media, I've been delving into the culture via television programming.

Now mind you, I'm not the best representative of my culture. Beyond 'una cerveza más fría por favor', I don't speak Spanish. But - I'm a pretty damn good cook, have a predisposition to wearing khaki pants and gleaming white sneakers in the Summer and, will start dancing in the Dairy section of the grocery store if Tupac comes on my Shuffle when I'm shopping.

Buoyed by that evidence of my Hispanic background, I've spent the last few weeks watching a lot of Spanish Language TV. Again - I have no idea what people are saying. So the insights I've gleaned into the culture over the last few days are based solely on my own intuitive sense of human nature.

Last night I watched the Premiere Radio Awards Show. Or something like that. I saw the words 'Premios De La Radio' and my keen linguistic ability kind of filled in the blanks. Let me first say that you can't really limit what I watched by simply calling it an 'awards show'. It was and is, so much more.

In a word, what I witnessed over 2+ hours (Oh, believe me once you start watching it's physically impossible to turn away), well I'm not exactly sure what it was. As much game show as musical theater with a heavy dollop of vaudeville. Oh, and a spicy side of soft porn. Seriously. Oh yeah, because what says 'Awards Show' more than a buff couple in skin-tight underwear grinding on stage? Nothing, that's what.

Here's a few screen shots of the show I took on my iphone and some observations.

Yes, that is a guy dressed up as a real life Wolfman. He was engaged in a heated conversation with the host. I'm not sure about what, but there's a very good chance he was arguing against the fact the network has Gillette as a key sponsor. The guy in the dark suit and white tie simply stood there staring at the chick co-host.

Okay, this made me feel particularly disconnected from the fashion of Hispanic culture. I'm sorry the pic doesn't do this full justice, but can you see the Cowboy boots? Imagine an Aladdin type, toe-curled boot. With the curled portion fully extended. BOOM. He's singing a ballad here, but the song before, he not only sang but played an accordion.

Again, words fail where poor visuals can't clarify. But, can you see that his left pant leg is shiny? Pleather. Half of his suit was pleather. You can see the diverse inclusion of instruments in his band, including a - well, not really sure but some kind of half-tuba.

Oh, and every musical act included a minimum of 6 back up dancers wearing very little.

Before we continue, let me just say or perhaps warn that, I would not suggest you watch this show in any kind 'altered state'. It's already too bizarre. If one were to not have full command of their senses while viewing, it's entirely possible you could simply disappear into the show itself and wake up somewhere backstage wearing a rubber suit and holding two live chickens about to go onstage and perform your version of Hello, Dolly!. Onward.

Hopefully, a few of you doubted my claim to the inclusion of 'soft porn' at the beginning of this post. This wasn't quite the finale, but pretty close. Please note, the couple was not - how shall I put this, um, 'fully vertical' at all times during their performance.

Also, you can't see (but please believe me) that the male dancer had a very large, Butterfly tattoo on his lower back. At this point of the dance, he was getting her in position for an overhead-lift. Unfortunately, despite the fact he had wings permanently etched onto his lower lumbar, he couldn't get her airborne. They settled for an awkward and clearly, crowd disappointing, 'back hug'.

Well, that wraps up Premios De La Radio. Tonight I'm watching something called Mi Sueno Es Bailar - which I've seen twice before. I think its a kind of American Idol show. Last week they had a woman in a gold, skin tight body suit dancing. With a puppet.

Happy viewing and, hasta la vista.

What You're Made Of...

...sometimes you have to push yourself out of your comfort zone. See what you're made of. Especially when a mystery bronchial aliment that's apparently undiagnosable by doctors and pharmacists has you sipping breaths like you're trying to drink air through a straw. So after weeks of perennial grumpiness, shortness of breath and a bothersome cough, I said 'enough'. Actually, I said 'Fck this, if I already feel like a paper plate of microwaved crap, might as well work out anyway'. Grabbed my bike. Gloves, helmet, shuffle. My raspy cough.

Wife looked at me with worried apprehension as I made my way past her. Coughing. But like I said, when the going gets tough, the tough grind out a hacking cough like a fossilized barfly at last call. Game plan was start slow, build speed, finish strong. Cut my usual 25 mile ride in half. Knock out a quick 12 miler. By the time I made it to the stop sigh two blocks away I was exhausted. Not figuratively.

A fleeting image: me, laying next to my bike on the street while EMT's strap an oxygen mask over my face. I quickly deleted that image, turned up the volume on my shuffle to mask the loud barking sound that had suddenly replaced my regular breathing pattern.

1/2 hour into the ROD (ride of death) I was still in the game. Actually, feeling pretty good. All things being relative. A phrase that always cracks me up, because like, relative to what? Yes, I felt good relative to oh, a dying person. But relative to my normal state of health against which I was measuring my new lowered standard of expectations, I felt horrible.

But I refused to give up. I was also near hallucinatory and having a hard time remembering where I lived. So I decided to keep pedaling in the hopes maybe the Isley Brothers (who were on my shuffle) might drive by and pick me up. Which are the kind of recalibrated beliefs you entertain in the exhausted state of compromised thought.

Then, a familiar landmark. The Hill. Living up to the obviousness of its name, it is in fact, a hill. Good news is its not far from my house. So I knew the EMT's would probably only charge me for gas when they delivered me to my family. The Hill is maybe 800 yards long. The last of which are about 35 degrees. Uphill. My job at that point other than being grateful my lungs hadn't caved in on themselves, was to turn right. Towards home. And I planned to. Until I saw him.

Guy on a bike. Well, I suppose that described me. A more realistic and accurate description of him would be 'Serious cyclist. On a bad ass bike'. Had the whole matching outfit. And those special shoes that make them walk wobbly on flat ground like they're not meant to be on feet, just pedals. Lapping the less fortunate who must walk. And he just zipped through the four way stop. Past me. Past cars. Right up the first couple hundred yards of the Hill like he was a video game character immune to gravity.

And I envied him. Well, not so much him but the outfit. Very nice. And then, a thought. 'You can take him'. I realize now, I have to get the logic version of 'spellchecker'. If I'd had that, logicchecker would've done the math for me. And returned the sum of my flawed logic in an entirely rational formula: coughing guy on retail chain mountain bike, should not attempt to go up against seasoned cyclist on space bike'.

But probably because iphone and android are going mano y mano these days, no one's created the logicchecker app for me to download. Which explains why I turned left. He was already past the first 400 yds of the Hill, and into and smoothly handling the first 100 yds of the 35 degree pitch.

I shifted gears. Felt my feet suddenly turning in fast circles like a hamster on the wheel. I was 300 yds behind him. And eating up the flat(er) part of the Hill faster than a housewife and a bag of chips the day before a Weight watcher's weigh in. Pedaling fast wasn't a problem. Synchronizing my cough and my feet was another issue altogether. Faster I went, more I coughed. More I coughed, more it interrupted the timing of the foot thing.

But no way I was backing off now. Even though I'd hit the first 100 yds of the uphill part of the Hill and suddenly felt like I was in The Matrix. I was working hard, going nowhere. Cars passed me. Giant SUV's going 10mph passed me. The Wicked Witch in the tornado from The Wizard Of Oz glided past, cackled. Damn. But - I had closed the distance. Dude was only 200 yds ahead of me. If I could lean into it, really push hard, I could erase 100 yds, then go Tour on him and make my move.

Which is when I started wheezing. Imagine the sound of a giant garbage bag filled with air being backed over by a car. Which is also when I realized he actually was on a space bike. Because suddenly, he just disappeared. Looked back, saw me and just - vanished. I got to the top of the hill sometime later that day. Didn't see him anywhere. Turned around, glided back downhill.

Wondered how much those space bike's cost. If they came with like, a starter outfit?. Or was that separate? Enjoyed the ride home, even though I did the last mile or so in the back seat of a Cadillac El Dorado with the Isley Brothers, who by the way are pretty much as cool as one can imagine. We harmonized Who's That Lady? and Ernie Isley gave me a guitar pick to keep.

They dropped me off at home and my wife asked 'Who were you talking to in the driveway?'. But she's not really an Isley Bro's fan, so I was like 'Oh, just checking vm's on my phone'.

Yup, sometimes you have to knuckle down, man up and see what you're made of. I say, go for it. You may start out going one direction, but end up back at home in ways you never imaged.