How To Hit Home Runs

So fickle... Such a process. Life is as daunting as it is cool.

Understanding when you're successful is important and easy to miss. The desire to grow, progress and achieve can put up a miraculous set of blinders, keeping you from seeing the rapidly changing minute to minute.  Luckily success itself is a great reminder to stop and smell the roses. Understanding "The Why" is tricky to wrangle and requires focus to obtain. 

What makes one song any better than another?

How about one movie?

One government?

How about one god for that matter?

What makes a way of life the Right Way?

Why do some things resonate with millions, while others can't seem to get out of first gear?

In conversation, I'm enjoying a playful exchange with my father. The matter up for discussion is morality. An ambiguous noose around our collective necks making us feel bad for nights we had and thoughts we never asked for. Without even the decency of a nice dinner to reflect on later. We travel through several angles and points of view, neither of us attempting to "out think" the other. A verbal game of catch occurs on a topic that could undoubtedly become 

intense.

In time we arrive at this pearl of wisdom.

"I'm not gonna strap a bomb to myself... but I might beat the fuck out of someone for hitting a girl."

Perspective is more than everything... It's the only thing we've got.

An opinion about The Life Narcotic

A maddening sickness lies at the heart of my condition. 

I'm poisoned by the nature of blindness.

I take no satisfaction in "Progress" or material gain. 

I'm too broken tired and justified to lust for money.

I will not work for rest.

I want to be overwhelmed by my misfortunes; to toil endlessly in the fields of my own excrement. 

It never happens. 

I'm too aware of the simple truth of it all… I earn it. 

Day by day, hour to hour, second to every second as I lazily play a part in a broken narrative that our fair author has no intention of finishing. 

Were this a film we'd not rent it again. 

I don't want to be impressed by your wit or charm or even conciseness.

You don't have to tolerate mine… that much is clear. 

I'm watching an Ant crawl on coco brown skin. 

He is not planing for the day he has done enough.

To actually be in love with your survival, what a thing.

A voice coming from the walls shouts hard and direct… something about fairness and how entirely possible it could be. Give up the bag, the hang, the ammunition, the loaded gun. Find a heart inside your mind and fall in love with stillness.

I want to see you at the ocean 

smile instead of saying words

drippy

sap

words.

What's my opinion?

The atom bomb is the word

the truth is caked in vomit

uncontrolled 

on the walls 

under your fingernails.

How do you know if something's truly bad? You smell it. 

It would be rotten to blame people.

To blame decisions. 

Who in their right mind would ever decide against cold beer and BBQ? 

The sun is hot and trying to tell us something.

Stand still in the sand and burn

Burn fast and bright as hell

Talk less

say more.

I am looking long and hard for the American Dream.

Bisexual Biplanes and the bipolar elite

 Preoccupation is a terrible bother. A gangrene foot that if left unchecked will consume your entire leg. It is vicious, cunning and around us at all times! Anyone caught in the throws of masturbation as  a deadline rapidly approaches will attest to the gripping power of dicking around. 

{break for coffee}

 In fact even your loyal host is burdened with this terrible affliction. As I type this (my next editorial masterpiece) I'm skillfully avoiding the self imposed deadline I set for myself at the beginning of 2014. Twelve albums in twelve months… thats the goal. It sounds simple enough in sentence form but the really of course is much different. As intended the task is shedding light on a nugget of truth the deep recesses of my mind has been snacking on for years. 

I am an undisciplined mess.

{Break for email}

 Three months into this endeavor and again it falls on the twentieth day that the spark of motivation begins to catch flame. A panic sets in that I might not live up to my word. The thought sends riveting pain down my spine(is that my ego taking over the operation? Impossible to know for sure, i'll have to conduct more research). I begin frantically combing through the drips and drabs I've recorded the previous three weeks only to find that on it's own this is not enough to release. So it's back to the archives to try and find some moment captured when my brain was focused on the task at hand. Some beautiful moment of undisturbed creativity that will bring this entire mess into focus. 

The March gods are kind and I have something but how long can I go on like this?  Surely the well is going to dry up and I will be forced to use the time allotted for fresh ideas and hard work! Nothing like being faced with actual failure to make you realize how much you deeply want to succeed.

 At this point you might be wondering what any of this has to do with the title of the article you're currently reading… are you? Tell the truth... did you already forget what the title is? Well fear not brave reader it all comes back around in the home stretch.

{Break for Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and Facebook}

 The title of this article is simply a witty reference to a bunch of white noise gobbledygook I've run into these last 30 days. You see, while I've been perfecting the art of procrastination I've gathered a startling amount of information about missing planes and the veracious appetite the news media has for unique stories (BREAKING NEWS! We have no further information), I've seen through the ruse of a Want-To-Be porn star posing as a University student fallen on hard times and between the latest slutty pop tart gossip and the fake deaths of character actors I have gained knowledge, spent time and energy on all this nonsense without so much as an attempt to acquire any of it. 

I had a heart felt conversation with a good friend recently about his need to be medicated… it's a wonder we all aren't at this point. 

In truth, we mastered the art form of distraction long before the modern era of comfort and technological dopamine. If you took it all away in the blink of an eye you'd most likely find me laying on a patch of grass staring up at the clouds thinking wonderful thoughts about the way she moved in that dress and the smell she left behind. 

This life is a stroll and we're all patiently waiting for the last minute to arrive. 

We use the extremes in life to motivate us. The words "have to" get thrown around like a mantra when in fact they most often are an excuse to do what we want in that moment. It's hard work… all of it. 

Being efficient

Being a mess

Being punctual

Sleeping in

Getting laid

Getting sober

Cleaning up

Being a slob

Getting angry

Finding joy

The excuse of linear time is only going to hold up for so long. We are not our age, we are not beholden to a series of events. Focus on a single thought today, for a minute or ten or even an hour if you can and I will do the same. Finish something you've had on your mind and bask in the glow of a job well done. Log out of all your accounts and count the time it takes to log back in tomorrow. Leave the TV off and take the battery out of your phone. It will all be waiting for you when you need a fix.

Now enough of this distraction… I've got an album to finish.

The Musician and The Officer

Friday January 3rd 2014 approximately 1:15 am 

Two people remain in the front car of a Coney Island bound D Train, One A 6'2 Caucasian NYPD officer, the other… me … A 5'2" Puerto Rican rock musician with a missing front tooth and slight limp. Positioned at opposite ends of the car for 3 or 4 stops the thought of passing up this opportunity becomes ridiculous. I do what any forward thinking fearless (slightly drunk) freedom fighter would, I rise from my seat and begin to walk across the train. 

The first seconds are tense. As I approach his posture stiffens, instinctively his hand lowers to his pistol, it's subtle… he's trained for this but I have instincts of my own. I crack a smile and relax my shoulders throwing up my right hand as if I was flagging down my cousin across the street. I say "good evening" and the conversation begins.

"Officer, I'm sorry to bother you but I was wondering if I could ask you a question, You see, I'm a professional musician and one of the primary skills necessary in my work is to facilitate a connection between the audience and the art, with that in mind I couldn't help but notice how tense this car got when you stepped on, what I was wondering was in your experience what is the best way for a civilian like myself to engage an officer in a humanistic way?"

I was met with a blank stare…

"You mean like, talk?" He said simply, in a heavy, defensive captain of the high school team cadence.

"Yes! Exactly, how do we get past being fearful of each other?"

He paused for a second to think it over.

"The way you just did."  He said "Most times you see us and think something is bad but we aren't bad."

It was a simple answer with simple wisdom. A strange feeling came between us in this moment, we both knew I was the more "Intelligent" "Articulate"  perhaps even "Educated" person and he let out an honest revelation.

"If you didn't come talk to me I would have thought you were trouble."

"is it the outfit?"

"A few things, you were moving a lot and singing to yourself, you've got weird drawings on your pants… you don't look like other people and it's late"

"Fair enough, It should be easier than this shouldn't it?"

"What happened to your leg?"

"Cerebral Palsy, I've been like this my whole life. This is my stop sir, thank you very much for talking with me"

"Take care of yourself."

"Stay safe."

"Thank you."

As the doors closed and the train sped away I looked out to the other end of the platform at the staircase. It seemed so far away but I knew that reaching it would be as simple as walking, something of course thats never been all that simple for me. I put my head down and trudged forward through the slushy mud that New York City snow becomes. I'm sure it was cold on the walk home but I didn't feel it. We were humans together, that Cop and I. I got the distinct feeling that we both wished that happened more often.

Major League Baseball : My Jilted Lover

Baseball is an honest game. 

It makes heroes out of men who fail most of the time and titans out of those who get it done when it counts. Errors are counted among its many stats and arguing is allowed… so long as you don't take it too far. Like anything real the game has obvious flaws, but on a good day in mid July you can watch nine players perform with such staggering efficiency that it almost seems choreographed.

My love affair started as most do… with a terrible shellacking I was not at all prepared for. 

The Toronto Blue Jays were in town to play the hometown Yankees and I was there! Live, In Color, On The First Base Line. A young boy of eight years really can't ask for more than that. My memories are sketchy on the details but vibrant for so many little things. 

I remember the stark contrast of the bright green grass and the almost water color sky. The smell of hot dogs and popcorn as loud jolts of music signaled ancient tribal traditions such as pounding out rhythms or yelling CHARGE! I remember the look on my fathers face as Donnie Baseball took his position. First Base. Instantly I could tell he was different then the others. He projected a calm understanding, unfazed by the spectacle that was going on all around him. I had a feeling he would do something special that day.

The Jays jumped out early. These were the days before Joe Torre, Derek Jeter, and Andy Pettitte would lead a renaissance deserving of the winningest franchise in the history of team sports. Within three innings the score was a lopsided Football game and I got my first taste of what losing does to enthusiasm. Fans headed for the exits in greater numbers as each inning passed and the feverish din surrounding the first pitch had been replaced with the dull hum you feel after a terrible argument at the dinner table.

That's when the magic happened.

Don Mattingly stepped to the plate and in a moment I could only describe as art, belted a colossal Home Run into the upper deck in right field. It made no impact on the final score, the loss was already in the bag. That didn't matter. It was the purpose with which Donnie stepped up to that plate, the lions will to give us something to cheer about that stayed with me. I had a smile on my face a mile wide that train ride back to Brooklyn. I was in love and it was pure.

Over the years I've been blessed to see over a hundred games at Yankee Stadium. Many of them classics. 

I was in the house with my estranged mother the day David Wells pitched his perfect game. I remember looking at my mom in the seventh inning… neither of us said a word. I thought to myself "any dame who knows to keep her mouth shut with Zeros On The Board can't be ALL bad". The healing had begun. 

Some games have a more individual significance such as seeing David Cone pitch for the last time (in a Red Sox uniform of all things!) or the night Barry Bonds finally passed Don Mattingly for the longest (and loudest) Home Run my eyes ever witnessed in my beloved ballpark. I was sitting on the third base line with Uncle Izzi, my most frequent companion at the House That Ruth Built, on my 15th birthday when Armando Benitez put a high heater in between Tino Martinez's shoulder blades inciting a full out war the likes of which I've not witnessed since. The sight of 6'8" reliever Grahm Loyd sprinting out from the bullpen to throw hands with a reserve first basemen is something special to behold. Bernie Williams would step to the plate following the fracas and on the first pitch deliver a game tying Home Run that still ranks as my favorite live sports experience.

Sadly over the last decade this stable of wonderful memories has been replaced with something seedy. A layer of dirt and grime has caked over the serene days of my youth. I've watched in horror as the Noble Titans I loved as a boy have been replaced by mouth breathing politicians. Speaking in polished sound bites, they give nothing as they take all they can get. I won't name any names… I'm sure you dear reader have a few lined up in your head already. I've steadily watched less and less as the years have gone by. It's easy to fall out of love with such greed and shameful buck passing. Yet in the back of my mind and deep in my heart I figured one day i'd return to my beautiful love and she'd take me strongly in her arms again, I would not remember feeling any of that terrible pain.

All that is over now.

No more dreaming.

Next season the MLB is outlawing collisions at Home Plate. Committing the most cardinal sin possible in sport… the removal of instinct. 

This is it… The Final Straw

All the hook slides in the world won't replace the sheer majesty of a split second decision in which the good of the many outweighs the safety of a man. It's a benevolent play full of self sacrifice. Loud, beautiful and telling of a teams desire to win. I have no room in my heart for a game that requires compromise. It is indeed time to move on.

All i'm left with now is Hockey, the last bastion of Team Sports. Try as the NHL might to water it down for the ESPN generation, Hockey remains a game in which grown men mercilessly grind each other to dust for seven games, knock teeth out with furious right hooks and when its all said and done, line up to shake hands… like men.

I'll miss you Baseball. You were my first love. You taught me everything I know about passion. Maybe we'll see each other on a crowded street sometime. You know me, always up for one last shag. Know that I'm always rooting for you and that I'm forever grateful.

But for now my darling this is truly goodbye.

Shock and Awe in the tabloid press

Good Evening. 

Today marks the start of a new era for this humble blog. Until now this space has been a sort of abstract personal journal. It's been A reference point for me on the journey through my own mind but that's all over now. 

This afternoon I spotted a headline published by the New York Post via Social Network "A Father dropped his toddler from a high-rise, jumps to his death". Chilling. I like most of us have sadly gotten used to the torrid pace with which shock and awe crosses our collective family in this fast forward tabloid information super culture. We've grown numb and unfazed by even the most horrid of tragedies. Can you name a victim of Sandy Hook? Are you still Boston Strong? I'm ashamed to admit it but on most days I wouldn't even stop to read such a disturbing article but today something was different. 

Maybe it was the pounding hangover or the aches and pains from two nights in a row of playing loud rock and roll music in distracted bars. Has all the Dr. Thompson and Bukowski of late given me opinionated dickhead muscles?  Perhaps the mornings throughly engaging conversation with a trusted friend had put me in a very humanistic place. Whatever the reason, I stopped to read… Then i clicked the link.

I was greeted with an image of shell shocked police, fire and ambulance workers all baring an expression that seemed to shout "is this real? What ARE we?" As I prepared to read the article a pop up add attempting to sell me a new Toyota covered the text. I moved frantically to try and close out the distraction but alas it was not to be. No "X's", no page resizing, nothing would remove this gross consumerism. I sat and stared at that image for a good ten minutes trying to make out some of the text creeping out from behind the ad, then in a sudden burst of horror I had a thought. "What if I just click the damn thing?"

You can probably see where this is going, once I was on line to meet the car of my dreams the article was presented. I closed the page and started typing. 

Its time to push back. If a place is set at the table for this kind of nonsense then there must be room for honest loving people to get A plate. I may still post art, stories and poetry in this space but from here on out it's whats on my mind, not in it that will occupy this space. My heart goes out to that child and even to his misguided father. This world is getting desperate, distant, cold and stale. We can do so much better. The time to start is now.

with blessings and love

danny axel