Hawking the Scene

I'm Not Gonna Cook You A Lettuce

It’s been three months since I’ve given up meat (as well as pop/soda, artificial sweeteners and overly-processed foods).  What started out as a weeklong challenge has turned into a full-fledged lifestyle.  Whenever anyone would tell me that he or she is a vegetarian, I’d reply, “I was a vegetarian once…for two days.”  I could never imagine giving up my precious, delectable meat.  Steaks. Roast beef. Cheeseburgers.  Ribs.  Greek chicken.  Chicken wings.  Bacon.  Pork roast.  Ham.  I’d list “meat” under the “favorite food” heading, just under “cheese.”  People who know me have been amazed that I have been able to give up meat.  It’s a lot easier than I thought.

I’m not going to tell you that you’re wrong for eating meat.  It’s an individual choice and my choice has changed.  I’ve eaten meat for 27 years (that’s right bitch, I’m 27…again).  I just wanted to quickly sum up where I stand today.

Last weekend I went to a Mother’s Day party at my grandmother’s house.  Instead of the usual BBQ, we all decided to bring a dish.  Unfortunately for me, the entire table consisted of meat courses.  Even the salads and potatoes were prepared with some sort of meat in them.  As I scanned the table, my grandmother walked up to a very perplexed me and said, “Honey, have some meatballs.” “I don’t eat meat, Nam.”  “Oh, well then have some chicken salad.”  As humorous as that may be, the response is not atypical.  Good thing I brought dessert.

I’m often asked why I gave up meat and if I’ll ever eat it again.  I gave it up as a challenge, though my reasoning now is for my health.   I never knew how to eat without meat.  Most people don’t.  On Jaime Oliver’s Food Revolution, the DJ interviewing him commented that “we don’t want to sit around and eat lettuce all day,” to which Oliver responded, “I’m not gonna cook you a lettuce.”  It’s true.  I’m amazed at the variety of delicious, meatless dishes I’ve been able to prepare and the incredible meat substitutions I never knew of.  I’m cooking a lot more at home now.  I can’t just run to a fast food restaurant because generally there’s nothing there I can eat.  Everything is based around meat.

Of course, factory farming is also a large reason why I no longer eat meat.  Americans tend to disconnect meat from animals.  We buy pretty steaks in pretty packaging.  We don’t want to know anything else.  I didn’t want to know anything else.  The meat industry deliberately, and intelligently, keeps us protected from the process.  And you don’t even want to know what the food we’re eating is eating.  As to if I’ll ever eat meat again…I can’t say I won’t.  I don’t know.  I don’t think I will, but I cannot answer that definitively.  If I ever were to eat it again, I certainly wouldn’t eat any factory-farmed meats.  I’m saddened and repulsed by the horrors I’ve learned.  You should be, too.

But don’t cross me off your BBQ lists just yet.  I’m still coming; only this time, veggie burgers and veggie dogs (and beer) will be in tow.  I’ll even bring the cheese!

*Great read for vegetarians and meat-eaters alike:  Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer

 

A Family Is A Family

I saw this trailer for the moving documentary, A Family Is A Family Is A Family and it reminded me of a conversation I had with a friend of mine two weeks ago.  My friend is in his early 20s and like most young adults, he has already set his maximum age of when he will have kids, how many he wants and the gender he prefers.  He also insists on his children being of his blood.  I was not immune to this mindset.

The older I became, the more I realized that I didn't want to be like my parents.  My mom was 17 and my dad 19 when they had my older brother.  It's not important for me to be a young dad.  It's more important for me to live my life and have kids when I am emotionally ready and financially stable to provide a good life for them.  If I followed in my father's footsteps, at 35, I'd have a 16-year old, a 13-year old and an 11-year old.  *shiver*  Not only would that have hindered my life goals, but it wouldn't have been fair to my kids.  My friend, though a fantastic uncle, is selfishly focusing on his needs and not the needs of his unborn children.

Growing up, it was always important to me to have children born of my blood.  Eventually I figured I'd have one child sharing my DNA and I'd adopt others as well because there are so many babies, children and even teenagers who need homes and a family to love and nurture them.  After living in Ukraine and volunteering in an orphanage, the importance of procreating has significantly diminished.  Why should I bring a new life into this world when there are so many others who already lack homes and families?  If I do decide to have children, I will most likely adopt.  Luckily I'm an uncle to three amazing nephews and one beautiful niece, so the duty of carrying on the bloodline has been completed.  

Regardless, as I said to my friend a couple of weeks ago, a family isn't defined by blood or DNA.  A family isn't defined by restrictive conditions.  A family is defined by love.  A family is a family.

**The documentary A Family Is A Family Is A Family airs Sunday, January 31, 7pm on HBO.  From the website:

In A Family Is Family Is A Family, kids offer touching, profound and often funny insights about what being a family means to them. Among those featured are: children with two fathers or two mothers; a girl whose mother and father adopted her in China; three brothers who live with their mother and grandmother; a pair of mothers who are getting married to make one big family; and families with adopted kids and children born through in-vitro fertilization.

Lianne and Katia think a family is a mommy and a daddy. Franklin says a family is "a bunch of people that live together for their life." Kennan and Adam are nearly stumped trying to name all the possible combinations of parents and kids. Becky sums it up best, saying, "It doesn't matter if you have one parent. It doesn't matter if you have two moms. It doesn't matter if you have two dads. Just stick with it. A family is a family."

I'm a Gentleman of Leisure

 

When meeting new people I’m invariably asked what I do for living.  I typically reply that I’m a “Gentleman of Leisure,” (leisure being pronounced the British way, with a soft 'e') in an attempt to lighten the mood of both parties when explaining that I’m unemployed.  Though currently a common occurrence, it’s nonetheless a personal and awkward story to share with someone I’ve known less than five minutes; especially in a society that judges you and your status based on your occupation. 

I’ll be honest.  I’m tired of people asking me if I’ve found employment.  Let it be known that when I am finally offered a job, I will not hesitate to inform everyone I know of this momentous occasion before they can even think to ask the dreaded question.  

• I will email you with details.
• I will call you screaming.
• I will post my new job on Facebook.  
• I will Twitter my joy.  
• I may even hire a blimp.  

I realize that most people are only trying to be polite and show concern for me, but they’re actually only bringing up a touchy subject that I generally don’t want to talk about.  “No, I still don’t have a job yet.  This party is great!  Congrats on the promotion and raise!  The remodel on your home is gorgeous!  Excuse me while I go slit my wrists all over your brand new marble bathroom.”

Even worse are the people who insist on offering advice.  Leads are appreciated and encouraged.  Unsolicited advice regarding my job search is redundant and annoying.

“Why no, please tell me about this amazing new phenomenon called ‘networking’.”  

“Craigslist?  You don’t say!”

“Well that’s just great advice.  I never would have thought to hire a recruiter!” 

“Taylor my resume to each individual position?  Where do you come up with these things?”

Moreover, if one more person tells me to get a job at Starbucks I may just throw a scalding gingerbread latte in his or her face; and it won’t even be topped with whipped cream.  There’s nothing wrong with working at Starbucks, but my java-brewing expertise stops at mixing hot water from the faucet with the contents of single packets of instant MacCoffee, which are sent to me from Ukraine.

So if anyone knows anyone who’s looking for a talented advertising/marketing Account Executive/Manger/Supervisor, let me know because apparently, I’m available.

Why I Joined Peace Corps - The Saga

I'm often asked what led me to join Peace Corps because I didn't join directly after college, which is what most people assume usually happens.  Like almost everybody I know, I too, "once thought about joining Peace Corps."  And like so many other people, life got in the way.  I got a promotion at work.  I was seriously dating somebody and couldn't leave the relationship at the time.  I had another nephew on the way.  Something always came up.

In June of 2003 a friend of mine was killed in a drunk driving accident.  I was beside myself as she was the third person I knew that was a victim of such a preventable crime.  I picked myself up and promised that I would never drive after having more than one drink -- a promise I have not broken.

Two days later, I was enjoying myself at the Pride Parade and was waiting to see the last float on which my friends Gina and Katie would be dancing.  When the last float passed and Gina and Katie were not on it, I called Gina to to yell at her because I missed a party waiting around for the last float.  That's when Gina told me that Katie was one of the 13 victims on the infamous porch collapse in Chicago the night before.  Two friends lost in a weekend. 

Losing two friends in such a short period of time really brought me to a place of introspection that I've never been before.  I started writing in my journal more and lying in bed thinking about the brevity of life.  I found myself distancing myself people to avoid the inevitable hurt that would soon follow when they, too, die.  A wall went up and it would be years before it would ever be climbed.

Two months later and five days before my birthday, my very good friend Crista died.  It was a blow I was not prepared for; one that nobody could ever prepare for.  I had my first anxiety attack and cried until dehydration.  I was temporarily medicated for the debilitating anxiety and lost what little faith I had left.  If this is a test, I don't want any part of what you have to offer.  Life was no longer random.  Life was now cruel.

To deal with this, I took some time off work and wandered around the UK and Czech Republic to flee the pitiful eyes and empty "I'm sorry's."  I found it helpful to sit around a foreign environment completely incognito and collect my thoughts.  

I realized that I could die any day and wouldn't have done anything great or that I was truly proud of.  I'd miss out on so much that life has to offer and would disappear without having left a significant mark.  I didn't want to look back on life and see me sitting at a desk at work with a huge bank account that I never used to have fun or do anything worthwhile. This scared me.  It was then that I created my first bucket list.  There were things on my list I had never even known I wanted to do:  

• Travel to all 50 states.  
• Walk the Great Wall of China (check)
• Write a book. (half check)
• Surf the waters of Hawaii. (check)
• Go skydiving.
• Learn yet another language. (check and check)
• etc.

But sitting atop that list was "Join Peace Corps."  I stared at the entry having not realized I had written it and began to smile.  That's what I'm going to do.  I'm going to join Peace Corps.

When I returned to the States, I filled out the lengthy application and began the acceptance process.  I was placed in Ukraine and my life has forever changed since then.

While living in Ukraine, I had a rare, but epically horrible day so I pulled out one of Crista's journals that I took after her death and began reading it, like many times before. Only this time I came across a passage that I had never read before.  It said, "Sometimes I wish I would just sell off all of my belongings and join Peace Corps."  It was then that I knew I made the perfect decision.  I made my mark.  I've made a difference in people's lives.  I won't soon be forgotten.  Before that day, I often wondered what she would have thought knowing that she had such a large part in my joining.  Now I know she approves.

I Finally Shaved My Head

After months of talking about it, I finally shaved my head.  Many people were asking me on Facebook why I chose to do this.  

1.)  I had an agreement with my friend Jeremey that if he shaved his head, I would shave mine (not really thinking he would ever do it).  Though he shaved his a couple months ago, I still had not and had to finally man-up.

2.)  It was time, if not beyond that time.  My hairline had finally crossed over to that point of no return.  

Getting is shaved off was quite a big deal for me.  I've always liked to have differently styled hair from long to short to spiky to flat and often change the color.  Now it's just one style and color:  gone.  My friend Carrie drove me to get it shaved and to assist in moral support (I came close to passing out in the chair).  Of course too big of a deal was made than should have been, but I haven't had my head shaved since I was 7-years old.

Though I'm starting to get used to it, I still get startled when I walk by mirrors.

Everyone wants to see a picture so here it is...before and after.  Be nice!

Why Is Your Walkman So Big?

I've always been amazed at how quickly not only music has changed, but by how quickly the audio format has change, as well.  In my very young lifetime, I've seen this format change many times.  I was alive for the decline of the 8-track (those under 30 see the picture above), the record, the cassette tape and the cd.  Presently we live in the age of the mp3 -- unless I'm not aware of some popular new consumer formats.  I always was a bit behind, never wanting to let go of the previous version.

Though I never owned an 8-track, personally, I listened to my parent's often.  Those displayed in the above picture are among them.  I loved how you could hit a button to skip to the next song -- or at least you could skip to some part of the next song.  It was much better than picking up the needle and attempting to find where the next song began.  

When cassette tapes came into popularity, I was overjoyed.  I could record songs from the radio and not have to pay for them!  I'd even use my parent's microphone and pretend I was a DJ myself and introduce songs recorded from the radio, records and other cassettes.

I was late on the cd uptake.  I loved my cassettes.  My car had a cassette player, cassettes were cheap and I couldn't imagine ever being able to afford this futuristic player that played these fragile discs.  I'd never be able to throw a disc in my car like I do a cassette tape.  I finally caved a few years later when a friend of mine gave me his old cd player.

Like cds, I was late jumping on the mp3 bandwagon.  I didn't have a computer at the time, I didn't understand mp3s and my cds worked just fine.  I had a cd player in my car, after all!  How can you play this digitized, futuristic music in your car?  I listened to my first mp3 on a train in Fastiv, Ukraine when my Peace Corps friend let me check out his ipod.  It was the greatest thing and the world and I would have to have one IMMEDIATELY.  I was instantly embarrassed by my gigantic brick of a cassette player and hid it from sneering faces. 

I realized how bad it was when I was on this broken-down bus in a village of Ukraine and a young Ukrainian girl, who had never even been to a city, looked over to my cassette player and asked:

"What is that?"

"A walkman."

"Why is it so....big?"

While I still have some cds I'm not willing to part with, I have more gigs of music than I even know.  I've changed formats with the times, though often late.  I'll probably be late on the next format, whatever it may be.  But like my sexual firsts, I still remember all of my audio format firsts.  The first of each that I actually owned:

First Record:  Madonna - Like a Virgin

First Cassette:  Madonna - True Blue

First CD:  Counting Crows - August & Everything After

First MP3:  Tanya Donelly - Sliding & Diving

Do you remember your firsts????

Armpit Check

I'm the second from the left in my obligatory summer tank top. 

Growing up, we are all plagued with awkward pubescent changes.  We grow taller, we start growing hair in peculiar places and we morph into walking candy apples as our heads are suddenly too large for our clumsy bodies.  Luckily, most families are there for us as we endure these trying rites of passage.  Mine is not most families.

I grew up in an ever-procreating family that consists of more aunts, uncles and cousins than I am able to count in my now, normal-sized head.  My parents visited their siblings on a weekly basis, which meant that my brothers and I spent a comparable time with our multitude of cousins.  I felt fortunate to have so many best friends already built into my life.  While other families waited for Christmas or Thanksgiving to get together, we needed no excuse to spend time with one another.  Our parents took us to each others’ homes, parks, the beach, theme parks, the zoo and anywhere else we wanted to go.  Summers were always one big party.  But there’s one ominous party that I will never forget.

I was 12-years old and my once orderly and symmetric body was abruptly turning into this gangly, jumbled pile of limbs.  My voice was cracking and my older brother was quick to point out that I sounded like Alfalfa.  Perfect.  There goes my seamless, alto singing voice.  I can handle this.  I just won’t talk too much.  Nobody seems to notice the other menacing changes that are going on with me.  I changed into my obligatory summer outfit:  shorts and a tank top, or as we then insensitively called them, dago-tees.  I never wore sleeves.  My mom, brothers and I then drove out to meet the rest of our extended family at a new park that had a rocket slide.  “I can’t wait to slide down that rocket,” I prophetically and innocently exclaimed at the time.

Slide down that rocket, we did.  We also went swimming, played Frisbee, keep-away, tag and we ate the deliciously soggy lunches that our doting moms packed for us.  It was an absolutely perfect day -- until I heard the sinister laughter erupting from the gaggle of women that were my mother and her sisters.  My cousin and I instantly ran over to see what was so funny when my Aunt Missy yelled, “ARMPIT CHECK,” and hastily grabbed me by the wrist, lifting it into the air to reveal a single sprouted hair under my arm.  She then paraded me around like a best-in-show contender, arm still horrifyingly hoisted, for all to see.  I was mortified as family and strangers alike turned towards my aunt’s deafening, macaw-like calls of degradation:  “Armpit check, armpit check.  We’ve got a sprouter!”  The entire horrendous experience played 4-hours long in my 12-year old head.  I tried to fight the tears that were welling in my awkwardly-sized eyes, but a few escaped and I wiped them on my free, bare arm.  I wish I had a sleeve right now.  I couldn’t wait to get home to hide under my comforting Superman covers until I was a wrinkled old man of 20-years old.

My torment didn’t end there.  Aunt Missy unknowingly gave my older brother Chris even more fuel to add to the flame that was my fragile ego.  Puberty doesn’t suit the bashful.  Growing up shy was difficult enough, but throw in a little puberty and pepper that situation with a popular brother and you’ve just landed in Hell.   In addition to publicly making fun of my voice and the size of my head, Chris announced to his friends that I had a newfound hair and he would replicate Aunt Missy’s discomforting arm-raising ritual.  I need to start wearing sleeves, I thought to myself. 

As the summer went on, so did the annoying pit-budding.  With each new bothersome, overactive follicle came shouts of, “He’s got another one!  Come see!”  If my brother ran into me on the streets, he and his friends would have a good laugh over the armpit check.  Passing strangers would struggle to restrain their laughter and I swear even a few dogs chuckled in my direction.  I really need to start wearing sleeves. 

Summer soon came to a close.  I had too many sprouts to count and my brother and his friends quickly lost interest in my pubescent progress.  Though life eventually normalized, my deep adolescent scars remain.  But I’ll be checking those scars at the door at this summer’s family reunion.  After all, I have tens of nephews and cousins that are finally coming-of-age.  If they know what’s good for them, they’ll wear sleeves.

 

 

My Darkest Days -- A Tribute of Sorts. Broken.

Today is the 3^rd anniversary of my little brother, Jason’s, death.  I don’t often get very personal on my blog, but I feel it’s time to finally write the story because I simply cannot ever find the words to tell it aloud.

Jason is my younger brother and best friend; my mentee and my mentor; my shoulder and my rock. He is the strongest guy I've ever met.  He was and is my Jason.  We are only a year and a half apart and although we didn’t look very similar (he looked like my older brother, Chris), my mom treated us like twins while we were growing up.  We had matching clothes. We had matching "power rings." We shared a room and all its contents.  We took blame for mistakes equally so we’d be punished together, We were a team.

That team unfortunately ended prematurely.

The day I returned from my post Peace Corps, two-month trip, my best friend Ali picked me up from th e airport and whisked me into Chicago for my first time in almost three years.  She rented a hotel room downtown and took me out to some of our old haunts in Gold Coast, Lincoln Park and Lakeview.  I was entirely too happy to see her and finally happy to be back in Chicago.  The next morning Ali and I woke to my mom repeatedly calling Ali's cell phone.  When I finally answered, my mom tried to find the words to tell me that Jason died.  I briefly blacked out and hung up the phone.  I wasn’t quite sure that I heard her correctly, so I asked Ali to call my mom back and find out what happened.  When Ali told me that Jason did, indeed, die from an unintentional drug overdose, my body went numbingly cold as I stumbled into the bathroom and collapsed in the shower for either five minutes or five hours – I’m still not sure.  I completely disconnected from life.  I tried to find him.  I looked for him and I failed.   I tried to understand and I failed.  I wanted to see him for just one more minute and I failed. 

I felt as if I was the one who died—and if I didn’t, I wanted to.  How can I go on without Jason?  How would my life go on without Jason?  What is the point of my life is Jason is not sharing it with me?  How could Jason leave me?  I have so much to tell him.  I NEED him.  He’s my fucking BROTHER.  He’s my other half.  He’s fucking JASON.  Jason.  “It’s all my fault.”  “Why did I not come home immediately?”  “Why did I have to travel for so long?”  “Why am I so selfish that I have to see the entire world instead of being with my brother?”  “Why didn’t I come home sooner to  hang out with Jason?” “Will he ever forgive me?”  “Why?”  “Why?”  “Why?”  “Why?”  “How will I explain this to his son?”  “Will his son ever forgive me?”  “Will little Jason ever know how much I loved his dad?”  “Will I ever forgive myself for allowing such an atrocity?”  “Will I ever forgive myself?” “Will I ever not blame myself?”

For days my mind was blank.  I didn’t care about anything.  I wanted to die.  Nobody could help me.  I was beyond repair.  My mom was beyond devastated.  She couldn't help me.  My older brother was inconsolable.  He couldn't help me.  I remember crying to him: “There are supposed to be THREE of us….THREE of us…not two.  How will we be two?”  And there should be three of us.  Always three.  Always three.  Always three. 

If Ali wasn’t there for me at that exact moment when my mom called, I’m not sure what would have happened with me.  She took over for me.  When I say took over, I mean, completely took over my life.  She made all of my decisions and ensured that whatever I was doing, saying, and/or doing was perfectly normal.  I was fading in and out of life and I lost sight of what was fact and what was fiction.  Ali helped to distinguish.  I don’t remember much of the next few days except that Ali drove me to my mom’s house where my mom and most of my family was waiting.

With the exception of seeing my mom when she visited me in Ukraine, this was the first I was seeing anyone in my family in almost three years.  I remember sifting through old pictures of Jason and picking the ones I liked to memorialize him.  I remember White Castle.  I remember being really tired.  I remember feeling inconsolably alone.  I remember crying myself to sleep.  I remember sleeping 12-hour days and never wanting to wake.  I remember attending Jason’s visitation and trying, futilely, to be strong for our plentiful guests.  I remember collapsing in my older brother’s arms.  I remember thinking that I could never go on again.  I remember feeling completely hopeless and utterly broken.  Broken.  So unrepairably broken.

I’m not as strong as I thought I was.  I was and am still a fucking mess.  The following six months were blurry.  I needed to pack my memories and what happened to Jason into a nice little compact box in my head, to be opened at a later date when I was ready to deal with it.  That box still remains untouched and I’m not really quite sure how to open it.  People often ask me questions about Jason and I brush them off.  I can’t answer them.  I can’t think about him while I’m in public.  Now, I think of him each and every single day..BUT, I shut the memories off, for fear of opening the flood gates that just will not ever close.  Unhealthy?  Maybe, but it’s what I needed to do at that time.  I still can’t deal.   I don’t know if I ever will be able to deal.  He’s Jason.  He’s my little brother.

I still wish I didn’t take that trip.  I wish I had those two months with Jason.  I don’t care what you tell me...I’d rather have that much more time with my best friend…the only person who has really ever known me.  Jason.  Do I have guilt?  Of course I do.  Cliché as it sounds, I’d give up months of time to have just a day with him.  Nobody will ever really understand our relationship.  I feel guilty for having fun without him.  I feel guilty when I hug his beautiful son, when he doesn't get to.  I feel guilty every night when i go to sleep, knowing that I'll wake up and he wont. I feel guilty just for being.  It's not fair.  We should be we.  We were always we.  We were always supposed to be we.

So, here’s to fucking you, Jason.  How can you leave me?  How can you do this?  How can you erase, "we?" I miss you.  I love you.  I really fucking love you.  I’m still a fucking mess.  And I’m still really fucking broken.

broken.

5 Really Weird Things About Me

We all have strange things about ourselves that we usually don't like to share with others.  Oddly enough, I think the oddities in peoples' lives make them more interesting, so I'm going to share a few of mine.  Don't look at me like that...you have some too!!!!

1.  I don't like hot food.

I have this strange aversion to hot food.  I prefer my food warm or even cold.  While most people use the microwave to reheat food, I eat it straight out of the fridge.  I LOVE leftover cold chinese food most.  I think this oddity stems from me burning my mouth on hot food when I was a kid.  

Don't even get me started on hot tea or coffee.  Iced tea and Iced coffee?  Bring it.

2.  I flush the toilet while still peeing.

This is a habit I try to break constantly and try to be more fully aware of it while at others' homes. When I was growing up, I was embarrassed by not only the sound of the act, but at times, the length it would go on for, so I would flush the toilet to mask both.  Now it's just a habit.  

3.  Condensation bothers me - a lot.

I actually never actively knew about this one until two years ago when a friend of mine pointed it out to me.  I'm quick to wipe away condensation on my glass or bottle and then wipe the table, as well.  My friend finally noticed it when I started clearing off her glass as well.  This only applies to glasses sitting on tables.  I'll never take your glass or bottle out of your hands...I don't think.

4. I don't like odd numbers.

While most people gravitate towards odd number such as 7 and 13, I tend to like even numbers.  My lucky number is 8 and my favorite number is 84.  I cannot tell you why either is the case.  When I set my alarm clock, it's always at an even number.  If I have to wake up at 7:15, I'll set the alarm for 7:14.  If something goes in the microwave for 5 minutes and 15 seconds, I set it for one less.  

5.  I can't learn animal names in Ukrainian or Russian.

While living in Ukraine, I found it impossible to learn the names of any animals in either spoken language in the country, outside of the word, "mouse."  My local friends found it rather entertaining as I'd refer to cows as "beef" and pigs as "pork."  If the animal produced no food, I'd simply make that animal's sound (which isn't as easy as you'd think, considering different languages have different sounds for their animals.  For instance, did you know that a frog in Ukraine says, "kva kva ," a dog says, "gau gau" and a rooster say, "ku-ka-ri-ku."  Imagine their confusion when I belted out, "ribbit, ribbit.").

What are some of YOUR oddities????????

Jeremy's Got Talent...or Does He?

I was reading quotes online by my favorite author Shel Silverstein, when the full magnitude of his genius hit me.  He was a poet, songwriter, musician, composer, cartoonist, screenwriter and author of children's' books.  That line of though led me to thinking about my own talents, what they may now be and how they were or were not nurtured.

I have always considered myself a talented child, yet most of those talents no longer remain.  So I thought to myself:  "Maybe those talents never really existed.  Maybe I wasn't really talented.  OH NO. Maybe I'm like one of those creepy  kids on American Idol who think they sound like Mariah Carey, but actually sound like strangled and tortured cats!"  

Both of my brothers were involved with football, but I would have none of that barbarianism.  Outside of gymnastics and track, I was never really interested in sports.  I wanted to explore my intellect and my creativity.  I was involved with so many artistic ventures growing up trying to find just the right one that I could grow with and eventually master.

So what happened to these these talents?  I've won top placement awards and/or scholarships for singing (my picture was even in the paper, despite the whole "cookie/freckle debacle"); writing poetry, songs and short stories; art and design; science fairs; and photography.  I was often cast in major roles in school plays, except for the Charlie Brown Christmas play in 5th grade, when I won the role of "random ice skater in the background that nobody but your mom will ever pay attention to."  I still maintain it was because I did my state project on Florida, which was Miss Finn's least favorite state.  Matt only won the role of Charlie Brown because his nose was so far up Miss Finn's ass that they shared a nasal passage.

There were misses, too.  Because of my musical genius on the recorder, my mom decided I would play an instrument.  I was never more excited than when she come home with a saxophone.  Only it wasn't a saxophone.  It was a CLARINET.  Why spend hundreds of dollars on a new saxophone when her friend's daughter has a perfectly good clarinet that she was willing to part with for a mere $20?  Then the summer lessons began.  After two torturous weeks of the useless classes, I began skipping class to hang out with friends.  When my mother realized my playing wasn't getting any better, she pulled me from the classes I wasn't going to and the clarinet went onto the top shelf in the closet of "things we would never see again."

How could I have so much talent as a kid, yet grow up without most of these skills?  I've realized that I'll probably never again be able to draw anything more than a stick figure.  I know that the menthol-cool stylings of Jeremy Hawking will forever be reserved for karaoke.  And the chance of me amputating my limbs is greater than the chance of me ever picking up a clarinet again.

So I ask, is talent innate, can it be learned with proper nurturing, or is it "use it or lose it"?

Now who wants to hear sing "I Will Always Love You"?