Killing Herndon - An Open Letter to the President

Dear President Obama,

On the 12th of September, 1857, a 43-year old United States Navy Commander was given leave of his military command to captain the commercial sidewheel steamship SS Central America from Panama to New York.

You see, this famous and vital run was not the sort of trip you trusted to amateurs, and especially not when carrying nearly 600 passengers and 15 tons of gold (worth $2,000,000 back then). So it was common practice for commercial shipping companies to employ military ship captains on these treacherous and important voyages to keep their crews, cargoes and passengers safe. After all, in the 1850’s, sailing through the Caribbean wasn’t a lazy jaunt past resort islands and pleasure cruisers. No, the dangerous waters just below North America were a festering stew of bad weather, vicious piracy, and unmarked shoals - and if you were going to make passage through them, when you looked up on the command deck of the boat, you wanted to see a man in uniform, a Navy man, and if you were fortunate enough, an Annapolis man.

And so it was with the 575 souls aboard the Central America. With the sweltering heat of summer just passed, wealthy travelers and dignitaries eagerly seized the opportunity to accompany one of the largest shipments of gold ever at that point back to New York where it promised untold wealth for the men who had previously sent it from the California coast down to the west side of Panama. Passage with the famous Commander Herndon (having just a few years before completed what was then the most comprehensive exploration of the South American Amazon basin), aboard the luxurious and newly-built Central America, and in the cooling autumn breezes meant that this normally treacherous journey would be as safe, comfortable and incident-free as could be afforded at the time. But after safely reaching, stopping into and subsequently leaving Havana, things took a turn for the worse.

The Central America headed up the American coast, and as luck would have it, a hurricane had a similar trip planned. The crew struggled valiantly, but after a three-day battle with the tropical storm off the coast of South Carolina, the ship was doomed. As it began to succumb, Commander Herndon ordered the women and children to the main deck to begin evacuation. He oversaw as 153 people were loaded into lifeboats and safety, but refused to leave the deck of his ship. The last recorded sighting of him was “in full uniform, standing by the wheelhouse with his hand on the rail, hat off and in his hand and bowed in prayer as the ship gave a lurch and went down.”

Since his tragic and honorable death, the Navy has honored Commander Herndon with two ships named after him, and perhaps most famously, by erecting a 21-foot granite obelisk on the inner Yard of the Naval Academy, just steps from the beloved and world-famous Chapel, that simply bears his name in capital letters: “HERNDON”.

This monument is also the site of a seventy year old tradition at the U.S. Naval Academy, by which the Academy’s freshmen, or “plebes“ mark the completion of, what has been for most of them, the most difficult year of their lives. “Plebe Year” is a year of endless physical, mental and emotional challenges that outside of the other state and federal military academies, has no analog. It is a year of running, shouting, learning, cleaning, studying, working, and enduring. It is, if even measurably, exponentially more difficult than the freshman year of any state college or private school student. It is a sacrifice to prove worthy of brotherhood. No matter how detailed the description, it is inconceivable except to those who have lived through it, and when it is finally completed - it offers an incomparable moment of joy, pride and relief. And to reach this moment the Academy offers up to the freshman class one final challenge - a challenge they have all either seen or heard of, shortly after arriving on campus. According to tradition, the Herndon rock is covered with two hundred pounds of lard, and a blue-rimmed dixie cup (the hat the Plebes wear during their first summer) is taped to the top. The task is simple: take the dixie cup off, and replace it with a combination cover, the hat worn by midshipmen during the rest of their time on the Yard. The only tool they are given? Each other. The one and only time, upperclassmen included, that a midshipmen is ever given the opportunity to (1) wear athletic gear on the stored inner Yard and (2) set foot on the sacred lawn of the same, is for the completion of this monumental assignment.

As you might imagine, it is not easy. Is it is hot, slippery, sweaty and smelly. It is brutal and joyful, marked by moments of ecstasy (as hands reach perilously close the top) and cries of pain (as human pyramids tumble onto the throng below). It is group effort so massive that it nearly has life of its own: speaking with its own voice, in its own language, rising and falling like the chest of a heaving giant, and moving with both the strength and weakness that is composition provides. There are crews standing by with hoses to keep the beast from overheating, cannoneers a short bit away marking each 15 passing minutes in the creature’s short lifespan, and a crowd of mystified, awestruck and horrified onlookers cheering in its life and ultimate demise. It is also not safe. Sending a thousand college freshman in shorts and t-shirts to build a human pyramid on a lard-covered rock with no training and only the barest of instructions is not the sort of thing you do if bumps and bruises are of concern. But it is in those bumps, bruises, scrapes and cuts that the class is truly born. Like the year that precedes it, and the climactic actions of the man whose monument bears it, it teaches that nothing great is easy, and so long as you aspire to greatness, you can expect sacrifices (both big and small) along your way. For me, it meant scrapes down my arms and legs as I was raked down the rock’s north face, a sore neck from having a classmate literally standing on it, and innumerable bruises whose specific origins were lost in my own bliss as we reached the top.

I suspect that though he never lived to see it, that Commander Herndon would be proud to have his name endure as the seminal test of the Academy’s midshipmen; a rite of passage without compare. And I wonder what he would say to Vice Adm. Jeffrey L. Fowler, the Academy’s departing Superintendent, who nearly scrapped the entire ritual, and only ended up eviscerating it (by removing the lard) as his parting shot. I wonder how the storied Commander would look at this 1978 graduate, who after having spent a career aboard nuclear submarines in one of the world’s most dangerous and unforgiving environments, decided to punctuate his political flag-rank career by emasculating one of the Academy’s greatest traditions under the auspices of “safety”. Had Commander Herndon survived that fatal voyage in 1857, I suspect he, too, would have ended up commanding only larger and larger desks, and becoming more gentleman and politician than warrior. But I refuse to believe that he would have run so far afield of his days in command that he would demand that only purposeful and risk-free elements of officer training be retained; ignoring the value of such elements in his own development and perhaps trying to secure a place in a liberal administration who seems ever more bent on sissifying the nation’s armed services. Because I choose to believe Patton’s historic refrain that “old soldiers never die, they simply fade away.” And it makes me wonder if Mr. Fowler was ever a soldier in the first place.

Mr. Fowler’s actions may be consistent with current trends and may simply be a symptom of much larger problem, but that is no excuse and little consolation. Of the many lessons I learned at Annapolis, the most important was that the right thing to do is not always popular with subordinates, peers, superiors or even the public, but it remains the right thing to do - and as an Annapolis man, nothing less would be expected or tolerated from me. As a passenger aboard the Central America I would be counting on the very same to keep me safe, and prior to this incident, I have always felt the Academy’s legacy was similarly safe in the hands of men who walked its hallowed halls themselves. But I cannot fathom the narcissism, shameless self-interest and pomposity it requires to abandon the principal tenets of the institution that raised you in the name of political gain and the false production of one’s own legacy. There was a time that simply placing your name amongst the few men who have had the honor of leading the Academy was enough to mark the career of any officer as successful - apparently that time is passed, and now to be remembered you must change the Academy in some memorable way. It seems that no institution is safe from this Age of Entitlement.

To put it into perspective, Mr. Fowler’s actions have made me feel something I have previously never felt, and that is embarrassed to be a submariner. Of all the terrible surprises in this story, none was worse than finding out Mr. Fowler and I had both served in the same service. In fairness, the sub community has always, in its own way, held itself apart from (and even above) the rest of the fraternity of Naval officers, but I never expected that would come to this. I never expected that our pragmatism and intellectualism would become bastardized, short-sighted and downright stupid. I couldn’t have imagined that the crucible of underwater war-fighting could generate someone so foolishly paternal and mired in political correctness to the point of bald ignorance. I can only hope that the tens of thousands of men who have preceded Mr. Fowler, and the many more that will follow him in the silent service will stand up beside me and let him know that he does not speak for us, he does not represent us, and despite his service, is not welcome amongst us.

If Mr. Fowler expects to convince a group of officers specially selected for their academic aptitude that he has legitimate reasons aside from his own self-aggrandizement for his actions, he’s going to have to try harder than offering up “safety” as his primary motivation. Does he really expect any of us to buy such an argument when there are literally dozens of events on the Yard that produce larger number of small injuries, a greater risk of incident and an even less-tenuous connection to actual Fleet activity? What about varsity sports, intramural Field-ball, formal parades, Leatherneck, Pre-Airborne, Lightweight football open tryouts, running the sea wall, not canceling classes after ice storms, Army Week, March Over, pep rallies, cannoneers, the 40-year-swim, and his beloved Sea Trials (just to name a few)? Are they on the chopping block, too? Or did Jeff get pulled off the rock as a plebe before he could get to the top, and this is his way at getting back at all of us?

In the weeks since I learned of this tragedy, I’ve written and read countless comments and commentary, and I’ve been accused by a few of overreacting. After all, it’s only one ceremony, it’s not as though their tearing down the walls, right? Wrong. This one thing is indicative of what else is happening there, and just one bad enough to finally garner some media attention. It is, quite literally, the tip of the iceberg. We live in a world where the modern iterations of many storied institutions are simply shadows of their predecessors. We ought to be careful to hang on to the ones we can, even when it seems as though doing so will do little to quell the tide.

I am fiercely proud of my Academy experience. Between my degree and commission from USNA and my JD from Stanford Law School, only the former hangs on my office wall. I spent two years as Bill the Goat and believe that I am one of the most ardent and fanatical Navy Football supporters even today (for the record, I’d gladly pay thousands to put that costume on again just one more time). I have an “N” tattooed on my side and hate Notre Dame with a white hot passion that only an Annapolis man could. If given the occasion to explain how I’ve gotten so far in my own life, I never forget to mention that without the Naval Academy, I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere. And with that, I believe the institution is worth saving. I believe that we should rise up both as a nation of alumni, and simply as a nation and stop this nonsense, before my beloved alma mater becomes East Maryland State University.

Sir, I’ve never asked you for much, and I know you're busy but since you’ve had time to weigh in on the LeBron James free agency, I figure you’ve got time for this. Mr. President, my prescription for saving Navy:

1. Censure Jeff Fowler. Let his farewell tour of the Yard be just that. No promotion, no operational command. Give him two options: retire now with your pension, or retire now without it. The vast majority of his career is worthy of an honorable resignation - but, no matter how many stars you’ve got, unless you’re an actual war hero (e.g. John McCain), you don’t get to kick tradition in the balls and keep on moving up the Chain of Command.

2. Hand Pick the New Superintendent. Only ask him/her one question: will you put the lard back on the Rock? If the first words out of his/her mouth aren’t “Yes, absolutely”, move on.

3. Go See It. Next June (since you’re headed there anyways), take that little trip 30 miles up the road to Annapolis a week early and watch Herndon. To my knowledge, no President has ever witnessed it in person, and I know how you like being first to do things. Once you’ve seen it, write about it. And tell your successor about it. Trust me, you’ll have something to say once you see it - and you'll be glad you saved it.

In closing, let me just say that as men, we are rarely put in a position to really do something, and when we are, we often shrink from the task under the pressure from and obligation to those who got us and keep us there. I cannot imagine the pressure you are under but this is a real opportunity to effect that change you spoke about during your campaign. Of course, this one small thing will not swing the pendulum of legacy for your Presidency one way or another, but it has an air about it that I hope will make it unavoidable, and that is, it is the right thing to do. Because when it comes to killing Herndon, don’t you think that’s the sort of thing we should only do once?

Sincerely, 

Glenn H. Truitt
USNA ’97

Thanking Coach

Like most athletes, I’ve had a lot of coaches in my time. Coaches hold a special place in American culture; somewhere between parent and teacher, someplace between best friend and arch-nemesis, a person with whom you might share your greatest victory and someone who may very well deliver your greatest defeat. Coaches come in all shapes and sizes; big coaches, little coaches, mean coaches, friendly coaches; coaches who yell, coaches who drill, coaches with catchphrases, coaches with bad hair. Some coaches never played the game they coach, while some play it still (or at least think they can). There are coaches that look good in suits, and coaches who look about as comfortable in suits as they would standing on the sideline naked. Nevertheless, many of us mark time in our lives with the coaches we’ve had. There are some lessons that only a coach can teach; things you would never have learned from your parents, friends, or that “school of hard knocks” you keep referring to (though you’ve been in private school since you were 18). Funny thing is, these most important lessons are most often learned from the coach you’d least expect them from.

I have to admit, I do like the word “Coach”. It’s respectful but still intimate - an unspoken understanding between athletes. Some coaches want you to use their first name, some want you to call them Mr. This or Ms. That., even rarer still are those who insist on sir or ma’am (outside of Texas high school football). But there’s something about saying “Hey Coach...” which lets someone know that you’re ready to take direction, and that you trust what they’re about to send you out to do. And so, every coach I’ve ever had I’ve called “Coach”. The last coach I had is probably the last coach I’ll ever have - there aren’t a lot of professional team sports opportunities for a 35 year old with a double spinal fusion, and whose two greatest sporting abilities are his ability to throw (a) girls and (b) frisbees (I’m sure my dad secretly wishes those were strikes and touchdowns - but sometimes you get what you get). My final coach was the coach of the Clippers Fan Patrol - the professional coed cheerleading squad for the L.A. Clippers - although her official title was “Director” - and like every last anything, ours is a story that deserves to be told; as she was, surprisingly enough, the coach that taught me the most.


Old Cheerleaders Never Die...

...they just keep finding other places to stunt. It’s true. Forget about the clapping, chanting, hand-motions, spirit fingers and any of that ancillary nonsense. Most cheerleaders just put up with that stuff because it’s an excuse to stunt. Don’t get me wrong, we are the energetic sort - but we’re also not stupid, so we know the cheese factor of what we have to do to earn the right to do acrobatics in front of strangers. Of course, as we get older, two things happen: 1. Our tolerance for wearing ill-fitting and awfully colored polyester, shouting chants to the detriment of our vocal cords and trying to generate excitement whilst starting at a sea of apathetic faces wears very thin (notwithstanding the license it provides); and 2. We’re not good for the four quarters, two halves, daily/weekly practices, warm-ups, stretching, etc., that we used to be (no matter what our brains may tell us). As a result, we end up finding places that will let us do the throwing, catching, flying, spinning and stretching that we love, both as little as we’d like and with as little hassle as we can. For some, it’s skulking around open gyms, while others find spots on pro teams, and for the precious few who can manage it, they coach.

Such was the case with Jessie. An All-American cheerleader for literally decades before - she, like many all-stars before her, found herself on camp staffs, then leading camp staffs, and then ultimately coaching. Though I didn’t know her then, I expect at each stop along this road, she stole a little time away for herself, throwing a stunt, basket, or other such skill every now and again - both to make certain that she still had it (though there was little doubt) and because, well, once you’ve got the itch - it’s hard to ignore. And that’s the beauty of a coach who’s played the game at the highest level: you know damned well that if you don’t live up to their standard, they’ll likely just step in and do it themselves (probably better than you did - and just as well as they did it ten years ago). What’s more, they get you - in a way that you sometimes don’t get yourself. They know what you do, how you do it, and most importantly, why. Which is why Jessie was a great cheerleading coach - she was a great cheerleader first.

The Cat Herd

At each level of any sport, the higher you go, the less teaching-of-the-game you have to do, and the more management of challenging personalities you must do. Despite what you may think you know about the group Coach Jessie was tasked to lead, you have no idea. As uniform as we may have appeared, we couldn’t have been a much more diverse group. We were young and old (ages 19 to 37), tall and short (4’11” to 6’6”), quiet and loud (yes, I know, quiet cheerleaders), and cocky and, well, o.k. for the most part all of us were cocky. We came from wildly different backgrounds, both personally, and in our own sport: some from rich families and some from poor, some from storied college programs and some who had only ever cheered in competition. To say we may have been a difficult bunch to lead would be akin to saying that Miley Cyrus may grow up a little socially maladjusted. We were a coaching nightmare.

But Coach was stoic, optimistic and loving. Always. You could see that most of us started out thinking that she didn’t have much chance of coaching us when we first met her - and for some, that petulant stare never went away. But she endured, and for many of us, she earned that spot she had - and we rewarded her with something that most of us did for precious few others, we listened. It’s a powerful thing when you realize for the first time that someone is really listening to you - you know, when a child is hanging on your every word for guidance, and you know fully well that they will take every bit of what you say as absolute gospel. It’s heady, empowering and sometimes scary. Of course, Coach had kids of her own, and it clearly wasn’t her first time both earning and exercising this responsibility. She used it well. She knew just the right amount of shenanigans to put up with, the right moment to drop the hammer, the time to pull someone aside. She knew how each of us ticked, she knew how to push you, she knew how to make you do what she needed from you, she knew how to make you feel like she hadn’t done much at all, and that you did it all on your own. Most importantly, she never lost sight of the fact that it was, in fact, cats, she was herding. They would never be cattle, they would never fall in line, bond like a football or volleyball team, or be lead by simply a strong hand. And that was really the genius in it after all.

The Captain I Wasn’t

I’m not quite sure how Coach saw me at first. I was going through so much personal change when we first met, I scarcely knew myself back then. On the doorstep of a new legal career, my first real job that didn’t involve a uniform, and in a terrifyingly new city where I didn’t know a soul. I was shy but loud, all heart and little technique. I was older than most of the group and felt it. I always suspected that I’d have more in common with Coach than I would with most anyone on the line. But I insisted on calling her “Coach” - and when she finally realized that this wasn’t just a verbal slip on my part, she gave me an odd look (as did many of my teammates). I suspect I may have been the first cheerleader in her charge to ever do so - at least at the pro-level. But she handled it with her customary aplomb.

My personality was a tremendously bad fit with the existing team’s at the time I joined. I was faster, more energetic and louder than most everyone (save my dearest Sanchez) - a cheerleader trained at a military academy - and, after expecting everyone to be exactly like me, visibly disappointed in my teammates. Coach saw it, and could see the storm brewing on the horizon. The strong personalities in the locker room, especially the team captains she had selected, brushed harshly against my own, and as you might expect, ultimately came to a head. One day, I forgot myself, and in a fit of childish rage, stormed off the court during warm-ups. Coach found me immediately, and the care and concern which she had always previously addressed me with was gone from her face. She presented me with my own foolishness, shined a light on my immaturity and would hear nothing of my justifications. She not only demanded better, but also that I apologize to the team, and to my then-hated nemesis - and that was simply for her to consider letting me back out on the court. In all of my years of leading and being led, I had never had to do such a thing. But I did. I swallowed the little pride I had left and gave that apology, through gritted teeth and strained back tears, and walked back out on that court - knowing a little more about Coach and a lot more about me.

My final year, I had every expectation that I’d be selected as a team captain. I had the seniority - the only guy on the line who had been there longer had already been captain and didn’t want the job again. I was the oldest, and most vocal member of the team. I did my best to lead during tryout prep, tryouts and early practices. I communicated with the group, organized social events, and tried to generate a new esprit de corps. I was simply waiting on my coronation, and Coach knew it. She didn’t pick me. And like that day I stomped off the court, I again reached back and found my petulant adolescence, and turned my back on a team, and a coach, that I felt had betrayed me. It wasn’t long before she confronted me again. We talked for hours - and though I don’t remember exactly what she said, I remember realizing exactly what she had known all along. It wasn’t my team to lead. They wouldn’t follow me, and I wasn’t ready. It didn’t make me less of a cheerleader, teammate, or person - team leadership is not simply about qualification, it’s a collective relationship that you must be capable of. She knew I didn’t have it, and taught me one of the most valuable lessons of my adult life.

* * *

There are other stories; other lessons, other moments. It’s difficult to try and take a five year relationship and condense it to just a few thousand words. There were moments we shared our own outdated-ness (singing Bon Jovi and Boston songs way too loudly), our individual successes and our personal defeats. We went down a long road together - and one that neither of us expected. Today, Coach is no longer coaching that team, and I’m no longer cheering. But, it takes little more than a stroll into STAPLES Center, or a picture from those days to remind me of not just who she was, but what she was to me. Though I’ve had many teachers in my life, I’ve learned from precious few of them. As luck would have it, it has almost always been from those I least expected. There were moments I cursed and hated her, and moments I loved her just as intensely. It was a crucible of a relationship, and I’m grateful for every high and low. Time has taken much, but has given me more - especially in the way of perspective. I don’t have many regrets from my last run as a “real” athlete - it was a time I’ll always remember, but there is one that came to me as I sat to pen this little ode. I don’t think I ever gave her a hug and thanked her for just how much she gave me - whether she knew it or not. So here it is Coach, in the best way I know how, in a medium which lasts forever, a hug from one old-retired athlete to his last Coach: thank you.

The Fourth Horseman

History is filled with transcendent trios. Bands of heroes, villains, saviors and songsters have come in threes so often that we've become accustomed and comfortable with the idea and even the superstition that good things come in threes. The Three Musketeers, Charlie's Angels, The Jimi Hendrix Experience, and the Three Amigos, just to name a few. While the first foursome that comes to mind are those famous horsemen who foretell the coming of the Apocalypse: Conquest, War, Famine and Death. As I prepare to depart Los Angeles after a shorter-than-it-seemed five year stay, I'm also leaving my own group of horsemen; a foursome to which I'm not certain I ever truly deserved to be a part of, but one that never made me feel like I did anything but.

I've lived a life of ancillary-at-best connectivity, treating each place I've stopped as simply a way-station on the way to bigger and better things. And as you might imagine, that sort of attitude doesn't lend itself to making great or lifelong friends. I've frequently felt intensely and secretly jealous of people who have best friends that they've known forever; people who would give or do anything for them, and for whom they'd do the same. Though through the years, I've had some close calls, I'm not sure I really ever had a best friend, let alone more than one. What's more, if you were to survey most folks on the places you might be least likely to make an actual connection, I would expect that Los Angeles would end up either at or near the bottom of the list. And not without good reason, the majority of the city is shallower than a spit puddle, and emotes a collective narcissism so intensely extreme that it's a wonder they don't commit all eight million of us. But it was here, in the most improbable of places, that I found three horsemen to ride with, and with whom I hope to frequently ride with again.

The Big 3

Sanchez, Joey and the Hawk. That's them. Sounds like a modern day A-Team. And I suppose we are an A-Team in a way. Though, I imagine that every group of male friends has a Hannibal, a Face-Man, a Murdock and a B.A. Barracus - or maybe more than one of each. David (Sanchez) is definitely our Murdock - crazy, wide-eyed, and an ability to find a smile in just about anything; though not without moments of unexpected lucid insight that are so profound that they often leave you simply shaking your head. Joey is surely our B.A. Barracus - though I expect if asked, that he'd tell you he's the Face-Man. He's certainly a fighter, and no mohawk notwithstanding, has gone through a number of haircuts that I'd never even consider. He's a man of few words, but constant presence; a fiercely loyal band member who often can't be convinced to do anything he doesn't want to do (though with sufficient tranquilization - or intoxication - he usually comes along). The Hawk is sort of half Face-Man and half Hannibal. He's surely the most well-dressed of the pack, and is legendarily suave with the ladies - then again, he's also the natural leader of the band. He's a business man, a family man, and one seriously big son-of-a-bitch. His demeanor is unflappable - and always seems to bring a purpose, a peace and a plan to every operation. They are an unlikely band of brothers, from wildly different backgrounds and with unimaginably different personalities, though I met them all in the same place: on the floor at STAPLES Center.

You see, we were all Clippers cheerleaders together.

Four For Fighting

I consider these three the brothers I never had, and like brothers, we certainly haven't always seen eye-to-eye. In fact, as I sat down to think about it, as ill-advised as it was, I realized that I had nearly come to blows with each of them (on separate occasions, mind you - no one's dumb enough to take all three of them on at the same time). But, brothers fight. It's as predictable as the rising sun. We challenged each other - drove each other to our absolute best, and absolutely crazy - usually at the same time. And when that got intense, well, it got intense. But just like brother fight - brothers understand when you mess up, brothers forgive, and in the end brothers stick together. To be honest, I don't regret the fights. I think it's how I knew; how I knew we were brothers after all.

It's a strange brotherhood, this cheerleader thing. All of us athletes in our own right, all facing the same ever-present emasculating stigmas, jealous jeers, and temperamental partners (which may be the hardest part of all). Trust me, no matter how much fun they look like, those tiny little girls we throw aren't always a barrel of laughs. I personally think it's because they're underfed (because I know how cranky I can get when I'm hungry) but who knows - all I can tell you is that it certainly mitigates any titillation you think we're getting from the process. The reality is, it's not easy on the line. Especially not on a pro line. And the guys are a much tighter knit group than the girls are - we have to be. We're not out there to look good - we're the muscle that makes it happen, and makes it happen with a smile. No one's looking for a picture with us, our autograph, or a calendar filled with us in our bathing suits. No, we have each other. Don't get me wrong - I love the STAPLES crowd, staff and the team we cheered for - but when it wasn't good, I had three guys on the line who were there. Every time. And for all the fighting we ever did amongst each other, we always fought better together.

The Back-Up Plan

There are a lot of things you can't count on your guy friends for: clean sheets at their place, something to eat in the fridge, keeping the noise down in the bed next to you when sharing a room in Vegas, a decent smelling bathroom and sympathy when you hurt yourself. But for all of that and more, there are a precious few things that you can count on your friends for, and of those, the most important is having your back.

The Urban Dictionary (the web's leading source for slang and truthfully horrible euphemisms) defines to have someone's back as:

An expression assuring someone that you are watching out for them. Comes from making sure you are safe by watching what's behind you when you're busy looking ahead.

But to be honest, that doesn't really capture it all. In a way, we knew about it much more intimately than most friends would have. After all, in a sport where "spotting" is a fundamental virtue - keeping an eye on your friends' safety becomes second nature. But, as cheerleading is full of just as much drama as you might imagine - there are other moments where it would be easy to not step in; easy to pile on rather than stand up; to run with the mob rather than step out alone. Each of these guys has had my back on countless occasions - not only in situations where I wasn't looking - but much more often in situations where I wasn't even there. They were there to defend me, who I am, and what's true about me - even in the face of not being popular or well-liked. I have done my best to do the same for them - because I believe that each of them is a better man than I am, and I won't suffer anyone saying otherwise - even if it means my ass.

* * *

Every day I spent on the line with these three fellow girl-wranglers, I wondered what I had done to get there, and if I ever really belonged amongst such a talented group. Joey could stunt with anyone and make it look like they weighed a hundred pounds; the Hawk could shoulder press a girl with either arm like it was a foam-covered aerobics weight, and Sanchez could do a back flip as easily as he could walk down the sideline. They were all better cheerleaders than I ever was. Joey has a National Championship, the Hawk was a team captain for one of the best squads in the Pac-10, and David logged seven years with the Clipps - and may be the most recognizable guy in the arena outside of Clipper Darryl. But they never made me feel like anything but an important part of the team; and just as proud to be standing on the line next to me as I was of them.

I often wondered what it is that I bring to the group. I am no Hannibal, no Face-Man, only a little bit Murdock and certainly no B.A. I'm not the oldest, the biggest, the fastest or the best-looking. What I am, however, is the piece that fits by not fitting. I'm not sure these three musketeers would ever had really fought for one another without a fourth. As we rode for the last time together this past weekend, we realized it was the first time we had done so since I retired from the line three years ago. And that's when I knew. Sometimes what great trios really need isn't any more talent, muscle, or brains. Sometimes they just need a fourth horseman; someone to hold the line together.

See you guys in Vegas.

Resolute

New Year’s resolutions have their origins in ancient Rome and Babylon, where the mythical Roman king Janus with his two faces would look both at the year past and the year to come (and after whom the first month of the Julian calendar is named) and the Babylonians would return any farm equipment they had borrowed the previous year and start anew. Regardless of their origins or traditions, the marking of a new year has always offered a unique opportunity for reflection and renewal across cultures and eras. Reviewing the disposition of previous resolutions is not nearly as popular as the declaration of new ones, but since I had the unexpectedly good fortune of actually keeping my first year-long resolution in 2009, I have the chance to do both with equal vigor as we roll headlong into 2010.

My primary 2009 resolution was to write an essay a week, each week for a whole year - which turned my previously mundane blog into the essay project which you’re now reading. And to my great surprise, I actually completed this resolution - which inspired me to make a few more resolutions this year, in the hopes that I can repeat my previous success. I’m listing them here, so that I’ll have a few more people to be accountable to (should things get a little off track) and perhaps inspire you to some resolutions of your own.

Reading What I Preach

Some time ago, I stopped reading books. Which is not to say that I stopped reading. Actually I read every day - but I read the news, magazine articles, columns, essays and other short form prose, usually things that I can get through in a single sitting, a few stolen moments, or during an unexpected delay in doing something else. But between my ADD and my otherwise busy life, I stopped really reading books.

Now this is particularly hypocritical because I’m often telling people that want to become better writers that the one unavoidable prerequisite for great writing is great reading. And despite the fact that I endeavor to be a great writer, I haven’t done any great reading since I plowed through Olive Kittridge on my Kindle early last year.

So this year, I’ve resolved to read two books a month - and before you go sending a ton of suggestions, rest assured that my reading list is already quite full of suggestions, purchases and loaned books that have queued up as a result of my shoddy reading behavior over the preceding twelve months. I doubt I’ll be firing up book reviews here - but I may mention the titles from time to time. But that’s about two weeks per book, and as a part of this resolution, I’ve also resolved to spend a minimum of one hour per day reading (and to compensate I bought my TiVo a new 1TB hard drive to hold all the TV I’ll be missing).

Time to reconnect with the bookwormy dork that got me through middle school with great grades and no social life.

Three Things and the New Essay Project

With any project, if you don’t keep adapting it, it will become irrelevant, uninspired and uninteresting. And because I don’t want Tru Love to meet such a fate, they’ll be some changes coming to the blog and the project in the coming weeks.

First off, the essay project will be reduced in frequency to once monthly and, second, a new project called “Three Things” will take its place as my (at least) weekly creative output. Three Things will be a shorter version of my favorite thing: lists of three - sometimes humorous, sometimes poignant, always just three things long - well, not counting subparts, etc. Perhaps it’s better just to assume it will be three-ish things. The essay project will be moved to once monthly to ensure the essays get a little more attention and cover bigger things. Additionally, I’ve resolved to start submitting the monthly essays for publication elsewhere to see if I can expand my audience beyond friends and family - though I truly appreciate the support.

I’m truly excited for the format change and I’m looking forward to using the lessons learned from last year’s essay project to have an even bigger and better year of writing (and publishing) in 2010!

Sundry

Then, of course, there are those resolutions which aren’t really a whole year long, and aren’t really the sort of thing that require a whole lot more explanation that just to list them:

• I’ve resolved to start eating healthier - a whole lot healthier - because I got way too close to 200 lbs., and no, they’re not making the pants in my size smaller all of a sudden...
• I’ve resolved to de-clutter my life; which mostly means throwing away a whole lot of stuff, except books, which everyone should keep forever...
• I’ve resolved to send more cards, because everyone likes getting them, and who am I kidding, I’ve got the time...
• I’ve resolved keep fighting back from my injury - because giving up sucks...
• I’ve resolved to save more and spend less - because that house I want isn’t going to buy itself...
• and finally, I’ve resolved to cut myself a little slack; it may not mean finally taking my first vacation, actually spending a whole weekend doing nothing, or gracefully taking a compliment, but hey, it’s a start.

* * *

2010 isn’t the year we thought it would be when we were kids. There are no giant orbital space stations, self aware computers, or colonizations of other planets pending. There are no hover cars, or hover boards for that matter, we’re not wearing a whole lot of silver (if you don’t count the metallic print on Affliction t-shirts) and we still can’t “beam” ourselves anyplace. But it’s still an amazing time to be alive. We live in a world of constant wonder and change, where more than any other time in history, we can make ourselves anything we want to be. There’s no doubt that the last decade provided disappointingly few opportunities for optimism and hope, but as each new calendar appears, we are given just that. In this time of looking forward to endless possibilities, seize the chance to write down just a few of them; dream big and imagine that this might be the year that changes everything.

The Fourth Kind

I’m nearly finished with the first year of my essay project, and after resolving last January to write an essay each week for a whole year, I’m nearing my first successful completion of any such New Years’ resolution. Looking back on the compendium of rants, raves and general irreverence that was my 2009, I’ve noticed a few things: (1) I have a penchant for lists of three, (2) I’ve left out some really good fourths, and (3) I never really revisit any topics - even after friends and family have commented on them and I’ve had a chance reflect and rethink. So, as an homage to the year that was, I’ve decided to unveil my top three fourths, er, not my top three quarters - well, you get what I mean.

So here they are - a year in review, of the things I left out:

Eyes, Eyes, Baby (A “fourth” for Shades of Lame)

Almost immediately after I published Shades of Lame, I realized that I had forgotten one of the most egregious and ridiculous sunglasses-related behaviors around, and with good reason. This particular bit of nonsense is not only not restricted to just southern California but I’m also fairly certain that it didn’t even start here. Every time I see this, I’m baffled by where such a trend may have originated, and how anyone might think that it actually looks o.k., let alone cool. And for what it’s worth, I’ve only ever seen this done by men - so ladies you’re off the hook (though your shades are all still way too big). I’m want to even come up with an adequately descriptive name for this eyewear inanity - but for now I think I’ll go with “high eyes”.

This is the practice of wearing one’s sunglasses just above your eyes, but still on your face. Now mind you, this is not wearing your sunglasses on top of your head; which while inadvisable and juvenile at least has some marginal amount of utility. But I can discern no practical purpose for leaving your shades on your face but not on your eyes. What’s more, it looks positively absurd - the same sort of absurd that I normally reserve for loud, bolt-on exhaust pipes on economy cars and skinny jeans for men.

After a brief survey, the leading candidates for answers to the proverbial and obvious question “WHY?” are the following:

1. While not necessarily needing the visual protection, the “high eyes” wearer still wants the fashion impact of their obviously cool shades;
2. Because you truly never know when the ambient light will become too much to bear, the “high eyes” wearer wants to minimize the time and effort involved in getting his sunglasses back over his eyes; or
3. Much like the Luna Moth, the “high eyes” practitioner is displaying a larger, douchier false set of eyes to scare off predators.

I personally think it’s the last one, and the fact that it also scares off attractive females, prospective employers, and anyone other than like-minded douche-moths is just an unfortunate side effect.

Putting the Der in Under (a "fourth" for A Healthy Dose of Shame)

To be honest, when I wrote A Healthy Dose of Shame, it was difficult to pare down the list of ludicrous gym behaviors down to just three. Because when the rest of the world has a problem where the self-absorbed attention-starved by-products of two generations of universal over-praising and over-investment of children in their own non-existent “specialness” has finally overcome any previously existing notions of good sense and decorum, and created a steady rain of unbelievably awkward moments and laughable scenes; Los Angeles will turn that rain into a hurricane of ill-informed pomposity, illegitimate arrogance and nearly unimaginable loss of individual perspective. And, on my very next trip to the gym, I realized that I had left out one very important shamelessly douche-tastic gym behavior: the Under Armor wearer.

For the uninitiated, Under Armour is a brand of sportswear which specializes in form-fitting (i.e. skin tight) undergarments that wick moisture away from the skin of athletes to avoid the discomfort of sweaty clothing. It was founded by, is built for and is primarily marketed to football players. It is designed to be worn under the pads, jerseys, equipment, etc. that athletes wear. And much like the name indicates, and much like its predecessor, just plain old underwear - it is not designed to be worn on its own as a primary garment. However, despite all this, not a visit to gym goes by where I don’t seem muscle-choad meathead doing just this. Because nothing says unmitigated badassery like a long-sleeved white spandex shirt, right?

Listen, even if you do have the sort of chiseled physique that can stand up to the unforgiving exposure that such a garment will provide (which, for the record, the vast majority of these cheesewads don’t), this just doesn’t look good. Because, just like it used to, skin tight clothing is the best way to let people know you’re trying too hard since the flop sweat. For the record, if you’re in good shape, it’s easy to notice, no matter what you’re wearing - and you'll look even better in something simple that everyone else is wearing, but just not quite as well as you. Do us all a favor: leave the spandex back in the 80’s where it belongs, and find a damned t-shirt.

Speaking A Loud (a "fourth" for The Golden Yield)

When I wrote The Golden Yield, I was catalyzed by the brutish and moronic behavior which seemed to surround modern-day elevator etiquette, and when I sat down to think about other examples of poor-mannered and self-centered conduct - they literally came flooding into my mind. I highlighted the three most prominent examples, but in the intervening months, I realized there was one very important one that I left out.

I’m not quite sure how or when the public at large started losing any real sense of the volume of their voices, but I am sure that in the past year, I’ve overheard vastly more conversations that I would have liked to, and as luck would have it, the inanity of these colloquies is always directly proportional to their volume. On airplanes, I have distinctly heard conversations multiple rows away over the roar of thousand horsepower engines and constant ventilation (and most recently through state-of-the-art noise canceling headphones). In coffee shops I have listened to mindless ramblings from dozens of feet away, despite being turned away, over the subtle din of other, quiet conversations, and through my iPod headphones. And in restaurants, I have endured alarmingly futile attempts at humor and over-eager sales pitches despite being so far away from the offending speaker that I wouldn’t even be able to hit them with well aimed steak knife (which I was then contemplating).

Here’s a hint: if you’re wondering why strangers keep turning around and glaring at you while you’re talking, it’s not because they’re eavesdropping, it’s because they wish they’re weren’t! Unless you’re conversing with a person who’s either deaf or dead, there’s no appreciable reason for you to be talking that loudly. Do us all a favor and do like your mom told you, and talk with your inside voice.

* * *

In the end, it’s a been a year of maddeningly frustrating behaviors, comically unaware douchebaggery, and one man’s struggle to keep from losing his tenuous grip on his quickly waning sanity in the face of apocalyptic-level stupidity. It’s been a year of finding a good reason to laugh amidst a good reason to cry and, more importantly, a good reason to cry amidst a good reason to laugh. And looking back on a year’s worth of essays, I found that while there were things that I missed, it’s been a pretty good year of hits. So I’ll close out 2009 with the top 3 things I learned this year, and leave it to you, dear reader, to send me a great fourth: 1. Inspiration, opportunity and salvation are not only not rare, they're all around you if you just take a look; 2. Though the latest generations will likely give us little else of value, they've at least given us something to laugh at; and 3. As doomsayers, fearmongers, and prophets of the terrible become all the rage, relax, things are going to work out just fine.

Happy New Year, everyone.

The Yule Tidal Wave

Despite the fact that this is my fourth December in Los Angeles, this year was my first doing any appreciable Christmas shopping here. I’m usually headed back home to Colorado - and not wanting to check baggage full of presents, I do my last-minute shopping there, where it’s never much of a problem. But this year, I’m sticking around, enjoying the weather and avoiding the hassle of travel. To my horror, however, I realized far too late that last-minute holiday shopping in L.A. was going to be different, to save losing what little faith I had left in my fellow man and to rip what little Christmas spirit I had violently away from me just a few days before the big holiday.

I’m not quite certain what it is about holiday shopping that generates this almost apocalyptic self-absorbed mania. I don’t know if it’s that the apparently rising waters of desperate consumerism brings out the worst people or simply the worst in people. All I know is that if you’re looking for evidence of social decay, or a descent into anarchy and madness, there is no better (or worse) place to be than a shopping mall in December. As we drifted slowly towards the penultimate holiday, I was beginning to feel the swell of universal forgiveness, a compulsion for charity and the bliss of a belief in the goodness of man. But in one trip to the Glendale Galleria, all that was dashed. I found new reasons to hate strangers, a resurgent belief that our collective intelligence is sinking to unthinkable lows, and a conviction that we have leveraged the freedoms and privileges of living in the world’s greatest nation at its finest hour to become perhaps its most bloated, ignorant and disgusting society. Merry freaking Christmas.

Unfortunately, amidst the din of manufactured winter mirth, contrived yuletide cheer and affected holiday bliss, you were likely want to hear the death throes of my Christmas wishes and goodwill towards men; so I thought I’d take a moment to write them down:

Children of the Scorn

A note to parents: the sight of your children waiting in line to see Santa or looking around wide-eyed at the elaborate holiday displays are immeasurably cute and the sort of thing that reminds us all that the holidays are really all about the kids. However, the sight of your children running around unchecked on rage-infused sugar benders screaming at the top of their lungs, throwing unthinkable tantrums and otherwise acting with all the behavioral control of a pack of rabid hyenas is the sort of thing that reminds us all that parenting is the only major responsibility that doesn’t require any training, education or qualification; or in other words that it’s available to careless mouth-breathers like you.

I’m not sure what it is about holiday shopping that makes it seem like dragging your extended family out is a good idea; but it’s not. The only places that three or more generations of any family should get together are a big house, a big church or a big park. What’s more, when did bringing children along at all to holiday shopping become o.k.? Part of my parents perpetrating the Santa Claus myth for as long as they did was not buying gifts in front of me -- especially at those ages when I was prone to being difficult to handle in public.

If the traditional naughty or nice paradigm is still being used to determine whether kids will receive Christmas gifts, then Toys R Us is about to have a very lean year. I’ve seen better behaved broods on Animal Planet - and for what it’s worth, sometimes cleaner.

Lots of Love

Unfortunately, the horror of holiday shopping usually begins long before you even make it into the shopping venue itself, out in the suddenly undersized parking lot. Now, parking lot behavior that was already rife with the inconsiderate, the ignorant and the just plain unaware has now become gridlocked by shoppers who appear baffled by basic traffic laws and lack any appreciation for simply taking turns. For what it’s worth, the good folks that run these retail churches had the foresight to know that their traffic flow was about to turned into traffic not flow and hired additional personnel to help direct the traffic for maximum efficiency. Unfortunately, the folks they hired wouldn’t know maximum efficiency if it walked up to them in a t-shirt that said “Maximum Efficiency” on it. Honestly, I’ve seen more cognitively-capable staffing cleaning up roadside debris. Installing people in the middle of already congested traffic flow who couldn’t optimize their own bowel movements, let alone two way traffic is like staffing additional cash registers with people that don’t know how to add or subtract. Do us a favor and spare us these parking lot wizards and leave us to our own terrible devices.

As for the remaining bad behaviors in parking lots, there are some basic principles to keep in mind:

1. Driving at 3 mph to be able to cash in on an ideal parking spot left by someone leaving (otherwise known as parking stalking) during normal shopping times is annoying, and during the holidays is criminal. If you think that you not having to walk the additional few hundred yards demanded by getting a spot somewhere else in the parking structure outweighs the need for everyone waiting behind you to park at all, here’s hoping someone gives you the gift of a dent in your door while you’re gone.

1(a). Additionally, if you’re truly worried about the marginally increased physical exertion involved in having to walk a few extra hundreds of yards to the actual mall, it’s more than likely that you can actually use the exercise - so why not kill two asses with one stone?

2. Driving around the parking lot like you’re Jason Bourne or James Bond does not make you similarly cool or debonaire (besides your Honda Civic isn’t exactly spy material anyway). The acoustics of these enclosed spaces make the revving of your Mitsubishi Lancer’s engine or the screeching of your 15” tires all the more insufferable and turns what is normally just annoying into reasonable grounds for assault and battery. Trust me, there’s not a jury in the land that would convict me for dragging you out of your neon green Neon and beating your wanna-be Fast and Furious ass.

3. Indictment of parking stalkers notwithstanding, if you’re one of the lucky few who’s actually getting into your car to get out of the shopping carnage, then is not a good time to check your mirrors a dozen or so times, rearrange the stuff in your center console or otherwise sit in your car with your back-up lights without moving for any appreciable amount of time. All of us are waiting on the jerk off who’s decided to wait for you. Don’t worry, we’ll give him a piece of our mind - but do us a favor ... and move your ass!

Pardon Me

I’m not quite sure what set of rules governs the right of way in pedestrian situations, but it would appear that the following groups are to be yielded to under all circumstances:

• Families with two or more small children;
• Middle-aged women;
• Teenagers in packs of three or more; or
• Any group not speaking English.

On my trip to the mall, I was forced to yield to each of these groups, on a number of occasions despite carrying any number of bags, being in a visible hurry and/or moving through these crowds alone as an adult man. And by yield I mean that I had to either stop completely, squeeze myself up against a wall or actually go back they way I came to avoid them. On a few occasions, I was unable to make myself small enough to actually keep from having them run into me or my bags. And despite the fact that none of these minor collisions was my fault, I apologized each time, though, in fairness, without much vigor - simply a reflex from not being raised by wolves.

Listen, folks - not a moment goes by in these indignant crowds that I don’t fantasize about simply squaring my shoulders and plowing through you like a bunch of doughy bowling pins - and all it’s going to take is one more ill-behaved child or bad parking lot experience to put me over the edge. And trust me, I’m not the only one. Do yourselves a favor and watch where you’re going.

* * *

I imagine that there is some larger social lesson to be learned here; some commentary on the commercialization of a holiday and/or the commercialization of a society. There is likely some conclusion to be drawn about our rabid consumerism getting the better of our notions of good manners and basic respect for others. There may even be some moral about how we are often at our very worst when preparing to be our very best. But for me, I’ll simply take away two important lessons from my holiday shopping nightmare. First, holiday shopping is best accomplished before Thanksgiving, in front of your computer or, if you wait until the last minute, very early on weekdays, and second, there's nothing like spending a few hours amongst the hordes of savages, malcontents and morons who appear to be ringing in this most festive of seasons by turning a shopping mall into a third world street market to make you appreciate the simple beauty of a quiet Christmas morning.

Merry Christmas, all.

Stopping to Ink

In contravention of the motherly advice given all over the world, I’m here to tell you that getting a tattoo is a fantastic idea. To be fair, I just got a tattoo a week ago (that wicked cool Navy piece pictured here) so I’m not as objective as I would have been had I written this a month ago, but trust me, I would have given the same advice back then. We have seen tattooing go from prisons and biker gangs to suburbia and celebrities then back again. It remains, however, the seminal act of rebellion and one of few permanent things still available to us in the era of months-long marriages, annual job hopping and suburban home flipping. Though tattoos mean something to each of us, and they also mean something different to each of us. For many, they are cultural, and for others they are the ultimate lack of culture. For some, they love or hate them openly, and others, love or hate them quite privately. But having heard the arguments for and against them (some of which I’ll review below), I can’t really come to any other conclusion than to tell that if you’ve thought for a while about getting yourself inked, go ahead and do it - and make your story beautifully immortal.

It Hurts

It’s a misrepresentation to say that getting a tattoo hurts badly. It would be much more accurate to say it hurts significantly; and that’s really sort of the point. After all, it’s a very small needle putting ink under your skin a very small bit at a time. It’s a quintessentially adult event and surely not for the faint of heart. But, nonetheless, it’s a good kind of hurt; like the burn of a shot of really good tequila or that deep soreness you get after a really good workout. And much like those hurts, it doesn’t last very long - while the ink itself lasts, well, forever. How much it hurts depends a whole lot on where you get it - as a good rule of thumb, if it’s someplace that it would hurt more to get hit than another, it’ll probably hurt more to get a tattoo there (i.e. anyplace without a whole lot of “padding”). Note: this is not a plea for you to get ink on your plushest parts, just a fair warning for when you don't.

In fairness, if the reason you’re not getting a tattoo is because you’re afraid it’s going to hurt too much - it actually may not be such a good idea for you. Those of us who do have a little ink would rather not have any more sissies running around sporting wanna-be tats. But if it’s simply an item you have in your “cons” instead of “pros” columns - rest assured, it’s not as bad as you think.

On a final note regarding the pain, if you’re planning on bringing friends along with you, put on a brave face - because if you don’t, the jokes about how big of a Sally you were will be as never-ending as your tattoo.

When You’re Older

This is the reason I hear the most often: when you get old, it will look terrible on you. Well, here’s a news flash, Nostradamus, when you get old, all of you is going to look terrible - especially naked. Trust me, when you’re 65, a slightly misshapen tattoo is not going to be the least attractive thing on your naked body, in fact, it’s probably not even going to be in the worst five things on you at that age. Who are you kidding? Have you been to the gym lately and seen what happens to bodies as they age? And those are the ones that are being taken care of! If anyone wants to see you undressed when you’re that old it’s either (a) someone who loves you enough to care less about your old tattoos or (b) someone you’re paying enough to not to care about your old tattoos. Either way, again, your old ink doesn’t matter.

Besides, what exactly do you expect to be wearing in your retirement years? There’s a high likelihood that the number of low-rise jeans, sleeveless shirts, or bare midriffs you’ll be sporting will be significantly reduced from your days of wine and cheese. At that age you’ll be showing less skin than a nun in a Boston winter. For all you know, the folks down at the rest home might have full tattoo sleeves and golden eagles across their chests; because they’re wearing pants pulled up to their armpits, support hose, long sleeved sweaters and collars buttoned up high enough to hide the stack of skin that used to be their necks.

There are a lot of good reasons not to get yourself tatted, but this isn’t one of them.

What Not To Wear

Not all tattoos are a good idea, in fact, the web is littered with a bevy of ill-advised tattoos (http://www.badtattoos.com/; http://www.mytattoosucks.com/; http://www.shittytattoos.com/) which are instructive on a number of counts:

1. The percentage of tattoos on those sites that are “portrait pieces” is not an accident. If you want to remember someone’s face, take a picture, shoot a movie or even have a painting made; the one thing that won’t look good stretched, sagged or faded is a line drawing of a loved one’s face;
   
2. If you think a cartoon character is a good idea for a tattoo, you’re too young to get one - this applies no matter how old you are;
   
3. While intensely personal, make sure someone you know and trust (besides your tattoo artist) sees your design before you get it done. This has a high likelihood of preventing any “naked lady” pieces or anything with someone else’s name;
4. If waking up in strange places with strange people hasn’t taught you this already, decisions you make while drunk (or otherwise impaired) are not the sort you want to be permanent;
   
5. Finally, if it’s on you, you’d better know what it means - this applies to equations, quotations, poetry passages, and most importantly, foreign languages.

* * *

In the end, the stories of our lives often go largely untold. For some, we are simply unwilling to tell them - either we fear the scabs over old wounds are not as thick as we would like them to be, or we have made ourselves who are in spite of who we used to be and don’t wish those who a part of our new lives to know about our old ones. For many others, however, we simply lose them. Because as time passes, memories fade and we have fewer and fewer occasions to share who we are as we grow older. Younger generations seize the days and our dim recollections grow less and less relevant. But stories can and do live beyond our memories; both on our pages and our bodies. By committing just a few important pieces of yourself and your life to the permanence of ink, whether on paper or on skin - you both bravely forego the ability to ever completely forget and bravely commit to telling the world, not just who you are, but who you were. And in that simple way, you can live forever.