When I was a kid, there was one thing I consistently wanted for Christmas year after year: A little brother. I remember as a kid thinking that kids don’t cost any money (you just have to feed and clothe them). So I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why my parents wouldn’t just get me a little brother. How difficult could it be?
Today, on the eve of my wife delivering our first son, I now think first of money when I consider what it takes to have a kid. I’ve also come to understand why my parents never gave me that little brother I always asked for: They stopped loving each other. I’m kidding, I’m kidding—I know why they stopped having kids, and it was for legitimate reasons.
However, one thing that hasn’t yet changed during my life is my insatiable desire to have a little brother. So it goes without saying that I am excited to welcome a baby boy into my home. But alas, with the much anticipated package, I am struggling to come to grips that our new addition will have an owner’s manual of sorts.
First, he is not a little brother. As much as I may try to subconsciously (and consciously) live out my dreams of having a little brother with my son, I will still have to be the dad. The far-too-often-having-to-discipline dad. Yuck. Such is the daunting task of parenthood.
Second, it will be quite some time before I can do “brother” stuff with my son. Even though I know it’s irrational, I have visions of heading straight from the hospital to our backyard to play catch with our baby boy. That’s of course irrational because there is no such thing as newborn baseball mitts. At least ones that are any good. So, I will have to exercise some patience for these next few months and years. (In the meantime, I will pray that my adorable daughter develops a love of sports, and that her habit of yelling “touchdown!” when I am watching basketball—or soccer, or baseball—is more an indication of her humor than her sports aversion.)
Third (and perhaps most importantly), I must accept my son for who he is, and not for who I want him to be. The chances that I hit the “He likes all the things that I do!” lottery are slim, and I need to come to grips with that. He may not love all the sports teams I do, and he may not like the same music as me, or laugh at the same jokes that I do, but that doesn’t mean I can’t love him completely. (But still, I really hope I win that lottery.)
Our son’s name is going to be “Jameson Brent.” Jameson because he is the descendent of a long line of James’s. And Brent after my next-door neighbor who was killed in a car accident fifteen years ago. When I was in elementary school, I used to go to Brent’s house virtually every day after school to play basketball (or baseball, or football). And while there were plenty of days he could’ve (and probably would have liked to have) told me no, he virtually never did.
I guess what I am saying in a roundabout way is that I want to be the type of older brother Brent was, and the type of dad he would have been. So to you, the unknown people of the internet, I say this: I cannot wait to finally get a “little brother.” And to my son, Jameson Brent, I say this: Can you come out and play?
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
A Cold Reality
A year and a half ago when 60 year old Tom Watson came within a short putt of winning the British Open, I was deflated in a way that I never had been before as a sports fan. And I had no idea why.
For two days I had barely left my couch as I watched the old golfer contend for a major golf championship. It was unreal. It was a tournament that had never been won by anyone older than 46 (and even that was only done in the year 1867). And while men of his age regularly participate in tournaments like the British Open, they never actually competed. But there Tom Watson was, in the lead, and seemingly on his way to victory. As he approached the 18th green, I remember I was literally on my knees, crouched down in front of my TV in giddy anticipation.
At some point during that weekend, it stopped being about golf. Tom Watson was literally defying age, time, mortality, the certainty of death, whatever you want to call it. But he was doing it, and I was in awe. As Tom studied his final shot, I had my cell phone in my hand. I was anxiously preparing to call my dad to say “Did you see that?!” But I never made that call. As Tom pulled back his putter to take the winning shot, you could see the exact moment when it happened. You could see the precise millisecond when Tom Watson realized what he was doing, and the enormity of it all. It was the slightest of hesitations, but it was just enough for him to jerk the putt and leave the ball out of the cup.
And it was all over. You could tell. He had seemingly stared down the impossible all weekend, but then he blinked, and when his eyes opened reality was there. There was still a playoff since he finished tied for first, but you could see it in his wrinkled eyes—he had defied the undefiable for too long. And he was tired.
This is a really roundabout way to explain how I felt today when news broke that Jerry Sloan was retiring from basketball, but it’s one of the first things that popped into my mind (other than “Okay, this is clearly the apocalypse—where’s my gun?”).
When Jerry Sloan became the coach of the Utah Jazz I was five years old. So of course he always seemed like an old guy to me. He was old—so what? Age didn’t mean anything to Jerry Sloan, the most grizzled man in all of sports. To me he was the consummate man of grit that would never back down from a tussle; always dirtied his hands during his long day’s work, but always washed those hands before supper. He represented an era that I knew existed before me, but that I only saw on the History Channel or occasions when my grandpa felt like lecturing me about life. I respected him and what he stood for immensely, though I never fully understood him.
However, it finally hit me today that Sloan is old. He was tired. And that means something. He had been around for so long, was so consistent, and so dependable, that it became a given that he would always be around. Sure, I knew he would leave eventually, but it was inconceivable that he would do so without doing the one thing he ever really cared about—winning it all. Jerry Sloan was the John Wayne of basketball, and John Wayne did not quit.
But John Wayne was only ever an actor, and he died of cancer in 1984. So, as I listened to the press conference today, and as I listened to Jerry Sloan humbly submit to mortality, I felt the same way I did watching Tom Watson on the 18th green. I felt deflated. Only this time I knew why.
Despite my relative youthfulness, I felt the shadow of mortality that creeps on us all. As long as Jerry Sloan has been the Jazz coach I have related sports to the world around me. And now that he is suddenly gone, I am learning a lesson I’m not sure I want to learn. I’m learning of the cold reality that not all hopes are realized, not all dreams are fulfilled. Justice does not always prevail in the end. At least in this life.
Jerry Sloan deserved to win it all. And the realization that he won’t hurts.
For two days I had barely left my couch as I watched the old golfer contend for a major golf championship. It was unreal. It was a tournament that had never been won by anyone older than 46 (and even that was only done in the year 1867). And while men of his age regularly participate in tournaments like the British Open, they never actually competed. But there Tom Watson was, in the lead, and seemingly on his way to victory. As he approached the 18th green, I remember I was literally on my knees, crouched down in front of my TV in giddy anticipation.
At some point during that weekend, it stopped being about golf. Tom Watson was literally defying age, time, mortality, the certainty of death, whatever you want to call it. But he was doing it, and I was in awe. As Tom studied his final shot, I had my cell phone in my hand. I was anxiously preparing to call my dad to say “Did you see that?!” But I never made that call. As Tom pulled back his putter to take the winning shot, you could see the exact moment when it happened. You could see the precise millisecond when Tom Watson realized what he was doing, and the enormity of it all. It was the slightest of hesitations, but it was just enough for him to jerk the putt and leave the ball out of the cup.
And it was all over. You could tell. He had seemingly stared down the impossible all weekend, but then he blinked, and when his eyes opened reality was there. There was still a playoff since he finished tied for first, but you could see it in his wrinkled eyes—he had defied the undefiable for too long. And he was tired.
This is a really roundabout way to explain how I felt today when news broke that Jerry Sloan was retiring from basketball, but it’s one of the first things that popped into my mind (other than “Okay, this is clearly the apocalypse—where’s my gun?”).
When Jerry Sloan became the coach of the Utah Jazz I was five years old. So of course he always seemed like an old guy to me. He was old—so what? Age didn’t mean anything to Jerry Sloan, the most grizzled man in all of sports. To me he was the consummate man of grit that would never back down from a tussle; always dirtied his hands during his long day’s work, but always washed those hands before supper. He represented an era that I knew existed before me, but that I only saw on the History Channel or occasions when my grandpa felt like lecturing me about life. I respected him and what he stood for immensely, though I never fully understood him.
However, it finally hit me today that Sloan is old. He was tired. And that means something. He had been around for so long, was so consistent, and so dependable, that it became a given that he would always be around. Sure, I knew he would leave eventually, but it was inconceivable that he would do so without doing the one thing he ever really cared about—winning it all. Jerry Sloan was the John Wayne of basketball, and John Wayne did not quit.
But John Wayne was only ever an actor, and he died of cancer in 1984. So, as I listened to the press conference today, and as I listened to Jerry Sloan humbly submit to mortality, I felt the same way I did watching Tom Watson on the 18th green. I felt deflated. Only this time I knew why.
Despite my relative youthfulness, I felt the shadow of mortality that creeps on us all. As long as Jerry Sloan has been the Jazz coach I have related sports to the world around me. And now that he is suddenly gone, I am learning a lesson I’m not sure I want to learn. I’m learning of the cold reality that not all hopes are realized, not all dreams are fulfilled. Justice does not always prevail in the end. At least in this life.
Jerry Sloan deserved to win it all. And the realization that he won’t hurts.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Jimmer Fever
I know exactly what I would say to Michael Jordan if I ever met him. Word for word. I spent my entire childhood daydreaming that I would somehow meet him. I’ve played the scenario over and over in my head. And there’s really only one thing I could say to him.
Michael Jordan was my childhood hero. If you knew me as a kid you just read that line and said something like, “Well, duh.” You probably then had some memory of me running around with a dirty Michael Jordan t-shirt dribbling a ball and awkwardly sticking my tongue out. He wasn’t just my hero: He was my idol. Literally. When the prophets of the Bible condemned idolatry, they were thinking of people like the nine year old Bryson Kearl.
While the years have passed, and I’ve come to see Jordan for what he really is—a truly gifted athlete with a competitiveness unsurpassed in almost any other arena of life, but nonetheless a very flawed man—my love for him has waned. And I’m okay with that.
I am still to this day in awe of the memories I have of watching Michael Jordan play basketball. Nobody in my life has ever come close to being as dynamic on the court as Michael was in his prime. When he played, my eyes were magnets, uncontrollably connected to my parent’s television set. He seemingly never let me down. The greater the moment, the greater he played. The limits by which the other nine men on the court were bound held no sway to the greatness that was Michael Jordan. And no other reality could have been believed by the childhood version of me.
His lasting impact on my life was his ability to send my never-slowing imagination into spin cycle. If I watched a Bulls game that ended in the early afternoon, you could say goodbye to the rest of my day. I was in a place that only me and my imaginary friend Michael could go. Whether I was throwing rolled up socks into a laundry basket as Patrick Ewing tried to block my shot or spinning around Joe Dumars to sink the game winner at the school across from my house, I was gone. Hour after hour, shooting hoops, imagining wildly, and loving every minute of it.
But all that ended. A young boy’s imagination is always dampened by the cold wet realities of life. Michael eventually retired (for real), he eventually exposed himself in unflattering ways, and I eventually had to grow up. Again, I’m okay with that. There is order in this world, and its designs have served me well. I now have a beautiful wife and daughter, and we have a baby boy on the way. I have a good job. I have enjoyable hobbies. Life is good, albeit less imaginative.
Enter Jimmer Fredette.
What Jimmer has done on the basketball court in recent weeks justifies the ridiculous quantity of accolades going his way right now. So much has been written about Jimmer in both local and national media of late that I can’t pretend to add anything to the archives. But what he has done to me—and most notably to my imagination—has earned my unwavering respect.
These past few weeks, as “Jimmer Fever” has reached Beatlemania-like levels here in Utah, I’ve been living in some sort of weird time warp. As I’ve watched BYU’s every game, I’ve found myself holding tightly to my couch armrest. Waiting for the next goose bump moment, trying to hold my excitement in check so as not to scare my daughter. Openly dancing in my living room without conscious thought. I’ve even caught myself daydreaming wildly as I did many years before.
During last night’s BYU-SDSU game, I had a thought that—upon realizing the thought—made me openly laugh out loud at myself. Thoughts are never accurately portrayed in words, but here’s my attempt to dictate what I thought: “When I make it to the NBA, I want to pattern my game after Jimmer’s.”
It was a delusional thought, I know. But when the thought set in and I started laughing, it was the kind of laugh that left me wanting more. I was loving the moment, and I was in awe at what Jimmer had done to me. He had brought me back to a time when nothing was impossible, and even a rolled up sock and a laundry basket could keep me happy for hours at a time. And my imagination was sent, once again, into spin cycle.
As the game ended and I saw the BYU fans descend upon Jimmer as if he were John Lennon and the year was 1964, I laughed at them. But then I realized that if a younger version of me were there, I’d be doing the exact same thing. And then I thought, “What would I say to Jimmer if I actually met him?” Immediately, I knew the answer to my question.
I’d say the exact same thing I would say to Michael Jordan. I’d walk up to him, go to shake his hand, and simply say, “Thank you.” What more could I say?
Michael Jordan was my childhood hero. If you knew me as a kid you just read that line and said something like, “Well, duh.” You probably then had some memory of me running around with a dirty Michael Jordan t-shirt dribbling a ball and awkwardly sticking my tongue out. He wasn’t just my hero: He was my idol. Literally. When the prophets of the Bible condemned idolatry, they were thinking of people like the nine year old Bryson Kearl.
While the years have passed, and I’ve come to see Jordan for what he really is—a truly gifted athlete with a competitiveness unsurpassed in almost any other arena of life, but nonetheless a very flawed man—my love for him has waned. And I’m okay with that.
I am still to this day in awe of the memories I have of watching Michael Jordan play basketball. Nobody in my life has ever come close to being as dynamic on the court as Michael was in his prime. When he played, my eyes were magnets, uncontrollably connected to my parent’s television set. He seemingly never let me down. The greater the moment, the greater he played. The limits by which the other nine men on the court were bound held no sway to the greatness that was Michael Jordan. And no other reality could have been believed by the childhood version of me.
His lasting impact on my life was his ability to send my never-slowing imagination into spin cycle. If I watched a Bulls game that ended in the early afternoon, you could say goodbye to the rest of my day. I was in a place that only me and my imaginary friend Michael could go. Whether I was throwing rolled up socks into a laundry basket as Patrick Ewing tried to block my shot or spinning around Joe Dumars to sink the game winner at the school across from my house, I was gone. Hour after hour, shooting hoops, imagining wildly, and loving every minute of it.
But all that ended. A young boy’s imagination is always dampened by the cold wet realities of life. Michael eventually retired (for real), he eventually exposed himself in unflattering ways, and I eventually had to grow up. Again, I’m okay with that. There is order in this world, and its designs have served me well. I now have a beautiful wife and daughter, and we have a baby boy on the way. I have a good job. I have enjoyable hobbies. Life is good, albeit less imaginative.
Enter Jimmer Fredette.
What Jimmer has done on the basketball court in recent weeks justifies the ridiculous quantity of accolades going his way right now. So much has been written about Jimmer in both local and national media of late that I can’t pretend to add anything to the archives. But what he has done to me—and most notably to my imagination—has earned my unwavering respect.
These past few weeks, as “Jimmer Fever” has reached Beatlemania-like levels here in Utah, I’ve been living in some sort of weird time warp. As I’ve watched BYU’s every game, I’ve found myself holding tightly to my couch armrest. Waiting for the next goose bump moment, trying to hold my excitement in check so as not to scare my daughter. Openly dancing in my living room without conscious thought. I’ve even caught myself daydreaming wildly as I did many years before.
During last night’s BYU-SDSU game, I had a thought that—upon realizing the thought—made me openly laugh out loud at myself. Thoughts are never accurately portrayed in words, but here’s my attempt to dictate what I thought: “When I make it to the NBA, I want to pattern my game after Jimmer’s.”
It was a delusional thought, I know. But when the thought set in and I started laughing, it was the kind of laugh that left me wanting more. I was loving the moment, and I was in awe at what Jimmer had done to me. He had brought me back to a time when nothing was impossible, and even a rolled up sock and a laundry basket could keep me happy for hours at a time. And my imagination was sent, once again, into spin cycle.
As the game ended and I saw the BYU fans descend upon Jimmer as if he were John Lennon and the year was 1964, I laughed at them. But then I realized that if a younger version of me were there, I’d be doing the exact same thing. And then I thought, “What would I say to Jimmer if I actually met him?” Immediately, I knew the answer to my question.
I’d say the exact same thing I would say to Michael Jordan. I’d walk up to him, go to shake his hand, and simply say, “Thank you.” What more could I say?
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Survivor
I feel like such a sellout (read the previous post if you’re confused why). But what can I say, I’ll go where the Benjamins are, and Vick’s has brought me some Benjamins. To welcome in the new era, I thought I’d just throw out some random thoughts I have. (Editor’s note: The following is a shortened version of Bryson’s post. The content taken out was far too extreme for both our ownership partners and our proud sponsor Vick’s Vapor Rub)
• I love the show “Survivor.” I hadn’t watched it for ten years up until this season, and I forgot just how addictive the show is. The concept of voting people to leave is brilliant. If only they implemented this idea in the workplace, we’d all be happier. Well, all of us except that lunatic in accounting who we’d all agree to send packing.
• In fact, it is now my goal to either get on “Survivor” or get a close friend of mine to get on the show. While we’re here, I have a strategy to get on the show: Act like a crazy person. Convince the producers that you are genuinely deranged and completely self-oblivious, and you have a decent chance at getting on the show. In my audition tape I think I’ll hunt down my neighbor’s cat, skin it, and sacrifice it to the “Survivor Gods.” Then I’ll claim to have better people skills than Tom Hanks, better athleticism than LeBron James, and better leadership skills than Gandhi. Your telling me the producers don’t want to see that guy on the island? They’ll think I’m reality TV gold.
• The sad truth is that I would stink on Survivor. I would overanalyze everything. I would be paranoid. I would offend everyone there since I won’t have my editor there to censor me. Knowing this, I think I would use my time on the show to become famous. Naturally, the best way to become famous on a reality TV show is to act like a crazy person. I’m not sure what I would do, but it for sure involves screaming at contestants who ask where I’m from, claiming Jeff Probst is my biological father, and carrying around a rotten banana everywhere I go and claiming it’s an immunity idol. Once I’m the established crazy person on the island, people won’t vote me off for a long time (since they’ll know I can’t realistically challenge them to win it all), and I’ll have weeks to win America over with my trademark wit and plump physique. It’s a win-win.
• After rereading that last paragraph, I think I might actually be a crazy person. However, this works since in Survivor the people who are true to themselves have a good chance to win it all. So, I guess I could win Survivor. Hmmm, I wonder what I’ll do with the million dollars I get when I win. All that comes to mind are fancy linens and rare vinyl records ...
• I love Vick’s Vapor Rub. It’s just so good. And useful. Like if you’re sick, and maybe you need some vaporizing action, I can’t think of a better solution than Vick’s Vapor Rub. Vick’s Vapor Rub: Got the rub?
• I love the show “Survivor.” I hadn’t watched it for ten years up until this season, and I forgot just how addictive the show is. The concept of voting people to leave is brilliant. If only they implemented this idea in the workplace, we’d all be happier. Well, all of us except that lunatic in accounting who we’d all agree to send packing.
• In fact, it is now my goal to either get on “Survivor” or get a close friend of mine to get on the show. While we’re here, I have a strategy to get on the show: Act like a crazy person. Convince the producers that you are genuinely deranged and completely self-oblivious, and you have a decent chance at getting on the show. In my audition tape I think I’ll hunt down my neighbor’s cat, skin it, and sacrifice it to the “Survivor Gods.” Then I’ll claim to have better people skills than Tom Hanks, better athleticism than LeBron James, and better leadership skills than Gandhi. Your telling me the producers don’t want to see that guy on the island? They’ll think I’m reality TV gold.
• The sad truth is that I would stink on Survivor. I would overanalyze everything. I would be paranoid. I would offend everyone there since I won’t have my editor there to censor me. Knowing this, I think I would use my time on the show to become famous. Naturally, the best way to become famous on a reality TV show is to act like a crazy person. I’m not sure what I would do, but it for sure involves screaming at contestants who ask where I’m from, claiming Jeff Probst is my biological father, and carrying around a rotten banana everywhere I go and claiming it’s an immunity idol. Once I’m the established crazy person on the island, people won’t vote me off for a long time (since they’ll know I can’t realistically challenge them to win it all), and I’ll have weeks to win America over with my trademark wit and plump physique. It’s a win-win.
• After rereading that last paragraph, I think I might actually be a crazy person. However, this works since in Survivor the people who are true to themselves have a good chance to win it all. So, I guess I could win Survivor. Hmmm, I wonder what I’ll do with the million dollars I get when I win. All that comes to mind are fancy linens and rare vinyl records ...
• I love Vick’s Vapor Rub. It’s just so good. And useful. Like if you’re sick, and maybe you need some vaporizing action, I can’t think of a better solution than Vick’s Vapor Rub. Vick’s Vapor Rub: Got the rub?
A New Era
(Editors Note: Bryson’s blog has taken on new ownership. And we are pleased to announce that Vick’s Vapor Rub has agreed to be our first corporate sponsor. As part of this new era in the ABC blog, we have asked Bryson to tone down his writing, and we have forbid him from writing any more radical or controversial posts. Furthermore, as the editor of this website, I now have the final say on what is posted. No more midnight “I’m going to throw a grenade at the way you view the world” posts by Bryson. For now on this blog will be designated for Bryson’s light humor and anecdotes. And since Bryson always took too long to figure out which letter comes next, we have ended the alphabetical theme—for now. Sorry, Bryson. You’re welcome, World. Sincerely, Chief Editor B. Rodriguez)
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Z is for Ground Zero (An Open Letter to Terrorists)
Dear Terrorists,
I know this may be a little late-coming, but just so you know you won. Yep, you won. You got us. The day you crashed your planes into the World Trade Center was obviously a success from your standpoint. You scared the dickens out of us. The WTC, or Ground Zero as we call it now, became a haunting reminder to us that this world we live in is evil and mankind is capable of terrible things. Good job on that. I’m being sarcastic, of course when I say good job, but I gotta’ give credit where credit is due.
You won that battle between thousands of innocent civilians and a plane. This you know. But I’m not sure if you realize that you won the war, too. Did you know that? Well, let’s recap. You wanted us to acknowledge you and your beliefs. Check. You wanted to send us into a frenzy. Check. You wanted to destroy our nation. Check.
Since your pathetic attempt at bravery our nation’s leaders have used your actions as an excuse to slowly take away our liberties one piece at a time. You obviously love oppression, so this has to make you happy. (By the way, those of you who actually flew the planes, how is hell treating you? Can you even feel any form of happiness there? Just curious.) Regardless, you deserve to know that your mission—albeit a despicable one—was accomplished. You wanted us in bondage, and our leaders have saw to it that we are in it.
Our executive branch has taken enough authority upon itself now that there is no longer any semblance of “checks and balances”. All they have to do is claim that they are fighting you guys, and they can do whatever they want. Ever read Lord of the Rings? I assume your answer is no since you suck so bad, and sucky people rarely read it. Anyway, in the books, there is this ring of power that distorts the mind of anyone who possesses it, and makes them do horrible things with their power in the name of good intentions. Well, the embers from 9/11 somehow forged a ring of power that our leaders have been putting on ever since. (While we’re here, I mean no offense when I say you suck. I mean, surely even you can acknowledge that you do.)
(BTW, who are you? Some people say you aren’t virgin seeking radical Muslims from the Middle East at all, but someone more local. There is evidence both ways, but I am curious. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s cool. I’m just a normal American citizen, so I’m obviously not prepared for the truth. . . . And while we’re here, how did you get the buildings to fall so quickly by means never accomplished before in history. After just one hour of the planes resting in a small portion of the gigantic towers, the whole building collapsed in a manner eerily similar to planned demolition. How did you pull that one off? And how did you get the two other planes to completely disintegrate? Did you use some sort of Middle Eastern magic? And if you could use magic, why bother with the planes at all? I’m so confused.)
Since your attacks, the laws of our country have changed so much that anyone who actually believes we live in a free country is as delusional as a member of Al Qaeda.(No offense by that analogy, but seriously, you thought you’d get a bunch of virgins in heaven if you rammed a plane into a building? Yikes.) Not only is the very law of our nation now subverted into some prettied up version of socialism (A big no-no in the old America), but the rest of the world hates us.
No, really, they do. See, what happened, is after you attacked us, we decided somebody had to pay. Sure, we’re Christians, but not when it comes to politics. At least this is what I have gathered from reading the papers. Anyway, so we decided to go into Afghanistan (where we supposed you were), and also Iraq (same reason . . . sort of). Well, it turns out the rest of the world doesn’t like it when we start policing other nations. Something about “their liberties”; I can’t remember the whole story. Anyway, they especially hate it when it turned out our “intelligence” on Iraq was doctored and our reasons for going there were hazy. In fact, our going there got you more recruits than anything else you’ve done. Talk about a backfire.
Speaking of backfire, eventually the Americans caught on to the trickery from our administration. So their answer was change. I don’t want to get into semantics but the “change” they were looking for was merely a political party thing. So, to end the reign of liberty-stealing politicians, they decided to appoint leaders who were even more inclined to take away liberties in name of the "greater good." Whoops! Have you read the book 1984? Wait—sorry, never mind. You wouldn’t understand. Again, no offense.
Today the matter of American civil liberties is virtually irrelevant. It’s a sad story, really (Well, for us it is—not for you, of course). The hijacked planes of 9/11 now symbolize America itself. The course once set has been derailed, our rights once held with vigor and reverence have been stolen through treachery, and while some passengers are trying desperately to right the ship, their efforts are thwarted by the men with more weaponry (and more camera time). Bet you didn’t see that coming, huh? Well, neither did the rest of us. We now live in a country that is ruled by an all-powerful, all-seeing federal government that is allowed to send us to prison without due process, invade our privacy without cause, tax the living hell out of us, and even touch our children’s privates at airports. All this because of you. Because you won. Touché scum bags, touché.
Sincerely,
Grieving American Citizen
*****************************
Today's recommendation: My new comedy group, Left Field Stand Up, is recording a DVD with Excel Films next month (January 14-15) at the Wagner Theater in downtown Salt Lake. If you're interested, go to http://leftfieldstandup.com. If you go to purchase tickets, use the promo code "Humor U" for half off.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Y is for Youth
Like many people a few years separated from pre-adult life, I have regrets. I regret many things I have done in my life. I look at my youth and see good times and great memories, but I also see so many wasted days and missed opportunities. I see so many lessons either not learned or learned too late. But there is one lesson I think I may have learned just in the nick of time: Failure is a good thing.
Follow me here for a minute (or ten). I want to briefly tell a story of my greatest failure. And I want to explain to you how it was also one of the best things I ever did.
In the summer of 2006, after months of planning, my good friend and I hastily set out to open a pizza restaurant. We were called Wooden House Pizza, and we specialized in wood-fired pizza. After hastily finding a location, hastily procuring enough funds to start up the company, hastily tearing the building apart and hastily building it again from scratch, we made our very own pizza restaurant. It took months of sleepless nights to prepare for, but by September we were ready for our grand opening.
By offering 25 cents per slice (with a limit of two slices) and providing free music (from performers like Joshua James and Kid Theodore), we were able to get roughly two thousand people to come to our grand opening. People lined up for what seemed like miles to eat our pizza and enjoy our digs. We were the talk of the town, the cock of the walk. And I distinctly remember thinking, “I’ve made it.”
But when the dust of the grand opening settled, and we faced the realities of sustaining a restaurant, all of our hastilies caught up with us. By Thanksgiving the company was on life support, and by Christmas we were dead. The hastily put together pizza place was hastily put to bed. End of story. I was left broke, humbled, tired, and depressed.
It was an epic failure.
I had to borrow money from my parents to pay my bills, and I was literally eating little to none (especially once the pizza ran out). And I distinctly remember thinking, “I’ve made it . . . to hell.”
I wasted my youth with what I’ll call a failure phobia. Growing up, if there were two options—one easy and one hard—I always chose the easier path. Even if it meant spending most of my days bored and unsatisfied. I just didn’t want to deal with failure. When I finally went for it—as they say—my phobias were realized. I tried to do something special and I failed miserably. And the side of me from my youth that feared failure so much said something to the effect of, “I told you so.”
Sad, but true.
Well, a little after the pizza place died, I got an email from Square Magazine. They had apparently been planning a piece on Wooden House Pizza and our live music shows. Since the piece was now useless, they were emailing me to see if I would like a copy of a picture they made of Joshua James performing on our stage before they scrap it. I accepted the artwork, and on a whim I asked if they had any job openings. They said yes, and within a couple weeks after that, I was doing ad sales for them. People scared of failure don't usually take sales jobs. I was on the right track.
After I had been with Square for a few months, I got the itch to write for them. I had always liked writing, but . . . wait for it, wait for it . . . I never really pursued it (surprise, surprise). At first I was met with resistance, but after a couple minor pieces, I was given the green light to become a full-fledged writer for the magazine. I even got heavily photo shopped pictures of myself in the magazine, all of which came across as “funny”. Except everyone else besides me was laughing. But I digress . . . .The point was that my pizza failure humbled me enough to not worry as much about failing to write well. I mean, I had found hell—I might as well try to enjoy it.
Once I started writing frequently, I developed a style (as all writers do). Aside from my trademark poor grammar, I noticed I was always getting urges to drive my writings towards humor. I could occasionally say something useful, but I spent most of my time trying to make the reader laugh. I usually settled for making myself laugh, but regardless, I found the act addictive.
Before I knew it, I was writing material for a stand up act. My early stuff was really, really bad. For example: “I used to wear Polo clothes because I thought it was cool—I don’t even play polo!” Yeah, I was a regular Cosby. Frank Cosby, the idiot cousin of Bill. However, I was writing comedy, and I loved it.
Months later, after a few attempts at performing stand up for my family, I followed another whim. I heard of a stand up group at BYU called Humor U, and I heard that they had an open mic audition. With the urging of a supportive wife, and before it registered in my brain that I might be making a complete fool of myself, I went and tried the open mic thing.
And the weirdest thing happened: I didn’t fail. In fact, people laughed. And they clapped. And I even heard one guy say "he was alright". Before I knew it, I was performing in front of hundreds of people with a group of very talented comedians, and I was realizing a dream I never consciously knew about. And a part of me that I always ignored as a kid said “I told you so.”
I have since performed dozens of times for thousands of people with Humor U and elsewhere. Most recently, I have seen doors open that I never imagined. I am not actually at liberty to discuss details, but in the near future, I will be get opportunities to succeed in ways that are—to me—very fulfilling.
All because I tried. But perhaps more importantly, all because I failed.
The part of me that saw a failed pizza place and said “I told you so”—that same part of me that made all my decisions in my youth—couldn’t have been more wrong.
My epic failure really sucked. But if I hadn’t at least tried to create a successful pizza place, I never would have gotten the email from Square Magazine. And If I never tried the pizza thing, I never would have been brave enough to pursue writing at Square. And if I never pursued writing, I never would have gotten into stand up. And if I never got into stand up, I wouldn’t have the opportunities that are now presenting themselves to me.
I’m not going to pretend to know a ton about life, but I do know that all truly worthwhile things come through hardship. And hardships are synonymous with failure. I regret a lot of things from my youth. But I regret most of all that I didn’t fail a little more. Because for me to have failed a little more, it would have meant that I tried a little more. And even if you disagree with me, and even if this blog post is yet another failure, I am perfectly okay with that.
Sincerely,
Frank Cosby
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