only after i made it loud and clear that i didn't want to talk about politics or what's on the news or this election or anything that nears controversy did someone feel compelled to bring up race. not only race, but their racist theory on how black culture is a culture that likes to keep itself down and doesn't want to succeed or work hard or chase after opportunities.
i had been trying to keep my head in the sand. how many times can i beat my head against the walls of politics, racism, and social media till i realize i've said my peace? everyone knows where i stand. why beat my head against the wall any longer? my head hurts and i just wanna take a break from it all.
i know that sounds irresponsible and coming from a place of privilege. and i'd be hard pressed to debate either point. but i feel like i'm a dude who screamed till his throat went hoarse. what good is yelling gospels at dummies if my voice is absent? i need a break, a time to heal the soreness. when i feel my throat is up to code, i assure you i'll be back to yelling gospels at dummies once more.
but last night was not that night. i was beaten into submission. a white man cornered me and it was just the two of us and i attempted to politely joust opinions that were different from his but he wasn't having it. it was the last conversation i wanted to have. maybe i shouldn't have left the house. if i'm not ready to fight for what i stand for, then i should never leave my cave because that fight is waiting around every corner and i knew i had no fight in me last night. somewhere in the middle of things, i tuned out as he blabbered on about bootstraps and how his racist views didn't make him a racist. i stared at the clock, waiting on time to pass, waiting for an opportune moment to leave, to excuse myself, to go home.
i found that moment and pulled a, "well, will you look at the time," and excused myself. i left. i ran away from a fight. last night i played the coward because i didn't wanna handle having to leave my comfort zone. i came home to hide from the racism, the news cycle, the politics, all of it, like a turtle ducking into his shell. it all started to hit me hard on my drive home. i felt defeated, deflated, and disappointed all at once. disappointed in myself but also disappointed that i have to once again find the strength in me to accept that the world can still very much be an awful and disgusting place and as much as i'd like to ignore it, i can't. it won't go away. i have to fight against it.
today i'm a fighter. i woke up with a fury in my belly. but no amount of courage and good intention going forward will ever make up for yesterday. it'll stay there in my past forever, like a fighter with a loss that'll always itch at him no matter how many wins he can string together. it'll always claw at my psyche as a blunt reminder that there are times in life when being fragile is not an option.
Friday, August 26, 2016
Friday, December 4, 2015
Scott Weiland
About 2 years ago, I saw Scott Weiland and the Wildabouts at Irving Plaza. It was his first tour after leaving (or being fired from) STP. And it was wild. Scott was resurgent, a man on a mission. A phoenix rising like he had done a few times before in his storied career. That night, he kicked Irving Plaza in the teeth. He hit the stage (on time) and the place erupted. They played STP. They played originals. They peppered the set with covers of Bowie, Jane's Addiction, and a raucous encore of The Doors, 'Roadhouse Blues,' which was probably the 2nd best encore I've ever seen in person (the 1st being 'Free Bird' when I saw Skynyrd). The whole experience left me with no other choice but to believe I had just seen the world's greatest living rock and roll front man in action.
I saw him a year later and it wasn't the same. Something changed. He wasn't as into it this time around. But I still believed he had it. After what I had seen previously, I remained devout. When Chester Bennington recently left STP, I thought, here's a chance for a reunion down the road. Scott and the boys touring the world again with a chance to ride gracefully and triumphantly into their eventual nomination into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. But that's not to be.
I don't know who the best living front man in rock and roll is anymore. Chances are they're no Scott Weiland. Weiland was, and still is, rock and roll, problems and drama included. That's part of the package. Rock and roll isn't pretty. Rock and roll has issues. Scott wasn't perfect, but when he hit the stage that night in Irving Plaza, dressed in a suit, cigarette dangling from his mouth, megaphone in his hand, he didn't need to be. He was the best at what he did and I swear on that night, he knew it.
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
In Defense of a Song I Despise (Blurred Lines)
Let me preface this with stating my disdain for the song, 'Blurred Lines.' I'm not a fan. I'm anything but. If it were on a playlist of my choosing, it would rank somewhere just slightly above anything by Creed. It's massive popularity only infuriates me further and makes me wanna seek out any and all excuses to discredit its purity and stomp it into the ground altogether.
And I was recently given a chance to do just that. The family of Marvin Gaye recently sued Robin Thicke and Pharrell Williams and won big to the tune of $7.4 million. 'Blurred Lines,' sounds a lot like Marvin Gaye's, 'Got to Give it Up.' A LOT. Once you hear the two songs back-to-back, it's impossible to ignore their similarities. So why am I not happy? Why am I not taking this opportunity to kick dirt on a song I despise?
I find all music (and art for that matter) to be derivative in some capacity. Everything new that is created owes a part of itself to something old. Nothing is beyond influence. I don't think, 'Blurred Lines,' made a carbon copy of, 'Got to Give it Up.' I think they were chasing an extremely similar sound and it ended up close enough for a jury to rule in the favor of Marvin Gaye. But what in music isn't copying something else? Nothing is wholly new and original. Every musician has heroes and libraries filled with their favorite artists that have crept up into the crawlspace of their minds to manifest themselves as ghosts during the song writing process.
I dare you to write a song that doesn't sound like anything else. There's no new chord progression. There's no combo of instruments you can try that hasn't been done already. As time passes, so does the total expanse of all songs ever written. It's getting harder and harder to write a song that doesn't sound like any other song ever. There's never been a more difficult time in history to accomplish such a feat than right now.
And this is no knock on Marvin Gaye. The dude wrote amazing music that's still relevant 30-40 years later. That's impressive. That's not song theft. That's idolatry. That's the old school that can never detach itself from the new school because the new school always grows from the dirt of the old school. We pay homage to our past by using the tools they provided us to build into the future. It's the circle and it can't be broken.
So for all you, 'get off my lawn/our music is better than the kids' music today,' fogies that victoriously raised your pitchforks and butterscotch into the air over this, I say give it a rest. Most of your argument is based on the idea that music today sounds different than it used to. But if a jury can award the family of Marvin Gaye $7.4 million 35 years later, maybe it's time to admit the music's not as different and scary as you make it out to be. Maybe you just got old and gave up on relevance. And that's too bad because the music you grew up with didn't.
And I was recently given a chance to do just that. The family of Marvin Gaye recently sued Robin Thicke and Pharrell Williams and won big to the tune of $7.4 million. 'Blurred Lines,' sounds a lot like Marvin Gaye's, 'Got to Give it Up.' A LOT. Once you hear the two songs back-to-back, it's impossible to ignore their similarities. So why am I not happy? Why am I not taking this opportunity to kick dirt on a song I despise?
I find all music (and art for that matter) to be derivative in some capacity. Everything new that is created owes a part of itself to something old. Nothing is beyond influence. I don't think, 'Blurred Lines,' made a carbon copy of, 'Got to Give it Up.' I think they were chasing an extremely similar sound and it ended up close enough for a jury to rule in the favor of Marvin Gaye. But what in music isn't copying something else? Nothing is wholly new and original. Every musician has heroes and libraries filled with their favorite artists that have crept up into the crawlspace of their minds to manifest themselves as ghosts during the song writing process.
I dare you to write a song that doesn't sound like anything else. There's no new chord progression. There's no combo of instruments you can try that hasn't been done already. As time passes, so does the total expanse of all songs ever written. It's getting harder and harder to write a song that doesn't sound like any other song ever. There's never been a more difficult time in history to accomplish such a feat than right now.
And this is no knock on Marvin Gaye. The dude wrote amazing music that's still relevant 30-40 years later. That's impressive. That's not song theft. That's idolatry. That's the old school that can never detach itself from the new school because the new school always grows from the dirt of the old school. We pay homage to our past by using the tools they provided us to build into the future. It's the circle and it can't be broken.
So for all you, 'get off my lawn/our music is better than the kids' music today,' fogies that victoriously raised your pitchforks and butterscotch into the air over this, I say give it a rest. Most of your argument is based on the idea that music today sounds different than it used to. But if a jury can award the family of Marvin Gaye $7.4 million 35 years later, maybe it's time to admit the music's not as different and scary as you make it out to be. Maybe you just got old and gave up on relevance. And that's too bad because the music you grew up with didn't.
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
My Beach
I live in the shadow of a postcard image. The New York City skyline shines brightly across the Hudson River, almost a stone's throw away from my front door. Every day and night, the buildings tower into the sky relentlessly, standing there as some benchmark for the glory and achievement of mankind. We did this. Well, not me, but people did this... human beings. It stands as possibly one of, if not, the greatest record of man made structure.
Living as close as I do, I tend to take this great behemoth for granted. Sure, some days I acknowledge just how awesome it is to be so close to it all. But many days, it's as if it's not there. Or it is but I just choose not to pay it any of my attention. Tonight, for the first time in some time, I paid a visit as close as I could to the Hudson River to bask in its glory.
As I stood there, I was hit with sudden flashbacks. I started to remember a time in my life when this was one of my favorite things to do. Coming up in my 20's, a younger me would love to venture to this spot after the bars had closed down. Sometimes I'd head down there with a bunch of friends, and we'd bullshit our way through a 12 pack while New York City stood there screaming at us. It wasn't serenity, but it was something.
The NYC skyline plays such a pivotal role in my upbringing. I came into legal drinking age only a year before 9/11. I grew up to a skyline that was filled with those gigantic Twin Towers and then one day they were gone. And the spot where they stood was a void, not to be filled with anything for many years to come. I remember 9/11 and coming to terms with it. A more selfish part of me worried about wars and drafts and no more fun. Sometimes it seemed like the party was only beginning for people my age and all of the sudden everything had changed.
But that feeling faded over time. Eventually there came a moment where it all sorta went back to normal. Being pissed at the boss. Being behind on cell phone payments. A flat tire. Sex. Drugs. Breaking up. That sorta stuff. It kept on going. For a short time, it felt like someone pressed pause on life but eventually we had to hit fast forward just to make up for lost time.
Somewhere in my 20's the skyline became a getaway. A beach. A destination. A place to extend the night once the bars closed down. A place for me and my dumb friends to go and demand more from the night. Those were good nights. To hell with the Jersey shore. We had our own place by the water. We had the biggest city in the world looking down on us and we clung to cheap beer and cigarettes and talked philosophy and cracked jokes well into the night.
Until one night when it ended. Cops rolled up. We were drinking in public. The officer told us to get lost and so we did. We never returned. And I never thought much about it. We replaced it with diners or friends' houses or wherever else we could find a willing host to our after hours. But none of that was ever a beach. Not like the NYC skyline. That's my beach.
As I stood there tonight, I wondered about those times. I wondered if I appreciated it enough back then. I wondered if those were simpler or better times or if I was only increasing its value through nostalgia. Either way, I missed my beach.
The skyline remains. I fear about a future skyline when all of New York City finally gets wise to New Jersey's staring eyes. How long until everything on that skyline would be covered in advertisements? How much more purity could they suck out of it? I wondered what it looked like from the Jersey side 200 years ago. If anyone could've ever imagined this. And then I wondered what I possibly couldn't imagine it'd look like 200 years from now.
Living as close as I do, I tend to take this great behemoth for granted. Sure, some days I acknowledge just how awesome it is to be so close to it all. But many days, it's as if it's not there. Or it is but I just choose not to pay it any of my attention. Tonight, for the first time in some time, I paid a visit as close as I could to the Hudson River to bask in its glory.
As I stood there, I was hit with sudden flashbacks. I started to remember a time in my life when this was one of my favorite things to do. Coming up in my 20's, a younger me would love to venture to this spot after the bars had closed down. Sometimes I'd head down there with a bunch of friends, and we'd bullshit our way through a 12 pack while New York City stood there screaming at us. It wasn't serenity, but it was something.
The NYC skyline plays such a pivotal role in my upbringing. I came into legal drinking age only a year before 9/11. I grew up to a skyline that was filled with those gigantic Twin Towers and then one day they were gone. And the spot where they stood was a void, not to be filled with anything for many years to come. I remember 9/11 and coming to terms with it. A more selfish part of me worried about wars and drafts and no more fun. Sometimes it seemed like the party was only beginning for people my age and all of the sudden everything had changed.
But that feeling faded over time. Eventually there came a moment where it all sorta went back to normal. Being pissed at the boss. Being behind on cell phone payments. A flat tire. Sex. Drugs. Breaking up. That sorta stuff. It kept on going. For a short time, it felt like someone pressed pause on life but eventually we had to hit fast forward just to make up for lost time.
Somewhere in my 20's the skyline became a getaway. A beach. A destination. A place to extend the night once the bars closed down. A place for me and my dumb friends to go and demand more from the night. Those were good nights. To hell with the Jersey shore. We had our own place by the water. We had the biggest city in the world looking down on us and we clung to cheap beer and cigarettes and talked philosophy and cracked jokes well into the night.
Until one night when it ended. Cops rolled up. We were drinking in public. The officer told us to get lost and so we did. We never returned. And I never thought much about it. We replaced it with diners or friends' houses or wherever else we could find a willing host to our after hours. But none of that was ever a beach. Not like the NYC skyline. That's my beach.
As I stood there tonight, I wondered about those times. I wondered if I appreciated it enough back then. I wondered if those were simpler or better times or if I was only increasing its value through nostalgia. Either way, I missed my beach.
The skyline remains. I fear about a future skyline when all of New York City finally gets wise to New Jersey's staring eyes. How long until everything on that skyline would be covered in advertisements? How much more purity could they suck out of it? I wondered what it looked like from the Jersey side 200 years ago. If anyone could've ever imagined this. And then I wondered what I possibly couldn't imagine it'd look like 200 years from now.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
A Lazy Dude's Guide to Running a Half Marathon
Last weekend, after running a half marathon, I found myself in a nearby diner waiting patiently to chow down on what would be a big ol' breakfast. The diner was nearly spitting distance away from the finish line for the half marathon. While waiting for a table, I ended up chatting with another participant and we talked about our times. Mine was 2 hours and 2 minutes. She did it in 2 hours and 10 minutes. Then we talked about how there's one point where you're running into this park and the way it loops around, you can see the front runners who were probably gonna win this thing miles ahead of you, running like gazelles. She said, "we could do that, we just have to put in the right training for it." And she's right. But it also felt like it belittled our accomplishment, as if we did nothing to deserve what we got... like we didn't train for this or put forth any effort (and for all I know, maybe she didn't, but I did).
Here's the thing, I'm a lazy dude. I'm a lazy dude who just happens to enjoy running. I run because I'm a lazy dude. About six years ago, I was being my usual lazy self and watching tv after work. I'd usually watch tons of tv after work. I always figured I earned the right because I put in a full day at the office. But my tv watching habit started to bother me. I started thinking about how my cycle for many weekdays in a row would be work, tv, sleep, repeat. And that realization felt awful. So I got up and ran. It's all I could think to do at the time to try and combat my lazy lifestyle.
The first time out, I told myself I'd run as far as I could go which wasn't very far at all. When I got home, I figured I'd do the same thing again tomorrow and the next day and so on. And here we are six years later, and I've now run the Jersey City half marathon twice. In between, I worked my way up. The endurance comes with time. It was a slow build, but I've always pretty much kept the same goal... I'll run as far as I can go and that's about it.
When I think back to day one and how I couldn't even run a full mile nonstop, I think about what I would've thought in that moment about the idea of running 13.1 miles nonstop. Or if present me could go back in time and tell 24 year old me (four years before I started running), "Hey, you just ran a half marathon. Thought you'd like to know." 24 year old me wasn't about that. He would've scoffed or not cared or told me to get out of the way because I'm blocking his view of Seinfeld reruns.
I'm not the fastest runner out there. I'm never gonna be that. I'm always going to be that lazy dude who decided the only logical solution to try and combat his own laziness was to get up and run. I'm never going to win the race. But that's okay. I didn't do this for racing. I did this to not be lazy or be less lazy. That alone is good enough for me. Always has been. Get off my ass and run till I can't run anymore. That's always been the objective. And if that's landed me at 2 hours and 2 minutes for a half marathon, I'm pretty proud of that.
Here's the thing, I'm a lazy dude. I'm a lazy dude who just happens to enjoy running. I run because I'm a lazy dude. About six years ago, I was being my usual lazy self and watching tv after work. I'd usually watch tons of tv after work. I always figured I earned the right because I put in a full day at the office. But my tv watching habit started to bother me. I started thinking about how my cycle for many weekdays in a row would be work, tv, sleep, repeat. And that realization felt awful. So I got up and ran. It's all I could think to do at the time to try and combat my lazy lifestyle.
The first time out, I told myself I'd run as far as I could go which wasn't very far at all. When I got home, I figured I'd do the same thing again tomorrow and the next day and so on. And here we are six years later, and I've now run the Jersey City half marathon twice. In between, I worked my way up. The endurance comes with time. It was a slow build, but I've always pretty much kept the same goal... I'll run as far as I can go and that's about it.
When I think back to day one and how I couldn't even run a full mile nonstop, I think about what I would've thought in that moment about the idea of running 13.1 miles nonstop. Or if present me could go back in time and tell 24 year old me (four years before I started running), "Hey, you just ran a half marathon. Thought you'd like to know." 24 year old me wasn't about that. He would've scoffed or not cared or told me to get out of the way because I'm blocking his view of Seinfeld reruns.
I'm not the fastest runner out there. I'm never gonna be that. I'm always going to be that lazy dude who decided the only logical solution to try and combat his own laziness was to get up and run. I'm never going to win the race. But that's okay. I didn't do this for racing. I did this to not be lazy or be less lazy. That alone is good enough for me. Always has been. Get off my ass and run till I can't run anymore. That's always been the objective. And if that's landed me at 2 hours and 2 minutes for a half marathon, I'm pretty proud of that.
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
That One Time I Sorta Didn't Tip
So recently LeSean McCoy, running back for the Philadelphia Eagles, left a 20 cent tip at a restaurant and that restaurant in turn posted the receipt on facebook and it, of course, went viral. And while I always condemn no/shitty tipping, this whole thing reminded me of the one time I broke my own code and left a dude a 5 cent tip.
That's right, 5 cents. A nickel. I tipped a dude a nickel. It was at Johnny Rocket's (years ago). When you go to Johnny Rocket's, the server gives you a nickel to put in the jukebox. Free song on the house. And that's the exact amount I tipped him. Cold blooded, I know.
I went with a few friends. It was in that strange era of young adulthood where only one friend is allowed to have a job at a time so he/she ends up paying for everyone else whenever they wanna do something. I was said dude with the job and I wanted some Johnny Rocket's. To this day, I still love me some Johnny Rocket's. Just the mere mention of going there pumps me up. What's not to like? 50's/60's rock music, dancing staff, burgers, fries, shakes, cherry soda, and maybe most importantly, the apple pie... the perfect finisher.
On this particular occasion, things were going well. We didn't have a bad waiter. We got what we ordered in a timely fashion. There were no mistakes. Everyone enjoyed their meal. Once the main course was over, it was time for apple pie. This was a certainty in my head. I knew that's how this whole thing was gonna end. When I went to order the apple pie, our waiter told us it was too late and they couldn't serve us apple pie. Apparently the apple pie station was closed and opening it back up for business was not an option.
I was pissed! But I was Josh pissed. I didn't yell or shout. I think I just gave a quick, "aww, c'mon man!" which got me nothing. He left us our check. I paid it, went back to the table and left a nickel on the table. I was making a point and I was scared. When I dropped the nickel on the table, I turned to my friends and said, "let's go! let's go! let's go!" I sped walked out of there, not wanting to have an encounter with our waiter after he realized I only left him a nickel because I am a total coward.
I got out of there with no ruckus. But I'm not proud of that moment. I wish I had thought it over a bit more. I'm sure our waiter was just following protocol handed down to him from some other guy who probably had a key for Apple Pie Town but didn't wanna use it. If I saw that waiter today (and if I remembered anything about him, like his name or what he looked like), I'd probably give him $20 and write the words, "sorry for being a douche," on it (in fact I'd have those words coming out of Andrew Jackson's mouth because then it'd have double the meaning because Andrew Jackson was sorta a douchebag. Don't believe me, google it! He did way worse things than leave nickel tips, although a nickel was probably something in his time).
Anyways, point is, I think you should always leave a tip, even if the service sorta sucked or you're not getting that apple pie you were banking on. Yes, I realize what a hypocrite I am. I did wrong and I'm sorry. My saving grace is that social networking was in its infancy at the time so there was no way for this dude to publicly shame me online, even if I pretty much deserved it. Current day me now tips 15% for bad service. That's right, even if they suck, I still throw something down for their effort or time. Waiting tables is tough business. Don't be a douche. Do the right thing, and leave a tip.
That's right, 5 cents. A nickel. I tipped a dude a nickel. It was at Johnny Rocket's (years ago). When you go to Johnny Rocket's, the server gives you a nickel to put in the jukebox. Free song on the house. And that's the exact amount I tipped him. Cold blooded, I know.
I went with a few friends. It was in that strange era of young adulthood where only one friend is allowed to have a job at a time so he/she ends up paying for everyone else whenever they wanna do something. I was said dude with the job and I wanted some Johnny Rocket's. To this day, I still love me some Johnny Rocket's. Just the mere mention of going there pumps me up. What's not to like? 50's/60's rock music, dancing staff, burgers, fries, shakes, cherry soda, and maybe most importantly, the apple pie... the perfect finisher.
On this particular occasion, things were going well. We didn't have a bad waiter. We got what we ordered in a timely fashion. There were no mistakes. Everyone enjoyed their meal. Once the main course was over, it was time for apple pie. This was a certainty in my head. I knew that's how this whole thing was gonna end. When I went to order the apple pie, our waiter told us it was too late and they couldn't serve us apple pie. Apparently the apple pie station was closed and opening it back up for business was not an option.
I was pissed! But I was Josh pissed. I didn't yell or shout. I think I just gave a quick, "aww, c'mon man!" which got me nothing. He left us our check. I paid it, went back to the table and left a nickel on the table. I was making a point and I was scared. When I dropped the nickel on the table, I turned to my friends and said, "let's go! let's go! let's go!" I sped walked out of there, not wanting to have an encounter with our waiter after he realized I only left him a nickel because I am a total coward.
I got out of there with no ruckus. But I'm not proud of that moment. I wish I had thought it over a bit more. I'm sure our waiter was just following protocol handed down to him from some other guy who probably had a key for Apple Pie Town but didn't wanna use it. If I saw that waiter today (and if I remembered anything about him, like his name or what he looked like), I'd probably give him $20 and write the words, "sorry for being a douche," on it (in fact I'd have those words coming out of Andrew Jackson's mouth because then it'd have double the meaning because Andrew Jackson was sorta a douchebag. Don't believe me, google it! He did way worse things than leave nickel tips, although a nickel was probably something in his time).
Anyways, point is, I think you should always leave a tip, even if the service sorta sucked or you're not getting that apple pie you were banking on. Yes, I realize what a hypocrite I am. I did wrong and I'm sorry. My saving grace is that social networking was in its infancy at the time so there was no way for this dude to publicly shame me online, even if I pretty much deserved it. Current day me now tips 15% for bad service. That's right, even if they suck, I still throw something down for their effort or time. Waiting tables is tough business. Don't be a douche. Do the right thing, and leave a tip.
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Ferguson, Missouri, USA
I don’t quite know how to properly express my rage about Ferguson, Missouri. I don’t know where to start, where to finish. There might be no finish. That might be the biggest ire of my rage. It never stops. The cycle continues. In my head, I know right from wrong. I know cops shouldn’t shoot kids dead on the streets of America. I know tanks shouldn’t roll through the streets to silence protesters. I know that whenever someone wants to speak up and be heard and say, “NO WAY, FUCK YOU! WE’RE NOT TAKING THIS SHIT ANYMORE!” they shouldn’t have to worry about the threat of tear gas or rubber bullets. I know racism is alive and well in the country I live in and that infuriates me. But what infuriates me further is when people tell me it’s not true. When people say racism’s dead or it’s better than it used to be, or it’s not the reason behind the pulling of a trigger. But then what is? It can’t be cigars. It can’t be a kid who knew to throw his hands up in the air. When I see what’s going down, I can’t be angry enough. I can’t compose myself to find the fancy words to convince others to share my rage. Why should anyone need convincing? Where’s the outrage? Why isn’t there more of it? I find myself outraged by a lack of outrage. Outrage born out of empathy. Outrage born out of concern for our fellow human. Don’t try and silence it or pretend it’s not there. Ferguson, Missouri, USA. This land is your land. Don’t pass the buck. The president’s out playing golf. You’re gonna have to get off the sidelines and get a little dirt on your hands. This isn’t patty cake politics.This is real fucking life. This is about a real fucking life that was taken. Gone forever. Mike Brown is dead. And we’re not. I’m tired of being scolded for wanting to improve society. I’m done with being told that we can’t make a difference. Indifference is death. Say something. Scream something. Grab something and shake it. There is no better time to show you’re alive than in the wake of a life that was needlessly put to rest.
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