LONG COPY
1. autumn dreaming: a year in san francisco
2. malt liquor & bacon (best man hungry
3. hungry
1. autumn dreaming: a year in san francisco
2. malt liquor & bacon (best man hungry
3. hungry
autumn dreaming: a year in san francisco
I was still running when I got there. I mean what better place to runaway to than San Francisco; it is practically autumn there all the time. Cool Pacific winds ride over the bay keeping the city a crisp 70 degrees year round. I had wantrunaway to than San Francisco; it is practically autumn there all the time. Cool Pacific winds ride over the bay keeping the city a crisp 70 degrees year round. I had wanted to get away from everything that reminded me of the East Coast for quite some time. Spending another moment in New England seemed unbearable. I can still remember watching my life flash before me as I walked down the aisle to receive my diploma. I realized there was nothing left for me in Boston or in Ridgewood where I grew up. So, as the President of Boston College gave me my diploma, I knew I had to go away.I wanted a new life, a new start. I didn't discover until much later that the real reason I had run away was because I wasn't ready to deal with my father's sudden death. He had passed away the beginning of my second semester of junior year and with the task of completing school, I pushed everything and everyone away. The last three semesters of my collegiate life was a blur up until graduation. And without a single job interview lined up, I had to head back home. But I wasn't ready to live in the same house where my Dad still got mail, where people still called to sell him a new long distance plan.
When I left, I only took one thing that reminded me of my Dad, his old Canon AE-1 35mm camera. I was ten when he had packed the AE-1 away for a new automatic point and shoot camera, relieving if of the responsibility for thousands of snap shots that would follow for the next 10 years. That's probably why it was in such great condition when I went into his closet, dusted off and took it with me. I packed up my clothes, the camera and just like that, I left. I thought I could get away, but grief followed, moving silently after me.
So there I was, traveling west on Route 80. I was riding shotgun in my friend's beat up maroon Saab. My other two roomates followed in an equally weathered two-door Jeep Cherokee. We were all heading west for our own reasons. But I kept mine a secret, even from myself.
Two weeks later we arrived in San Francisco. I had found solace. I was eager to devour it all. I absorbed the city through the lens of my father's camera. I shot countless rolls of film and spent more money than I should have on developing them. Everything was beautiful: the Golden Gate Bridge, the foothills of the Marin Headlands, even the carousel at the Fisherman's Wharf. But of all the landmarks in San Francisco, none occupied my mind as much as the Palace of Fine Arts.
Living on the cusp between Nob Hill and Russian Hill, it was only a short walk from my apartment until your could see the Palace of Fine Arts. The Golden Gate Bridge flowed seemlessly in the background, a man-made divide between the ocean water and the misty sunsets San Francisco is so well known for.
I would walk down toward the wharf then cut across the marina and I would be there. I wandered the paths at the Palace of Fine Arts many times: thinking, wondering, wishing. It always seemed so beautiful, but even with the midday sun high over head it felt very dark. I didn't always have my Canon with me, but I always heard the click of the shutter in my head when something would catch my attention. And for a second, time stopped. For a second, a single moment burned into my memory.
I was already back in Ridgewood when I first printed this photos. I was living at home and taking photography classes at the International Center of Photography in New York City. I remember my pupils dilating wildly to the fluorescent lights as I emerged from the darkroom. I had the photos on a a tray and as my eyes refocused, I found myself staring into the shadows of the photos. I don't know what I was looking for, but I thought if I stared hard enough, I would find it. I remember taking this one shot, looking up at the pillars at the Palace of Fine Arts and wondering if those who saw them before me were equally awed.
I looked at the picture one last time before I put it in the wash and saw something new. I had lost the details of my life. I never realized how much my family defined me. And when the foundation broke, I began to fall.
I have this recurring dream/wish that my Dad still wakes me up before school or yells at me for not mowing the lawn. But as that dream slowly fades away, I deal with its emptiness when I am awake.
Even though I wish everyday he was still here, I can't help but be thankful for the twenty years I had him as my father.
But he was only forty-six when he died. Forty-six. And though we always had a great relationship as father and son, when he died, we were only starting to become friends.
My interest in photography turned into obsession. The more I learn about photography the more I learn about myself. Since I began this journey, I've only used my Dad's Canon. With each photo I shoot, I feel like I get a little more of my Dad back. I have memories of playing catch in the backyard, raking leaves in the fall and watching him sing on stage at the high school Jamboree. But I only have dreams of things we never got to share: a beer on my twenty-first birthday or him watching me walk down that aisle to get my diplmoma when I graduated from college.
I guess my greatest discovery has been, that each day as I go through this catharsis I find myself becoming more of the man I think my father would be proud of.
When I left, I only took one thing that reminded me of my Dad, his old Canon AE-1 35mm camera. I was ten when he had packed the AE-1 away for a new automatic point and shoot camera, relieving if of the responsibility for thousands of snap shots that would follow for the next 10 years. That's probably why it was in such great condition when I went into his closet, dusted off and took it with me. I packed up my clothes, the camera and just like that, I left. I thought I could get away, but grief followed, moving silently after me.
So there I was, traveling west on Route 80. I was riding shotgun in my friend's beat up maroon Saab. My other two roomates followed in an equally weathered two-door Jeep Cherokee. We were all heading west for our own reasons. But I kept mine a secret, even from myself.
Two weeks later we arrived in San Francisco. I had found solace. I was eager to devour it all. I absorbed the city through the lens of my father's camera. I shot countless rolls of film and spent more money than I should have on developing them. Everything was beautiful: the Golden Gate Bridge, the foothills of the Marin Headlands, even the carousel at the Fisherman's Wharf. But of all the landmarks in San Francisco, none occupied my mind as much as the Palace of Fine Arts.
Living on the cusp between Nob Hill and Russian Hill, it was only a short walk from my apartment until your could see the Palace of Fine Arts. The Golden Gate Bridge flowed seemlessly in the background, a man-made divide between the ocean water and the misty sunsets San Francisco is so well known for.
I would walk down toward the wharf then cut across the marina and I would be there. I wandered the paths at the Palace of Fine Arts many times: thinking, wondering, wishing. It always seemed so beautiful, but even with the midday sun high over head it felt very dark. I didn't always have my Canon with me, but I always heard the click of the shutter in my head when something would catch my attention. And for a second, time stopped. For a second, a single moment burned into my memory.
I was already back in Ridgewood when I first printed this photos. I was living at home and taking photography classes at the International Center of Photography in New York City. I remember my pupils dilating wildly to the fluorescent lights as I emerged from the darkroom. I had the photos on a a tray and as my eyes refocused, I found myself staring into the shadows of the photos. I don't know what I was looking for, but I thought if I stared hard enough, I would find it. I remember taking this one shot, looking up at the pillars at the Palace of Fine Arts and wondering if those who saw them before me were equally awed.
I looked at the picture one last time before I put it in the wash and saw something new. I had lost the details of my life. I never realized how much my family defined me. And when the foundation broke, I began to fall.
I have this recurring dream/wish that my Dad still wakes me up before school or yells at me for not mowing the lawn. But as that dream slowly fades away, I deal with its emptiness when I am awake.
Even though I wish everyday he was still here, I can't help but be thankful for the twenty years I had him as my father.
But he was only forty-six when he died. Forty-six. And though we always had a great relationship as father and son, when he died, we were only starting to become friends.
My interest in photography turned into obsession. The more I learn about photography the more I learn about myself. Since I began this journey, I've only used my Dad's Canon. With each photo I shoot, I feel like I get a little more of my Dad back. I have memories of playing catch in the backyard, raking leaves in the fall and watching him sing on stage at the high school Jamboree. But I only have dreams of things we never got to share: a beer on my twenty-first birthday or him watching me walk down that aisle to get my diplmoma when I graduated from college.
I guess my greatest discovery has been, that each day as I go through this catharsis I find myself becoming more of the man I think my father would be proud of.
"Kumusta Po. Ni Hao Ma. Howdy y'all." When John asked me to be his best man, my exact response was, "Are you sure?" I was honestly surprised because when we first met, I didn't like the guy. Not one bit. But I knew he felt the same way about me. We were like two kids from opposite sides of the track. John was a studious college student; a friend to the elderly and small woodland creatures. He was dedicated to his academics and the martial arts. I on the other hand was a wanna-be thug from NJ more concerned about how baggy my jeans were and where I was going to scrounge up $1.49 for my next forty ounce of Olde English malt liquor. We grew up in very similar neighborhoods in NJ and some how crossed paths at Boston College. From the looks of things he turned out pretty good. I turned out more medium-well to well done. You know, cause I'm darker than he is. But in truth, we weren't great friends in college. It wasn't until we entered the working world that our friendship blossomed into a beautiful flower. That is, if flowers were made from bacon.
John and I share a special relationship with food and it mostly centers around pork products. We share a distinct palate. We appreciate the finest braised spareribs to the most expertly prepared succulent pork-chops. But our stomachs are also at home dining on such fine cuisine as scrapple, porkroll or Spam. I like to think if we were the two sides of The Ying and Yang, we would represent pork and more pork. John appreciates the simple things in life. Meat. Cheese. Bread. I happen to love Philly cheesesteaks. It's like we're brothers. One brother who is dark, the other brother having an incredibly large head. Rumor has it bugs don't really fly around John's head more than get sucked into its orbit.
Writing this speech I had to think hard to figure out why John and I were friends beyond just food. So I dug deep to find out what he held in his heart. I thought I would find more pork, but what I really found was that John held his family, his friends, and now his beautiful wife close to his heart. I've known John for 14 years now, but the one thing I've never figured out is what he has in that giant head of his. Some say it use to hold T.O.'s ego when he was playing for the Eagles. All I know is that its definitely bigger than a breadbox and filled with a lot of great memories.
One memory comes to mind. I got this call from John a few years ago. He tells me he met a girl and that he really liked her. He said he wanted to write about it in his Hopes and Dream journal but he was so excited he decided to call me instead. And that was the night he met Jen. And since then he's been a little more mature, a little more refined, and slightly more classy, which is a lot to say for a guy from Philly.
Now, they say you can judge a man's character by the friends he keeps. But I say it is more about how many of those friends have nicknames. Truth is, I don't remember anyone's real name anymore, but I can tell you that "Dinner" is not the meal were about to have. "Bone" is not part of a steak. "P-Man" has nothing to do with going to the bathroom. And when you get bumped from your flight to Turks & Caicos or you're just having a really bad day, rest assured you just got "Mo-Rocked." But John is also is a man of many names. Back in high school, he was known as Short Round, C or Johnny C. That trend continued in college as John earned nicknames like Trip Nip, Meatball, Ninja, Artie C, and The Sampler. The last one he earned for his penchant for sampling other peoples food while they were still eating. John may not wear his emotions on his sleeve, but trust me, the guy is not shy about eating off your plate.
With so many different nicknames it was hard to boil down what it was that people liked so much about John. But then I started thinking about the names that John goes by everyday: Son. Brother. Friend. And now Husband. In these names John's character truly shines. In these names, we can each think back to the memories and stories we've shared with John and say were lucky to have him as a part of our lives. It's an honor to stand here today and be John's best man and call him my friend. And I really can't wait to see what stories unfold in the future now that he's found the love of his life.
So, if you'll join me. Let's raise our glasses to Jen and John. May your days together be filled with more days like this: full of friends, family and good time
John and I share a special relationship with food and it mostly centers around pork products. We share a distinct palate. We appreciate the finest braised spareribs to the most expertly prepared succulent pork-chops. But our stomachs are also at home dining on such fine cuisine as scrapple, porkroll or Spam. I like to think if we were the two sides of The Ying and Yang, we would represent pork and more pork. John appreciates the simple things in life. Meat. Cheese. Bread. I happen to love Philly cheesesteaks. It's like we're brothers. One brother who is dark, the other brother having an incredibly large head. Rumor has it bugs don't really fly around John's head more than get sucked into its orbit.
Writing this speech I had to think hard to figure out why John and I were friends beyond just food. So I dug deep to find out what he held in his heart. I thought I would find more pork, but what I really found was that John held his family, his friends, and now his beautiful wife close to his heart. I've known John for 14 years now, but the one thing I've never figured out is what he has in that giant head of his. Some say it use to hold T.O.'s ego when he was playing for the Eagles. All I know is that its definitely bigger than a breadbox and filled with a lot of great memories.
One memory comes to mind. I got this call from John a few years ago. He tells me he met a girl and that he really liked her. He said he wanted to write about it in his Hopes and Dream journal but he was so excited he decided to call me instead. And that was the night he met Jen. And since then he's been a little more mature, a little more refined, and slightly more classy, which is a lot to say for a guy from Philly.
Now, they say you can judge a man's character by the friends he keeps. But I say it is more about how many of those friends have nicknames. Truth is, I don't remember anyone's real name anymore, but I can tell you that "Dinner" is not the meal were about to have. "Bone" is not part of a steak. "P-Man" has nothing to do with going to the bathroom. And when you get bumped from your flight to Turks & Caicos or you're just having a really bad day, rest assured you just got "Mo-Rocked." But John is also is a man of many names. Back in high school, he was known as Short Round, C or Johnny C. That trend continued in college as John earned nicknames like Trip Nip, Meatball, Ninja, Artie C, and The Sampler. The last one he earned for his penchant for sampling other peoples food while they were still eating. John may not wear his emotions on his sleeve, but trust me, the guy is not shy about eating off your plate.
With so many different nicknames it was hard to boil down what it was that people liked so much about John. But then I started thinking about the names that John goes by everyday: Son. Brother. Friend. And now Husband. In these names John's character truly shines. In these names, we can each think back to the memories and stories we've shared with John and say were lucky to have him as a part of our lives. It's an honor to stand here today and be John's best man and call him my friend. And I really can't wait to see what stories unfold in the future now that he's found the love of his life.
So, if you'll join me. Let's raise our glasses to Jen and John. May your days together be filled with more days like this: full of friends, family and good time
hungry
I woke up this afternoon really hungry. But it was for something I haven't wanted in a long time. At first I thought it was a craving for bbq, in particular brisket. But I let this feeling sit for fifteen minutes and thought about it again. I wasn't hungry for food. I was hungry for competition. I was hungry to be part of a team again.
The last time I felt an overwhelming sense of competition and being part of a team was when I was in little league. It was a muggy Tuesday evening in New Jersey and I was pitching for Mama Rosa's Pizza. And the game just went into extra innings.
Hard to believe(for those that know me now), but I was quite the athlete back then. My batting average hovered around .600. Now I never hit a home run and maybe had 7 triples over three seasons, but I always got on base. I hit singles like they were going out of style. I remember the moment my coach came up to me and told me my batting average for the first time. He was floored. But I didn't really understand how good it was...I was still searching for that first home run. I would have gladly traded 100's of singles for one home run.
So I was never an all-star. And I was fine with that. I guess that's why I've always been a great team player. But during this game, I had to deliver on the mound. It was all up to me. But I'd pitched nine innings already. And I was so tired.
Then, I started walking guys in. I cringed as our lead started to melt away. I remember being in tears as I chucked balls wildly over the plate. Thinking back, I'm not sure if I was crying because I wanted to win or because I just wanted it to be over.
Now we all know how cruel kids can be...
But I remember my teammates cheering me on. Fingers wrapped tightly around chain link, rally caps and mitts on heads, they clung to the backstop like wild animals. No one was left on the bench.
They were cheering for me? The big baby crying on the mound wiping away snot and tears with every pitch?
On that field, all the middle school bullshit didn't exist. On that field, I wasn't the nerdy kid with glasses in band. None of that mattered. On that field, I was on their team. We were all a part of something bigger than ourselves. And even to kids our age, that meant something.
Now, I know there's no crying in baseball. But there I was, crying uncontrollably because I wanted the win so bad. But I didn't want glory for myself, I just didn't want to let my team down. Because when I was in little league, there were no trophies for losers. A win was a win. Losers went home appreciated. Two, four, six, eight...
My team rushed the field after I threw the last strike. The game was finally over. And there I was, in the middle of all my teammates jumping up and down, still crying. Not because we had won, or because I hadn't given up on myself. But because my team never gave up on me.
The last time I felt an overwhelming sense of competition and being part of a team was when I was in little league. It was a muggy Tuesday evening in New Jersey and I was pitching for Mama Rosa's Pizza. And the game just went into extra innings.
Hard to believe(for those that know me now), but I was quite the athlete back then. My batting average hovered around .600. Now I never hit a home run and maybe had 7 triples over three seasons, but I always got on base. I hit singles like they were going out of style. I remember the moment my coach came up to me and told me my batting average for the first time. He was floored. But I didn't really understand how good it was...I was still searching for that first home run. I would have gladly traded 100's of singles for one home run.
So I was never an all-star. And I was fine with that. I guess that's why I've always been a great team player. But during this game, I had to deliver on the mound. It was all up to me. But I'd pitched nine innings already. And I was so tired.
Then, I started walking guys in. I cringed as our lead started to melt away. I remember being in tears as I chucked balls wildly over the plate. Thinking back, I'm not sure if I was crying because I wanted to win or because I just wanted it to be over.
Now we all know how cruel kids can be...
But I remember my teammates cheering me on. Fingers wrapped tightly around chain link, rally caps and mitts on heads, they clung to the backstop like wild animals. No one was left on the bench.
They were cheering for me? The big baby crying on the mound wiping away snot and tears with every pitch?
On that field, all the middle school bullshit didn't exist. On that field, I wasn't the nerdy kid with glasses in band. None of that mattered. On that field, I was on their team. We were all a part of something bigger than ourselves. And even to kids our age, that meant something.
Now, I know there's no crying in baseball. But there I was, crying uncontrollably because I wanted the win so bad. But I didn't want glory for myself, I just didn't want to let my team down. Because when I was in little league, there were no trophies for losers. A win was a win. Losers went home appreciated. Two, four, six, eight...
My team rushed the field after I threw the last strike. The game was finally over. And there I was, in the middle of all my teammates jumping up and down, still crying. Not because we had won, or because I hadn't given up on myself. But because my team never gave up on me.
