this post doesn't matter, and that's cool.

it doesn't. not today. that's not to say that this post is meaningless.  i think that it means something.

but it doesn't matter. neither do our thoughts, feelings, or opinions.  none of our outrageous tweets, or political Facebook posts.  none of our anger, none of our sympathy, none of our beliefs.  not in this context, not right now.

can we connect to the idea that that's okay?

it doesn't matter because 12 people in Aurora, Colorado needlessly died at the hands of a heartless criminal.

acts so heinous spark a variety of reactions.  people are compelled to use their voice when such an exquisite evil is present, even when they're not directly linked to it.  i'm not one of them, except for this very writing.

my aim was a bit off today.  an account on Twitter noted that Aurora was trending, and the brand assumed it was do to the popularity of one of their products, never checking to see why.  as a human being and a publicist, i was bewildered.  how could this brand be so careless as to either exploit this tragedy or not fact check?  i tweeted about it in anger. because that's what we do on Twitter.

and then i deleted that angry tweet because it doesn't fucking matter. that account's misstep and my anger have nothing to do with the horror of what happened in Colorado, and contribute nothing to the healing process. 

similarly, it doesn't matter if we think gun control would have made a difference.  it doesn't matter if we think religion may have played a role.  it doesn't matter if we think news organizations not referring to the shooter as a terrorist is a racial issue. it doesn't matter who tweeted what.  it doesn't matter if he was possessed or mentally ill.  this is simply us generating noise that demeans what does matter.  i hate that i fed into it, even if momentarily.

it's meaningless because it doesn't undo the hideous crime. it doesn't bring back those lost. it doesn't comfort the friends and families of the victims. it doesn't bring justice.

(if you're going to argue that we need these debates as a healthy way to create preventive measures for the future, i understand.  but the people who are genuinely committed to that understand know that there are outlets for these measures, and none of them are social media.  they'll also be the ones still trying to make a difference a month from now rather than having their first in the air and their head in the sand, in the lyrics of Billy Joel).

the onion wrote a controversial and upsettingly true article about how America can predict how this will unfold based off of what's become the formula of previous tragedies.  it notes that we know that (and when) the sadness, anger, and outrage will end, and we will move on almost as if it didn't happen.  except of course for those who were directly impacted.

and we do, and we should.  as untrue as it may seem, the hideous actions are already in the past.  there is a level of reverence and fear (and a relentless hounding by the media) that will keep them in our present for a short while.

on Colt Cabana's The Art of Wrestling podcast, CM Punk noted that we have the ability to manage our sadness to an extent, saying "if you're bummed, go do something you like to do."  for many of us, this will be the next step.  we will get bummed thinking and hearing about it, and then go on.  the sadness will turn merely to twinges.

then, in a year from now, we won't think about it at all.  our fiery reactions will squelch like flames do.  except for those who listen through the noise; who react by acting.

this story is going to further unfold, and the meaningless voices will grow louder. i don't mean to preach, but i do ask you to set this shit aside. keep what matters in mind.

because they'll reveal that the shooter listened to a Hatebreed or something (i do, and never killed anyone), or watched violent television (WWE fan, never attempted a Codebreaker) or that his adolescence was less than cinematic (who the fuck's isn't?) and that he had faded copies of terrifying writings he stowed away in a worn out shoebox under his bed.  and none of that will matter either.  celebrate the heroes who risked their lives for strangers--who dismissed their own injuries to lessen the wounds of someone else.  refuse to be governed by fear or the media.

it's perfectly natural to fall apart in the wake of something like this, but when putting ourselves back together, we should do it with the pieces that matter.

act. help.

maybe then this blog will mean something.
-k

CLICK HERE TO MEAN SOMETHING.


"there's blood on the street today, but no more than there was yesterday.  have we really learned anything? or are we just doomed to hit rewind--and hit rewind--and play?" -Bryan Fenkart, When We Were Young

"prepare for a series of comfortable miracles"

she looked like an employee from American Eagle restocking merchandise, but she was just sifting through my collection of wrestling shirts to wear to her and her brother's first ever WWE event.  her brother had gotten tickets to a wrestling house show for his birthday, which thanks to his invite ultimately ended up being a gift for me as well.  as he patiently waited for his sister to select a shirt from the array of merchandise that i toted from Manhattan to Allentown, i realized that my interest in the WWE is teetering on obsession. 

the more I apply it to real life, the more I realize that teetering is a generous verb.

one of my favorite wrestling terms is "kayfabe."  Kayfabe is basically the suspension of disbelief, or the ability to make a fictional scenario feel real. it's how well the wrestling world tinkers with/plays within the rules of the imaginary world that we're buying into. it's largely determined by a performer's ability to commit to his/her character, regardless of whether he is the "good guy" (face) or "bad guy" (heel).  even if he/she is getting kicked in the face.  for kayfabe to really show up, the characters involved have to fully uphold their beliefs, and not acknowledge whether they are applying them for "good" or for "bad."  they simply have to be them.

in a world where consequences and rewards are scripted and beliefs are laid out on a storyboard, it's still a very finicky concept to master.  in life, where character is formed, not written, and contexts are inevitable, and not predetermined, it gets even trickier.

WWE fans, marks, and haters alike are hungry to uphold kayfabe.  we want who we are and the roles that we play to be so clearly defined that we can articulate it--even boast about it--on a microphone to thousands of people, and we want to be proud of it.  we want our every and every move to be such a genuine and direct link to our character that they dismiss our need to maintain appearances and thwart inescapable looming judgements.  we want to be unaffected by whether our outcomes make us the "good guy" or the "bad guy."  we want to acknowledge that our greatest strengths and weaknesses make us vulnerable to either, but that we don't care.  we want our decisions to be born in a vacuum, and to never doubt whether or not our reactions are aligned with our character.  we want to be this unchained from hesitation, reluctance, fear, and distrust in ourselves. we want to be this certain; this connected to who we are.  we love self-discovery, but we really love the security in a script.

there's something that has always floated in the cloud of my own character. it's been coming to fruition with more and more clarity. 

relentless devotion.

i know 25 is a bit young to be feeling my mortality, so i hope this isn't as grim as it sounds, but we don't have a lot of time here.  we're blessed with this one life (that we know of) and we get one chance at it.  i'm young, but i have a lot of yesterdays in my rearview, and i know it's important to make plans, but the future is only a conversation. we only really have now.

so, i've decided that if i could define my kayfabe with anything, it would be to authentically approach every layer of my life as if it's vocational.  this is my oath to myself.  i know injecting this much zeal into my daily life, and up-keeping the areas it's already present in will be exhausting, but i also know that it makes possibilities infinite and dreams operational.  it also makes the huge volume of these desires less daunting and more opportunistic and achievable. commanding this perception makes me unmesswithable.  there isn't a lot that i can't control, but i know that if i grip what i can control with unwavering ferocity, the uncharted will fall into place or render itself inconsequential.

i will be a machine of victory, and my losses will come without regret.  nobody will defeat me because they are better, faster, stronger, more passionate, more dedicated, or more committed than i am.

to me, it'll just be luck, and luck is for losers anyway.

-k

I Podded Dennis' Cast...Again!

Shit gets real as Dennis and I talk about influences and inspirations like Bryan Fenkart, Toby Morse, PMA and CM Punk.   Also, I go on a rant about how annoying the St. Patrick's Day parade is!

Listen here! 

try

 
i'm the one yelling my head off two people to the right of the mic.
            photo courtesy of the brilliant Chris Roque!
               www.ChrisRoque.com, @ChrisRoque 
..but you can't bring me down
                                  -Everready, H2O

i finally remembered that i had to pick up soy milk.  i live with my sister and we go through soy milk like it's (thick, thicker than...) water because of our love of Rice Chex and the constant lack of anything else in our refridgerator.  she had bought the last 8-9 (hundred) gallons, and just as my weary, post-weight lifting arm cleared fresh gym sweat from my brow, endorphins cleared my mind long enough to remember that i had to run to the corner deli before i collapsed in my chair to watch WWE Raw.

with an intentional stride past my apartment and onward to the Christmas tree stand on my street corner, my eyes glowed with happiness like the lights that would soon adorn the naked trees i was walking towards.  this sweet, holiday magic was quickly soured by a criminal scrooge, armed with mace and a desire to steal my phone.  as he made a threatening (and public) grab for my things, i blocked him, screamed, and elbowed him really hard in the rib cage.  a friendly doorman and cinematic couples walking their dogs through Christmas paradise quickly came to my aid as he ran and i stood paralyzed in shock.

he didn't manage to rob me of anything and i only felt robbed of my safety for a short time.  but he did mace me, which left behind an orange residue and a brutal burn that blanketed my skin, only cured by water, air, and time.  the pain followed me to the police station. and then to the hospital.  and then to a wicked shower that dripped with a new stream of pain as i tried to wash it away, and new combinations of swear words that bounced off of the bathroom tile as i shouted them.

the following hours of exquisite pain and days of paranoia were caused by a split-second attack that was over almost as quickly as i forget a lesson that i love to relearn: trust. the damn. universe. and yourself.
 
we can work what problems in our control and learn to let go and accept what is not in our control.  furthermore, don't be plagued by negativity and waste your mental energy on what you can't change.  i write about this concept ad nauseum, because we can't escape it and i believe it's at the core of what happiness boils down to.  but i don't think i've placed enough weight how powerful perception can be in this equation.

i walked away from this attack feeling so thankful.  for my instincts, my support system, the NYPD officers that helped me, that i still felt so safe in my neighborhood, that the pain inflicted from being maced was temporary, that none of my possessions were stolen, that my assailant will likely be caught.  and for so much more.

i could have let the emotional pain engulf me the same way the scalding sensation ignited my skin.  as i laid in bed coping with the post-mace heat, i could have let my mind burn with fear, with doubt, with self-pity, with anger, with what-ifs.  i could chalk it up to big bad New York City and move.  i could lock myself in my apartment after dark.  i could wonder what-if i had just gone home, or had my phone tucked away, or had taken the bus instead of the train, or hadn't been slacking on groceries so many weeks before?

but what a pity to have not gone through this little hell and not out of the flames better for it.  i don't ignore the fear and i don't hide my anger, but to me this is proof that when i'm faced with such a test, blessings rain down on me.  showering myself with anything less than gratitude would be such a disservice.  this perception is a choice.  i choose not to swim in the waves of negativity, because they are powerful and you can easily drown.

the only experience to rival this physical pain recently was the ache in all of my organs from being pinned between a barricade and a mosh pit at H2O's album release show (the day after seeing Chimara and Unearth at Starland Ballroom).  the difference is that pain was AWESOME.

i found H2O working for my college radio family at WSOU and rekindled my love with their music (and tattoos) when i found out he was good friends with WWE professional wrestler and fellow S.E.O.G. CM Punk.  the band is fronted by Toby Morse, and if you aren't drawn to him, you're allergic to inspiration.  he is a mastermind behind embracing a Positive Mental Attitude (PMA).  his lyrics, attitude, and soul don't bury or ignore human hurt, but it rips out their silver linings and turns them into shining overlays.  his outlook impacted me far more than any cowardly attempt at a robbery.  we can't control what heartbreak we encounter, but we can choose the path where we struggle the least; the path that steers us away from self-pity and towards transformative knowledge.  we have to power not to be haunted.

like the pain that danced on my skin, emotional pain is often unprovoked, undeserved, and may linger.  it's up to us to wash it away.

-k.

CM Punk vs. John Cena

i broke my mother's heart in fourth grade when i told her i felt invisible. in the Catholic School system in my hometown you switch from grammar to middle school in 4th grade and it buried me under a sea of popular kids and adjustment.

recently, i've been producing a comedy show, and have been fortunate enough to rally troops of fantastic friends.

i was expecting one of my friends to come with her boyfriend, and after checking in with her multiple times, she was a no show. i tried contacting her after several times to no avail, and to this day haven't heard back. it's odd when a friendship ends with no explanation and without an inkling as to why. it leaves you confused, and not far from the invisible fourth grader who didn't know how to navigate cliques and drama. luckily, i still don't know how to navigate drama. i never want to learn, because i don't want this petty force in my life.

normally, in scenarios like this, the unresponsiveness would plague me. i'd overcalculate conversations past and circumstances present, dissecting the mechanics of what when wrong, who is to blame for what, and why it all happened. i'd chase until i got an answer. i'd create something to spark a response. i'd have to satisfy the lingering answer to why this happened, which is hanging in her rhelm. i'd need closure, a concept that seems to be more phantom that real, and that you rarely have the opportunity to achieve.

or, you can let go. mental energy seems better spent on acceptance of what is. in many ways, life is a series of people entering and exiting your life. sometimes these exits are graceful, nearly seamless, with the exception of the fact that it's indeed a break in friendship, communication, reliability, and closeness. people are unique, and so of course is every relationship. when someone drops out of your life, the needs that you had for that relationship must shift, to another friend or within yourself.

though this particular exit was quiet, many can be violent. in fact the silent screams can be the loudest; the deliberate, passive aggressive games that people play because they are desperate to make you a pawn, and under their control. in either case, i've preferred not to let go. i've preferred to set aside trivial frustrations, or call to attention the unspoken ones so that these obstacles clear. i've preferred to repair the damaged, regardless of how skewed or onesided. there's no problem two adults can't fix. i've flirted with line of self sacrifice vs. self sacrificing, a blurry line that never seems to run straight. perhaps this is why i tend to have a very long fuse, but why the end of it is so ugly.

but, sometimes the fact that you can fix something doesn't necessarily mean that you should. if you're so hellbent on repairing the broken that you find yourself tucking skeletons in the closet and sweeping dirty laundry under the rug for the "greater good" of your friendship, you may find the story of your relationships to be that of once upon a mattress. you find anger tucked between mattresses, sometimes even on a bed of lies. sleeping well won't come easy in these conditions.

i would not quit. i would never give up. i would be John Cena.

for those of you who have something better to do than watch the WWE from 8-10 p.m. on Mondays or PPV Sundays, John Cena has been made the face of the WWE. he is disliked by many because he's not the best in the ring, and he has been made champion so many times due to stale writing (something i blame the writers for more than him). he's fantastic on the microphone, and could probably get me psyched to file a tax return.

his edge has been softened and taken to the PG status that true WWE fans loathe. he preaches hustle, loyalty, and respect, in the name of our service men and women in the military. he used to rap battle other rappers and take a stand. he used to be tough. he used to be a rebel--but i think the owner of the WWE feared that people would grow tired of a rebel. now he makes no attacks, but just vows that he will win. the personal attacks are done with in a comedic style, and the shit talking has gone soft. he tends to rise above the mindless, unjust, and unprovoked attacks others make on him, being the better man. he never comes across as a pushover, but he does come across as mature. what's the fun in that?

he will not quit. he will not submit. his shirt says he will never give up.

lately i'm CM Punk. CM Punk dubbed himself as the voice of the voiceless, after filming one of the best promos ever done. he said he was leaving the WWE with the championship, and last Sunday he did.

he called the Cena an asskisser. he calls out the firings of very talented wrestlers remain unjustified. he said he was tired of grasping at the owner's imaginary brass rings, and that the owner stunted the growth of the WWE by surrounding himself with gladhanding, non-sensical yes men (starring Jim Carrey). he said that he's the best on the mic, in the ring, and at commentary, and he's proven it with no reward. he was airing the dissatisfaction of the WWE universe. he didn't take any shit. not from his boss. not from Cena. not from the fans. he said exactly what was on his mind. he never faltered. he never doubt his abilities or his character. not an ounce of him was sugarcoated. he never dressed up his thought in pretty speeches. he didn't care if he ruffled feathers. he didn't whiteknuckle for a second, refusing to tip-toe the line between staying true and satisfying higher ups. he did what he knew would let him look back with no regrets, bending boundaries until they broke. and everyone respected him for it. i can't remember the last time a crowd cheered so loud as when he walked away with the WWE championship.

Cena shares many qualities with Punk--the unwavering faith in himself, pride, and ability to speak on behalf of WWE fans everywhere. but it's time for me to do so with the unbridled rawness that CM Punk does. my Cena days were a way of suspending self-respect. sometimes when you try so hard to preserve a relationship, the relationship runs out of genuity. it becomes everything that you were afraid it would in the first place. it hides under covers. it disguises in pleasantries. it becomes obligatory and forced. Cena and Punk are true to themselves (or their characters, as the case were), but one still comes out as the bad guy, and the other depicts "good." at the end of your rope, it's better to be bad and upfront, than the good guy who is always polite, because operating in the fake of a manner is the worst of all.

i'm a Punk.
-k.