Although I only made it to three days of Western Connecticut State University's MFA summer residency, I'm still feeling that bizarre culture shock I can only refer to as "the post-residency blues." Yes, back to real life, where we have to deal with muggles who don't know what it's like to "open a vein," as the immortal Don Snyder once put it, in order to perfect your craft and create your art. It almost seems as if each time we return to Danbury, it's as if no time has passed at all, like stepping through the wardrobe once again, as if we were just dreaming the rest of our existence and just woke up in the lobby of the Maron ready to be full-time writers again, if only for a few days.
This time had a particularly bitter-sweet feel for me, as I am now a graduate and the reality is that while many will continue to return for the atmosphere, camaraderie, and insanity that is The Rez, many, due to finances and/or geography, will not. I fear I may have seen some of my dearest friends for the last time. We'll keep in touch of course. Facebook, blogs, email, and I'm even on Twitter now, but something will just not be the same. There's no way to fully replicate what that one week twice a year means for our writing and our friendships.
This was my fifth residency. That's less than five weeks I've spent with these folks, yet they're just as much a part of me as those I've known my whole life. How does something like an MFA program residency bond us so closely? Is it the shared suffering of the tortured artist? The unity created by a common enemy (you know just what I mean)? Or is it something more? I think it has to be the way writers are wired. We're screwed up people. That's all there is to it. It's hard to find anyone messed up enough to share our messedupedness with out there in the real world. Or is it The Rez that becomes our real world, and the surreal life of everyday struggles simply gives us strong enough doses of other people's reality to share in the work we will go on to create because of what we've learned and accomplished at WestConn?
Whatever it is, I can tell it's not ever going to be quite the same. Some day Claudine's slaps in the head will stop. Whitey's bruised foot will no longer be in my mouth. Perrotta's hard floor will be no more, as will Scott's heavy pour. I'll lose Marj as a partner in crime, and I'll no longer spend time wondering if Brian is our Yoda or our Darth Vader. Gilday's almost fiction recollections of residency capers will no longer be read to me. Margaret will cease to be the voice of reason. Rayzer's pink drinks have already disappeared. G-Marr will be just another pretty face on the facebook wall, as will Brophy's sunshiny, Disney, cartoon smile. No more sexual tension between Holub and The Mort, which we all missed this year already. Same to be said for Trudy and 3dlarz. It's all changing.
So while these past few days have been successful--I learned quite a bit about prose poetry, had more fun than I can remember, sang a duet with the worst rapper since Vanilla Ice, got some great feedback from an agent, and pulled off my first official public reading--there's a bitterness in my mouth. Not quite sure how to make it go away. But what I do know is that no matter what becomes of my writing career, I will owe it all to you guys, each and every one of those involved in this program over the past two and a half years. Thanks, and here's to life on The Rez.
MFAers, please comment with your favorite residency memory. Can't wait to read them.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Epiphany
Got writer's block? I suggest you go for a walk...or maybe not. I'm currently 40 pages into the first draft of my third project--which I may have stumbled upon a title for today--and because of one little walk I now have a fourth. An overactive imagination may be key to a sustainable writing career, but it can also be a burden.
It really came from one little concept that struck me on my walk. Basically, I walked from my house to a little park with cute benches at the mouth of the Niantic River, just beneath the draw bridge, which is a bit of an eyesore. However, if you sit in the park on one of those cute little benches looking out on the river, the view is inspiring. And I mean that literally.
I found myself thinking about the Transcendentalism I teach in my American Lit classes, wondering why if mankind was ruining the beauty of nature, did this view look so much more interesting and spectacular with the little houses smattering the coast and dotting the hills on the horizon, not to mention the fleet of sail boats crowding the docks to my left. Sure the hills and the river would be pretty on their own, but it wouldn't be the same. Think of all those nautical paintings you've seen hanging in seafood joints. They're something special.
Then I pictured the boats and houses just stuck there on concrete or glass or gravel or something. Just plopped down in the picture without the green strokes of the hills or the blue ripples cascading across the river's skin in varying patterns. On their own, left only to the devices of man, they simply aren't spectacular at all. I had an epiphany. As is usual with most arguments, it isn't the artistry of nature or that of mankind alone that provides us with the most perfect look at beauty and inspiration. It's the balance of both.
Think of a beautiful man-made fountain with a cool sculpture without the flowers around it or the water to pour out into the main pool. Not nearly as inspirational--just dry, hard concrete. Bleh.
Then I thought of Boston. Though I love "The Big Apple," there's just something I find more aesthetically inspiring about "Bean Town," and it's not just the legumes. It's that balance of old, historical structures juxtaposed with a new, modern urbanhood that truly makes the city grand. You can gaze upon a rickety old church and graveyard with Paul Revere's dead body rotting six feet beneath your shoes with dilapidated cultural foundations crumbling all around, and if you tilt your head up just a few degrees, you can see a monument of modern economic domination towering above. One if by land, two if by sea, indeed! Lo! They've come by air!
I love these concepts. Everything in moderation is something we all sort of except as true, but what does that really mean. It's not just food, drink, and sex. It takes the old and the new. It takes tradition and impulsiveness. Reality and fantasy. Conservative and liberal. Dogs and cats. You get the point. I often tell my students when there's a passionate argument where both sides are unwilling to budge, it's usually because both sides are wrong...and right. The answer is usually somewhere in the middle, or non-existent.
I want to capture this concept and show it working in the real world--and the imaginary. Think Anne of Green Gables and her Romanticism melding with Marilla's no-nonsense Realism. (Yes, I'm reading that book to my daughter now. What of it?)
Now, it's not just this concept that came to me out there on that hike. An entire plot, all of its twists, all of its characters...title and all, came to me on the half hour walk home from the point that had so inspired me. It wrote itself. It was an epiphany. And that's the title. Even a character's name. I love it when a plan comes together.
Now this blog is about the struggles and triumphs of an unpublished writer, so it wouldn't be right without pointing out that this poses a unique problem. As I said earlier, I'm 40 pages into my third full-length novel that I love oh so much and must, can, and will finish. So where does that leave me? I took a bunch of notes when I got home...on desktop stickies on my laptop. But will that idea still be as fresh and interesting to me in the year or two it takes to finalize this project? Well, let's hope.
If not, I can always go for another walk.
It really came from one little concept that struck me on my walk. Basically, I walked from my house to a little park with cute benches at the mouth of the Niantic River, just beneath the draw bridge, which is a bit of an eyesore. However, if you sit in the park on one of those cute little benches looking out on the river, the view is inspiring. And I mean that literally.
I found myself thinking about the Transcendentalism I teach in my American Lit classes, wondering why if mankind was ruining the beauty of nature, did this view look so much more interesting and spectacular with the little houses smattering the coast and dotting the hills on the horizon, not to mention the fleet of sail boats crowding the docks to my left. Sure the hills and the river would be pretty on their own, but it wouldn't be the same. Think of all those nautical paintings you've seen hanging in seafood joints. They're something special.
Then I pictured the boats and houses just stuck there on concrete or glass or gravel or something. Just plopped down in the picture without the green strokes of the hills or the blue ripples cascading across the river's skin in varying patterns. On their own, left only to the devices of man, they simply aren't spectacular at all. I had an epiphany. As is usual with most arguments, it isn't the artistry of nature or that of mankind alone that provides us with the most perfect look at beauty and inspiration. It's the balance of both.
Think of a beautiful man-made fountain with a cool sculpture without the flowers around it or the water to pour out into the main pool. Not nearly as inspirational--just dry, hard concrete. Bleh.
Then I thought of Boston. Though I love "The Big Apple," there's just something I find more aesthetically inspiring about "Bean Town," and it's not just the legumes. It's that balance of old, historical structures juxtaposed with a new, modern urbanhood that truly makes the city grand. You can gaze upon a rickety old church and graveyard with Paul Revere's dead body rotting six feet beneath your shoes with dilapidated cultural foundations crumbling all around, and if you tilt your head up just a few degrees, you can see a monument of modern economic domination towering above. One if by land, two if by sea, indeed! Lo! They've come by air!
I love these concepts. Everything in moderation is something we all sort of except as true, but what does that really mean. It's not just food, drink, and sex. It takes the old and the new. It takes tradition and impulsiveness. Reality and fantasy. Conservative and liberal. Dogs and cats. You get the point. I often tell my students when there's a passionate argument where both sides are unwilling to budge, it's usually because both sides are wrong...and right. The answer is usually somewhere in the middle, or non-existent.
I want to capture this concept and show it working in the real world--and the imaginary. Think Anne of Green Gables and her Romanticism melding with Marilla's no-nonsense Realism. (Yes, I'm reading that book to my daughter now. What of it?)
Now, it's not just this concept that came to me out there on that hike. An entire plot, all of its twists, all of its characters...title and all, came to me on the half hour walk home from the point that had so inspired me. It wrote itself. It was an epiphany. And that's the title. Even a character's name. I love it when a plan comes together.
Now this blog is about the struggles and triumphs of an unpublished writer, so it wouldn't be right without pointing out that this poses a unique problem. As I said earlier, I'm 40 pages into my third full-length novel that I love oh so much and must, can, and will finish. So where does that leave me? I took a bunch of notes when I got home...on desktop stickies on my laptop. But will that idea still be as fresh and interesting to me in the year or two it takes to finalize this project? Well, let's hope.
If not, I can always go for another walk.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Train Wrecks
A fan fell to his death in Texas. I watched the video on YouTube. A few times. I'm such a sick bastard. I've also watched the video of that dude the song "Hey Man Nice Shot" was based on...some politician that blew his brains out on live television. I imagine the JFK assassination is one of the most watched videos of all time. So, why? Is it that "at least it wasn't me" feeling we get when we laugh at someone that just tripped and fell down the stairs? I thought about it, and then gave up. I don't know. But I can't stop looking at this shit, even if I regret it afterward.
When I was about seventeen I went to this party. There were like twenty or thirty of us crammed into this small living room in a "not-so-nice" part of town. There was a special room for the kids who were smoking "tree," which I avoided because I was such a goody goody. Anyhow, what happened is my friend Pat brought this video simply called "Sick." He explained it as a compilation of scenes from the most twisted scenes he or his cousin or somebody could pluck out of various pornos. We're talking some sick shit. We're talking a man screwing the body cavity of a frozen turkey, girls stuffing immense eels up their unmentionables--that's right, I said eels--guys with sheep, girls blowing dogs, you name it. And you know what, every single one of us watched this, laughing our asses off, trying to one-up each other with the best pun. We talked about it for months. A whole group of friends watched this with joy--not that we were turned on, but we had fun with it--and most people individually would never even admit to knowing such things could happen let alone watch it happen. Awesome.
How many times have you watched the video of 9/11? How many specials and documentaries have you watched on that horrible day? There's been three movies that I know of. It's started working its way into fiction. It's even been used as a small, off-hand plot point in movies. We're obsessed. Slipknot has a song called "Disasterpiece," and I think that might be the best way to describe these events in our lives that we obsess over but all agree are terrible. As far as creating a terrible tragedy, these shocking moments are the masterpieces. So perfectly awful, we can't help but gawk.
I'm currently reading Murakami's "Coin Locker Babies." Boy did this guy get that. Maybe it's just Japan in the eighties got it, who knows. But from the first paragraph, we're seeing things we just don't even want to acknowledge exist. And it's told so naturally, as if these things happen every day. Well, they probably do, folks. Sad but true. The book even goes as far to make a comment about this phenomenon of which I speak. Murakami predicts reality televsion by having a man blow his own mother's face off in front of live television cameras. The result, his brother's album skyrockets on the charts and sells like there's no tomorrow. We love this shit.
I'm trying to capture that obsession with what we see in these train-wreck, rubber-necker moments in my new book. The only thing is, when we see these snippets in the media, we rarely know the whole story. Murakami shows that nicely in his book. We gawk at the guy that fell to his death at a baseball game, but do we even think about his family, what else he does. We will, someday when someone writes a feature about him or more likely there's a ninety second clip on Sports Center. But while he's falling, do we wonder what he was thinking, if he was trying to land safely, or if he was just flailing in a blind panic? What a terrible moment. And don't get me wrong, I'm just as bad. I watched it three times. From different angles.
My book will try to explore the real world behind the headline-driven media of today. Think the media's obsession with pinning Columbine on the video game and music industries. There's always more than meets the eye. In order to see anything, you logically have to be missing something else. There's always something behind what you're seeing. Who's to say which is more important. I'm excited about this book. I'm excited about the story behind the story. Keep gawking!
When I was about seventeen I went to this party. There were like twenty or thirty of us crammed into this small living room in a "not-so-nice" part of town. There was a special room for the kids who were smoking "tree," which I avoided because I was such a goody goody. Anyhow, what happened is my friend Pat brought this video simply called "Sick." He explained it as a compilation of scenes from the most twisted scenes he or his cousin or somebody could pluck out of various pornos. We're talking some sick shit. We're talking a man screwing the body cavity of a frozen turkey, girls stuffing immense eels up their unmentionables--that's right, I said eels--guys with sheep, girls blowing dogs, you name it. And you know what, every single one of us watched this, laughing our asses off, trying to one-up each other with the best pun. We talked about it for months. A whole group of friends watched this with joy--not that we were turned on, but we had fun with it--and most people individually would never even admit to knowing such things could happen let alone watch it happen. Awesome.
How many times have you watched the video of 9/11? How many specials and documentaries have you watched on that horrible day? There's been three movies that I know of. It's started working its way into fiction. It's even been used as a small, off-hand plot point in movies. We're obsessed. Slipknot has a song called "Disasterpiece," and I think that might be the best way to describe these events in our lives that we obsess over but all agree are terrible. As far as creating a terrible tragedy, these shocking moments are the masterpieces. So perfectly awful, we can't help but gawk.
I'm currently reading Murakami's "Coin Locker Babies." Boy did this guy get that. Maybe it's just Japan in the eighties got it, who knows. But from the first paragraph, we're seeing things we just don't even want to acknowledge exist. And it's told so naturally, as if these things happen every day. Well, they probably do, folks. Sad but true. The book even goes as far to make a comment about this phenomenon of which I speak. Murakami predicts reality televsion by having a man blow his own mother's face off in front of live television cameras. The result, his brother's album skyrockets on the charts and sells like there's no tomorrow. We love this shit.
I'm trying to capture that obsession with what we see in these train-wreck, rubber-necker moments in my new book. The only thing is, when we see these snippets in the media, we rarely know the whole story. Murakami shows that nicely in his book. We gawk at the guy that fell to his death at a baseball game, but do we even think about his family, what else he does. We will, someday when someone writes a feature about him or more likely there's a ninety second clip on Sports Center. But while he's falling, do we wonder what he was thinking, if he was trying to land safely, or if he was just flailing in a blind panic? What a terrible moment. And don't get me wrong, I'm just as bad. I watched it three times. From different angles.
My book will try to explore the real world behind the headline-driven media of today. Think the media's obsession with pinning Columbine on the video game and music industries. There's always more than meets the eye. In order to see anything, you logically have to be missing something else. There's always something behind what you're seeing. Who's to say which is more important. I'm excited about this book. I'm excited about the story behind the story. Keep gawking!
Monday, July 4, 2011
He's Baaack
It's been a long, long time. With my MFA in the rear view, along with my second novel, I'm ready to get back in the saddle and practice what I've been learning over the past two years--writing. Novel three has officially begun production, and I think it has the potential to trump anything I've ever written before...ever.
The hard part is getting used to the idea of writing something completely on my own, without a mentor. I have a dear friend who appears willing to be my first reader along the way, and my wife will certainly chime in once the first draft is done and ready to be read, but not having a professional, published, successful writer to read every word along the way is a bit frightening.
Or maybe it's liberating. This puppy's mine...all mine! Muhuhahaha! I feel like I've spent so much time on classes outside of fiction writing, and revising works I almost don't remember writing, that's it feels good to get cracking on a new project. I hope to finish a draft over the summer and then truly take my time plugging away at revisions with no artificial deadlines. I'm pretty damned determined, so I don't worry that I'll slack knowing there's no deadline. I just want it to get done, be perfect, get published, and see this puppy in print.
However, I'm not giving up on novels one and two. I have an agent meeting scheduled in August, and I'm sending out queries regularly hoping to catch some fish. I think I've gotten both novels to come as far as they can, but I continue to read and revise as needed. In fact, I'll be reading from my thesis at WestConn in August as well.
Either way, I'm excited about writing as much as possible, whether it be working on this new novel, revising the other two, or blogging right here. Yes, writing is a Bittersweet Trail, but it's one we love strolling down. So, with all apologies to Whitesnake, here I go again on my own
The hard part is getting used to the idea of writing something completely on my own, without a mentor. I have a dear friend who appears willing to be my first reader along the way, and my wife will certainly chime in once the first draft is done and ready to be read, but not having a professional, published, successful writer to read every word along the way is a bit frightening.
Or maybe it's liberating. This puppy's mine...all mine! Muhuhahaha! I feel like I've spent so much time on classes outside of fiction writing, and revising works I almost don't remember writing, that's it feels good to get cracking on a new project. I hope to finish a draft over the summer and then truly take my time plugging away at revisions with no artificial deadlines. I'm pretty damned determined, so I don't worry that I'll slack knowing there's no deadline. I just want it to get done, be perfect, get published, and see this puppy in print.
However, I'm not giving up on novels one and two. I have an agent meeting scheduled in August, and I'm sending out queries regularly hoping to catch some fish. I think I've gotten both novels to come as far as they can, but I continue to read and revise as needed. In fact, I'll be reading from my thesis at WestConn in August as well.
Either way, I'm excited about writing as much as possible, whether it be working on this new novel, revising the other two, or blogging right here. Yes, writing is a Bittersweet Trail, but it's one we love strolling down. So, with all apologies to Whitesnake, here I go again on my own
Saturday, February 5, 2011
America's Day
Where were you when you watched your first Super Bowl? Who were you with? I remember mine. It was Super Bowl XXI, Giants and Broncos, following the 1986 season. I had just turned 10, and I wasn't much of a football fan; in fact, I remember being annoyed by my father turning away from the Nascar races on Sundays to watch the Giants games. I was much more interested in watching Dale Earnhardt intimidate with his yellow and blue Monte Carlo than in a bunch of burly guys smashing each other to pieces.
But the Super Bowl was different. It just seemed so important to everyone, such a big deal, and watching my Dad sitting there living and dying with each play, I couldn't help but get caught up in it all. By the time the game ended, and Phil Simms was on his way to Disney World, I was an NFL fan for life, and the Big Blue blood that pumped through my father's veins finally began coursing through mine.
Though my memory of the game itself is a bit hazy and probably distorted by the images NFL Films has placed into my mind in faded glory, my memories of subsequent Super Bowls are crystal clear. Tomorrow will be my 25th Super Bowl. My Super Bowl XXV. That's 25 straight years of watching every play, every commercial, every half-time show of every game. That means something. The game means something. It was as clear to me that evening back in January of 1987 as it is today. Super Bowl Sunday means more than just getting to stay up late on a school night for a 10 year-old kid. It means more than just football. It means more than just a game.
Just think of the memories the game brings back for you. It's more than Mark Riepen tearing apart the Buffalo Bill's secondary. It's the whole family falling asleep on the couch except for you, the silly kid that was determined to see every second of the game no matter how big the blowout. It's not just Mike Jones's tackle of Kevin Dyson at the one yard line; it's the new apartment with no furniture in it and watching Montana scorch the Broncos on a lone mattress in the middle of the floor. It's not just wide right; it's the look on your father's face as he fought the urge to change the channel, barely able to watch the fate of his favorite team, now your favorite team, unravel before his eyes. It's Everson Walls frozen in time, jumping in the air with his arms raised high above his head. It's David Tyree pinning a ball against his helmet. It's Peyton Manning's "pick-6." It's all of this and so much more.
It's Whitney Houston's Star Spangled Banner while we wait for word from the Middle East. It's U2 memorializing the fallen in the 9/11 attacks. It's the little guy, the Patriots, completing the biggest upset since The American Revolution, staging a heroic comeback on a field adorned with a re-designed American flag Super Bowl logo, not quite numbing the pain of tragedy, but somehow re-uniting us all, as a nation, if for just one night. It's parents introducing their children to Paul McCartney and Tom Petty and children introducing their parents to Brittney Spears and The Black Eyed Peas.
The game provides a measuring stick for our lives. We can look back at each individual game and remember where we were in our lives, the triumphs we've had, the struggles we've overcome. It may be the only thing left that multiple generations of Americans can experience together and fully understand. A first down is always 10 yards. A touchdown is always 6 points. A hero is a hero. For one night only, it's all clear, defined, calculable. It all just makes sense.
Wars and loves come and go, but each year, we have the Super Bowl. Think about it. On what other night of the year are so many of us Americans doing the same thing at the same time for the same reasons. Experiencing the same emotions. Watching the same spectacle. All of our problems and differences are cast aside, and for three hours we're all Americans, all as one, all focused on something that seems so unimportant, but has become so essential to our society.
Sure, we were all together when Pearl Harbor was attacked. We were all together for Operation Desert Storm. We were all together when the towers fell and our lives changed forever. But the Super Bowl, one insignificant football game, may be the only time we all come together, as Americas, for an amazing, fun, positive experience. Whether our team wins or loses, we make memories that will last a lifetime, not only in the stadium and on the screen, but on the couch and in our living rooms.
Perhaps it's because this single, solitary game represents all that makes us American. The struggles and triumphs, the underdogs and heroes, the excess and pageantry, all there on our television screens covered in the blood, sweat, and tears that made this nation great. And this year promises to be the greatest of all. In the enormous monument to American dreams that is Cowboys Stadium, the same field that hosts America's team on Sundays throughout the season, we will watch two of the most legendary teams in NFL history go to battle, pushing themselves to the limit to achieve their lifelong dreams. For one night, grown men will relive the innocence and possibility of childhood, and we'll all, as one, come along for the ride.
The Steelers and Packers--the epitomes of middle class strength, endurance, and toughness--will battle each other, reminding us of the blue-collar work ethic that made this country great. It's "MADE IN THE USA" at its finest. The hopes and dreams of all of us metaphorically represented by the gladiators we cheer for on the gridiron. It's an American tradition. A moment to share. It's Christmas without the credit card bill. It's more than just a game.
So tomorrow night when you're watching the game, sure, celebrate the touch downs. Celebrate the interceptions and the field goals. Celebrate the winner and the efforts of the loser. But also celebrate each other. Celebrate the memories. Celebrate strength, endurance, excellence, and striving to be the best. Celebrate tradition. Celebrate America. It's America's Game. It's America's Day.
Where will you be for Super Bowl XLV? Who will you be with? I will be with my wife--our 15th Super Bowl together. I will be with my daughter--still getting over the tragedy of her beloved Jets losing the AFC Championship game, but still excited for "The Big Game." She already has a sense for how the game is bigger than the teams involved. And I'll be with my son--too young to really understand, much like when I was too young and only half heard the chatter of Dan Marino choking against the 49ers back in '84. I'll be with my family, making new memories. Not just the memories that will stand the test of time in the NFL Films vault, but the memories that will last an eternity in the collective consciousness of America.
But the Super Bowl was different. It just seemed so important to everyone, such a big deal, and watching my Dad sitting there living and dying with each play, I couldn't help but get caught up in it all. By the time the game ended, and Phil Simms was on his way to Disney World, I was an NFL fan for life, and the Big Blue blood that pumped through my father's veins finally began coursing through mine.
Though my memory of the game itself is a bit hazy and probably distorted by the images NFL Films has placed into my mind in faded glory, my memories of subsequent Super Bowls are crystal clear. Tomorrow will be my 25th Super Bowl. My Super Bowl XXV. That's 25 straight years of watching every play, every commercial, every half-time show of every game. That means something. The game means something. It was as clear to me that evening back in January of 1987 as it is today. Super Bowl Sunday means more than just getting to stay up late on a school night for a 10 year-old kid. It means more than just football. It means more than just a game.
Just think of the memories the game brings back for you. It's more than Mark Riepen tearing apart the Buffalo Bill's secondary. It's the whole family falling asleep on the couch except for you, the silly kid that was determined to see every second of the game no matter how big the blowout. It's not just Mike Jones's tackle of Kevin Dyson at the one yard line; it's the new apartment with no furniture in it and watching Montana scorch the Broncos on a lone mattress in the middle of the floor. It's not just wide right; it's the look on your father's face as he fought the urge to change the channel, barely able to watch the fate of his favorite team, now your favorite team, unravel before his eyes. It's Everson Walls frozen in time, jumping in the air with his arms raised high above his head. It's David Tyree pinning a ball against his helmet. It's Peyton Manning's "pick-6." It's all of this and so much more.
It's Whitney Houston's Star Spangled Banner while we wait for word from the Middle East. It's U2 memorializing the fallen in the 9/11 attacks. It's the little guy, the Patriots, completing the biggest upset since The American Revolution, staging a heroic comeback on a field adorned with a re-designed American flag Super Bowl logo, not quite numbing the pain of tragedy, but somehow re-uniting us all, as a nation, if for just one night. It's parents introducing their children to Paul McCartney and Tom Petty and children introducing their parents to Brittney Spears and The Black Eyed Peas.
The game provides a measuring stick for our lives. We can look back at each individual game and remember where we were in our lives, the triumphs we've had, the struggles we've overcome. It may be the only thing left that multiple generations of Americans can experience together and fully understand. A first down is always 10 yards. A touchdown is always 6 points. A hero is a hero. For one night only, it's all clear, defined, calculable. It all just makes sense.
Wars and loves come and go, but each year, we have the Super Bowl. Think about it. On what other night of the year are so many of us Americans doing the same thing at the same time for the same reasons. Experiencing the same emotions. Watching the same spectacle. All of our problems and differences are cast aside, and for three hours we're all Americans, all as one, all focused on something that seems so unimportant, but has become so essential to our society.
Sure, we were all together when Pearl Harbor was attacked. We were all together for Operation Desert Storm. We were all together when the towers fell and our lives changed forever. But the Super Bowl, one insignificant football game, may be the only time we all come together, as Americas, for an amazing, fun, positive experience. Whether our team wins or loses, we make memories that will last a lifetime, not only in the stadium and on the screen, but on the couch and in our living rooms.
Perhaps it's because this single, solitary game represents all that makes us American. The struggles and triumphs, the underdogs and heroes, the excess and pageantry, all there on our television screens covered in the blood, sweat, and tears that made this nation great. And this year promises to be the greatest of all. In the enormous monument to American dreams that is Cowboys Stadium, the same field that hosts America's team on Sundays throughout the season, we will watch two of the most legendary teams in NFL history go to battle, pushing themselves to the limit to achieve their lifelong dreams. For one night, grown men will relive the innocence and possibility of childhood, and we'll all, as one, come along for the ride.
The Steelers and Packers--the epitomes of middle class strength, endurance, and toughness--will battle each other, reminding us of the blue-collar work ethic that made this country great. It's "MADE IN THE USA" at its finest. The hopes and dreams of all of us metaphorically represented by the gladiators we cheer for on the gridiron. It's an American tradition. A moment to share. It's Christmas without the credit card bill. It's more than just a game.
So tomorrow night when you're watching the game, sure, celebrate the touch downs. Celebrate the interceptions and the field goals. Celebrate the winner and the efforts of the loser. But also celebrate each other. Celebrate the memories. Celebrate strength, endurance, excellence, and striving to be the best. Celebrate tradition. Celebrate America. It's America's Game. It's America's Day.
Where will you be for Super Bowl XLV? Who will you be with? I will be with my wife--our 15th Super Bowl together. I will be with my daughter--still getting over the tragedy of her beloved Jets losing the AFC Championship game, but still excited for "The Big Game." She already has a sense for how the game is bigger than the teams involved. And I'll be with my son--too young to really understand, much like when I was too young and only half heard the chatter of Dan Marino choking against the 49ers back in '84. I'll be with my family, making new memories. Not just the memories that will stand the test of time in the NFL Films vault, but the memories that will last an eternity in the collective consciousness of America.
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