The Media Sucks (and other fables)

Something happened today that gave me great joy. On the brink of the seventh game of baseball’s World Series, Cleveland manager Terry Francona gave a press conference filled with laughter. The PR person made last call, and following his response, properly closed out the session. Francona interrupted her, asking, “Can I please say something?” He repeated his plea three times, and was given the floor.

“I would just like to thank you all. The media has made this fun.”

It has been said of Francona that if you spend five minutes talking with him, he will make you feel like it is the most important five minutes of HIS day. That it was important for him to show appreciation for the work of sportswriters and sports broadcasters on this landmark day says much. He gets it. He knows that just as he and his coaches get together long before the crowds arrive to forge a game plan, meet with players, address team issues and finally, play a game, reporters likely are meeting with their editors, forging THEIR game plan, researching, watching and analyzing the game, plotting their post-game questions, conducting their interviews, then filing their stories. Then. Long after the last fan has left the stadium and long after the players have left for home or the team plane or for their own recreation, the reporter packs up their laptop or their microphones and heads home. Or, their editor asks for a rewrite. A little piece of them goes along with the news they report. They are in the public eye as much as the ballplayers, subject to scrutiny and wrath and the all-too-occasional “Attaboy.”

The media sucks.

I hear this all too often, and the kindest response I can issue is “You really don’t know.” It would be antagonistic to point out that the media works harder than they do, and that the story they just saw on TV, in a magazine or in the newspaper was the work of several professionals who were highly trained and well-schooled pooling their abilities to report the days news, event, tragedy or game. When there’s a three-alarm fire, it’s the journalist who is woken from a sound sleep, just like the first responder. When there’s a political rally or a school board meeting that runs an hour over schedule, it is the journalist who stays to the bitter end and then files their story.

Then you critics out there tell them they suck. That they are biased. That they are (fill in the blank). And do you know what? Sometimes they do suck. But consider the source. Those who learned their craft at accredited journalism schools are more interested in concepts like accuracy, objectivity and fair reporting than they are in pandering to some pre-conceived conspiracy or a corporate dogma. But we live in a time when lines are blurred between journalism and entertainment. We have communications billed as news entertainment, entertainment news, infomercials, advertorials, blogs, tweets and political commentary. Many of these pass themselves off as “news” and “news media.” They are not. But it is easy to confuse them with real journalism because they try so damn hard to pass as such. Lines are blurred between what is real and what is somebody’s illusion.

So sometimes they do suck. Let me explain how we got here.

Beginning in the 1960s and into the 1970s, we had the multiple ownership rule, which stated that one entity could not own more than one TV station in a single market unless there were at least eight stations in that market. We had radio/TV cross-ownership prohibition, which outlawed one broadcaster from owning more than one outlet in a single market. We had newspaper/broadcast cross-ownership prohibition, that disallowed one entity from owning both in one market. Similar prohibitions governed billboards and other media. Media companies were limited to owning just seven communications outlets nationally. We had The Fairness Doctrine, a policy of the Federal Communications Commission that proposed that the broadcasters and other media would be licensed as “public trustees” only if they presented ideas and information of public interest, and that all sides of issues were presented equally. Equal time. These prohibitions were placed so that no single corporation or broadcasting group could control the news and information in any one market. To do so would inhibit the free exchange of ideas and could lead to a propaganda takeover by the government, a company or a foreign country.

Beginning shortly after Ronald Reagan was inaugurated, the FCC began licensing media for five years instead of three. Companies could then own 12 broadcast or print media instead of seven. In 1987, the FCC rebuked the Fairness Doctrine, and deregulation of media owners and operators began in earnest. Media was changing. CNN became a challenger to the Big 3 networks, and Fox News (a questionable moniker) began broadcasting with a right-wing slant on events and opinions. Under Bill Clinton, the Telecommunications Act of 1996 lifted bans on the number of broadcast media outlets under one ownership group.

Folks, now our most visible media are owned by vast corporate networks, with thousands of media companies in a single group. Add to that the emergence of “citizen journalists” on the internet and escalating greed from corporate ownership and it becomes very difficult to discern which news messages are true and which are not.

Most professional journalists abide by an ethical code that assures fair and just reporting. Much of the general public, tainted by pseudo-news outlets that bombard them with shoddy and subjective reporting, fails to recognize the difference. Then, they believe it when blowhards try to advance their personal agendae by slamming “the mainstream media.”

My background and education are as a journalist. Even though I have not been a part of the professional journalism fraternity since 1994, I consider myself a member emeritus. I am deeply offended when pure and honest journalists are lumped in with the riff-raff, and people say “the media sucks.” It is the Fourth Estate, and the watchdog of the government. For its efforts, the media is attacked from all sides.

That’s why it is striking and encouraging when Terry Francona makes it a special point in his big day to say thank you to the hard-working and legitimate media. I encourage everyone to contact their legislators to urge a restoration of cross-ownership restraints and the Fairness Doctrine, which will help stem the tide of special-interest journalists tainting the profession.

Adventure of the Day: #BroncosParade

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Denver Broncos’ Parade

The voices on the radio strongly suggested getting to the noon parade at 9 a.m. I figured I’d be safe if I left the house shortly after 9 to take the RTD light rail into Denver. It was a beautiful day, closing in on 60 degrees with the bright Colorado sunshine I’ve grown accustomed to.

I wore my Broncos’ 50th super bowl champion shirt that might get me evicted by my Chiefs-loving housemate, Craig. And just a few minutes into my journey, I was already shedding layers. It was a short-sleeve February day in Denver. I arrived at the parking lot for the light rail and saw the fruitless circling of the lot by others. I went forward to the Aspen Grove shopping center lot. It’s a huge lot, and I had to park on the far side, a half-mile away, feeling lucky to find a spot.

Denver fans of all ages wait for their light rail tickets. Eventually, RTD said “Screw it!” and let people ride for free.

Oh, and then the light rail ticket line. It stretched from the automated kiosk to the far end, and a short ways back again. I waited nearly 2 hours and became buddies with the guys in line behind me. It was clear that this day was one of excitement for people all over the area known as Broncos Country. There were lines on both sides of the tracks, and one of my new friends sent his bride and little boy to the other side, where the line was shorter but moving at a slower pace. As we got within sight of the kiosk, the line on the other side dispersed, and people went to the tracks. Apparently, a lady purchased 100 light rail tickets and handed them out to the people in line behind her. With that line almost vacated, I crossed the tracks and got in it. Shortly after that, an RTD security cop asked who was taking the C Line to Union Station. “Go ahead and get on. Don’t worry about having a ticket.” Having been busted once before for jumping a train, I asked, “Is this a trick?” He laughed, and said, “No, it’s not a trick. Go on. Have a good time and be safe today.”

To the lady who bought the 100 tickets: “Sorry, babe. You’re out a lot of cash, but what a fine gesture!”

Getting close to Civic Center Park, where crowds and excitement were building.

The train was packed, but I was fortunate to have a seat. I offered it to some of the strap hangers, but they declined. It was a 15-block walk to Civic Center Park, which stretches about six blocks between the Colorado State Capitol and the City County Building. As I drew closer, excitement built. I was most excited to learn that many of the port-o-potties were immediately available. The entire trip took about 2 hours, and I arrived well before the parade hit full stride.

Here, I must confess, I’m not a huge Bronco’s fan. I hated the team and its iconic QB John Elway for two decades for what they did to the Cleveland Browns two years in a row in the ’80s. As VP of Football Operations, Elway signed Peyton Manning and continued to sign a string of support players around him that made the team a powerhouse. What’s not to like about them? So I let bygones be bygones and started rooting for the home team. On this day, having heard that a crowd of 1 million people was anticipated, I felt an obligation to make this my Adventure of the Day because I had never been anywhere with a million people before.

A large crowd gathers in Civic Center park during the Denver Broncos Super Bowl championship celebration and parade on Tuesday February 9, 2016. (Photo By AAron Ontiveroz/The Denver Post)

The crowd was incredible. The parade route was lined 15-deep from Union Station to the State Capitol. At Civic Center Park, the entirety of the grassy area was filled with humanity. Some of the younger folks climbed trees, or scaled statues for a better view. Six or maybe eight Jumbotrons were set up in various places, with huge speakers. Large media bleachers were erected near the stage at the City County Building, where TV teams broadcast live coverage. Ebullient wide receiver Emmanuel Sanders commented, “I heard there was a million people and I couldn’t believe it. But I think I saw a million people out there.” Former Rochester news guy Kyle Clark later announced on the air that Mayor Michael Hancock announced there were a million people, but that a Denver police spokesperson estimated the crowd at 800,000. The spokesperson later called back, and said, “If the mayor says there were a million people, then that’s what it is.” Ha! That’s funny!

One lovely Bronco fan getting a selfie!

My view.

Yours truly, at what could be a once-in-a-lifetime event.

Regardless, the size of the crowd prompted Denver Police to call in reinforcements across the state for crowd control.

A motorcycle cop high-fives fans along the parade route.

Rooftop security at the parade site. Helicopters and undercover security were also utilized.

The officers there were polite and embraced the spirit of the day, with motorcycle cops high-fiving the people along the parade route and others joining in good-natured chants of “Let’s Go Broncos!” Homeland security played a role, as well, with men in army green with binoculars and presumably with rifles stationed on the rooftop of a federal building.

The grassy areas still had unmelted snow that was trampled down to ice, blotched by patches of mud. My biggest concern on this gorgeous day was slipping on the ice and falling into the mud, and I was able to avoid any mishap.

If there were a million people there, the combined value of their NFL Broncos’ merchandise was at least half a billion dollars worth. The fans cheered as the jumbo screens showed the parade getting underway at the train station. Occasionally, the screens would divert from shots of the crowd to show players riding atop huge vehicles, or a fire truck with the owner’s wife and Super Bowl MVP, Von Miller. Cheers and chants of “MVP! MVP!” erupted. More than a few people wondered if anybody was working, or if there were any kids in school.

The people on the grass basked in the triumphant moment as well as the warming sun. Little children sat on their daddy’s shoulders. People danced and sang to the music. “All we do is Win! Win! Win!” and “Let’s Get This Party Started.” The first glimpses of the motorcade created a swelling wave of cheers. Moments later the tributes began on stage. A national recording artist sang the Star-Spangled Banner, followed by an unforgettable rendition of “We Are the Champions” by myself and one million backup singers. Magical.

The mayor and the governor came out of their offices to make proclamations. Then, a few of the players were brought up on the stage, with Von Miller encouraging the crowds manic enthusiasm. The finale was a joint interview with aging superstars Demarcus Ware and Peyton Manning. Why they didn’t give them the individual spotlight is beyond me, but These two leaders stoked the fire in the hearts of their fans.

And then it was over. The throng retreated in orderly fashion to the light rail and to the bars. And eventually to their homes, to think about the team’s prospects of earning another parade next February. As I waited in line for the D-Line train, I wished my Buffalo and Rochester and Cleveland friends could experience the same civic pride and exhilaration that the Denver people did.

Day Off in Denver – Vol. 1

The letter came as a complete surprise. The Denver Public Library system billed me $17 for a book that was never returned. I never… Oh, wait. Yeah, isn’t that in my computer bag. Damn.

The Denver Public Library. Love this place!

So a day off was the perfect time to make the 4 mile trek to the library to return that book. Fees for the overdue book: $3.00. Whew!

From the library, I drove seven blocks to Meininger’s, a phenomenal art store on Broadway. I got a converter for my fountain pen, so I can now add ink. It’s sort of an essential ingredient.

 

A world-class art supply store. A fun place to shop.

 

Darwin would disapprove. Sidewalk stamp on Broadway. This is hysterical!

As I left the store, I niticed the gold dome of the Colorado State Capitol towering over the nearby buildings. Wouldn’t it be a fine day for the free tour of the Capitol?

So these are photos from my adventure of the day in the Capitol Hill neighborhood.

 

The Colorado Capitol building, with it’s gold dome. Today, I finally took the tour.

 

The Grand Staircase. Trim is brass and rose onyx marble.

The brass railing on the lobby floor.

Our young, energetic, albino-ish tour guide.

This is Beulah Rose Onyx Marble, quarried near Marble, Colo. If you want some for your coffee table or counters, you’re out of luck. Colorado exhausted the quarry of this beautiful stone, and there is none like it in the world.

Gov. Hickenlooper’s office. The horse is Scout. There was no Hick-sighting on this day.

The presidential portrait gallery.

Stained glass portraits of Colorado’s founding fathers. Way up in the Dome.

The photo was taken by a man from Toronto, who thanked me for the Rockies sending them Tulo. Go Blue Jays!

The Burns Meteorite was found in 2003 by Gene Killinen (using a metal detector) at his family’s hunting cabin near the small town of Burns, in northwest Eagle County, Colorado. It was buried at a depth of about two and a half feet. The meteorite has been classified as a fine octahedrite (III AB). It was a gift to the Colorado School of Mines Geology Museum by Anne Black.

The State Capitol has its own rock collection.

PostScript: FaceBook informed me that it was one year ago today that I spent my last day employed at the Home Depot in North Melbourne, Fla. It hardly seems like a year, and I miss the many good people there.

12 Odd, Random Facts About Abraham Lincoln

While extensively researching the politics of antebellum America for my award-winning screenplay, NORTH STAR: THE LIFE OF FREDERICK DOUGLASS, I learned many things about Abraham Lincoln that were never taught in school. These are some of the most interesting.

1. Abraham Lincoln is enshrined in the National Wrestling Hall of Fame. In Illinois during the early half of the 19^th century, wrestling was a popular pasttime. The bouts were often brutal, and many a man lost a testicle, or two, in these battles. Abe was defeated just once in 300 matches as a wrestler and did not engage in trying to mutilate his opponents. He won because he was freakishly tall for the day and had tremendous upper body strength from railsplitting. He wasn’t afraid to talk trash, and once, after dispatching an opponent, bragged, “I’m the big buck of this lick. If any of you want to try it, come on and whet your horns.” Nobody took him up on the offer.
2. Abe retired from politics before running for president.
3. Lincoln is the only president to have obtained a patent. Confounded by a steamboat running aground, and having to unload its entire cargo, he invented a device that allowed boats to traverse shallow waters, and was granted patent #6469 in 1849.
4. After his election to the office of President of the United States, he hired a personal secretary, John Nicolay. Nicolay was disturbed by the number of letters threatening violence and death. Lincoln needed to sneak into Washington in disguise the night before his inauguration because of a death threat in Baltimore. The plot to kill the president-elect was uncovered by Lincoln’s friend, Allan Pinkerton.
5. Lincoln was elected in 1860 with just 39 percent of the vote. Finishing second was Southern Democrat John C. Breckinridge, followed by Northern Democrat Stephen Douglas and the Constitutional Union candidate, John Bell.
6. Godfrey Hyams was offered $60,000 by the Confederate Secret Service to deliver an overcoat to Lincoln as a gift that was infected with yellow fever. Dr. Luke Blackburn was the originator of the plot. Hyams refused.
7. Lincoln often spent time away from the White House, just outside Washington at the Old Soldiers Home, considered a summer vacation spot for presidents at that time. As president Lincoln rode on horseback, alone, to the Old Soldiers Home in August 1864, a musket fired in the immediate vicinity.
   Lincoln’s account of the incident: “I was jogging along at a slow gait, immersed in deep thought, when suddenly I was aroused–I may say the arousement lifted me out of my saddle as well as out of my wits–by the report of a rifle. [He heard a bullet whistle past his ear.] Old Abe, with one reckless bound, unceremoniously separated me from my eight-dollar plug-hat, with which I parted company without any assent, expressed or implied, upon my part. At a break-neck speed we soon arrived in a haven of safety. I can truthfully say that one of the Abes was frightened on this occasion, but modesty forbids my mentioning which of us is entitled to that distinguished honor.”
   Union soldier, Private John Nichols, was sent to retrieve President Lincoln’s trademark stovepipe hat, only to find that a musket ball had created a hole in the top, knocking it off Lincoln’s head.
8. Lincoln established the Thanksgiving holiday, passing legislation Oct. 3, 1863 that the last Thursday of November would be set aside as a day of thanks. He also issued a presidential pardon to “Tom” Turkey, a ritual that has been carried on by every president since.
9. When asked if her husband had a hobby, Mary Todd Lincoln replied, “Cats.” Lincoln was a cat-lover. He also brought his dog, Fido, to the White House, and two goats, Nanny and Nanko.
   Lincoln was an avowed Animal Rights advocate, who sometimes spoke and wrote against cruelty to animals, contending that “an ant’s life was as sweet to it as ours to us.”
10. Lincoln was almost universally hated as a president until Union generals Sherman and Grant turned the tide of the war against the confederacy. It was only after his death that Abraham Lincoln became revered as a wise, just leader.
11. Though no actual proof verifies this fact, it is believed Lincoln’s last meal consisted of mock turtle soup, roast Virginia fowl with chestnut stuffing, baked yams and cauliflower with cheese sauce.
12. Grave robbers tried to steal the body of Abraham Lincoln in 1876. Chicago gang members planned to ransom Lincoln’s remains for $200,000 and the release of a convicted counterfeiter from prison.

– 30 –

On Dad’s 90th Birthday

My dad would have been 90 today. He passed away at 57. Far too young, some might say. But who are we to know that?

I learned many things from my Dad. The top five:

1. White lies are okay. Especially if it involves telling a nun that your sons both have dentist appointments, and yes, it does coincide with opening day of the baseball season, and no, I definitely don’t think they’ll be out of the dentist chair in time to come back to school this afternoon. No, I didn’t realize that my sons have had dentist appointments on Opening Day the past three years. Coincidence, I guess.
2. A smile or a wink, or both, can mean more than a whole bunch of words.
3. Sometimes it’s better to run away than to fight. Other times, it’s better to fight than to run away. True wisdom lies in knowing the difference.
4. Johnny Bench is the greatest catcher in baseball history. The Yankees’ Bill Dickey is second best.
5. Don’t ever give up on another human being. They might change and surprise you. Or you might recognize change in yourself and understand them in a different light.

Bonus pointer: Some of his last words to me were “God will provide.”

He has. He does. He will. I miss you, Dad.  If you’re in heaven, enjoy the cake.  If not, then don’t waste your time trying to blow out the candles.

Insults and Compliments

The uttered word carries with it many powers. It can lift you, or drag you down like an anchor. The weight is what we assign to it. I look back on words said to me in difficult times, words that were cruel and unkind, words intended to inflict pain and hurt. From the perspective of age and from the precipice of the greatest achievements of my life so far, I find it strange that many of the most caustic insults that once burned my sensibilities have turned out to be some of the greatest compliments to instill a sense of grace and humility in me.

Recently, an attractive woman I had known for all of three days called me a vagabond. She said it in a hurtful manner, precipitating the end of our blossoming friendship. Worse, when I brought a bottle of Blue Nun to her house, she told me my wine selection was vagabond wine. When I buy gewurztraminer, it is often just because I like to say gewurztraminer. I don’t choose gewurztraminer often, but it was what I wanted, and it came at an affordable price point. So I didn’t share any with her.

But I will applaud her, for she used vagabond in the correct sense of the word. Vagabond comes from the Latin root vageri (meaning “wanderer”) from vagus (to wander, undecided). Its true meaning is “wandering, of unsettled home.” In the 20^th century, it became associated more with a lazy, undisciplined person. For anyone who truly knows me – and perhaps those who are familiar with the writing life – that adaptation couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Since my return to Colorado in September, I have slept in seven different places. In a sense, I am homeless, even though I have been offered a temporary residence, for which I am grateful. I do not have an address listed with the Postal Service, at this time. It is “undecided.” One friend reminded me that Jim Carrey slept in a VW camper van on his sister’s lawn, before getting his first role of note, with “In Living Color.” Halle Berry lived in a homeless shelter. As a child, Dr. Phil McGraw lived out of a car with his father. Even James Bond was homeless – Daniel Craig slept on London park benches. Personal finance mentor Suze Orman lived out of her car for four months. When David Letterman moved to L.A., he lived out of his pickup truck for quite some time. Sylvester Stallone slept in a New York City train station and took a role in a sex flick before selling the script for “Rocky.” Thirteen-time Grammy winner Ella Fitzgerald was a homeless teen before getting an audition at the Apollo Theater that launched her career. The lovely singer, Jewel, was homeless for a period of time, as was Shania Twain. Drew Carey sold his plasma to make money, living off boxes of mac’n’cheese before achiev ing success as a comedian and one of the highest paid game show hosts in history. Magician Harry Houdini was a homeless child.

Jesus was a vagabond.

He was a vagabond by choice in the three years that he preached. Back in a time when travel was extremely arduous, Jesus took to the road. He wandered. Often, he was beckoned to the home of the sick, or to a wedding, or synogogue, or to the desert, where even Satan’s promise of wealth could not lure him from his vagabond life. The road was his home.

Being a vagabond is not the end. It is an eye-opening revelation of the vast possibilities of life. It is the catching of breath before the stretch run in a marathon. The word vagabond describes my life at this particular juncture, but it does not define my life. Just my wine.

Another insult changed my life. It bothered me for years.

As a college student at St. Bonaventure University, a journalism professor turned down every thesis topic I presented. After the fifth time, when half the semester was already over, we sat in her office for a conference. “Do you know what your problem is?” she asked, with no intention of stopping if I said I did. “You are nothing but a dreamer.”

She meant it in a very derogative way. For years, I countered the sting of her comment with a quote from another journalism professor, whom I respected. “Always consider the source,” he said.

As years went by, my dreams turned into goals, and goals turned into reality. I though about the world as it was, and the world as it might be. I dreamed things. I invented things. I created things. I built other people’s businesses into successes. I was an entrepreneur to a high degree.

I looked at other admired creators who achieved success, or fortune, or both. They all exhibited one common thread.

Leonardo da Vinci – dreamer!

Thomas Edison – dreamer!

Mark Twain – dreamer! And a vagabond!

Frederick Douglass – dreamer!

Martin Luther King, Jr. – dreamer!

Charles Lindbergh – dreamer!

Henry Ford – dreamer!

John F. Kennedy – dreamer!

The Beatles – dreamers, every one of them!

Richard Branson – dreamer!

Bill Gates – dreamer!

Steve Jobs – dreamer!

Steven Spielberg – dreamer!

Johnny Bench, Bobby Orr, Michael Jordan and every sports hero who has ever risen to the top of their games: dreamers!

That insult I carried with me for so many years was actually a compliment!

So much so, that I altered it a bit:

I am nothing, but a dreamer.

In my temporary endeavors and adventures, the ones that are leading up to the realization of my dreams, I have little need to issue insults to others. No matter what my situation, I try to pay three heartfelt compliments every day. It is amazing to see the reaction I get to my mere words.

It’s part of the payoff to a big dream I once had.

Back to the Blog

It’s love bug season here on the Space Coast. Love bugs, if you must know, are little, black winged creatures that attach their cabooses to each other. When they fly, they look like a train going in both directions.
I’m feeling that way myself, lately. It is a struggle. Money is tight. The Bonneville is showing signs of wear, at the ripe age of 16. Okay, I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said it’s showing signs of falling apart at 202,000 miles. I am falling apart a bit, too. A wrist and forearm pain, assumed to be carpel tunnel, nags me daily. My bulging Achilles tendon seems to like the humidity, although my knee without the cartilage does not.
Yet, I have every reason to be hopeful for all that is about to happen. This week, I poured concrete for the first moon bench, and seeded it with white marble and phosphorescent glass. When weather permits next week, I’ll use my spiffy new EBay find, a variable speed concrete polisher, and make it come to life. The hope is to sell a few of these to buy a Jeep, or similar mountain goat 4-wheel drive vehicle.
I’m also pleased with the characters I’ve brought to life (and death) in Heaven RIde, along with my collaborator and story engineer, John Eccleston. In Heaven Ride, two super-intelligent buddies, David and JW, make discoveries that unlock secrets of the human soul and quantum consciousness. Using David’s uncanny business development abilities, their Heaven Ride evolves into the fastest-growing business in history. For a modest price, they are able to re-create the body’s death sequence and eject the soul on its mission. As with all good things, bad guys like Thomas Steinman attempt to use Heaven Ride for their own monetary gain and evil purposes. As events unfold, the reader begins to wonder if maybe David and JW are the bad guys, until book one reaches its surprising climax. I shant say more.
The novel is ready to be published, We do not yet have an agent or publisher, but we did generate interest last year. Our rewrites started in November, and Heaven Ride is now truly a thriller, We’re seeing that our technology is legitimized by many respected scientific minds.
I’ve also made further progress on my memoir. Time, and an objective read-through showed me where I need to add a few anecdotes and observations. It’s a truthful look at the things that have inspired me that may be inspirational to others. Perhaps a career as a motivational speaker awaits.
Success beckons.
I look forward to a trip back to my mountains, and being reunited with all my stuff in storage. I’m uncertain when I can make that happen.

RIP, Phillip Seymour Hoffman

I heard about the death of Phillip Seymour Hoffman while working at my part-time job, which affords me the privilege of writing as a career. It saddened me deeply. Mind you, I never met Mr. Hoffman. Like millions, I was a fan of the many splendid and psychotic characters he brought to life in film. Secretly, I hoped that one day, he might act in one of my films. I was saddened as if one of my good friends had passed.

Pondering a few hours on the heartfelt strength of my reaction, it is not the passing of him that shrouded my day. It was how he passed. It is reported that he died of a drug overdose, and with a needle still in his arm. Tragic.

Here was a man who made brave choices as a professional actor. He was highly regarded by tradespeople for his uncanny ability to bring life to every character he portrayed. In the final act of his life, he bowed to a force that, to him, was greater than all the success he earned as a father, a son and a brother, greater than gold statues and klieg lights, greater than the inner drive that made his talent stand so tall, perhaps the best at his craft for our entire generation.

Whatever demons ensnared him, he gave in to drugs. Here’s where I write of that which I do not know, for I can’t comprehend giving power to substances that alter, that maim, that destroy the fabric of families, careers and lives. I can’t condone or deprecate the deadly use of drugs, seemingly for recreational purposes, because I cannot understand them. What I do understand is the pain one must feel to succumb to their allure. I can understand the lonely, dark road one travels to reach the place where those brave choices made in the light of day can be overshadowed by cowardly vices.

And that is what saddens me.

May the peace that eluded you in life be with you through eternity.
May the joy you brought to us all live on for the ages.
May your brave choices inspire others.
RIP, Phillip Seymour Hoffman.

5 Secrets for Dreaming Big

I started life with some disadvantages.  We all have those.  But I quickly realized I had some advantages, and others materialized as I grew older.  For me, it has been a long, winding road to get to a point of contentment and happiness.  I’m still on the road, but these are a few of the ideals that helped me along the way.

Secret to Dreaming Big

What do you want to achieve in life?  What do you want as your legacy?  These five “secrets” will keep you on the path to success.

1)  Eliminate all fears.

Fear, worry, doubt.  These are all self-made obstacles to success.  Fear is a negative energy that pulls you away from success.  Often, we fear what we do not know.  Transform fear, worry and doubt into positive energy with knowledge, faith and confidence.  Do not fear failure.  Do not fear success.
The human spirit is an indomitable force.  Value your abilities.
You can achieve anything you set your mind to do.  Let me repeat that:  You can achieve anything you set your mind to do.

2) Visualize your dream.

Most successful people see their success before it arrives.  In order to visualize your dream, you must first clearly identify your goal.  Is it to make the team, pass the course or get the job.  Or is it to be the best in your chosen field or endeavor?
See it.  Be it.  Believe it.

3) Work to achieve.

Your dream may take hours, or it may take many years, to actualize.  The good news is that you can do it.  The bad news?  You may have to commit to a regimen and work for it.  It may require hours on the field or in the gym; days and days of practice; months of study or research; years of patient, relentless focus.  Success is limited only by the amount of dedication and effort you expend in reaching your aspirations.

4) Fight Self-Imposed Limitations.

The two worst words in the English language:  I can’t.
If you hear yourself saying “I can’t,” then you won’t.  The most powerful enemy to great achievement is a failure to dream big things without restrictions on what can be achieved.  Self limiting thoughts and expressed emotions of doubt will surely lead to failure.  Once you have identified your goal, visualized your success and worked to make it a reality, you should have the utmost confidence that you can and will succeed.
Your success will be defined by confidence in your words, confidence in your character and confidence in your deeds and actions.  The biggest thing holding you back will be the self-imposed limitations — the I can’ts, the “ifs,” the “buts” and the excuses.
When you reach a point where your goal seems insurmountable, break it down. Take steps to overcome the smaller obstacles that make the end goal seem unattainable.  You’ve worked hard — work harder.  Learn from others.  Resist the negativity from naysayers and never buy in to their doubt.  Continue to make progress.  Savor the minor victories along the way, and find victory in defeat.  Your shining moment is ahead as long as you keep your mind open to the possibilities of success.

5)  Don’t Give Up

Hardships will happen.  Steel yourself for the disappointments, and use them to catapult you forward.  Review your agenda.  See your dream.  Work toward it.  Squash those fears and doubts.  Break through walls and ceilings on the way to  success. Don’t give up, but be willing to change.  In patience, you will find strength.  In strength, you will find yourself.  It is there, that your goals will materialize.

Douglass’ 4th of July Address

An invitation to speak brings certain responsibilities, certain expectations. For sure, a festive anniversary lends itself to upbeat sentiments celebratory of the date and event.
That’s one way you can go.
One of history’s great orators chose a different tact. Frederick Douglass returned to the United States in 1847 from exile after two Irishmen secured his freedom for a sum approximating $741. Nearly five years later, he was invited to speak about what freedom meant to him at an Independence Day celebration at Corinthian Hall in Rochester, N.Y.  By my best estimates, Corinthian Hall stood Just off State Street, behind what is now the Reynold’s Arcade Building, precisely where the parking lot for the Rochester Plaza Hotel borders the Genesee River. Historically, the demolition of Corinthian Hall in 1928 is one of the city’s great travesties.

Invited by the Rochester Ladies’ Anti-Slavery Society, Douglass spoke, but instead of providing gracious reflection on how wonderful it was being free, he raged against the folly and hypocrisy of Freedom in America.
“Do you mean, citizens, to mock me by asking me to speak today?” he asked, preceded by the most famous line from this speech, “This Fourth of July is yours, not mine.”
It was 1852. More than three million African-Americans were engaged in forced servitude, in shackles and chains, beaten and whipped as slaves. For blacks who were free, few opportunities existed. Douglass, perhaps, was an exception. Yet, he spoke indignantly on behalf of his race, scorching ears with his fiery rhetoric that would last beyond his own flesh.

“What, to the American slave, is your Fourth of July? I answer, a day that reveals to him more than all other days of the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciation of tyrants, brass-fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade and solemnity, are to him mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy’s thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation of the earth guilty of practices more shocking and bloody than are the people of these United States at this very hour.”

Happy Fourth of July, right?

On this day, perhaps more than any other, Frederick Douglass stood as a mirror in which a still-fledgling nation could see itself, with all its blemishes and imperfections, and grow. And I ask this, 151 years after Douglass – Are we free yet? Are we free from prejudices and biases. Are we free to trust that our leaders are acting in accordance with the visions of our forefathers. Are we free in the knowledge that our sacred rights as citizens, our privacy and our privileges as Americans are being protected?
As Douglass pointed out that one July afternoon, we still have a ways to go as a nation. This ability to challenge the status quo is why the time is right for a motion picture to be made about his life, and his courage.

Here is the entire speech:

Frederick Douglass’ 4th of July Speech:

“What to the Slave is the Fourth of July?”

July 5, 1852
Rochester, New York *

Fellow Citizens:

Pardon me, and allow me to ask, why am I called to speak here today? What have I or those I represent to do with your national independence? Are the great principles of political freedom and natural justice, embodied in that Declaration of Independence, extended to us? And am I, therefore, called upon to bring our humble offering to the national altar, and to confess the benefits, and express devout gratitude for the blessings resulting from your independence to us?

Would to God, both for your sakes and ours, that an affirmative answer could be truthfully returned to these questions. Then would my task be light, and my burden easy and delightful. For who is there so cold that a nation’s sympathy could not warm him? Who so obdurate and dead to claims of gratitude, that would not thankfully acknowledge such priceless benefits? Who so stolid and selfish that would not give his voice to swell the hallelujahs of a nation’s jubilee, when the chains of servitude had been torn from his limbs? I am not that man. In a case like that, the dumb might eloquently speak, and the “lame man leap like as an hart.”

But such is not the state of the case. I say it with a sad sense of disparity between us. I am not included within the pale of this glorious anniversary. Your high independence only reveals the immeasurable distance between us. The blessings in which you this day rejoice are not enjoyed in common. The rich inheritance of justice, liberty, prosperity, and independence bequeathed by your fathers is shared by you, not by me. The sunlight that brought life and healing to you has brought stripes and death to me. This Fourth of July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn. To drag a man in fetters into the grand illuminated temple of liberty, and call upon him to join you in joyous anthems, were inhuman mockery and sacrilegious irony. Do you mean, citizens, to mock me, by asking me to speak today? If so, there is a parallel to your conduct. And let me warn you, that it is dangerous to copy the example of a nation whose crimes, towering up to heaven, were thrown down by the breath of the Almighty, burying that nation in irrecoverable ruin. I can today take up the lament of a peeled and woe-smitten people.

By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down. Yes! We wept when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. For there they that carried us away captive, required of us a song and they who wasted us, required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of songs of Zion. How can we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?: “If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning. If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth.”

Fellow citizens, above your national, tumultuous joy, I hear the mournful wail of millions, whose chains, heavy and grievous yesterday, are today rendered more intolerable by the jubilant shouts that reach them. If I do forget, if I do not remember those bleeding children of sorrow this day, “may my right hand forget her cunning, and may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth!” To forget them, to pass lightly over their wrongs, and to chime in with the popular theme, would be treason most scandalous and shocking, and would make me a reproach before God and the world.

My subject, then, fellow citizens, is “American Slavery.” I shall see this day and its popular characteristics from the slave’s point of view. Standing here, identified with the American bondman, making his wrongs mine, I do not hesitate to declare, with all my soul, that the character and conduct of this nation never looked blacker to me than on this Fourth of July. Whether we turn to the declarations of the past, or to the professions of the present, the conduct of the nation seems equally hideous and revolting. America is false to the past, false to the present, and solemnly binds herself to be false to the future. Standing with God and the crushed and bleeding slave on this occasion, I will, in the name of humanity, which is outraged, in the name of liberty, which is fettered, in the name of the Constitution and the Bible, which are disregarded and trampled upon, dare to call in question and to denounce, with all the emphasis I can command, everything that serves to perpetuate slavery-the great sin and shame of America “I will not equivocate; I will not excuse”; I will use the severest language I can command, and yet not one word shall escape me that any man, whose judgment is not blinded by prejudice, or who is not at heart a slave-holder, shall not confess to be right and just.

But I fancy I hear some of my audience say it is just in this circumstance that you and your brother Abolitionists fail to make a favorable impression on the public mind. Would you argue more and denounce less, would you persuade more and rebuke less, your cause would be much more likely to succeed. But, I submit, where all is plain there is nothing to be argued. What point in the anti-slavery creed would you have me argue? On what branch of the subject do the people of this country need light? Must I undertake to prove that the slave is a man? That point is conceded already. Nobody doubts it. The slave-holders themselves acknowledge it in the enactment of laws for their government. They acknowledge it when they punish disobedience on the part of the slave. There are seventy-two crimes in the State of Virginia, which, if committed by a black man (no matter how ignorant he be), subject him to the punishment of death; while only two of these same crimes will subject a white man to like punishment. What is this but the acknowledgment that the slave is a moral, intellectual, and responsible being?

The manhood of the slave is conceded. It is admitted in the fact that Southern statute-books are covered with enactments, forbidding, under severe fines and penalties, the teaching of the slave to read and write. When you can point to any such laws in reference to the beasts of the field, then I may consent to argue the manhood of the slave. When the dogs in your streets, when the fowls of the air, when the cattle on your hills, when the fish of the sea, and the reptiles that crawl, shall be unable to distinguish the slave from a brute, then I will argue with you that the slave is a man!

For the present it is enough to affirm the equal manhood of the Negro race. Is it not astonishing that, while we are plowing, planting, and reaping, using all kinds of mechanical tools, erecting houses, constructing bridges, building ships, working in metals of brass, iron, copper, silver, and gold; that while we are reading, writing, and ciphering, acting as clerks, merchants, and secretaries, having among us lawyers, doctors, ministers, poets, authors, editors, orators, and teachers; that while we are engaged in all the enterprises common to other men-digging gold in California, capturing the whale in the Pacific, feeding sheep and cattle on the hillside, living, moving, acting, thinking, planning, living in families as husbands, wives, and children, and above all, confessing and worshiping the Christian God, and looking hopefully for life and immortality beyond the grave-we are called upon to prove that we are men?

Would you have me argue that man is entitled to liberty? That he is the rightful owner of his own body? You have already declared it. Must I argue the wrongfulness of slavery? Is that a question for republicans? Is it to be settled by the rules of logic and argumentation, as a matter beset with great difficulty, involving a doubtful application of the principle of justice, hard to understand? How should I look today in the presence of Americans, dividing and subdividing a discourse, to show that men have a natural right to freedom, speaking of it relatively and positively, negatively and affirmatively? To do so would be to make myself ridiculous, and to offer and insult to your understanding. There is not a man beneath the canopy of heaven who does not know that slavery is wrong for him.

What! Am I to argue that it is wrong to make men brutes, to rob them of their liberty, to work them without wages, to keep them ignorant of their relations to their fellow men, to beat them with sticks, to flay their flesh with the last, to load their limbs with irons, to hunt them with dogs, to sell them at auction, to sunder their families, to knock out their teeth, to burn their flesh, to starve them into obedience and submission to their masters? Must I argue that a system thus marked with blood and stained with pollution is wrong? No; I will not. I have better employment for my time and strength than such arguments would imply.

What, then, remains to be argued? Is it that slavery is not divine; that God did not establish it; that our doctors of divinity are mistaken? There is blasphemy in the thought. That which is inhuman cannot be divine. Who can reason on such a proposition? They that can, may; I cannot. The time for such argument is past.

At a time like this, scorching irony, not convincing argument, is needed. Oh! had I the ability, and could I reach the nation’s ear, I would today pour out a fiery stream of biting ridicule, blasting reproach, withering sarcasm, and stern rebuke. For it is not light that is needed, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake. The feeling of the nation must be quickened; the conscience of the nation must be roused; the propriety of the nation must be startled; the hypocrisy of the nation must be exposed; and its crimes against God and man must be denounced.

What to the American slave is your Fourth of July I answer, a day that reveals to him more than all other days of the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciation of tyrants, brass-fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade and solemnity, are to him mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy’s thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation of the earth guilty of practices more shocking and bloody than are the people of these United States at this very hour.

Go where you may, search where you will, roam through all the monarchies and despotisms of the Old World, travel through South America, search out every abuse and when you have found the last, lay your facts by the side of the every-day practices of this nation, and you will say with me that, for revolting barbarity and shameless hypocrisy, America reigns without a rival.