ericrschwartz

[ericrschwartz]

Declassifying the Classified

(Here is that disclaimer for any of you that need it: This blog relates opinions that are completely my own and not those of entities that I work for or with. They are my own even though I’m always right, of course).

Despite being known across the country as one of the most liberal states in the union, Massachusetts has never seemed that progressive to me. The state still outlaws half priced happy hour drinks for crying out loud. One issue, though, that recently gained support from across the political spectrum of its citizens was the legalization of recreational marijuana. In Massachusetts, legalization was a popular idea among the public, but was never really addressed by either party in the state house (Republican or Democrat). The truth is that the passage of Question 4 (the Massachusetts Marijuana Legalization Initiative) was important to me. And before any pseudo-liberal assholes out there that aren’t doing anything to change the system other than vote Democrat want to cry about how there are other pressing issues for the country than legalizing a plant, let me make it clear why I supported the measure and why I think it is not only an important step for the state, but an important step for the kind of thinking that will move us towards a more progressive idealism that is actually better for the world.

Marijuana has been classified as a Schedule I substance in the United States since 1970 when Tricky Dick Nixon signed the Controlled Substances Act (CSA) as a way to utilize drug law to arrest New Left radicals for their politics. This act put pot in the same classification as heroin. One of the results of this legislation is that marijuana has largely been unstudied by the medical research community. Pot has remained taboo among physicians that have over the last few decades increasingly turned to prescribing opioids to patients suffering from chronic pain or terminal illness. This all has led to a tragic opioid epidemic that has swept through New England and claimed the lives of many across the region. And when the people of Massachusetts voted two years ago to legalize medicinal marijuana, the state refused to follow through with measures that would make it readily available to people in need. The medical distribution centers that are close to where I live are nothing more than secret clubs that require someone to jump through hoops in order to get access to the drug, even if that person has a condition that clearly falls within the prescribable class. I do partly blame myself for not reading the medical marijuana bill thoroughly enough before I voted yes the last time around-- not realizing how unreasonably restrictive it was. That one is on me. Luckily, the writing was on the wall for recreational pot being on the ballot soon thereafter.

When recreational marijuana was put on ballot this year, the Massachusetts governor, Charlie Baker, opposed the measure and countless Republicans and Democrats across the state refused to take any clear position on it. All of this happened while families across New England lost another relative to opioid addiction. The opioid crisis has become so devastating in this area that it has been taken up at the federal level by the Attorney General, Loretta Lynch, who recently visited the Massachusetts Medical Society to speak about what it could do to address the growing problem. All of this happened while both the federal and state governments and the medical community at large did nothing to declassify marijuana as a Schedule I drug, a drug that could provide an alternative to opioids for treating similar ailments. The Commonwealth of Massachusetts in line with the federal government has remained silent on the issue. And when last week the state legislature voted to delay the opening date for recreational marijuana stores in Massachusetts and the governor approved the measure, it was just another predictable example of the powers at be dictating their principles upon the people. Lawmakers had plenty of time to prepare for the passage of Question 4 and to work with pro-marijuana advocates, but they decided to sit on their hands. Well, the people have spoken and Question 4 passed and now it’s about time that those that run the legislature understand that this issue goes much deeper than some kid getting high listening to Pink Floyd records. What it’s actually about is doing the right thing.

When my father was in the last stages of cancer, he was on morphine for a period of perhaps two months. During this time, it was not uncommon for entire days to be erased from his memory. I remember one specific episode where my grandmother and I had to calm him down because he seemed to be in a hallucinatory state—very confused and agitated over something we could not make sense of. He wasn’t trying to hurt himself, but he appeared frightened and had a look in his eyes that I had never seen before. In that moment Dad was a man lost in a cloud—a smart and dedicated father and high school teacher that was now unable to make sense of his reality. On another occasion, Dad got out of bed at around eight o’clock in the evening while the rest of the family was munching on some pizza for dinner. He was confused as to why we were eating pizza for breakfast. When I sat down to watch the Yankees playing in the Divisional Series of the playoffs (baseball was our usual father and son bonding time) he thought that I was watching highlights from the night before. “I missed the game,” he said to me. “What happened?” “You didn’t miss anything,” I said to him. “The game is playing right now.” Slowly, Dad started to emerge from the morphine haze and he began to realize his mistake: it was actually nighttime and not morning and that it was the day before that he had forgotten. “I lose these days,” he said to me. I could tell he felt ashamed and frustrated with himself and he thanked me for my understanding. I assured him that there was nothing to feel bad about and that the ballgame was on and we should watch it—like we always did. And then he said something a bit out of place: “Why are you being so nice to me?” Again—he seemed uneasy. I tried to make light of the situation and said: “Because the Yankees are on and we always bond during the Yankees game.” At that moment, finally, the morphine drained from his eyes and he was my Dad again and he looked at me and said: “Then I wish it was a Yankees game every day.”

Thinking back on that time now, it still hurts, of course, but it also occurs to me that here was a man that knew he didn’t have a lot of time left. Yet, even the thing that mattered the most--spending time with the ones he loved before he was completely gone--was taken away from him. Every terminally ill human being should be entitled to the dignity of deciding how they wish to die. Part of that decision process should be the ability to choose drug therapies that provide an alternative to the opioids that put so many patients into a constant medicated state and very often have brutal and debilitating side effects.

I'm not saying that marijuana is a wonder drug that will ease countless medical ills. What I am saying is that it should be declassified as a Schedule I substance so that researchers can gain a better understanding of how it can be used as an important drug therapy for patients in need. What I am saying is that the medical community and Big Pharma are both implicit in this opioid epidemic and need to take a more active role in addressing it. What I am saying is that a lot of laws don't make much sense and are simply put in place by the people in power so that they will remain in power or so that it won’t hurt their bottom line. What I am saying is that I smoke pot regularly and believe that, when I use it, it helps me to maintain balance in my life both mentally and physically. What I am saying is that, as someone who has put his Crohn’s Disease in remission, it's possible that marijuana might even prove to be effective for treating inflammation. What I am saying is that I smoke pot and I am a productive member of society that truly cares about the well-being of my fellow man. What I am saying is that I smoke pot and I'm tired of keeping it a secret from some of the people I know and work with because it is still seen as taboo in the greater society. What I am saying is that I get the feeling that there are a lot of other people that think the same way I do. So, let's meet up. Let's have a coffee or, you know, maybe even a few tugs of ganja, and let's talk about moving forward together.

Eric R. Schwartz

[ericrschwartz]

The Wednesday Morning Quarterbacking of a Self-Proclaimed Leftist

Sometime in college, or shortly thereafter, when I was developing a better understanding of the world and my place in it, and when, I guess you could say, I was forming my political viewpoint, I noticed that, as I looked at history, social change only really prevailed when it came from the outside in. Otherwise, true change never happened. Lyndon B. Johnson may have signed the Civil Rights Act and he may have been a noble president for doing so, but Lyndon B. Johnson didn’t create the concept of civil rights, a movement did. And before that, it was suffrage, and before that, it was abolitionism. Therefore, it seemed pretty impractical for me to become a declared member of one of the two major political parties in this country that sat within a system that could only be moved from the outside. Ever since coming to this conclusion, I have proclaimed myself a ‘leftist’ and I’ve been getting shit for it ever since.

When I think about the election results from last night, the people that I find myself the most frustrated with are not the Trump supporters, but, rather, those that voted in the Democratic Primary and found Bernie Sanders to be too much of an idealist to be electable. For the purpose of this blog post, I’d like to call these folks pseudo-liberal assholes. But, they are also, of course, my friends and my family and the same people that have been giving me shit all these years for being the self-proclaimed ‘leftist.’

Going into this election, everyone said that it was the Republicans that were having an identity crisis. The political pundits said that it seemed that the Republicans didn’t know who they were anymore. If it’s one thing that I think this election has proven—it’s that what is really happening is quite the opposite. The Republicans know exactly who they are and they have stood up for their ideals. Their idealism happens to be founded on the concept of isolationist nationalism. It’s an idealism that I find greatly abhorrent and couldn’t be more opposed to. But, it’s one that they have clearly made the foundation of their party’s identity moving forward. The Democrats, on the other hand, have always seemed to me as strangely apologetic about their ideals. So much so that when they had a candidate that wore them proudly on his sleeve, they got scared and felt that maybe the rest of the country wasn’t ready for someone that idealistic—someone who might actually expose their true selves to the rest of the country. Although I am deeply saddened that the country failed to elect the first female president, I am trying to take some small comfort in the idea that, with this election, the old order of politics has died and just maybe the Democrats will finally come to terms and become who they always thought they could be—one generation giving way to the next.

The best way I can describe how I felt today is that it was like when I was in the sixth grade and my best friend called me up to tell me that his father had died suddenly. He said to me: ‘My dad’s dead.’ And, shocked, the only reply I could muster was: ‘You’re kidding, right?’ Without a hesitation he said: ‘Yes, I’m kidding.’ And I don’t know if he picked it up but I replied: ‘Thank God.’ For a split second I was relieved, but then I heard him whimper on the other end and I realized that it was true and that, in my state of shock, I failed to catch the sarcasm of a broken friend. Some years later, when I was in high school and my own father was entering the last stages of cancer, it was senior night at the old football field. Each senior gave a rose to his family before the game and when I walked up to Dad and looked at his gaunt face and crusted lips, he pulled me in for a hug and whispered in my ear: ‘It’s all a joke—I’m not really sick.’ Dad only made it a few weeks longer—a baby boomer taken before his time. A piece of every day since then has felt pretty similar: get up from the wreckage, find yourself intact, and put one foot in front of the other.

Eric R. Schwartz

(Apologies in advance to all pseudo-liberal assholes. I love you, too).  

[ericrschwartz]

Election Night

As her path narrowed, my baby girl stirred.

[ericrschwartz]

For My Daughter on the Day of Her Birth (Don’t Quote Me on Any of This)

On the day of your birth, it's probably best to start dying and begin to never be afraid. That’s because, at the end of your dying, there could be nothing. It's only this life that we know as of yet and that's what you're beginning right now and it will be followed by your eventual end. The only thing we know for sure is that life is short. You’ll hear that expression used many times, perhaps on an occasion when someone wants you to do something you have misgivings about. Life is short, that person will likely tell you. This saying may occur to you someday when you’re considering a decision you find to be risky yet exciting. Life is short, you’ll think to yourself. It’s an extremely clichéd description, but the fossil record proves it to be undeniably true. Life is short, kid. That’s why it's everything in the middle of this burst of a beginning and the eventual last breath of your end that will matter and why I think that you’ll want to make the middle count.

There are no real rules to the middle. The rules that do exist are completely made up by humans. Some of these rules are good, but the majority of the ones that I’ve encountered are not. They are simply created by the powerful as a way to control the masses. For instance, a law requiring a person to pull his car to the side of the road to let an ambulance pass is probably a pretty good rule. However, a society that determines that the person in the back of that ambulance is not entitled to healthcare as a undeniable human right is probably bound by some pretty bad rules. Even scientists that attempt to discover the universal laws of nature and the universe later find out that the rules that they thought they had worked out were not actually rules because they found exceptions to those rules. Therefore, I’d say that there are mostly no rules to the middle. You are born and you die. Those seem to be the only real rules that I am aware of. And breaking free from the rules that do exist can be quite a rewarding experience. Someday, in the future, you may find out that the rules you once felt formed the framework of your being are no longer applicable to your current state. I am thirty-four years old and I feel like I've had several rebirths in my lifetime. I've been a different person after each one of them. The rebirths usually occur around a time when the notion life is short may be entering your mind and you decide to steer your boat in a different direction. I would embrace those moments. They are what make the middle interesting.  

Evolution is an essential part of life. Life has only survived because it has evolved. Following each mass extinction in this world, there was a new kind of life that emerged. We mammals got lucky, for instance, when an asteroid wiped out the dinosaurs. Why then should death be the decider of who we are just because we have expired? The end of a heart beating, the stop blood flowing to a brain, the expiration of transmitters transmitting is certainly not the end of those life functions occurring in this world. They are just the end of those functions happening in the same manner inside of what we've distinguished to be a self. And, so, there is indeed life after death. It's just not your life. Life evolves in order to survive and death doesn’t change that. That said—there is no God. I'm sorry to ruin that one for you on your first day. But, if there is a God, then he's a huge sadistic prick. And if there were actually a God, I don't think that he would be a huge sadistic prick. So, there is no God. And you’ll probably be much less hindered knowing that off the bat. There is just you and me and a lot of cool fucking stuff to explore.

Now, here's the deal with the stuff—the stuff that you'll be able to explore will only be a very small part of the stuff that is inside of this very large galaxy. And this very large galaxy is only a tiny part of this very large universe. And this very large universe is likely only a small part of what may exist beyond that. Even the stuff that you do end up exploring will only be an insignificant fraction of the exploring that will ever be done. As for the stuff you know (or think that you know)—that will only be an insignificant fraction of the stuff that will ever be known. And what we do know now, collectively, is very little. So, what you will ever know will practically be nothing. The stuff that you will know will only be enough stuff for you to know a decent amount of stuff and that’s about it. But, I think that that’s far better than not knowing any stuff at all. Because what we do know is a lot more than what we did know and if you don’t know any stuff, then your very short life would seem to be pretty pointless to me. It’s learning stuff that helps you to understand who you are. You learn about other stuff and you see how that stuff connects to your stuff. Then maybe you create some stuff based upon that other stuff and how it relates to your stuff. We've gotten to the place in the history of humans that there's now a shit ton of stuff in this world—even if it’s still a small amount of stuff—and most of that stuff is usually pretty shitty stuff. But, as you get older, you'll have seen a lot of this stuff, so you will know which of the stuff is shitty and which of the stuff seems to be your kind of stuff. After a while, you start to stick with your kind of stuff. You might even stick with the people who like your kind of stuff. Then, sometimes, the stuff that you thought wasn't your stuff you will find out is actually your stuff. And some other stuff—well, you aren’t really sure why that ever was your stuff to begin with. So, you collect stuff and you discard stuff. And all of the stuff that is inside of you at that moment in time is you.

The nature of time itself is somewhat debated, but let’s not get into that right now. We can talk about that later. Let’s just stick to you and the middle. The middle is yours, kid. That’s why I think that, at the beginning of your living, you might as well start dying. That way, you won’t be afraid of anything and you’ll just know how to be. I know that many fathers would not begin their advice this way. But, I'm not many fathers. I'm just me. And you're just you. And that's what we'll figure out together—somewhere in the middle of some really cool stuff.

Eric R. Schwartz

[ericrschwartz]

The Life of a Giant

The Giants are the kind of team that I often prefer to watch alone at my local bar away from friends and loved ones to spare them the misery and torture of it all as I swear under my breath, trying to find some hope in the hopeless—like a guy who is used to the struggle. I became a Giants fan on account of my uncles—on both sides of my family—who understand the struggle. They are two completely different men. One is a tenured history professor at a prestigious university in the south that has written several books on American History. The other is a drunk who keeps several addresses throughout the year, but, mostly, resides in Rome, New York where he fills his days with smoking and drinking. I describe this Uncle as a drunk in the same way that I describe my other Uncle as a professor. These are simply biographical notes—ones that cannot be disputed—that I’ll use as descriptive devises for the sake of this story. But, also, these differences suggest to me that the misery of a Giants fan has no bounds. Regardless of who we are during the week—whether we drink a dinner of Milwaukee’s Best or whether we revise a manuscript on Kissinger—on Sundays, we, these fractured men of generations, are all Giants fans and our struggle is the same. There is nothing quite like a Giants game in all of sports. A Giants game has a way of twisting a man in his seat, of shaking him to his core, of driving him into madness—to endlessly walk the earth in search of who he really is, where he came from, and how it is that he came to be a Giant.

Eli Manning is a perfect quarterback for the New York Giants. If nothing else, he knows how to be a Giant. He plays every game day in and day out, rain or shine, giving performances that vary from the miraculous feats of a deity (the last minutes of Super Bowl XLII when he astonishingly evaded three Patriot defenders and aired out a pass to David Tyree who somehow caught the ball on his helmet, a play known to most Giants fans simply as 'The Catch') to walking around in the confused daze of a kindergartener on his first day of school, throwing interception after interception as if no one has explained to him the rules of the game (an occurrence that every Giants fan both fears and can also see coming a mile away, like a car wreck you can’t avoid). I believe that the latter is true most of the time for Eli Manning. Maybe that’s because I'm a Giants fan. I look at the universe for what it is: a brilliant and wondrous gift from the gods and, at the same time, a dense black mass of nothingness that collects all the tragedy and despair into one chaotic mess. On most Sundays, it’s within this chaos and despair where a Giants fan sits and where he learns what it is to be a Giant.

I like to tell my Uncle—the professor—that I always start off the season as an optimist, even though it goes against my nature as a Giants fan:

Sure they’re 0-2, but they have a new offense this year. Not to worry. It’s early. They’ll get there. It's going to take a few weeks to get this house in order. The special teams may be killing us, but special teams always start off shaky. They'll work it out. It’s a long season. Keep the faith. Hold out some hope.

Last season, I watched the nail in the coffin of another Giants season while I was visiting my family in Florida—a wretched state filled with many people that escaped the grayness of upstate New York, where many Giants fans and I were born, to seek the sunshine. Personally, I prefer the gray—I'm a Giants fan. That day, though, I sat in a bar in sunny Florida as New York played San Diego—another sunny place that can go straight to hell as far as I’m concerned. The San Diego Chargers have a quarterback named Philip Rivers. The Giants had first selected Rivers on draft day before they traded him for Eli Manning, who would become the future franchise quarterback. I guess they thought Eli would be a better fit for the team. If you ask me, Philip Rivers wasn’t tragic enough to be Giant. So, it seemed appropriate that I watched my Giants suspended on that big screen in Florida as Rivers passed all over them and they died out there in that hot California sun a coast away. Last season, after an 0-and-6 start, the Giants had followed up with 4 straight wins to give just enough hope for a playoff birth before they broke my heart again. That’s just what the Giants do. It was a perfect end to a typical Giants season. With the playoffs no longer a possibility, there were 3 games left. I watched them all. I watched the rest of those games because I am a Giants fan and that's all I know how to be. In true Giants fashion they won their last two games of the season. Such is the life of a Giant.

When I was 9 years old, the Giants went on a great run. They put together a 13-and-3 record in the regular season and bested the hardnosed Chicago Bears in the divisional round of the playoffs. They faced a much harder test in the NFC Championship game against the San Francisco 49ers that had put together the better 14-and-2 regular season record led by the great Joe Montana. I couldn't even watch the game. I spent most of the day with a Buffalo Bills fan, exploring the woods behind my house—a Giants fan is always searching for something. By the time I made it back home where there was heat and electricity, the Giants had already pulled off that famous fake punt (any way you can when you're a Giant) and were setting up a last second field goal. The kick was true off the leg of Matt Bahr for the win. I watched all of this in my parents’ bedroom with a Bills fan at my side. His team had also made it into the big game. And, a couple weeks later, Scott Norwood of the Buffalo Bills was setting up a similar last second field goal against my Giants—that infamous (or famous, if you’re a Giants fan) 47-yarder. Norwood missed it (wide right, of course) and the Giants won the Super Bowl. I was surrounded in upstate New York by Bills fans and every last one of them felt cheated out of a Super Bowl. They all said the same thing to me: the Bills would have won it if it weren't for that kicker. The Giants, my Giants, didn't deserve to win. They told me this over and over again for years there after. I felt like I didn't even have time to celebrate. I’m telling you—I was surrounded. Those Bills fans were relentless. And their Buffalo Bills continued to make Super Bowl after Super Bowl while the Giants struggled and fell short. I watched every single one of those four consecutive Bills’ Super Bowls and celebrated every one of their loses with deep satisfaction. I hated those goddamned Buffalo Bills—Jim Kelly, Thurman Thomas, Andre Reed. They could all go to hell. The Buffalo Bills played only an hour away from my home, but I hated them still. They weren't my Giants and Bills fans would never understand what it was to be a Giant.

My Uncle—the professor—tells me that I have it easy. He says his Giants are from the era of 'The Fumble.’ That was the game in ‘78 when all the Giants had to do was kneel the football to win. Instead, they ran the ball, botched the handoff, and kicked it out to the Eagle cornerback, Herman Edwards, who took it in for an easy 26-yard touchdown. My uncle tells me that those are the true Giants—the ones that fumble the ball when all they need to do is take a knee. I try to believe that they ran the ball that day because the Giants never quit. But my Uncle insists that it's just because they are the Giants and that’s what the Giants do. It’s hard for me not to feel the same. In a conversation the other day with his older sister, my Aunt, I brought up our team. She doesn’t watch football, but she has two brothers in the struggle. They live to disappoint, she told me over the phone. She knows all too well what it means to be a Giant. 

7 years ago, the Giants made it into the playoffs as long shot to win the Super Bowl. They had fought tough all season, like the Giants sometimes do. They played on the road throughout those playoffs and strung together win after win against all the odds. This included another game winning field goal to end a bitter cold contest against the beloved Brett Farve in his last game at Lambeau Field. It was unthinkable. After beating the Packers, the Giants were set to meet an undefeated Patriots team in Super Bowl XLII. It was just something the Giants would do. By then, I had been living in Massachusetts for the better part of 8 years. During that time, I watched the Patriots dynasty take hold in New England. I had been patiently watching the Giants any time I could. In New England, if the Patriots don’t play in the same time slot, the Giants’ games are usually broadcasted locally (unless, of course, the Giants are playing like the Giants do and there are more meaningful games to watch). That year, I watched with passion. I watched the Giants play up and down as they tried to find their way. I watched them over the Thanksgiving holiday in Florida with my Uncle—the drunk—who preferred the bar to the beach (the weather was beautiful) in order to catch the Giants-Vikings game (the Giants got smoked). Towards the end of that season, he got real sick with pneumonia (probably on account that he drinks too much). He was in the hospital throughout the playoffs as the Giants kept winning. My mom was looking after him at the time and I told her to make sure that he could watch the Giants from his hospital bed. She said that he didn't even understand what day it was or what was going on around him. I told her to let him watch anyways. I called to check in on him during those playoffs. My mom was right. He wasn't making any sense. The Giants playoff run wasn't making any sense either. We were Giants fans in an alternate reality. And those Giants kept on winning right up until they met the undefeated New England Patriots. By now in my life, Buffalo Bills fans no longer surrounded me. I was in the belly of the New England dynasty—Bob Craft and Tom Brady and the year of the 18-and-0 Patriots leading into Super Bowl XLII. Everyone said that the Pats victory was inevitable. The only thing standing in their way was a Giant.

When game day came, I vowed not to drink too much. It had been a long Giants run. I had made a couple extra bucks on the side betting on my team and had drunk a couple extra beers to get through the nail-biters. I was a Giants fan, no doubt. So, when Super Bowl Sunday came, I vowed to take it easy. I wanted to remember every moment of this one. I bet on the Giants to cover that enormous point spread and I watched the game surrounded by those entitled Patriots fans. They had been celebrating the whole week leading up to the Super Bowl—just waiting for the victory that would crown them the greatest football team of all time. I sat there quietly and I watched the Giants’ defense play flawlessly. The Patriots offense (touted as one of the best of all time) only scored 7 points in the first half to the Giants 3. In the third quarter, the Giants defense continued to hold and, in the fourth, the game began to go the Giants way. They finally found some offense and Eli Manning, somehow, found David Tyree to complete what I’ll always call 'The Catch.' It was a moment out of folklore—like the name the team bared. That fateful catch led the Giants to victory. When it was all over, I called my uncle. He was out of the hospital and on the mend. I felt a sense of relief to hear him lucid again, but it all seemed like a dream. From the brink he had come—half dead with pneumonia—my uncle, that Giants fan. Our Giants had kept fighting, too. They did the unthinkable and won it all. And ever since every Patriots fan that I've ever known has told me that the Giants didn’t deserve to win that game. It was a fluke. They didn't deserve to win because they were the Giants.

The next time the Giants made it to the Super Bowl, it was under similar circumstances. They squeaked into the playoffs having to win their last game of the season and needed to play on the road the whole way through again. I watched two of those playoff games also on the road—down in Texas—miles away from any Giants fans. I watched the Giants beat another heavily favored Packers team while I was in Austin (Eli completed a Hail Mary at the end of the first half to put them in great position). The bar in Austin was filled with Packers fans. I was on my own. I didn’t see one goddamned person pulling for the Giants in that whole place. A week later, I watched them beat the 49ers from a hotel bar in Dallas, the home of the most hated of all Giants opponents. The key play occurred in the fourth quarter when a 9ers player mistakenly touched a punted ball. The replay showed that the ball just barely glanced off his right knee (why not?) and the Giants were in good position for their eventual dramatic overtime victory (another last second field goal). When I came home to Massachusetts after a long trip, the Giants were set to play those anointed Patriots in the Super Bowl again. The Patriots were not undefeated that year, but they were the dynasty. I considered watching the big game alone at my local bar—away from my Patriot fan friends who were hungry for revenge after the last time—but they talked me back to the place where they were gathered for the game. That's what friends do. They said that I shouldn't watch the game alone—but I couldn't make too much of fuss over the Giants if the game started to go their way. So, I walked out of the bar that I was contemplating staying at and I called my uncle who we'd almost lost to pneumonia the last time the Giants and the Pats were in the Super Bowl. He said he liked their chances. He was nuts. I told him that I was nervous. But, deep down, I somehow had the same feeling he did. When I got to the house where all the Pats fans were gathered, I stood in the back of the room and kept as quiet as I could possibly manage. Even when the Pats opened up the game with the safety, I knew it would be a struggle. It always was. That's the life of a Giant. And when the sure-handed Wes Welker dropped a crucial pass in the fourth quarter, the same feeling came from those Patriots fans—the Giants didn't deserve this. They were the Giants. But, they were my Giants—through it all they were my Giants—and they beat those goddamned Patriots again. I left the house that night as my friends filed out in disappointment. I walked to another local spot and I bought myself a glass of bourbon—a small celebration on my own. This is the life of a Giant.

The Giant sits at the edge of his perch atop a hill and looks off into the valleys and mountains where he sometimes goes. Some days he wonders how it is that he got here—how he came to be a Giant. He imagines that it could have happened in many ways. He sits alone and waits for moments to speak—practicing his cadence and drawing out plays that he knows by heart in the dirt. He sits at the end of the earth and he watches the sun rise in its beautiful wonder. He is hopeful for what a new day will bring. The Giant thinks about his family. They are the others like him only for the reason that they are Giants too. He wonders how many Giants will be left after he and they are gone. He wonders if there will ever be a day when he will meet another Giant like him. The Giant sleeps, but, mostly, he tosses and turns and he thinks about not being good enough and he thinks about dropped passes and he thinks about his wish to meet that one Giant who waits for him just over those mountains who could explain why it is that he’s a Giant. A Giant, just like me.

Eric R. Schwartz

(The Colossus, Francisco de Goya)

[ericrschwartz]

The Landlord AKA: Sitting at a pub in Shipley, England in one-and-a-half pints time with my Friend, Todd, in mind

The Landlord sits in his local hole and he drinks enough as if to see whether the wall at the back of the place will finally settle his fate. The pints smell like piss here, but they're wet and flat and easy on a stomach that is filled with ulcers and years worth of rent money. The Landlord knows where he sits in the grand scheme of mediocrity. He knows he is but a landlord who has made a few good decisions and turned a few more bad. The Landlord has a woman, of course. Behind every good landlord there is a good woman. This Landlord, drenched in mediocrity, has a woman who is quite the same. But, he loves her just the same. And feels she is stronger than a Landlord could ever be. Yet, she'll never know what it is to be a Landlord: to have loved in many places; to have lost many things that could have kept him true; to have left the things he loved just to be a landlord who pays the bills and keeps the property. The Landlord sits on evenings when the lady has gone to bed and he remembers when he wasn't a landlord. He sits in the quiet of night when the phone doesn't ring anymore and the Landlord's cat crawls next to him and looks at the wall like she sees the same thing that he does at the local hole where the pints smell like piss. This Landlord sits in the quiet of the night and he thinks if only he could have been anything—anything—other than a landlord. Not the Prime Minister or the President or a player for the local club—just a man with ideas that weren't owned by the Administrator. The Landlord, eventually, crawls into bed with his woman. The cat follows. And he listens to his lady breath in the quiet of night and he thinks about his death and he thinks about his reasons to leave his woman and he thinks about his reasons to stay and he thinks about his son who is brilliant but has nothing other than being a Landlord's son and he worries and he worries and he doesn't sleep and he leaves his bed and he worries some more downstairs where his cat joins him, again, and looks at him—maybe wondering why he became a landlord. The landlord sits. And he sits and he sits. The Landlord sits.

The Landlord takes his wife. He never liked calling her that or taking her all that much, especially at this hour, but he takes her all the same and he looks into her eyes—wondering if they both ever saw eye to eye. That is, perhaps, the state of being a Landlord. Of wondering. Of waiting on a check. Of considering the fine line between being a bastard and being firm but fair. The Landlord sits. The Landlord looks. The Landlord feels, as if: how should a landlord feel? It's hardly worth speculation because a landlord does not exist deeper than a Landlord who has cheated his tenants out of a few bucks, and, his wife, too. The funny thing about being a landlord is that the Landlord can cheat his business true—the tenants tend not to ask—but, his wife, he cheats her and it's the end of the Landlord business, at least as far as she is concerned. That's the Landlord's way. But, then again, that would not be a fair position on the Landlord. Because the Landlord has been good about his business. He has. He has learned from being a Landlord. And what he has learned is that a landlord only has as much as what he can keep and what that is is more than what his tenants can keep but less than the person he can be. The Landlord sits. On a night like this, the Landlord sits. He looks out onto a small patch of green that he bought after he purchased much more property than this. He liked the others, sure, but this is where he settled and watches his properties from afar. The Landlord sits. He wonders how much this all means other than passing it off in a will, perhaps to the next Landlord. Every first property looks so beautiful when he first sees it. The Landlord's eyes are endless with expectation. Any landlord's are. But, any landlord is just a Landlord. He certainly is. He sees things as a landlord. Of course there is the bottom line. But more than the bottom line there are the tenants that don't ask. And so the Landlord sits. So, why? Because the Landlord, quite frankly, likes to sit. He hopes his son won't. He hopes his son pounces on the life that moves—devours it all up as the Landlord once did. His son will grow up mighty and different from him. Every son of a Landlord should want the same. Every son should want the same. And, so, the Landlord sits.

Eric R. Schwartz

[ericrschwartz]

A Story I Wrote Once Where Nothing Happens

When I was a senior in college, I wrote a short story about a twenty-two year-old named Jaime who moves back home to Rochester, New York and falls into heroin addiction. Jaime starts going to this local coffee shop where he develops a crush on a girl who works there. The shop becomes the place where he spends his evenings and weekends just after he's shot up. In the haze of his high, Jaime drinks coffee and watches this girl as she serves coffee to the customers after him. Part of the reason for Jaime’s drug use is that, shortly after moving back home, a local drug dealer named Sergio convinces him that the outlaws of society will eventually revolt against the hypocrisy of the system. The key to this eventual rebellion, he says, lies in the heart of the drug culture. Jaime relates to this idea. He is young, he is frustrated, and he is eager to find other people that feel the same way he does. But, in the end, all Jaime really wants is for this girl from the coffee shop to love him before his inevitable and untimely death. He is convinced that to be a martyred idealist is the only way he’ll leave a lasting impression on the world. I ended the story with Jaime sitting on his front stoop watching a robin bounce up and down on the concrete sidewalk hunting for insects. As he watches the bird, he thinks about the swallows that fill the pages of Virginia Woolf's Between the Acts—the book she wrote just before she killed herself. Birds are constant images throughout and eventually give way to the warplanes that fly overhead at the end of the novel, signaling the coming of the Second World War. It’s a chilling narrative that I thought would nicely parallel the inner turmoil of my character—this lost soul who is having trouble finding his place in the world as he starts to struggle with addiction.    

My creative writing professor hated the story. She said that nothing happened. And she was right—nothing did happen. I told her that that was the point. I said that I didn’t want anything to happen because, where I was from and where I placed my character, in the suburbs of Rochester, New York, nothing did happen. There was no plot where I was from. Instead, all that was left were the people trying to make sense of that in different ways.

When the actor, Philip Seymour Hoffman, died of a heroin overdose last week, I was reminded of how few people realize that he was originally from Fairport, New York—a town right next to where I grew up just outside of Rochester. I have a suspicion that this is because many of the people that leave that area of the world don’t ever want to come back. I have met a lot of these people over the years. I know them. I am related to them. I am also unaware of any Philip Seymour Hoffman Arts Wing at the University of Rochester or Philip Seymour Hoffman Performing Arts Theater at Fairport High School. I suspect that this could be because not much of what he experienced when he lived in upstate New York helped him before he moved away to pursue an acting career. I can only speculate about these things, of course, but it does have a certain Rochester sadness about it—a city’s whose most successful resident, George Eastman, killed himself, leaving the suicide note: To my friends My work here is done—why wait? All these years later, My work here is done, has left Eastman Kodak a company plagued with massive debt, little innovation, and incessant layoffs. George Eastman’s death is a story I always felt perfectly described the luck and mood of a town that never made it back to where it once was. It’s a story a bit like the one I tried to write about a kid caught between his idealistic hopes and the inevitability of his decline.

Rochester, I felt, was the right backdrop for my character. Places like Rochester, New York, Scranton, Pennsylvania, Worchester, Massachusetts, and Detroit, Michigan tend to have high rates of drug addiction. They are cities caught in between and addiction is the manifestation of their dwindling spirits. It’s a byproduct of the disappointment that perpetuates the status quo, prevents progress, and arrests these places in a constant state of decline or paralysis.

For me, the saddest part about Philip Seymour Hoffman’s death has been the arrests of those individuals who may have gotten him the drugs. Do not be fooled—the arraignment of these people in court and the images of them all over the news is just another pathetic attempt to put a face on the bad guy. It makes our problems a lot easier to explain when we can project them onto the drug dealers who deliver smack to celebrities. We can put them in front of a judge and we can lock them up and we can throw away the key and we can all sleep better at night. But, really, everyday that we arrest another drug dealer in the name of this pathetic, so-called War on Drugs is just another day that we refuse to see the truth. It’s just another day that we spend sitting in the coffee shop looking at that girl we want to make love us before we die. It’s just another day of sitting on the front stoop, watching a robin bounce up and down on the concrete sidewalk hunting for insects. It’s just another day trapped inside of a city and a story where nothing happens.

Eric R. Schwartz

[ericrschwartz]

State of My Being, November 22nd, Two Thousand Thirteen

In my 33rd year on the 50th anniversary of the day JFK was killed, I figured this is as good a time as any to offer my thanks for recent birthday wishes by giving the annual state of my being. I have learned much in the past year and, yet, remain skeptical about the future of the human race. It’s possible that some of my gained insight will help you on your journey through this crazy world. But, fuck if I have any of the answers. All I can tell you is what I’ve experienced in the last year and it goes something like this:

I’ve traveled to England 3 times (it’s now been a lifetime total of 7). Certainly, there is a lot to be gathered from English culture. Let me just offer a few takeaways. The Northern English are not crazy about the Southern English (and vice versa). The Northerners see the Southerners as arrogant and impolite. The Southerners see the Northerners as provincial and unpolished. So, basically, it’s like America, except reversed. The English apparently still have a bit of a complex about the Revolutionary War. This is more in the sense that they don’t really think about it that much. England has a long history of castles, wars, and imperialism. So, really, what is one more colony gaining its independence? In some senses, Americans are the ones with the complex. I’d just like to think we are more self-aware about it. Lastly, the English like to drink orange juice at very odd hours—like in the evening for dinner. I always find this strange when I am there, but they insist that it’s very common and don’t understand my hang-up. All-in-all, they are a friendly lot who make great ales and enjoy the warmth of an English pub on a cold day, which can be a wonderful place to be. 

Marriage is an interesting experience. There, too, I remain eternally pessimistic—as if it will surely end in the tragedy of a plane crash, bankruptcy, or divorce. That being said, it’s been six months and I have no complaints. The only thing that I feel you do realize when you get married is that now you have in-laws. And, sure, they are the same people as before you got married. But, fuck if you don’t wake up and realize—yikes now I’m married to this bullshit. I’m adopted, though, so I’ve always had the luxury to pull that card even within my own family: Listen—I’m not blood related to these people. Fuck if I know what’s going on here. But families wouldn’t be fun if they weren’t confusing, tragic, and messy. Personally, I go with the common practice of brining the twelve pack of beer to mutual gatherings. When in doubt, you can always play with the kids in the basement. That way, you’re away from the boring conversation acting like you’re being useful babysitting when all you’re really doing is teaching them filthy concepts that they won’t understand until their older. My sister had a daughter this year and she looks just like her mom did when she was a baby. And when I meet her in December, I intend to look into her eyes and think: make sure to torture your mom much the same way that she tortured me as a child. The genes are certainly there for it. 

Homeownership is an interesting experience. I suppose home should be qualified here, since we own 1/3 of a townhouse where the other two units are occupied by renters that have no real stake in the property. But, I have discovered that I don’t mind doing yard work. I suppose I should also qualify here that—by yard—I mean a 60’ x 40’ or so plot of dirt. Yet, in fixing up this small plot of land and turning part of it into a garden, I came to realize that I may have skipped becoming my father and gone straight to turning into my grandfather as I go outside to tend to the tomato plants with a couple of beers in my pocket to escape the wife for a while.

Terrorism is an interesting experience. I happened to have the day off on the day that the Boston Marathon was bombed. I was in the car running errands when the news started to come through. I then gave a call to my soon-to-be bride and told her that I was grabbing her at work in the Financial District. There’s a lot of blood and sweat you can give to a corporation in exchange for healthcare, a decent salary, and some sense of self-worth. But I’ll be goddamned if your life is tacked onto that list. So, I drove to the Financial District past a few cops with bomb-sniffing dogs and picked her up and the both of us went back home. Then, there was that Friday when, as you know, things really got a bit strange and dangerous. Most of the Boston area was on lockdown while they tried to find that shit head on the loose. Somerville wasn’t actually ordered on a lockdown by the governor, but I think Mayor Curtatone felt left out, so he required us to sit tight as well. Like most people, we listened to the news and texted friends. I took a work call. But, after a while, we figured that we might as well take advantage of a well-deserved day off. So, the soon-to-be wife and I got into some of the hurricane mix from New Orleans and drank rum to a couple episodes of Game of Thrones. I didn’t realize that they caught the shit head until the New York Times sent me a push notification on my phone at around 9 or 10 o’clock. The next morning, we met with the wedding planner, as scheduled. And, as far as I’m concerned, the terrorists didn’t win that week.

My current politics can be broken down much in the same way that they always have been over the years. Keeping on the theme of a perpetual pessimist, I see the Republicans as a group of hypocritical assholes and the Democrats as a group of softies with no backbone. Somewhere on the outside of this strange thing, there are people that really give a shit about each other. But, in a country where many still believe that two people of the same sex shouldn’t have the right to get married, I remain skeptical about our existence and think we’ll spend the rest of our lives shitting down each others throats if we don’t get our heads out of our asses and start having some fucking compassion for each other.

Which brings me to sports. Both the tragedy of the last Yankees season and the triumph of the Red Sox have humbled me some. Having access to all of the baseball games through the internet and a wife who gets physically ill if there is a game with a ball on the television in her presence, I couldn’t help but gravitate towards the Dodgers this year in the wee hours on a Friday night when she had gone off to bed and Vin Scully was on the call and Don Mattingly at the helm—looking just as good as he did in 1987 when he hit a homer in 8 consecutive games. The Dodgers fell short this year, of course. But, there is promise in the future of the game in Yaseil Puig. Some people find him to be cocky, but I get the sense that these may be the people that still don’t support gay marriage. I’ve been asked a lot this year, due to the Yankees failures and my isolation in Massachusetts, if I will change any of my loyalties. This perplexes me. Sure, I’ve always liked the National League—the Cubbies, for instance, that I root will someday finally win again. It will be a sad day when they finally take down Wrigley Field. I’ve been there and it is as gorgeous and inviting as a baseball stadium should be. But, as I have said many times, I will always love the Yankees. And I will always ride the seasonal roller coaster that is the New York Football Giants. The Giants have been another tragic letdown for me this year. But, after starting off miserable, my Giants have strung together 4 in a row. They’ll eventually break my heart, of course. But this Sunday is another game and I’ll be at my local spot with a couple pints of piss coming my way and rooting my goddamned hardest that they might be able to turn this thing around. And, there, in the gleaming electric glow of a bar full of television screens, there may just be some hope in this world yet.

Eric R. Schwartz

[ericrschwartz]

A Metaphor and a Footnote for Election Day - October 29th, 2012

A Metaphor:

If Barack Obama is more of a professor than a leader, as many conservatives like to suggest, then I often feel like the kid in the back of class sitting next to the Jock who won’t shut the fuck up during the lecture. It’s true that this Jock and I come from similar backgrounds. He is a white male from a middle class family with a full scholarship thanks to his prowess on the football field. I, too, white and male, come from a modest middle class income and am lucky enough to have received an academic scholarship along with several government loans to help pay for my full tuition. Like most college boys, the Jock and I both go out to off-campus parties on the weekends and we toss a few back with our friends and prospective love interests. Yet, I seem to be much keener on getting my money’s worth out of this class by doing the readings and showing up to listen to the lecture. The Jock, however, constantly complains about the professor and the chapters he has selected and the style of his lectures. It’s almost as if the Jock didn’t want to go to college in the first place and just plans to play football and drink beer for the rest of his life even though he doesn’t have a chance in shit of making the NFL. 

So, the Jock shows up to class when he feels like it and he continues to complain about the course (which is harder than he thought it would be) and the professor (who the Jock claims doesn’t know what he’s talking about). I continue to do my best to keep up with the readings and pay attention so that I can make up for a lack of natural intelligence. Then, the time for the final exam comes and the Jock proposes that a few of us form a study group. Some of the cute smart girls in the class want to give him the benefit of the doubt and believe that we would all be better off if we met up to debate the topics raised throughout the semester. But all I really want to do is read through my notes, get a good night’s sleep, and show up confidently for the exam in the morning.  I guess I’m a team-fucking-player, though, and I agree to go to the group with my notes and an open mind. 

At the study group, we all present our thoughts and positions on how to interpret the class discussions and readings. But the Jock keeps using generalizations that aren’t based on the semester’s course material. He’s very adamant about his positions and is actually a skilled debater. Yet, he’s unwilling to stay on topic and lacks the ability to propose theories that address the questions raised during the semester. Meanwhile, it is getting late and all I really want to do is study over my notes and go to bed. When the session is finally over, I am exhausted and annoyed and not a bit more enlightened than I was before we began. 

I wake up on exam day and I go to that same desk in the same room we have been coming to all semester and I sit next to the same Jock to take the test. Despite missing out on some sleep and killing a whole load of brain cells at the study session with the Jock and the cute girls the night before, I am confident about my understanding of the course material and ability to answer the questions the professor has chosen for the exam.  

When I am finished, I leave the classroom feeling confident and ready to celebrate another successful semester put behind me. Walking out, I see the Jock in the hallway and he takes another opportunity to complain about the professor and how impractical the course material was and how none of it had any practical application to the real world. He doesn’t understand the way things actually work, he says.

I just look at him annoyed and say: Some of us have been paying attention the last four-fucking-years.

A Footnote:    

Although the above is only a metaphor for two different kinds of people that have surfaced during this election season, I think it is an important time now to tell you that the “Jock” in this story is based upon an actual football player that I sat next to in Sociological Methods my junior year at the College of the Holy Cross. His name is Daniel Clark. On the night of May 6th 2002, Dan, a senior, was involved in a fight with a freshman named Jonathan R. Duchatellier, a member of the ROTC Naval program at our college. I can’t say that I know exactly what happened that night. What I heard around campus was that Dan started the fight and a sophomore named Paolo Liuzzo finished it. I don’t know for sure if that version is true. What I do know is that a fight definitely broke out, that Dan Clark and Paolo Liuzzo were involved, and that, when it was all over, Jonathan Duchatellier was dead.

Both Dan and Paolo were charged with manslaughter and released on $10,000 bail (an amount that was reduced from $25,000 at Paolo’s arraignment). Two years later on October 6th, 2004, those same boys, having served little jail time, plead guilty to the lesser charge of assault and battery as part of a plea bargain. They were given three years probation and community service. In the period between this tragedy and the court’s decision, Dan was allowed to walk the aisle and graduate from the college. Paolo withdrew from the school shortly after the incident.

A couple years after the court’s ruling, Paolo turned up in the news again when it was released that he was dating Princess Beatrice, daughter of Andrew and Sarah of York and granddaughter to the Royal Queen. Following the publication of the story, Paolo was ordered back to court in Worcester, Massachusetts on charges of violating the terms of his probation for leaving the country on a ski holiday with the Princess and her family in the French and Swiss Alps. His probation was eventually extended and Paolo seemingly stayed out of trouble for a while. Then, in 2009, Paolo was arrested again. This time it was in Australia where he had skipped out on a casino bill, cracked up a $60K rented Audi, and was found by police in possession of cocaine. Paolo missed his first court appearance in Australia as he slept off some jetlag (he claimed to be nervous about missing his morning flight). Eventually, he made it to court where he plead guilty to fraud, unlawful use of a motor vehicle, and possession of 2g of cocaine and was made to pay a $5,000 fine. He rejected the option of doing community service and left the country to head back to his life in New York. From what I can tell, Paolo has remained out of the news since then.  

I didn’t know Paolo Liuzzo or Jonathan Duchatellier. Although I do remember most of the people who I hung around with in college being appalled by what happened that night, I don’t remember any campus-wide outpouring of support for Jonathan and his family. I’m not saying that there never was any. I am only saying that I don’t remember it. What I do remember is being at a bar in the months before Jonathan’s death where a fight broke out between Daniel Clark and another student at the college. I remember the bartender that was serving me a beer suddenly look up and hop over the counter to pull bodies off of each other. A friend of mine later told me that he heard Dan planning the fight with another football player in the bathroom beforehand. They planned to jump the kid while he was alone away from the rest of his friends. A few months after that, Jonathan Duchatellier was dead.

This is the story as best I can tell it to you. It seems hardly relevant anymore that Jonathan was a black student and Paolo and Dan were white. It’s a detail that seems to have mixed in with the rest of the confusion of that night. But the part that was never up for interpretation for me was the underlying culture of privilege that so clearly determined the outcome of the tragedy (regardless of innocence or guilt). I didn’t need to know Paulo or Dan to recognize the reality of what happened in the wake of Jonathan’s death. Certain people won, certain people lost, and a whole lot of us kept quiet.

Much has been made of the word entitlement in this country recently. A man who is running to become the president of the United States claimed that nearly half of this nation’s people feel that they are victims and believe that they are entitled to healthcare, to food, to housing, to you-name-it. I agree that there are certain people in this country that feel entitled to the things they don’t deserve. I believe I’ve spent enough time around these kinds of people to recognize who they are. And it seems to me that they are not the kind of people that stand in unemployment lines or receive food stamps or apply for Section 8 housing. They are actually the kind of people that draft groups of football players to jump an unsuspecting student at a bar or the kind of people that pick a fight with a freshman at a college party and throw him down a flight of stairs and continue to punch him until he is dead and then ask for a plea bargain or the kind of people that stroll back into court a year later with broken arms from European ski trips and smirks on their faces or the kind of people that crash $60K rented cars and miss court appearances but only pay $5,000 fines with few other consequences. They are the kind of people that receive slaps on the wrists when they really deserve books thrown at their faces.    

Every one of us knows these kinds of people. They are the kind of people that feel entitled to a lot of things in this world—entitled to tax payer money for bailouts and the performance bonuses that come after. They are the kind of people that feel entitled to pay a smaller portion of government taxes than those that make far less. They are the kind of people that might even go as far as feeling entitled to the presidency of the United States.

There are kinds of people in this country that feel entitled to almost anything. But that doesn’t mean that we should to keep giving it to them.

Eric R. Schwartz

[ericrschwartz]

A New Pair of Glasses and Trip to the Bookstore

After picking up a new pair of glasses to replace the ones I broke under unfortunate circumstances that, if nothing else, speak to my extended adolescence, I decide to drop by the Harvard Bookstore. I realize that I’m asking for it even in the thick haze of a grey Cambridge morning. This is August in Harvard Square and the summer tourists are determined to interrupt any local’s attempt at receiving some culture. It’s among the mess of shop goers and historical tour reenacters with their cloth umbrellas and breasts pushed up in my face that I try mightily to ignore my inevitable pessimism towards the country’s character. I swear only in Cambridge, Massachusetts will a European fella—who, if abroad, might be teaching me his language over a dark pint—insist upon standing directly in front of the bookshop doorway with nothing better to do than wonder. This particular gentleman who is in the way of my entering has barricaded it with a stroller and a disapproving wife who is yelling at him as they both try, in German, to determine their next move into the American landscape. So terrifyingly swift at conquering the modern world with their ferocious terror just a generation ago and now so confused as to turn left or right (either would do) outside of the Harvard Bookstore.

I have determined that a quiet bookstore is what I need after weeks of anxiety and restlessness. Now, with a new pair of glasses and a sharper perspective of the world, I am determined to make things right again. Still, I really am risking my patience coming here to Harvard Square in the middle of August—even with this sleepy Saturday rain. Perhaps the Used Books section in the basement is a place that the out-of-town cultural terrorists have yet to discover. After all, it’s not even lunchtime and I’ve already embraced this morning with a new pair of glasses and a decision to address my misgivings by reclaiming a lost pleasure.

When I get downstairs, the Philosophy section seems befitting. And, since I often need to drown out the cultural terrorists with appropriately selected music, I decide to start The Complete Birth of Cool—my smart device and headphones acting as a U.S.-issued suit of body armor designed on the free market. It is my uniform of disinterest. And it’s the perfect protection should anything get out of hand down here. 

I look up the bookshelf at Kant. Whenever I venture into the Philosophy section in a bookstore, I always seem to be looking up at Kant in the same way that he always seems to be looking down at me. Enough of that, though. It’s the looking that I’ve come for—the methodical searching of shelves. To be among the distinctive smell of books again. This is what has been lost in our march towards radiant, glowing technology. Sterility sells books, but it doesn’t give you that 1956 copywrited smell of the classics. It’s the kind of smell that makes you feel ambitious again. It’s a smell that causes you to consider that maybe this country isn’t the big joke that it seems. But, alas, it’s just behind me where they’ve decided to put the Children’s section. And children are smarter these days. One of them, a boy, is now browsing through the fiction. He seems inspired by the same mood as I am today. But he’s got a sister. And she’s got a sister that shows up next to her. Suddenly, The Complete Birth of Cool and the whole fucking Philosophy section are penetrated by this pack of small cultural terrorists. They are fidgety and curious and sounding a lot smarter than me in relative comparison. 

That’s when I see The Revolt of the Masses by José Ortega y Gasset and figure I’ll bury my head inside its foreign revolution as I picture myself reading it somewhere away from here—smoking a pipe and remaining proud that I never decided to have children. But if that were in the cards, I would have left Massachusetts long ago. Instead, I am down in the Used Books section with Miles Davis and the smell of paperbacks made when editors still left cigarettes smoking in the ashtrays at Random House and these nifty rain-slickered 4, 5, and 6 year-olds ravaging through the Kids’ section. I take The Revolt off the shelf and put it into my hands. I read from it. Then, the mother who owns these children makes an announcement. Their party is to leave eminently even though the children (her words) enjoy browsing through bookstores. There is a predictable ruckusy protest from the future Harvard applicants and I turn to the Art section and The Politics of Surrealism. Standing there, I want to eat it all up—these children that enjoy bookstores, the idea that I haven’t read anything about art other than the words that appear below paintings on the wall, the disquieting thought that there just isn’t enough time to make up for what I’ve missed or haven’t bothered to learn. Anxiousness is here, again. 

Now the mother gives her last warning and her litter of bookworms finally oblige. I decide to go over to the Poetry section with The Revolt still in my hands. A selection of W.H. Auden, newly published and smelling of only a few years ago, displays a cover photo of the author. Auden sits up poised with a cigarette in his hand. He’s lit from the front as if he’s on stage. His memory of Sigmund Freud waits on page number 100:

                          But his wish was denied him; he closed his eyes

                          Upon that last picture common to us all

                                      Of problems like relatives standing 

                                      Puzzled and jealous about our dying.

I take the book down, thumb through it for a while, and head upstairs for the register. By now, the whole damn place is picking up around me. When I get up to the cashier, I take off my headphones and say to the guy: I’ll leave this one with you, referring to The Revolt of the Masses. No trouble, he says, and rings me up for the poetry. He has a fading, but noticeable, Irish accent.

When I walk outside, I raise my umbrella to shield my new paperback from the rain and I think to myself that I might just be okay.

Eric R. Schwartz 

[ericrschwartz]

On This Super Tuesday, In Chuck We Trust

I’m so glad that Chuck Norris has inserted himself into the election process again this year. Because when I compare presidential candidates to determine who will be the best fit to take on a long list of difficult domestic economic problems and restore a global confidence back in the United States of America, I first wonder: what does Chuck Norris think? I began to understand the significance of Norris’s perspective on politics about five years ago when the other men who worked in my office of employment at that time sent around ‘Chuck Norris’ emails. You know the ones I’m talking about—those delightful tidbits of knowledge that gave you a thousand different ways in which Chuck Norris was the most cunning and intelligent man to grace this planet. I soon learned that Chuck Norris was a god-like creature that the rest of us could only aspire to emulate. Take, for instance, these gems that floated around the office each day:

                 Chuck Norris ran the Boston Marathon backwards just to see what second place looked like.

                 When Alexander Bell invented the telephone he had 3 missed calls from Chuck Norris.

                 Once a cop pulled over Chuck Norris… the cop was lucky to leave with a warning.

Those fellas in my office must have been on to something because, all these years later, there is now a website that sells any of these delightful Chuck Norris-isms on a size-appropriate t-shirt with a picture of Chuck himself on the front. Sure the website may contain some misspellings here and there, but it is liked by over 70,000 people on Facebook. And, besides, even when a word is spelled incorrectly, Chuck Norris has already reinvented that word with its new—now proper—spelling. This is something you would have already known if you were a follower of the deity that is Carlos Ray Norris.  

It became clear to me during those formative years of my professional career in an office filled with men who chuckled to one another about the greatness of Chuck Norris that if I was going to be a true man and get ahead in this world, I needed to deepen my understanding of the philosophies of this man. That way, the next time I was hanging around the water cooler, I would be able to recite the latest Chuck Norris one-liner: Did you know that Chuck Norris was once accused of sexual harassment until everyone realized that Chuck Norris couldn’t be accused of sexual harassment? 

Anytime I felt like I was getting the short end of the stick at work or in my personal life, I would refer to the Book of Norris and realize that I was just being a big pussy and needed to act more like a man—more like Chuck did. That seemed to set me straight every time. The world of Chuck Norris was black and white—you could bitch about how something was unfair or you could do something about it. Chuck Norris became everything to me. And, so, when he endorsed Mike Huckabee for president in the Republican primary in 2007, I decided to volunteer for Huckabee’s campaign. What a better way to impress the upper management of Chuck Norris supporters at my office than to spend my evenings canvassing to elect the next president along with our hero? If Chuck Norris was thinking two steps ahead of the rest of us, then Mike Huckabee’s victory was surely inevitable.

The campaign looked very promising after Huckabee won the Iowa caucuses. That evening after Huckabee’s victory there, our headquarters was a buzz with excitement. I even got to see my hero standing right behind the future President of the United States as he gave his victory speech. Chuck was beaming just like the Cheshire Cat. He must have been two steps ahead of all of us—even Huckabee himself. This victory was certain to be one in a long line of many there after. The road to the White House would be paved with a long list of Chuck Norris-isms. And what would look better on a t-shirt than:

                    Chuck Norris knew who the next president was going to be even before the President did. Thanks, Chuck.

It was an exciting time to be student of Chuck Norris and a member of the Mike Huckabee campaign. Unfortunately, that goddamned John McCain arose from the dead and changed the course of history. It just wasn’t fair. McCain went on a victory streak that crushed all of our hopes. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. Our soothsayer, Chuck Norris, had seen the future and it didn’t look like this. After a number of McCain victories, Mike Huckabee conceded defeat and ended his campaign. I sank into a deep depression. My girlfriend at that time—she said I should just join the ranks of the McCain campaign. It was an idea, sure, but I wanted to see what Chuck Norris would decide to do. After all, it as Chuck who was really my guy.

                         Uncle Sam got his butt whooped for pointing at Chuck Norris.

Things sure were looking dire for a while there until something amazing happened. That old war hero, John McCain—he picked a running mate of the century in Sarah Palin. The moment I heard her speak and saw her sheer tenacity, I knew she was the only woman I would trust to be a heartbeat away from the presidency. This was someone who hunted big game with a machine gun. She was a rugged chick who was—well—right out of a Chuck Norris movie. Chuck agreed. He threw his full support behind the old war hero and that tough brawd from Alaska. I lifted myself up from my despair when Sarah Palin joined that ticket and soon I was spending my nights volunteering for the John McCain campaign. 

                          Contrary to popular belief, America is not a democracy, it is a Chucktatorship.

I loved my country and I loved Chuck Norris and I loved John McCain and I especially loved Sarah Palin. I loved all these things and so did most Americans. But, ‘most’ doesn’t always count when the opponent you are running against is black. Not even Chuck Norris could win that fight. And, so, we lost—John McCain lost the election; America lost its sense of reason; and I lost a long list of things related to my wellbeing, which began with my girlfriend. She left me after I struck her in an argument over the McCain loss. Apparently not every woman was as tough as Sarah Palin. I was also laid-off from my job after everyone in the office seemed to believe I had tarnished the spirit of Chuck Norris by introducing his human imperfections into our workplace.  All seemed to be lost again.

Fortunately, my company was nice enough to grant me unemployment benefits despite my misconduct against the proper ways of bringing Chuck Norris into the workplace. In the months that followed losing my job, I began to understand better the major problems that plagued our society. This nation was spending too much money! And it was relentlessly taxing its citizens while it did so. With the help of a few unemployment extensions and my newfound political clairvoyance, I joined the ranks of an emerging populous movement called the Tea Party. And, sure enough, Chuck did too. 

                         If at first you don’t succeed, you’re not Chuck Norris.

Four years later, a new presidential primary is upon us. And thanks to a generous extension of my unemployment benefits, I was able wait to see who Chuck Norris would endorse before I decided which campaign I would apply to work for. As soon as Chuck threw his support behind Newt Gingrich, I was onboard. Luckily for me it wasn’t long after Chuck’s endorsement when a number of Gingrich’s staff members left his campaign en masse and I was hired fulltime. Their loss for sure.

Now, as I sit here and write this on the eve of Super Tuesday, I know that the Newt Gingrich campaign has an uphill battle. I know that things are looking pretty grim. But, I still believe in our cause. I still love my country. I still believe Mr. Gingrich will win the presidency. And no one can take that away from me—not even Chuck Norris. 

Okay… maybe only Chuck Norris.    

Eric R. Schwartz

[ericrschwartz]

This Joke’s On Who?

It may not be news to most of you that Nickelback is an insufferably shitty band that possesses probably the least amount of musical talent it takes to become a mainstream success. It may also not be news that, in the January issue of the Rolling Stone, Black Keys drummer, Patrick Carney, acknowledged Nickelback accordingly saying that people “…became OK with the idea that the biggest rock band in the world is going to be shit.” What you may not have caught is that this aggressively shitty band actually thanked the Black Keys for their comments through Twitter, writing: Thanks to the drummer in the Black Keys calling us the Biggest Band in the World in Rolling Stone. He he. It was as if Nickelback, reveling in their own shittiness, had figured all along that such an opinion would make its way into the collective consciousness sooner or later. And what were we to make of their salutatory He-he? Was this offensively shitty band actually throwing it in our faces that the last thing on their mind when they decided to become musicians was to accomplish anything that could even remotely be considered ‘rock-and-roll?’ Maybe what Nickelback was saying was that they hadn’t realized it would take everyone this long to finally be let in on the joke that is their musical career. Or maybe they were just being polite Canadians. All I know is that this seemed like a very appropriate way to begin 2012—a year where I have somehow managed to watch two Republican presidential debates. And, as I stared into my TV and saw hundreds of Americans in North Carolina stand up and cheer for Newt Gingrich on Martin Luther King Day, all I could think about was what it must feel like to be at a Nickelback concert. But maybe this was the sort of joke that was on everyone who, like Patrick Carney, actually gave a shit.      

Eric R. Schwartz

[ericrschwartz]

My Occupy

I’ve come to the conclusion that Americans will make anything seem complicated as long as that means putting off solving a problem. Affordable healthcare? Come on—that’s just too complicated at this stage in the game. Tax code reform? Yikes—that’s a rabbit hole we’d rather not venture down. Global warming? Please—that is a dilemma simply too massive for this generation. No matter where you look, Americans are consistently overwhelmed and typically uninspired to do anything about anything. This mentality is never more apparent than during those anxious hours around dinnertime each night when most of us choose to complicate the process of making a home-cooked meal. And, why not? Since we can’t be bothered with fixing anything else that is unfortunate about our apathetic society, why should we add one more to that list? It’s much easier just to call it an evening and order up some Domino’s. Right?

Well, I may not hold the solutions to healthcare equality or tax reform or Wall Street bonuses or government spending, but I’d like to think that My Occupy began this fall in my kitchen. It was there where I noticed that—with some recent practice—I had greatly improved my ability to cook. I also realized that I stopped thinking about the problems our government was incapable of solving when I was cutting up onions or measuring out sugar. Who knew that the best cure for seeing Herman Cain or Rick Perry actually taken seriously would be nothing more than a tall glass of white wine and a good recipe for pumpkin risotto? The anxiety that I held towards all of this senseless bullshit I couldn’t control in this country seemed to dissipate when I was the sole person in charge of my evening’s destiny. During each cooking experience, I ran the risk of blowing a recipe or mistiming a dish, but at least those were mistakes I could own and learn from. This frame of mind was one that our politicians seem unwilling to adopt, as they continue to propose the same failed schemes to solve the same persistent problems. I’m not sure how many tax cut extensions for the richest people in this country it will take before any Republican is willing to admit that it hasn’t worked to stimulate the economy.   

One evening during My Occupy, as I gathered up some ingredients on my cutting board, I decided that I would align myself with the small percentage of working Americans who also made the effort to cook their own meals when dinnertime rolled around each night. I decided to call this movement Occupy My Kitchen and I would spend every evening toiling along side all the other supporters of my cause. As it turned out, the most unflinching proponents of Occupy My Kitchen were the well-made inanimate tools of this trade—the stainless steel pots and pans that stood by me on those humid autumn nights in my kitchen as sauces simmered and water boiled; the newly purchased Chinese-made Santoku knife with its comforting, yet firm, handle that breezed through onions and carrots alike; and the multi-colored mixing bowls that always had a bright inviting face even on those occasions when I didn’t know how much flour I should put inside of them. Occupy My Kitchen came alive with the anticipation of how wonderful the next prepared morsel of fuck you would taste in the face of that other percentage of Americans who chose to microwave or, even worse, order their dinners on a nightly basis.

Occupy My Kitchen may have begun as a vague effort to cook all of my meals at home, but it began to take on a more specific shape. Within Occupy My Kitchen, it was a cleansing experience to know exactly what I was putting into my body. Sure, Occupy My Kitchen lacked the sexiness and drama of its Wall Street counterparts that had arisen in New York City and Boston (where I live), but that didn’t make it any less of a movement in its own right. Although I tended to agree with the general political purpose of the Wall Street protesters, My Occupy was against the idea of spending an afternoon asking a hippy at Eastern Mountain Sports about the effectiveness of different brands of tents, My Occupy offered an alternative to standing outside through a steady Boston rain, and, most importantly, My Occupy welcomed every asshole, like myself, who was annoyed at the thought of his or her otherwise productive day being interrupted by a larger group of assholes positioned in a highly populated area. Occupy My Kitchen didn’t take up public space, but it still possessed its own bold and unflinching agenda. My Occupy took a stand against added preservatives and artificial flavors nationwide. My Occupy flew directly in the face of not only corporate fast food chains, but also any self-respecting individual that could not make a simple marinara sauce. My Occupy was rooted in the firm belief that any man or woman who found it cute that the only recipe he or she knew how to make was for iced cubes and grilled cheese should neither be eligible to vote nor able to adopt children. And My Occupy was also the only Occupy that produced a tangible result at the end of each day in the way of a delicious and well thought-out meal.

As the Occupy protests were broken apart in New York and up here in Boston and across the country, their protesters moved on to other locations I have heard—to commercial shipping ports across the country and to individual family homes being foreclosed upon. The Occupy movement lives on, for now, in smaller protests throughout the country as certain groups and organizers take up the cry of exposing the social inequality that exists in this country. Occupy My Kitchen has remained where it began—in my kitchen—as it continues to expose its own injustices of flavor packets and pre-made cookie dough sold in supermarkets across this nation. In the springtime, My Occupy will expand its horizons to embark upon the study of local foraging methods. So, when all those less evolved people are shoving hamburgers into their faces on a Saturday afternoon, I will be strengthening my ability to identify the edible plants that populate New England. I will be perfecting a dandelion soup or refining a pine needle tea. In fact, Occupy My Kitchen is going to get so real that I’m not even going to eat the food I cook. I’m just going to prepare it and give it to all the fat people in my neighborhood that I think should be eating it. Then, I’m going to start occupying their kitchens until they agree that my food tastes better than what they’ve been shoving into their faces and that we’d all live better if we cut out the corporate middleman and learned to forage and grow and cook on our own. Shouldn’t that be the real mission behind My Occupy?

But, perhaps Occupy My Kitchen is getting too complicated. Maybe it’s better off if I just cook for my friends every once in a while and put off this whole silly protest thing. It’s not like I’m going to be able to change anything anyways, right? Americans aren’t good with change. We don’t do well with it. So, I might as well call this whole thing off for now, stay inside my apartment tonight, and order up some Dominoes. What do you say? Problem solved. Right? 

Or, there's always a Super PAC...  

Eric R. Schwartz

[ericrschwartz]

Behold: My Oscar Season Review (With No Spoilers and No Goddamn Nonsense)

I thought I’d start off this New Year (a holiday I have for many years deeply despised) with something different from this blog. I came to the realization that since I spend a good portion of my free time watching and analyzing movies (many of which I end up wishing I had those two hours of my life back) that it might be a good idea to impart some of my thoughts on the art form. Full disclosure: I spend most of this said ‘free time’ with a former art school film major and also hold the vain belief that I could write a better screenplay than ninety-five percent of those that are eventually made into movies. Some people may take this opportunity to deem me an elitist. I simply believe that I like what I like and have good reason. Now, I guess it’s time for you to be the judge of that. So, here it goes…    

In case you are looking to get a head start on this year’s Oscar watch, Brad Pitt is rumored to be an early favorite to win for his performance in The Tree of Life where he plays a stern patriarch of a middleclass male-dominated household during the 1950’s. Similar to Sandra Bullock’s Oscar grab last year, some people are apparently claiming that it’s just Brad’s time. In other words, he’s put in his due and deserves to finally win one. Hollywood prides itself on such illogical reasoning, as was the case when Ms. Bullock won by playing her typical good-hearted American woman role in The Blind Side—an insufferably shitty movie I couldn’t stand to watch ten minutes of, let alone justify an Oscar-worthy performance. Don’t get me wrong—I do not save this kind of bitterness for all Oscar nominations in order to uphold some half-baked indie or cult film bravado. To tell you the truth, I believe that I have had a love affair with Mr. Pitt since A River Runs Through It, a movie I much appreciated as a boy. And I think that he executes this role with his usual consummate professionalism. But, what I do have a problem with is the goddamned movie itself, which also has Best Picture talk surrounding it this year—an Oscar bid that I assure you will only encourage the wrong kind of people in this country.

If you are one of those bold and unwavering souls who put all of this year’s Best Picture nominees into your Netflix queue regardless of what you have heard, I can respect that. But, I’ll have to advise that you consider taking to the drink if you watch this film or at least have a likeminded bold and unwavering companion at your side. The movie spans two-plus hours and is filled with such long and baffling moments of obscurity that you will either want to jump out of your skin or turn to your neighbor to find out what the fuck he or she is making of this cinematic mess. My partner for this one, the aforementioned film major and constant movie companion, always leaves her thoughts until the end. I may be the writer of household, but I admit that I couldn’t have put together a better one-line analysis myself: 

                                    It was very cerebral with a high degree of pomposity throughout.

I fashion myself somewhat of a cultured fuck. So, I can do cerebral. I can do philosophical or metaphysical, abstract or odd. I actually prefer a writer or director that can tell a story outside the realm of the conscious mind or create a narrative that plays with our sense of reality. I thought I Heart Huckabees was an unfairly criticized film that was actually an effective existential perspective on a post 9/11 world. I felt that Synecdoche, New York was never given the proper chance to become the beloved Charlie Kaufman film that it should have been. I don’t need for a filmmaker’s intensions to be typed up and overnighted to my apartment for my personal analysis. But, what I do need is for a movie’s purpose to work as a whole and The Tree of Life’s does not. 

I have always been put off by an artist who says of his/her art: that’s up to the audience to decide. The audience can only be as smart as you’ll let them be. Otherwise, you risk putting yourself in the same company as that asshole poet who writes stream of conscious horseshit and tries to pass it off as high art. I assure you that you’ll agree with me wholeheartedly during every one of The Tree of Life’s tedious scenes (and there are many) when you are reaching for that drink I advised to have waiting at your side. Regardless of if you are sober or straight, I will admit that the film is visually stimulating. And perhaps you should consider gathering a group of friends to watch the flick with the sound lowered as you guess how the director set up each breathtaking shot. That game might be reason enough to actually see this movie. But, in the end, it’s not enough to proclaim it as a powerful or even strong film.  

In The Tree of Life, Brad Pitt does fulfill his character justly. Does he deserve to win an Oscar? Probably not.  But, then again, most people that win Oscars don’t deserve them. To me, the breakout role in the film comes from a computer-generated dinosaur that appears somewhere near the midway point. That’s right, folks—a fucking dinosaur. (I told you that you’d agree with me wholeheartedly). Believe it or not, though, this is the best scene in the movie and it expresses far more about humanity than anything else created on screen between the movie’s actual actors. And thus is the ultimate problem with The Tree of Life—it wants to be everything as it aims to make you ponder the most complex questions of our lives, yet it gives you no frame of reference in which to do so. The characters that we are introduced to are not deeply unique. So, the movie’s higher philosophical purpose does not have a chance to resonate on the profound plain that it so desperately wishes to.  

So, when this Oscar season rolls around and someone asks if you’ve seen The Tree of Life, don’t be tricked if they ask what you thought of it. Be honest. And if they imply that you must be shallow if you didn’t like it, you can go ahead and let them know that they are a pompous asshole. It might be the most satisfying thing you do in this early New Year. If you’re a critical prick like myself, maybe that’s reason enough to see this movie. Just make sure to remember what I said about that dinosaur. I think he’s going to be a big star one day.        

Eric R. Schwartz

[ericrschwartz]

The President Has His Concerns

The President has his concerns about many things, but, mostly, about the will of his people and the state of his country. 

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the current mood of his congress and whether it possesses the ability to accurately interpret the will of his people.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about how his nation’s children are raised, educated, and prepared to become the voices of the future for it is their voices that shall shape the path of his nation.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about his cabinet members who have, of late, proven to be quite unhelpful with resolving the President’s concerns and very ineffective in communicating the will of his people to the congress.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, that his people have been unable to recognize his true vision for the nation and the idea that a more prosperous country can only be achieved if its people are unified in mind and spirit.

The President has his concerns about many things, but, mostly, about the nature of race relations among his people in the aftermath of an arrest this week, which may have occurred without the proper due process on behalf of a local law enforcement deputy.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the state of the national media and whether it truly reflects the issues that are most concerning to his people.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, for one of his dogs that unexpectedly bit the leg of a reporter who was standing outside of the President’s home today.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about which team he should support in the sporting contest this evening and whether he’ll be able to hurl his first pitch for a strike while in front of a stadium filled with his people.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about what his wife will be wearing to bed in the evening and whether it will stimulate him enough to take his mind off of his concerns.

The President has his concerns about many things, but, mostly, about the eggs in his breakfast, which, yesterday, were made to be more hard-boiled than soft-boiled and did not allow for the proper toast dipping.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about his cook, who has botched the eggs again this morning, and whether or not that’s an offence that warrants termination.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about whether he should even be eating eggs in the first place—given his blood pressure—and for the simple fact that, although he could eat anything in the world, he still prefers a good hamburger and some carefully cooked soft-boiled eggs. 

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about whether he’ll get an opportunity to have sex with his wife before he leaves for his trip to Beijing, which is scheduled one week from today.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, whether or not he’ll have a car waiting for him at the Beijing airport when he arrives and if the kitchen at his hotel will be able to make him his usual soft-boiled eggs for breakfast.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, whether that trip to China may have caused permanent damage to his intestinal tract because he has experienced extreme abdominal pain for an entire week since his return.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, as to whether his abdominal pains are the cause of a serious health issue or if he has only developed a minor case of colitis, which can be cured by prescribing a light steroid.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about his doctor who seems to be giving him the incorrect advice about his intestinal troubles, insisting that the abdominal pains are psychosomatic and the direct result of his stress level, which has greatly increased as the President’s concerns have remained, well, concerning.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the second opinion he received from a well-respected gastroenterologist who suggested that his intestinal pain is related to his steady diet of soft-boiled eggs.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, with regards to the fact that his recent illness has forced him to abstain from having intercourse with his wife for the past month and for the notion that she has seemed increasingly uninterested in him both sexually and emotionally.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the peculiar behavior of his wife who has been cold and apathetic of late in addition to the fact that her schedule as the President’s wife has drawn her away from spending time with the President to discuss the state of his concerns.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, on this day, that his wife has asked him for a divorce and that he will need to explain this to his two daughters who have not been told of the difficulties between the President and their mother.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about his children and two dogs since his wife has said that she plans to take all of them with her in the divorce.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, that his abdominal pains have not resolved themselves since his trip to Beijing.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about his healthcare coverage, which has declined recently as a result of his unpopularity with his people and his family and now requires a sizable deductible.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about covering the cost of his health insurance deductible so that he can receive experimental treatment for his undiagnosed intestinal pain, which has grown into a chronically debilitating ailment.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, whether he will be able to see his kids again following the divorce, which looks like it will not only be messy, but, also, a long process with deep-seated resentment from the both sides involved.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, that he may need to give up eggs if he is to receive an experimental treatment that could alleviate his chronic gastrointestinal problems, which may or may not have been caused by ingesting a bad piece of fish during his travels to China.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about finding a chef that will cook him an extravagant array of soft-boiled egg dishes so that he may devour every kind of soft-boiled egg imaginable before he has to give up eggs for his experimental gastrointestinal treatment.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about whether he chose the right chef to cook him his last egg-filled meals before entering this experimental gastrointestinal treatment, since the menu that was presented to the President appeared to be, well, quite frankly, uninspired. 

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about his bowel movements, which, over the last week of eating only meals with eggs in them, have become very frequent and somewhat discolored, but that could also be the result of his intestinal problem or for the fact that his chef lacked the proper variation in the egg-filled menu before the President’s admittance into an experimental intestinal treatment program. 

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about whether he will be evicted from his home while he undergoes treatment for his intestinal problem, which will keep him on bed rest for a number of weeks and unable to do his job or pay rent during this period.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, that the experimental treatment he chose to undergo is a sham and that his doctor lured him away from his home only so that the President would be unable to carry out his job and, eventually, become evicted while lost his sense of duty to his people. 

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, that his health insurance company may have been in cahoots with the doctor that recommended this experimental treatment and that this was all part of a larger conspiracy to remove him from his office while he received the treatment. 

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, that he has not seen his daughters in months and that the pain in his abdomen is so bad that he cannot focus on the emptiness of missing them.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, that this experimental treatment is making his illness worse than it was before he came here.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the best method of escaping this treatment facility so that he can get back to his daughters and back to eating soft-boiled eggs for breakfast and back to addressing the issues that are most concerning to his people.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the nature of his will and testament since he has determined that he will not be able to escape this treatment facility.  

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the medical practices of the doctors at this treatment facility who seemed to have lured him here under the guise of getting well when all they are trying to do is keep him from his job so he is unable to carry out the will of his people.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about his belongings in the event of his death since he was told that he cannot leave them to his daughters in his will and testament because they are already the property of his people and, as such, must be equally enjoyed by all.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the treatment method carried out by the doctors of this facility, which has left his mind sluggish and unable to devise a plan for his escape.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the state of his morning breakfast at this treatment facility, which does include eggs for a reason that he has forgotten.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, that he can’t remember how he got into this treatment facility in the first place and what it is that these doctors are actually treating.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, for the fact that he would be unable to recall his own name if it weren’t for the kind people who allow him to stay at this hospital until he recovers from a horrible accident they have told him about, which he also cannot recall.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the breakfast in this hospital because, although the people are very caring about the fact that he is unable to recall anything from his past, they are unwilling to serve him eggs in the morning, which (although he cannot recollect anything from his past) surely must have been something he enjoyed.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the will of his appetite to press on in this unfamiliar hospital that makes all its breakfasts without eggs and all its employees unwilling to tell him why they cannot cook him eggs in the morning. 

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, for the fact that, although he was able to convince the staff at this hospital to serve him eggs for breakfast, they are only able to make the eggs either extremely runny or hard-boiled with no consistency in between.   

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, for the notion that each morning when the doctors here wake him up and ask him about what his concerns are, he is unable to remember and can only recall that there is something strange about the eggs in his breakfast that caused his appetitive to diminish, but, then again, he may have never enjoyed breakfast in the first place or eggs, for that matter, if it weren’t for the people here and, so, the President feels confident in saying that, sitting in this room filled with these wonderful doctors, he no longer has any immediate concerns and only possesses the purest thoughts about his future as a man who survived his own death and will rise again, someday, to become someone who is important to the people of this country—maybe even the President of this fair nation—because he knows what it is like to be absolutely no one at all. 

Eric R. Schwartz

[ericrschwartz]

Two Too Many Cats

Living with a member of the opposite sex for a year of my life now, I have been forced to confront many of my darkest fears, which recently included maintaining close quarters with—yet another—cat. This whole goddamned cat thing started long before those brutal months of commitment anxiety that I experienced leading up to our eventual move in together. You see, a very large part of my apprehension about sharing space with another human being had to do with the fact that I would also be doing so with her ten-pound male feline who was prone to knocking over full glasses of water, jumping onto kitchen counters, and shedding massive amounts of fur. I’d like to clear up any possible misconceptions about my personality by making it clear that I am not an animal hater. I do not tease those unfortunate creatures inside of cages at pet stores; zoos make me very uncomfortable; and I’ve even developed an aversion to killing spiders. I also cannot recall many periods in my life when I did not live with at least one beast. 

The cat of my childhood preceded my birth. She was a typical lazy longhaired feline that tended to keep to herself other than when she joined me on the sofa for an occasional nap that broke up her day of napping in other places. Throughout college, I would return home to various installments of dogs that my mother seemed to inherit or keep on a trial basis. The pug who was called Samantha was the most memorable of these animals, but she developed a brain tumor that may or may not have resulted from my stepbrother repeatedly blowing pot smoke in her face (it depends on who in the family you ask). When I moved to Boston after school, I lived in a large house with four to five interchanging roommates and animals, which included two cats and the most well-behaved black lab I’ve ever met—his singular flaw being an affinity for eating garbage. But, after those strange and formative years of my life, I moved into the animal-free environment of a studio apartment where my only companion was the beer that sat beside me while I watched the Friday night Yankees game after a long week of work.   

One of the greatest advantages of living in a studio apartment is that no one visits you. That’s because no one wants to be stuck sitting on your sofa that is located directly next to your bed as you offer them some more stale Tortilla chips that you found in the back of your cupboard before they arrived. My years in that studio apartment were an exploration in entertaining no one but myself and what I discovered was exactly what I had suspected: I am my own best friend. Me and I—we—had some wonderful nights together. We watched the first black president deliver his campaign victory speech. We saw the Yankees win their twenty-seventh World Series. We reread and, finally, understood the genius of Henry David Thoreau’s “Walden.” We even unexpectedly caught a glimpse of the girl across the way getting out of the shower. Me and I—we—did it all in that studio apartment. And we would have kept it that way if it weren’t for the tempered reason of a female—my girl friend—who, knowing that I tend to postpone life-altering decisions, gave me six months to consider moving in with her and her frequently misbehaved cat. Like many men before me who have been painted into such a corner of impending commitment, I realized that what I was given was an ultimatum—either ante up or leave the table. 

After some significant soul-searching or (as I shall admit) self-centered readjusting, I was finally able to commit to this female and her goddamned cat. What that meant, of course, was that I had agreed to spend more time with her and this retched animal and less time with my best friend—myself. I maintain that it was the most selfless act I have carried out to this point in my life. And, since I don’t believe my organs are fit for donation and I don’t plan to make enough money for large charity endowments, this was selflessness that may not be matched for decades, or even a lifetime (should I avoid the ultimate selfless act of procreation, which is certain character suicide for a man so enamored with his own company as I am).

Needless to say after that last paragraph, the first weeks of our cohabitation were tense. I was victorious in the battle over whose microwave was better, but lost my ability to watch the New York Yankees on my large television for every at-bat of their 162-game season. I won the ability to keep my writer’s desk (a purchase of a man well-informed on the practicality of cheap, yet, well-constructed furniture), but lost the luxury of hanging my heroes on every wall (a pedigree that ranged from the pious Donald Arthur Mattingly to the crass Howard Allan Stern). In these small triumphs and defeats, I learned the essence of compromise and, in the middle of it all, remained this overly affectionate and mildly retarded cat. He shit. He shed. He scratched. He meowed. And he shed some more. But, somehow, I learned to live with these annoying qualities. Above all, he was a fiercely loyal guardian who eventually learned that, within the extra space of a two-bedroom apartment, cats and humans could stay out of each other’s hair (or fur, as it were). I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that there were times when I would search out this feline from one of his hiding places if I felt I needed some company. And, so, things were good for a while—a year, in fact—until the phone rang one day and another cat needed a place to live.

I guess if I had given this story a proper beginning (some of my past writing teachers have mentioned that I display an unwillingness to jump into the heart of the action), it would have been five years prior when the same female I agreed to cohabitate with was greeted by a stray kitten who walked out from the fire escape under a drenching rain into her apartment. This cat eventually was called Jack. Jack became the feline who was the source of my anxiety before I reluctantly agreed to move in with him and his owner—my eventual girl friend—that fateful year ago. In hind site, though, the real trouble arrived later on that evening when the rain stopped and her roommate heard the shrieks of a second kitten out on the fire escape. This time, it was a female. She was not as keen about coming into the apartment as the male, but was eventually rescued by an able-bodied musician who, staying at the shared apartment for the eve, saved the pathetic wretch from sheer death. This lucky female kitten was eventually called Olive. Olive was the source of the distressed phone call that we received all these years later. And, as it was explained to us, Olive needed a place to live (again).

You see, after the female that I currently cohabitate with and her roommate found these kittens (thanks in part to that musician who helped in the rescue), they eventually decided to move out of their cramped apartment. The strayed brother and sister, Jack and Olive, were split up. Jack made his home in the studio apartment of the gale I now call girlfriend and Olive with the roommate’s mother who lived an hour west and had been collecting quite a litter of cats herself. That was until this recent phone call with its tale of a life-threatening asthma attack and a dreaded possibility to any cat-lover—an animal shelter. As it were, Olive needed a home once again and the female that I live with was more than happy to oblige. The discussion between her and I was brief. Despite not being a fan of taking care of animals, I am not one myself. The cat needed a goddamned place to stay and who was I to deny her clemency from a sheltered existence? Thus, Olive was reunited with her brother under the compromise that she would eventually find a permanent home with someone without respiratory problems. 

Was it a compromise, though, or a case of naïveté? And were my selfless acts of decency becoming far too frequent? After I agreed to this arrangement, my sleep was restless—plagued by nightmares of a kitty halfway house growing within my apartment. Ailing and homeless cats with faces of abandonment and bladders filled with fear surrounded me from all angles. They made homes in my bookshelves and closet drawers. They played in front of my television while I tried to catch an inning of the ballgame. They jumped on the counter while I attempted to prepare dinner. There were cats in the bathroom watching me take care of business and wondering if there was a chance tuna fish might come out of my ass. My dreams were filled with cats, cats, cats! So, I had to make this foster care situation a quick affair or else I was doomed for sure. 

Then, a funny thing happened. This new cat, the one called Olive, began to take a liking to me. Don’t ask me how or why her affection grew. Perhaps she saw it as her best chance at finding a permanent home. But, instead of charming the cat lover, she must have decided her best strategy was to pursue the heart of the skeptic. Olive kept her distance from me at first, as she got a sense for her surroundings and her long lost brother, Jack. After a while, though, she would stare at me from afar and then meow as if indicating I should not forget that she was there. But when I would approach her for a quick pet, she shied away from my touch and preferred to rub herself around my legs. I respected that. As the weeks passed and we tried to pawn Olive off on friends and family, she spent most of her time—when she wasn’t hiding somewhere in our apartment—within a ten-foot radius of me. But, again, if I tried to go in for a pet, she would shuffle away, as if to say: I prefer my space. I respected that. And, so, Olive stayed. 

As I look back on the past year of my life, those solitary Friday evenings spent in my studio apartment with the ball game on my television are distant, blissful memories. I’m now trapped within the reality of commitment compromises and the affectionate purrs for food, water, and companionship. I still don’t prefer to live with all these goddamned living things, to tell you the truth. But, had I stayed in my animal-less studio, without the toils of negotiation, I would have been a king of four-hundred square feet who calls out to his loyal subjects—his TV, his record player, and his full-sized bed—only to receive nothing in return and learn nothing of himself. Now, I find myself a man ruled by two too many cats who has learned many things this past year of his life, but only knows one for sure: that two is where I draw the line. 

I’m serious this time. It really is.  

Eric R. Schwartz

Jack                                                                                Olive

[ericrschwartz]

The Unapologies of a Yankees Fan Living in Boston

I don’t know the exact moment when I inexplicably fell in love with the New York Yankees.  I have a vague recollection of being about six years old at a family friend’s house.  There was a ball game on the television that I was pulled towards and couldn’t take my eyes off—the beautiful green grass and the players with their bright white, pinstriped uniforms.  It was the most spectacular thing I’d laid my eyes on up to that point in my life.  But who knows if that moment actually happened.  My father didn’t like the Yankees before I began my obsession.  The Cleveland Indians and the Toronto Blue Jays were the major league baseball teams closest to where I lived in upstate New York.  Dad rooted for the Orioles because our local minor league club was the farm team for Baltimore.  All I can tell you for sure is that my love affair came on quickly and with a ferociousness that has never left.

This loyalty followed me when I went to college in Worcester, Massachusetts where I learned exactly what loyalty really meant.  Massachusetts, of course, is home to the Boston Red Sox, whose fans, in addition to holding a deep passion for their team, possess another quality: hatred.  I had no idea how serious Red Sox fans were until I was in the belly of the great beast on my first trip to Fenway Park and a man sitting three rows back offered to relieve himself within the dome of my New York Yankees hat.  His comment seemed undeserved since I was watching the Sox play the Devil Rays, even more so when he upped the ante a minute later from the old number one to the more disgusting and certainly more disturbing number two.  I have since decided to be less heroic about my fan allegiance in Fenway Park.  Now, I prefer to observe such contests mixed in with the Boston crowd as if I were Indiana Jones disguised in a Nazi uniform at a book burning ceremony.  I’m not trying to compare Red Sox fans to Nazis, of course, or say that they burn books.  Sox fans are certainly not similar to Nazis.  Except for the fact that they would burn books if it meant that the Sox could win the Series.  

It’s not their passion that surprised me when I moved to Massachusetts eleven years ago.  I could relate to being a fan of a team that always let you down.  My Yankee fandom began in the mid-eighties when the club was a mere shadow of its former prolific self.  What surprised me about Sox fans was the pure hatred and resentment they held towards the team that I so deeply cared about.  Perhaps because I grew up in upstate New York where allegiances to baseball teams lacked a regional identification, I was sheltered from this kind of blind loyalty, and, what I deemed, illogical hatred for the opponent.  Yet, once I was immersed within this insanity, I eventually decided to match the passion of these quick-tongued and sharp-eyed New Englanders by becoming the Boston equivalent of a Yankees fan.  I questioned every pitching move that the Yankees manager made.  I analyzed every base-running blunder, every misplayed ball that may have resulted from a lack of effort.  I took every loss by my New York Yankees very seriously—especially those against the Red Sox.  My transformation was only intensified by the fact that I would often be surrounded by one hundred Red Sox fans when my team fell short with a heartbreaker in the ninth or when they didn’t even show up to play from the very first pitch.  It was an attitude fueled by hate and it burned on like that for years until I realized that I was just feeding the animal exactly what it wanted.

I’ve learned to scale back those emotions.  Although, I admit, the reactions of a baseball fan are difficult to control.  Like an addiction, I suppose I could separate myself from baseball altogether in order to eliminate my more antagonistic qualities.  But that’s like saying I could move to Montana and live off the land as a self-sufficient human being.  I could probably do something like that, but would it make me all that better of a person?  Is it that wrong to watch an inning of baseball in the comfort of my own home and say fuck when something goes wrong or stand up from my chair when a ball is hit deep as if standing will improve my angle on its flight?  My girlfriend certainly has a ready answer to those questions.  I’m just not sure that I do.  However noble or inexplicably insane it is to deem oneself too unaffected to pay attention to such nonsense or base one’s entire personal happiness upon the outcome of a baseball season, I hope that I continue to find myself somewhere in the middle.  And now, with the new technologies of the Internet and smart phone, I can spend the rest of my life arguing and rejoicing with the nonjudgmental devices that give me my precious Yankees games even as I live among the enemy.  Yes, it seems I am as unapologetic about being a Yankees fan settled here in Boston, Massachusetts—with no one to celebrate victories or commiserate losses with—as these Red Sox fans are about their brutal hatred for the team I so genuinely love.  

But, somehow, I wouldn’t have it any other way.       

Eric R. Schwartz