"Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait"
-Longfellow
"Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness,
and some have greatness thrust upon them"
-Shakespeare
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait"
-Longfellow
"Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness,
and some have greatness thrust upon them"
-Shakespeare
So I have wasted another year of my life...
Soon i will be 33, leaving me, optimistically, with maybe 10 more years of life. Time to take stock of things. In the here and now lie my aspirations. What is it, waking up everyday, I hope to accomplish? After careful consideration and reflection I present to you: my self interpretation of The Nicholson-Freeman Phenomenon. Now, I must insist that through the duration of this essay you refrain from making mental connections between it and a movie called "The Bucket List". I have never seen said movie nor do I ever have intentions to do so. To wit: as "The Bucket List" is not on my bucket list it is irrelevant vis a vis this discussion
My first undertaking is one that I have aspired to since I was a young boy. I desperately want to catch a batted ball during a major league baseball game. I suppose that as a child, this hope came out of a craving for status of some sort, even if I was not cognizant of it at the time. Currently, my desire to catch a ball is similarly a quest for status, but in a different way. I am not interested in acquiring a baseball or appearing on television, I want to know the simple pleasure of catching a batted ball at a big league game. You see, I've been to games all over, and I have still not caught a damn ball. C'mon baseball gods, I've spent the requisite years in fan purgatory, let me into batted ball heaven. This ball can be fair or foul, that part is of no matter to me. Ideally, my catch would occur in the bleachers at Wrigley Field. This ball would be a home run hit by the Cubs' opponent. Then, I would promptly return said ball onto the field of play. This practice is only acceptable at Wrigley Field...you hear that Philadelphia?! You got Cliff Lee. The Cubs suck, at least let them have exclusive rights to the tradition. You hear that Detroit?! You've got the auto industry and a thriving techno scene, Chicago's got nothing going for it except throwing upwards of 1,500 National League (and American League during inter-league play) home runs back on to Wrigley Field's carefully coiffed outfield grass every summer. (Editor's note: watch this space for a comprehensive set of rules for baseball game decorum) Digressions aside, one fateful day a ball will arc its way in to my waiting hands and I don't care if I am holding my first born infant child, I'm catching that baseball.
My second ambition is the one I feel I am least likely to accomplish as it can be considered a felony. Granted, I wish no harm on any person or property, but I would sure love to throw a Molotov Cocktail. Surely no crime would be committed if I were to throw said incendiary device in a vacant lot. The fire would just burn itself out as opposed to endangering an orphanage or a school for the blind. Like most red-blooded American males, I am a pyromaniac; but it isn't just the fire, it's also the sound of glass breaking. One of my favorite sounds on the planet is that of breaking glass and I'm currently working on a patentable onomatopoeia for it. How can it be expected of me to resist the ideal amalgamation of two of my favorite earthly delights. Explosions combined with breaking glass. What a concept! My life will not be complete until I am able to throw a Molotov Cocktail!
My next feat requires strength of both body and mind. We've all seen those cop shows on television, and I am in no way referring to Fox's timeless series, COPS. I want to give a locked door the Elliot Stabler treatment. Perhaps I have been warped by far too much prime-time television programming, warping me to the foolish extent of thinking this could be fulfilled by my humble shoes. Yet, if these swishy thespian types can make it happen for a camera, then I could assuredly strap on a pair of Bruno Magli's and go all Sipowicz on a door and its frame. Or maybe I should change this entry to: "I'd really like to break my ankle again."
The fourth ambition on my little list may be the most difficult to attain, even if the ball is already in motion. Unfortunately, in this instance, my name is Sisyphus. Three times already that ball has rolled back down that hill, crushing me all the while. I will keep taking that test, no matter how many times it takes me, and I will make my appearance on the television show Jeopardy! It is under this circumstance only that I wish to appear inside everyone's boxes. But dammit, that test is really hard, and am I really prepared to parade my bloated and ugly mug in front of the millions of octogenarians that watch that show each night? I don't have an answer for that question, but I sure am going to keep trying.
Finally, this list comes to a close with my compulsion and zeal for the American Luxury car. While my dream car might be a black convertible 1969 Lincoln Continental, I realize that the monetary strain might be worth more than the satisfaction of owning such a vehicle. Instead, I wish to own an auto that is a viable mode of daily transportation (for when my legs fall off and I am unable to safely pilot a bicycle anymore). The solution is simple, a Cadillac. One day I would like to own one, along with a passenger so I can constantly bump "Two Dope Boyz (in a Cadillac" by Outkast. Nothing says "class" like that.
So there you have it, all of my hopes, dreams, and aspirations encapsulated in one essay. Now, there are still so many things I want to do with my life, like help ALF find Rhonda, his long lost girlfriend from Melmac. I also want to drive a car with my feet a la Fred Flintstone, and at long last slay Puff the Magic Dragon to end the decades of feuding. These other things would be the icing on the cake made of the other five listings. Thank you and good night.
Soon i will be 33, leaving me, optimistically, with maybe 10 more years of life. Time to take stock of things. In the here and now lie my aspirations. What is it, waking up everyday, I hope to accomplish? After careful consideration and reflection I present to you: my self interpretation of The Nicholson-Freeman Phenomenon. Now, I must insist that through the duration of this essay you refrain from making mental connections between it and a movie called "The Bucket List". I have never seen said movie nor do I ever have intentions to do so. To wit: as "The Bucket List" is not on my bucket list it is irrelevant vis a vis this discussion
My first undertaking is one that I have aspired to since I was a young boy. I desperately want to catch a batted ball during a major league baseball game. I suppose that as a child, this hope came out of a craving for status of some sort, even if I was not cognizant of it at the time. Currently, my desire to catch a ball is similarly a quest for status, but in a different way. I am not interested in acquiring a baseball or appearing on television, I want to know the simple pleasure of catching a batted ball at a big league game. You see, I've been to games all over, and I have still not caught a damn ball. C'mon baseball gods, I've spent the requisite years in fan purgatory, let me into batted ball heaven. This ball can be fair or foul, that part is of no matter to me. Ideally, my catch would occur in the bleachers at Wrigley Field. This ball would be a home run hit by the Cubs' opponent. Then, I would promptly return said ball onto the field of play. This practice is only acceptable at Wrigley Field...you hear that Philadelphia?! You got Cliff Lee. The Cubs suck, at least let them have exclusive rights to the tradition. You hear that Detroit?! You've got the auto industry and a thriving techno scene, Chicago's got nothing going for it except throwing upwards of 1,500 National League (and American League during inter-league play) home runs back on to Wrigley Field's carefully coiffed outfield grass every summer. (Editor's note: watch this space for a comprehensive set of rules for baseball game decorum) Digressions aside, one fateful day a ball will arc its way in to my waiting hands and I don't care if I am holding my first born infant child, I'm catching that baseball.
My second ambition is the one I feel I am least likely to accomplish as it can be considered a felony. Granted, I wish no harm on any person or property, but I would sure love to throw a Molotov Cocktail. Surely no crime would be committed if I were to throw said incendiary device in a vacant lot. The fire would just burn itself out as opposed to endangering an orphanage or a school for the blind. Like most red-blooded American males, I am a pyromaniac; but it isn't just the fire, it's also the sound of glass breaking. One of my favorite sounds on the planet is that of breaking glass and I'm currently working on a patentable onomatopoeia for it. How can it be expected of me to resist the ideal amalgamation of two of my favorite earthly delights. Explosions combined with breaking glass. What a concept! My life will not be complete until I am able to throw a Molotov Cocktail!
My next feat requires strength of both body and mind. We've all seen those cop shows on television, and I am in no way referring to Fox's timeless series, COPS. I want to give a locked door the Elliot Stabler treatment. Perhaps I have been warped by far too much prime-time television programming, warping me to the foolish extent of thinking this could be fulfilled by my humble shoes. Yet, if these swishy thespian types can make it happen for a camera, then I could assuredly strap on a pair of Bruno Magli's and go all Sipowicz on a door and its frame. Or maybe I should change this entry to: "I'd really like to break my ankle again."
The fourth ambition on my little list may be the most difficult to attain, even if the ball is already in motion. Unfortunately, in this instance, my name is Sisyphus. Three times already that ball has rolled back down that hill, crushing me all the while. I will keep taking that test, no matter how many times it takes me, and I will make my appearance on the television show Jeopardy! It is under this circumstance only that I wish to appear inside everyone's boxes. But dammit, that test is really hard, and am I really prepared to parade my bloated and ugly mug in front of the millions of octogenarians that watch that show each night? I don't have an answer for that question, but I sure am going to keep trying.
Finally, this list comes to a close with my compulsion and zeal for the American Luxury car. While my dream car might be a black convertible 1969 Lincoln Continental, I realize that the monetary strain might be worth more than the satisfaction of owning such a vehicle. Instead, I wish to own an auto that is a viable mode of daily transportation (for when my legs fall off and I am unable to safely pilot a bicycle anymore). The solution is simple, a Cadillac. One day I would like to own one, along with a passenger so I can constantly bump "Two Dope Boyz (in a Cadillac" by Outkast. Nothing says "class" like that.
So there you have it, all of my hopes, dreams, and aspirations encapsulated in one essay. Now, there are still so many things I want to do with my life, like help ALF find Rhonda, his long lost girlfriend from Melmac. I also want to drive a car with my feet a la Fred Flintstone, and at long last slay Puff the Magic Dragon to end the decades of feuding. These other things would be the icing on the cake made of the other five listings. Thank you and good night.
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