Kids Playing Sports! Everyone Look!

I read a lot like I drive: I’ll start at a nice, safe pace, paying attention to little details and retaining all the information being thrown at me*. Then, about ten minutes in, I’ll start going faster and faster, my brain will stop sucking up the info, my eyes will glaze over, and before you know it, there I am flying off the Ben Franklin Bridge with three missing wheels and at least four dead pedestrians in the backseat after flying through my windshield. (I’m a dangerous reader)

*-I also used to speed read before an exam in college much like I speed to work now when I’m late: I crank some Queens of the Stone Age, drink about 15 Dr. Peppers, blaze ahead with no regard for human life… and before you know it, there I am flying off the Ben Franklin Bridge with three missing wheels and at least four dead pedestrians in the backseat after flying through my windshield.

Point is, my reading patterns are sporadic; it can take me five minutes to bang out “Fountainhead” or five weeks to get through the foreword of “Everybody Poops.” (I’m assuming it has a foreword – otherwise, I feel really dumb about how my college thesis went)

So while I haven’t forgotten about this (we’ll get back to that sooner than you think), I’ve also been catching up on a backlog of magazines I’ve received over the last few months. You know, the intelligent stuff. This includes ESPN The Magazine, which I’ve been receiving intentionally or otherwise for about six years. For the most part, ESPN the Mag specializes in theme issues nowadays. The Money Issue. The Athletes Take Over Issue. The Check Out These Nekkid Pix Issue.

This past month, we got to the “Kids in Sports” issue.  Adorning its cover is Dylan Moses, a 6’1”, 215-pound running back from Baton Rouge, La. who’s been sitting on scholarship offers from LSU and seven other schools for a little over a year. He starts his day at 4:30 AM with 400 pushups, 800 sit-ups, 10 minutes of jump rope and a mile run.

Dylan is 15. He received his first offer in 8^th grade.

In 8^th grade, my biggest decision was whether to spend my Saturday afternoons playing basketball or video games, and I was pretty bad at picking between that. By my senior year of high school, I was barely able to pick what college I wanted to attend with my family asking me about it daily, let alone dozens of journalists and several rabid fan bases.

The article cites a handful of other examples of barely-teens being asked to make decisions most high school seniors dread – where to go to college, who to trust their career training with – because they happen to run like gazelles and throw footballs across different area codes.

This has not-so-secretly been happening for years. ESPN has made signing day, the day most top high school recruits choose which college campus they’ll be gracing their presence with, a nationally televised event. T.J. McConnell, former point guard for my alma mater Duquesne, signed with the Dukes two full years before graduating high school. He’s now at the University of Arizona, transferring after his sophomore year.

This really started with LeBron James, though. There were plenty of high school basketball players who chose to forgo college and enter the NBA Draft before the league began to require players be one year removed from high school before declaring. Some, like Kevin Garnett and Kobe Bryant, became superstars, while others, like Kwame Brown and Darius Miles…didn’t.

But none of them received the attention LeBron did. Many writers wondered if he shouldn’t be allowed to declare for the draft after his junior year of high school. James agreed, petitioning the league to allow him into the 2002 draft despite having not finished high school.

Instead, LeBron was forced to wait until the 2003 draft, when he was selected first overall by his hometown team, the Cleveland Cavaliers. Seven years later, LeBron left the Cavs for the Miami Heat in a nationally televised event known as “The Decision,” a 75-minute ESPN program exclusively devoted to announcing where LeBron would play the next year.

It’s amazing – simply amazing, I tell you – that a player who received nonstop media attention since before he could drive, who was referred to as “The King” before he was allowed to vote, who had his first slew of shoe deals and sponsorships before he could legally take his first sip of alcohol, managed to grow into an out-of-touch egomaniac.

LeBron has dealt with near constant international attention better than most physical prodigies. This is far from a scientific study, but is it at all possible that giving extremely young athletes an unbelievable amount of media attention could be bad? Could inflate their big heads, or cause them to collapse under pressure?

The easy response is to blame the media, blame ESPN, but there’s a reason they keep producing issues like this and covering signing day – we dig it. We marvel at it, and the media supply what we want. If we ever stopped watching, they'd stop broadcasting it. (This is why I also roll my eyes whenever people bitch about some of the garbage ESPN airs, or when a league has a lockout. Stop watching or buying the product if it pisses you off so much. Hit 'em in the wallet. Arrange an actual boycott)

Maybe I’m totally off base and I’m just becoming a grumpy old man. Maybe I’m just ashamed that 15-year-old Dylan could most certainly beat the stuffing out of me in any athletic endeavor.

I’m simply wondering if it’s worth marveling at a phenom for a few minutes with the knowledge that they’ll likely never live a normal adolescence. Particularly with YouTube and Twitter and the like, it’s more likely than ever that these actual “diaper dandies” will be overexposed to the point of stunting their maturity.

Ah, who are we kidding? Let’s watch this two-year-old shoot a basketball.

To: Heat. From: Matt. Subject: F*** OFF

The summer solstice comes on Friday, June 21 this year. According to “scientists” and “officials” and “everyone else,” this is our annual indicator of the start of summer, which, with all due respect, is bullshit.

For about two weeks now, I’ve spent my nights super-glued to my bed, sweat fastening my skin to the fitted sheet on the rare occasion my fitted sheet has actually lived up to its name, or to the mattress itself for the lion’s share of my evenings, when my fitted sheet curls up in some corner of my bed as if recoiling from my never-ending perspiration.

On any given day, my body runs about as hot as your standard diesel engine. When the temperature skyrockets here in the Northeast, the only places I’m capable of sleeping comfortably are a freezer chest or someplace 80 feet below the floor of our basement. (I’m working on making that room happen. Trust me, the sub-basement has serious Mitt Romney-type potential).

I will always take exercising in the cold as opposed to the heat. You can always layer up to combat the cold. While most people get starry-eyed at the prospect of living in Southern California, South Florida or some other tropical locale, my mouth starts to dry up just thinking of living someplace where the average temperature rests “comfortably” at 75.

So no, I’m calling shenanigans on this whole nonsense about summer starting in late June. This isn’t an outright denouncement of the season of bands, beaches and boozing, though; simply the small sliver of time I spend each night pretending I care about how I perform at work the next day by getting my 40 winks.  Come summer, that usually gets cut to somewhere between 10-15 winks. I’m typing this from my bed right now and it’s only a matter of time before I’ll need a spatula to help peel my skin off my laptop.

The biggest problem, really, is the lack of ways to counter the heat. Yes, even in a first-world nation in a relatively modern home complete with luxuries such as “electricity” and “windows,” I have proven terrible at combating high temperatures.

I’ve tried…

Wearing less clothing: Unfortunately, I don’t fit into my old pair of Daisy Dukes anymore, so no dice.

Opening a window: Not effective, plus it lets in even more of the sound of the enormous freight train that comes by our house every night right around 11:30. This train has to be five miles long. It never ends, and it’s louder than an electrocuted herd of goats.

WHOO WHOO HERE COMES THE "FUCK YOU" TANK ENGINE RUMBLIN DOWN DA TRACKS

Air conditioning: No, hold on a minute, I'm not done with this train. It rolls by at 2:30 AM too and I swear it tries to outdo its prior decibel production. It's the locomotive equivalent of Justin Verlander: instead of wearing down as the night goes on, it actually gets stronger as it works. If I could see the damn thing, I am positive every one of its cars would be extending me a pair of anthropomorphic middle fingers at me the whole way by, too. Jeebus, Mary and Joseph.

Anyways. Oh, the air conditioning unit. The oasis in the desert. When it works, it’s like manna from heaven. When it works. Which, at my current place of residence, it does not.

At my old apartment in West Chester, the centralized air conditioning was sparsely used for a few reasons. One, my two roommates were extraordinarily cold people, which didn’t mesh well with my brick-oven body, so they didn’t see having the air on as a cost-effective maneuver. (Having the heat blasting all winter, though, was a necessity, of course)

It didn’t help my case that our air conditioning barely worked there, either. On the rare occasion it did operate, it took five hours to get the room to a noticeably lower temperature. The air conditioning became one of those things we told friends we had so they’d actually come over. Every time they’d ask if the air was really on, one of us would “check on it” by flipping a couple switches and knobs on the thermostat aimlessly with a confused look on our face.

Of course, the usual work-around for this is…

A fan: Nothing beats a fan when you’re looking to blow hot air all around a room. Much like the Catholic Church, fans don’t solve a problem, they just move it from place to place and hope nobody notices. (I'll see you in hell, guys)

My aforementioned roommates in West Chester let me use their desk fan in my room at night to counter the sweltering heat, which basically only stung my skin and dried out my throat. (Yeah, I know)

There’s one option I haven’t tried: a cold shower before bed to cool down. But what’s the fun in that when you could…

Just jump in a tub of ice water and sleep there like a normal person without a brain condition.

Yeah. That’s better.

Yo, It's Cool Guys

Well, that’s just about enough of that.

As some of you know, I’ve been in a rambling, depressing, self-centered slump recently, culminating with this gem from late Thursday night. It’s not a good look.

I never get that down for no apparent reason. I don’t like it. It sucks. I get anxious over things I can’t control and stop handling the things I can. It’s way better when I feel the way I do 95 percent of the time.

Now, just two days later, I feel better and clear-headed. I’m ready to rock. I’m going to go wrestle a bear for a while just to burn off some excess energy.

How do you work your way out of a funk like that? Everyone does it differently. Here’s what I did that worked for me, though:

1. Get it all out of your system

It could come in the form of screaming, pouting, punching something, or writing a moping 1,000-word blog entry. Give yourself one day.

2. Get physical

Our esteemed co-blogger recommended yoga, amongst other things, but even just going for a run or doing a couple sets of push-ups can get your blood flowing and your body moving again. I went for a run through my neighborhood and up by the Newark Reservoir, and I felt great.
There’s also this, if you feel like breaking a couple bones in the process. (Hospital bills will definitely take your mind off whatever other anchors weigh down your mind)

3. Lean on your friends

The worst part of the blues is feeling alone. It’s hard enough being trapped inside your head without feeling like there’s no other outlets for you to bounce ideas off of, vent, etc. Particularly if you’re depressed about something that’s going on with one of your friends, or your significant other, it’s important to be able to fall back on some of your other friends.

Personally, I had friends I live with, friends I could text and friends I was going to be seeing anyway this weekend. But if you don’t have plans, make some. If you don’t have friends, find some. At the very least, it will get your mind off things for a few hours. Talking with friends is big. Seeing them is bigger.

4. Do something, anything, that you love

Unless you happen to love, say, beating hookers with baseball bats or robbing liquor stores. I played an acoustic show last night at Chaplin’s in Spring City, and it was a total blast. Maybe it’s grilling, maybe it’s golfing, maybe it’s watching NCIS marathons, but do something to get good vibes going again.

5. Listen to music

And not depressing stuff. .If you must listen to depressing music (which I know I’ve had to), do it on your “get it out of your system” day.

Then, listen to this song. I never thought I'd find inspiration from Psychostick, but it was the kick in the ass I needed, and the kick in the ass you need. (Thanks Tim B)

Lastly, get back to listening to good, upbeat stuff. Easy enough.

 In short, here was how my mind went over the last few days:

1. “Woe is me, my life has become an empty sinkhole and I don’t know how to fill it.”

2. “Hey, life isn’t so bad. I’ve got plenty of things going for me and some great friends and family.”

3. “What the hell am I complaining so much for? I’m a narcissistic prick for feeling like that. I'm good, guys!”

And lastly, a thing you shouldn’t do:

Drink

This seems quite hypocritical coming from someone who places this song just ahead of the national anthem, but don’t go crazy. I mean, go ahead and have a drink if that’s your thing, but alcohol tends to be a mood enhancer rather than a mood swinger, at least for me. Just like some good times can be made better with a touch of Yeungling, bad times can be made worse by slamming Wild Turkey all night.

The crux of this story is…sorry for all the miserable stuff I’ve been writing, and thanks to those who helped me out. Time to get back to beeez-nas. I'll be back to scribbling out some of my more typical nonsense next week.

Happy early mom's day.

-Matt

Make a Life Worth Remembering (When They Reminisce Over You)

Who wants to sleep in the city that never wakes up
Blinded by nostalgia?...
She said, "I want to sleep in the city that never wakes up
And revel in nostalgia."

-"Old Yellow Bricks" by Arctic Monkeys

I came home from Pittsburgh/Ohio late last night. Usually, upon my return home from Pittsburgh, I feel refreshed. A few days visiting old college friends, bumming around the city and reminiscing is usually the cure for what ails me.

This time, I think the nostalgia may be the thing pulling me down.

Maybe it was because I spent more time there than usual. Most of the time, I’m in town for 3-5 days at maximum. This time, I stayed for six days – I arrived in town Friday night and stayed until Wednesday evening. That’s a long time away from home.

Maybe it was the weather. It rained the whole way home, like it did each of the two and a half days we were camping in the middle of Bumblef…er, Logan, Ohio. I just so happened to follow the storm the whole way back to Delaware.

Maybe it was all the driving. Between driving back from Logan to Pittsburgh, then around Pittsburgh, then from Pittsburgh back to Newark (while leaving the city in rush hour traffic), my guess is I spent over 10 hours behind the wheel on Wednesday, at least six of which was by myself. I normally don’t mind driving because it gives me a chance to listen to music or some radio shows, but 10 hours will drive a person mad. My buddy Vince drove all 12 hours on our trip to Champaign, IL last January (and another 12 back), and now I know how insane that is.

Maybe (and I can’t believe I’m saying this) I’ve been off from work too much. My job offered voluntary unpaid time off for the last two weeks I had before my trip, so I worked half the time I usually did each week. Then, I went away to Pittsburgh, and I don’t return to work until Tuesday. I may treasure my time off, but sweet mercy, I might forget where my office is next week.

Maybe I’ve gone up too often. I was last in Pittsburgh in the beginning of March and I’ll be up a third time this coming July, if all goes according to plan. Sometimes, absence makes the heart blah blah de blah.

Maybe…I’m just over it all.

I’ve been awfully melancholy these past few weeks for whatever reason, so perhaps you can chalk it up to that, but it’s possible that after four years of college and two years of regularly visiting, Pittsburgh and I have run its course.

I truly hope this isn’t the case. I’ve met some of the most wonderful people in that city, including the co-writer of this blog, and it holds a special place in my heart. Every couple weeks, as I trudge through my day job and dream of escaping for greener pastures, I consider just dropping everything and moving back to Pittsburgh.

It could be like having a terrible vacation or a terrible round of golf, though. You could shank every ball into the trees, hit every sand trap, and take a bath in the lake for 17 holes, but if you hit a pretty drive or birdie just one hole, you’ll remember that round fondly and it’ll sucker you into coming back.

Likewise, it’s possible that I’ve been so locked into the unattainable expectations I’ve set for Pittsburgh that I can only be disappointed. It’s not as if I didn’t enjoy myself this past week. On the contrary, everything I did was fun and it was wonderful to see so many old friends. Furthermore, it’s certainly not because I have any great shakes waiting for me at home. Sure, I have my show Friday night and seeing my roommates again is good after a week. But it’s not like I’m coming home to my family or my girlfriend or my dog or something. I don’t have an anchor here in Newark.

Nevertheless, on the way home, something didn’t sit right with me. And I haven’t been able to pinpoint exactly what. It’s possible that looking back too much, or waiting for life to open the next path for me, is leaving me anxious.

On the camping trip, I met Rebecca’s friends Jay and Brenna. They were nice people, fun to meet and easy to get along with. Jay’s a paramedic and clearly passionate about his work. He spent most of the weekend talking about the different counties his unit covered, the different horror stories and mind-numbingly dumb patients he encountered, and how proud he was to do the work he does.

I don’t have that passion. Not for one particular thing right now. I like playing music, but I’ll never be a touring musician. I love sports and radio, but clearly not enough to leave my cozy spot at Super Corporation Inc. to pursue it. I love hanging out with friends, but as this weekend proved to me, even partying can eventually wear on you. All my stories are from the past. Things my friends and I did while we were bored, or drinking, or both. My stories are regressive, not progressive.

It seems, as my co-blogger put it this weekend, that I’m just stuck.

The thing I have to remember, though, is that no one is going to break me out of this slump but myself.  So often, I’ve waited for “the right time” to do something. The right time to move. The right time to take a job. The right time to make a move on a girl. The right time to this. The right time to that. The right time to the other thing.

I think I’ve used that as an excuse to settle and do nothing for far too long. For it to not be “the right time” for something means you’re afraid to get hurt. Well, here I am, Mr. Patient and Rational, and I don’t know if “hurt” is the right word, but I damn well don’t feel swell, and I’m too damn old to be writing like a 15 year old emo kid who just got turned down by his first high school crush.

I will turn things around. Whether it’s in Newark, Pittsburgh, West Chester, Indianapolis or Nantucket, I will turn things around, and I will take control. Just you wait.

-Matt

Off the Grid (A Time-Traveling Post)

I wrote this on Tuesday morning, around 8:15 AM. You're reading it right now because...well...I'll explain in a minute.

I’m sitting in the second level of a cabin called Enchanted Eve in the middle of a resort called Lazy Lane Inn in Ohio. There’s a Wal-Mart about 12 miles down the hills from where we are. There are also a dozen stores with names like “Roger’s Radiators!” with faded signs that no longer support the random sparkles and bright colors that were surely attractive in 1983. The roads on the way up the hills are named after goat cheese and sauerkraut. Not together, of course. That would be ridiculous.

You won’t know this for another day or so, because there is no Internet connection and no cell phone service where I am. I have my three standard electronic devices on hand (iPod, iPhone and Macbook because I am a blind sheep of a consumer), and there is a television with cable in the cabin, but apart from that, no readily available access to the outside world. There is a telephone that allows you to call the front desk of the lodge and, presumably, 911. The lodge’s website suggested we purchase prepaid calling cards for the trip. We scoffed.

I’m no tech guru, so I can’t turn my iPhone into a WiFi hotspot or a satellite or a 50-screen command center complete with sonar, radio and long-range heat-seeking missiles. I can turn it into a flashlight and a free game of Catchphrase that interrupts every round with 45 seconds of ads. Those still work just fine.

Otherwise, it’s just me and the three people I came with: the co-writer of this fine blog, and a couple she’s friends with, whom I’d never met before this weekend. And with no phone/Internet, there are no training wheels.

Nowadays, it’s easy to retreat into “Kaz World” or “Jeff World” or “Whatever-Your-Name-Is World” if the current social theatre you’re acting in isn’t going to script. Don’t want to chug along through hour four of this game of Monopoly? Not up for keeping an eye on your little cousin as he wipes out on his skateboard a dozen times on the promenade*? Whip out the old phone. Check a couple texts and e-mails, see what Twitter’s up to, maybe return a Words with Friends game request or two.

I don’t have that crutch these next few days. I have Rebecca, and I have 23 years of social experience to navigate me through any potential obstacles that may present themselves while meeting two totally new people who already know Rebecca well, but not me.

It rained for the lion’s share of the daytime yesterday, which pretty much forced the issue as the four of us cracked a few beers and small-talked our way through the early evening until we broke out a couple board games – which in turn brought out the competitive nature in some of us and the general nonchalance towards a game like Monopoly in others.

A handful of times yesterday evening, I wished I could just check my phone once. See how my friends back home are doing. See what the baseball scores were. That last part is odd because, as mentioned previously, we have a TV and cable. We watched Pawn Stars for about an hour last night. I could easily find ESPN and get that information. After years of Facebook and Twitter, though, I’m so used to consuming news and information with a side of social media commentary that I still feel like I’m out of the loop if I don’t know what my friends or favorite writers have to say about a news story.

That’s why, despite the relative inconveniences, I’m really excited for the rest of this trip.

As I’ve said in posts past, I’m worried about what sort of path I’m on in terms of my general knowledge. Part of that is social. I’m tired of being at parties, on trips, at work, at the bar, etc. and not having something interesting to say. My repertoire currently includes irrationally strong opinions on sports, misguided political and economic rants and dumb stories from college. That usually buys me 10 minutes.

I want to re-learn how to meet people, how to pick their brains on things I’m interested in, how to feign interest in things I have no interest in and how to express my own opinion on a subject, not a warmed-over or regurgitated edition of someone else’s.

Plus, the sun is shining today. That will make things easier. There’s plenty to do near the cabin – hiking, zip-lining, horseback riding, etc. We won’t be want for activities. It’s not as if I’m stranded hundreds of miles from civilization with nothing but a change of clothes and my own cunning on my side: for Pete’s sake, I’m typing out a blog entry on a goddamn laptop and we’re about 15 miles from a shopping center.

Maybe I’ve still got some training wheels after all. But I hope I won’t have to lean on them.

-Matt

The Slow, Melancholy Deterioration of the Human Mind - A Love Story

In twelve days, I’ll be playing my first full set of individual music for a live crowd.

I’ve been playing guitar for about eight or nine years and been writing songs for about seven years. I’ve played shows with a band, and I’ve played open mic nights by myself. I have not yet, however, put together a full set of songs on my own, to play for about 45 minutes by myself.

Very rarely do I come up with a full song on guitar – chord progression, riffs, bridge/chorus, etc. – in one sitting, and even more infrequently is that full song generally good. At 2:15 this morning, as I walked up to bed, I saw I’d left my guitar sitting out from earlier in the day and decided to fiddle around with it. By 2:45, I had the music down.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a goddamn word to put with it.

In college, I wrote columns, blogs and other articles far more often than I wrote songs, which is odd considering how much free time I usually allotted myself. Granted, writing columns and articles was kind of my major, but still.

Now in my post-university life, I’ve found that despite my desire to re-enter the journalism/media field, I’ve written songs and lyrics far more than I’ve written blogs like this. I’m not sure if this can be attributed more to how short and simple my songs are (because don’t get me wrong, I’m not a very good musician), or how I sometimes aspire to be some sort of deep-thinking, artistically-inclined string-strummer.

Which is interesting, because often, whether it be a blog entry or a song, I find I don’t have much to say.

Not everyone is destined to spew their thoughts for the masses to see. But if you were to graph out my “inspiration to write” on a chronological chart, you would see a nice, steady decline from the day I graduated college to April 28, 2013, nearly two full years after I walked the stage, grabbed my diplo…I mean, my invitation to the Duquesne University Alumni Association, and high-tailed it out of Pittsburgh before the administration could reconsider their fateful decision.

Since that time, here are my accomplishments:

--Earned a job outside of my area of study and worked my way through to a slightly better paying job outside of my area of study at the same company.

--Moved out of my mom’s house.

--Squadoooooooooosh.

Okay, so I’ve done some other stuff. (Those dishes don’t clean themselves, thankyaverymuch). In terms of my intellectual development, though, you could say that I was humming along in a Lamorghini…

Okay, in a Ford Fiesta…

Okay, on a rusted-over Huffy bicycle…

Alright, anyway, so I was moving along quite well, and then gradually, coasted to a stop. I’ve acquired several books as gifts or as personal purchases in that time and can distinctly remember reading 1 2/3 of them: “Year of the Black Rainbow” (a book based on a Coheed and Cambria CD, which was basically the equivalent of reading a video game), and 2/3 of “Hearts inAtlantis,” which I read during jury duty. And to be honest, I had already read the first half one time before, four years ago, and decided to start again. That is an alarming lack of mental stimulation. At least I've supplemented it with plenty of other....well...yeah.

In college, though, I was force-fed great writing. .Kurt Vonnegut! T.S. Eliot! Hunter S. Thompson! E.L. James! (Okay, I’m joking…I never read T.S Eliot. That puss J. Alfred Prufrock can go right to hell)

I was forced to think because otherwise I’d fail. My economics classes taught me how to think and how to apply it to everyday life, and my writing classes taught me how to communicate what I knew effectively and, when I stumbled upon a joke or two by accident, in an entertaining manner.

I realize that last paragraph sounds like something I’d put on a resume. It sounds an awful lot like something I’d tell someone in a job interview. Thing is, I’d be outright lying if I told somebody that in an interview. Two years ago, that might have been true. Not today.

In college, “life” was studying and bettering yourself. Today, “life” for me is taking home enough money so I can pay my bills, buy food, and maybe have enough left over to hang out with my friends or go out on a date (sometimes both in the same month, if I’m lucky). My leisure time is spent eating, going to the gym, sleeping, and plucking half-heartedly at my guitar, hoping the next time I strum the strings, they’ll emit words instead of notes.

I’ll be 24 in a few months. I cannot become a hopeless nostalgic. If I want to be a better writer, a better songwriter, or for God’s sake, just a more interesting person who can talk about more than last night’s game or that hi-LAR-ious video on YouTube, it has to begin with me, and now.

Starting in May, I am resolving myself to read two books a month – one fiction and one non-fiction. It’s extremely modest, but it’s something I believe I can manage between work and social life.

I’m well aware that actions speak louder blah de blah de blah. I’m putting this here as a modification on Drew Magary’s “Public Humiliation Diet.” The premise is, you’ll be more inclined to work towards your goals if you publicize them, because that relative publicity will push you not to fail. If you keep it to yourself, the only person who knows is you. For some of us, that isn’t enough.

So I’m asking for suggestions. I’ve got a big bookshelf of potential selections, but I’d love to hear what you guys have read recently and liked. They don’t necessarily have to be the most intellectual pieces ever written, but I’d prefer they don’t involve vampires, or middle-aged mistresses, or both.

Thanks, everyone.

-Matt

And as one last shameless plug, my set at Chaplin’s in Spring City is on May 10^th. I’m playing with No Stranger and my brother Alex Kasznel from the band The BlueRoom, and it’s going to be a great time. Yes, I’ll be playing the original songs I’ve spent this post diminishing, but I’ll also mix in enough Kelly Clarkson covers to make up for it. (See, now you’ll have to show up to see if I’m kidding about the Kelly Clarkson covers)

Do What You Love, or Love What You Want, or Love Doing What You Want, or Love What you Want to Do, or...

Hey guys, it’s been like half a year, so I thought I’d come back and talk to you a little bit about Jesus.

Nah, kidding. I thought about doing that before, but decided against it for the time being. Maybe I still will. Whether it’s a blog post idea, food, a crazy stunt or a job, I usually never rule anything out.

And perhaps that’s part of my problem.

My mother is a big fan of “inspirational,” self-help books about building a better future. Most recently, she gave me a book for Valentine’s Day (along with a cubic  ton of candy that really helped me get ready for this) about how people become innovators.

A few years ago, though, she gave me a book called “Should I Do What I Love?” (Or, if you're Michael Young, "Should I Do What I Want?" The basic question of the book is whether you should pursue a career in a field you truly love, or a career that’s financially stable.

Friends, family and motivational speakers have told me regularly that if you do what you love, you won’t work a day in your life. Others say it could ruin your passion for something that is probably best relegated to hobby status. Conversely, a financially stable career could give you the means to pursue your dreams in your free time (which is totally just asrewarding), or it can cause you to act negatively in your workplace.

If there is a surefire way to determine what path to take, somebody better get me a copy of their map. (I thought that one up all on my own). Obviously, talent and knowledge of your subject is a huge determining factor – if you love taming lions but can’t tell the difference between a lionand an anteater, it probably isn’t happening for you.

The key, though, seems to be how much you’re willing to sacrifice to have even the slightest chance of doing something remotely related to your dream job.

I potentially have an opportunity for a job that would get me “in the building” (both literally and figuratively) somewhere where I could pursue my dream of working in broadcasting. It’s for a position that’s quite far removed from “radio talk show host,” and it’s no guarantee that taking it would ever lead to “radio talk show host,” but it’s something. It’s also nearly an hour and a half from where I live now and would require moving even further away from my friends and family than I already am, not to mention moving to a city that, aside from a few weekend trips, I’m basically wholly unfamiliar with.

Now that I’ve said something, I will of course not be offered said job, because that’s how life works. But regardless.

The process has made me understand the true nature of the “should you do what you love” question. It’s not necessarily whether you love something enough to make it a career; it’s whether you would rather love your work or love the things it affords you. This is something people far more intelligent than me probably worked out much earlier in life than I did. (In my defense, I spent a lot of time doing this as a kid)

Yes, I spend large chunks of time wishing I worked in radio, wondering what I could do to find a job in radio, or pretending I already do work in radio. But do I spend so much time thinking about it because I work at a job that doesn’t force me to work excruciating hours, or because I don’t have to work two jobs to support myself? If I had a ground-level job in broadcasting or journalism, would I grow to resent the job because I’d be living in a studio apartment without cable, internet or working utilities and constantly without money to go visit or hang out with friends?

I truly loved hosting my college radio show and writing for my college newspaper. (Whether I was any good at it is mostly a matter of how much you enjoy jokes at PETA’s expense). I also happened to write and broadcast with some of the best people I’ve ever met, both as friends and as journalists. Did I love being the small-time college equivalent of [insert asshole Philly sports media personality here] because I loved the field, or because I loved my friends?

Ultimately, the best way to figure that out is to see how willing you are to write, record, and spew your thoughts when your friends aren’t around and when nobody’s reading/listening. That’s why I’m giving one more crack at it. One more crack at blogging, one more crack at podcasting, one more crack at discovering whatever “magic” encouraged me to believe that I might want to make a living out of this nonsense.

It would be great if you wanted to read along. If not, that’s fine. I don’t blame you. If I were my friend, I wouldn’t have wanted to read 900 words of me trying to “find myself” or whatever. In the end, this isn’t about the people who read or don’t read. It’s about me and what I want. (And maybe my esteemed co-blogger, despite how wrong she is sometimes). After all, no matter what your friends and loved ones think of your dream, the whole point is to find what makes you happy, because the right people are going to follow you one way or another.

-Matt