Don't Call It A Comeback

"If you are going through hell, keep going." - Winston Churchill

 

This isn't a comeback.  Everyone loves a good comeback.  But comebacks often fall short.  Even the greatest teams, athletes, human beings on this planet fall short sometimes.  It's too premature to call my post-Sandy resurgence a comeback.  I haven't come all the way back yet.

This is a metamorphosis, an awakening.   

This is destiny.

Why Are You Doing This?

I can't tell you how many times I've asked myself that question since Sandy.  Why have you been running like an idiot for the past 14 months?  Why have you been fighting for what you have been fighting for?  Why are you spilling your guts in Your Stoopid Blog?

Why not?

Why not?

I know why.  I know exactly why, I've talked about why in this very space, in different ways.  I've told the people closest to me why, or at least the biggest reasons why.  Writing about it comes naturally, it's good therapy.  Running and writing are better forms of exercise, rehabilitation and stress relief than drinking whiskey.  Turns out your doctor was right.

But to write and reveal.  To share it in this space - that's literally a different story.   

Get A Journal, Ron.

I started this blog a few years ago.  Just another forum to use to promote my burgeoning record label.  Marketing 101.  Then Sandy happened, and instead of shilling product, I started to talk about my life.  I started talking about What Really Matters.  Sometimes all that typing was necessary to get through those first surreal days after the storm, thoughts pouring out of me during those restless homeless post-Sandy evenings in Bensonhurst after spending my days amongst the muck and the mold on Staten Island.  Late at night, it was either lay out on an air mattress with my nutty traumatized dog at my feet and watch some dark shit - High Plains Drifter and Blue Valentine and Shame - or sit at a folding table and type type type away.

My Sandy Experience changed my life - not just aesthetically or geographically.  The life I was leading pre-Sandy was unacceptable.  Mediocre.  Unfulfilled.  I needed to grow up, to grow out of the bad habits that were plaguing me.  I had to learn how to recognize The Devil.  I had to accept the truth about who I was and who I wanted to become in the wake of losing everything.  Sandy's destruction forced me to let go of a lot of things, a lot of history.  It's hard to let go.  But it's often necessary.  You can't create the future by clinging to the past.

There will be worse things in store for me, worse things than a superstorm wiping out my house, my record label, and my home music studio.  No matter how much I've lost, how much I've learned, how much I've grown, there will still be losses in my life that I'll never truly be prepared for.  But now, today - these six months since Sandy came and fucked my practical world up for a bit of time - have been the most interesting of my life.  Not the best, mind you.  But certainly the most interesting, the most I've learned about myself, about karma and about morality.  As for the best, it isn't here yet.   

The best is yet to come. 

Well how do you know that, Ron?  You could get hit by a bus tomorrow.

When superstorms happen, when tsunamis show up, when Boston bombings and Oklahoma tornadoes send shock waves through neighborhoods, cities, nations - the victims never celebrate.  Rather, we universally ask the same question.  It's the same question you ask when someone you love passes away or gets sick or any sort of tragedy invades your life.

Why?  Why me, why us, why now?

A week after Sandy, my next door neighbor came by to share some words and a puff of smoke.  I was in the house alone for the first time since the storm.  All my help had gone home, back to their own less complicated lives.  I was playing my piano in what used to be my living room, surrounded by boxes of my surviving stuff.  It was snowing, a nor'easter in New York City during the first week in November.  It was 37 degrees inside my ruined house.  My fingers were numb as I played a song I wrote about a girl, singing aloud to no one in particular.  The bulldozers rumbled outside, clearing debris, furniture, rubble, history.

My neighbor showed up and we talked for awhile before he asked the inevitable.  Why us?

My answer was simple.

Why not?

If you don't believe that there isn't at least a framework to your story - that the doors you open and the doors you close don't lead to very specific adventures, down treacherous paths or yellow brick roads - then you have yet to be awakened.  If you don't believe that there's a Sandy in your future, or something akin to a Sandy, you're wrong.  The wind doesn't have to bring the ocean with it to stir up a storm in your life.  Sometimes the wind blows you away from things and sometimes it sweeps you up and puts you where you belong instead.

If you don't believe in redemption or transformation or self-affirmation, then you might as well be a zombie or a Communist.  You've obviously never seen The Karate Kid or this past season of Survivor.

  
If you can't say "I can do this," then you will never do this.

You might not do whatever "this" is anyway, but rest assured you will never do it if you don't grow some balls and get to work.  Sandy broke me out of prison.  Through it all, she has given me more than she could ever take away.  She didn't take my life, she gave me a chance at a new one, a better one.  So how can I not forgive her?  I haven't changed altogether, I have just been fine tuned.  And I wonder if I would have made those changes, those tweaks, if not for her.  Sandy changed my outlook even if she also changed my address.

Some things haven't changed, most specifically the condition of my house.  I still have little faith in the system that is failing me as I type this, the capitalist system that is supposed to rescue me from this national natural disaster yet continues to compound the problem rather than solve it.

FEMA hasn't saved me from Sandy, they just ask for more paperwork.  My insurance company hasn't saved me, they just make excuses for shortchanging me.  My boss saved me.  My friends saved me.  My parents saved me, my dog saved me.  Complete strangers saved me.  Love saved me.  Running saved me.  Writing saved me.  I saved me.

My Stoopid Blog saved me, it has played its part.  It reconnected me to the world, to people I barely knew, to people I really love.



Did you really know who I was before I started writing this blog?  Did I really know myself?  What I publish here has been raw.  It's personal.  But I don't put my thoughts to the virtual page expecting a reaction from just anyone.

After my last post, a woman I have never met reached out to me.

"This was beautifully written and hits very close to home. I've been married for 5 years and have been through the same cycle more times than I care to remember. I'm in the middle of getting off the ride now...living apart...but I'm still dragging my feet and tripping as Im getting off. Thanks for sharing your story."

She reminded me why this is just the least bit important, this relating.  This woman shared her friend's blog with me.  Her friend had recently lost her young son.  I read this woman's blog with tears in my eyes - this brave, amazing woman who has gone through things I can never truly understand - and realized the same things I realize whenever bad things happen to other people - in Boston, Oklahoma, Japan, New Orleans, Sandy Hook, Aurora.  In your own neighborhoods, in your own families.

Your problems mean nothing, Ron.

You're lucky.  You got off easy.  The first time I ran after the Boston bombings, I sprinted around Prospect Park like a roadrunner.  I still had my legs and they still worked and I was grateful.   After Boston, I stopped writing this blog for awhile because I started to ask myself What's the point?  Doubt starts to creep in until you ultimately realize that what you share with people is what brings you closer to them.  What you share with people is what strengthens your love for them.

We have forgotten what it means to open up.  It ruins us - our convenient omissions, our self-denials, our excuses.  Our tall tales and our little white lies.  Isn't Sharing Caring?  Why is Honesty such a lonely word?  Won't the truth set you free?

Why is it so hard for us to really talk to each other, to communicate?  To shed our skin and share our dreams and our fears?  When I run now, I try to make eye contact with people.  Sometimes I wave or I nod or I even say hello.  The Old Ronnie would have avoided that, looked the other way.   But The Old Ronnie drowned on Staten Island.  Good riddance.

That's why you can't call this a comeback.  Sometimes you have to close a certain chapter of your life in order to start a new one, a better one.  Sometimes hurricanes push you to grow up, sometimes people do.  Sometimes you have to push yourself.  When I cross that finish line in November, it will be a different guy running through Central Park rather than the one who started training for the NYC Marathon last February.  When I run now, I don't struggle.  I excel.  I no longer want to just finish, I want to finish strong.

They'll wrap me in foil and I'll be exhausted and I'll probably cry my eyes out.  It will be a cathartic experience.  Hopefully my father will be there, my friends, my co-workers.  Hopefully she will be there, too - the one person who makes the answer to Why Are You Doing This? seem so succinct and so simple no matter how many miles I run, no matter how many blogs I compose.

Life is a gift.  It's a fucking gift.  Open up the box and play with whatever is inside.  You'll never know how long you'll have to enjoy it.

Don't Call It A Comeback

Round and Round

Dad and I were driving back from our weekend warrior basketball game, our Saturday morning Brooklyn ritual that usually ended with lunch and a nice talk between father and son.  Dad would usually come by my house on Staten Island afterwards to say hello to my wife and my dog before heading home to Pennsylvania.  This time, he pulled the car in front of my house to drop me off instead.  He wasn't coming inside.

"Big Ron, you either want to stay on the merry-go-round or you want to step off."

Those were my father's parting words to me as I grabbed my gym bag and stepped out of his car.  "I want to step off," I said without much hesitation.  I was about to walk inside and end my marriage once and for all.  I had been preparing for this for six months, but now I was finally ready.  I should have left sooner.  Maybe I would have never bought the house, maybe I would have never set up my life, my business, and my future on Staten Island.  Maybe Sandy and I would have never met.

But I didn't.

I was still hanging on for all the wrong reasons - for all the reasons we hold on to things that aren't really good for us.  Because I was afraid.  I was afraid to hurt someone, a woman who, at one point in her life, believed that I was The One.  Because even though I realized she wasn't The One, I was still afraid to make a break for it, to usurp my life and start again.  I had failed before.  I had let people down.  I was afraid of change.  Even though change was exactly what I needed.  I was afraid of making another mistake.  Even though my gut knew I had already made one by even putting myself in this position.  Most of my people were telling me to keep trying, people who weren't living my life.  People who could only advise, but not experience.   Others were more direct, more honest.  They told me to get the fuck out of Dodge long before I had even asked their advice.

We never go into our relationships expecting to be labeled Failures.  Often, the greater failure comes from choosing to sticking around.  Time is precious, fleeting.  So too can happiness be.

When I walked inside, she was sitting at her computer desk.  She was reminiscing, looking at poems she wrote about me once upon a time - back when I was The Man instead of a man - cute e-mails and letters we exchanged, photos from our wedding and when we got our dog.  Happier times.  She wanted me to take a ride back into The Past.  "When Things Were Better."  When there was less pressure to make things right.  There is always less pressure at first.  Less of a commitment means less chance to screw it all up.  But the deeper you dig, the more rocks you'll uncover.

As the five years of my life with my ex deteriorated, so too did the affection, the cuteness, the passion.  The photos became scarcer, the exchanges became us just going through the motions.  What's for dinner? How's the weather? What's on TV tonight?

You find yourself trying to get through a week, a day, without fighting.  You don't reminisce over the shitty moments, those are never captured in a frame or put in a scrapbook or a shoebox.  But they're there too - in your head, in your heart.  At a certain point, Maintaining becomes the acceptable norm rather than Growing.  There were enough TV shows, there was enough wine and weed to get us through the week without strangling each other, or even worse, ignoring each other.  At least strangling keeps you engaged.  There were also nights I slept alone in the bed with my loyal dog at my feet and one eye open, a little afraid of the woman in the other room.  Sometimes I even locked the bedroom door.

"Let's just look through these things together," she pleaded one last time, clinging to that last thin straw that was about to snap from holding all the weight of our troubles beneath it.  I declined her offer.  I had been on the other end of this Final Moment before.  Too many times.  We have all been there, on one side of the moment or the other.  Too many unfinished Diner breakfasts, the unavoidably awkward goodbyes.  There is no good side to be on.  Breaking up is hard to do.  But it was time.  We never plan it out, that moment when we're finally willing to step over the line.  It just happens.

Staying static is always the easier way, the more convenient way to keep your apple cart from overturning.  A lot of us accept mediocrity - or worse - because keeping all those happiness apples in place is much less daunting than Trying to Make It Work.  But when you're with someone for the long haul, the work should be fairly effortless, and whatever effort is necessary to bridge the understandably human gaps in a partnership should come without pulling teeth, without pushing each other too hard.  It should come without heated debate and name calling and finger pointing and apathy.  It should come without stress and without sadness.  Otherwise, your apples get rotten.  And if they do, then it's time to get off the ride.  There are other rides to enjoy.

There's a whole fucking world out there.  

 

It's not like I walked into that house and decided not to love her anymore.  I just decided to love myself more.  I had already reached my breaking point.  Couples therapy, medication, exercise, and lots of passionate speeches couldn't unbreak it.  Only my own fear was keeping me around.  There was money at stake, a house, a dog, my DVD collection.  And so I had to say goodbye and mean it this time.  Because I had said goodbye before.  Many times - through tears, peeling out of the driveway, storming out of the house.  Slamming doors, making threats, sleeping on couches.  I lost 20 pounds just by being married.  I was wasting away.  This was not who I was nor who I ever expected to be.

You don't spend five years with someone without your share of good times, moments, memories.  But you can't live in the past.  What about the present?  Are you having a great time now or are you just Maintaining?  What about the future?  Do you really expect it to get any better?  Do you see yourself Growing?

I stepped off the merry go-round two years ago and I have no regrets.  I cared about her.  I loved her.  We cried in each others arms during those last painful days where we were sharing separate floors of a house that is now a Sandy-devastated disaster area.  "Why are you doing this to us?," she asked through the tears.

Why? isn't just one thing.  It never is.  If you're cheating, if you lay your hands on your partner, if you're lying, if you're an alcoholic or a coke head or a gambler or rotten in bed, that's never the only Why?  The worst offenses are just manifestations of unhappiness, plain and simple.  In my marriage, this was Why?

One of my musical projects, Return To Earth, had gotten signed by Metal Blade Records.  It was a proud moment in my life.  In the music industry, you don't get signed for the first time when you're 35, you get dropped.  It wouldn't change my life, but it would be a nice thing for a long-toiling musician to hang on the mantle.

We had released our second album the previous summer and now we were playing a local show with some friends in support.  One of those friends put the above flyer together to promote the show online.  Band Promo 101.  I had nothing to do with the flyer's creation besides providing the artist with the necessary text and info, then giving it the thumbs-up and posting it online.  It had to be done quickly and not look like garbage, that was my list of demands.

Two weeks before I stepped off the merry go-round, my wife called me at the house.  We were already having a lot of problems and she was in Florida visiting relatives.  Cooling off.  She was the one away and I felt like the one on vacation.  Dad was over, we were having lunch when the phone rang.

"What's with the Tit Flyer?," she asked nastily.  No 'Hello', no 'I miss you', just  

"What's with the Tit Flyer?" 

I could spend a few paragraphs defending the flyer's content just as I spent a full hour trying to talk my ex off the ledge about it, screaming at her over the phone with my father and my dog well within earshot of all of my compounded problems - the jealousy issues, the insecurity, the immaturity.  My lack of any patience or temperance for this sort of bullshit.  I was a beast when we argued.  I had become one.  Because I'd had this argument countless times before.  There was only one Tit Flyer, but there were a thousand Tit Flyer arguments.  I had these arguments before I got on one knee, before I walked down the aisle, before I spent my life savings on a future in Staten Island.  It wears you down.  It wears you out.  It changes you.

The show flyer was an "insult to our marriage," she protested.  But it wasn't the flyer that most insulted our marriage.  It was the person on the other end of the phone.  The woman I had some really good times with, the woman I chose to marry in spite of her problems, in spite of our problems.  The woman I wanted to rescue had turned the knife on me and I was tired of getting stabbed.

So I stepped off the merry-go-round.  And two years later, I am finally me again.  I am A Better Me.  The merry-go-round just goes 'round and 'round.  It never changes, never leaves its axis.  There are no surprises, it can get boring quickly.  My father isn't a particularly profound guy and he probably didn't realize it then, but that may have been the wisest thing he ever said to me.

So the woman left and I stayed in the house, stayed with the dog.  I kept the things that were rightfully mine, and then they all became major problems after Sandy, major headaches.  Part of my penance.  And I continue to grow in spite of them, they continue to be lessons as much as they can be labeled Hardships.  They seem to be all part of the plan.  Life is supposed to be hard sometimes.  And I have continued to heal, continued to grow.  And it's not because I was alone, because I freed myself from the shackles of a sometimes sub-par and damaged relationship.  I just wasn't in the right one.  I wasn't in the one that made me better.  I decided I was finally ready to grow.  To grow up.


For the past two years, I have not officially been In A Relationship.  But I am very far from alone right now.  And I am pretty damn happy.  And none of it would ever have happened if I didn't shed myself of all that weight.  Stepping off the merry-go-round didn't mean I would have to be alone forever, it just meant that this particular bumpy ride was over.  It meant that I could get on other rides and see where they take me.

I don't have to go round and round anymore, I can go up.  I still believe that's where I'm headed.  That step off the merry-go-round was just the first of many, the most important one.  There are still more steps to take, more journeys to make.  The future looks brighter than ever.  Let's go for a ride.

Round and Round

A Bold Move

What will it take for you to make A Bold Move in your life?  I've been asking myself that a lot lately.  I've been asking myself that ever since Sandy.  Because Sandy was a push, a nudge.  It was a message.  It's a test, it still is.  But where is it nudging me towards?  What's the message?  What sort of test is this?

For me, the message has been clear:  Work Harder, Live Cleaner, Positive Vibes.  Keep fighting, don't give up.  Because if you do, you're doomed, you're dead.  Be strong but give yourself your time to recover from all this, to prepare for the tough days still ahead.  You can't do 2000 pushups in a day even if you'd like to sometimes.  Your house won't be rebuilt tomorrow.  Relax.  Breathe.  Be brave.  Speak your mind.  Take chances.

I talk A Big Game in this space.  I spout a lot of cliches.  Am I just drinking the Kool-Aid?  Isn't it easier to go back to being complacent, to set lower standards for myself, for others?  Sure.  It's easier.  It's always easier to settle.  There's less at stake.

I guess that's why I write this shit down, because it would be so much easier to give up if I didn't, so much simpler to settle for what would be - at best - quiet mediocrity.  I wouldn't feel as accountable for the words I typed, the things I said, the promises I made.  I could just endure this madness alone, quietly, or maybe back in therapy.  The couple hundred or so of you reading this - friends, family, fans, complete strangers - are waiting to see if I'll come back from all this or just shit the bed completely.  Things can't stay static in my story, there is too much that has happened, too much still happening in what has been an uphill battle since the storms came and changed my life forever.  In a strange way, I need that validation.

It's like when I run.  I always time myself.  Always.  Because I always want to beat the time before, I always want to do better.  I want it recorded so I can go back and look at it in a month, and say 'Look at you go, motherfucker.'  I need that.  I need to stay hungry.  I need my hunger to be documented, otherwise I'll sit on the couch and eat ice cream in the dark and no one will be the wiser.

The only way you can begin to Kick Ass is to believe that you can.  If I need to reaffirm those beliefs in My Stupid Blog - if that's one of the things that helps me achieve what I need to achieve - then so be it.  So be it.  I don't mind.  I like to write.  Whether I know what the hell I'm talking about is up to you, the loyal reader.  Either way, I believe what I'm spewing - whether you think I'm a noble warrior or Batshit Crazy Hopeless, I thank you for reading.  Truly I do.

You're welcome, Ron.  It's easy to talk A Big Game, but can you practice what you preach? 

I can either become the man I want to be or I can become A Disappointment, A Sad Case.  You can drive a nice car, you can live in a nice apartment, you can get married, you can start a family, but you can still be A Sad Case - as a parent, as a friend, as a lover, as part of a team.  You can conceal it well, you can fool people for awhile, maybe forever.  But you can't fool yourself.  You have to be real in order to truly be great.  This guy knows what I'm talking about.

Thanks to Sandy, it's easy to label me A Sad Case right now, to feel bad for me.  I turn on NY1 and it's five Sandy stories an hour - all day, every day.  It's my neighbors on Staten Island, my fellow victims across this big city - still rebuilding, still fighting, still in trouble.  The rest of the media has predictably eased itself back into generally ignorant normalcy.  After all, Kim Kardashian wore three separate outfits yesterday.  Priorities, people.

Me Today, me right now - the jerk writing this blog at this exact moment - this is the Best Adult Me that has ever been.  This is The Most Real Me that has ever been.  And I believe the best is still to come, that The Most Real Me has the best chance of becoming The Most Successful Me, the happiest me, the most fulfilled, the most fulfilling.  There is still work to do, still a path I need to stay on.  And I'm right on course.  My fate won't be revealed overnight, not with all the moving pieces in my world right now.

And that's the test - Sandy's gift and Sandy's curse.  Patience.  We're all in a rush, especially here in The Rat Race.  We all have our crystal ball, where we see ourselves further down the Yellow Brick Road.  All noble sentiments aside, you can bet your ass your Magic 8-Ball will be far from accurate.  Odds are you won't wind up in your dream city with the perfect job, the perfect mate, the perfect life.  And if that doesn't happen - and it rarely does - what does that leave you with?  Will where you actually land, will what you end up with be good enough?  Will you be able to live with your regrets?

That's why it's time for A Bold Move.  Not tomorrow.  But soon.  Soon.  You can't just wait for things to change, you have to make them happen yourself.  You have to wear your heart on your sleeve.  You have to emote.  You have to produce.  You have to recognize that no situation can be perfect until you position yourself in a way to make it so.




I lost another co-worker this week, another decade-younger-than-me radio junkie leaving the nest - doing what I never did, what I should have done.  They kicked me out 8 years ago and I still didn't leave.  I came back full-time for 5 more years.  I was getting married, so I needed to put responsibility before risky business.  I was secure, it was a comfortable place, a familiar one.  I needed them to support me and they needed me to fill a particular role.  Things were okay even if they weren't great.  I settled, and 5 years later, I'm still not where I want to be, where I need to be.  It's like being the 25th man on the roster of a championship baseball team.  You know your role, you do it right, you don't screw up.  You're at the end of the bench but you get to be part of a quality team.  Maybe you steal a base or make a great catch in the playoffs and you become Homer Bush or Endy Chavez.  You gain little notoriety, but you can still show up at your cousin's Little League awards dinner and wow the neighborhood kids.

That's not good enough for me.  And it wasn't good enough for my co-worker, Loren, either.  Loren had a similar role on the show.  A lot of grunt work, little glamor.  She was clawing for airtime the way I did when I was her age, and I give her credit.  She worked hard, she put the time in.  She had a passion for what she did even if she complained about it as much as I do.  In our sort of roles, complaining - frustration - can be a birthright.  Loren is driven.  And now she'll be driving up to Boston for a more hi-profile position as my friend TJ's co-host in a very competitive market during a very uncertain time in our industry.  Most radio pros would not forecast good things for my friends' new show.  They're unproven in the roles they're about to take on even if they're proven themselves ten times over in the roles they have been in.  It's risky.  They were comfortable.  It's stupid.  They had security.  It's A Bold Move.

And I think it's great.  Because they had peaked in the roles they were in.  More than likely, in their current positions, this was as good as it was gonna get.  And even tho that's not so bad, it's not good enough for TJ or for Loren, either.  There was still a better option even if it wasn't the more practical one.  Risky business was the way to go.  It's symbolic, in its small way, of what I'm going through.  Only two things can happen:

1) They'll try really hard, they'll make an impact, and they'll ultimately fail.  They'll prove the experts, the doubters right.  And they'll still be okay, they still have the passion and skill sets to land somewhere else.  Even if they sputter out, they're both about to connect to a whole new set of people in the industry they want to work and thrive in who can help send them on more adventures, perhaps even bigger ones.

2) They're gonna kick some ass, they're gonna be great, they're gonna be industry stars.  They're gonna make their dent.  They're gonna make their supporters proud and their naysayers envious.  They're gonna sit down with the ratings in two years and look at each other and say, "Holy Shit, We Did It." 

Isn't that what it's all about?  Defying the odds?  Isn't it all about "Holy Shit, We Did It"?

Either way, they're gonna learn a lot about what they're made of, and that's probably the most important thing.  You'll never grow if you don't take chances.  I didn't talk to Loren about her departure like I did with TJ because I knew I'd hear all of the same things I heard from him.  Cliche things.  Big Game things.  "I'd be a fool not to take this chance for someone who believed in me, for believing in who I can become." 

Go dream the dream, you maniacs.  I'm pulling for you.

Loren and I enjoying the spoils of radio victory.

Me, I'm still feeling shackled by my own post-Sandy responsibilities, by my confused heart, by my concern that Time Is Running Out.  But these are also the things that make me most want to break free, to fly higher.  I have to.  I have to.  I'm not satisfied.  I'm not ready for A Bold Move but I feel destined to make one.  Not today, but soon.

A year ago, I was given a gift.  An opportunity, a chance to Get It Right.  You don't get these gifts often, they're fleeting.  Sometimes they only happen once in a lifetime.  Often, people don't even recognize these gifts for what they are.  Most of us think we have something coming to us, that we're owed things just because we exist.  I used to be one of those people.

A year ago, I wasn't in a position to fight for what I believed in, to earn what was put before me.  I was Damaged Goods.  I wasn't ready, I was unworthy - and so opportunity fizzled out before it could turn into Something Special, something wonderful.  It was a false start.  And it was a lesson.  Better to have a false start and ultimately finish strong than to stay damaged, stay static.  You can keep things the same or you can make adjustments and try again, try harder.

When I lost the first girl I ever really loved over a decade ago, I prayed for her return.  I prayed and prayed and prayed.  I walked into random churches and prayed, I knelt before statues in my bedroom with my hands clasped and talked to no one in particular - begging, crying, pleading for another chance.  I wrote songs, I wrote love letters.  And nothing happened.  I never got my second chance.  

I'm not a religious person.  I was acting this way because I felt I had no other alternative.  I was desperate.  And it was all a big waste.  Not because my prayers weren't answered - because, whether God exists or not, they didn't deserve to be answered.  I hadn't learned anything.  I was being selfish even after I was being punished for being selfish.  I should have been trying harder right then and there, should have been doing the work instead of expecting someone else or God or The Easter Bunny or Batman to do it for me.  Some people take longer than others to finally figure it out.  And some people never learn.

Things are different now.  I am different now.  I'm awake.  And that's the most important difference.  Because The Same Ol' Me was going nowhere fast.  He wasn't a bad guy, he had some really good qualities - but he needed some tweaks.  The Same Ol' You might be going nowhere fast, too.  We all need tweaking.  But do we all want tweaking?  I do.

And with tweaking comes a resolution to find the truth - in yourself and in your expectations, and in others, for better or for worse.  No more excuses.  You're not obligated to live your life in accordance with others, only according to your own expectations.

So what do you want to be when you grow up?  The same little boy or girl you've always been?  Is Self-Realization enough?  Are these words enough?  Action.  You have to take action.  Your life can't be a cliche or a sneaker company's campaign slogan, it has to be pure and true and honest.  It has to be yours.  I'm on target towards A Bold Move - maybe the pieces in my life will move to make it easier, maybe they won't.  It doesn't matter.  I'm in charge now.  Not Sandy, not contractors or Uncle Sam or FEMA or my parents or the girls I loved.  Not the ghosts of my past and not the uncertainty of my future.  Just me, right now.  Stay on the path, dummy.  Stay on the path. 

A Bold Move

Redirecting The Meteor

Sometimes what's really going on in your actual life is too big for anything else, too deep to make writing about it seem like less than folly.  It pushes everything else into the background.  It's this meteor that has entered your atmosphere - hot as fire, massive, an unstoppable orb.

That's me right now, that's me tonight.  Not surprisingly, I want to feel the burn.

I'm a romantic.  If you look that word up in the dictionary (remember dictionaries?), you'll see words beside it like Imaginary.  Visionary.  Idealist.  All fair companions.  Because to be romantic, you have to have imagination.  You have to have a clear vision of the future.  You have to have ideals.

You have to have Big Ideas.

It has always been this way for me, and the objects of my romantic affections have always been girls.  I had a different secret crush every year from fifth grade through high school.  I was writing love letters, leaving mystery notes.  I was fantasizing, idealizing these lovely little lasses that I knew very little about.  But in reality, I never wound up with any of those girls.  I never kissed them or bedded them or took them to the prom.  Up until I was 20, being a romantic meant being a failure.  It was a source of pain and the occasional awkward moment - it perpetuated my shyness, it stunted my growth.

Things changed once I found a girl that was right for me, that I was connected to.  The love letters were given and received in equal share, the admiration and the feelings were finally mutual.  Romance became a rewarding sport.  It was eye-opening magic that made all that rejection seem like another guy's life.  When it all went to shit nearly 7 years later, I couldn't understand why.  How could this have happened?

The answers are always easy once you stop denying the truth and you start understanding it instead.  Romance can't blossom when it's drowned in lies.  If you're not true to your feelings, if you're deceptive to others, your relationships will never be full of romance, they'll be hard to maintain even if they seem manageable.  Instead, they'll be full of shit.  And yet it happens all the time.  It happened to me, it has probably happened to you.  For some of us, it happens over and over again.

We think we can live in denial, we can rationalize until we find a way to accept this fatal flaw as a little boo-boo instead of the massive head wound that it really is.  Most people live with it silently, they take stuff to the grave.  Others may take it to a friend or a therapist or to the nearest bar.

We all have secrets.

I'm done with all that.  I've been done with it.  It's an anchor, it's a curse.  I was doomed from the moment I stopped being a romantic.  I became a "guy."  A wolf.   I started working in two industries - music and radio - that bred wolves.  I grew up in the age of hair metal, where the prevalent themes were spandex, teased hair, and Getting Pussy.  Radio was less complicated, but no more noble.  Radio was the equivalent of Nerds Can Get Pussy Too.

So here I was on the assembly line at The Wolf Factory - girls were starting to notice me, they were starting to pay attention.  And instead of taking that at face value, I ate up the attention like a good little wolf.  I stopped putting the thing that was most important - the thing that made me feel whole - first.  I am not proud of that time in my life, a time where I should have been growing up instead of growing warts (writer's note: this is a metaphor. i do not, nor have i ever had actual warts).


 
I lost that passion.  I got too comfortable to realize that I was no longer doing my part to earn someone's passion in return.  And so it all went to shit.  Sometimes when it all goes to shit, you wake up.  Or you stay in that coma and you make more mistakes, worse mistakes.  With every misstep, a little more of The Romantic You flakes away.  The scars of acceptance start to form.  Your heart hardens.  You're still in denial about what needs to change.  Your self-doubt and secret shames compound and you start settling.  You start lowering your expectations - for a partner, or even worse, for yourself.  It's not just you, it happens to everyone.  It's a human epidemic, so it's okay.  It's the norm.

We are all weak.

And then the meteor appears.  Maybe the first meteor you ever really saw, maybe the last one you will ever see.  The meteor is this ball of fire, it's science fiction, a fantasy, an anomaly.  It has disrupted your complacent existence and you have no choice but to deal with it.  You can't run far enough away from something that generates that much heat.

More often than not, we don't ask for the momentous things that happen in our lives, whether good or bad.  They just happen.  It's how we choose to deal with them that defines who we are.  I have already dealt with a hurricane.  I have been asking myself over these past few post-hurricane months:  How do I handle a meteor?  And the answer I keep getting is: Bring It On.

Because I feel strong.  Because I need this change in my life, in my attitude, in my destiny.  Just like the hurricane changed things, just like Sandy did.  Sandy could have broken me, an already cynical down-on-his-luck dude looking for answers.  But Cynical Ronnie drowned in the flood, I let him die there.  He was no good to anyone.  Cynical Ronnie would have gained twenty pounds and grown a thick beard and ate ice cream for dinner.  He would have been a real dick.

I'm still dealing with Sandy.  In spite of all the headaches and setbacks, I have accepted it as a blessing of sorts.  My house will be rebuilt.  My life is far from ruined.  I feel lighter.  Things are happening that would never have happened if that dirty ocean water didn't come over for dinner and stay for dessert.

But Ron, how can you idealize something that destroyed your home, your possessions, that set you back financially?  Insurance is fucking you.  Your government is ignoring you.  Your Beatles albums are gone forever!

You can mourn that copy of Abbey Road that you still have on iTunes, or you can believe that something good will come of all this, maybe even something amazing, life changing.  You pledge patience and you shed yourself of all but the truth.  You get your shit together.  You feed your soul through a filter and you leave the dirt and silt behind.  Another romantic notion from a romantic idiot.

You take your drugs.  Running and writing.  That's what gets me through the days and nights, this winter of my discontent.  Running, like romance, takes effort.  It's catharsis.  It's good pain, it's stamina, it's a test. I have plenty of motivation to pound the pavement and I'm getting fit in the process.

It's also about commitment.  A year ago, I got on That Treadmill I Got To Keep In The Divorce and pledged to make proper use of it.  I signed up for the NYC Marathon to test my mettle - it was time to see what I was made of, to see if I could start something and finish it.  Because up til then, I couldn't finish anything - I kept failing.  And the only way not to fail is to keep trying, to keep going, to keep running forward til you reverse your fortune.  That's what running is to me - a romance.  I'm Rocky Balboa in my sweats and Adrian just came out of the coma and said "Win" and Bill Conti struck up the jazz band and I'm running up the steps with all those little kids in tow and I'm already feeling the champion.

My romance with running was supposed to end in November, right before my 38th birthday, when I crossed the finish line in Central Park.  This was a one-time deal.  A happy little chapter in my life that I figured would keep me in decent shape for the middle aged years to come, a time where most folks "let themselves go."

But sometimes romances last longer than you anticipate.  And so instead, there is unfinished business.  Would I still be banging out 12-15 miles a week in the cold and the snow if Sandy had never shown up and taken away my Marathon along with all my possessions?  Most likely not.  But that's what happened, and I'm riding the silver lining all the way to the finish line.  It has become just another blessing.  My body isn't screaming at me to stop.  Rather, it's inviting me to go faster.  And I'm obliging.  When you have as much on your mind as I do these days, running around in a circle for an hour can seem a real treat.

A friend gave me this card at my post-hurricane birthday party in Brooklyn four months ago.  What she wrote inside was very touching, as was her charitable and unexpected gift.  But it was the sentiment on the front that still sticks with me.  To me, it simply means It's Up To You.

Shit is gonna happen to you - your whole life, shit is gonna happen.  You're gonna literally step in shit, you might even step in shit figuratively.  You're gonna pile up a lot of shit in your life, too.  But how you deal with it, what you learn from it - It's Up To You.  If you get all your shit together - if you start believing that it's possible - your past mistakes won't matter anymore.  The future will appear less daunting.  Your history can't be rewritten, but that doesn't mean the later chapters can't be different, can't be better.  You might even find a little peace.  Your dreams might even come true.  More shit will happen, puzzle pieces will move, stars will align, a meteor may appear in the distance.  But at the end of the day, it's really all up to you.

I have learned some hard lessons these past few years.  I have lost some people I really cared about, that I felt connected to.  I have failed at a marriage, I have lost money, a house and a business.  But sometimes it's these little things - like this card I was handed on my 38th birthday, ten days after Sandy took everything - that really open your eyes to what you have gained, no less what you still stand to gain.

It's what lies within me - the romantic idiot - that sent this meteor hurtling towards me.  It's my music, my passion, my imagination, my ideology that has kept the fire burning.  It's me.  And that fuels me - knowing I can still be a bohemian dummy - that I can be who I am - and still attract something so bright.

And according to the card, it's What Lies Within Me that matters most.  It trumps both the imperfect past and the mysterious future.  It's The Biggest Deal.  And being passionate - about love, about music, about romance, about this meteor and all it represents - that's who I am.  There is no cure for it, there are only patchwork solutions.

Being passionate hurts.  Jusk ask Reznor, Yorke, Lennon.  Ask Beck and Prince and Marvin Gaye and Martin Gore.  Ask Stevie Wonder and Tina Turner.  No matter what great music or art or writing comes of it, it hurts.  The less you care, the less you pay attention to what your heart is trying to tell you, the easier it is.  But can you care less?  Is it within you?  Can you just shut it off?  Can you redirect the meteor or is it destined to crash land into your world, light you on fire, and change everything?

It's Up To You.

Redirecting The Meteor

Saying Goodbye, Staying Connected

Why are you still here?  Why do you still care?  Why can't you say goodbye?

Two of my favorite people are leaving.

Joe Milazzo is a longtime friend.  I met Joe in 6th grade.  That was the year my parents pulled my sister and I out of the Coney Island elementary school we had attended and we wound up at our zone school in Gravesend, P.S. 215.  It was traumatizing, spending kindergarten through 5th grade with the same kids, the same friends, and then being traded to the local team during your farewell season.  It's tough for grown men, professionals - much tougher for an 11 year-old.  My sister cried that morning as we were ushered unceremoniously into two separate rooms of a new world filled with new faces and new challenges.  Making connections.  I was shy enough of a kid, this didn't make things much better.

Joe was one of those new faces, he was friendly and endearing and made it easy for me to fit in.  In our band class, Joe played trumpet and you could already tell that he had a knack for music.  When you're the new kid, all the cool instruments are already claimed, so I got to enjoy all the glamor and glitz of the trombone that same year.  Joe was the first kid I knew who listened to heavy metal - he lived two blocks away and would invite me over to listen to his Twisted Sister and Quiet Riot records.

As we got older, Joe and I floated in and out of each others lives.  We didn't attend the same schools after grade school, but we always ran in the same musical circles, saw each other at the same shows, came to each others to show support whenever we could.  When I started my record label in 2005, I signed Joe's band, Black Pig, to a very artist-friendly deal.  Because I wanted to work with a guy like Joe.  I've always admired his creative spirit - he's a talented painter and poet in addition to his musical endeavors.  But I've always recognized that Joe Milazzo was a good guy, too.  We signed a contract over some Peronis and a Rice Ball Special at Joe's of Avenue U and I put the Black Pig album out.  The album's title?  It Is What It Is.

This past weekend, I attended Joe's record release party in Brooklyn.  Joe's new solo album is all Joe - the recording, the production, the artwork.  He is a true DIY artist and he chose to release his album the night before he would be traveling to Cuba, where he will be spending the next two months of his life.  We shared some conversation and a few hugs, Joe told me he loved me and thanked me for how I had contributed to his passions in my own small way.  I told Joe how proud I was of him, that I admired his bravery and his Kung Fu attitude.

A few years ago, Joe went to New Orleans with just a backpack and just painted.  He was living off the land for the most part, and he'll be doing the same in Cuba.  Joe is of Cuban ancestry and wants to meet his family, discover his roots, paint.  He's also on a quest to find his grandfather's long lost paintings.  It takes a certain spirit to do that sort of thing - a romantic one - and I've never been that sort of adventurer.  I hope I will be one day, once I find someone to see the world with.  Joe reminds me of my Uncle Sal, who was always one of my favorite people on this planet.  My uncle was fascinated with genealogy - about finding out who he was, about why he was.  Before his untimely death, my uncle saw the pyramids in Egypt, zip-lined thru the jungles of Africa, went down the Nile on a raft.  He explored various parts of Italy and met a lot of our distant relatives along the way.

Before I said my final goodbye to Joe, I asked him if he would be staying in touch.  He replied that, among other things, going to Cuba was an excuse to get him away from exactly that.  Detoxing from it.  Staying connected.  Sometimes disconnecting can be the best thing you can do for yourself.  But in today's day and age - an age of social netstalking and touch-of-a-button access to virtual lives - it's a challenge for us all.  No matter your destination, it is always there.  And often, instead of bringing us closer to each other, it perpetuates the loss we're already feeling in our hearts, in our minds, in our souls.

TJ before he discovered hair products, me before I discovered I loved Scotty B.

TJ Taormina is one of my co-workers on Elvis Duran and the Morning Show.  We've known each other for ten years.  Last week, TJ asked me to step into his studio so he could share something with me.  Over the past 5 years, this has been a bit of a ritual.  "Hey Ron, can you come drop a line for this promo?"  "Hey Ron, can you sing a few bars for this thing I'm working on for my friend's birthday?"  "Hey Ron, tell me what you think of this intro I'm working on."

Last week was different.  TJ asked me to step into his studio so he could tell me he was leaving the show.  He was offered the opportunity to host his own morning show in Boston and he was taking the gig.  I was floored, but so excited for my friend.  I've always been flattered that TJ has invited me to participate in his projects, but I've been even more grateful that he has recognized my talents as an asset, even after he moved higher up on the radio food chain.  That sort of sensibility is rare in our industry and no one is more deserving of a big break than TJ.

Recently, TJ started dating someone special and she is going with him.  TJ is following his dreams and he has someone by his side to share this new experience with him, to be part of the journey.  I'm just as excited for him because of that part of it.  I told him that he had it all figured out, I told him how proud I was of him.  I told him to cherish this time in his life.  I wanted to tell him "Don't fuck it up," but that's the sort of advice a guy like TJ doesn't need to be given.

After sharing the details of his new gig, after explaining how surreal and validating what was happening to him was, we shifted gears and TJ started talking about me.  He was offering words of encouragement, telling me how talented he thought I was, how I had a lot to offer the show and how in spite of his absence, I could still thrive.  It's odd hearing someone ten years younger than you tell you that You Can Do It.  But it makes sense too.  I'm a late bloomer.  I'm just figuring it all out now.  I think TJ figured it out a long time ago.

Still, TJ is taking a big chance.  TJ is not coming back in two months.  He could have stayed a star here in Market #1, New York City.  He's a great product, a commodity - young, personable, intelligent, a student of the radio game.  He started as an intern at Z100 and he has grown leaps and bounds ahead of a lot of his compatriots, including me.  But radio is a tricky business and TJ could well easily fall on his ass up in Beantown.  No matter how bad he wants it, no matter how hard he works, this could turn out to be a misstep.  But sometimes you just have to roll the dice.  I don't think that's what will happen.  Because TJ has it all figured out, he is making a bold move and he's doing it with a clear conscience.

I didn't ask TJ to take me with him and I don't expect to fill his shoes.  I know we'll stay connected.  But I'm happy to see him go.  Because one way or another, TJ's departure is going to mean change not just for TJ but also for me, for my co-workers, for the show.  When someone makes a move on the chess board, it affects all the moves of all the other pieces, it affects their motivation.  TJ's leaving at a time where I've never been more motivated to get things right, to figure out what he's already figured out.

I'm still trying to figure out if I'm strong enough to say connected to my dog.  His separation anxiety has improved enough that I can actually go out on weekends.  But he is still a mess, a major expense.  I try to put it into perspective for my friends:  Imagine you got divorced, then your house got destroyed by a hurricane, and you decided that was the perfect time for you to adopt a baby and raise it by yourself.  That's what my Buttons experience is right now.  But I see it as just another challenge to be grateful for.  Because if I'm ever gonna have a kid, there is no better dress rehearsal than raising Buttons.  He is more than a handful, and he has been my second full-time job since my divorce.  I run him two miles every morning now and he still freaks out on the dog sitter from time to time, he still won't eat all his food, still cries when I leave, still drops a spiteful shit on the sidewalk a couple of times a week instead of going when and where I tell him to.  This is what having a baby is, except babies wear diapers instead of shitting on the sidewalk.  My dog tests my patience and my strength, and I need to be tested if I'm ever to have a family.  I need to be a man. 

It has become just another Bring It On situation.  Bring it on.  What's next?  I saw a lot of familiar faces at Joe's sendoff, and most ask how things are going, and you just go down the list - the house is still a cold hollow shell, insurance and FEMA are still trying to screw me, the dog is still crazy, dating is still uninspiring, love is still so close yet still so far.  But I always end my Ronnie Update on a positive note, just as I always seem to end my Ronnie Blog.  Because in spite of all this strife and all these problems, Ronnie is doing okay.  Ronnie still believes that this is all for a reason, that this will all get better.  Ronnie, somehow, still has hope.

At Joe's party, an old friend told me I looked like a teenager.  This guy and I barely ever cross paths, but when we do, it's just like yesterday.  We got talking about running, about how we both found it and have embraced it, how we consider it a fountain of youth of sorts, how it has played its role in my resurgence.  I've been running for almost a year now, nearly logged 1000 miles on the pavement, and it's now something I look forward to.  It never seems a chore.  When you find something that inspires you, something that you're good at, it's an unbelievable feeling.  It reminds you that finding someone that inspires you, who lifts you up and makes you a better man, is still the most important thing.

Later on at the bar, a girl I'd never met before told me I had a good spirit.  Women tell me I'm handsome now, that I have a nice body, and it fills me with confidence even when I'm not filled with any excitement for the girls.  Confidence is something I've lacked for most of my life, but no longer.  Because I feel handsome, I do have a good spirit.  I feel good about myself, I believe in myself.

Believing in myself isn't the problem anymore.  Believing in others is still difficult.  Because it's the love and affection, the support of the people in your life that can make all the difference.  But you've gotta be given the opportunity to show what you're made of, and some people rush out the door too quickly.  People enter your life and ultimately they all exit.  Some exit gracefully, some exit tragically, some are easily forgotten, there are always that one or two that are impossible to forget.

When people exit your life for a good reason, when they exit like Joe and like TJ do, it's a great feeling.  But when they exit poorly - suddenly, unfairly - how can you ever feel good about it?  Sometimes people hurt you badly on the way out.  We all have our reasons.  I have left more than one relationship because I wasn't doing my part, because even tho things were going well on the surface, I wasn't fulfilled.  I wasn't happy with the person I was.  I could have tried harder, I could have made adjustments.  But I was still lost, I was still fucked up.

But Ron....It Is What It Is.

Fuck that noise.  My kitchen sink residing in my bedroom is what it is.  Not finding a parking spot is what it is.  The weather is what it is.  Some things we can't control.  But we can control ourselves, our own destinies.  We're in charge of our lives, we're just weak.  I am so tired of it.  So tired of hearing people say, in so many words:  I'm fucked up.  He's fucked up.  She's fucked up.  That crippling acceptance that's supposed to justify your bad decisions.  How about you Get Yourself Right?  We're all flawed, man.  We're all fucked up.  Recognizing that is not supposed to be a crutch, it's not supposed to be an excuse for your mistakes.  It's supposed to be a revelation.  Do you want to stay that way forever?  Do you want to accept that bullshit from someone else and still move forward?  I tried that - for five years I tried and I wound up miserable because of it.  Shed that weight and your world will change.  Otherwise, you'll always be stuck in the mud.

The first step is becoming aware of what it is that's really holding you back.  A lot of people never wise up to it, some of us never evolve.  If you recognize what needs to change, only then can you truly be saved.  But if you recognize it, and you still don't change it, that's the most tragic thing of all.  Because you're so close.  Because self-awareness, being able to look inside yourself and be willing to take a stand, that's a gift.  Often it's someone else who enters your life and opens up your eyes to what you need to do to get right, that pushes you to the peak of the mountain rather than secretly gasping for air halfway to the top.  We can be gifts, too.  We need each other, we need help, we need support.  Very often it's love that makes us rise up, that can change the game.  But love is not enough.  Love is the flower you've got to let grow.  You can't pluck the petals and put them in your pocket, it's not the same thing.

Very few people understand the magnitude of what has happened to me this past year and they will never understand.  And that's okay.  Because it's my life, my loss, my pursuit of happiness.  I don't need anyone else to understand because I understand.  I finally understand.  It took nearly four decades, but I get it now.  I know what matters most, I knew it before the hurricane washed most of my world away.  The storm just reinforced what's most important - chemistry, self-worth, love, hope.  Not fixing all the broken stuff inside my house, rather fixing all the broken stuff inside of me.  Getting yourself right.  Staying connected to the people that matter.  Never giving up on them.  That doesn't mean things will turn out the way I want them to.  But I'm finally on the right path.  Nothing seems too daunting, too difficult.  Anything is possible.


My friends Joe and TJ are on that path, they're both inspirations.  They're doing it the right way, the honest way.  They're taking chances, pursuing their passions, making something of themselves. They're not settling.  The minute you settle for less than you deserve, you get even less than you settled for.

If I've learned anything from all this recent devastation, it's that it's never too late to get your shit together.  Before the heartbreak, before the hurricane, I had a decent little life - good job, money in the bank, record label, house, dog.  But I was broken, I was still a coward when it came to certain things.  I'm no longer afraid, and if I can be brave, you can too.  Say goodbye to the worst parts of yourself and you'll never have to say goodbye to the things you want the most in this life.  It's not as hard as you think it is.  You just have to do it.

So do it.

Saying Goodbye, Staying Connected

Don't Blame Yourself

I lost it yesterday.  Broke down in front of two of my co-workers, my friends.  I held back on the train ride in.  Barely.  But by the time I got into work, two hours later than I had planned to arrive, I could no longer keep it together.  My relationship is on its last legs, and I have the hurricane to blame.  I have circumstance, timing, The Way My Life Turned Out to blame.  And of course, I have myself to blame.  But just like with everything else that has happened in my life these past two years, everyone keeps telling me this:  What's done is done.

Don't Blame Yourself.

I've done my share of screaming and crying at work these past few years, behind those soundproof glass doors and in my boss' office.  Most of it was about my ex-wife.  I remember breaking down in Elvis' office the first time I knew I needed to get out of my marriage, the first time I dropped the D-bomb out loud.  My boss and I don't hang on the weekends, we're not best buddies.  But somehow he has been there through this whole mess, a blessing and a savior, and a kind ear.  My co-workers have borne witness to these tough times in my life, and I sense that strange combination of pity and admiration whenever I'm around them.

Two months after I was hired to work on the morning show, my uncle died in a car wreck.  I was married a month later.  Two years after that, I was ready to pull the plug.  That's when the first screams were heard, the first tears were shed.  That's just the way it has gone.  It was a mistake.  After the divorce, I swore aloud in a co-worker's studio:  "I'm not gonna be The Damaged Divorce Guy." 

And I wasn't.  I was keeping it together.  If anything, my life was better.  Calmer.  By last summer, I was emerging from the darkness and into the light.  I was training for the NYC Marathon, I was dating a beauty, I was happy, I was healing.  And then the last five months of my life happened and I wound up worse off than The Damaged Divorce Guy could have ever imagined.  Now The Damaged Divorce Guy looks at me and wipes his brow and says "Shit, at least I'm not him."

The relationship I'm talking about, the one that brought me to tears yesterday - and not for the first time - is with my dog.  Buttons.  I've recounted my saga with my loyal Westie in this space, and since then he has taken a major turn for the worse.  I dropped 500 bucks at the vet last weekend so they could run a bunch of tests to tell me that nothing is physically wrong with Buttons.  He's the picture of perfect health, he's just nuts.

It's my dog's head and his heart that are damaged, and I suppose I can relate.  After all, my dog and I have experienced the same separations together - from people we cared about and from the house we lived in.  It has been a fucking adventure of epic proportions.

When Sandy came, it made a manageable situation quite unmanageable.  Starting right after the holidays, my dog wouldn't let me leave the apartment without wailing.  Classic separation anxiety.  Buttons has to be alone so I can go to work, so I can have a life.  A girl comes to my apartment five days a week and watches Buttons.  He has bitten her three times.  This girl's name is Ilana, she's a Park Slope hipster chick with a nose ring who loves to sketch, read comic books, listen to heavy metal and watch Law & Order.  She also loves dogs.  She's sticking with Buttons even while I consider turning him into sausages. 

But in spite of Ilana's sacrifice, I still can't deal with my dog biting people, even if he has restricted his bad behavior to when I'm not around.  It stresses me out.  So Buttons is in full-on rehab right now.  It's sink or swim for my dog, and he's on his last life preserver.  It reminds me so much of my divorce, this situation.  About how I tried everything to make my marriage work and it just didn't.  I invested more money and time into it, I preached positivity in the face of hopelessness, and in the end, I still wanted out.  It's costing me a small fortune - behaviorists, babysitters, medications, muzzles.  You try to stay patient, you try to convince yourself that this can be fixed.  Through the tears and the deep breaths, you look at it as just another obstacle that needs to be overcome.  Surviving a superstorm will put the rest of your struggles into perspective, I can tell you that.

This used to be my music studio.

Then there is the existentialist in me that sees the dog as this final piece of the shitty part of my life.  That he has to go before I can truly be reborn.  I've wrestled with this for awhile.  He's just a dog.  And that's what brings the tears, envisioning life without him.  It's another familiar feeling, feeling the void of someone's departure.  Because I love the little fucker and I want him to be okay.  I want him to emerge victorious just as I want myself to.  I feel like his only shot to be a good dog is with me in his life.  I want to do it together, I don't want to give up.

Dealing with the worst parts of my life isn't the problem, tho.  It's not sharing the best parts of my life - the running and the exercise, my adorable baby nephew, the music and the piano playing, the food and the wine - that hurts more.  It lessens their impact a little, experiencing them alone.  That vital piece that would change everything, change how all these shitty situations - the damaged house, the demented dog - could unfold, it's still missing.  Partnership.  I haven't taken a vacation in four years.  I need to have ridiculous meaningful sex on a tropical island, I need to get into a studio and scream, I need to dance close to someone, I need a fucking massage.

Instead, I cried at work, drew some more tears from the well.  I'm a sensitive guy, man.  Too sensitive sometimes.  It's just my nature, and in a lot of ways, it's also my dog's.  You can't unlearn being sensitive.  You just learn how to keep the mask on tighter and longer.  The best you can hope for during times like these is that you learn how to handle it outwardly even if your house is fucked, even if your dog is a loon, even if you still spend your days burning for someone inside.

You have to live.

Are you familiar with The Book of Job?  It's a famous Bible story in which a prosperous man is abandoned by God and loses everything.  Satan tests Job to see where his faith lies, to see how deep it truly rolls.  And in spite of losing all he once possessed, in spite of all his suffering, Job never considers God less than a homeboy.  He never reproaches the same entity that blessed him with all that is now gone.

Because blessings - life's gifts - they're fleeting, they're rare.  You can't ever take them for granted, toss them aside, or you will lose your way in this world.  Trouble will find you no matter how much you think you can avoid it.

That was me just a few short months ago, trying to set my moral compass.  Making excuses for being weak and taking the gift I was given for granted.  I was looking to be handed the answers instead of making my own.  This gift wasn't perfect, but nothing is perfect.  It still had the potential to be amazing, to be the most fulfilling part of my life.  And it was always up to me to get it right.

And I did it.  I got myself right - and it's fucking amazing how easy it has been, especially in consideration of all that God has taken away from me.  And I didn't do it because of the hurricane.  I got right because of love - because I felt like I didn't deserve it unless I felt truly worthy of it.  Maybe that's not the case.  Maybe I would have lost it no matter how good or bad a guy I truly am.  But I got right, and I've stayed right, and I believe that if and when love finds me again, I'll be worthy.


But I'm no Job.  I'm just Ron.  I have no festering sores.  That mole on the side of my head that grew to resemble a chocolate chip last summer?  It's gone.  It fell off.  The pain, the rashes in places they didn't belong?  Gone.  I'm still blessed with many things - my family, my career, my health.  So why the fuck do I deserve anything more than that?  Isn't that enough?  Doesn't that make up for the heartbreak, the wacko dog and the dark, moldy house?

Yes and no.

Because I believe that this is all a test.  Life is a test, always.  You make certain decisions that mold your destiny - you recognize the good ones and you learn from the bad ones.  I have learned from my mistakes, I have grown.  I have retired my worst habits and tempered the bad ones.  I have taken the fire of my failures and used it to fuel my spirit which in turn fuels my body.  I have dedicated myself to being a better person, a stronger man.  And I look at my suffering as an eye-opening blessing, an opportunity.  Because it could be so much worse even if it could be so much better.

So now I no longer do anything half-assed, and that includes getting my crazy dog fixed.  You can't put a Band-Aid on a bloody stump and expect it to heal.  I dedicated the first month of this year to fixing myself - looking my best, feeling my best.  I finally got through all of my Sandy-survived clothes and half of them no longer fit.  I'm a shirt-filling Medium now instead of an undersized Large, and that's perfect.  Not too big, not too small.  Just right.  When you run as much as I do, you can't afford to look like this:

Steroid user

Running keeps me sane, it's an hour-long escape from all this madness.  I lift my weights, but I want the physique of Bruce Lee.  I want to be lean, toned and flexible.  Running has cost me half of my wardrobe (who wants to go shopping??) but it has doubled my confidence.

My curl bar and my pushup bars survived the storm and I've taken that as a sign and put them to work.  I hit the gym after my runs now instead of hitting a pipe.  I eat cucumbers for lunch and edemame for dessert.  On the days I cheat, I just run harder and longer.  I'm discovering my abdominal muscles.

Now it's a new month and I'm maintaining my drive while I still struggle to turn away from love, my fickle mistress.  You can't turn it off, you can only temper it for so long before it boils over.  So you keep that mask on tight, you keep pretending that it doesn't matter even when you think it's all that matters.  You try to unlearn being who you are just so you can stay sane. 

Damn you, Leonard Bernstein.

You try to free yourself of the little hope you're hanging on to because you recognize that some things are no longer up to you.  And you've got enough shitty stories already.  So you wait for the bad news and you brace yourself to struggle with it forever.  It is what it is.  You go on dates even if your heart isn't in it because that's what you're supposed to do.  You run alone and you run like a beast.  You do more pushups and you keep being honest with yourself about who you are and what you need to get you through the day.  Maybe it's not supposed to be love.  We all second-guess ourselves, we all have our reasons.

But I don't blame myself.  I should be enough, and if I'm not, then I'm not.  I said it all, I confessed my sins, I did what I had to do.  I know what I have to offer, and if the lights ever go down behind me and the Al Green cranks up in my brain the next time a girl walks into my world, I will dedicate myself to being enough, always and forever.
 
But love and I are on probation.  Healing is the order of the day.  The house, the dog, my heart.  Being happy.  I'm happy with myself for the first time in a long time even if I'm not satisfied with the current circumstances in my life.  I'm finding my way, I'm turning down sex (yes, guys do that too - well...some guys), I'm taking it one day at a time.  I'm repenting.

That doesn't mean I don't feel what I feel, but they're useless feelings if they're not met halfway.  I'll wait for it to happen.  And until then, I'll keep my head as best I can.  I'll keep the faith.  Bad things happen to good people, but good things happen to them too.   In the end, God returned to Job and bestowed him with more wealth and happiness than he had before all that suffering.  There can still be a pot o' gold at the end of my shitty rainbow.

We all deserve the right to fight for our own destiny, but you have to let all the bullshit go.  You have to.  Just do the best you can.  I look in the mirror now and I don't point fingers.  I look in the mirror and I like the bald romantic idiot staring back at me.  I recognize that I'm fixed, that I'm no longer to blame for what happens next.  That I'm giving my all even when I'm struggling, with a clear conscience.  I'm pure, I'm guilt-free.  I have seen the light and I'm running in the right direction, straight towards it.

The rest will fall into place.

Don't Blame Yourself

Fear, Love, Failure, Determination

“You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated. In fact, it may be necessary to encounter the defeats, so you can know who you are, what you can rise from, how you can still come out of it.”- Maya Angelou

Once upon a time, this happened:


Anyone who has ever heard their song on the radio for the first time will tell you:  It's awesome.  It's the hairs on the back of your neck standing up, it's your dick stirring in your pants, it's that shit-eating grin you can't wipe from your face.  It's a slightly more subtle version of this:

There are some truths to what Elvis Duran said while talking up my song on the biggest morning show in the biggest radio market in the country.  I was working down the hallway - I was Z100 radio's Sales Promotions Manager, newly promoted after three years toiling in the station's Traffic department.  New York's #1 Hit Music Station was my 'put bread on the table' day job that allowed me to safely pursue my rock star dreams while nurturing my middle class values (and appeasing my parents).  I worked part-time jobs every summer starting at age 12.  I went to city college.  I graduated.  I bought property at age 23.  Mission accomplished, Mom and Dad.

Radio was my second passion, it's the biggest reason I wanted to go to college.  I was one of the nerds running your college radio station, discovering Radiohead and Jeff Buckley while you were doing Jager shots over at the frat house.  But at Z100, I wasn't doing anything fun.  I was on the grounds, just not in the clubhouse rubbing elbows with Ja Rule and Dave Matthews.  But that didn't mean I couldn't visit the clubhouse with my demo tapes in hand.  And when the opportunity arose, I did.  That's what you did, unless you were an idiot.  A wannabe rock star working at a radio station is like a fat chick working at Sizzler.  You've gotta take advantage of your surroundings, just don't saddle up to the salad bar too often so as to annoy management.

So I didn't ask for any favors, I just gave Elvis the 3-song EP I had been working on with my friend Ron "Bumblefoot" Thal, a new electronic solo thing I had just started up after 5 years playing keyboards in a moderately successful pop/rock band.  I gave a copy to Tom Poleman, Z100's Program Director, too.  Elvis liked it, so he decided to play it.

I was 26 years old.  It was a Friday, around 7:30am.  The producers of the show - good friends of mine - called me excitedly and told me to tune in.  I was laying in my bed with my girlfriend when the song came on and I felt like I was levitating about five feet over it instead.

I was on my way.

That was June 22, 2001.

Now I work for the same morning show that aired my song, for the same man who played it nearly a dozen years ago, one of the only people in this godforsaken industry who has given me a break, given me a chance.  I'm in the clubhouse now, been in it for nearly half a decade.  And for the most part, I'm still not doing anything fun.

So did I fail?

Most anyone in my industry will tell you that having your song played on Commercial Hit Radio in Market One during a peak listening hour can only lead to one thing - Attention.  Right, Karmin?  So why have you not seen me as the musical guest on SNL?  Why don't I have 261,000 Twitter followers?  Why didn't I open up Zootopia as Elvis predicted?

Because that was the last time any Q*Ball song I ever wrote or recorded was played on Z100.  It was the last time any Q*Ball song was played on Top 40 radio, period.  I came into work on June 22, 2001 still basking in the sunshine of that 7 minutes of airtime.  As I recall it, one of my producer friends pulled me aside to tell me that Elvis had gotten a phone call while my song was playing (on the dreaded STATION HOTLINE).  The call was from a rather passionate higher-up at the station scolding Elvis for playing an unknown song during peak listening hours.  And that was that.

It's understandable.  Z100 was trying to climb back atop the Top 40 Mountain - the station was struggling when I got hired, something Z100 wasn't used to.  Z100 struggling in the ratings is like the Yankees finishing at the bottom of the American League East.  It's not acceptable for very long before you'd start to see a few heads roll.

So playing Q*Ball instead of more popular - and now legendary - acts from that same year meant risky business.  It was obvious that artists like The Calling, Willa Ford, Five For Fighting, 3LW, Alien Ant Farm, Staind, Da Buzz, Toya, Evan and Jaron, Uncle Kracker, and Eden's Crush needed more of a push than That Nice Bald Guy Working Down The Hall.

But hey, I'm not bitter.  Uncle Kracker rules.

It's good to be Uncle Kracker.  Duh.

I couldn't be bitter, I couldn't complain.  I could only say thanks.  Because they didn't owe me a goddamn thing and they still played my mediocre electronic rock party song, they still talked it up and said all those great things about me.  They still sent a few copies of the EP to their record label buddies with their seal of approval attached.  I was told that had only happened twice, to me and to Jessica Simpson.  And Jessica Simpson looks much better in shorts than I do.  Game over.

So the opportunity was also the problem.  I fucking worked there.  I had to be a good soldier, I couldn't stir the pot.  My decade and a half in radio has taught me a few things, one being if you're gonna stir the pot, you better be delicate about it and you better have a strategy. 

There are other tales of woe related to my Z100 radio career:

That Time I Got Booed Off Stage at a Station Event.

That Time I Almost Walked Out Because I Wasn't Allowed To Have An Opinion.

That Time They Passed Me Over For That Job I Wanted.

That Time They Fired Me.

And a dozen years later, I still work there.

So did I fail or am I just super determined?  Or have I just been a fucking idiot?

You'll have to ask me down the road.  Because I'm still on the tracks, I'm still rolling.  "Failure" could have meant being one of those bands I mentioned.  2001 was probably awesome for the bass player in The Calling, but how is his 2013 going?  What's Ja Rule up to now?  "Failure" could have meant not being passed over for that job I wanted and then getting hit by a bus during my new commute.  You can't gauge the success or failure of a career, of a relationship, until it's over once and for all.  Failure can be as fleeting as fame.  All you can do is accept the journey.  It is what it is.

Two months after Elvis played my song, some planes crashed into some buildings across the river from our studios.  The same morning show folks who were rooting Q*Ball on two months earlier were watching those buildings burn.  The world changed forever.

My world certainly changed, stirring up a life that has rarely remained static since 9/11/01.  I put three more Q*Ball albums out, I started my little record label, I signed three bands, I put two more albums out with Return To Earth.  The Internet showed up and decimated the two industries I work in.  Simultaneously.  And yet I still work in both.  Somehow, I'm still here.

Over the past decade, I've lived at five different addresses, I've told five different girls "I love you," I've divorced one and I don't talk to the other four.  I bought a dog and a house, I endured a hurricane.  Everything has changed.  Everything continues to change.

So did I fail?  Was it my fault?  Someone else's?  Bad luck?  Bad mojo?

I didn't deserve that success back then.  I was a hack.  I had good songwriting ideas, some cool influences, and I had the help of an amazing musician who knew how to produce my stuff and make it sound its best.  I sampled a lot of beats that didn't belong to me, but that didn't stop Diddy and Kanye from ruling the world, so I don't point to that.

I lacked confidence, and rightfully so.  Before Q*Ball, I was in bands.  Q*Ball was me in the center ring for the first time, and I didn't have the attitude - the balls - to properly pull it off.  Before Sandy washed my entire musical history away - songbooks, CDs, old demos, magazine articles, lyric sheets, banners, show flyers, keyboards, hard drives - I had a chance to sample my early performances captured on video.  And it's clear to me now what I knew then but couldn't admit to myself.  I was a clown.

When you're in a band, you can play The Clown, just as long as you can be The Prince when you get behind your instrument.  Or you can be Keith Moon and be both.  Or you can be one of a series of clowns and still get by.

But I was just a clown.  I'm not a skilled musician, I don't play any instrument proficiently.  But not everyone is Pete Towshend or Elton John.  The biggest problem was- and has always been - fear.  I wasn't confident on stage, I didn't have the look or the charisma to make up for it, and the lack of any regular performing never allowed for proper seasoning in that arena.  Most Q*Ball shows did not go well, for a myriad of reasons, but I was always one of them.

Aren't you being a little hard on yourself, Ron?

The only way you can evolve in your short time on this spinning rock is to take responsibility.  For everything.  You have to recognize who you are before you can decide who you want to be.  Being Some Girl's Dude was always part of the equation - always where I was and where I wanted to be while I carved out a career for myself.  Five years ago, I was with someone who finally wanted to go all the way.  I know that's why I married her, even tho there were more than a few reasons to be wary.  It was nice to be wanted.  But just because you're wanted doesn't mean you're with the right person.

When I got divorced, I had this idea that my music and radio careers would finally take off because the biggest obstacle - The Jealous Woman - had now been removed.  But the next two years meant more abandonment - by band mates, friends, label employees.  And the biggest obstacle was still there.  It wasn't a green-eyed monster.  It was me.

And in a lot of ways, I was okay with all that abandonment.  Because my band mates and employees were obstacles, too.  It was necessary to shed that additional skin.  I got it into my head that being Some Girl's Dude was still where I wanted to be, and if all else failed, I could live with being just that.  I believed that Love was still The Most Important Thing.  And I had a chance to do it right this time, I found someone who made me believe love was still top of the mountain.  But that didn't work out either.

So did I fail?

I don't know what's next, I really don't.  I know I'm still dealing with some obstacles, still dealing with the Sandy aftermath, with my broken dog.  But obstacles occur daily.  Since I woke up in the wake of the hurricane, I have looked inside myself honestly and taken stock of what matters.  Music still matters, just not in the way it used to.  It's still part of me, it still flows thru my veins, it still soothes me on the subway and pushes me harder when I need to do just one more mile or five more pushups.

But making music has been hard.  Because I'm not a clown anymore.  I'm a man.  My songs are no longer about outer space or candle wax or dancing the funky chicken.  They're about adult stuff, about longing and regret.  I write my songs like I write this blog, and I'm tired of writing about the same broken heart, about the same girl, over and over again.  I want to write happy songs or I don't want to write at all.  And it's so easy to fall into that trap, to sit on the piano bench and D minor myself to death.  I'm tired of falling into traps.  I'm tired of being reminded of people who don't want me in their life anymore.  I'm tired of relying on the same old crutches to get me by.

Radio still matters because putting bread on the table matters more than ever now.  And I've been able to live comfortably off the loaves, more comfortably than most I know.  And because that same guy who gave my song a break in 2001 has given my life such a boost since I joined his clubhouse a few years ago, and for that I will forever be a loyal soldier, a friend, and an admirer.  I see the altruistic man, the confident power player my boss is today and I see someone I want to be. 

This company I've had such a tumultuous relationship with since I showed up in swampy Secaucus, New Jersey - a skinny 23 year-old kid who listened to electronica, Pantera and White Zombie - has stepped up to help me through this difficult time.  I want to acknowledge that I received a grant for $15,000 from my employers at Clear Channel, which absolutely blows my mind.  That makes up for that time you sorta fired me, guys.  Thank you.  Life is fucking weird.

Family Matters.

I'm not afraid of much anymore.  Because I have failed - at a lot of things.  But I'm still trying.  I'm not afraid of success, of love, of finding happiness.  I should be.  Some could argue that I should be crawled up in the fetal position somewhere, bawling.  But I run instead.  I write.  I cook.  I carve out time for the people in my life who matter.  I'm becoming the man I need to be, and it has to start with that before I can grab for the things I want, before the things I want can grab me.

The best part of all this - the most important part - is that there are no secrets anymore, no more lies or exaggerations.  There's no Manti Te'o or Lance Armstrong angle to my post-Sandy tale.  All of it is true.  My house was really destroyed by a hurricane, my dog is really crazy, I really run like an idiot and do a hundred pushups a day (125 now!) thinking of some knucklehead's face.  I'm progressing.  I'm determined.  I'm ready to rise up.

I still believe in true love even tho it has shunned me.  I still believe I'm capable of things I haven't even tried to achieve yet.  I'm bitch slapping fear and failure in the face one day at a time, and even if things don't wind up the way I want them to - even if that was my last spin on the radio, even if I stared a dazzling beauty in the face for the last time - I have to grow.  I have to keep trying, I have to keep looking for my calling in life.  I'll never quit, and even if the pieces finally start to fall into place, I'll continue to fight, continue to climb.  I'll never be complacent again.

Only those who dare to fail greatly can ever achieve greatly.

The first part of that is behind me now.  It's time to achieve.  Who's comin with me?

Fear, Love, Failure, Determination