At 5, we search for eggs, at 22, we search for dreams

Easter has always been and always will be one of my favorite holidays. It combines the food aspect of Thanksgiving, the basket (gift aspect) of Christmas, and the childhood game of hide-and-seek. Only instead of people, we hide eggs, and instead of seeking all over the neighborhood, we seek all through out our homes. This was always my favorite part.

My brother and I would compete until there would be one or two eggs stranded in some desolate location that my mom would surely be laughing about as she hid the egg there. Despite always taking an extremely long time to find the red or blue or green colored egg, it was always my favorite egg to find---because it was the challenge.

Like Easter, I now find myself seeking on a life-time egg hunt. Only this time I'm not searching for the red and green striped egg or the polka-dotted one, I am searching for the full-time job, the man that will give me the most wonderful and loving family, and the opportunity to be on top of the world. I am searching for that TV pitch that gets accepted, that movie script that wins an Oscar, and that book agent who helps sell my novel as a number 1 best seller at Barnes and Noble.

Yes, at 5, we search for eggs, and at 22 we continue that egg-hunt, only our eggs are bigger, and withstand more cracks. Because At 5, we search for eggs, but at 22--we search for much more--much more that can't be found behind the pillow of a couch, or beneath the living room chair. Much more that can't be hidden behind the leg of a piano bench, or the head rest of a bed. Much more that can't be found in the corner of the refrigerator or stuck between love seat cushions like a remote control. No. These things can't be hidden in book shelves or cupboards of our homes, because we are no longer searching for something that we soon forget about after we find it. We now search for much, much more.

We search for dreams, and passions and opportunities that are dyed with perfection and beauty. We search for the right words and the right answers that are dyed with consonants and vowels. We search for a home, a business, a family, a life--all dyed with hard-work and faith. We search for money, once-in-a-lifetime chances--all dyed with longing and hope.

Above all, we search for happiness.

Sometimes we lose an artist so he can draw a better world...

“There was no one out there who didn’t want to be Breht Boone’s friend. // A world-class conversationalist // Genuine .”

The Knicks are struggling in what could be their final game of the season. The Celtics are pounding, and the scoreboard reads four eights across the board: 88-88. The bar is rowdy and alive. The waitresses are hustling and the bartender is sliding shots down the line. The world is still moving, but a table of four that will soon grow to a table of 5,6, and eventually 15-20 is at a standstill.

I look across the table to one of the best friends that I have made here in this big endless city that sometimes echoes loneliness even when a bar is filled to capacity. His eyes try to swallow his tears, but they are unable.

“I just don’t know when I’ll break down again,” he says to us. One of his best guy friends reaches for his hands, and we nod in agreement. A night like this isn’t supposed to be easy—like the Knicks losing in the final seconds—this family feels the struggle of a tough battle—one that saw the loss of not a championship trophy, but a champion—a person who smiled beautifully, drew poetically, and lived genuinely. A person who would one day build a gallery of art to auction off. A person who allowed each person whose life he became a part of to be the highest bidder and have the opportunity to be a part of his.

I didn’t know Breht Boone that well. Before I met him, I knew of his epic alliterative name and of his art, of his kindness and his sincerity--and I before I met him, above all, I knew that I wanted to be his friend. Before ever speaking a word to him, shaking his hand, or giving a head nod hello, I knew that I wanted to one day have him be part of my life. The family of friends that I had been invited into last year had spoken so highly of him that I often declared to some of them, “Damnet, when do I get to meet Breht Boone?“

And then one day I did. And every word I had heard about the man, the artist, the cheerful soul, was undoubtedly true. It wasn’t before long that Breht and I were having a conversation with two, three, and then four other people about movies we hated, movies that were awesome, and movies that we couldn’t agree on. It wasn’t before long that I could see why each and every person I had met before Breht, had such kind and enduring words to say about him, his personality, and his talent.

Now, sitting in a bar with his New York City family, I can see their pain, their hurt, and their disengagement with any world that exists outside the one they are living in. Time has stopped. And even if the trains are moving, the streets are humming, and the lights in Times Square are glowing, this family doesn’t know that. They know what they are feeling and whom they are feeling it with. My friend is no longer trying to swallow his tears, his face is red, his hair is ruffled, and his body seems tired. Several others join him. From across the bar, I see others laughing over memories they have over the charismatic comic book fan, the man I was often told to be the last man standing at parties, the man they all loved and believed in. I see my good friends, remembering their great friend…their brother…their reminder that great people do exist in this world—people who are probably too good for this world anyway.

On the night that I met Breht, he reached to grab his phone and show me examples of his drawings. He told me how he was planning an art show, how excited he was for it, and how everything was coming together. It may not be the art show we all expected, but I am pretty sure he’s going to draw us a pretty beautiful and amazing gallery of a better world from up above.

Paying Tribute to Best Friend Appreciation Day

I'm not sure that Best Friend Appreciation Day actually exists, and it would only take a moment to Google it, but I declare today, April 17, to be my Best Friend Appreciation Day--the day I take the moment to recognize how a stranger--or a group of strangers became an acquaintance or a group of acquaintances--and then became a friend or a group of friends--and then my wonderful, beautiful best friend---or again--group of best friends--never to be traded, never to be altered, never to be lost.

Sometimes, as you watch someone walk away, all you can do is smile, knowing that a piece of your life has been made better by one simple second with that person, or by one simple conversation, or by one simple moment where you took the time--and that person took the time to say "Hey, let's take one time to just sit down, talk, discover, and learn from each other." Sometimes your life is simply made better by a friend that you never -- ever imagined having come into your life--that you never could have predicted would step into your world -- that you never would have guessed would go from someone you once said hello to in passing to someone you hoped you'd never have to say goodbye to.

The last time I said goodbye to my best friends, I was boarding an airplane to another country, just a few short days--and/or hours later. Their smiles were for the happiness that awaited me on the landing pad of my near future destination. Their goodbyes were filled with "You will have such a great time, you will be so happy--you will see so much." It reminds me of how we should always say goodbye to someone we love--or--see you later to someone who has entered our life for a short period of time--or long period of time, with a smile on our face even if we are sad in our hearts, because the truth is that person will be leaving for a new journey, a new future, a new world, with a smile on their face and hope in their heart.

I am so lucky to have had the best friends in the entire world to know how to say goodbye the right way, to know how to love people and their decisions, to know how to understand different worlds are for different people, to know that saying goodbye to people is seriously just "Be happy, and enjoy it...we'll still be here--forever, and always." The best friends that you make always will be the best teachers that you have.

My best friends have taught me a lot of things like how to:

Enjoy the moment--See the world--Follow my dreams--Live passionately--Understand others--Find happiness--Be independent--Live on the edge--Follow through with promises--Listen well--Speak well--Take time to relax--Take time to have fun--Make the best out of a bad situation--and how to Love.

When I was a freshman in college, I sent my best friends hand made Valentine's Day cards that stated what a best friend was--to me. Before I left for Italy, just under six months ago, one of my best friends sent that back to me. She wouldn't know it, maybe not 'til now at least, but it meant the world. In Moulin Rouge, they state that the greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return. I have come to a firm standing that one of the other most greatest things in the world to learn--and discover, is how to be a best friend--and how to have a best friend--how to love that best friend--and how to be loved by that best friend. One of the most wonderful feelings in the world is knowing that the people you care most about--also care most about you. And those people won't ever change, even if miles change, even if locations change, even if lifestyles change.

My childhood best friend, and I still speak, still laugh, and still love each other. I will never stop loving her the way I loved her when we had our sleepovers, built forts in the woods, or made up really bad dances to the Spice Girls or 'N Sync. If she was the best at one time--she will always be one of the best to me, now and in the future--no matter the circumstance.

A lot of people may say you can only have one best friend. I don't think that's true. Many people are lucky to come across a handful of people that they can call a friend. I consider myself lucky to have come across what I consider to be handfulS (note the S) of best friends--people that I will always go to, that I will always trust, that I will always LOVE.

These are the people that I will always have an appreciation for--every day--even if there's never a day declared for it.

A little voice inside my head said: Don't look back--You can NEVER look back

image copyright: Creative Commons

I refuse to sit backwards on a train unless I absolutely have to. I have always said that this would be the perfect character detail---the perfect architecture for the personality construction of someone who is stuck in the past—who can’t see tomorrow or even the present. All that is on his or her mind is yesterday, or the day before that—the mistakes made that are long past, the regrets, the moments that have already gone by.

I like to think of myself as someone who will always sit looking forward on a train, because I am always thinking of the next step, the next place, and the next goal I can set for myself—another deadline—another dream.

So when I look back, I try to make it on very prime moments in my life—very proud moments.

A lot of people might say their proudest moment was the day that he or she got accepted in to college—or the day they graduated college. Someone might say that it was the moment they hit their first homerun on the baseball field, or drew their first accepted museum piece. Another person might say it was in making their loved ones smile. But when I do look back, and see these things—these achievements, none of them are the ones I want to say are my proudest moments. Even being given the opportunity and being asked to play for a division one field hockey team doesn’t rank on the top of my list, despite the hard work and effort – and money for camps and equipment – that contributed to that achievement.

No. My proudest moment was nearly two years ago, when I finished the Lehigh Valley Half Marathon, after four months of intense training. It was the moment that I fell to the feet of one of my high school teachers and said “I did it.” It was in the moment that I thought I couldn’t take anymore pain—that I would have to cut off my legs—that I would never walk anymore. It was in the moment that I accomplished something I had once said I would never even attempt. It was in the moment that I came back from my runner’s high and realized what I had just done. It was in that moment, that my heart pounded heavily, and that I truly felt on top of the world. It was in that moment, that I found the most pride in my life.

It’s hard to believe that was two years ago. It’s hard to believe that a moment in two years hasn’t topped that. So as I look back and smile over a proud moment—over a moment of ecstasy, I turn myself around on the train, and I begin to look forward again, I remind myself to set new unrealistic goals—new unrealistic dreams—and make them real…make them something I never would have believed I could do—make them my next proudest moment.

What’s your proudest moment? What’s your next proudest moment?

Suzy Sellout-- Far from your "Ordinary Sell Out"

Sell Out: Someone who betrays a cause for personal advancement.

Suzy Sellout: Exactly the opposite. A talented, passionate, singer-songwriter living in New York City; a motivated and driven performer; a star.

"I don't have any idea what I am doing, I don't have any idea where I am going, I don't have anything but my heart, and what i know in my heart to be right--I've gotta fight the good fight--and someday when I am ready--I'll be alright...I'll be alright."

-"I Have No Idea"-Suzy Sellout

It has been less than a year since I was fortunate enough to meet a young New York City singer, songwriter, and artist who refers to herself and her band as Suzy Sellout. The young woman, however, sometimes rides solo, and can be heard everywhere from small nooks and crannies, to coffee and drink houses, to spaces as big as the Empire State Building and the Duplex (March 29th).

If you've heard her at a show, you may know her as Kathrine Becker. If you haven't heard her at a show: it won't be too long until you do. Kathrine, who has just released her first single on iTunes "I Have No Idea," is making big footprints as she takes a childhood talent and hobby and goes from her living room to the stage, performing original and inspiring music.

As a native Californian, Kathrine moved to New York several years ago to continue working on her musical career. It is clear that she has taken her music to another level, even in just the short time that I have known her.

When I first met Kathrine, it was only for an hour at a Tapas bar in downtown Manhattan. It was her birthday and a friend of mine had invited me to tag along to drop by for a drink. Nearly, immediately, I could see a unique and bubbling soul full of passion, motivation, and drive toward a dream.

Soon after, I had the pleasure of sitting down in a studio with a few others and watching Kathrine record her three song CD (out now). Each of the songs play like a silhouette to anyone's ears. It was the first time that I had ever heard Kathrine perform, but I knew it wouldn't be the final time I let her music grace my eardrums. As I left the studio, I found myself singing her songs in my head over and over again--feeling inspired by her songs--skipping a long the city streets beneath the city skyline to her melodies.

It has been less than eleven months since I first listened to Kathrine in the studio that day, and it is clear that Kathrine's music has only elevated in those eleven short months. Upon arriving home from Italy, I had the opportunity to watch Kathrine perform at the Empire State Building for a half-time show at a Superbowl Party, and then again, recently, at the Waltz-Astoria in Astoria, Queens. As she sang out to a crowded basement, followed by the more recent crowded coffee house space, I was instantly reminded why I love Kathrine's music so much--why I constantly return to it on Myspace, and why I have always felt so close to it: Because it's personal, and it's real, and it has a story: Her story--yes--but a story we can all look at and say "A part of me feels that way too." Her music connects. She connects.

As she sang the song "I Have No Idea," (which you should know has been deemed the graduation song of 2011) at her more recent show , tears formed in my eyes. Listening to her song, feelings of being lost in the big city, in the big world came to light--but as she sang, it was impossible to avoid humming along with her as these lyrics flowed brilliantly from her vocal chords: "I'll be alright, I'll be alright," because no matter the struggles or turbulence this life offers, how far we are taken from home, from family, from friends, it's important to remember that we will be alright--at least in our hearts.

Kathrine concluded her recent show with new material, a song called Rat Race, in which Kathrine sings about going from desk job, to the big time: but I don't think she'll have to wait the eight months she sings about...or raps about. I think it will be very soon that we hear the lovely and wonderful Kathrine Becker taking over our sound waves.

Check out Kathrine at the Duplex this coming Tuesday, March 29th.

Also check out Kathrine's music at www.myspace.com/suzysellout

And then head over to iTunes and purchase the Suzy Sellout song on iTunes: "I Have No Idea"

From selling Girl Scout Cookies to the Fight for life in Japan

Girl scout cookies. Thin mints. Lemon. Oh and those delicious ones that I can never remember the name of, but have caramel and chocolate and gooey wonderfulness. Right. Caramel delights. Stacks and stacks of girl scout cookies.

That’s right.

As a young girl, I was a brownie—and then a full out girl-scout. Boxes of girl-scout cookies would fill the piano bench in our living room, the floor, and the end table. It is the last real fundraising I can ever remember really trying hard at—or being permitted to try really hard at.

Sometimes, I would be signed up for fundraising off of candy boxes—and the candy boxes would sit in my room until my family had gone through all the peanut butter cups, Hershey’s, Kit-kats and Krackels. Then my mom or dad would hand me fifty dollars at the end of the box and say “Now you can turn in the right amount of money.”

When I had to raise money for a travel athletic team, my parents would ask: Is there a buy out?

And in college, when my teammates and I were told that we had to take part in a fundraiser that would involve giving 15 names and addresses of people who our program could send a letter to, desperately asking for money, I submitted fifteen names of people who I thought should have been helping my athletic program.

The governor of Rhode Island.

The president of the university.

The athletic director.

You see where I am going with this.

I was always taught and raised to only take money from friends, strangers, or outside non-immediate family members when I accidentally left a few dollars at home, or really just couldn’t make it to the ATM. My parents always said something to me along the lines of: No one should ever pay for you and your team, or for you, to go on a trip…to do something that you want to do, or for your new pair of cleats, or for your anything, because trust me—I am sure their money is being saved for something that they want to do or for something that they need.

So I come from a family of non-believers in soliciting money for your own good. Money comes from hard work and dedication—from sacrifice of time—not from simply saying please. Money should be raised when it goes toward a good cause, something with great magnitude thatcouldn’t be fixed without that money: money that is truly, helping others, rather than yourself.

I reminisce on all of this as I sit on the train ride home from Manhattan to Brooklyn, as I hear the voice of a white teenage man step onto the train and begin his speel:

“Good evening ladies and gentleman,” he begins.

“I am raising money for a trip to Europe. Each candy bar is just a dollar. I have just two left. If you could please support me and my trip, I would truly appreciate it.”

As I shake my head in disbelief, I find more reason to shake my head in disbelief just moments later. Someone is reaching out the young man with two crinkly one dollar bills, and sticking their hands in the goodie box. The young man smiles, stuffs the money in his backpack, and in the next few moments jumps off the train as it reaches it’s next stop.

An Irish man is sitting across from me, and laughs, “Right on cue.”

Moments later, the automatic MTA announcement over the train intercom comes on. “Ladies and gentleman, it is illegal to solicit money…” and it continues.

And I think to myself….

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is ridiculous to solicit money for a trip to Europe, when people are dying of radiation, dehydration, and starvation across the world—when people are without shelter, without clothing, and without family—when Japan is completely and utterly devastated—when we are still recovering from the earth-shattering events of Haiti just over a year ago, and the ruins of Hurricane Katrina.”

I pause.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say under my breath. “Please take a look at the world around you. Please tell me if you are really as in need of that dollar for Europe as much as that young child or elderly man, or middle-aged woman is in Japan, Haiti, or New Orleans.”

I traded in my light up shoes for a billion light up smiles

“Tag you’re it,” a boy yells as he touches my shoulder on the elementary school playground.

‘Damn,’ I utter in my mind before I continue the game by chasing anyone who I deem slower than me. As my feet touch each patch of dirt, each strand of grass, each piece of the pavement, my white and blue kicks began to blink a red glowing light. The collage of black, green, red, and orange shoes that I chase around also light up the playground in a similar fashion. Eventually, the monkey bars, the red fire truck, and the silver smooth slides have a better light display than Macy’s at Christmas time.

Light up shoes.

I think it was around my ninth birthday that I traded in my light up shoes for a billion light up smiles—when I went from chasing kids and stringing blinking Christmas lights on the four square boxes and dodgeball circles to causing a contagious strands of smiles, ones as big as the acre of land that stretched from the fence of the playground to the back parking lot of the school.

When I was in fourth grade, I won the egg award for my smile. And when I was a freshman in college, the assistant athletic director said to me, “Smile more. You have a wonderful smile.”

I think it was around my sixteenth birthday that I first traded in that light up smile for a look of angst as I became a broody teenager who suddenly thought not smiling was the cool thing to do—who believed that an angry look far exceeded the power of a happy one. I was pretty emo. (Ha)

But near the end of college, like the time I traded in my light up shoes, I found a way to trade back my angst and broodiness for my light up smiles. I found ways to make the Rhode Island athletic fields look like the exterior décor of the Empire State on a clear night—I found a way to light up the world again with that brilliant smile that I once bared in the cafeterias of my elementary and middle schools—on my first day of high school softball practice, and on that last day of high school in which I went from smiley to broody.

As I took a seat on the train, just the other day, a child sat across from me with furry, calf high boots, that blinked that brilliant red light I recognized from the playground. I smiled with each blink the young girl’s boots made. And with my smile—I took a look around the train, and made “smile contact” with a stranger, and just like that a strand of shining smiles began to blink on what would normally be a dull tooth ache of a subway ride. Smiles—the light up shoes of adults.

With each stride I take, I’ve got another smile for another purpose, for another person, for another memory, for another reason. For each step I take I light up from cheek to cheek, and like yawns…it catches. And for that thought, I smile again.

How do you light up the room? Do you have a billion smiles? I bet you a pair of light up shoes that you do.