After remembering a nearly year-old book recommendation last time I was at the library, I'm now in the middle of Orson Scott Card's "Speaker for the Dead" (sequel to "Ender's Game," which was the remembered recommendation). It's got a bit of a different flow to it than "Ender's," but I read a line I LOVED last night:

... he knew that most stars were invisible to us; a trillion of them could disappear and we'd not know it. For thousands of years we would continue to see the photons that had already been launched before the star disappeared. By the time we could see the galaxy go blank, it would be far too late to amend our course. (pp. 87)

I can't even properly verbalize the reasons why this struck me, though the nagging thing I want to say is that it really puts the insignificance of the individual - and even society - in perspective. That was a favorite concept from my astronomy class at UNC: in universal terms, none of this matters. The whole of human existence only dates back about 200,000 years. The universe is, conservatively, 13 BILLION. So, human history is 1/70,000 (1.42 percent) of history as we can establish it. Crazy stuff, this.

Labels: Life the Universe and Everything, Orson Scott Card

Out of tragedy, great art can be made. It serves to honor the memory and make relevant stories and situations that would otherwise go unheard or forgotten. In the aftermath of Sean Bell's fatal shooting by NYC police - two of whom have been indicted on charges of second- and third-degree manslaughter - Aurora Rose has composed a song, "Fifty Times." She's allowing me to host it, offering it up here:



On a similar note, I spent the last few days covering the 4th annual Special Abilities Weekend at the Baseball Hall of Fame, much of it trailing Ray Negron as he spoke to three audiences - a classroom in Michigan, a group of at-risk students from Albany and a group of Museum visitors. Negron has a great story: George Steinbrenner busted him tagging Yankee Stadium in 1973, and made him pay off his damages by serving as a batboy. Negron remained in baseball for the next 34 years, working mainly as a consultant and player agent. The two cousins who escaped when Negron was caught never made it out of the streets, slain by gunshots as young men.

But that wasn't why Negron was at the Hall. Last year, he wrote a children's book, The Boy of Steel, about a young boy with cancer who gets the chance to be a Yankee batboy, and must fight to be strong enough to accomplish his duties. The story was born of Negron's work with pediatric cancer patients, after a hospital visit when second baseman Robinson Cano - volunteering for the first time - said he'd try to hit a home run for a young boy. Cano went 0-for-his-first-four at-bats, forgetting the promise. During his fifth at-bat, in the bottom of the ninth, Cano hit a game-winning home run. Negron approached him after the game, and told Cano he was glad he honored his promise. Cano asked, "What promise?" Negron reminded him about the boy from earlier in the day. Cano's eyes went wide, and he exclaimed, "Oh, my god!" Cano later invited that boy to serve as honorary bat boy for a day.

Negron knew this was an important story. Approached by Harper Collins (through Regan Books) to write an autobiography, Negron redirected the project, focusing on publishing a children's book. "The Boy of Steel" was published in August 2006, eventually reaching No. 2 on The New York Times Best-Seller List for children's books. All proceeds from the book's sale go directly to the New York Yankees Foundation.

Having grown up in Brooklyn, I was skeptical. There's always an angle, I thought. Not with Ray. He means it. Really, really means it. This is important work he's doing, and I'm not letting people go without knowing it. Cheers, Ray. You've made me a better person in two days. I can't imagine the number of people you've done that for in 34 years. Thank you. From all of us.

Labels: Aurora Rose, Ray Negron, The Boy of Steel

So I totally was ready to bring some reading material for a trip to the can here at work, but totally lost my nerve because there were other people sitting around in the break room. It would have been like announcing to them, "Man, am I ready to take one GREAT poop." That's too much information for most people, let alone these poor saps from the Village (of Cooperstown).

However, upon further review, I've decided I no longer care. I'm ready to be "that guy," the one who enjoys reading on the toilet unashamedly. So the next time you see me, magazine/newspaper/book in hand, I'm going to give you a knowing smile that says, "Yup, I know you know. And I know you think that's a little weird. I'm okay with it. You can be okay with it, too. Deal? Deal."

This is what happens when they make me come in on a Saturday ...

Labels: poop, work

An update to the last post:

After praising Shari Goldhagen's book, "Family and Other Accidents," I opened my email the other day to find a note from Ms. Goldhagen herself, thanking me for the support. Totally made my day. I already swore by her stuff, but she's officially earned a permanent spot in the favorite author pantheon. Cheers, Shari. I hope if I ever make it as a writer, I stay as grounded as you are.

Labels: Shari Goldhagen

It was a slow week up here in Oneonta, with the college kids on break, and I became quite introspective, coming to a realization that I'm not sure means much of anything: I think the reason I like being around and interacting with people so much is that I tend to be terribly melancholic in my alone time.

A strong desire to re-read Family and Other Accidents launched the train of thought. It's one of my favorite books, if not my favorite since I've read it, and in pondering why, I realized that all my favorite passages and lines were, in a word, "devastating." Just soul-crushingly sad. An example :

(SCENE: Connor Reed, two-year-old daughter in tow, meets up with ex-fiance Beth Martin)

"Conn?" Beth asked. "Who would have thought we'd both end up in Boston?"

"Yeah, everyone in this city calls me 'Kahnah.' " He stood up, and she gave him a quick hug; she was easily a foot shorter than him. "So, you're a doctor now or something?"

"Or something." She shrugged, rolled wide eyes, smiled at Jorie. "Is this your little girl?" Beth held out her fingers for Jorie to squeeze, and looked up at Connor. "She's so cute. I can't believe she's yours."

"Hey."

"No, I mean, I knew you'd have a beautiful kid; I just can't believe you have a kid."

But Connor knew what she meant: she couldn't believe he had a kid that wasn't hers.

Whenever I think about the book, that's the section that comes to mind. When I need to explain to someone why they should have read it months ago, that's the section I'll use. And that type of sad is an undercurrent in other books that don't let me go, not to mention music ("Calm Down," Joe Budden; "Thnks Fr Th Mmrs," Fall Out Boy, Infinity on High; "She Tried," Bubba Sparxxx, Deliverance). Though this is often couched in terms of potential positivity (things working out for someone else, setting up success where there previously existed failure, etc.) And what sealed the deal for me was that this type of mood ran through all my best writing, whether I was 16 years old or 23.

Maybe I just haven't gotten comfortable with me yet. Maybe I haven't learned how to be comfortable, period. Either way, it feels easier when people are around, enjoying themselves — or not — just living life, one moment before the next.

Labels: Bubba Sparxxx, Caitlin R. Kiernan, Fall Out Boy, Joe Budden, Neil Gaiman, Oneonta, Shari Goldhagen, The BC Barbershop, Tom Robbins

I just spent an entire Saturday sitting on my ass. I played three games of NBA 2K6 and finally figured out how to score down low, but completely forgot how to play defense, losing all three on absurd runs by the computer, specifically Paul Pierce and Rashard Lewis. I watched an entire season of Extras. I finished Waiting … I watched Big Fish and thought about how I'm turning into Edward Bloom, and I'm only 23. I find it troubling, because I shouldn't have a mythology this early in the game.

I updated The BC CDC a little bit. I wrote an email to Liz (from B&N). I almost wrote my first mass mail in more than two months. I talked to Edna. I didn't call Juan for his birthday (for the fourth straight day). I decided everyone in Oneonta is wholly unreliable, because no one follows through on anything they say the first time; they either change the plan or it fails to happen or fails to get to me. Fail fail fail. (Sorry, I wasn't allowed to use that word while writing for MLB.com. That was pent up for nearly a year.)

About the only positive to take out of today is that the Knicks won two games in a row for the first time in nearly a month. Starbury is back! (Word to Sash.)

Labels: Extras, MLB.com, NBA, NBA 2k6, New York Knicks, Oneonta, Paul Pierce, Rashard Lewis, Stephon Marbury, The BC Barbershop, Waiting