I Heart New York

I Heart New York

So I headed to NYC today to see my pal MYQ Kaplan perform stand up for a comedy central taping. In the past, I have had success parking at a Metro Station in Connecticut and taking the train in from there, about an hour ride. I have been to NYC before, so I came prepared.

I was somewhat dreading having to be in New York at this particular point in time, marinating with obnoxious, gloating Yankee fans on the verge of another world title.

Remove all Red Sox paraphernalia from sight in vehicle- check

Scatter trash in backseat to reduce likelihood anyone would expect to find anything of value in vehicle- check.

Remove cash (except three bucks to make it look good) and credit cards (except expired BJ's card and an old library card) from wallet- check

Tape credit card to inner thigh- check

Put money in sock- check

Slip shiv inside right shirt sleeve- check

Hand sanitizer- check

Ready to rock- check.

The train ride was pretty mellow, but as we got closer to New York City and Grand Central Station, I could feel it- the presence of NYC. I would have to be on guard. I wisely had left any Red Sox and/or Patriots gear in Massachusetts, so I thought as long as I kept my head and didn't pronounce anything with an “r” in it, I cold pull this trip off safely.

Arriving at Grand Central, I walk with brisk purpose even though I had no idea where I was going. After covering several city blocks only to wind up back at that same spot, I approached the information booth carefully. Speaking to the clerk in broken english, I managed, “What freakin' train do ya take to 10th and 59th? The head gasket on my freakin' Camaro is pissing oil and my old lady tells me to take the freakin' train, if you can believe it.”

The clerk eyed me, but bought the act hook, line and sinker.

“Take the shuttle to Times Square, yeah, heh? Then the one train to 59th and 8th and ya can walk the two blocks.”

I grabbed my package and half grimaced like I had bad sausage earlier in the day- so far so good.

I hopped on the shuttle, but being unaware that it was one stop, back and forth, I ping ponged a couple times before I whispered to an elderly woman, “Is this Times Square?”

I proceeded to get on the one train, but again didn't realize it was only an express train and 59th street was the first stop. I went to 66th, then reversed direction and made it back to 59th in no time. Exiting the building, I noticed there was a 58th street running parallel to 60th street, but no 59th. Was it a trap? I wasn't sure, but it didn't look good. I asked a kid with a skateboard for directions to 59th street.

He fumbled around and brought up Columbus Avenue, so I figured he was from out of town or had sustained brain damage riding the skate board. He apologized and sat on a stone bench. I read the bottom of his skateboard which had his phone number and “if found please call.” I now saw my mistake. This kid was obviously from pout of town. No New Yorker would be fool enough to think a skateboard would actually returned if lost. Secondly, if you somehow misplace a skateboard, I might side with the Big Applers and refuse to reward such stupidity with a skateboard.

I found a policeman who informed me that 59th street ended before the station. He pointed me in the right direction. I am almost there, I am early, and as yet, no major mishaps or trouble. Walking toward 59th, I spotted a Philadelphia Phillies fan coming the other direction, brazenly wearing a Phillies hat. You had to admire those Phillies cats- absolutely fearless.

He had chewing tobacco in his lip and a bulge under is jacket that said AK47. I think it was a tad big for a saw off shotgun and too small to be an uzi or some sort of bazooka. He met my eyes as I gave the slightest nod from behind my cornea, visible only to another navigating through enemy territory. He returned the nod, but it was visible. I was filled with admiration as I thought, “you crazy bastard, you'll give me away.

I maintained my cover as I made my way toward Gerald Lynch Auditorium at John Jay College, where the taping was being held. I stopped for hot nuts on the way. I hate hot nuts and have actually never eaten hot nuts, but they help you blend in. The mistake I made last time was failure to discard the nuts
when they grew cold. No "real" New Yorker would ever let his/her nuts cool.

I had time to kill before the show. making my way up to a Starbucks. As I entered the establishment, I held the door for an elderly woman behind me.

Without thinking, I had blown my cover. The old broad read I was from out of town, but from the look of fear in my eyes and her years of savvy and experience, she rightly guessed Boston. She clicked her heel, and reflective of a James Bond flick, a sharp dagger protruded from the front of her right shoe. I got my foot up for the block and she swung it toward my knee, the poisonous tip inches from breaking the skin and injecting me with instant death.

I thrust downward at the crest of her ankle, relishing the crack which preceded her groan of agony. Feigning a downward swoon, she swung upward with the tip of her cane, also seemingly tipped with some sort of of poisonous substance. I barely evaded the cane assault, gripping the shaft and twisting it around, ending her attack by thrusting the javelin-like cane into her ribcage.

There were about forty people in the Starbucks, but luckily no one noticed as they were either retrieving or ordering lattes or focused on cell phone conversations.

I left the hag's now limp body on the floor and got in live for a beverage, trying to act natural. the next few patrons casually stepped over the cadaver and stood in line. I had maintained. I ordered small mocca with one pump of chocolate. When I went to pick up my order, I absently said, "thanks". You guessed it- cover blown. the barista dropped a pumpkin spice latte and hurdled the counter. I loosened the cover of my steaming latte, hurling toward the face of the charging coffeeman. buying myself a few seconds, I fled toward the door, hoping the old lady's body on the floor had not yet garnered attention.

As I wheeled around the corner, I reduced my pace to a steady gait, blending in with the foot traffic east on 59th street. I had escaped a fatal situation with ease. Perhaps a little too easy, I thought. Easing toward the theater, content to wait in the lobby at this point, I began to relax a bit the farther I got from the donnybrook in Starbucks.

With about a block to go, a heard a strange sound coming from a side street not much bigger than a narrow alley. It stopped me in my tracks. "Was that a baby crying?" I wondered. Curiosity and concern got the better of me and I headed down the slim side street to investigate. The sound seemed to be coming from behind a discarded cardboard box. I rounded the box and was stunned to see an abandoned baby carriage. The cries were consitent. As I closed on the carriage, a fluffy pink blanket appeared to cover the baby. As I peeled it back, I realized a moment too late that I had been set up.

A small tape recorder played the soft cries of a baby over and over. I did a double take as the baby sprang to its feet, not a baby at all, but rather a midget wielding a home made weapon. The angry dwarf lunged at me with the home-fashioned shank. The device appeared to be comprised of the handle of a pacifier attached to a bic pen welded to a toothbrush handle. The toothbrush had been melted down, then honed into a spike to form the business end of the weapon. I snapped to a bit late, as the thrust winged my cheek.

"I'm gonna send you back to beantown in a bawdy bag, punk."

I thrust forward a palm-heel to the forehead of the fake baby, rendering him unconscious. Using my latte napkin to pad the blood from my cheek, I quickly exited the alleyway and headed toward the theater.

The show came off without a hitch. At some point during the warm, I recalled George Constanza's strategy of looking annoyed to appear busy. I wondered if I could use the same strategy to blend in as a native New Yorker. As I walked to the train, I remembered all the incoveniences of the trip: not being able to park at the first train station I went to and having to find a second, not being allowed to sit in the library at John Jay Colege because I wasn't a student or police officer, the internet connection not working, no seats at Starbucks. I genuinely grew irritated as I thought about, adopting a tightness around my lips and stiffened brow. As I walked through Grand Central Station, I noticed the locals warming up to me, giving occasional nod.

I made it home in one piece, end of story.

MYQ in NYC

Well today is a special day. My friend MYQ Kaplan is taping his first special for Comedy Central. His name is MYQ now because he is smart, and realized 6 or 7 years ago when he was starting in comedy that Mike Kaplan was a common name, but there's something about the power of the Q, maybe a concept he stole from the people who name radio stations.

A zillion people with talent come along, but I always knew MYQ would "make it", whatever that means, because he is what would be known in poker circles as a "grinder", a worker bee churning out small gains everywhere he plays. In comedy, we refer to this affectionately as being a "stage whore", which is no way intended to be a derogatory term.

MYQ would hit the stage as many times a night as he could, right from the beginning. He'd do five minutes at one joint, then hop on a train or drive across Boston, Saugus, Dorchester, New Hampshire to get another five minutes.

Don't get me wrong, this s.o.b. is funny as hell, and is a true comedian in the best sense of the word. MYQ is a craftsman, and I hate to use a hackneyed comparison, but his workmanlike approach to comedy reminds me of Jerry Seinfeld. Not his style, his professionalism. If you've ever seen the fantastic documentary, "Comedian", you'd know what I meant by that.

The end product is a crisp, clean, perfectly timed joke, but often the recipe for the end product involved rap sessions with other comics, and relentless perfecting of a joke, trimming, scaling down, economizing until you have the best joke you can possibly have. Of course without the natural talent of being funny, this is all mute, but combined with humor, this ethic produces fantastic comedy routines, and Kaplan is the perfect example of this.

He can tell a short story, riddled with punch lines. He can shoot one liners all day. And his sets are bam bam bam, he keeps coming at you the entire time, joke joke joke joke joke, and the true gift of the master is how natural and relaxed it all looks, like this guy has all day, is in no rush and is running the show.

Beyond the talent and the work ethic, MYQ is one of the genuinely nicest people I've met in comedy. He is smart, humble and simply a guy you just want to root for. I will be rooting for him today at the Gerald Lynch Theater on the corner of 10th and West 59th in New York City.

The only part of this trip I am not excited about is having to marinate in NYC with all those obnoxious, gloating Yankee fans.

The plan is to drive to Westport, Ct. and take the train from there, a strategy I have used when traveling to the big city a few times. I am bringing my laptop so I can write on the train ride in which takes 69 minutes, according to the Metro North schedule. I like the train, it is very relaxing, especially in comparison to navigating through Manhattan in a car- no thanks.

Nanowrimo 2009

Well, it's that time again- National Novel Month. The object is to write a novel of 50,000 words in one month. Last year, I was totally focused on word count, just to prove to myself I could write that much in a month. Consistency and discipline have always been my greatest obstacles to productivity. While I can't say I came up with anything one could consider a novel, or even one linear or non-linear story, I DID crank out the word count. For me, this was a major achievement.

This year, I have a few friends who are tackling the mammoth task again. I am going to plug away and try to be as consistent as I can be. While I am not writing a novel, but more of an autobiographical piece of what they call "creative non-fiction" nowadays, I am still going to log into nanowrimo and use the word count charts for motivation sake.

I cranked out about 3,500 words today, which is an incredibly productive day for me. I also caught myself doing a little editing, which is a big no-no, it slows you down, and first drafts are first drafts for a reason. If I keep going in an editing, I never go forward. The mission now is to CRANK out volume and fix it later.

Good luck to my friends also writing. I know at least Tom, Claudia and jesse (who successfully wrote her first novel last year) are doing it this year.

Drunk Dream

I had a drunk dream last night. For those who don't know what that is, it's just what it sounds like- you dream about being drunk. This can be unsettling for sober alcoholics. I have the same dream, but have only had it, oh- 10 or 15 times in the last 10 years. It is really more of a nightmare than a dream.

It's a nightmare on the lines of watching Grady Little walk away from the pitcher's mound in Yankee stadium in 2003 after deciding to leave Pedro in with his arm falling off and Matsui coming to the plate.

You would think if you were going to dream about drinking, it would be a fun dream, a 2004, come from down 3-0 dream. A dream of when booze "worked", but I always have the same shitty dream, rare as it is, it is horrifying. In my dream, I already drank, or I drink maybe one beer, and it is a crappy beer like Bud Light. It's too late to change my mind, and I have flushed double digit years of sobriety down the drain. I get absolutely nothing out of it, kinda like the last three years or so I kept trying to get that old effect.

My reputation as Mr. Sobah is obviously in ruins, and I have no identity, because virtually everyone knows me as a sober guy, and most people know me from sobriety. There are still a number of folks, I'm sure, who know me from the "old days". I really don't even think about it, to tell ya the truth, it was another life, but this dream, argh, it is a tough one.

The worst part is that I always wake up in the dream to find that I really DID drink, and my life is crumbling around me. When I finally wake in reality, I am not sure I am awake, then I have to remember, "What did I do? Wait- I didn't drink, right?"

I am grateful that I rarely if ever even think about drinking, and I haven't "wanted" a drink this century. I am one of the fortunate ones with my particular demon. But am I hoping the next time I have a drunk dream it is a wet one, with cute chicks and parties and everyone having a good time, like the way it was with alcohol when it still worked... in like, oh say, the late 1980s. I am exhausted and really looking forward to sleep. My room gets pretty bright in the morning with daylight savings kicking in, or is it over now? Anyway, I am hoping to get some solid shuteye. It's almost 3 a.m., a late night.

short update

Well, I am off to what may be the last Foxwoods tourney of the series. I have also been thinking about starting a poker blog for this type of nonsense so people who are more interested in hearing tales of watching paint dry than my blow-by-blow description of hand histories and poker details won't have to come in here and see this nonsense.

For the poker nerd, this is all highly interesting stuff, for everyone else it is like going to see what you expect is going to be a pretty good movie only find an empty theater and a dentist waiting for you.

And oh- he forgot to bring the Novocaine, this is going to hurt- a lot.

Bad Beat at F***woods

Yeah, nothing new, that's why I call it F***woods.

Poker can be fun, interesting, exhilarating, and above all, frustrating. Today was a perfect example of the latter.

Beau and I entered the $500 NL. They like to do this goofy thing with starting chips counts at Foxwoods, where they give you progressively more chips as the buy ins get larger. The idea is not a bad one, but they overdo it, get too fancy. For the $300 shootout, they gave you 5,000 chips (we didn't play it) For the $400 NL, they gave you 5,000, the $500 6,000 chips, and and the $600 Nl they start you out with 7,000 chips.

What I don't like about this is the lack of uniformity. there is less of an advantage to playing more tourneys, because they pace differently do they varying chip stacks. It is also a pain in the ass to calculate the avg stack size in your head when it is 6,000 or 7,000 at the outset, which is why I really dislike the goofy amounts.

Just make it 5,000 or 10,000 for Pete's sake.

Today, I was determined to play much tighter after the flop for the first two rounds (50 minutes each). I bled too many chips early last time on drawing hands, which you have to be careful of when you start with 5,000 or 6,000 chips. 10,000 gives more freedom to speculate early.

Right out of the gate, I flopped top set, which turned into a full house, and got paid off through the turn (6th street). Shortly after, I had pocket aces and was able to get the same guy I victimized with my full house to pay me a small amount, grudgingly. He folded with irritation, so I showed the aces to show the table I was playing big hands.

I didn't want to mix it up early. I showed big hands and made some excellent reads. A guy to my right was raising light (weaker hands like KQ or AJ AT) which really aren't raising hands in early to middle position, especially early in a tournament.

He raised the 50-100 BB to 300. I called in late position with 55. The flop was something ugly like 2 7 9. He bets 300 into a pot of 850- weak. he missed. The turn brought an 8 or something, and he stabs out 500 into a pot of almost 1500- very weak indeed. At this point, I put him on AQ, little did I know he was playing even weaker hands and had, I believe, A-10. The river card is another 9. I know this misses him because he would have bet top pair stronger. He must be putting me on a small pair, over cards, or perhaps he isn't a player who thinks a lot and isn't "putting me" on any hand in particular, but just tossing out small bets hoping I'd go away.

He fingers his chips, doesn't even look at me, and throws 1,200 into the 2500 chip pot. I am not excited about calling, as dropping another 1200 chips would cut my stack to around 5,000 chips, but I have to trust my original read- two high cards. I did think about it, then called and as he threw hand away said, "AQ"?

He said later, "if that your six came on the river, I would have had you, and you would have had to call with a straight, right?" So I know he had a 10, if he was telling the truth, and I am pretty sure it didn't make sense for him to lie about that, as it made him look goofier. So he was probably betting A-10 there.

He said, "Wow, good call. How can make that call." So I told him what I thought he had. I like players to think I know what they are holding. It makes them nervous and cautious and easier to steal pots from later. Another player later told me I was "making some sick reads", but that is really a fairly obvious read on a pretty bad player.

First of all, the biggest mistake people make when they bluff is making a bluff that doesn't make sense. The second biggest mistake is bluffing a player who isn't good enough to understand why he should fold, or trying to bluff a "calling station." Don't waste time or chips bluffing someone who has shown they will call down with weak or mediocre hands.

The guys bluff didn't make sense. There wasn't a hand I could put him on, other than maybe A-8, and that would have been a seriously weak hand to raise with in his position, that made sense.

I made my one blunder of the day shortly afterward when I raised a guy all-in on the river after he had already committed most of his chips. I mistakenly thought he had a lot more chips and could afford to fold, but he called me down with second pair and hurt my stack.

It was a rookie mistake I thought I had put behind me, similar to a blunder I made by overplaying AK after a missed flop last Friday. I was steaming, very pissed at myself for such a boneheaded play, so I took a short walk. Upon returning, I saw that I had croaked my stack from a little over 10K to about 6,200.

It could be worse, I had more than I started with, but I had handed over chips to a very loose player- the exact kind of player you don't want to have an abundance of chips to play around with.

Keeping my head, I stabbed here and there, picked my spots and chipped back up over 11K. I continued to bob and weave, avoid big pots and chip up. Finally, my chance came to attack the guy who had called me down and hurt my stack. I wasn't looking for revenge- that is moronic and gets you busted out of tournaments trying to be a hero or "teach someone a lesson". What lesson would I be teaching? "Hey, don't accept chips from me when I make a stupid play? Fold anyway?"

He raised in early position. I put him on AQ. I had 99. he had about 8 or 9K, I had about 17K. I figured I could get him to fold that hand with an all in. I had two shorter stacks behind me, and the guy to my immediate left was very tight. He wouldn't play unless he had a monster. The initial raiser hopefully would fold to my push with his tournament life on the line. AQ is one of the most over-rated hands in poker, especially to call with. I would much rather be the raiser than the call with AQ, because most people who re-raised you have either a big pair or AK, which has a 70-30 edge over AQ.

I shoved my stack. As He thought about it longer, I felt better about my hand. He was trying to talk himself into calling me, but his heart wasn't really in it. I thought more and more AQ, he has AQ. he said, "This hand has been good to me all day," and AQ was the hand he made his biggest hand with- against me earlier.

He finally calls and the news is even better than I had hoped, he has pocket 88, a 4:1 underdog to my 99. My 99 holds up, and I picked up a nice pot. I was surprised he called me with that hand, as I had been showing a lot of big hands, but sometimes, the chips seduce you into making a call, dreaming, you will win that big pot, forgetting that your opponent likely has your ass crushed.

I had also started throwing chips around a little bit, so maybe he thought I was starting to bet light.

As the tourney wore on, I picked up a few hands and played them very strong. A guy raised my BB when I had AQ. He had about 9K, I had 20K, so I shoved my stack. I had 10 10 in the BB, one limper, plus the Small blind- I shove my stack. I don't like to flip coins, but if I feel I have the best hand in a situation like that, I am going to put the other guy to the test.

Both hands resulted in folds, which is fine. I don't really want to see flops with those hands anyway, I am happy to take down the pot. As the tourney went on, I chipped up to about 43,000 or so, then hit a dry spell. I didn't win, or really play a pot for over an hour. I wasn't wasting chips, so I still had 35,000 or so when they broke my table up. It is an advantage to stay at the same table, as you know the players, but I was almost happy to be going, with the rags I had been seeing.

This would be my demise, however. We were down to 99 players or so when I was moved. 55 made the money. I wanted to make the money, but the day had been going so well that I was aiming much higher. I had played very well, with one exception, and had redeemed myself. I had also avoided bad beats- hands where I had far the best hand, but got some asinine beat.

My first couple hands at the new table told me this was going to be a challenge. I wasn't going to float into the money or run this table. The guy to my left was a chip mover, and so was the guy to his left. They had huge stacks and liked to throw chips around left and right. I called his raise from my BB with 22. the flop of 3 7 9 was ugly, but I check folded, after missing my shot at trips. It would not have been smart to start splashing around with a guy who likes to make moves with 22 in my hands.

The next hand, I am in the small blind with QJ off suit, not my favorite hand by any means, but not bad from the small blind. A guy with about 20K raises it to 3,000 from middle-late position. I call the extra 2,400 chips knowing the guy next to me would call with any two cards. I thought the raiser had an ace or a middle pair like 77 or 88 by the way he bet.

The flop comes A K 10, with 2 spades. I have just flopped the nuts. I have the best hand possible at this point in time. Some players might check here, to induce betting, but I bet out 4,500. I don't want this clown next to me getting a free shot at a spade, knowing he is the kind of guy who could have called the pre-flop raise with 5-8 of spades or something. He folds, and the initial raiser goes all-in.

This I expected, as if he had an Ace, he would have to play it here. the fact that I bet out also makes me look weaker, because it looks like I am trying to discourage action, which is exactly what I had hoped.

I call instantly- I mean, I have the nuts, right? I doubt he has spades, which I fear more than anything as another spade would crush my straight with a flush. I am guessing he has an ace, maybe AQ or AJ.

He flips over A 10 for two pair. I am way ahead with my straight, but I would rather have seen AQ or AJ, as he would need running cards to beat me, or a gut shot straight for a split pot. As it stands, I am about a 6:1 favorite. He has four "outs". He needs an ace or 10. the turn comes and 10 hits the turn, crushing my hopes. I take like a man, and dole out another 17,000 chips as everyone shakes their head is disbelief. I am not in disbelief, I am at Foxwoods, where these things tend to happen to me with regularity.

It is disheartening to play so well, make all the right reads and plays, and catch a bad beat. people whine about bad beats all the time, but a 6+:1 favorite after the flop falling is a bad beat. I still had 10,000 chips, I wasn't dead yet, although the uphill climb just got steeper- as Lenny sits down to my right. Lenny is possibly the most respected regular player at Foxwoods, and made the final table of the $10,000 main even last year at the Foxwoods WPT.

I catch KQ, not my favorite hand, but not bad for a short stack. A shorter stack pushes in front of me, I shove my 10K. Lady Luck has turned out to be a psycho-chick with herpes who is stalking me at work and telling the police I tried to force myself on her. the guy to my left calls with AK and my day is over.

All things considered, I feel great about my play, except the one mistake. My reads were very good, and I seemed to make all the right moves, but that's poker. I am going to have to downplay reporting the tournaments to my father, as he said, "this is costing you money, right?" and he does worry about that. he knows I won a small tourney last week, and I told him that covered me for a while.

I do feel like I am playing well, and geez, I don't even want breaks, just a lack of screw-jobs, and I feel something good will happen. We play at Foxwoods Wednesday in our next tourney, and I am targeting Mohegan Friday.

Callings

I broke out a new book this morning to blend into the pile I use for morning meditation. I let up this week, skipped a few days, and only sat and read for a fragment of the time I was spending on the days I did sit down.

By "new" book, I mean new to the pile. The book is "Callings: Finding and Following an Authentic Life", by Gregg Levoy. It was first published in 1997, so it isn't new new, and I have had the thing for probably ten years. As I may have mentioned previously, nice folks are frequently giving me "spiritual" books. This one was a gift from a professor I had in an introductory writing course I took at BCAE about ten years ago. We became friends. She was a poet, and greatly enjoyed and benefited from this book.

I am sure I glanced at it a number of times over the years, as I moved from apartment to house to apartment, packing it up and thinking, "hmmm... I should read this sometime."

So today, in an effort to jump start my waning meditations, I grabbed "Callings" and a couple other books, adding them to the small stack. I have a very simple morning practice, part of which is reading a paragraph or two, or pages, from a book, and pondering. It is often referred to as contemplative meditation. I don't do well sitting in complete silence for extended periods of time. My mind is still very undisciplined and thoughts are rampant.

Much like Brennan Manning "got me" as early as the introduction in "The Ragamuffin Gospel", Levoy called my number in his introduction. I always read with a highlighter, these types of books, and I found myself reaching for it half way down the first page of the intro.

Levoy described a calling as a "centrifugal force". Rather than something coming from the cosmos, it is something inside trying to get out.

"We often tune out the longings we feel...rather than confront and act on them... we do not forget our calls, but what we fear what they might demand of us in pursuing them... Anticipating the conniption of change blocks us from acknowledging that we do know, and always have known, what our calls are... we also fear the hope that such a call evokes in us, and the Power that we know is dammed up behind the resistance."

Awareness of a call puts me in an ambivalent position. Ambivalence is sometimes seen as meaning wishy-washy, not caring which direction we float in, but in reality, it means torn between two options, almost the same as dilemma. A dilemma isn't just a problem, it's a problem with two unsatisfactory options.

When I think of people "called", many things come to mind. Most often, a calling is associated with the religious, so it tends to take on an ominous tone. If I answer a call, I have to do something BIG. Anything less than changing the world is failure. At one point, after having a spiritual awakening that saved me from an ugly death, I thought I ought to become a minister. I wasn't that far off... but all things considered, that is probably not my path. I had many ideas swirling around.

The thing is, I don't think you have to work that hard to know your calling. In your heart of hearts, there has always been something you were drawn to. Motherhood? Painting? Bowling? You felt at peace and in joy when the little stick turned blue, or you set foot in an art store, or when you picked up a tough split and filled a spare with a strike.

One has to wonder why we put so much effort into busying ourselves, distracting ourselves, launching ourselves into consumerism, obsession with things unimportant and rise and fall with the success or failure of the Red Sox, Bruins, Yankees, Patriots etc.

Many people come to mind when I think of answering a call.

The first who popped into my head is my sister Barbara. Barbara knew at a young age that she wanted to live in Europe and that she loved singing. She sang in high school and college. A few years down the road, she learned to speak French and moved to France. Not too crazy about the friendliness factor, she moved around, settling in Germany. She worked a job at a bank that was less than thrilling, but always worked toward her dream. She sang and sang and sang. Glee clubs, choruses, voice lessons. Eventually, Barb got a "job" singing in the chorus of an opera company.

Now my sister is not a religious person in the sense most of us consider religiosity, but if you kick around the classic sense of the word "religious" is a re-learning of what we've always known to be true.

Barb was born a singer, and through a series of small steps, arrived where she was always intended to be.

My niece Nat is another example of someone who responded to an inner call to sing. A mother with small children, Natalie decided to teach herself guitar, write some songs and sing them in public. When she mentioned this to me, I had had no idea she ever even thought of singing, or writing or playing guitar. In spite of intense fear of performing in public, not only did she pull it of, but she brought the house down and tears to the eyes of those who knew her. Anyone who knew her, (and even some of those who don't) could see that the songs were written on the lining of her stomach. No one else could have written them and sang them the way she had, beautiful, painful, liberating, true.

If she hadn't picked up the phone and answered in spite of her misgivings, the still small voice never would have been heard.

That's what it ussualy is, a still, small voice. Rod Serling concurred, "Thunder doesn't rent the sky and a bony finger... point at you and a great voice boom, 'YOU! You're anointed!"

Levoy continues, "most of the calls we receive and ignore are... daily calls to pay attention, to be authentic, to live by our own codes of honor. Great breakthroughs are often the ...accumulation of innumerable small steps."

So, as Levoy stated earlier, I do know, and have always known what I long to do. "We approach our deepest callings with both exhilaration and terror."

When I acknowledge that I have always lived to make people laugh, and loved to write. I like to perform in front of crowds and make them laugh. Combining these things with a deep self awareness acquired by recovering from alcoholism, and the subsequent spiritual awakening which kept me alive and opened my eyes, it would seem there was a reasonably clear direction, of not path, suggested.

It never ceases to amaze me, no matter how many times I hear differently, how persistent that voice of fear seems to be. Without fail, I will hear things like "who do you think you are to write? Do you really think anyone cares what you have to say? Rent a video. Play a game on the internet. Have a snack. This is too big a task. You probably won't finish. This has to be the best (fill in the blank) book, screenplay, article ever written, or you shouldn't bother writing anything at all.

It is sometimes very difficult to hear the still small voice among those voices, thought is always there. the voices of fear seem to dissipate as I take action- like I am now.

Even writing a blog helps me. It is not the flow of kind words and compliments from friends after I have written something. Oddly, I feel... "right" while writing and afterward. It is the before part that always kicks my ass. I find myself doing anything possible to "kill time", so that I don't have to write, or think about it, when time is the primary nonrenewable resource in the human experience.

So what can I do today? Well, it is unlikely I can write an entire book. But what I can do is bring my laptop to my dad's and write part of a chapter while we watch the Patriot's game.