Appreciating the Present

I had a moment of clarity minutes before I met my fiancee so we could purchase our marriage license. I’m struggling to find a better way to describe my feelings at this hour, but clarity will suffice. I had just left the County Clerk’s office on LaSalle, where I renewed the dogs registrations. It was my first time in City Hall and it went much smoother than I thought it would.

When I walked out of there and headed two blocks east on Washington, I was overwhelmed with emotion. Good Friday was crisp and chilly but sunny no less. The Loop had that Wall Street vibe to it, the kind I’ve grown to love, the one thing that sort of reminds me of Manhattan. Nearby, a homeless lady was scavenging through a Dumpster. Children were playing in Daley Plaza. People were going about their days. There was nothing special about the moment other than the fact that I felt completely present and content with where I am in life. Even without a job, life is still good on many levels. Marriage is around the corner, and so is a new apartment in a beautiful condo building in Streeterville. Chicago is the place for me, I thought. I’ve longed to return to a big city and now that I’m in one I just want to soak it all in. Of course, I’d like to do it on a much larger budget, but I’m confident I’ll be able to find full-time work eventually. My fiancee, Christina, has continued to remind me that I’ve made more money in one month of freelancing than I averaged monthly working for Playboy. That’s nice and all, but I still miss working everyday.

Okay, this has grown into a late-night rant. Point is, in that moment just outside 50 W. Washington, right around 4:15 p.m., I found myself thankful for what I have. I found myself loving this city like I never have before. I found myself willing to accept and even embrace the uncertainty that lies ahead. It’s the only thing I can do.

I got to Daley Center early, so I entered from the building’s east side and took a seat near the escalator. Every few minutes, couples appeared with marriage licenses in hand. Some looked excited. Others were nonchalant. A father asked me to take pictures of his Latino family, everyone dressed to the nines to celebrate a marriage. A few of the younger children  held flower bouquets.

When Christina arrived, it all hit me, but I remained poised. I mean, it’s not like we were signing the license; we were just bringing it home. She was certainly caught up in the moment and once we got downstairs to the office where we’d fill out paperwork she admitted she might faint. She wasn’t sure if she properly gave her social security number. She was hot and began fanning herself. It was a surreal moment for her. For me? I tried to keep it as light as possible, dishing out a few jokes here and there. But really, I never flinched. I’ve never been so sure of something in my entire life. Friday was a great day.

In related news, we’re finalizing some wedding stuff and found ourselves wanting to incorporate into our ceremony this new song from Beach House that we can’t get enough of. Also, I failed in my repeated attempts at getting my mother to agree to have this song for our Mother-Son dance. The lyrics don’t get any better than this.

And….I feel myself falling asleep at this very moment. My head is bobbing. The music has stopped playing. Everyone is asleep. The bros who live in my building are just starting their night. I cannot wait to move out of here. Their frat boy antics better not ruin my fucking day.

My Latest Work

Writing produces a natural high. I’m sure a lot of writers feel that way, but it’s one of the best ways to describe the sensation of writing a story you know will be published. That’s the way I almost always feel whenever I’m on assignment, and it was most certainly the way I felt last week when GQ gave me the green light for a story pitch of mine.

I do acknowledge, however, that there surely are plenty of writers in the world, many who have superior talents than I, who get off from writing regardless of whether or not their story will be published. What I mean is that I assume there are lots of writers out there who simply enjoy writing for the fun of it. I’m one of those writers but I must admit that writing for an audience, particularly a national one, revs me up even more. A major goal of mine, aside from landing another job as a full-time writer, is to write daily on this website. I need all the practice I can get.

But back to the GQ story. To my knowledge, GQ.com is trying to have more original reported stories for its sports section. A friend of mine handles most of their blogging and does a very fine job at it. But that’s not my strong suit. I’m at my best when out in the field, on assignment.

The night the Portland Trail Blazers received a complete face lift that included firing its head coach, trading two key players and releasing a former top overall pick was the eve it was to play the Bulls here in Chicago. So this story pretty much fell in my lap. Painting a picture of a team in transition – capturing whatever raw, fresh emotions that come with such change – was my goal, on top of being able to succinctly put into perspective what this all means for a team owned by a micromanaging, wishy-washy owner in tycoon Paul Allen.

I had a quick turnaround for this story – I reported it on Friday night, wrote for a few hours after the game, resumed writing late Saturday night and wrapped up by 3 a.m. Sunday. The editor – a great editor by the way – asked me to address a few questions he had and also flesh out another part of the story. He had my revisions that night and the story ran on Monday morning. I originally thought this story had such a short shelf life, considering the Blazers would play again two nights after I saw them, but I thought – and I assume the editor did, too – I had taken enough of a big-picture approach for the story to hold up.

In retrospect, had I had more time I would have done just a few things differently. Namely, I would have reached out to people close to interim head coach Kaleb Canales, the star of the night and the feel-good story in this whole mess, to more voices to get examples of his work ethic from throughout the years. Another thing I would have done was do a better job of explaining the whole “tanking” theory, giving better examples and putting it in a better historical context.

But maybe I’m just nitpicking. In the end, I was pleased with how the story turned out. Maybe it was just the right length given the story angle and timeliness. And, again, it felt really, really good to sit there and write it during the wee hours of the night. It was just me, a quiet apartment, these classical concerts playing through my headphones, and a bottle of water. I was in the zone. My fingers felt so good tapping the letters on this keyboard. My eyes were fixated on nothing but the words before. I really wish I could always feel that way. If you haven’t already clicked on any of the above links, you can read the story here.

What Will Happen Next

I’m really not sure. Hopefully it will include either a) a full-time job, b) a decent part-time gig or c) consistent freelance to pay the bills.

My last official day of work at Playboy was March 2, which was also my last paycheck. I still haven’t considered filing for unemployment. Not sure if I’m being too proud or what. But here’s where I’m at in life:

• Just got back from Arizona, where I was covering the first two weeks of White Sox spring training for ESPNChicago.com.
• Unemployment hasn’t yet settled in.
• Neither has the fact that I’m a full-time freelancer.
• Searching hard for a job.
• Apartment lease is about to end, thank God my fiancee makes a good enough living to get us out of this dump even if I don’t make a dime in the coming months.
• Wedding is on April 27 – again, thank the good Lord for my fiancee, a young Suze Orman. We’ve been paying for wedding expenses out of pocket for last year and even though I no longer have a steady income we won’t have to go into too much debt for this party.
• Fortunate enough to be getting a halfway decent amount of freelance work.
• Learning how challenging it is to come up with solid story pitches for multiple publications.
• Reminding myself that I am probably one of thousands who are in my situation or worse.
• Probably need to add a resume and a section with my most recent clips to this site, as well as change the site’s theme.
• Recently stumbled upon Big K.R.I.T. Really dig his style. Might make this my official anthem, or this.
• Keep reminding myself that no matter how hard I think I’m working there’s someone else out there working harder than me.

Super Bowl Memories

The Super Bowl is almost here. The Giants – my Giants – once again are one win away from  being on top of the football world.

Whatever the outcome, this will be a great day for the Silva family. We grew up diehard Giants fans, attended a countless number of games at old Giants Stadium and had our share of interaction with former Giants’ Super Bowl greats, guys like Stephen Baker The Touchdown Maker, Dave Meggett, Otis Anderson, Pepper Johnson, Mark Ingram and Jumbo Elliott.

I have very vivid Super Bowl memories. Here’s a few, written from my stream-of-conscious:

• Nine-years-old when the Giants won the Super Bowl in 1990. Wide right. Fuck the Bills. I remember watching the game at a family friend’s house. When the Giants won, I ran rampant screaming my lungs out, surely pissing off someone.

• I’ll always remember the Whitney Houston national anthem, and not just because it still gives me goose bumps to this day whenever I see a clip on TV, but for what my drunk father prefaced it with: “Oh, don’t fuck this up, Whitney!”

• Super Bowl XXXI. Sophomore year in high school. About five friends came over and my mom ordered some amazing local greasy New York pizza to go with an endless amount of buffalo wings and jalapeno poppers, the latter of which I soon swore off after my friend Jeremy drank so much vodka he vomited jalapeno poppers….Oh, and James Brown – get down. Because my mother loves being the center of attention, she obnoxiously grooved to every song he played. Because James Brown was my mother’s first concert, at the Apollo no less, I couldn’t blame her.

• Janet Jackson nip slip. 2004. I don’t remember this. Blacked out. Checked the replay the next day. Not impressed.

• Super Bowl XXXIV. Rams vs. Titans. I’m in Philly, watching the game from the apartment of my older girlfriend. I was in college, she was in graduate school to become a psychologist. She was a real catch. Brunette and beautiful. Didn’t deserve her. She baked a Super Bowl cake and fed me well. God bless her.

• I don’t remember any Super Bowl that included the Cowboys. Not because I was drunk – I was hardly a teenager – but because I have so much hatred for the Cowboys I never paid that much attention.

• Super Bowl XXXIX: Pats vs. Eagles. Spent this one at my friend Joe’s house in South Philly. Brought my then-girlfriend, Nina. Eagles lost, everyone was in a shitty mood, it was snowing and Nina went ape shit on me for bringing attention to the fact that the palms of her hands were sweaty (her palms always sweat when she’s nervous, and this was a close game). On the way home, our taxi driver was drinking a beer, blew through a few lights and no one seemed to care because Philly cops were on every corner in riot gear. Gotta love Philly.

• Super Bowl XL. I was there, sitting in the Steelers’ end zone, working like a mad man. As a sports writer for the Detroit Free Press, I got to cover some pretty cool events. Covering my first Super Bowl was among the highlights. The whole week was a trip, really, from celebrity encounters and media hordes to the actual Xs and Os of each team’s game plan. Going into the loser’s locker room and talking to the losing team was one of the most uncomfortable things I’ve ever done as a reporter. These guys worked so hard for that moment. Plus, they were 10 times my size. They didn’t know me from Adam. I remember it being completely silent in the Seahawks’ locker room. I’ll never forget that moment.

• Super  Bowl XLVI. Spent the night at my friend Bert’s back when I was living in metro Detroit. Just me, him and his wife. One of the best  games I’ve ever seen. Giants upset the Pats. My roommate and good friend, Brian, never made it. He got locked up for a DUI for rolling through a stop sign while trying to follow home a booty call. He was never much of a football fan, and spent the next three days in jail instead of posting bail. Said they fed him well.

• Super Bowls XLIII and XLIV were spent at my friend George’s apartment when we were still living in Oklahoma City. Memorable games. One year we decided to be unique by over-nighting a deep dish pizza from Lou Malnatis. The Saints-Colts game was also the day that I tried to justify to my now fiancee that it’s okay for me to start drinking with friends at 11 a.m.

• Super Bowl XLV: My first Super Bowl sans intoxicants, spent at my fiancee’s parents’ place just outside of OKC. Another solid game, great company and conversation. I love watching any sport with Christina’s dad, an all-around great guy.

• Super Bowl XLVI. These things I know will happen: I will root for the Giants. I won’t lose my shit if they flounder. My father’s incessant, over-the-top rooting and feet-stomping will cause my mother to yell and my dogs to shake in fear. My fiancee will watch maybe five plays total, and I’ll have to remind her to watch the funny commercials. She’ll watch Madonna, though. I will silently hope for Madonna to sing “Lucky Star” because it’s my favorite song of hers, and because whenever I hear it I can’t help but think of that scene in the movie Snatch. I will cling to every play on the field and every syllable uttered by the commentators. I won’t talk much, or really acknowledge anyone around me, because I like to get in the zone. I will appreciate this game for what it is: the end of the season, the beginning of a seven-month stretch without pigskin. It is important to me. I will stuff my face with my mother’s homemade Puerto Rican food and will monitor how much food Christina eats because all she keeps talking about is the damn Super Bowl food. If the Giants are as hungry for this win as she is for the Super Bowl food, it will be a good night for the Giants…and a rough morning for Christina. And if the Giants win, I will think about all my good friends back home, most of who are Giants’ fans, too, because only they, only true New Jersey guys, will be able to relate to my joy.

How I Spent New Year’s Eve

First off, it should be known that I am not a big fan of the holiday to begin with. Probably the coolest thing I’ve ever done on NYE was spend it in New Orleans with my best friends from high school back in 2001, a few months after my 21st birthday.

Since then, New Year’s Eves for me have typically been spent in NBA arenas or at house parties. During my three years in Detroit, I did manage to make it out to a jazz club and martini lounge but neither were my scene. I just can’t tolerate the amateurs, college kids and stinky drunk crowds.

Not to get on a high horse, but I try to live every day in gratitude, so I feel no reason to have some massive celebration for the calendar changing months.

With that said, I had a relatively peaceful New Year’s Eve, my first in Chicago, where my fiancee and I didn’t even watch the damn ball drop.

In short, a list of things I did on New Year’s Eve:

1. Went to Whole Foods to splurge on a massive salad from the salad bar and pick up some sugar-free, vegetarian desserts. I’ve been eating relatively healthy and exercising for the last two years, so this wasn’t some pre- New Year’s resolution.

2. Watched Breakfast at Tiffanys for the first time ever. Have to say, it might rank as one of my all-time favorite movies. I could relate to Paul, or Fred that is, in that he’s a handsome, dapper writer. And I fell in love with Audrey Hepburn. That voice, those eyes – she makes me want to live in a different era. And the party she throws – that’s the type of party I enjoy.

3. Played three games of Scrabble. I know, I know. If anyone’s reading this, you’re probably thinking I’m incredibly lame and boring. Scrabble on New Year’s Eve? Yeah, I’m that guy. And I loved every second of it. Not just because I won the best 2 out of 3 games, but because I’m competitive as fuck. I can really get lost in that board and I want to destroy my fiancee every time we play. There is no mercy on our Scrabble board. I love her, but I hate her as a Scrabble opponent. We’ve really bonded – and feuded – over Scrabble throughout the years. Hell, Christina almost got us thrown out of a charity Scrabble tournament for going ape shit on some elderly women over a rules violation that ended up not being a rules violation. I will play Scrabble until my fingers are of no use. I love words.

Why I Allow Myself to Cry

In short, there is no real clear-cut answer. But while perusing Facebook this morning, I came across this video with the following preface from a friend: OMG…. this is heartbreaking, yet so awesome at the same time. This is a tear jerker, for sure!

http://www.godvine.com/swf/flowplayer-3.2.7.swf
Watch More Christian Videos on GodVine.com

For some inexplicable reason, I decided to click on the link and watch the video. I knew what I was getting myself into: a tear-jerker, for sure, of nine Beagles who spent their lives in a lab and were finally getting their first sniff of grass and breath of fresh air after being rescued.

Why do I openly allow myself to cry? I must admit, it feels good sometimes to drain myself emotionally. They’re either tears of sadness or joy, or both. It just dawned on me, though, that I do not cry out of fear. When I watch a video like this one while at work, of course I’m careful to keep it inside, lest anyone here at Playboy strolls by my cubicle to see me bawling to a video of cute puppies. That could be awkward.

Other thing that I will willingly watch/listen to just to make myself cry:

1. Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel.” This is going to sound sick, but whenever I listen to this I picture it playing at the funeral of a loved one who’s still alive.

2. The Notebook. I finally saw this movie for the first time last month with my fiancee and my future mother-in-law, who was in town for a catering tasting. I’ve always felt comfortable around my fiancee’s mother – we have many things in common – but even if I didn’t I’m not sure I would have been able to control myself.I don’t think I’ve ever bawled like a baby quite like I did during The Notebook. The dementia scenes really got to me, especially because my grandpa died of Alzheimer’s and it crushed my grandmother, who considered leaving him just before he fell ill. This film also cut right to my core because as I lay there watching it, holding my future wife, I couldn’t help but picture us as that old couple. I want to build her a house. I want to love her madly. And I want to die in her arms….And now I’m about to cry at my cubicle. Fuck.

3. September 11. The mere thought of it gets me choked up. An uncle (not blood-related, but might as well had been) died in the World Trade Center. He survived the bombing years earlier. He wasn’t as fortunate in 2001. My father was the last person to talk to him, and I can only imagine the pain he’s living with. My father used to work in the Twin Towers – I remember visiting there as a kid – so he lost many, many former co-workers and friends in the attacks. Again, for reasons incomprehensible to me, from time to time I’ve willingly Youtubed the 911 calls from that day, from the helpless people stuck in the Windows of the World restaurant, to the calls made from people totally unaware of what was happening. I’m not sure if this behavior can be classified as sick, or odd, or simply as human, but sometimes I’m drawn to such tragedy and pain. Because that day was very real for me, and because I was at school in Philadelphia, I can’t help but relive some of those moments. I’m not sure if it helps in the mourning process, but once I’ve cried myself calm, I do start to feel better.

Soundtrack to My Life, Songs 1-4

You know how every superhero has a theme song, a song he or she bursts onto a scene with? I’m no superhero but I’d still like to have music accompanying my every step in life. That’s because I’m almost always listening to music.

I would call it the Soundtrack to My Life, and I want it played during my funeral service. Of course, whoever gathers to mourn my death probably wouldn’t want to stick around to hear the soundtrack in its entirety, because I suppose it will be very, very long, but again that’s why it’s called the Soundtrack to My Life: it’s a collection of my all-time favorite songs that were with me during the most prevalent moments of my life, from turning points to hardships to my pinnacle.

Certain songs make me strut differently. Some make me emotional, almost on cue. There are songs that make me think of death, oftentimes my own, and others that make me think of the greatest things life has to offer. I pretend I’m more badass than I actually am depending on the song. I feel sexier when certain songs are playing. Certain songs take me back to a specific moment in life. For me, music is an emotional seesaw, a mood setter, a thought provoker. You catch my drift. And these are all reasons why I’ve always been passionate about music.

Enough backstory. The Soundtrack to My Life will be a reoccurring series. Here is the first installment.

1. “From the Hills” by Raekwon

I am Wu Tang when I listen to this song. I am cruising the Major Deegan Expressway in the Bronx, passing by Yankee Stadium, filming the music video to this song, except I’m not rapping. I’m just part of the Clan. Maybe I’m a hype man. I’m in a puffy jet black coat, a black hoodie underneath and with a scruffy face. You can see me in the background of the video with the rest of the Clan, and I’m jive talkin’, only you can’t hear what I’m saying because we’re not supposed to be heard. But it’s cold outside so you can see the cold air coming from my mouth each it opens. I am pure gangster.

2. “The Only Living Boy in New York” by Simon and Garfunkel

I’m a sentimental fool for any type of music about or from New York. Whenever I listen to this song, I picture myself walking the streets of Manhattan, head down, during the winter. I feel like I’m the only person on these streets, even though I’m not. “Half of the time we’re gone but we don’t know where, we don’t know where.” When they sing that chorus, I hear uncertainty and pain.

3. “Make My” by The Roots

Lately, this has been the first song I play every morning out the door of my apartment building. I’m so obsessive that I literally press ‘play’ the moment the door opens and I greet the world for the first time that day. For me, it’s been the perfect song to start the day, as it’s neither too aggressive nor too soft. When I hear the soft keyboard that begins the song, I picture a newborn baby opening his eyes for the first time, a warm welcome to the world. I have a tremendous amount of respect for The Roots. They’ve stayed true to themselves and have done their own thing throughout all these years, creating music that doesn’t reek of the fantasy or thuggery that’s so typical of the hip hop genre (not to say I have anything against that, but it’s just nice to have music as refreshing as what The Roots are making).

4. “Separator” by Radiohead

This song is what I picture the afterlife to be like. I am not in my body when I listen to this. I would place this song at the end credits of my biopic. It begins as they throw dirt on my casket. The screen fades to black, the credits roll, the theater empties, the song continues and I take it with me to the afterlife, wherever that is.