I have hundreds of DVD cases stacked somewhere back in Pennsylvania. Almost all of them are real, but there do happen to be some that aren’t. The fake cases are full-sized and accompanied by photocopied covers slipped into the plastic lining. They’re the first few seasons of Family Guy, and I got them from my friend Steve. He passed away late this afternoon, after battling cancer. I found out around 5:15, swallowed hard, finished a meeting, came home. It’s still sinking in.
My great-great-great grandfather is considered by some to be the man that saved the entire Civil War for the Union army. On July 2, 1863, with forces dwindling and ammunition low, Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain ordered his men to fix bayonets and charge down Little Round Top toward the approaching Confederate troops. They were, literally, at the extreme left flank of the entire army, and losing the high ground would ensure a collapse of the Union’s ranks, as well as open a road that could be used to march straight to Washington, DC. So, faced with no options, Chamberlain charged; down a hill, to a Medal of Honor, and into history.
Months later, after the full scope of Gettysburg’s toll had begun to be recognized, President Lincoln sat through a two-hour oration by Edward Everett before delivering his own, ten sentence charge.
“It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced,” he said. “It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain.”
On Friday, 20 children lost their lives, for what appears to be no other reason than living. They were fighting no war, engaged in no battle, and cloaked in an innocence that we cherish, especially in this season of love, and of peace. We also lost six of their classroom heroes. Together, they’ve left us with a great task and charged us to resolve that they have not died in vain.
Days later, at the end of an agonizing weekend exacerbated by 24-hour news and a quest for understanding, President Obama listened intently to others pray and offer their words of hope. At one point, he mouthed the opening words to Psalm 23, eyes fixed on the clergy before him. The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul…
Then, he rose.
There’s a book you should read sometime, or at least try to. It’s called The Sacred and the Profane, and it will most likely blow your mind. Its author was a Romanian-born immigrant that spent a large chunk of the 20th century tinkering with religion, time, and space. Ladies and gents, let me introduce you to Mircea Eliade, and more specifically, how one of his theories helps me run social media for Ithaca College.
(Warning: This is about to get deep.)
It’s easy to get lost in Las Vegas. Not physically, I mean. The Strip is a well-lit straight line; you know immediately if you’ve left the beaten path by how the shadows begin to emerge and the tall buildings aren’t as tall. But spend a few days in the City of Sin and your mind is what begins to wander. Days of the week are mostly useless, save for a reservation or a show. It’s how they want it to be - and it’s how they get it.
When I was high school, I wrote a weekly column in the teen section of the Bucks County Courier Times. It was a great chance to work on the craft, as well as voice some opinions and ruffle a few feathers. I ended up writing about 99 pieces for the paper over the span of two years, and the ability to have a mouthpiece like that is something I definitely took for granted.
In that light, it was with great pleasure that I wrote this piece earlier this summer. It appears in today’s Courier Times along with a few other alumni of the section, offering our advice and comments on things we wish we knew way back when.
Enjoy!
I stepped past the bouncer checking IDs and sat down at the fourth bar stool from the left. It was about 10:25, so the bar wasn’t packed, but it was beginning to fill up. I prefer the atmosphere of a bar that isn’t full; a place where people can have their conversations and little pockets of chatter without yelling over the din of too many people in too small a space with too much music. A good bar vibe features some patrons deep in conversation and others deep into their drinks. The fun is figuring out which is which.
During the summer between junior and senior year of college, I was interviewed as a potential profile in a publication at Ithaca College. The interview went well and as the piece continued to move towards publication I was given a peek at one of the drafts to make sure everything was technically accurate. I don’t remember if the story had incorrect statements in it, but I do remember, and will never forget, a line in the lede that called me “a renaissance man of modern media.” It was some highly over-dramatic writing, but hey, it was about me so I was thrilled.
It turned out that the piece was never actually published, so such over-the-top praise didn’t fall on deaf ears, it just fell on no ears. I used to joke with friends that the world just wasn’t ready for my “modern media renaissance” that I was obviously undertaking and conducting. In fact, I use the line as joke now in my biography on this site. It’s a call for my potential, but also an awareness of how ridiculous that praise can be.
In that light, it was with a heavy heart I found myself reading this line in an article about my grandfather, who passed away on Thursday afternoon:
“Mr. Engelsman, a Navy veteran, was a true Renaissance man, passionate for his community and his many friends.”
I couldn’t help but smile. I mean, the guy beat me to being Renaissance-y by two generations. And on top of that, it was actually an accurate statement! The nerve of some people.
When I wrote a local newspaper column in high school, I would sometimes let people pick out random topics for me to work into my writing. It was partially a challenge to see how much I could bullshit on one topic or another, but when I started stacking the suggestions it became a puzzle to solve. Where do these seemingly random pieces fit? And how could I make them connected as part of a coherent piece?
Tonight, I decided to revisit that game. I solicited Twitter for some suggestions. They were pretty lame, but I promised I’d credit those who gave ideas and such. So, our five must-have pieces were:
1. @cmccreesh says it’s been a year since graduation.
2. @marleysmom said hot dogs.
3. @sarahpaol said the beauty of veggies.
4. @jpalochko said “Look at some headlines and then write a story from that.” Seems doable. So I hit up Google News and the top story was “Inside Fumbled Facebook Offering”.
5. @meghanswope said a lot of things. It was a very long response. But she said the word “retrospective” at some point so I think that’ll do.
The court was terrible. Just awful. It was a bunch of cinderblocks laid into the ground to roughly form a basketball three point arc. Except it was much smaller. Maybe thirteen blocks by thirteen, with a few random extras forming a semblance of a extension past the foul line. Grass grew up between the blocks and had to be weed-whacked often. The metal pole was solid; the wooden hoop was not. It was old, with paint chipping off and chunks completely rotted. It wasn’t much, but it was my backyard basketball court.
I walked up the stairs to exit the station and emerged south of the Thames near the National Theatre. It was October in London, and I moved north back towards Waterloo Bridge. To its right, the Theatre. To its left, the British Film Institute’s Southbank building. It was 2009, and I was attending the premiere of Still Bill, a documentary about Bill Withers.
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