'Cos Everybody Needs Some Love

Weezer, nerd rock band famous for their Blue Album song "Buddy Holly," has some cool lyrics in their song "Photographs" from the Green Album.  My favorite lines goes as follows:

"'Cos everybody needs some love / shooting from the stars above . . .  'Cos everybody wants some hope / something they could barely know.  . . .  'Cos everybody needs a dream / something they could barely see."

Along that theme, I remember one story.  An apocryphal story stated that when baby Jesus was born, a poor drummer boy journeyed to see him, along with the famous magis of course.   The drummer boy, too poor to match the gifts of the magis' gold, frankincense and myrrh, gave to his lord the only thing he had: a song from his heart.  One that was echoed through his snare drum.

This is the story of watching two people see that need for love, hope, and dreams by coming together.

I met Joshua, the 16 year old boxing kid, after finishing my boxing training, which left me sweaty, exhausted, and high on energy.  He tried to get my attention by asking me annoying questions: "Hey, do you shave your legs?"  He would ask.  "What about your arms?"

I replied, "I'm Asian.  I don't have much hair."

"Haha, Bruce Lee he would say."

Is this kid for reals, I thought.  He was a punk. I could tell.  Plug, huge spike earrings that went through.  Hyperactive to the bone.  I could tell he ditched school, and I had to keep asking him if he was going.

But as time passed, I warmed up to him.  I watched his behavior once at Starbucks with the other boxers and asked him, "You're hyperactive aren't you?"

He said, "Yeah."

I said, "Oh yeah, so am I."

"Really?"

He gave me a high five.  And I thought, I never thought someone half my age would connect to me like I was the same age as them.  I thought life was over when I turned 30.

He complained once that the teachers at his ghetto school sent him to the principal's for stealing lunch.  I felt bad and wondered why didn't the bloody teacher just buy him the $1 lunch.

Then there was the time I was working on an assignment at the local Starbucks, late, late into the evening.  Someone tapped me, while I was focused on my work.  I looked up and saw Joshua.  I was shocked.  And he said, "I saw your car.  I wanted to say hi."  He had a smile that lit his face joyous.  I'm sure I returned the sentiment.

In any event, I had the perfect idea.  I had just bought a rock crab, heavy and yummy and all and asked my mother to make me crab soup.  It's my favorite soup of course - for it has a rich, oily, and sweet unique depth of taste to it.

I asked Joshua, "You ever eat crab?

He said, "No."

"You want to."

"Sure." 

I thought to myself about my mother - burnt and broken inside.  The divorce left her shattered.  Then there was the younger son - her favorite - who left her for marriage.  Although it's what men do, it's what she was denying would ever happen.  The events she reaped in life only calcified her heart more and more, leaving it with layers of deposited bitterness.

I thought of Joshua.  He told me that his mother was stuck somewhere in Mexico, and you could tell the kid wanted her back.

Before coming over, I asked Joshua, "Do you have any money?"

He said, "No."

"Here's five dollars.  When you go to Asian people's home, you hafta bring them something.  Go get my mom a flower."

"What kind of flower?"

"Anything.  It's from you.  Not me.  So pick well."

He skateboarded somewhere around town.  I was working on my assignments.  He came back with a white rose.  

I took him to my house.  I said, "Mom, hey my friend has something to give you."  I knew she would fall in love with him instantly.  Her young boy gone.  My younger brother used to have the same plugs in his ears as this kid.  He had the same quirks and ticks as me at his age (and maybe now) because of the hyperactivity.

He walked into my home.  He held it behind his back, like he was going to give it to a girl on a first date.  She came back into the house from the backyard and met him in the dining room.  He popped out the white rose from behind his back.  It took her less than a second to register what happened.  Her face lit up with kindness and joy and for an instance, her face looked like a young girl's again.

She said, "Oh - but you didn't have to."

He smiled back, realizing the power of giving a gift of sincerity.  She hugged him.  He hugged her back.

I took a step back and was a member of the audience, watching the show.  I knew this would happen.  It's true: ""Cos everybody wants some love, shooting from the stars above.  'Cos everybody wants some hope, something they can barely know.  'Cos everybody wants a dream, something they can barely see."

Dear Dad....

 

In my purgatory days, staying in the San Gabriel Valley, I had an idea.  And that idea turned into a self-discussion.  And that self-discussion turned into self-reflection.  And that self-reflection turned into more reflection, which converged into a decision.

The idea came to me, when I just thought about who I was.  Actually, it happened because we had plumbing problems at our house.  Me mother and I went through 10 plumbers, until the leak was actually fixed.  I would have said five were just crooks.  Two misdiagnosed the problem, which led to them not having a job.  Two had personality issues with my moms.  And the last one fixed it.  In that ordeal, I witnessed plumbing contractors take advantage of what they thought was naive little old lady.  Little did they know, she had me for a son.  And little did they like, when I stepped in.  All in all, I was able to get a refund back from one of the plumbers and help make sure poor old Ma wasn't taken advantage of.  

I did look at her at one point and said, "You know, you wouldn't be in this mess if you just listened to what I told you to do in the first place.  Why didn't you just listen?"

And she laughed and said, " 'Cos I'm your mom."

I replied, "But - look at the mess you've gotten yourself into, now.  You can't just keep getting into them."

She said, "Yes, I can.  'Cos you're my son.  You get me out of them."

I sighed.  Thought about how I ended up in this codependent relationship, not by choice but by birth.  I rolled my eyes and said, "I suppose."

And it occurred to me, then, hey the relationship you had with your mother has come a long, long way from the constant wars in the house.  A long way.  And, if you're honest with yourself, she hasn't changed.  You've changed.  But as a result, she's changed in how she responds to you.  

That got me thinking.  You have a mission.  You need to win over Dad.  But how?  I have such a strained and cold relationship with him.  I thought and thought.

In the end, what grieves me the most is that my dad doesn't know I can write or what's happening in my life.  My mom doesn't know I can write, but she at least knows what's going on in my life.  She can tell you my favorite foods - has to be crab broth with rice cakes.  MMM...  She call tell you I love my mustang and bmw.  I guess Dad knows that too because everyone knows that.  But she also knows I was becoming a better boxer, against her wishes, and all the friends that come and visit.  My dad couldn't tell you or me or anyone any of this.

I wrote my father a letter once.  I did.  I swear it.  I was living in Seoul, the Republic of Korea at the time.  I wrote the whole letter by hand in Korean.  Nothing too sophisticated as my Korean isn't great, but I guess it blew the whole family out of the water that they could see I actually knew how to write Korean.  It also tells you how little they knew about my life at that time of it.  My father said he almost started to cry when he read it.

So, I got to thinking, I should write letters to my dad.  I have a Korean friend I made in New Zealand.  He said he'd help me translate them in Korean.  I'm going to give him one a week and let him know he doesn't have to even write back as my Korean isn't probably good enough for me to understand.  I just want him to know what's going on.  If he's comfortable with my friends reading the letter, I'll post them on here.

So - that's my new project.

Baldwin Park

My blog is mostly known for its words, but in this case, I want this post to be known for a picture.  A lot of you know, I come from a small ghetto city in the San Gabriel Valley called Baldwin Park.  The last thing, I ever wanted to do was come back here.  But I guess the Chinese are right, "Falling leaves return to its roots."

I don't have much to write this week.  But as the cliche goes, "A picture is worth a 1,000 words."  Now you know where I grew up in, where I learn boxing, and where I've come back to.

Picture taken by Paul Cook with permission from the participants.

Boxing Gloves

          I entered the boxing gym.  The head coach smiled at me.  It struck me as odd.  Why’s he smiling, I thought.  “Good day.”  I shook his hand and went to see my personal coach.

          “Hey Coach, can you wrap me.”  He holds my right in his left and wraps with his right.  He holds my left with his left and wraps with his right.

“Into the ring,” my boxing coach, Luis said. 

          I stepped between the ropes and went in.  You said, “Fly like a butterfly.  Well, that’s what we’re learning today.  You’re going to dance inside that ring.” 

          He shouted commands at me.  Left.  Right.  Forward.  Backward.  Pivot.  Left.  Right.  Backward.  Forward.  Pivot.  Pivot.  Left.  Right.  Pivot.  And so it went. 

          At first, it was difficult because my head had to process the instructions.  But like picking up the rhythm of a song, I was starting to feel more of the glide in my feet around the ring.  The old coach came up and said to my coach, “Hey – he’s coming along.  You did a good job with him.”  From my peripheral vision, I caught the younger coach smiling.

          The older one said, “Look at his balance.  Center of gravity.  Everything’s good.  Good.”

          And then, the head coach looks too.  For a moment, I felt like time stopped.  The informal coaches and the formal ones and the younger kids had their eyes on me.  They were thinking, who is he?  He came from Baldwin Park.  Why does he train so hard?  He doesn’t need to.

I made a mistake now and then.  I bounced back from the intense pressure of being watched at those moments without thought.  All the years of law school humiliation I suppose does that to you.

In the corner, was the-other-Asian-guy, the one who hated me.  He looked angry, like an abused and stray village dog.  He too knew I had made progress.  Progress.  He’s been there for years ignored and neglected.  Now, I show up and in 5 weeks, I was coming along – along fast.

“Alright,” Luis says.  “Out of there.  Go to the mirrors.  I have some drills for you.”  So, I go and do them.  My coach leaves me.  I practice for what seems to be forever doing the same thing over and over again.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Mistake.  Try to Fix.  Fix.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Mistake. 

My white shirt begins to soak through with sweat.  Hugging my skin, my torso show like a girl’s breasts do in a wet t-shirt contest.  My hair is wet.  When I shake it, pearls of sweat fall on the black mat, scattering it like morning dew on blades of grass. 

How much more of this am I meant to do? I think.  No one is watching.  This is boring.  More and more, until you master this.  Got it?  Good.  Because nobody will stand over you watching you in life.  Learn that now.  And most of mastery is boring, will be boring, and boring is what you need to endure.

At some point, the head coach comes towards me.  So, I wasn’t being ignored.  Luis is with him.  The head coach is smiling. 

Luis has two red, shiny, boxing gloves in his hands.  He presents them to me with a smile as well and says, “Put these on.”

In the moment I should’ve said thank you, time just passes and passes.  The words choke in my throat.  Say something.  I can’t.  I don’t know why.

The head coach, instead says, “Look at him.  He’s literally speechless.  Come on, Man.  Put them on.  You knew they were coming.”

I wish I could’ve hugged them both.  I wish I could’ve said thank you.  I wish I could’ve said anything.  I mean, of course I feel grateful, but come on, I don’t deserve these. 

“I guess this is means the big ‘C’ word.”  Luis gives me a look that shows me he doesn’t know what it means.  Either of the C words.

Head coach says, “That’s right: Commitment.”

“Haha,”  I said.  “Someone who knows from experience the fear.”

I take the gloves.  Put them on.  They fit snuggly.

Luis asks, “How do they feel?  Good?”

“Yeah.”

“Well – let’s get you started on the bags then.”

The players, the formal coaches, and the informal coaches, see me and the gloves.  They look and know and talk amongst themselves: the China man is here and seen but where is he going.

At the end of practice, people I’ve never met introduce themselves to me.  I walk to the parking lot with the coaches and the teenage players.  One of the high school kids asks me, “What do you drive?”

I ask him back, “What do you think I drive?”

He looks at all the cars in the parking lot and says, “It can’t be the BMW Z3.”

“Hey, come on coach.  Let’s go.”  I walk over to my shiny, black BMW Z3, open my trunk, and put in my gym bag.  I look behind and see the boy speechless. 

“Let me give you a ride, Coach.  It’d be my pleasure.”

2013: The Year of Seeking Wisdom

 

Apparently, when Buddha was about to die, he bid the animals to wish him farewell.  Only 12 showed up, one of which was the snake or the naga.  Of course naga would show up because the two had an intimate relationship.  It is said that when Buddha attained enlightenment, the rain began to pour on him.  A giant cobra, sensing that Buddha had reached infinite wisdom, raised itself above him, flared out its hood, and protected him from the rain.  In another ancient story, the naga transformed into a human and begged Buddha to allow him to be one of his monks.  Buddha, however, said no because he was not a human.  But for his devotion, would remember the naga forever.  Hence, he named his acolytes nagas.  

Not that I'm into the zodiac or superstition, but I do recognize that this is the Year of the Metal Snake.  In the Christian culture, the snake has its role not in the enlightenment of mankind, but sadly its downfall.  After all, Eve plucked and ate because of the serpent's cunning.  Well - one thing is clear to me from the role of the snake in the Christian and Buddhist Scriptures: it represents hidden and sacred knowledge.  In the Buddhist version, a freeing one, and in the Christian one, an enslaving one.  I accept on those terms, this then has to be the Year of Wisdom.

In 2011, I called it the Year of Champagne, in which I wanted every month to be a celebration.  2012, I didn't really have any goals listed, except it was a year of New Opportunities.

I sat down with my mother and told her a sharp fact.  I said, "You know, 1995, 2004, 2005, and 2009 were my worst years."  She had an response that sent a chill down my back.  "You always remember those years, don't you?  You'll never forget the bad ones."  I just nodded slowly, and we both understood.

I would say 2012 in review has been a bittersweet one.  I entered the year with a strong sense of enjoyment, fun, and celebration.  Halfway through it though, the seas changed on me and the gods of the air changed their fortune against me too.  So - I'm not sure what to make of this year - except, as usual, I can say I learned a lot.  I grew a lot.  I dared a lot.  I suffered a lot.  I made a lot of mistakes.  I corrected a lot of mistakes.  I loved.  My heart broke.  My heart mended.  I saw the world.  I saw its wonders.  I learned her knowledge.  Therefore, I conclude: I must have lived.

This year, I'm not really sure what my goals are.  I had three goals in 2011, and I was quite surprised to revisit my blog post to see I actually achieved them.  How many people could actually say that?  I didn't have any listed goals in 2012.  So, I think it's time to come up with some targets, and we'll see in a year again if I made it.  A year is a long time to wait - at least for me. 

1) I'd like to be better at emotional mastery.  

2) I'd like to become a better cook.  My recipes are becoming the same and boring to me.

3) I'd to become a better writer.

4) I'd like to be a better fighter (and not a lover).  Just joke, you know?  

5) I'd like to b a kinder person.

6) I'd like to go at least 2  and at most 3 destinations that expand my knowledge of this world.  

7) And linked back to 6, I'd like to go on another treasure hunt!  This time, I'm looking for ultimate stories and recipes.  

Let's see how far I get with these 7.  The Greeks and the Jews believed that being familiar with snakes produced the antidote for venom.  It's not a pleasant way I suppose to be healed of what afflicts you, but hey - it is what it is.  Perhaps, my seven goals and my pursuit for knowledge and wisdom will replenish my soul.

A short story for you . . .

A lady at the local drug store rang me up and gave me a discount she shouldn't have.  I didn't know at the time I wasn't supposed to get the discount.

I returned a week later.  Her loser of a supervisor, a balding, fat white guy, rang me up.  The lady clerk was right by him.  I said, "Where's my discount?"

He said, "You don't get one."

"Your employee gave me one before."

"And who was that employee?"

I glanced at the clerk who looked a bit nervous.  I took note of her worn eyes and that she was an older woman that needed to pay the bills.  She was waiting to see what happened.  I didn't want to lie either.  

So, I said, "What?  You expect me to remember every clerk's name?  I don't know who it was."

He gruffed and denied my discount.

I came back a week after that, and the clerk was there.  And she rang me up.  I looked at the receipt and there was the discount.  I smiled.

I said, "He's a jerk.  Isn't he?"

"Sure is."  She said.

"You know, I didn't say anything."

"Don't worry."  She smiled.  "I know you didn't say anything."

My Christmas Story

 

Ray Bradbury, famous author of Fahrenheit 451, died this year, but in his life, he also wrote a story called "The Flying Machine."  In it, a Chinese man invents a beautiful flying machine, but when the Emperor finds out - he orders the execution of the inventor.  He explains that he sees what evil eyes would do with such a contraption, such as drop rocks against his kingdom from high above.  At the end of the story, he sees birds fly and realizes that his execution was in vain because he understands that birds were the inspiration for the inventor.  The machine would be built again.

When I was but a young boy, a witch and a warlock gave me an evil book of sorcery and magic.  Now - witches and warlocks of our modern time don't discuss the fact that they are these relics of a pagan past, and they certainly don't look any different from another human being.  So, as a kid how could I tell any different.  I was just excited that these two called me into a secret meeting, in a secret room, to give me a secret book.  Now, I was told to keep it in safeguard.  It was special - just for me.

I liked the book, and flipped through it from time to time, since I was given it.  But, it was an evil tome of forgotten magic, spells, and rituals.  One volume of the Tome taught me why men crave murder in the most heinous ways and how to use the blood of murdered men to divine the future.  Another volume explained how to seek the forbidden knowledge that got Adam and Eve expelled from Eden.  

Years and years later, people warned me I had a book of evil in my possession.  I didn't think anything of it.  But recently, while I was at Starbucks, a random man, a man who claimed to be a prophet, became urgent and told me he wanted to talk to me outside.  He said I had a book of ritual and magic and sorcery.  How he knew or who told him, I never figured out.

I returned to the book.  I flipped through it.  I felt compelled once again to not destroy the book.  After all, someone had put in at least a decade of collecting this knowledge - evil or not.  It appeared to be precious knowledge.  

But up to the days leading to Christmas, several people once again reminded me to burn the book.  I was going to shred it, but all three people reminded me: "That's not good enough."  On Christmas day, I asked my mother for the bbq pit.  I dumped the book in there and doused it with lighter fluid.

I struggled to know whether I did right or wrong.  I never burned a book in my life.  I remember my Indian Project Manager, an educated man, told me that his wife and him smacked their child only once in life.  Once.  And they did it at the same time.  It was when their daughter ripped a page out of a book and threw it against the wall.  

Now, I was going to commit the same act that Hitler authorized with his book burnings.  All that precious Jewish sacred knowledge lost - forever.  The Romans burnt down Cleopatra's library; the Romans burnt the knowledge of the Jews.  The Germans incinerated Jewish volumes of lore and wisdom.  Now - I wondered to myself if it was right to destroy this knowledge - even though it was from the heart of evil itself.

I took a match and threw it against the book.  My mother came out and asked, "Why are you burning that book?"

"Because people told me it's evil," I answered.

"And since when do you become superstitious?"  She said it in broken English.

"When strangers told me I had an evil book I had to burn."

"Well - I can see that's important."

I watched the orange and red flames gliding over each page and eating away at it.  The wraiths inside of the book shrieked and filled the night sky with screams.  The flames sent them back to where they belonged: Hell.  I just watched the hypnotic fire growing ever bigger, destroying my tome that I was supposed to safeguard.  And I did safeguard it I suppose.  No one would ever have this knowledge now.  I kept my promise as that witch and warlock never told me who I was safeguarding it for.  I did what Adam could not do when she saw her fallen Eve.  He took her hand and chose her over God and instead walked hand-in-hand out of the garden together.  Here - I made the decision that I didn't want this magic, and no one else would have it.  People have evil eyes and people have nefarious purposes.

When the ashes flew up into the sky, like bits of silver flakes, I knew someone put a ritual inside that book to bind me to it.  My spirit felt freer with every page that burnt, like chords that bound me being snapped.  Yet, my chickens and ducks, locked in their cage started fluttering their wings and clucking with madness.  They wanted out.  They were banging themselves against the cage, until the last page burned, and the flames drove the last demon back to Hell.

It was an odd ritual for Christmas Day.  And why do ghosts love to be present on Christmas day?  I took my mother then to watch Les Miserables.  It was a good way to end Christmas - to watch the story of grace and mercy re-framed for me.  My mother fell asleep as she said, "Musicals are boring."  I laughed.

When I went back home though, I had the most gnawing feeling biting in me.  That book - I could feel it.  There's another copy somewhere.  Who has it?  And why?  I suppose the inspiration to recreate its words are still out there. 

Learning the Upper Cut

Once upon a time, a titan named Prometheus stole fire from Mount Olympus and taught man the gods' secrets about fire.  Zeus, the King of the gods, had the titan chained to a rock for his insolence.  Zeus sent his pet eagle to dive into the chained titan, and rip out his liver to eat, everyday, actually.  Every morning, the liver regenerated and the eagle would once again torment the titan.  Franz Kafkfa believed in three other alternatives.

He said that the torture could have drove the titan to press himself, his soul, his lifeblood, and his body into the rock - becoming one with it.

He said that the story became forgotten.  The gods forgot about the titan.  The eagle forgot about himself.

He said that the story became boring.  The gods found watching the same show over and over again boring.  The wound got bored too and closed up.  The eagle needed something else to do.

Now, being thrown out of grace and landing in a strange place between Heaven and Hell, which of those fates awaits me in my purgatory days?

In the boxing gym, Chief held the punching bag.  I threw a right jab, a left back punch, and right jab, again and again.  It began to create a rhythm, duh duh duh duh duh.  "Again," Chief would say.  'Duh, duh, duh, duh, duh."  Fast and crisp the punches landed.  Chief shouted, "Hey guys, look at this."

Luiz, my personal coach, and the main coach came to watch.  The extra pressure of them having me watch made me mess up and the sound came out as duh-duh- duh duh duh.  No good.  But after awhile, I found my rhythm again, and out they came: duh duh duh duh duh.  It had a natural beat, like all things do when they become perfected.  Chief said, "Hey, he's getting good, huh?"  The two other coaches nodded.

Luiz then took me aside and said, "I wanna teach you the upper cut.  But I know you."  He smiled, and even though he was Chicano, his eyes narrowed into Chinese ones.  No wonder they call him Chinito sometimes.  A Chicano that looks like a Chinese man is teaching the Korean boxing.  Can life get weirder?  He went on, "You're gonna try to get it perfect.  Think too much.  Just like you do.  Just relax and throw them out."

Chief added, "Just like his Chinese people do.  Need to be perfect."

"That's right."  I added.

Luiz said, "But I'm gonna teach you the upper cut."  That just sounded cool.  The upper cut.

He showed me the shadow boxing movement.  "First you go down.  You drop the left arm like a lever.  Then you pop it out at a right angle.  Spin the hand.  Scoop it up.  Then Boom.  Up you go.  You get the power by springing off your feet.  Got it?"

I looked at it and said, "I think so."  This one I could do.  I ducked down, looking like a wound-up jack-in-the-box.  After a few repetitions, I got it.  I sprang off my feet, released the scooping punch, and my elbow flicked up.  Upper cut.

Luiz smiled and said, "There ya go."

Chief said, "You want to go and punch into their body and follow up.  Knock them out boss, right underneath that chin; so they see stars."

"Got ya!"

There, I was, learning boxing.  But not like the Chicano kids.  No.  What I lack in technical skills, they could see I made up with the hard pressed demands ingrained in me from living with parents who demanded perfection in their oldest son.  Whenever I made a mistake in the boxing club, I joked, "Oh no!  My parents are gonna disown me now."  (Hasn't happened yet, but maybe one day.)

I finished off with jump ropes.  But I was so sweaty, that the drops of sweat fell to the floor as I skipped ropes.  The head coach watched me and said, "This one's dedicated."  I had the stamina from all the other training I did.  I suppose it comes from the unspoken family motto, drilled in my brother and me: dedication, determination, and victory.  And finally - no excuses.  (Though I think both my parents don't always follow what they preach.)

Anyways, after finishing with training, the head coach invited me to dinner.  They wanted to know more about me.  Why?  How does all the kids at the club already know my name?  They all know: I'm Paul.  They call my name, and I know only my coaches' name.

I agree to go to eat Mexican food.  I eat Mexican breakfast for dinner.  Chorizo con huveos (eggs with Mexican sausage.)  I love the salty crispiness of the sausage against the scrambled eggs.  The fatty rice and beats are tasty but just a filler.

We talk about our lives, and in a flash of a moment, I realize again, I'm living back at my childhood home.  It's a home that I wanted to run away far, far, away from.  And I did.  When I turned 18, I flew the nest.  But the Chinese are right - "Falling leaves return to their roots."  And to be honest, I am happy to be back at home.  Except, I find it strange that I have pets for children that all seem to have ESP and know and respond to my routine.

I had a flashback over the weekend about what my family told me.  My brother, his wife, their Welsh Corgi (a royal pembroke kind), and my mother were all in the living room.  The Welsh Corgi, neurotic with hyperactivity, barked at the other creatures living on our San Gabriel Estate - modest of course.  Once in awhile, she would lay flat on her stomach and sprawl out her stubby paws.  Very cute.

My brother, recognizing my struggling state, asked me, "Why did you ever leave New Zealand?  You used to live by the beautiful, blue ocean, and you were living like a prince."

That I was, I thought.

My mother added to the dumb comment, "Yeah!  You should go back!"  The Corgi raised its head and noted her raised voice.

How could I explain to them, I was too young to stop suffering and to live a boring life in New Zealand.  I always had this terrible vision of my future if I stayed there.  Let me tell you what it was.  I had a nice home by the blue ocean where the orkas came and went, a nice car, and the same job.  I was in my 50's, and I asked myself everyday that I woke up why I chose an easy life?  I asked myself why I had stopped learning?  I asked myself why I chose not to suffer while I was young?  To step into that moment, was me living a vision of a Hell tailored just for me.  My Mental Hell on Earth.  But, how could I explain that to the people in the room here?  All they cared about was the one value that destroys, desecrates, and demolishes an explorer's vision: SECURITY.

I scoffed inside but said flatly, "We'll all go back one day.  And I'll scuba dive and bring you all lobster to eat.  I make the best lobster too."

My brother said, "Yeah, that's true."

My mom said, "We should go."

My brother's wife said, "Maybe we'll go."

And I realized, hey Paul, Paul, you're at dinner.  Snap out of this moment.  You're day dreaming again.  People want you attentive here.

I can't really discuss parts of the conversation with them.  But I can say I got a glimpse of the world of boxers and their needs and desires and aspirations and failures.

In the back of my mind, I again asked myself: What do they want from me again?  I just started.