Thank you for all your Birthday wishes! I’ve gotten another year older, taken another trip around the Sun. I may not necessarily get wiser, but certainly more experienced. I find I’m prone to drop more wisdom (for what it’s worth) and more advice (though no one may ask for it). That’s what we tend to do as the years click by. Maybe that’s the secret to immortality. Isn’t that why we constantly quote the dead? I have learned a few things, a lot in this past year, so indulge me (or yourself) while I divulge some sound words of advice, drop some learned knowledge and/or spread some thick b.s. (which is what it may all be, but that’s fine too). Feel free to cue up an instrumental version of Baz Luhrmann’s “Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen)” as I will dispense this advice...now:


Open your mind or your heart before you open your mouth.


Go to one music festival a year - 1 day, 3 days, 1 week, doesn’t matter - and go when the gates open to watch the opening bands you’ve never heard of. Don’t hang out at the Four Seasons pool until the sun goes down.


See the legends before they pass away (RIP Tom Petty).


If you’re in a Starbucks bathroom, let’s not go the #2 route. Coffee’s a diuretic and you’re being rude to coffee drinkers. Let’s work on the turnover rate when it’s busy.


Oreo keeps releasing exclusive flavors. They’re funky and worth trying. Except the Swedish Fish. If they bring back Swedish Fish flavored Oreos, we march on their headquarters.


If you like a street performer, give them some coin or cash. Encourage good art. It’s a subjective phrase, so I’ll leave that in your hands. Don’t tip someone just because they’re performing. Don’t encourage bad art...which is also subjective.


Don’t assume you’re being tipped. Tips are extra money given for exemplary service.


Farts are funny. Always have been, always will be. If you don’t think so, you have a stick in your butt...which would sound hilarious if you farted.


People may not seem to care - and they actually may not! - but I just think that people don’t think of others enough, that’s why they text in movie theaters, don’t use their turn signal and post negative comments online. If that’s you, don’t text in movie theaters, use your turn signal and don’t be too quick to post something negative online.


Dance like people are watching.


Sometimes jokes are jokes. They may not be good. They may be offensive. However, they come from a place that someone thought was funny. That’s why we have a variety of entertainment, and remote controls, preset radio stations and exit doors.


Changing the channel is easier than trying to change the system.


News channels, websites and blogs need views to get advertising dollars to survive. The bigger ones are multi-million dollar media outlets. They may have relevant information, but above all they are in the business of getting ratings to make money.


Don’t be so quick to Google. Try to figure it out first. The brain needs a workout every now and then.


Opinion has no place in a scientific debate.


Don’t default to staring at your phone if you’re in a room full of interesting people. At least find out if they’re interesting first. Be interesting.


Memorize important phone numbers.


If you have to get up early, smile at others you see who also had to get up early. Nobody wants to be up that early, so help each other out and make the most of it.


Go to a foreign country at least once. I’ll include Canada and Mexico on that list.


Go to a different state that’s the opposite political color of your own.


Go to a different city on the opposite end of your state and spend a weekend there.


Go to a new restaurant where the menu scares you.


Colonics are dreadful and over-rated.


Ease off the fast food.


Ignorance isn’t bliss, it’s an excuse.


Taylor Swift and Katy Perry may be beefing, but that shouldn’t stop you from enjoying their music at full volume and singing along. Unless you’re in heavy traffic or at a red light. In which case, roll up the windows. You never know who’s #TeamTaylor or #TeamKaty.


The only diet plan that has proven consistently effective in the history of the modern world is this: Eat well and be active.


Act like a child sometimes. Use your imagination, giggle uncontrollably, play with abandon, do dumb things and learn from them, and if you poop your pants, say “uh oh.”


Always have music playing. It’s easier to serve up a memory years down the line if you can associate it with a song.


Love is love is love is love is love. And consent is consent.


Everybody who changed the world before the internet didn’t have the internet to help them change the world.


Sports were developed purely for entertainment purposes. That’s worth remembering.


Don’t overdo it in Amsterdam, on your birthday, or at Burning Man. Also, don’t under-do it.


Sexism, fascism, misogyny, racism, homophobia, xenophobia...If you support any of these, statistically, in the US, you are in the minority. Don’t try to pretend you’re the majority. And don’t try to pretend you’re right and everybody else is wrong.


Vote.


Don’t talk about religion or politics. Try talking about the weather. The conversation may not be as stimulating but you’ll have fewer enemies.


Support your friends.


Whatever diet plan you’re on, incorporate a cheat day and stick to it.


Don’t overuse fml, worst day ever or #blessed.


Go see art. A lot of it sucks, and that’s okay. Some if it will literally change your world and that’s worth the risk.


You’re pretty, talented, worthwhile, beautiful and necessary.


It gets better. It also gets worse. Then it gets better again. Every uphill has a downhill and every downhill has an uphill. Life’s a roller-coaster. That’s what makes it interesting. Plateaus are boring. Hang in there.


Not every news item is a partisan issue.


Someone may say “Merry -“ or “Happy -“ whatever to you. Take it in the spirit it’s given. They weren’t trying to be mean or nasty. Respond how you want. Preferably with a “Merry -“ or “Happy -“ whatever of your own.


You have the power to not be offended.


Stop paying to see bad movies.


It’s OK that someone disagrees with you. You don’t have to be their friend in real life or maintain your even-more-important social media connection.


Take a road trip and focus on the journey, not the destination. Don’t pass up the best parts of the trip.


Live life like there are consequences for your actions. Because there are. At least, there should be. At some point, you’ll stop getting bailed out. Be thankful every time you are, but don’t expect it for every dumb thing you do.


Above all, laugh, smile, giggle, guffaw, or chortle. Make someone else do the same. It’s way more rewarding than filling someone with anger, fear, embarrassment or tears.


But trust me on the sunscreen...

The JOEL Wide World
Athens Authentic Marathon
Athens and Marathon, Greece

I still don't purport to be a runner, per se. I know people who are runners. They're lithe and dedicated and fast and have been doing it since their cross-country days of high school. Though I wouldn't call myself a runner, most others would. I have 6 pairs of running shoes (a little low for most runners I know), I get up at 6am 3 times per week and run between 4 and 10 miles. I clock around 8:30/mile. I know what terms like Fartlek and PR and negative splits and mid-foot strike mean, and I use them knowingly. I've also run 5 marathons.

OK, so I do run. But put me next to a fleet-footed Kenyan or someone who has the "must-run" sickness, and you'd be hard-pressed to find a lot of similarities.

Mostly I do it for the races. Mostly to prep for races I enjoy (mud runs, obstacle courses, that sort of thing). However, every once in a while, a running race challenge beckons and....why not?

I thought running through LA would be the ultimate rush...and it was. The first time. It's pretty amazing to run through a shut-down city and see it from a whole different perspective. I thought that was the apex. Then I foolishly entered the lottery for a spot in the New York Marathon. I should've bought a lottery ticket instead because, as luck (?) would have it, I got in on my first attempt. I trained for it and ran the New York Marathon and, what LA had in running-through-the-streets uniqueness and crowd support, New York out-did it by 1000%. Running through all 5 Burroughs with scores of people 10 deep for most of the course was a thrill. A brutal race, with the wind and cold and having to get up literally 7 hours before my start time to make it to Staten Island, but an amazing experience nonetheless.

I could swear I was done with Marathons.

Then I had the opportunity to run the Athens Marathon (and raise money for one of my favorite charities: AIDS Project Los Angeles). How do you say "no" to that? It's the original marathon! It's the reason we call them "marathons." The race would literally start in a stadium in, yep, Marathon, follow the course of the first Greek man who ran to Athens (and then promptly died...which we like to forget about...) and finish in the Panathenaic Stadium. Even if you hate running, hate Greek food, hate history, or all of the above, it's still a very tempting "bucket list" prospect.

As I've found with many races I've signed up for or been duped into running: It sounds way better on paper!

So I loaded up my travel backpack (I was going to spend 2 more weeks trolling around Europe in classic backpacker style), said good-bye to the wife and cats, and made my long trek to Athens.

One thing you tend to forget being American and a native English speaker and having mostly traveled around Europe, Mexico and Canada if you went to a foreign country: There are many places on this globe where English is very low on the priority list of "things to learn in school" and languages and letters of the alphabet vary greatly from our beloved 26. It hits you in Athens quickly. Though most people I came across had a working knowledge of English and some signs were bilingual, if you were in a situation where there was a language roadblock, you can't even fudge your way through. There aren't many words or letters or sounds that share the language base. You can't ask where the "toiletten" is or a "taxi" or sound out foreign-spelled words.
I know this seems very obvious, but you tend to forget about it. Especially when you're used to traveling in a bubble.

I made my way onto the the train from the airport, hit my stop at the main square near my hotel (which was arranged by APLA and my training group: Team 2 End AIDS). Immediately after I came out of the station, in front of the Parliament building, I was smack dab in the middle of a huge Syrian refugee protest. Welcome to Europe!

No one does upheaval, strikes, or unrest like they do in Europe. With such a melting pot and blurry borders and still-changing political systems, there is always some ado about something.

I kept my head down, wore my best "innocent backpacker" look and made my way to the boutique hotel a few blocks down. The bad thing about having a nice hotel booked for you, and you dressing and looking like a backpacker, and after flying 18 hours with little rest or shower, it's very hard to make your way into a fancy, small hotel during a riot and have security not try to kick you out. Twice.

Luckily my contact was there, I settled in, unpacked, and set to preparing for the big marathon.

We had a few days off before the race, so, yes, I hit the Parthenon and Theatre of Dionysus and a cool wine bar (not too much!) and the ancient Athens city. I did the tourist stuff and, unlike many places that have the classic tourist stops, I was very impressed. However, anybody can do those places. Go to Athens and it's literally unavoidable. This is about running the Authentic Athens Marathon!

A few things you should know about me personally before we get into the Marathon:
This was going to be my last marathon. Period. I never really dug them, they wreck your body, and, really, what could compete with running the OG of races?
My goal was to always do a marathon under 4 hours. The closest I've gotten was in my last LA marathon when I finished in 4:04 which, at the time, I convinced myself was "close enough."
I had trained for this, by myself, for 6 months, so I was as ready as I thought I'd be.

My wave time was 8am. Which meant that we had to catch a 5am bus from our hotel. It was only an hour or so outside of Athens by bus. This is always the toughest part of the marathon because you want to sleep on the ride, but you're already mostly awake, so you're really balancing tired and getting psyched for a race that's starting in 3 hours. It is a balancing act.

Also, probably the hardest part of the marathon, aside from not dying at the end, is the hours before-hand. Whether is 3 hours (pretty standard) or the 5 hours in NY, it's just time to kill. You want to eat, but can't eat too much, but have to eat something. And you want to stay loose and warm but not too loose and warm, but you don't want to be cold. And you are excited, but not super-excited, almost dreading it really, but you must stay excited and positive. And you'll go to the bathroom around 7 times, but you have to stay hydrated, almost overly hydrated, but not overly hydrated, and you want to make sure you go to the bathroom (I went to the bathroom on my first marathon in LA about halfway through the course and seriously contemplated just staying there for an hour to rest up). So there are all of these factors that happen immediately before the race that really will determine your success on the course. This is the part you hear so little about, but it should be in everyone's race training: How to kill 3 hours productively before the starting gun.

Now, a word about Marathon. We didn't get a tour of the whole city, or maybe we did. We were dropped off in a "stadium," and I use that term loosely, to get settled in before the race. I don't know if maybe Marathon itself was ever a bigger city or maybe it was just famous as the namesake of this particular style of race. Either way, if you happened onto any Greek high school soccer field, you could easily mistake it for the stadium in Marathon. It was so bland and small and un-Ancient Greek-like. I suppose my team (we were 10 in all) was all a bit disappointed. This was supposed to be the home of the marathon. It's called Marathon! I mean, there was a lit torch and a bit of a grand-stand and some marble seating but nothing that would make you think this was the epicenter of the long-distance race world.

Didn't matter, I told myself. We're just running from one small stadium to a huge one. Maybe that's why everybody runs from Marathon: There's not much too it. So a word to the wise: When in Greece, see Athens, see some famous ruins, see the Islands, don't go out of your way to visit Marathon.

This isn't to be ungrateful. Beginning a marathon in Marathon was still awesome. The rest of the race? Well.....

It was only after the course did I read an article stating that the Athens Marathon was one of the Top 10 Toughest Marathons in the World. Now there are others that run through Death Valley or across the Arctic or up to Macchu Pichu that also made the list, so this race was not in bad company. There are a few reasons that became readily apparent why this race would even be considered for such a high honor:

-- It was 75% uphill. In fact, it was the first 75% that was uphill. Most races will have ups and downs and you can always take solace in the fact that for every up, there is always a down. Except in Greece. We started up. And continued up. And up. And up. It was only the last 10 kilometers where there was any sort of down, and that was a very negligible down.

-- This may be due to the weak Greek economy, but support on the track was pretty slim. It was there. Enough to make sure nobody died on the course. However, that seemed to be the extent of it. Where most races will have water stops every mile and spectators handing out food and drink in the intervening gaps, Greece had water stops every 2.5 - 3 kilometers. As far as the spectators go, they were way more apt to offer "Bravo" then open up their cupboards and faucets to a bunch of casual runners.

-- The spectators. Look, the few that showed up were very nice. Yet as much as each thought their cheers of "Bravo!" would satiate an international crowd, when that becomes, quite literally, the only thing you hear on the race course, it can get maddening. Also, a few folks were probably pretty happy to have a race going through their neighborhoods, but it seemed like most did not. Or perhaps Athens and it's outskirts just aren't that heavily populated. There was plenty of alone-time.

-- When you hear about, then sign up for, the Athens Authentic Marathon, how do you not envision the Mediterranean in the distance, that wonderful sea breeze which bred and kept civilization in this area, and scores and scores of ruins and statues and history? I thought we'd be running through a Greek brochure. I was surprised to find out that, after Marathon and it's high school stadium, the course to Athens was very urban. Asphalt and buildings and asphalt and buildings and signs and some cars and some people and - wait! Is that a statue? Yes! - and one statue. It was more like running through a brochure of urban planning than a Greek paradise.

-- Here's the tricky thing: The finish line is actually 1 km in front of the "finish line" in the Panathenaic Stadium! Maybe they had to make up a distance, or they laid it all out and said the Greek equivalent of "Oops!" Or maybe there's some European reason unbeknownst to me. I remember running over the real finish line, not yet in the stadium, and thinking: "I think I just finished. But I think I still have to run." And so I did. To the other Finish Line. The only problem was: That last 1 km is where you dig deep, kick in whatever juice you have left, and try to trim seconds off of your time.

Now, once again, I am not ungrateful at all. Finishing a marathon in a humongous marble Greek stadium that's been there for thousands of years is epic! There were boisterous cheers for the runners and, though most were probably not for me, you imagined they were. It's an incredible feeling! You run in and finish 1/4 lap in. Then you get your medal and do the slow post-marathon amble the rest of the way completing a lap in an Ancient Greek stadium!

So though the previous 4-plus hours might have been dull or unfulfilling or, well, I'll call it like it is which sums up my thoughts on marathons, a physical Hell, the finish is worth the flight, the refugee riot, the training, the money, the stress, the hills - all of it! It didn't really even faze me that I finished in 4:06.

Yep, missed my personal goal by 6 minutes. At least, that's what the "finish line" said.

It was only later that I got an email from my brother. I was at the hotel, trying not to move from the lobby chair to go get some much-needed food and drink, when I checked my email. A huge "CONGRATS" from my brother. He told me I had broken 4 hours. What?

I went to the official timing site and there it was: 3 different listed times. Your halfway point time. Your official finish time. And the time you finished in the stadium.

I finished in 3:59:45. Only 15 seconds under 4 hours. But that was good enough for me to set the sun on the marathon career....

Next time I'm in Greece: I'm going to the Islands!

The JOEL Wide World:
Demolition Derby and Trailer Races
Irwindale Motor Speedway, Baldwin Park, CA

It was inadvertent that I went to my first "Night of Destruction" at the Irwindale Speedway on July 4th weekend, but, somehow, it made complete sense.
What is more American than racing cars and beer and fireworks and parking issues and chili fries and throngs of people and wrecking cars? It was almost too American.
It was so American that somebody tried to get by me, I responded "no worries," he thought I said, "no way," and his response was: "Dude. Whattaya mean. We're American bro!"

Frankly, I went as a lark. I'd never been to an auto race, much less one that was deemed the "Night of Destruction." Usually when you hear that, it's less destructive, and more kitschy.
I am happy to report the Night of Destruction did not slack on the destruction.

It also helped that I rolled there with my buddy Pete Giovine, a standup comic straight off the shores of Jersey - how American is that?! Of course, we went in my Ford Fiesta because: America.

Enough about our accidental over-patriotism. Let me open your eyes to the wonderful world of small race tracks and the sheer variety of races and destruction you can squeeze in to 3 hours.

Irwindale is what they call a "short track" in NASCAR. They have races there on the very amateur level. There is one solid grandstand, some food stands and a mile-long track. Pete told me it's a place where NASCAR wannabes cut their teeth.

Indeed, amongst all of the destruction, we were treated to a short, 25-lap NASCAR-style car race. It probably meant something, the winner might've won cash, heck a career might've started. It was a unique race because there were no wrecks, but don't believe that it was any less exciting. NASCAR seems to be a lot like pro hockey: It's OK as a televised sport, but when you see it live, and the blood and adrenaline get working in conjunction because you're a part of what's happening, then you "get it." It was awesome!

To go back: This being a small-time track, and because they probably rarely have crowds out there, it only took us 1 hour to get in. In other words, we finally found some seats with a pair of beers in hand around 45 minutes after the festivities started. We might've missed something. I couldn't tell you what. It didn't matter.

From the first race we saw, I was enthralled! The adjustable track was shaped like a kidney bean, an oval with a dent in the top. The participants were probable recent junkyard finds or were pegged to end up there after the race. This means that the drivers sped along with abandon with very little respect for theirs or someone else's car. They had helmets and straps, sure, but essentially it was one beat-up Honda Accord chasing down and barreling into another Honda Civic. The cars were hand-painted, bumpers flew everywhere and the concrete barriers did their best to contain the action. Our tickets were only $10. I would've paid that for the first race. And this was the weakest of the whole lineup!

Next up is soccer. A 600-pound ball painted like a soccer ball (I still have no idea what it was made out of) and 2 teams of 3 cars squaring off against another. There were 2 concrete barriers adjusted on each side to form the parameters of a "goal." The rest is fairly obvious. However, when you see a 600-pound ball fly off of one car's bumper, careen into another car, rocking it, then have a third car sweep in and go Tony Stewart-meets-Lionel Messi on it, you realize what the sport of soccer is missing in the U.S.: Cars. And destruction.

The third race (that we saw) of the night was easily the most fun I've had at a sporting event this year. The track was reshaped again into a figure 8. Yes! Those same beat-up jalopies and scrapheap Corollas were now going to race in a figure 8. There were twice as many cars and the intersection was part of the track.
When I was a child, I had a motorized toy car track called "Criss Cross Crash." The point being you would race each other but at some point the tracks crossed, and, frankly, you never cared who won, you just wanted to see cars hit each other.
Multiply that by 20 cars. Add about 65 miles per hour of speed. Add a bit of skill. Now you have the most visceral racing experience you're bound to encounter.
You've seen the action films where a few cars race through the crowded streets of a major metropolis with little regard for red lights. Yet, somehow, through careful planning of the 2nd AD and stunt team, the drivers eke through intersections missing perpendicular traffic by inches. It's a nice thrill.
Now have that happen 35 to 40 times in a 15 minute time span, with a solid t-bone crash thrown in just to prove it's real.
My clammy hands could barely hold my beer!

Next up was the aforementioned short-track NASCAR-style race. Then there was a race with those same everyday cars (apparently built more solidly then their bodies would have you believe). However, they removed the back tires and put in skid plates. The track was the previously described kidney bean, and there were about 35 cars drifting around it because, you got it, they could only use their front tires. Maybe I had already gotten full of adrenaline, or maybe my tolerance for random destruction was met, because watching cars skid into each other for 20 minutes became ho-hum in comparison to what we'd seen.

How quickly we become adapted to thrills!

The last race of the evening was simply the cherry on top and was worth a $50 ticket all it's own. It was the famed Trailer Races! Take a bunch of beat-up SUV's or surly muscle cars, tag them each with trailers - some with RV's, some with boats, one with a wave-rider - and let them take the big oval. Here's the beauty of the Trailer Race: It's not for speed or time. The winner of the trailer race is the car that puts on the best show! This means that you're putting a bunch of adrenaline junkies in cars with trailers trying to thrill the audience. And what thrills an audience force-fed a balls-to-the-wall buffet of outrageous destruction? MORE DESTRUCTION! Without abandon, without consideration for safety, no-holds-barred, absolute mayhem. Lost your trailer? Plow through someone else's! Boat blocking your path? Gun it through the hull! Need to stop a car? Drive up on it's trailer to clip the wheels! It was absolute, pure, unbridled destructive passion. It was as close as we'll legally get to modern-day gladiatorial fighting mixed with that most of American traditions: The motorized vehicle.

In short: It was so American! Cars and RV's and boats used purely for disposable play and slapstick destruction. The ultimate in excess, in every way possible.

It was all followed with a fireworks show to Lee Greenwood's "God Bless America," because, well, frankly, it just had to be.....

For the longest time, I was shocked. Donald Trump currently has a 50% chance of becoming the next leader of the United States of America? Seriously?!?
He's self-centered, full of faux outrage, willfully ignorant and wears arrogance proudly. Certainly he's not.....

Well, wait a second...The more I think about it: Doesn't that seem to describe where we're at as a nation?

I never want to paint over any mass citizenry with such a broad brush stroke but chances are we all fit under at least one of the top four descriptors. If not all four. You absolutely know somebody that fits all four. Just check your Facebook feed.  More importantly, check your latest Facebook rant and I'm sure you were railing against a person or group that fits under one of the four. They're out there. They're probably us. And we've created a monster....

Before I delve too deep, let me say this: I'm not a Trump supporter. Nor am I particularly fond of where the Democratic Party sits right now (re: This is written post-California primaries....You know the one, where everybody was incensed that the AP had given the nomination to Hillary Clinton, decrying that "California hasn't even voted yet!" And then California voted...and Hillary won handily). I'm not anti-Hillary either. If anything, I'm very middle, or middling, in that I'm fairly anti-political process at this point (yes...I voted).

If anything, I would say I'm anti-Trump, in that him in any leadership position in the free world makes it less "free." He's the best that the GOP could find to represent itself? Yes. Yes he is.  Frankly, most of the GOP is scary right now, their leaders are the epitome of contempt, derision and delusion, and they have effectively shot themselves in the foot over the past 20 years of essentially breaking down a democracy from the inside out. Cry foul enough, and foul is what you get.

However, the more I think about it, Trump is a great candidate for everybody across the spectrum. And I don't mean "great" as in "superb" or "Make America Great Again," I mean "great" as in a fine representative of the populace of the United States. He's almost too perfect.

He's the embodiment of self-centered, angry, ignorant and arrogant. As are his supporters. As is, sadly, most everyone...

He's self-centered.

Aren't we all? I mean, isn't that the very basis for social media? There was a time when we would cringe at a neighbor coming home from vacation because we'd have to sit through interminable slide shows of their trip. Now, that's all my Instagram feed is. We order meals, then let those meals get cold because we're too busy choosing the right filter to make our farm-to-table kale quinoa summer squash salad really pop in thumbnail pictures. Our celebrities - those bastions of success and dreams - are now 19-year-old kids who begin most of their vlog posts with "Let me tell you about my day and what I think of the world" to millions of viewers and millions of dollars.

There was a time when a sex tape would be a point of shame. Now it's the stepping-stone to a multi-billion dollar family franchise. Sex tapes are now passé.

Instead of social warriors or screen legends, we make celebrities and idols out of Honey Boo-Boo, the Duck Dynasty folks and innumerable flailing, screaming housewives. The networks pay them pennies on the dollar and, if and when they become too big for their britches and demand a bigger piece of the pie, the networks cast them aside to save a buck and launch the next series starring truckers or lumberjacks or fishermen or pranksters. Humans, and our humanity, it seems, are easily replaceable.

I don't blame reality shows or YouTube. Far from it. I blame those that watch them as a source of entertainment. Who's the bigger fool - the fool, or the ones that follow the fool? But here's the rub: It gives import and substance to people that never earned it and don't know how to use it. All they, and we, know is that I can be rich and famous for being me. And I deserve it.

We live in a culture now where a kid can bite his brother's finger, their parents can record it, and by sheer luck, that's a serviceable road to a six-figure income. More people on paper would probably recognize the "Charlie bit my finger" kid over Malala Yousafzai nine times out of ten, and she's a peace-mongering Nobel Prize winner who took a bullet in the face from the Taliban to stand up for her rights!

I believe that's really the main mindset of today's American: Where's mine? Why not me? How can I do less and get more? Why aren't I rich and famous and on every TV show and magazine cover? Because that's "success," right?

If I was in school now, I would probably drop out, move to a bigger city, become some kind of epic trouble-maker and be set for the rest of my life.  A college degree? Why would I waste my time getting that? So I can work for somebody else?

Better plan: Make millions off of having people watch videos of me playing video games. I'm not saying that wouldn't require work, but not the kind that's actually, y'know, work.  Heck, I'm writing this and hoping everybody reads it because it's me today.

I just wish there was a candidate that represented that. Someone who didn't have to work for their millions, it was just handed to them. Somebody that stays relevant by being a trouble-maker and loudmouth. Somebody who deems success as having their name writ large and in lights. Somebody that thinks the universe should rotate around them.

Oh....there he is!

He has faux outrage.

This is probably going to seem like some sort of paradox: Outrage about faux outrage. So I apologize.

However, at some point, we have to simmer down a bit and focus on real issues and how to really solve them.

Currently, there's an outrage movement about supposed feminist rights and gender equality because Jennifer Lawrence's character is getting choked by Oscar Isaac's character in the new billboards for "Xmen: Apocalypse." Apparently, this is appalling and is setting women back years and how dare Fox show two comic book characters in probably a very representative climactic scene from the newest overblown comic-book movie. Fox even apologized. Thank goodness!  I can almost hear a sigh of relief from the grave of Susan B. Anthony as everything she fought for has finally been redeemed by this new "take down those Xmen billboards!" movement.

Is the billboard in poor taste? Meh. Maybe. Is there anyone that actually drove by it and thought: "Wait! Poor Jennifer Lawrence's character! What about women's rights!?!" No. I'm pretty positive about that. And yet....

We need to relax. Real issues like gender equality and racism and abuse and a myriad of other issues get lost in the white noise of Facebook feeds and social media outrage and sensationalized news cycles and those issues still persist because the faux outrage over nonsensical non-arguments clouds the issues. It doesn't resolve them. It merely makes noise.

Chris Rock nailed it with his monologue. Are there a lack of quality roles for black actors in Hollywood? Sure. (Just don't tell that to Asian, Native American or Indian actors...). Does Jada Pinkett-Smith not attending the Oscars create such a strong statement that it creates the beginning of the end of racism in America? Not even close.

Yes, ending racism is a marathon - one that's gone on way too long, of course - not a sprint, and every little bit counts. But sometimes it's just too little and it fuzzes up the narrative.

Want to really make a statement? Take those millions you and your husband have earned and self-finance a Harriet Tubman biopic. I would take that way more seriously than you saying you're not going to attend an Awards telecast in which you weren't even nominated.

All of this is to say: Choose your battles. Don't just rage to rage. Don't yell just to yell. Don't hurt a cause by taking up arms to fight a cause on a microscopic level. I know this would leave our Facebook and Twitter feeds almost entirely devoid of content...but that wouldn't be the worse thing.

If only there were somebody that flies off the handle like this. Somebody that just shoots from the hip. Somebody that muddies the waters of an issue by making mountains out of molehills.  Somebody that can incense a crowd with verbiage that really means nothing and preys on emotions rather than logic.

Oh wait...Hello, Mr. Trump!

He is willfully ignorant.

There was a great article I read recently about America's "willful ignorance." The being okay with not knowing. Or knowing, but being okay with appearing like you don't know. That's where we live now. We literally don't have to know something anymore. Don't know something? Pull out your phone and Google it. Your retention rate will be nil, but at least in the moment you will know something then and there. Then quickly forget it. You just don't need to know.

At the risk of sounding like a "get off my lawn" geezer, there's a pretty well-known law that you should use your turn signal when either changing lanes or, y'know, turning. I could make up a statistic here, but let's just say "most" people don't do that. Ever. Sure, there's an amount of "I only care what I'm doing in my car and F you because turn signals are meant to inform everybody else but me of my intentions." Ok, there's a huge amount of that self-centeredness.  There's also a hint, though, of "I know the law. But I'm not going to follow it." Of course, there's no consequence for that because I'm fairly certain that pulling people over for not using their turn signals is very low on the list of the local law enforcements, er, law enforcement list.

Living with no consequence falls squarely under "willfully ignorant" as well.  You may have read the first part of this post (and if you're still reading, thank you!) and thought:  "Well, Joel just hates Millenials." First of all, that's not true. ''Hate" is such a strong word, and not quite the right one. Maybe fear? Secondly, living sans consequence covers that generation, and the one after it, and the one after that, all the way square into the older Gen-X'ers among us.

I have what I call the Videogame Theory. To wit:
Years ago, we would have a few quarters in our pocket and we would take them to the arcade and make them last as long as we could. When the quarters ran out, our trip was over and our afternoon took a different turn. So you struggled and lost money but still worked to become great at certain games. Using this method, we could stretch our quarters out over a few hours and have an entertaining, competitive afternoon.

Then home videogame systems became prevalent in almost every household and there were no more consequences. Having trouble on world 1-2 on "Super Mario Bros.?" No big deal, just tap "continue" and you could keep playing. You didn't have to get much better, just good or lucky enough to pass in the time being. You always had an out. A way to replay every bad action or decision. And a reason to not have to get significantly better. In other words, you could play a game ad infinitum with no consequences. You didn't have to know how to pass the trial, you only had to know how to click "continue" every time you failed.

We enter into deals or sign contracts or buy houses or take out loans or take action and, if the end result isn't pleasing, it's somebody else's fault. There is no consequence because, surely, though I did something wrong, I couldn't have really done something wrong. And where's my bailout?!? We don't take laws and rules and warnings seriously. We act and worry about the consequences later. When they eventually rear their ugly head, we cry out for the government or the company or friends and family to bail us out. If they don't, certainly we can further clog up the legal system with our petty grievance or money grab. Even though, for the most part, we knew there was a 50/50 chance whatever action we took would blow up in our face.

Parents are quick to sue school systems if their kid gets injured because somebody socked him.  Instead of the child learning from getting socked, certainly the school must be at fault for...not raising every kid right? That's not their job! And maybe your kid's a dick and deserved it.

The point is: We know stuff. However, we go half-cocked into situations ignoring most warnings and expect to come out on top. And if we don't, what's the easiest way out? That's a willful ignorance that hasn't been seen in this country in ages. Or maybe we just never knew it was that prevalent.

Yes, there are people that get legitimately screwed by our convoluted systems of health care and justice and unions and big business. Absolutely. We're not always, entirely at fault when the chips don't fall our way.

However, how can we discern the serious from the very serious from the insipid anymore when all cases and stories are treated with such import or sensationalization?

If only there was a candidate who went off half-cocked. Somebody who blamed everybody else. Somebody who neglected facts and flaunted ignorance in exchange for howling rhetoric.  Somebody who was wrong most of the time but wouldn't admit it. If only there was somebody like that we could follow, who embodied that spirit....

He is arrogant.

Aren't we all? Through the above 3 characteristics, there is one common thread: We're always right. There's no debate anymore. No logical discussion. We spout out our truths, post our rants and forward our videos, and, though there is a "reply" button, we'd much rather just have you click "like" and thumbs up.

We're always in the right, our opinions are truths, and don't you dare disagree with us because we can block you or delete your comments.

Our logic is just that: Supremely ours. As I read in one comments section recently: "I don't care about the facts, I'll still believe what I believe." So there you have it. Whether we're referring to science, statistics or standards, it's our way or buh-bye.

We need someone in office who represents our arrogance. Someone who says they are the "greatest" without proper facts and figures to back it up. Someone that has the balls to say everyone else is wrong, I am right, just wait and see.

I think we definitely found that someone.

It says a lot about this amazing nation that we call Home that we can be this torn apart, this fractured, this broken, and still function as the leading nation of the free world, where dreams ostensibly still come true and foreigners are willing to break laws to get a piece of that American Pie. We're only functioning at a fraction of our potential, and we're still on a pedestal. A shaky pedestal, but a pedestal nonetheless.

Maybe we've taken all of that for granted recently. If you travel extensively, you can feel that America, or the perception of it, is on ever shakier ground.

We may have finally found a candidate that can knock us off our pedestal. Perhaps, by his nomination, he already has.

Let's be honest: It's not what we need, but don't we kind of deserve it?

I was recently asked (blessed?) to present a piece for Write Club at the Bootleg Theatre in Los Angeles.  Write Club is an "underground" writing competition where 2 writers, with disparate subjects, present on stage, and ONLY ONE SURVIVES!!  I was given the topic of "Legacy" and I was matched up against the very talented Steve Serpas and his topic of "Obscurity."
I won't tell you who one (though neither of us finished lower than 2nd place)

However, I don't think art, or anything close to resembling it, should exist in a vacuum.  So here now I give my piece one more glimpse of the light of day.
(And congratulations to Steve on the win.....Next time, Serpas!  Next time!!!)

PIE EATING AND PARTICIPANT RIBBONS


I know there's a movement now that's anti-Millenial, or anti-No Child Left Behind, or anti-”Everybody Wins.”  And in theory, I agree with that.
Look, there are times you're going to win some stuff, and there's times you're not going to win.  Everybody doesn't always win.  That's why sports are so popular.  And televised singing competitions.  OK, not everything is going to be a good example...


When I was growing up, it seemed like Dennis Chavez Elementary School was constantly toeing that line.  Back in school, we had competitions for everything – science fair, lip sync contests, President's fitness award, school awards for fitness, break-dancing, spelling bee – I seriously can't remember a time when I was in a class and not out on the playground competing for ribbons.
And that's what you got:  Ribbons.  The thing is...If you participated, you got a ribbon.
Yes, there was a 1st place ribbon – usually a ribbon WITH a 1st place button on it.  Yeah, that was next level.
Then there was 2nd place – usually a different colored ribbon with a slightly smaller button.
3rd place, just a ribbon.  Same as 4th and 5th.
Then, everybody else got bland, basic dark purple “Participant” ribbons.
Meaning...You were there.  You showed up and did something that denoted participating.  Essentially you got rewarded for skipping out on class for any reason that the school would offer.


But here's the thing about those ribbons that everybody got:  We hated them!!!
I think I had a converted photo album that turned into my ribbon scrapbook.  There was 1 solid 1st place ribbon, maybe 2 or 3 2nd placers, a handful of thirds, fourths and fifths.  And a crap-ton of that mocking dark purple.  “Good job!  We saw that you accomplished as much as checking your name off of the attendance list for a particular event.”


So now, if I do any kind of competition, I do try harder.  I compete.  I don't just show up.  Because if you give everybody the same metal, it's just as bad as handing out those damn grape ribbons to everybody.  And I don't want to participate.  If I show up, I'm competing.


I only preface this story with that so you know why I did what I did.  Why I was so cut-throat, determined.  Why I would bend the rules in a seemingly innocuous challenge.  When there was no viable prize on the line, you will know the killer instinct that caused me to “fuck it.  It's go time!”  This wasn't just a pie-eating contest at the Orange County State Fair.  This was the goddamn Olympic games!  And I was going to win...


I don't frequent fairs.  I don't need to eat deep-fried bacon-wrapped pop tarts with mayonnaise on a Dunkin Donuts jelly-roll with Hershey's syrup dipping sauce.  I don't need to spend $50 dollars in tickets to ride 3 basic rides and one urine-stained funhouse in what amounts to about $12 per admission.  I'm not interested in spending last month's rent to toss a rigged ball into a rigged moving bucket on a rigged lazy river in an attempt to get a giant, stuffed Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim baseball.  I'm not interested in seeing ZZ Top, Foreigner, Sisqo, the Spin Doctors, the remaining members of Bozy 2 Men or a Styx cover band.
So fairs:  Not my scene.


But was at the Orange County State Fair because a buddy said: “Hey, wanna go.”  And I said: “Yes.”  I have that disease.
He also said we were going to be on the pig races.
NOW you have my attention!


As we're wandering through the dust and kids and heat and smells and lines – sounds awesome, doesn't it? - My buddy Joey said, with some authority: “There's a thing called Milk Demon at 1:30pm in the barn.  I've heard of that.  It's supposed to be awesome!”


Now, Joey Soft-Hands is the kind of guy you listen to intently.  Mostly because he's so soft-spoken, you have to listen to him intently or you literally won't hear him.  Also, he's the kind of guy that could wear Speedo's, a fishing vest and Ugg boots in public and you would say to yourself: “That works.”  It's true...He actually wandered the streets of Ensenada in that same ensemble, unironically, and nobody blinked an eye.  You listen to a guy like that.  We called him Soft-Hands for 2 reasons: He had ridiculously soft hands, and he liked to make sure any females shoulders and arms knew that throught the art of improvised massage.  You listen to a guy like that.


So we made our way over to the “Milk Demon” barn.


Along the way, we passed sign-ups for the Orange County Fair pie-eating contest.  It caught my attention...mostly because the guys barking people to sign up were of such the off-putting variety, that you wanted to sign up quickly just to make them stop for 10 seconds and do some paperwork.


None of our group wanted to sign up.  However, I hadn't had my fill of heart-stopping fair food, and I do love me some pie, and free shit, so I signed up.  Why not?  I'm usually pretty good at getting blindly hauled into something if it's by pure luck.  I win raffles, occasionally win Bingo and can more-often-than-not secure a window seat with no middle passenger on a Southwest flight.  This streak has never extended into the lottery or high stakes blackjack, but you take your victories where you can get 'em.  I signed up.


And as soon as I did, I started formulating my plan for when my name was eventually called....It was about to be on.


The only reason I mention the “Milk Demon” demonstration is because that's what brought us near the sign-up table for the pie-eating contest.  We took our seats, excited for the “Milk Demon.”  A very friendly, older farmer came out and told us a bit about irrigation.  OK, it wasn't Chris Rock Live from DC, but he was giving it his best.  Then his wife came out and told us about animals on the farm and the technology of how we get milk, how it's shipped and how it's pasteurized.  It was as exciting as I just made it sound.
Then, the capper!  They proceeded to...milk the cows.  Live.  For us.
Yes, that's what we waited more than 45 minutes to see.
Turns out, Joey was wrong.  Turns out, the flier that listed all of this particular barn's events wasn't as wide as they had hoped.  Turns out, “Milk Demon” is what you get when you cut off the end of “Milk Demonstration.”
We had to laugh at that.  And I'll be damned if I didn't learn something about milk.


I can't get into that now, because the pie-eating contest was nigh!  And I was sure I was going to get pulled from the random drawing!  I mean, we're in Orange County signing up for a pie-eating contest.  How many people in the OC can't eat carbs, gluten, sugar, corn syrup, or anything non-Vegan, right?  My odds of getting pulled were great, as opposed to signing up for a pie-eating contest in, say, Wisconsin.  Or Alabama.


There were 10 contestant slots.  And when my name wasn't called amongst the first 9, I did start to panic.  I didn't sit through a bovine-milking demonstration just to have that be the day's topper.  But this wasn't the lottery, so the very next name called: “Joel Bryant.”


My handful of friends went crazy.  Maybe too crazy.  They had to settle down.  If there was a tie at the end, this was going to come to an audience vote.  I didn't want to be John McCain to their Palin.  Their rowdiness couldn't sink me.  I was already in a hole.


We donned our garbage bag smocks.  I shook hands with the guy next to me...Sizing him up.  OK, normal size.  5' 11”, probably 175, nice guy, didn't have the killer glint in his eye.  I peeked down the line.  OK...no Joey Chestnutt ringers, nobody bringing a John Candy-esque physique.  Also, no sneaky skinny Japanese kids that always seem to astoundingly win these things.  I measured up pretty good.


The MC went down the line, introducing the contestants to the audience and asking them a few questions: Name, where they're from, and occupation.  Most amateurs would think nothing of this.  Us pros know:  The competition has officially begun!


Most contestants answered with “Orange County” or “LA” when asked where they were from.  It was an obvious response because I don't think anybody travels all that far to hit the same county fair that will be in their county next month.  That answer started to get old...and I could sense it.  Noted.


The occupations seemed to resonate with the audience as well.  Got to remember:  If there's a tie, the audience is the deciding vote.  Noted.


They got to me.


“What's your name?”


“Joel Bryant.  Happy to be here.”  Nice addition.


“Where are you from?”  The audience had their fill of OC and LA.  I gotta stand out, maybe throw out a curveball and see if someone doesn't take a swing at it.


“Seattle, Washington!”  A group of 10 ladies, presumable from Seattle, went nuts.  I shot blindly for a city that may have a fan or two in the crowd and I hit the bullseye.  Perfect.


“And what do you do for a living?”


“I teach 2nd grade!”  I've never taught second grade, I barely remember my own second grade, I couldn't tell you what you learn in that particular grade, but I know people love 2 things: Teachers and kids.  Just to drive the point home, I added: “This one's for my students back home.”


The crowd went nuts.  I guess nobody realized this wasn't being televised live and there's no way my students were even aware I was about to eat a boysenberry pie in Orange County in their honor.  Didn't matter.  People love teachers and kids.


I had the tie-breaker, I figured.  The least I had to do was eat enough pie to at least end in a tie, if not an out-right win.


Beautiful thing about this pie-eating contest – of course, I combed through the rules with a microscope when I signed up: It wasn't about how much pie you ate.  It was about how much of the bottom of the pan you could see when the buzzer goes off.


That's how I took it.  I literally didn't have to eat any pie.  As long as I could clear a space at the bottom!


Here's the technique: 
At the whistle, stand straight up and bend 90 degrees from the waist, full face into the pie.  This allows you to avoid the harder and belly-filling crust and gets your gob right into the gooey, malleable middle.  It's coming in straight versus trying to attack it from an angle.  The bonus to this maneuver is that it also keeps the pie tin from sliding away from you since you couldn't use your hands to secure it.


You're going to get dirty, so know that.  Thrust your face into the pie and see if you can't get your nose to touch the bottom.  Yes, you should take in a mouthful of pie.  Why not?  Free pie.  But this move is pure physics.  What it does is displace the pie from the center out, meaning upon your first thrust, you've already knocked most of the crust, the part that holds the pie in the tin, out of the tin and onto the table.  Virtually all you have left is the center sweetness of the pie – the moving, almost liquid, easy-to-chew jelly of the pie filling.


As I said: Eating a bit of pie is unavoidable.  Suppose you shouldn't sign up for a pie-eating contest if you're allergic to pie.  But the key move is keeping a full mouth with full cheeks....once again, going for area displacement.  Then, instead of futilely trying to chew and ingest pie, keep the rules in mind:  They're just looking for the most exposed area on the bottom of the tin.  Instead of eating, move your fattened jowels back and forth and up and down.  Instead of swallowing the pie, you simply move it around like a pig excavating mud when he's truffle-shopping.  You literally use your face to knock the pie out of the tin.  Rub your dirty face on the bottom of the tin back and forth and the pie will make it's way to the table without you even having to eat it!


Well, I was pretty damn proud of myself.  I know, I sound like I've been on the pie-eating pro circuit for years, but this was all just seconds of consistent improvisation and inspiration as the game went on.


When the buzzer sounded, the crowd went wild.  I had honestly forgotten they were there, I was so in my head.  Totally understood how Michael Phelps felt on his tremendous Beijing Olympics run.


We all pulled our heads up from our desserts and, with boysenberry smeared from eyebrow to chin-scruff, we honestly looked like an extras casting call for “The Walking Dead.'' Just reddish-bluish smears, wide-open huffing mouths and dead eyes.


The judges came around.  I had already sussed out the competition and declared myself the winner.  They weren't as friendly.  It was between me and a guy 2 seats to my right.  No way, I thought to myself, I have more pan showing than he does!
It's amazing how you can get so indignant in a competition when you knowingly bent the rules...


Nevertheless, this played right into my plan.  It came down to the audience vote.  Bring the noise, fan of teachers from Seattle!
They had an informal ranking.  The guy's family went wild, as did a couple of casual fair-goers.  When they announced my name, I kicked off the cheering with my battle cry just to inspire more noise: “This one's for my students!!”
Of course, I won the applause-o-meter.  I mean, I'm fake shaping the fake future of my fake students.  Throw the fake teacher a bone!


What did I get for all of my pie eating and shoveling, and for the hour I spent in the bathroom pulling boysenberry filling out of my nostrils, and for using the beleagured plight of teachers to serve my own purpose, and shouting out love to kids I'll never have, and bending, twisting and breaking every rule in this friendly fair's pie contest?
I got a ribbon.
But a big-fat 1st place blue ribbon with a double tail and a big-ass button.  This thing won't even fit in my scrapbook!


Oh, and the boysenberry filling left a huge dark purple stain on my face...just for participating.