Stolen Valor

This Saturday, my wife and I celebrated my 49th year of birth with a dinner at Mastro’s in Beverly Hills. 

In terms of Mastro’s culinary significance in LA’s current food scene, I must plead ignorance.  All I know is that I like the steak, find the lobster mashed potatoes to be delightful and am always impressed by the show stopping performance of the Tyrion Lannister-esque  pretzel bread.  Small in stature, big in taste bud delight.

By all accounts, we had a very pleasant (albeit subdued) evening. 

We spoke about the year behind us, our goals for 2025 and how I should ring in my 50th birthday. In N’ Out truck? Street Taco guy? If I rent out Rock N’ Brews, will Gene Simmons extinguish the candles with his tongue?

So many options to consider, assuming those New Jersey drones aren’t a prelude to ringing in 50 in an alien prison with a metal probe up my ass. Granted, that would beat working late on a Google slides deck detailing the ins and outs of shooting social first creative.

 But I digress.

 It was a damn good night.

And one, admittedly, that was a stark contrast to the last time I dined at the very same Mastro’s back in 2011.

On that night, I found myself at the restaurant with co-workers to celebrate the culmination of a very long and aggressive Honda Civic production.  A production that lasted roughly 8 (or 9?) days and included shooting at the very exotic Hyperion Water Treatment Facility in El Segundo. That’s clever branding for a sewage treatment plant. And yes, it smelled like shit the entire time.

Fecal matter aside, the shoot was a success. And even better, back then, productions often concluded with extravagant post-production wrap parties.  And as a far as I was concerned, this party felt like ancient Rome with a spread that would have made Nero proud.

Seafood towers flowed through the party like turds through the underbelly of Hyperion.

Martini shakers adorned each and every table like Teslas at an Erewhon.

Spirits of the agency and production company were high and jovial.

And yes, the famous pretzel bread spilled from baskets in an enticing manner that was enough to beckon my Grandma Dot, a Philly native and lover of a good soft pretzel, back from the beyond.

Indeed, it was shaping up to be a glorious night.

But, as Admiral Ackbar would say – it was also a “trapppppp” for a man like myself who is prone to the pitfalls of excess and indulgence.

It’s hard to pinpoint when things went south.

I recall being about eight martinis deep telling a newly sober co-worker that the key to drinking is moderation.  Interesting advice, coming from a guy slurring his speech and sweating vodka from every pore of his body.

I also recall ordering an entire butter cake for dessert, because my then girlfriend (and now better half) politely asked if I could bring home a slice for her.  “A slice? Fuck it, I’ll take the whole cake!”

But more than anything, my downfall was my selection of the main entrée.  

You see, it wasn’t enough to just order a sensible 16 oz New York Strip.  Or a hearty 20 oz ribeye.

Egged on by my good friends Jeff and Amanda, I decided that this night called for the Tomahawk.  A meaty, 40-ounce, heart attack inducing symbol of gluttony and true celebration of the Civic’s bold new stance and well-appointed interior.

It was unnecessary. It was irresponsible.  It was perfect.

And I finished it all.

Seeing the bare bone that rest on my plate, our server exclaimed “You did it!”

“Did what?”, I said, admittedly not razor sharp from the dirty Grey Goose uppercuts to the head.

“You finished it all!” she said, amping up the enthusiasm.

“Yes! You’re fucking right I finished it! I did it! I did it!”

Her enthusiasm was contagious. And now, I too, sensed that I had done something special.

Hank Aaron’s home record. Neil Armstrong’s moon landing. Mike’s tomahawk steak domination.

“One second, I’ll be right back” the server said, as she quickly rushed to the back of the restaurant, surely on her way to tell her manager that greatness was seated at Table 16.

Before I knew it, she returned and said with great pride, “We have a medal for people who finish the tomahawk.”  And with that, she placed said medal on my shirt, with grace and pride, as if I had been honored with the Purple Heart.

I beamed with delight.

Jeff and Amanda cheered me on.  I raised up the remnants of the Tomahawk bone victoriously, as Amanda took a picture and promised to post it to Facebook, for all to bask in my glory.

The night wound down.

The party filled out onto North Cannon Drive.  And I left Mastro’s as a made man. One who, without a doubt, could conquer any piece of steer that dared cross my path.

The next morning came sooner than desired. 

My head pounded and my eyes felt desert dry, robbed of their moisture from the river of Russian vodka consumed the night prior.

As I fumbled for my keys and wallet on my dresser, my eyes caught an unfamiliar sight. There, next to my keys, rested two plastic cocktail sticks, taped together by a take home butter cake sticker.

My award was in fact, total bullshit. 

A clever fabrication of a medal conceived by an exponentially more clever server that had the wherewithal of pulling a fast one on a gluttonous idiot.

Son of a bitch. 

Every year, Facebook seems to have a knack for serving me the now infamous photo I took, when I thought I had reached the upper echelon of the carnivore hall of fame. It always gives me a good laugh.

Years after the incident, I started a new job at an agency where they asked that I introduce myself to the company with an interesting photo and a good story.

I figured my photo at Mastro’s would make for a good icebreaker, so somewhat reluctantly, I sent it to HR. Problem was, when it came time for the all-agency meeting, I got stuck in a client meeting.

So, instead of having the opportunity to get up in front of the agency in person and tell my story, someone at the agency simply said “This is our new Group Account Director, Mike O’Malley” and flashed on-screen a picture of a drunken dipshit holding a steak bone with zero context or explanation.

It would seem this prank, from 2011, had some legs.

I wish I knew where that server was today.

I’d give her a hug. Tell her how masterful her execution was.

And more than anything, share how many times I’ve laughed when I’ve seen that infamous picture and reflected on my favorite wrap party of all-time.

The Long Road Home

If there’s one thing that I’ve found particularly interesting about a world flipped on its head by a pandemic, it’s the loss of time.  Not so much the concept of obvious time lost with friends and family, but more so, my inability to grasp the days and months that have methodically drifted off the calendar in the near past two years.  Much like a hat blown into the ocean, one moment a notable week or month feels five feet away from you and the next thing you know, it’s two hundred yards away amidst the whitecaps, nearly out of sight.  

I suppose that’s why our year and seven months in Charlotte has been hard to describe. 

How do you start to explain the complexity of moving somewhere sight unseen during a time when the world was slowly coming out of a coma? And how do you encapsulate that experience with the concurrent complexities of a new job, foreign neighborhood, arrival of a baby and departure from all that was comfortable?

Perhaps you don’t.  And that’s why I’ve always struggled to provide a satisfying answer when someone has inquired “How’s Charlotte?”

How is Charlotte?

I find Charlotte to be a shade of grey. 

As a banking hub, it attracts a lot of transplants who I suspect are largely from the East Coast.  Yet, it doesn’t really have an East Coast feel.

At the same time, it doesn’t quite feel like the South, as I find that it lacks the southern charm that one may find in the likes of a Charleston, merely hours away.  It just feels like somewhere in between, kind of like a kid in high school who is still trying to land on an identity. 

Maybe that’s why I struggle to explain living here, because in many ways, Charlotte seems like it’s still growing into what it will eventually become, at least to the eyes of an outsider. I’m sure locals have a different perspective.

And that’s ok.

Because while Charlotte has certainly lacked some of the things that Lindsay and I gravitate towards, it’s also been perfect in many ways.

Life, for the most part, is a bit simpler.

Traffic, from a So Cal perspective, is light and every destination feels ten minutes away.

Charlotte provided us with the ability to afford a modest home where two people could step back and focus on giving a little baby girl all the attention and love required to make her first year of life a most excellent one.

It offered a great job, with equally good people, during uncertain economic times.

Long walks, through a maze of oak tree-covered streets at night, unveiled a stillness and welcome reprieve from undetectable anxieties that only those who live in large cities grow calloused and oblivious too.  That is, until you remove yourself from the noise.

Our neighbors have been kind and waves from passing cars, when I’m walking Fallon, seem to be the rule and not the exception. 

Charlotte, and North Carolina, further illustrated to me that preconceived notions are worthless exercises in projection and that there is no substitute for firsthand experience.  I should note, this applies to anyone who passes judgement on California or any part of the world without stepping out of their bubble and living there, as well.

Of course, I’d be remiss not to mention the breweries and wings.  Two things this city definitely gets right and my cholesterol got terribly wrong. As God is my witness, I didn’t choose the IPA and Chicken Wang Lyfe…it chose me (seemingly every weekend).

But more than anything, Charlotte was the perfect place to do something really, really hard. 

That hard thing was to leave a well-established life behind with the blind leap of faith that going anywhere, for an undefined amount of time, with the right person, would work out just fine.

And it did.

And largely, I have Lindsay to thank for that, because she made the largest sacrifice of all when she decided, whilst pregnant, that she was up for plunging into the unknown to support me at a time when she needed support from friends and family more than ever. 

That has never been lost on me and I love her more than ever for it.

So, there.  I guess that’s how I’d sum up the chapter of our lives that has been Charlotte.  

But like all chapters, it’s now nearing an end. 

What awaits is a crisp page that is ready to be turned on a new chapter that opens up once again in Southern California, where a fantastic new and exciting job opportunity awaits.

Suffice to say, we’re excited.

To spend time with the friends and family that we didn’t get a chance to say a proper goodbye to.

For Fallon to get familiar with her grandparents and grow up with small cousins, similar in age.

To experience the diversity and options of the region through the lens of two new parents who arguably are returning as different people, with a new perspective on what we value and what ultimately matters most to us.

And maybe, just maybe, to hold on a bit longer to those weeks and months that have been escaping us as of late.

Every Christmas morning, Lindsay and I wake up early to make the quick haul from Orange County to San Diego. 

My favorite part of the drive is rolling past San Onofre as the sun rises over the sea, with familiar beams of red brake lights on the 5 replaced instead by a warm orange hue that dances off the water.

Some years, I may have taken that early morning drive for granted.

This year, I plan to take it in just a little bit longer, as I think about what a long road home it’s been.

See you soon.

MARCH BISCUITS

When most people think of March Madness, I assume they think of broken brackets, nail-biting finishes and the Cinderella stories that seem to propel the magic of the tournament each year.

It’s not that I too, don’t think about those things, because I do. But I also think about eating biscuits in a dark room during a time when an accident – and the tournament, brought two old friends together for a brief moment in time.

Perhaps I should back up.

When I was in 5th or 6th grade, I met a kid in school that I became fast friends with. We had a similar sense of humor, probably both felt a little out of place at times, and really enjoyed playing basketball together.

Our friendship spanned from elementary school into junior high, even though we ended up going to different schools once we reached the 7th grade.

Summer days, with my friend, seemed to last one hundred hours. If I close my eyes, I can still see him from a distance, walking down the steep hill that led down, and then up, to our house.

When you’re a latch key kid, I guess there are no rides during the summer. Your feet are your only dependable mode of transportation. And if there’s no one home, it’s a long walk back.

Once my friend would reach my house, we’d journey to the park. Shoot baskets for hours. Come back to the house and perhaps shoot some more in my driveway on the hoop that my father built for me.

3…..2….1…..

Sunset.

Some days, at dusk, and depending on if my family’s plans were loose, he’d stay for dinner.

A fifth seat at the table. A welcome one, at that.

I don’t remember the meals.

But I remember the laughter. He had a hearty laugh and tended to bury his head in your shoulder when the hysterics became too powerful to control.

I think it was my dad that usually brought him to this state.

His dad had left for Florida, many years prior. He never spoke about it, but I knew that it must have been tough.

Those are the best memories I have of my friend.

The dog days of summer. Pickup games. Hysterics at dinner. Simplicity of youth and youthful friendships.

But youthful friendships don’t always last. So, it’s no surprise that my friend and I grew apart as we got older, developed different circles of friends and strayed apart as the distance of separate schools drew us farther from each other.

Until one day.

That one day when a guy came up to me in a locker room my Sophomore year and told me that he was sorry about what happened to my friend.

I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about.

He immediately looked apologetic, and quietly - perhaps even gently, relayed to me that my old friend had been run over in a freak accident and was currently hospitalized with a traumatic brain injury.

My eyes began to well up.

But when you’re in high school, you don’t cry. So, you try to remain stoic, hold it in and by all means, don’t let them see you break.

It didn’t work.

A moment of silence was followed by the kid looking at me, and with all sincerity, quietly saying “I’m sorry” as he walked away, clearly cognizant that the delivery of his news perhaps carried more impact than he had anticipated.

Phone calls were made. Primarily by my mom to my friend’s mother.

Details of the accident were shared. Prognosis of the recovery discussed. A trip, to the hospital, made.

I can still see him there, head shaved, staples running down slightly off the middle of his head.

He looked very vulnerable in his hospital bed. I wondered if he’d ever be the same.

When he finally arrived home, it must have been in early March. He wasn’t in much condition to do anything, but his mother said he was up for some company. I can’t remember how it was arranged, but it was decided that perhaps two old friends could spend some time together, while one was on the mend, watching college basketball over at his house.

Afterall, it was March Madness. So that was what we did.

I don’t remember all the details of that March, as a 15 or 16 year old trying to process the unexpected blows that life can deliver.

But I do recall watching games in a dark living room, shaded as to not hurt my friend’s sensitive eyes.

I can see Christian Laettner’s last second turnaround shot that year against Kentucky.

And for some reason, I remember the most delicious biscuits being served, in the darkness, during one of the weekend’s that we spent watching games that March together.

My friend eventually got better, though I believe the accident sent his life on a different trajectory.

And while we never spent time together again like we did that March, I still often recall the nights, so many year ago, spent playing basketball on my driveway and his laugher at family dinners.

And I can still taste, those March biscuits.

The Traveling Wilbury

When I was fifteen, I spent the majority of my free time either thinking about or playing pickup basketball at the local park.  Sadly, those hoop dreams did not result in a multi-million dollar NBA career, since the only contract this big man was offered coming out of college was a five figure deal to stock kitchen supplies and ship Betamax dubs for my first agency job.

During my pick-up days, I suppose I had a propensity to take an additional step or two on my way to the hole.  While I’d argue it was a jump-stop or perhaps a before-its-time Euro Step, these extra steps led one older player to label me “Wilbury,” or more formally, “Traveling Wilbury.”

Borrowed, of course, from the name of a rock n’ roll supergroup, it should be noted that I hated this nickname for several reasons.

For starters, the guy that came up with it was probably in his 30’s, so his age felt like an unfair advantage when it came to clowning me in front of my teenage peers.  Secondly, the nickname was clever and made other people on the court laugh – consistently.  And finally, I knew that often times, he was right.  I was traveling.

It could be said that movement has been a consistent theme of my life.  From moving four times in a Navy family by the age of ten, to a knee that persistently bounces and a mind that tends to race quite frequently, staying put has never been something I’ve been that accustomed to.

Given the above, I guess it should come as no surprise that professionally, I’ve called a lot of organizations “home.” To be specific, and if I include freelance, I’ve worked for roughly thirteen companies in a little over twenty years.  Some of those places, I’ve been hired two - and even three - separate times.

It’s been a fun journey and I recognize that the path has been a bit unorthodox, especially considering the fact that the corporate world tends to frown slightly upon those who display shorter tenures on their resumes in favor of those who display longevity.

One could accuse me not finding value in sticking with an organization for an extended amount of time.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

A lengthy duration with a company leads to an invaluable understanding of the ins and outs of an organization.  It often provides a path of growth to positions of leadership. If you like the people you work with, are given opportunities to grow and find yourself both challenged and valued, then I’d say there’s good reason to plant corporate roots.

But, there’s also tremendous value in the discomfort and eventual growth that arises from diving headfirst into new and different opportunities when they present themselves.

Packing your bags and diving into the unknown frequently exposes you to different ways of thinking.

Allows you to touch different brands and grasp a variety of ways to go-to-market.

It opens the door to the exposure of a wide array of leaders and thought-leadership.

Creates opportunity for new challenges, that ultimately season you for bigger moments in one’s career.  Perhaps some of those moments even occur when you re-join an organization, even stronger than before.

And I’d be remiss to say that my favorite thing about moving around so often, has been the ability to meet so many different, smart and talented individuals that grace the advertising and marketing business landscape.  Many, of which, I’m now lucky enough to call very good friends.

But perhaps the most valuable aspect of a well-traveled resume is the diversification it brings to one’s skillset.

Because if complacency is the kiss of death to career growth, then I’d say a diverse and ever-expanding repertoire of new experiences are the elixir to the unforeseen twists (downsizing) and turns (budget cuts) that modern day working life can throw at an individual.

So, if you find yourself wondering whether it’s time to take on new challenges, go ahead – pack your bags.

And don’t be afraid to travel. 

Turns out it’s not so bad being a Wilbury after all.

An Odd Farewell

When I first moved to Los Angeles, my anxiety towards getting lost on the freeway had me clinging to side streets as if they were bread trails carefully dropped to lead one safely out of a forest of tall pines and a sinking sun.

Santa Monica Blvd, headed West, could take me straight to work.  Doheny led to Sunset and held the promise of $15 shows at the Roxy, Key Club and Whiskey.  Sepulveda, if I wanted it to, could take me to Hermosa Beach for a cheesesteak at Big Mike’s on a Sunday.  It’s funny how a sandwich feels like a special treat when you’re alone in a city, young and don’t have much money.

Eventually, you get familiar with the urban terrain and outgrow your side streets. Freeways become crucial arteries to a heart that beats to the rhythm of discovery and newfound favorites.

Your social circle grows.

And, before you know it, “home” stops being where you’re from and starts being where you now reside.

In April, I will have lived in Los Angeles for 22 years. Come April 3rd, Lindsay and I will be packing our bags and heading East towards a new adventure in North Carolina.

It’s a bittersweet departure.

I should start by saying that first and foremost, I’m grateful.  Late last year, I got a great job with a fantastic company.  My gratitude for the opportunity, in the face of a pandemic and brutal job market, cannot be understated.  And honestly, I’m excited for new adventures out East.

However, I’d be remiss If I didn’t confess that it’s odd not to properly say goodbye to the friends, family and city I’ve come to love so dearly.   

 I want to see another show at the Troubadour.  Enjoy a pint at the King’s Head.  Take the strand down to Hinano and high five strangers on the bike ride back.  Perhaps enjoy a final meal in Korea Town, wake up with meat sweats and ask myself “Is this a heart attack, or just heartburn from twelve shots of soju, eight Hites and five pounds of beef?”

Such are departures in a world which has seemingly been on hold for a year.

In some respects, our leaving doesn’t feel real.  Perhaps it’s due to the fact that friends have largely been rendered virtual and the city, as it stands now, feels like a shell of itself.

I don’t want to remember it this way.  Limping.  Boarded up.  Half-empty.  Sullen.

And maybe I don’t want to say good-bye on these terms. 

No handshake. No hugs.  An inability to be shoulder to shoulder, toasting good times, with friends new and old.

So, instead, I guess I’ll just keep it simple and say the following:

Thanks to everyone who has made my time…our time…in LA so great. 

We’re certainly going to miss all of you, from LA, down to Orange County and further South, to San Diego. 

Fortunately, flights back home are not too far of a journey.

When we visit, I look forward to taking those side streets from yesteryear back to friends and a world that I remember and will not soon forget.

Looking Forward To Screams of Past Hope

My friend Matt and i have been going to shows together for roughly 25 years.

Some of the most meaningful times of our friendship have consisted of small clubs, loud music, a few beers and kids, just like us, who found hope and unity through screaming lyrics to songs that have meant a tremendous amount through the years.

Back in November, Matt told me that he had a small present that he wanted to give me. He didn’t want to oversell it, but he had a hunch that I’d dig it.

I got that present today.

A framed photo of Strike Anywhere playing one of our favorite Punk Rock Bowling sets of all time. Matt stumbled across the photo online, and it just so happened that both he and I were captured in the shot amongst a sea of other kids.

They say a picture is worth a 1,000 words.

To me, this picture feels like it’s worth a million.

Because if you were to ask me what I love about small punk rock shows, or if you asked me about a friendship that spans a few decades, I can now simply point to this picture and smile.

This year fucking sucks.

But this picture reminds me of the good things in life and the good things to come.

Patience, Produce and a Pandemic.

There’s a lot of coverage in the news these days about the recognition that the women and men working in our grocery stores deserve these days.

I do not think this can be overstated.

Yesterday, while finishing up my shopping at Vons, I took the time to donate a few bucks at the end of the purchase to those in need of food. The cashier, a slightly older woman, thanked me (it was the least I could do and honestly, I don’t feel like I’m doing enough) and in turn, I thanked her for the service during these very strange days.

She took a long sigh and said something to the effect of “Thank you. Some people don’t seem to get it.  This afternoon, I asked a man to wait before putting his groceries down and he purposefully started coughing on my screen. I should have called the police.”

She wasn’t frazzled, she was understandably just irritated, dumbfounded and likely worn down not only by the disrespect/ignorance of the earlier shopper, but likely by the simple fact that an already tough job, just got infinitely harder.

I wish I could say I was surprised.

But the fact is, having spent many hours behind a cash register in my earlier years, I can say with 100% confidence that in the world or retail/customer service, asshats overfloweth.

My first flurry into the retail space was when the Miramar Stables turned me down, at the age of 16, for a Summer job shoveling horseshit during 90-degree days. Apparently, the stable manager didn’t think that a 16-year old had the grit to shovel manure for 8 hours a day, Monday through Friday. In hindsight, I’d say that was a wise managerial move.   

So, with my equestrian turd dreams shattered, I fell into the next best thing:  Junior Bagger at the Naval Air Station Miramar Commissary. 

Here, my job was pretty straightforward: Show up at 7 AM, check in with Evelyn (head bagger) and wait for hours on end until my number was called.  Typically, this wouldn’t happen until 4 P.M. or so, because the senior baggers had first dibs at prime shopping hours. As such, I’d spend my downtime in the lounge playing Pai Gow, fine-tuning my arsenal of Tagalog profanities (most of the baggers were Filipino and embraced me) and generally, just waiting around.

When the time did come to work, you were either paired with another bagger or given solo duty.  The pay, back then, was based on one thing: Tips only.  And each night, we’d fold a brown paper bag into a makeshift tip jar.

If you got paired with another bagger, you could tackle huge military family carts of food pretty easily, but your money was split at the end of the night and there were no guarantees that you’d be tipped well that evening.  If you got put on a register by yourself, there was a better potential for cash in your pocket, but you also risked “Getting slammed.”

 “Getting slammed,” as we liked to call it, was when someone came through with a full cart or two of food and you simply couldn’t keep up. The result was an avalanche of groceries in front of you, a cashier staring bullets through your chest (because they can’t scan if the food is piled up like cars on the 405) and a customer getting pissed off because god forbid you delay them for five minutes from smoking a Virginia Slim and “beatin’ Billy’s ass” once they get to the car. 

 For every good-natured customer, there was one that swore that the Orange Juice for $2.50 was actually $2.25 based upon their recollection and when the price check and subsequent sprint up the aisle - by yours truly,  proved them wrong, you’d have thought they just lost a high stakes poker tournament with an unexpected straight flush from Phil Ivey. 

I wouldn’t characterize those days as fulfilling work. But temper tantrums ignited by twenty-five cent differentials were a good first glimpse at the many varying degrees of human nature.  

Eventually, I moved on from bagging and graduated to life behind a cash register at such prestigious institutions such as K-Mart, Sportsmart, Linens & Motherfucking Things and the Messiah of Khakis, Eddie Bauer.

Each of those jobs was a further head-first dive into the good, bad and ugly of humanity. 

Patient people.

Angry people.

People who lost their shit when I wouldn’t accept Canadian currency.

Customers who acknowledged someone had been an asshole and quietly said “Don’t let it get to you.”  I always appreciated them.

Point is, anyone who is working at grocery store these days is well-accustomed to dealing with bullshit and the challenging personalities that stream through the checkout line.  

That’s just part of the deal and it’s a well-understood requirement of the job.

What’s not part of the deal, is showing up for an eight-hour/leg-grueling shift each day with the threat of potentially catching a life-threatening illness.   

 The pay doesn’t equate to the risk.  An already patience-trying job is now exponentially more stressful. And sadly, for every good person that roles through, there’s probably an asshole that is only thinking about one thing:  Themselves.

I can tell you, had I been faced with a pandemic whilst at K-Mart, Associate 885’s punk ass would have taken a trip to the snack bar, grabbed a giant Blueberry Icee, heated up some nachos and a soft pretzel and turned in my notice.

The people working our local grocery stores are indeed quite brave and unsung heroes, by all definitions of the word.

I wish a tip-bag existed like it did when I was bagging. 

God knows, they deserve it.

In its absence, I can tell you that patience, a smile and acknowledgement of their service is the least we can all offer.

After all, kindness doesn’t cost a dime.

Nice To Have You Back: A Journey With The Suicide Machines

If I’m nostalgic for any remnants of years passed, it’s probably most for the feeling I used to get anxiously awaiting record release days at my local music store.  Sometimes the mission took me to local shops like Poway’s Music Trader, or Flagstaff’s Gopher Records, but most often, I remember the trips to The Wherehouse.

The Wherehouse was great because they used to have a dry erase board where the names of artists’ new albums where scribbled neatly next to release dates.  Spotting a favorite band or artist on that board back in those days used to ignite a level of anticipation and excitement in me that would often times result in a relentless pursuit of a new release as if I was a loan shark or bounty hunter.  You could bet that If an album was supposed to drop on a Tuesday, I’d be in the store each and every day relentlessly hounding the shit out of a 23-year-old clerk, who could give a damn, as to the arrival status of my record. 

Beyond the pursuit of new music, I must confess to really missing the feeling of physically sitting with a CD or cassette for the first time. 

Slowly peeling off the shrink-wrap, digesting the cover artwork, pouring through lyrics and linear notes were careful acts of ritual as first chords and bass lines would start to ring through the flimsy headphones of a Discman or portable stereo that brought each album to life.   

The beauty of album artwork, is that sometimes it perfectly communicates the sonic world that awaits you before you even get to press play.  This was the case in 1996 when I sat solitary in a Northern Arizona University dorm room holding The Suicide Machines  newly-released “Destruction by Definition.”

The cover of “Destruction by Definition” felt to me like it was bottled electricity. A black and white portrait from a live show. Band exploding in the air, kids ready to stage dive and the beauty of a punk rock gig essentially encapsulated in one perfect moment.

 I couldn’t wait to listen.  I couldn’t wait, to be there.

 CD pamphlet in hand, I gave it a spin.

The album, as it turned out, was spectacular. Energetic, ferocious, angry and somehow, hopeful.  I loved it.  Twenty-four years later, I still do.

I guess the rest of this story is supposed to play out in a predictable manner.  You find a band you love, eagerly devour their albums, buy tickets to the shows, they eventually break up, you get older and the good times, fade away.

That could have been the case with The Suicide Machines. 

I certainly thought it was when I watched them dissolve on stage in the final moments of a live set in Los Angeles at The Troubadour in 2006. 

“Goddamnit, I’m never going to get to see one of my favorite bands again,” was all I could think as I walked out of the club after a Dan-less encore of “The Vans Song” closed out a rather odd night on stage, with a lot of kids looking at each other like “What the fuck just happened?”

That should have been the end.

But somehow, it wasn’t. 

And my hopes, that maybe, just maybe I’d get to see TSM live again were suddenly given a slight breath of life when I started seeing one-off reunion shows and benefits (2009, perhaps?) begin to pop up every now and again in Detroit and on the East Coast.

The years went by and unexpectedly, the one-offs seemed like they were building up steam, until an actual tour of the Mid West in 2015 was announced. 

“Chicago isn’t that far away from LA,” I thought, as I tried to contain my excitement about the prospects of resurrecting a part of my musical past that I thought had been laid to rest nine years prior.

I spoke to my girlfriend.  Bought the tickets.  Booked a flight. Went to the show.

And…..

Discovered that the band, that I had loved, was…

Still as fun, solid, energetic, explosive and relevant as I’d hoped they’d be.

To me, it looked like everyone on stage was energized, having fun again and that translated into a crowd that went absolutely fucking crazy that evening.

Most impressively, what I witnessed was not a performance based on nostalgia.  I had watched what appeared to be a rejuvenation of the original entity, now fueled to be just as strong as before, which is no easy feat in terms of longevity and time’s proclivity of dulling even the sharpest of punk rock knives. 

Little did I know, that night was merely the beginning of what would be the start of an incredible run of TSM shows that I had the good fortune to attend in the years to come.

San Diego. Los Angeles.  Santa Barbara. Santa Ana. Orange County.  Korea. Wait, Korea? Fuck it. Korea! And Japan, not once, but twice, with the girlfriend who ventured to Chicago - and was now my wife, in-tow (even though 90-degree punk shows aren’t exactly her cup of tea).

Each show, was as fun as the last.   And I discovered, that traveling to see a band and getting to connect with kids from different states, countries and cultures provided me with a human experience, and unfiltered joy, that I could never put a price on, nor could I have expected when I held that first CD in my dorm room so many years ago. 

 It’s been a fun journey.

And that journey just got better, because remarkably, after a 15-year hiatus since their last effort, The Suicide Machines released a new album, “Revolution Spring,” on Fat Wreck Chords today.

I will let someone more well-versed at critiquing the complexities of music handle the review of each song in detail.

For now, I will only say that upon the first several spins, I absolutely love it. 

One must acknowledge, that most bands typically don’t take fifteen-year breaks only to release fresh material that rivals their best work.  And yet, I believe they’ve done just that.

It feels good, more than twenty years later, and amidst some fairly dark times, to have music deliver a shot of energy, hope and life into my veins.

I guess it just feels great to have The Suicide Machines back.

THE FINAL COLLISION OF O’MALLEYS

The first time my name was associated with who I always referred to as “TV Mike O’Malley” was probably in the late 90’s or early 2000’s, when a kid working a Pizza Hut cash register looked at my debit card and informed me that a guy who used to be on Nickelodeon shared the same name as me.  “That’s what I hear,” I said as I grabbed my pizza and headed back to a 13-inch television inside an apartment that had the design aesthetic of a federal prison cell.

Years later, our degrees of separation grew somewhat smaller, when I worked for Mike’s friend and my new boss, Court Crandall.  On more than one occasion, Court would email Mike work revisions (meant for me) and fun things like invitations for drinks at the Crandall house to me, instead of Mike. Court was always quick to realize this mistake and I would get a polite disinvite in the form of “Hey Suge, ah, that invite was actually meant for my friend Mike O’Malley.” So much for margaritas and tacos at Court’s house. Damn.

The years went on and Mike O’Malley continued to be prevalent in my universe.  Screenplays, intended for Mike, were sent to my personal email address and when I’d inform people that I’m not that “Mike O’Malley,” I was typically met with resistance and perseverance.  “Funny, Mike! Anyhow, have a read.”  I’d wish them luck and further reiterate that they got the wrong guy.

After more encounters, and the random person now and again asking me if I happened to be from New England, I began to secretly hope that maybe one day I could actually meet the more famous version of my namesake. 

After all, we both knew Court, we evidently had similar email addresses and let’s face it, our entertainment careers were extremely impressive.  Mike’s hosted “Guts” on Nickelodeon, starred in “Yes, Dear,” was ESPN’s iconic “The Rick” and even created “Survivor’s Remorse” (produced by LeBron James).  I, of course, have worked on LeBron James/Kia commercials, write stupid shit on Facebook and have launched critically acclaimed pieces of art such as “Indiana Tax Time at Your Local Honda Dealer” ads (I mean, films.) Obviously, we have a lot in common beyond just a shared name.

So, one can only imagine my surprise this morning when I looked up from my seat in United’s Terminal 7 to find “TV Mike O’Malley” sitting right in front of me.

I cautiously introduced myself, not knowing whether or not my introduction to Mike would result in a great disturbance to the cosmos or send us flailing into alternate realities.

Mike was gracious with his time.  I told him about the invites from Court, emails from strangers and instances of mistaken identity. We laughed at the advertising related emails that he had received that made little sense.

And in the end, we took a photo, shook hands and parted ways.

It made my day.

The best part is, now when people say “Hey, are you the same Mike O’Malley as that guy from....,” I can happily stop them and reply “No, but I’ve met him and he’s a great fucking dude!”

Second Chances

Authors Note: This story was originally written and shared on Facebook back in October of 2015. I felt as though this blog would be a nice place to document this event too.

Roughly nine years ago, I was working late at David&Goliath one night when a few of my co-workers decided to take a break and head across the street to Bandera on Wilshire for a Scotch or two.

Bandera, for those who haven't been there, is essentially a fancier version of Houston's that features a wide array of overpriced food, vodka-fueled divorcees and overpaid attorneys.

Upon entering the restaurant, we promptly made our way to the bar, got a few drinks and proceeded to belly up as a jazz band filled the room with an ambient soundtrack to corporate small talk and soon to be alimony payments.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the chatter and music was interrupted by a booming voice that declared, "I have a fucking announcement to make! I need everyone's attention! I just got out of the hospital and I need help. I am a schizophrenic and I need to fill a prescription for Lithium. I don't want to hurt anybody, but I need help!"

The room fell silent.

The bass line came to an abrupt halt like a jukebox at a honky tonk, when an out of town stranger walks in. You could hear a pin drop.

The first thought I had, before looking over my shoulder, was that this was the end. The voice was probably about a foot from my head and I was certain that at any moment, I would hear "BANG!"

One to the dome. Game over. Unsigned mechanical back at my desk.

As I slowly turned around to see who had so rudely interrupted my glass of whatever the fuck my boss was paying for, I saw a fairly large man, who appeared to be homeless, staring blankly at the room as customers sat frozen in silence. No one made a move. No one uttered a sound. It was though as if the room was paralyzed by fear. Probably because we were - I know I was.

After what seemed like an eternity, a waiter slowly approached the man and spoke to him in a calm, soothing fashion. "Sir, how about you come outside with me? How about we talk....outside?"

The man reluctantly agreed.

Conversation, albeit with trepidation, began to resume.

"Can you believe that guy?"

"What the fuck was that?"

"The homeless here are really getting of control."

"Anyhow, I told Doug that this case doesn't stand a chance in court if we only...."

Back to our drinks. Back to work talk. Thank god the crazy guy is gone. For years I've told people about the time in Bandera that I thought I was going to be smoked.

Fast forward 9 years.

I'm back at David&Goliath, but tonight I wasn't working too late. Instead, I went home, fed the dog and decided to walk to Ingos Tasty Diner, down the block from me, for a drink (somethings never change) and a solitary dinner. Jidori Chicken. Why not.

Unlike nine years ago, this night was different.

No coworkers. No cougars. No corporate small talk or lawyers who consider Q's the afterparty. Just people enjoying their dinner, amongst a friend or two, having respective quiet evenings.

As I finish my meal, and await my bill, I hear a familiar voice from a long time ago erupt into the room.....

"I just got out of the hospital! I do not want to hurt anyone! I need money for medicine. I'm a schizophrenic, who walked from the hospital and I need my lithium. I need my lithium!"

The silence is deafening. The patrons are silent. Everyone is afraid.

But I've never felt so......calm.

I've lived this night before and somehow, I feel assurance that there is no harm in store.

A chef and a waiter walk up to the man. He holds up a crumpled prescription, repeats his plea and trembles as a room full of 40 or so people stare at him blankly.

One woman utters "Why don't you get out of here?"

Another woman quietly pulls out a dollar bill and makes her way to the man, by herself.

Two different reactions to a situation that from experience, I understand is difficult to comprehend in the moment.

I look at the bartender and say "This happened to me 9 years ago. I know this guy. I've heard this before."

So I sign my tab and make my way to the door. Perhaps, I think, I can show the compassion that I witnessed 9 years ago when that waiter I saw spoke to this guy gently, calmly and in a reassuring manner that resulted in the peaceful end to a disruptive evening by an unstable man........escorted out onto Wilshire, never to be seen or heard from again.

While walking to the door, with a dollar in hand to coerce the gentleman to leave, a pessimistic thought went through my mind.

Perhaps this is just an act.

A scripted routine.

A homeless guy who has figured out that if he strolls into a restaurant, throws a fit and pretends to be at wits end, a few dollars can be secured before making his way off into the night.

Suckers....got them again.

That thought quickly vanished as the man made his way towards me. It was at this time, that I noticed he was sobbing, genuine tears rolling down from eyes....one clear and one cloudy, likely blind. Spit stuck to his lips like a child that had been crying for some time.

What I saw, as I looked into his pupils was genuine sadness, despair and utter hopelessness.

He put his hand on my shoulder and said "Why won't they help me? Why won't they believe me, brother? Why won't they believe me?"

I told him that I believed him and handed him my dollar. He said "I don't want you to believe me. I want you to know. I want you to know."

With that he handed me his prescription.

"Read it," he said. "Please, please, please. Read it." "What does it say? What does the date say?"

With no one willing to engage him, it was as if he knew that perhaps I was one person who could validate his need, his embarrassment, his despair. Even if no one else believed him, it would be enough if just one person did. Perhaps one believer could just for a second, ease the humiliation of having to cry for help in a room full of strangers who could likely never relate nor empathize.

I read the prescription.

Lithium. Prescribed 10/25.

Slowly, I read the prescription back to him, in a quiet voice and put my arm around him. I wasn't scared. I didn't fear a punch, a shove or any unexpected action from a man who by all accounts appeared extremely unpredictable.

I just felt a calming sadness fall over both of us.

As he took a step back, I decided to empty my wallet and gave him everything I had, which was a mere 30 bucks or so. Not Ghandi-like by any means, but it was the best I could do. It was really the least I could do.

As the gentleman took the money from me, he started sobbing and hugged me with two arms around my neck as the waitstaff and chef stared somewhat in disbelief, not sure what to do.

"I need to get my medicine now," he said. "We're the same brother. We're the same."

Across Wilshire he goes. The cops pull up. They make a U-Turn and intercept him somewhere along Wilshire and 15th. The patrons, I imagine, like me many years ago, wonder what the hell they just experienced and resume their night.

Something feels different as I make my way home. At first the night feels like a strange coincidence.

An odd Los Angeles night from years ago that somehow, so randomly repeated itself once again.

I think about it more on my walk home and it begins to sink in.

It's easy to become immune here.

Despair, mental illness, homelessness are all part of my stroll to get a coffee, walk the dog or pick up a shitty piece of pizza.

Sometimes I help, sometimes I don't.

Sometimes I think a guy needs a bite to eat so I get buy him a sandwich, other times I think it's just a scam so I hold off.

"Sorry dude, I got no change on me," I'll say as I look dead ahead. If I don't make eye contact, I don't engage. If I don't engage, it's not my problem.

That's not good enough.

Tonight, I made eye contact and in doing so, had my eyes opened.

I may not always have change on me, but from now on, I can always afford to look another person in need in the eyes.

Perhaps that's all they really want.

Twenty Years Down

A week or so ago I hit my 20th year as a Los Angeles resident.

Clearly, veiled threats in my early twenties to move back to San Diego were emptier than an unlocked car parked in the Tenderloin.

Twenty years is enough to cause some reflection though, so I couldn't help but think back tonight to the weeks before I made my move up to the corner of National & Sepulveda, two cross streets nestled squarely at the heart of Westwood Adjacent - a bullshit term that I'd later learn, from laughing employees, was actually Palms.

I was wrapping up my final days in SD as a proud associate of Eddie Bauer. I was not terribly excited to be dressed like a middle-aged man at work and showed fairly little enthusiasm for telling guys what color polo shirts go well with khaki ("How about Navy Blue, dummy?"), asking for charitable donations at the register or providing any sort of fashion guidance. I especially didn't like checking the inside of someone's waste band to inform them of what size pant they wore.

In any event, those days were about to be over. RPA had offered me a job as an Account Group Assistant and at 23, I was certain of one thing: I needed to buy a new shirt for Los Angeles.

That's right, a new shirt.

After all, Los Angeles wasn't San Diego. It was a fast-paced city. And a 23 year-old soon-to-be faxing, coffee brewing, stocking the work kitchens and shippin' beta dubs to legal-for-clearance-machine was going to have to look good for after hours. Because ALL UP IN THE CLUB was where I was going to meet L.A. ladies and perhaps a crew of my new friends.

As I finished my Togo's avocado/bacon/turkey sandwich above the UTC skating rink, I did instinctively what I knew I had to do: I walked across the mall to Nordstroms.

Surely, Nordstroms would have the shirt that would blow the roof off of any L.A. bar that I'd step into. Something dangerous, something stylish, something....

Synthetic and stretchy?

Goddamn right.

There is it was. Navy blue. Buttoned. Synthetic. Polo. Stretchy. I think it even shimmered when the light hit it right.

I laid down two week's pay and soon, the bad boy was mine. Together, we'd conquer L.A. armed with a Westwood Adjacent home base and a $20K entry- level salary that my father so eloquently described as"poverty level."

Turns out the old man was right.

I digress.

The shirt and I traveled up the 405. Visions of all night parties raced through my head. "Do I want to dance, Angelina Jolie? Maybe after I finish my drink. Say, how do you like my shirt?".

Bound for glory, I exited from the 405 onto National and hung a left onto Sepulveda.

I unpacked and settled into my new abode.

And do you know what happened next?

I pretty much sat in a shitty apartment without any friends for about a year.

The blinds were kept closed because my neighbor was three feet away and when I wasn't watching a 13 inch television on a wicker coffee table or eating at Baja Fresh on Sundays (special treat!), I was playing the same Pennywise and Social Distortion songs on an acoustic guitar - yet never got better at any of them.

Turned out, I wasn't a club guy. Or a re-born L.A. ladies man. Or terribly good at making friends, quickly.

But, I did have my shirt.

And a great job at RPA working on Honda.

And eventually, I made a friend (Kim Mok!), then a few more friends, and a few more after that....

My brother moved to town.

More friends joined the fold.

And I even met a young lady who turned out to be the best friend of them all.

And so, twenty years later, I guess I just want to say thank you to all the great people I've met here along the way and all the friends in San Diego who never left. To the friends from Flagstaff, that made trips out here and that I still see today. Y’all have made the past 20 truly wonderful.

As for the shirt, I'm not sure where it is. Secretly, I hope someone just moved up here, found it at a thrift shop and is having a beer in it, as pictured above.

$1,000 says Joe Min is passionately dropping a factoid in this picture that has very little practical application for everyday life.

Just One More Show

Stepping into the Holland Hotel in Jersey City, New Jersey at three in the morning raises a lot of questions. “How many times has this place been stuck up at gunpoint?,” is one. “Will I get held up at gunpoint during my stay?,” is definitely another.

Just several weeks before, my finger had hovered nervously over a “Buy Tickets” button. At the time, I wrestled with whether or not a cross country flight to spend thirty hours in New Jersey to catch a few of my favorite bands was the most prudent of decisions for a 43 year-old man to make.

Like a husky kid on a diving board staring fifteen-feet down at an ominous sea of chlorine and neighborhood pee, I temporarily was locked in a stalemate between the forces of rationale thought and the holy pursuit of good times.

A second glance at the lineup for the evening was all that I needed to break the tie.

The Bouncing Souls. Strike Anywhere. Two of my favorites.

If my index finger could speak, I suppose it would have shrugged and said “Fuck it.”

Click. One ticket to the White Eagle Hall bought.

Click. Airplane ticket purchased.

Click. Holland Hotel secured.

Standing in the ten foot lobby of the hotel I couldn’t help but wonder if that last click wasn’t just a little hasty. But then again, it’s just thirty hours and my goal in Jersey isn’t comfort, it’s to consume a healthy dose of power chords.

I wake the next morning to find that my room overlooks a Home Depot and a six lane highway. Next door, a Burger King welcomes fans of flame broiled obesity and high blood pressure. Perhaps this place isn’t so bad after all.

Walking down stairs to get my bearings, I find myself back in the lobby and prepare myself a complimentary coffee. Two men are there and they’re threatening violence upon each other despite the fact that they’re clearly traveling together.

“I’ll kick your ass old man.”

“I may be old, but I’ll slap the shit out of you.”

“Not with that cane you won’t.”

I finish prepping my coffee and leave, confident that a speedball or two will make this argument water under the bridge for these distinguished guests of the Holland.

The day goes on and eventually it’s time for the show. As I’m leaving the hotel, a guy with a Black Flag jacket spots me and we immediately identify one another as two guys that have the same mission for the evening. We split a cab, instantly start discussing our favorite sub-genre of music and part ways once we walk into the doors of the venue.

The show begins and any shred of doubt that this night would be anything less than a great decision is quickly annihilated.

Strike Anywhere rips through their set and solidifies their standing within my brain that they are one of the best live shows within punk rock and embody at a core level what I believe to be so good about this music scene - unity through music and the unshakeable feeling that a room full of strangers are in fact all family.

The next hour and half is spent listening to the Souls play thirty years of music to a hometown crowd. I find myself smiling and oddly at-ease as songs play that have been with me since the age of 19 or 20. Like an old friend, they’ve accompanied me to different states, various venues, drives up and down the freeways of Southern California and, of course, have been a place of refuge through good times and bad.

The show ends and I head back to the Holland. Burger King is only available as a drive-thru culinary option and my new buddy that I split a cab with happens to be going there as well. We drive a whopping 10 seconds over to the establishment and pick up a gut bomb, putting a sodium-laced cherry on top of the night.

The next day I wake up at 6 A.M. for a flight back to California. Standing once again in the Holland, I’m given the honor of witnessing one final conflict in the hotel’s lobby. A young couple is attempting to check-in and a security guard, who perhaps likes to keep it a bit too real, begins a passive aggressive lecture on how there aren’t any rooms, there won’t be any rooms, the manager will not be of any use and basically the couple is S.O.L. This doesn’t go over too well and as the confrontation gets a bit more heated, it dawns on me that perhaps I won’t get stuck up at the Holland, but I may be an innocent victim of crossfire.

Just then, my Uber pulls up.

Somewhere high above the Midwest I take some time to reflect on my weekend.

I don’t think life is short. I think it’s unpredictable.

I don’t know how much longer my favorite bands will continue to play. And I don’t know how much longer I’ll be around to watch them.

Perhaps flying across the country is a last ditch effort to hold onto some old memories or the fleeting energy of youth. Or maybe there’s an urgency in me now that wasn’t always present before. A desire to take the trip, see the show and create an experience or a memory because who knows how long these opportunities will last? And that doesn’t just go for my favorite music, it applies to friends, family, destinations…..life in general.

I suppose there will come a day when I’m no longer able to travel for music.

But goddamn if I’m not going to go down swinging.