Stuff Money Can't Buy

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Earlier this week, prior to the heartbreaking devastation in Oklahoma, the big story was that Powerball drawing: $590.5 million cold hard cash. One winner.

Trust. It wasn't me. Not only have I not been to Florida lately, but more importantly, drum roll please, I didn't play.

Until last Saturday night, I too always indulged in a ticket, when the jackpot rose to what can only be described as an obscene level. Two dollars and a dream and all that. 

Mine always started out firmly rooted in travel: first class tickets to visit my girlfriend in Australia. Europe. Hell, even San Antonio! (Only because that's where my bestie decided to set down roots.) Front row tickets to Essence Music Festival in New Orleans every year. Bali! Here we come. Iceland--for Andre. Puerto Rico. Again. And again.

Next, I'd spring to bring my favorite musical acts to my city. Duh! I'd convince, okay, bribe, blasts from the past like Remy Shand and George Michael to come out of hiding. I'd publish my book. Start the writing based non-profit I've been talking about for the past five years. Help some young 'uns pay for college. Buy an apartment in New York City. A genuine Tribeca loft. With a lovely roof deck. Or a brownstone in Harlem. Or both.

Yet, every single time I started spending all of my imaginary money, the same buzzkill gradually creeps in. And I'd abruptly realize how much of my outstandingly beautiful life, that I kind of dig, even in its non-millionaire stage, I'd have to give up.

Clearly, we'd have to say adios to our charming 1890's historic cottage that sits right on the street. Bye-bye to Andre's, literally, growing landscaping project, including this year's addition, three Rose of Sharon bushes, that he sat, deep into a hole, or three, to plant. We'd never feel the satisfaction of working hard towards a goal. And through a mixture of determination and fate, see them come true.

Already, in many aspects, my life has grossly surpassed my wildest expectations. I never dreamed I'd actually own a convertible. New. Hardtop, baby. Or the working antique pinball machine that sits in my kitchen. Or meet Maxwell, get interviewed by Al Roker on my 40th birthday on the Today Show or swim with dolphins. 

But it all somehow went down. Even on a relatively limited budget. 

All without winning a dime.

Indeed, you don't have to win the lottery to have a rich life. And outside of one enormous, ten year old tube tv that is cutting off a portion of the wide screen picture that the rest of the world is viewing, I really do have everything that I need. 

And more.

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Guest Post: There's Only One You

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Ms. Jenna Z., my cousin's daughter and, gulp, one of my flower girls, is graduating from high school this year.

​Holla'!

Growing up, Jen wasn't having any of that kids' table bullshit. She was much more interested in what was going on with the adults.​

And it shows.

She's one deep cat.

Now that I've sufficiently embarrassed her, this is how she wrote her way into college, Hamline University, Saint Paul, Minnesota, where she hopes to study public relations, then eventually work for Disney.

They'd be lucky to have her:

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When I think of an artist or work of art that has impacted my life, the one artist who flashes into my mind is Vincent van Gogh.

I remember the day we watched the film in seventh grade art class.  I was sitting at my paint stained table staring at the blank screen. When my art teacher said, "Today we are watching a movie on Vincent van Gogh."

He popped in the disk and pressed play. We all sat on our art stools staring at the screen, as the film unfolded his life. The students in the class laughed when he began going insane. They giggled at the thought of him sending half of his ear to his one, true love.

Then there was me; I sat there feeling sorry for him, wishing I were able to tell him how influential his work will be in the future.

Once the movie was over, our teacher asked us our thoughts regarding him. There was a girl in my grade who sat at my table, her hand shot up and she whined, "I think he was weird. Like he cut off his own ear. You don’t do that. No one liked him because he was weird."

My teacher said, "Well, I guessed some of you would think that."

Then, I looked at him and nervously said, "I just really wish I could have seen the world through his eyes. I wish I could see the night sky the way he did, the flowers, everything."

I saw his eyes glow as he stated, "That’s exactly what I wished I was able to do. I’m glad you understand."

To this day this conversation runs through my mind so clearly. This was the first time I had ever really fell in love with an artist's work. It made me understand that no matter how hard I try; I will never be like everyone else. 

Sometimes, I stare at A Starry Night and watch as the colors swirled together to form the night sky; colors that the average person would not think were in the sky as boldly as he showed them. They all swirled together to form the notion of wind swirling though the lands, the stars glowing brightly off the canvas. I had never seen a painting like that. 

The colors were not fully blended together and somehow, to me, this told more of a story than a normal painting. I decided that I too, could paint what I want. It seems to me that the oddest things have the strongest impact. So I began to paint. When I felt lonely or down, painting always made me feel better. Everywhere I look, I am reminded of how beautiful the world is. 

I always take the time to look at the sky now, just to look at all the colors that swirl around, because of Vincent van Gogh, I am able to appreciate the things around me and see their beauty.

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URI Graduation QUA(n)D(ary)

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My high school graduation was inside a hockey rink.

Yeah. Let that sink in. 

Take away the ice and the building looked like a tin airplane hanger. Truly, there was nothing pretty about it. 

Oddly enough, it was a fairly fitting send-off for me, to leave a town that I always felt was much more concerned with sports than academics. Even with my advanced P90X2 skills, I still don't fit in there.

Fast forward four years and I graduated again. This time from the University of Rhode Island, Kingston. Things went a bit better here. The ceremony was held on the town green of the campus, a beautiful space lined with historic buildings, otherwise known as the Quad. 

In so many ways, the Quad IS URI. 

If you're lucky, you pass through it daily, dodging games of extreme frisbee on your way to class, working hard towards that moment where, as literally generations have before, you'll receive your diploma during a spectacular send-off.

Outside.

So, it saddens me to find out that graduation this year has been moved inside, to the generic Ryan Center. Sure, it's a world class facility. For concerts. And home shows. And basketball games. 

Not graduations. 

Why the change? About ten days before the Boston Marathon bombing, the rural URI campus went on lockdown, because of reports of an alleged gunman on campus. The only thing confirmed in the end was how quickly mass hysteria spreads.

Mix in the actual attack on Boston, and the fact that the deceased bomber's widow lives a few miles away, and President Dooley and the URI Administration are clearly on edge.

To them, I ask, as a proud alumni of the school: Do you want your final lesson to your students to be one of fear? 

I feel for you URI Class of 2013. I think that college, and the knowledge gained from it, should make you less afraid, not more. I know that's how it worked for me. 

And I think you should have your day, literally in the sun.

Please sign this petition if you agree.

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