Did you watch the video of the explosion? Did you see the way people reacted? Sure, some ran away, and I don’t blame them. But how about all the people who ran toward the explosion? And I’m not just talking about the cops; did you see the volunteers, the fellow runners, the spectators? They all ran as fast as they could to aid the wounded.

That is a truly beautiful thing. Imagine the courage, the love for fellow man it must take to be faced with a situation like that and choose to run toward the danger.

Earlier today I put this on Facebook, it’s received quite a response: 

I’ve seen an awful lot of people say that today’s events make them question the world we live in. I say hooey, the fact that events like today’s are such a shock proves that we live in a world that is generally safe and comfortable.

Also, the terrible actions and devastation caused by one individual, or one group, should not outweigh the incredible bravery and heroism of the first responders, volunteers, fellow runners, spectators, doctors and nurses who rushed to aid those in need.

One of the greatest tragedies of events like today is that we focus far too much on the perpetrators of the atrocity and not the victims, the survivors and the heroes.

Days like today should be reserved for mourning the dead, caring for the injured, and loving those around you.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t be angry, and I’m not saying there aren’t some real problems in this world. But willfully leading ourselves to believe that we live in a dark, scary place is not the answer. Like our eyes adjusting to a pitch black room, we must allow ourselves to see the light. And unlike that flicker of light in the darkness, the good is so easy to see. It’s on the face of the man who holds the door open for his coworker; it’s in the arms of the woman who shovels her neighbor’s driveway after a storm; it’s on the scalp of the child who shaved her head to support a sick friend.

See, the true terror in terrorism doesn’t come from the act itself, it comes from the affect we allow it to have on our souls and our psyches. But guess what? As long as there are people who run toward the flames the bad guys will never win. They’re simply outmatched.

Whenever one of these shooting occurs, and they seem to happen far too frequently, I think about the people in my life. Do I know anyone capable of committing such a heinous act? Could I ever find myself in a mental state where I would choose to not only take my life, but the lives of innocents around me?

Whenever I start this process, I go back to one young man who I grew up with. For the sake of his family, I will only call him “Paul”.

Paul and I grew up together. We were never friends, barely acquaintances. But we went to school and daycare together and saw one another grow up.

By the time high school arrived Paul was very physically fit and incredibly smart. He was also a social outcast. He had few, if any, friends and didn’t seem to have interest in making any. He was mean, but not in an evil way. I often found myself his target because I was short and fat. I’d fire back, laughing at his strange hair, his weird outfits, his bad skin.

One time, I think it was junior year, Paul’s parents were out of town and he let word spread that he was having a party. Hundreds of kids from our school came, most with the sole purpose of destroying Paul’s house. And they did. Glasses were smashed, picture frames were destroyed. I remember watching Paul look on with glee as a crowd knocked over his parent’s basement pantry, smashing everything on its shelves.

See, Paul got exactly what he wanted.

Later on, in senior year, Paul walked up to the front of our Physics AP class with a bag of something in his hand. He held it up and showed its contents to us all. It was his pubic hair, collected in clumps and sitting in a clear Ziploc bag. Our teacher wasn’t in the room at the time, but as soon as he found out Paul was sent to the principal’s office.

That was the last of Paul’s outbursts, until our graduation ceremony. On that day Paul wore the same school provided cap and gown as everyone else; except, unlike everyone else, he wore nothing underneath. As he walked up the aisle to collect his diploma Paul exposed himself:  One final call for help from a desperate young man.

I never saw Paul after that. I was told his college acceptance was rescinded following his graduation day stunt. Soon after that, word spread that Paul killed himself.

Paul chose to end only his life. But whenever these tragic events occur I can’t help but think that I knew one of these disturbed young men. He lived right in my own backyard.

I also think about how I did nothing to help him.

All I did was laugh.

Those of you who know me know that I have had a life-long struggle with my weight. I reached my peak weight my senior year in college. I have no idea what I weighed because I never set foot (or feet) on a scale. I assume it was around 220 lbs.

Immediately upon graduation I embarked on a weight-loss regimen. And boy was it successful. I was already noticeably thinner at my father’s marriage just a month later. I remember all the people coming up to me telling me how great I looked.

SN: Where are those people when someone is gaining weight? Seriously, our society would be a lot less fat if people would just be honest with one another. Take that as an invitation friends. You see me getting fatter EVER AGAIN, slap me upside my face and let me know.

Okay, rant over.

So, there I was losing weight like an animal. I got all the way down to 157 lbs. But I did it all the wrong way. I basically starved myself, worked out very little and didn’t give myself the tools necessary for long-term weight loss.

I have a vivid recollection of going out for Monday Night Football with some friends and a bunch of people I had never met. It was right after I had hit 157 lbs and I was feeling really good. So good that I gorged myself on every bit of fried deliciousness that menu had to offer. After dinner, my buddy Chris came up to me and told me one of the guys who had never met me before was shocked that I could eat like that and be so thin. Ha! Boy did I have him fooled. Except, the only person I was fooling was myself.

Slowly over the next few months and years I put the weight back on. Not all of it mind you, but a lot of it. I got back up to 190 lbs. That was when my then girlfriend (now wife) and I decided we were going to lose weight. And boy did we ever. Plus, we did it the right way: Exercising a ton, eating well, still indulging from time to time. It was awesome.

Then I went away to Rochester in the fall of 2008 to work on a campaign. Being away from my partner and my gym I fell back into my old bad habits. There was this awesome Italian deli right near our campaign headquarters and I would order every horrible thing they had on that menu. Ziti with meatballs, check! Ungodly large Italian-mixed subs, check! Chicken parm sandwiches with extra cheese, check! And I would eat every last ounce of them.

I put on enough weight that when I came home my same buddy Chris took one look at me and said “dude, you put on weight huh?” All I could do was sheepishly laugh and agree.

And that was it. Ever since then I’ve been slowly packing on the lbs, and occasionally taking them off,  to the point that I now must be damn near where I was back in college. I wouldn’t know because again I don’t weigh myself (horrible, I know).

But that changes today. And I’m going to share the result with all of you. As of now, June 1^st, 2012 I weigh 205 lbs.

So, why am I telling you all of this? Because I am weak. I have proven to myself time and time again that I can’t do this on my own. I need people to know what I’m doing, I need the motivation.

And that’s where you all come in. I’m not asking you to slap a burger out of my hand if you see me noshing on one, but you can feel free to steal the bun. I’m not asking you to take the beer out of my grasp if I happen to imbibe, but feel free to pour it on me when I reach for number two. I’m not asking you to never go out to dinner with me, but please remind me to get a to-go container and package up half of it right away. Most of all, I’m just asking you guys to look out for your fat, bald, and short buddy. I need it.

Thanks in advance for taking this journey with me.

Love,

Zack

Today’s passing of Dick Clark sparked an interesting conversation on my Facebook page. Basically, I feel the passing of an 82-year-old stroke victim is not a tragic or sad event. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it is something we should celebrate; but why be morose?

Here we have man who was arguably one of the ten most influential people in the history of television reduced to a bumbling, stumbling shell of his former self. It would be one thing if this occurred behind closed doors, but it didn’t. The deterioration of Mr. Clark happened right before our eyes and was played out year after year on New Year’s Eve. Now THAT was a tragedy.

Moving on from Mr. Clark, I am very concerned about how our society deals with death in general. Why are we so obsessed with the anniversary of our loved one’s passing? Why don’t we instead focus on the good times we had and remember them when we remember them?

I’m not trying to be callous, and I have experienced the death of loved ones first hand. In fact I was one of my grandmother’s caretakers during her final months. Wilma Hutchins died in 2005: I don’t know the exact date, because I don’t remember those things. My grandmother was a remarkable woman. Robbed of most of her eyesight at too young an age, she continued to play golf, read, and paint until her body no longer allowed her to.

During her last year, my father and I took turns taking care of her. I remember coming over one day and seeing my grandmother sitting in her favorite recliner as she always did, but something seemed off. It didn’t take long for me to realize that she was sitting in a pile of her own feces. She didn’t know it was coming, and by the time her body started doing what it does it was too late for her to reach the bathroom. Why she didn’t get up after the fact I do not know. Perhaps she was ashamed? Too weak? Not lucid? For whatever reason she just sat there until my father or I showed up. I don’t know how long she was sitting like that, but it was at least 12 hours.

As you might expect I was horrified by what I saw and proceeded to help my grandmother out of her filthy clothes and into the shower, where I bathed her. Here she was a once vibrant, beautiful woman reduced to literally sitting in shit and having her 22-year-old grandson clean it off of her. I’m sorry, but that is no way to live. Fortunately for her and for us she passed away soon after.

Did I cry at her funeral? Absolutely! Do I miss her terribly? Of course. Do I wish for one second that she was still here “living” like that? Hell no.

Now, don’t get me wrong, there are tragic deaths: people who die in a horrific fashion, people who are still in good health, or those who die far too young. But there was nothing tragic about Dick Clark or my grandmother dying. In fact, their deaths were a blessing; for them and for us.

The players: My wife, the obnoxious lady, the obnoxious lady’s brute of a husband, and myself

The background: For those of you not from the area, The Spectrum Movie Theatre is the swanky, artsy place in town. It’s where you go for real popcorn, arthouse flicks and (usually) well-behaved crowds. It is a beacon of light, an oasis, in a sea of otherwise horribly crowded chain theatres.

When going to the movies the choice is often—almost always—The Spectrum, or waiting for Red Box. Perhaps that is why the tale you are about to hear is so surprising.

The tale: My wife went into the theatre first and grabbed two seats on the aisle about half-way down. There was a couple in front of us (who were kind enough to sit in seats 3 and 4 so as to not obstruct our view) and a couple behind us (also in seats 3 and 4). There was a smattering of other folks seated throughout the theatre. I got in after my wife as I made a pit stop at the concession stand for some delightful popcorn and a soda to wash it down.

From the moment I sat down I knew we were trouble.

The woman behind us would not stop talking. Now, in her defense, this was during the previews so I held out hope she’d zip it once the movie began; silly me. The talking only got worse once the titles began to roll. I let it go for a bit, then I gave “the look”. You know what I mean right? That casual over-the-shoulder stare coupled with the half-smile and puppy dog eyes. The look that means: Could you please be quiet?

She stopped, phew (I thought) bullet dodged. Nope. She picked right back up again. I let it go for a bit longer and then I brought out the big gun. Clearly “the look” wasn’t going to work in this situation. No, no, no I need something more. I needed, “the stare”. The intense full-body turn paired with eyes of fire that can only mean one thing: SHUT UP!!!!!

Clearly my point was made because almost immediately she did just that, shut up. But then the hulking man looked at me and said,  “What do you want?”

“Are you going to talk during the entire movie?”, I asked.

And then it happened. It was so unexpected, I never saw it coming. He looked at me, right in the eyes, and said: “Turn around you twit!”

“Turn around you twit?,” I thought to myself.

Who uses such language? I was enraged, infuriated. My heart was racing, my body tensed up, I wasn’t going to stand for this. All I wanted to do was yell at the man; or at least throw my soda in his face.

“Something must be done”, I thought.

And then it hit me. This man, this muscle-bound DB wasn’t worth it. He and his wife were in the wrong and they knew it. So I turned around, calmed myself down and watched the rest of the film, in silence.

It was glorious.

***Did you get here from All Over Albany? Welcome! Please check out my home page and go ahead and follow if you like what you see***

The internet, and the ability to—often anonymously—weigh in on literally ANY subject, has given rise to a level of vitriol heretofore never seen in human existence. Unnamed trolls are able to spread their hate and misinformation with reckless abandon. There are no consequences. The internet has allowed the extremes on both sides to dominate every issue.

According to the internet:

President Obama is both the reincarnation of Jesus Christ AND a secret Islamist bent on the destruction of America.

Wall Street is both the physical embodiment of all that is good about capitalism AND the root of all evil in the world.

The new restaurant opening up down the street is both the greatest thing to happen to the area in a millennia AND evidence of the further erosion of a once great neighborhood.

There is no longer a middle ground. Moderates are gone. Grey has disappeared, replaced by blacks and whites.

Except that’s not really the case. If anything, the opposite is true. Our generation is chock full of moderates. Voter registration numbers are going up, but party affiliation is going down. How is that possible? Because more and more people are choosing not to enroll in a party. Why should they if they feel the major party platforms are not reflective of their personal ideology?

Us 20 and 30-somethings are blurring the lines of the once hard and fast wedge issues. The same person can be for both legal abortion AND less-restrictive gun laws. One can support gay marriage while at the same time being an advocate for the death penalty. It’s perfectly normal for someone to be for a flat tax AND support increased funding for social security.

Yet this is not the message reflected in the media reports. If all one did was look at the evening news, or the paper, or their favorite news site, you’d think we all hated each other. Why have we allowed the fringe to go mainstream? How can we stop this?

I don’t know the answer. But I do know that if we’re going to find it, it’ll probably be here, on the internet. If only we can see through all the clutter.

I have no doubt these people are actually on match, and they may even be on their real first date. But where do they find these people? Central casting? I mean come on. They are just TOO good looking.

What is the message a prospective match.com-er is supposed to take from this? Don’t worry if you’re of a certain age and still single, everyone out there is really, really hot?

I’m not trying to hate on match. I know several couples who not only met on the site but went on to get married. But I despise this ad campaign. Would it be so wrong to show some “real” people in these commercials?

In the end wouldn’t it even help with membership? Maybe being six and a half years removed from singledom has caused me not to understand the modern dating landscape. Maybe this is EXACTLY the type of advertising that draws people in. Heck, the whole campaign was no doubt created by some slick 5^th Ave marketing exec that has far more advertising experience than me.

Alas, I worry there’s something more sinister at play here. I think the folks behind these commercials are preying on our insecurities. They’re counting on the societal scorn “singles of a certain age” are met with to lead our generation’s lonely hearts club band into the gorgeous, welcoming world that is match.com.

But what happens when the matchers go on their first date and the person sitting across the table isn’t that perfect specimen from the commercial? What happens when the restaurant isn’t just right? And the lighting is just a little off? I worry these people are being set up for failure.

First, some background. For whatever reason, graduates of Albany High School remain friends longer than students at most other schools. This seems to apply to all graduation years; it even spans different cliques and racial barriers. I can’t explain it, but I do love it.

Anyway, I am lucky enough to have a group of 20 or so high school friends that I still contact regularly. That number grows to about 50 if you include other graduation years, but for the purposes of this post we’re sticking with the “smoke-free class of 2000”.

Tomorrow kicks off the first of many 30^th birthday celebrations for my “group”. This is a rather significant milestone and one that some of my friends are having a hard time dealing with.

For many, your twenties are marked by love lost and found; careers hated and discovered; apartments lived in and rented; booze drank and puked up. Some are already well on their way to full-blown adulthood: they’ve gotten married, bought houses, had babies, and settled on their profession. Others are still deciding on a career, just finding love, getting over heartbreak or dealing with some financial woes. No matter where we are in life, this is most certainly a time for reflection.

Me? I couldn’t be happier with where I am. I have a great job, a wonderful wife, fantastic friends and a supportive family. Are there things I would change? Sure. I’d love to be thinner, have a nicer car, and live in a bigger place (maybe somewhere else). But on the whole, things are great.

Perhaps that is why I’m not looking at turning 30 with fear or trepidation.  Unfortunately, I know that’s not the case with everyone. For some, dropping the “2” and adopting the “3” is a real punch to the gut. It means their youth, their free-spirited ways, their recklessness, are being thrown away and replaced with mortgages, aching muscles, grey hair (if you have hair) and wrinkles.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. Thirty is NOT old. Not even close. Think about how much more life we have ahead of us. I get giddy when I imagine all the places I will visit, people I will meet and experiences I will share with the ones I love. We have tons of life left to live, just look at our moms and dads. I know one parent who just ran AND FINISHED her first marathon at 61!

Oh and one other thing, in China you’re not born at zero, you’re born at one. So, to my friends who are fretting, I say you’ve already been 30 for a whole year and didn’t even know it.

As for the Mayans, good luck!

SN: Why is it that us bald men can grow hair everywhere, and I mean EVERYWHERE, but the one place we want to?

I’m cool with it. My wife met me when my hair was already seriously thin, so no biggie there; and my coworkers all know me as the short, chubby, bald guy; it’s all good.

The only time I get a little annoyed is when people say I look better bald. Now they may very well be telling me the truth. But I’d rather have had the option of discovering how wonderful I looked bald without nature making me find out.

I view the whole: “But Zack, you look better bald” line the same way I feel about people who say it’s a sign of good luck if it rains on your wedding day. No it’s not. It’s just the shit people say to make you feel better about a bad situation.

Now, what’s my favorite part of being bald? It gives my wife a constant comeback:

Me: “I don’t want to do the dishes”

Her: “Shut up. You’re bald”

Me: “Your feet smell bad”

Her: “Shut up. You’re bald”

You’d have to know us, but trust me, it’s a sign of affection and I love every second of it

I was at an anniversary party the other night and I told some folks I was going to write my bucket list. One person remarked that they (bucket lists) have a negative connotation, since they imply that you are near –or at least thinking about—your death. I agreed, and decided that instead of writing a “Bucket List”, I’d make a “PhuketList”: As in all the things that I need to just say “fuck it!” and do:

Travel to New Zealand

Fly on Air Force One (this one may prove difficult to just say “fuck it” and do)

Attend a Super Bowl

Go to a World Series Game

Skydive

Milk a cow

See the Grand Canyon

Travel to all 50 states (I’m about halfway there)

Step foot on all seven continents (I’ll forgive myself if I don’t make it to Antarctica)

Enjoy a meal at a Michelin 3-star restaurant

Write a screenplay

Get it bought

Perform a standup routine (preferably opening for my best man)

Play in the World Series of Poker

Visit Harry Potter Wizarding World (laugh all you want, remember: I’m gay?)

Own a Viking stove

Drive a car on a racetrack

Hit a hole in one

Play Augusta National

Break 80 for a round of golf

That’ll do for now. I’ll probably update this post from time to time. Feel free to chime in with your own “Fuck It” lists.