tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71564511308378244652024-03-14T09:47:55.457-04:00Screaming From The Rooftop"This is the hardest story that I've ever told. No hope or love or glory. Happy endings gone forevermore"Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.comBlogger286125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-3060859240602697452015-02-16T15:39:00.000-05:002015-02-16T15:39:25.799-05:00Sometimes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">A diner in Hell’s Kitchen isn’t usually the place one would expect a perfect first date to take place. And yet it was. There on 9th Avenue between 43rd and 44th I met a man that I had only texted with prior. And from the moment I laid eyes on him I couldn’t stop staring. He was unconventionally perfect, his hair was pristinely out of place, his sweater was fitted but revealing, his eyes were piercing but soft.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">He smiled, I smirked. He spoke, I swooned. He laughed, I blushed. He told me of his life and his growing up, his job and his dreams. He had a burger, I had cake. There wasn’t one shred of pretense or a single awkward pause. When the conversation dipped, the eyes remained fixed. In one look – one singular look – he awakened feelings in me that I had long thought dead. He renewed boyhood lust and puppy love.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">And my God, when the boy smiled…</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him today. In fact I haven’t been able to do much except only think about him. I try to play the game, to refrain from contacting him and telling him just what I feel, every single bit of every insane intense attraction I am experiencing. I try to play it cool, to remain calm, to pretend that every inch of my being isn’t screaming to be with him. Surely these are the baser of attractions. Surely these are the desires meant for the younger and ill-informed. Surely a man my age should know better. Surely I need to think with my mind and shut down my heart.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">But I can’t. So I text him. And I tell him just what my mind says not to. I explain it all, put it all on the table, I acknowledge that it’s not rational and not cool and I know this isn’t the way the game is played. But I can’t stop. I can’t stop thinking about him. I tell him that I don’t know what tomorrow will bring but I want tomorrow to include him. I know love at first sight is silly and I know that’s not what this is and I know that I don’t know one damn thing anymore. That’s the only thing I know.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">And I wait. And the response doesn’t come.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Finally he says he’s busy, and that it just doesn't feel quite right. I can’t catch my breath. I sink into the chair, my mind spins, and I realize that we’re not at the same place; his feet are firmly planted on earth and I am floating somewhere in the stratosphere. I realize that what I believed was fate was just a one-sided blizzard of emotions, of irrational hopes built on the foolish childhood fantasy that posits love is possible after one chance encounter.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">What was I thinking? How could I have been so stupid? Why did I let my heart get the best of me when I knew? I fucking knew! It made no sense and I knew it made no sense. Next time, Jon-Marc, next time shut down those feelings before they begin. Next time don’t let your heart lead. Next time be rational. Next time play the game. Next time don’t allow what you know isn’t real to guide what you know is. And what you know is that love doesn’t blossom from one date. That you know! Next time. Next time...</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Then it hit me. It was irrational and it was insane and it was exactly the opposite of everything I know to be real. But it was real. It was as real as the air I breathe. For a brief moment I experienced every emotion I thought I had neatly buried for the sake of adulthood.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">A<span style="line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">nd it felt good. Hell, it felt fantastic. It was the stirring and the flying and the complete opposite of everything we’re told to feel. None of it made sense and that was the beauty of it. It’s not supposed to make sense. Love and lust and everything in between rarely make sense. Sometimes - just sometimes - we’re supposed to allow ourselves to experience what doesn’t make a shred of sense, what doesn’t fit into the neat little boxes in which we’re taught to conform. Sometimes running towards what doesn’t make sense at the expense of what does might not be the only choice we have but it is the only choice that's right. And sometimes it ends horribly or just not the way we envisioned. And sometimes that’s ok.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">So the boy with the smile that melted my heart wasn’t ready to have mine melt his. And I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t hurt. But every second of the hurt is worth it for the knowledge that the indescribable something deep within still beats, that my ability to fall so irrationally and giddily in whatever it was I was falling in isn’t just the stuff of yesteryear. It was worth it. It was so worth it. And I’d do it all over again if I could. In fact I know I'll do it again. And again, too</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Sometimes it’s necessary to not color outside the <span style="line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">lines but instead throw out the whole damn coloring book altogether and , with broad brushstrokes, paint loudly and vividly in big, bold, bright letters on the wall “I AM HERE” Sometimes – just sometimes – it’s necessary to rip off the mask of indifference that society tells us to wear, the one that has us play grown up and feign aloof apathy. Sometimes we must scream from the rooftops the raw vulnerability that we have tamped down within for too long. Sometimes we're meant to lose all sense of control.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">And sometimes the perfect smile is all you're left with. And sometimes that's perfectly ok.<br />Sometimes...</span>Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-31815940895892902752014-11-26T10:19:00.000-05:002015-01-24T18:30:47.868-05:00Dark Corners of Grateful Hearts<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;">There's nothing unusual about the southwest corner of 9th Ave. and
23rd St.. It's just another corner in an innumerable series of corners
that form whenever two streets meet on the island of Manhattan. I have stood on
that corner at every hour, during every season, under every conceivable variant
of precipitation, through every extreme of temperature, waiting for countless
lights to change, nearly being hit by bikes going the wrong way on the wrong
side of the street. The corner is, as far as corners go, unremarkable. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;">Until tonight. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"> Tonight I was waiting for the walk signal when I
heard some commotion to my right. I turned to see a group of six people, all
forming a single file line, with their left hands on the shoulders of the next
except the front two who had walking sticks. These six were all blind. It was
literally the blind leading the blind. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;">The signal changed, giving me lighted permission
to cross the street. Instead I stayed put. I wanted to see the ones who couldn’t
see as they navigated this corner. I wanted to watch how they made their way,
how they worked as a unit to communicate where they were going and how they
would get there. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"> It isn’t unusual to see the blind in New York, especially on 23<sup>rd</sup>.
Selis Manor, a 14 story residence for the visually impaired, sits between
Sixth and Seventh Avenues and its residents navigate the streets with the
aplomb of sighted city dwellers. I have a blind acquaintance that lives in the
building who puts my running ability to shame with the many marathons he has
run. In fact, José’s perception is so attune that you’d not know he was blind
if it weren’t his white cane or guide dog. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"> What is unusual is seeing a group lined in a row, a full two long avenues
west of Selis Manor, making an effort to cross the street together. They had
apparently just deboarded the Access-A-Ride bus, the City’s paratransit system
that operates to help those with disabilities for whom the subway and standard
buses are not easily accessible (though I’m constantly surprised at the amount
of blind passengers on the subways). The bus driver, who was also on the
corner, did not help them get wherever they were going. And, from all
appearances, the group preferred it that way. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"> Such an encounter would hardly prompt me to
write an essay. If I wrote a piece for every highly unusual thing I saw, I’d
not have much time for much else. This city, for all its legend and pomp, and
in all its supposed scrubbed-clean-Giuliani-Bloomberg glitz, is still a
uniquely strange place to live. No, it wasn’t the group of six visually
impaired people holding on to each other to get where they were going that led
me to write, though that is truly a remarkable thing to happen upon. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;">What was remarkable was their joy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"> New Yorkers are notorious for their hurried
pace, the seeming speed with which they move to get from one place to the next.
There's a determination in their eyes and God help the person that unknowingly
gets in their way or slows their step. It's a tough city, and its occupants are
hardened to fighting their way to get where they're going. The word ‘joy’ would
scarce be used to describe a typical New Yorker on a typical commute.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"> Which is why the six
were so remarkable. Not only were they reliant on each other as a group, they
were joyful in their pursuit. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;">When the two leaders with their white canes both
ran into the same trash can at the same time, the group erupted in laughter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"> When they realized they needed to
navigate around a light pole, the group heaped words of encouragement and instruction,
one to the other. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"> When they needed to listen intently to the
sounds of traffic, the group hushed in unified determination. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"> <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And each of
the six did each of these things smiling, holding on to each other, never once
snapping or moaning, never once with a hint of giving up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> I wonder
sometimes about my capacity to endure. I often let my mind drift to scenarios
that find me struck blind or deaf or without the use of my extremities. And
just the thoughts of such things strike me with such fear, I can't imagine what
actually living them would do. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"> But I do know what I do now. I do know when a
group of tourists flank the sidewalk and shorten my gait, I default to anger. I
do know when a person has the audacity to sit in the empty seat next to me on
the subway, I audibly groan. I know that when the trains are late, or the baby
cries, or an elderly man boards -- prompting me to get up, not out of sense of
respect (though there is surely some of that) but out of a sense of wanting the
entire train to see my noble action or at least not see me stay seated -- my
whole demeanor resents every second.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"> I know that at any given second in any given
morning can turn on nothing more than a funny look from a stranger. I know that
when I ruminate on my life, my ruminations dwell in the messy spots, on all
that is wrong, on all I don’t yet have or haven’t yet experienced. The money is
never enough, the friends are too superficial, the loves too shallow, the needs
too great. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"> And yet the six without supposed sight turned my
world alight with a lesson on what we do when life doesn’t live up to all that
we expect it should. These six, all smiling, bumping and fumbling on their way,
had more sight than most any sighted person I saw today. And the lesson they
taught me was this:<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"> Be grateful, not for what you have, but for what
you don’t. Be grateful for the friends who will travel with you along roads of
darkness, and be grateful for the ones that won’t. Be grateful for the lack of
money because you’ve seen what it does to those who have it. Be grateful for
disease because the illness taught you things that health never could. Be
grateful for the lack of anything beyond your next breath because it made you
trust in the unseen things that are more real than the air you breathe. Be
grateful that the world didn’t give you anything close to what you had imagined
because what you had imagined was far less than you could ever have dreamed. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"> Be grateful for blind joyfulness, for the
smiling few who will never see another smile, the ones who laugh when they
stumble and the ones who quiet when the world rushes by. Be grateful for the
six who knew beyond anything I have ever seen how to see things beyond which I
will never know. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"> And finally, be grateful
for the dark corners. Because there you see glorious, illuminating joy etched
on the faces of a wonder filled few for whom a guiding light is seen, not with
their eyes, but with their hearts.</span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-26352885901041021542013-11-06T18:03:00.000-05:002015-02-01T09:47:35.912-05:00Before the Miracle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><u><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Edit</span><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">or's note: I wrote this just after the 2013 ING NYC Marathon. It was shared on the facebook page of the marathon and received over 10,000 likes, 1,200 comments, and 600 shares. It was, and remains, a great hono</span><span style="color: white;">r. </span></u></span></b></i></div>
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<i><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><u><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></u></span></b></i></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: #eeeeee;"><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 17.99715805053711px;">At mile 14 I knew. I made the rookie mistake of going out way too fast and, though I knew to slow down, I didn’t. It was all falling apart and there was nothing I could do about it. Though I was still on pace to hit my </span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 17.99715805053711px;">goal of 3:45:00, at 14 everything shifted. My quads began to tighten, my body stiffened, and all my fears were being realized. I started walking instead of running through fluid stations, the cheers of the crowd were starting to be replaced by the doubts in my mind.<br /><br />Just past the 24 mile mark I was defeated. I just couldn’t go on. My whole physical being was wrecked and my mind begged me to just give up and give in. And for the love of God let my legs give out. It was over. Maybe next time I will listen and slow down at the beginning and maybe next time I will finish. Not this time though. It’s just too much. That’s what my mind said. The dream wouldn’t be realized this time. Let it go. No shame in quitting.<br /><br />Don’t quit before the miracle. That’s what they say. Don’t quit before the miracle. Mile 25. Don’t quit before the miracle. Mile 26. Don’t quit before the miracle. Crawl over the finish line if you must, but don’t you dare quit before the miracle.<br /><br />If I could put into words what yesterday was like, I still couldn’t do it justice. The crowds, those multiplying crowds, their roar as I was making the descent from the Queensboro into Manhattan. Mark Sam and Christopher in Brooklyn, my rock George and his beautiful, gracious, amazing wife Lauren in Queens. The strangers who screamed my name. The thousands upon thousands of kids and adults alike with their hands extended for a high five. The ones that society has labeled ‘disabled’ running and walking and rolling their way to the finish. The signs, the noise makers, the smiles, the bands, every single of the two-million spectators. All these things and then…<br /><br />And then there they were at mile 17. My Wendy, my gorgeous Wendy who inspires me every single day to be a better person. And my Ric. And my brother, Grant. And my ineffable mom who flew my 92 year old Gran up from Texas just to see me run. There they all were, at mile 17 with signs and screaming for me. You want to know how to make a grown man cry? That’ll do it. If ever there was a memory that will be forever etched in my mind’s eye, that’s it. A tableau of love and heart, of friendship restored and life brought back from the brink of death. A young man for whom a big brother could not be more proud. A mom whose heart has mended mine, a Gran who is one of the few angels among us and who embodies the words service and godliness.<br /><br />And at 24 when the whole thing was closing in, there was Quentin, whose enthusiasm and pep was what I wish every person could see when crossing their own 24 mile mark. In fact, every person on this earth should be blessed enough to have a Quentin in their lives.<br /><br />I wish every human being could experience what I experienced yesterday. The marathon was life with all its ups and downs, its indescribable torment, its unbelievable joy, its pain and its overwhelming promise. I wish we all, in everything we do, would think twice when that voice is telling us to quit. I wish for all these things and so much more.<br /><br />I finished it in 4:17:07, 32 minutes and woefully short of my goal. But I crossed that finish line.<br /> I didn’t listen to that voice.<br /> Indeed, I didn’t quit before the miracle.</span></span><br />
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Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-64316016694614127392013-10-27T12:12:00.003-04:002013-10-27T14:07:20.486-04:00Come Sunday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I sat at a bar on 7th Avenue, just south of Central Park, and watched them go by. It was a perfect day. The temperature was in the mid 50s, the skies were clear, the crowds were festive. And it was New York’s first chance to unite en masse and celebrate their precious and scarred city since the unspeakable tragedy less than two months prior.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I'd been in New York less than 9 months. I, too, lived through that terrible September morning, having lost friends and colleagues, and I grieved for a city that I was gradually learning to call my own. However, as was my wont, I anesthetized the terror with copious amounts of booze. My drinking was always a problem but never more so than just after 9/11. I felt I had carte blanche to act any way I pleased, including drinking myself to oblivion every night. After all, my thinking went, the world was coming to an end so I might as well be blottoed beyond comprehension when it happened.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I’m not sure what came over me that day as I watched those runners. It was surely a bit of envy and awe at how those thousands of men and women pushed through all the pain and agony of not only that day, but the previous days as well. The fact that they trained for countless hours, sacrificed time with family and friends, skipped dates and brunch and, heaven forbid, booze, just for the torment of running 26.2 miles. Why, I thought, would they do such a thing?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I could never do that, I thought. Though I had accomplished many things , most of these things had been in spite of myself. I also failed 95% of anything I ever tried . I rarely finished what I started and had such a penchant for self-sabotage that it was guaranteed if I succeeded at something, shortly thereafter I would thoroughly and completely destroy it . </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">The proximity of that bar stool to the marathon was not lost on me. Though I was just feet away from the runners, I was many lifetimes away from the run. It was not their world that angered me as much as it was that my world had become so abysmally small. I wanted to be them. I just didn't want to do what it took to get where they were going. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I had dreams, sure, but dreams not pursued are cold reminders of a life not lived. My dreams flourished in my gin soaked mind but brought to bear against the unforgiving morning light that seemed to blister my head, the work necessary to bring those dreams into reality was beyond the reach. At 25 years old I was the town drunk. Life had already passed me by. Every single person who was closely associated with me knew that alcohol was my number one priority and nothing - absolutely nothing - could come between me and the drink. I had come to live by the drink and surely I would die by it too.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">As the months became years and I resigned myself, one tumbler after next, to my fate, I never failed to note the marathon. And with each passing year the dream diminished until eventually it became the distant memory of foolish youth. It was a fitting metaphor for my life, a life that was as impossible as the marathon itself.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">And then, some years later, in the midst of the most trying time of my existence, as I watched a man I loved more than anything slowly die, as he slipped the bonds of life and my once imperious problems began to seem insignificant, I laced up a pair of running shoes and I started to run. And with the help of friends I trained for my first race of 4 miles. Suddenly I was a runner and though the 26.2 was still the fancy of my drunken fantasy, it was no longer impossible. Running was providing me with the slightest hope in an otherwise hopeless situation. I ran, not to escape life, but instead to be a part of life with all its attendant heartache and despair, in all its glory and brilliance. I ran to be present. I ran to live.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I still struggled with my demons and progress was as intermittent as my sobriety, but no matter how dark my world became, running always provided a glint of sanity. And though faint at times, that glint was often all it took.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">July 2012 I began to train for the New York City Marathon. Just weeks out of an eight day hospital stay related to a binge that nearly claimed my life, I was determined to turn the dream into reality. My entry had been guaranteed, my fees had been paid, and the only the thing that came between me and the finish line was getting my body in shape to run the 26.2 miles. Or so I thought. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Training for a marathon is intense. For a November marathon one must start training in the heat and humidity of the summer. There are hundreds of lonely miles, runs in the rain, runs before the sun makes its debut, runs with leg pain and stomach pain and mental anguish, long runs on Sundays that wipe out the entire day. You must rest, and monitor, and gauge, and gu, and learn to listen to your heart and legs and ignore your mind. There are journals to keep and shoes to test. Your running clothes begin to permanently smell like a 6th grade boys' locker room no matter how many odor masking agents you put in the wash, there's a sense of alarm at every creak of a joint or sniffle or sneeze. Ibuprofen is bought in bulk, toenails turn black and fall off, chaffing occurs in crevices on your body you never knew existed. The marathon becomes everything and everything else is just periphery. I ran long runs in Virginia Beach, did speed work on the banks of Lake George, ran 10Ks and 5Ks and half marathons, ran the hills of Washington Heights and the flats of Jersey City. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> And then the God damned bottom fell out.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Sandy hit and delivered such a devastating blow that even a city accustomed to catastrophes of cataclysmic proportions was left stunned and knocked aback. As half of Manhattan was left without power and parts of Staten Island and Brooklyn were battered beyond recognition, the city's citizenry began to fight among themselves. And the fighting got nasty...and personal</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> A marathon, long known for its unifying narrative was now the great divide. People took sides, took to social media to deride their perceived opponents, took to City Hall, took to the airwaves. Each side took the city by storm almost to levels that washed out the storm coverage itself.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Mary Wittenberg, the CEO of New York Road Runners (NYRR), the organization that puts on the marathon, became the storm's bête noire and was demonized and pilloried in ways that you would've thought she was responsible for the storm itself . The anonymity of the internet provided fertile ground for people to threaten runners with tomato and feces pelting should they choose to run the race. Dear friends, people who knew how much the race meant to me, were publicly chastising runners and vehemently staking an anti-marathon position.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">And the pro-running crowd wasn't much better. There seemed to be an attitude of indifference or worse towards the suffering millions. They rallied behind trite platitudes like "New Yorkers bounce back from anything" and "The run, like the show, must go on". NYRR, in a decision that can only be described as one of the most tone deaf in recent history, assured the runners that indeed the race would go on and confidently encouraged those traveling to make their planned trips to New York.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Feeling completely deflated, damned if I did, damned if I didn't, I made my way to the Javits Center in midtown where the marathon expo was being held to pick up my bib, t shirt, swag bag etc. My dream race had flipped on its head and was turning into a nightmare. I had no idea what to expect along the marathon route or what us 40,000 runners would encounter. I just knew I was running, as conflicted as I was about that fact. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> As I left the expo, my phone rang. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">"They cancelled the marathon" Ric, the man whose death sentence had inspired me to run in the first place and whose miraculous recovery I am still at a loss to understand, said. "They're having a press conference. That Mary woman and the mayor, they cancelled it."</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">"There's no way, Ric! I'm literally standing outside the expo. I just picked up my bib not even five minutes ago. There's no way. They would have told us" I replied in disbelief. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">But, alas, it was true. The marathon had been cancelled. Outside that convention center I started to cry like a child who'd just been told there was no Santa Claus. The marathon that I could only dream of years earlier would remain just that, a dream. Though I no longer had to feel conflicted about my decision to run, I grieved the loss of the marathon in ways I still can't explain. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> As time went by I was invited to run other marathons. I respectfully declined.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "New York will be my first. I don't know when, but New York will be the first marathon I run. I know it seems silly and doesn't make any sense, but there's a 25 year old guy who has been struggling a while with life and he doesn't believe I can do it. I'm running for him" was my standard answer. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> The year since the canceled marathon has not been easy. By every worldly standard, my life seems pretty bleak. I'm still paying, both emotionally and monetarily, for the wreckage of my past. Work comes and goes, the bank account hovers around nothing, I am not sure where Ric, Weezie and I will be living in two weeks time due to the lies of an ex, and homelessness is a very, very real possibility. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> But come Sunday....</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> come Sunday I will make my way, via the Staten Island Ferry, to the foot of the Verrazano and I will toe the line. Come Sunday, I will run New York.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Come Sunday I will run for that 25 year old who said it couldn't be done and for the 37 year old determined to prove him wrong. But I will also run for the others.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Come Sunday I will run for the hopeless, the still sick and suffering, those that will sit on a barstool just feet from the race and think it an impossible feat. I will run for those who ever had a dream but never had it realized. I will run for my mother and my grandmother, both of whom will be among the over two million spectators. I will run for my other grandmother who has spent most of the past year in a nursing home and for my aunt who visits her nearly every day. I will run for the naysayers, the ones who dismiss my running as nothing more than a phase or way to escape, or worse yet, a foolish endeavor in the grand scheme of things. Come Sunday I will run for my father, a man I haven't spoken to in over 4 years and dearly miss. I will run for my brother, who came to New York a few years after me and who is making his dreams a reality on a daily basis. I will run for both my grandfathers who did not live to see the day. I will run for my friend Jack, who died a year ago in a hospital room as Sandy loomed. I will run for George who has taught me in both word and deed how to live one day at a time. Come Sunday I will run for my beloved Wendy who has taught me what unconditional friendship really is and for Quentin, who has taught me that friendship needn't be long in time to be strong in heart. I will run for Amy who has taught me that friendship is at its core about love . I will run for Charles L, who bought me my first pair of running shoes when I couldn't afford to buy them myself. I will run for Helen and Clarissa, two women who are the very essence of the runner's spirit and for my running crew of Richie and Thomas and Daniel, all of whom have pushed me to be a better runner. Come Sunday I will run for Kim, who loved me when I couldn't love myself, and for Rich who has taught me the definition of endurance and perseverance. And I will run for my boys at "the lodge", the ones who show me every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday how to be a better man. I will run for my kindred spirit Marika who was at my first race, and for Michael who was there too. I will run for Ric, my forever and always, who continues to defy the odds and inspires me with his strength.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Come Sunday I will run for the doctors who told me in no uncertain terms I should long be dead.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I will run for every single living creature who is trudging the road of happy destiny along with me. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I will run for all these things and more. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I will run for you. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I will run for us. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Come Sunday, I will run for life.</span></div>
Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-68740331943111983492013-06-16T07:29:00.000-04:002013-06-16T07:47:57.668-04:00Consistent, he<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><i><span style="color: white; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;">I wrote this piece about my grandfather months before he died. I repost today in honor of father's day. I love you Granddaddy, and miss you!</span></i></span></h2>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Grandfather's bible and one of the things I cherish most</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As a child I frequently spent the night at my grandparents' house along with three of my cousins who were around my age. Every night after a day of playing and surely some fighting, my grandmother would give us all baths and put us in pajamas. And the pajamas were of the super-hero variety.<br /><br />They were not Batman or Superman or any of the others. They were my grandfather's old shirts. And as she would pull them over my head I could smell my grandfather's aftershave. There was always comfort in that smell. I was the biggest little boy with his shirt on.<br /><br />I always knew I was growing up just by where the lower hem of his shirt reached my body. First down to my ankles, then down to my calves, then to the knees. I measured my growth as a boy by the consistency of his size.<br /><br />And in the morning we would assemble in the breakfast room where my grandmother put together a veritable feast (she always made us menus the night before and we each got to check off what we wanted. And it would always be made just the way we ordered it. Every. Single. Time!). And when I would reach up to give my grandfather a morning hug, I would notice just how strong my Granddaddy was. I measured my strength as a boy by the consistency of his embrace.<br /><br />And Sunday mornings when he would preach, he would look into the congregation and find his family. And from the pulpit he would ask us to stand. As we stood I would well up with such pride. It was my Granddaddy taking time to say "hello" to me. To me! I measured my pride as a boy by the consistency of his acknowledgment.<br /><br />And just after 09/11/01, I went to Texas for a three week visit. My grandfather asked if he could take me to lunch. He asked me to recount what that terrible day in September was like. He was the only member of my family to do so. And as I told him the horror he listened intently and said, "You're the only person I know who was there. That took a lot of courage, son. You are a strong young man. I am so proud of you." I measured my worth as a young man by the consistency of his love.<br /><br />And sometimes in the not so distant future the memories will be all I have. And the day will come and he will leave. And the chains will loosen and he will be set free from the confines of his now frail body. And the man I adored all my life will be before God for whom he lived his life. And the gates will open, the angels will rejoice and my grandfather will enter...measured by the consistency of His grace.</span>Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-40069082987495320762013-02-27T08:56:00.001-05:002013-02-28T10:13:47.036-05:00Why the Lemonade Stand Stood<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD4OTCkexjJp9IlMMq53NIWszkICRXco2afYGoyUm37j77n56emLD6Qi9MmTQ7KMwhhpmtWZRJXzh4UTqurpcXT_YwYGWKUv_vWF3OeOiFLUi3GqjzShqO6TMh-zQc_KZdbguevCTZ6CQ/s1600/gran.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD4OTCkexjJp9IlMMq53NIWszkICRXco2afYGoyUm37j77n56emLD6Qi9MmTQ7KMwhhpmtWZRJXzh4UTqurpcXT_YwYGWKUv_vWF3OeOiFLUi3GqjzShqO6TMh-zQc_KZdbguevCTZ6CQ/s320/gran.jpg" width="191" /></a></div>
I was in Texas to visit family as well as run a half-marathon. As I pulled into my grandmother’s driveway I happened to notice a patch of grass in a way I had never noticed it before.You could pull into the circular driveway a thousand times and never notice it. There's no reason to, really. It's meaningless to nearly everyone who passes it, as well it should be. It's a patch of grass as nondescript as any patch you've ever seen. And yet this time when I looked at it, it drew me in and took me back to a time where every memory was worth making and every dream worth having.<br />
<br />
We were part of a select club who didn't call her Mrs. Coggin or Carolyn or the pastor's wife or even mom. We were the lucky few who called her Gran. To us, there was no equal. She was, in our eyes, perfect. And though we couldn't have articulated it at the time, we knew God had given her the spirit of a thousand angels and the light of a million suns, and no one in heaven or on earth could ever compare.<br />
<br />
And that patch of grass at the edge of the driveway silently tells the story why. <br />
<br />
Lemonade stands are not an uncommon part of childhood. Children the world over hang their figurative shingle in front yards and peddle their goodies in the hopes of earning a few bucks to spend as they please.<br />
<br />
And if the lemonade stand were the end of the story, or even the beginning of the story, it wouldn't be much of a story at all. But it's not. The lemonade stand stood for something far more than just the table and chairs, the posters and quarter priced drink. It stood for us.<br />
<br />
Everyone should be so lucky as to experience the welcome that each grandchild felt upon entering my grandparent's house. No matter what chaos our lives might have been on the outside, when we walked through their door, every problem slipped away and every anxiety vanished. For a child to feel that incredible amount of love only by walking through the door is rare. And to feel that love every single time we did, rarer still.<br />
<br />
Spending the night at Gran and Granddaddy's was a paradox of fantastic predictability. We knew what to expect every time. And yet it never once grew boring or redundant or stale. It was our old familiar full of new possibilities.<br />
<br />
We knew that we would feast like princes and princesses. We knew every morning upon waking to look under our pillow for a surprise. We knew that every night, before sleeping, Gran would present each of us with a handwritten menu for us to check off what we wanted for breakfast. We knew that every single thing we checked off would be waiting for us the next morning. We knew that we could check off every single thing.<br />
<br />
We knew that we'd be given one of my grandfather's oversized shirts to sleep in. We knew that we'd be read a bedtime story. We knew that she'd stay in the room with us until we fell asleep. We knew that we'd try and pretend to be asleep until she left the room. We knew we rarely succeeded in doing so.<br />
<br />
We knew that if we asked and she could do it, it would get done. We knew when we had done something wrong simply by the look in her eyes. We knew that we wanted nothing more than to please her. We knew that there was no greater joy than making her proud.<br />
<br />
It wasn't the lemonade stand on that patch of grass. It was the thousands of lemonade stands that were built on the bedtime stories told, the menus for meals, the oversized shirts. It was the trips taken to ride the train at the zoo, or the tram at the airport, or the log ride at Six Flags. It was the hidden Easter eggs and the kites flown and the sausage and cherries drowning in sweet sauce at Christmas. It was the pineapple sandwiches and ambrosia.<br />
<br />
She's 91 years old and still building us lemonade stands. Yesterday, as I left my grandmother's home for the airport, she handed us a sack lunch that she and my mom had prepared. It had a sandwich, cookies, a banana, and some trail mix. "You don't need to pay for snacks on the plane" she said.<br />
<br />
Perfect strangers still clamor to meet her when she's out in public, hugging her neck, moved to tears simply to have met her. She's still the humble servant, the meek minister, the matriarch, the queen, gran, and yes, still the lemonade stand builder.<br />
<br />
It's been a while since the last lemonade stand. But from this day forward, each time I see that patch of grass, and my mind's eye recalls that distant yesteryear, I’ll be reminded how my Gran built us a thousand lemonade stands each day by the things she did for us, and continues to this day to do for us. <br />
And the lemonade stand always - always- stood for us.Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-9204160501231180032013-02-12T22:36:00.001-05:002013-02-13T06:51:31.651-05:00Ted Nugent thinks I belong on an island to die<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">For a moment let’s forget that, during an interview in 1977,
Ted Nugent told a reporter that he took drugs and deliberately shit himself and
didn’t bathe and faked passing out while giving blood all in an effort to dodge
the draft. After all, Ted has since recanted his story and said the real reason
he dodged the draft was a student deferment. Let’s take him at his word. I
mean, who hasn’t made up a story about shitting their pants when discussing the
draft at least once in their life? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> And let’s forget,
for just a moment, that Ted has a thing for young girls. Like really, really
young. Let’s forget that he has basically admitted to pedophilia and statutory
rape. After all, he’s a warm blooded, American male and he has urges. He’s the Nuge,
baby! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Finally let’s forget that he told the Detroit Free Press <span style="background-color: black; color: #999999;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"> </span></span>“<span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;">Apartheid isn't that cut and
dry. All men are not created equal. The preponderance of South Africa is a
different breed of man ... They still put bones in their noses, they still walk
around naked, they wipe their butts with their hands ...These are different
people. You give 'em toothpaste, they fucking eat it</span>.”<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> And in the same interview,
defended his frequent use of the n word. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Forget all of that and instead travel with me, if you will,
to the Summer of 2000. I was 23 years old living in Fort Worth, Texas. My job
at the time was a dream job for someone like me. I produced book signings and
in store events for Barnes & Noble.
Some five months later I would
be promoted to do the same thing in New York City. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> One day I was
sitting in my boss’ office when a call
came through for me. “Mr. McDonald, I’m calling on behalf of Ted Nugent and was
curious if you would be interested in hosting a signing for Ted and his book,
God, Guns & Rock’N’Roll. Ted will be
in Fort Worth for a concert with KISS
and would love to be able connect with his fans in a way that he can’t
on stage” said his publicist or manager.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I’m sure that would be ok. I would need to check with our
corporate office in New York but I don’t think it would…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “No need. We already checked with them and they said it
would be ok. So can we count on you, Mr. McDonald?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Well then I suspect corporate will call me soon and let me
know. Usually I can ok these sorts of things without their input but given the
book and Mr. Nugent’s recent comments at concerts, I really need to get the
green light from them before I commit to anything”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Great. It’s set. August 23<sup>rd</sup>. It will have to be
in the afternoon since the concert is at night. We will do publicity on our end
and expect you will do the same” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Actually, I don’t think you understand. I can’t do anything
until New York tells me, via email or a phone call, that we can host. And I’ve not heard
from them yet“ I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Great. So call them. And then call me back. Ten minutes
enough time?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I’ll call you back when I call you back”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I called New York and, just as I thought, no one had heard
from Nugent’s reps. However they did give me the go ahead and we moved forward.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The day of the signing I showed up at the store in downtown
Fort Worth and there were people who had camped out overnight for the signing.
I had called my counterparts from all over North Texas as back up and had 17
booksellers assigned to the signing, an unheard of amount for signings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Nugent arrived with his gorgeous wife and his equally
gorgeous son, who said he was a model, but who the hell knows. I briefed Nugent
on how the signing would transpire. He was friendly enough but wasn’t really
paying attention. Nonetheless I explained how there would be a press conference
and then we would move to the signing. Since there was no room for several
television cameras upstairs where the signing would take place, I explained
that the conference would take place by the newsstand downstairs. So far, so
good. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">At this point I should point out that just a few months
prior to the signing, Ted had received a lot of heat for some comments he made
concerning the English language. Specifically, he said at a concert, “If you
can’t speak English, get the fuck out of America.” Rumor was that this nearly
caused riots and the mayor of San Antonio or Houston or some other large Texas
metropolis banned Nugent from ever playing in their city again</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> However, what he said coupled with what I had read and
studied about Nugent left me with a sick feeling for ever agreeing to host a
man that stood for everything I was against. But I had a job to do and I just
wanted to get it over with. That didn’t mean that I wasn’t going to have some
fun while I was at it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The press conference was well underway when his wife ran up
to me, visibly upset. “Why is he giving this press conference in front of the
Mexican books?’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> What?” I replied, smiling on the inside. You see, I deliberately
placed Nugent on front of the Libros En Espanol section, so that every camera
shot was forced to capture the signage right above Nugent’s shoulder. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “He’s in front of the Mexican books! Why?” she persisted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Oh, well that was pretty much the only place where we had
room. The newsstand area is open and there is ample room for the cameras. It
just so happens that that is where the Libros En Espanol section is. Sorry.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> On the elevator ride to the signing, his son told his father.
Nugent didn’t care. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">When we arrived at the receiving area, one of my
counterparts who was also a gay man and close friend paged me. I had assigned
him to the front door of the store. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Jon-Marc, there are people out here that want to bring in
guns and antlers! What do I tell them?” Christopher said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Guns? They’re bringing in guns?” I said certain I had heard wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “AND ANTLERS!” Christopher exclaimed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I’ll be right down” I said as I hurried downstairs before
the signing started to see what was going on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Sure enough, people were stretched down the block and many
had guns, antlers and other things they wanted Nugent to sign.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Will he sign my breast?” a woman screamed from down the
line. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Poor Christopher. He was the one that had to tell them not
to bring in the guns and antlers and, sure enough, they were pissed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The signing got underway and it was something to behold. It
was by far the largest signing I had hosted up to that point in time. Hundreds
of people bought books and hundreds more brought posters and records and CDs
and some even managed to sneak in their guns. And the woman who wanted her
breast signed, well, she got it signed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> When it was all said and done, I felt as though we had made
it through relatively unscathed. I was relieved and ready to put it behind me.
The Nuge had other plans. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The next day while I was working on an event report about
the signing, I received a call from a bookseller telling me Nugent and his wife
were in the café part of the store. I rushed downstairs, wondering why they
were back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> One of the store managers went with me and, interestingly,
we found the Nugents at the newsstand, perusing magazines. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Hey Ted, how’s it going? How was the concert?” I asked,
unsure of what exactly I was doing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“It was great. We’re just here relaxing. Getting some fresh
air out of the hotel” he replied. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Great. How long are you in town?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> At this point the store manager piped up. “Have you had a
chance to explore downtown?” she asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You know”, Nugent replied, “what I don’t understand is
homosexuals. I mean I feel bad for innocent kids who get AIDS, but homosexuals
deserve it. We should send all homosexuals to an island. Let em die off in a
few years’ time from AIDS and not being able to reproduce.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I was stunned! I was absolutely speechless and stunned. The
non sequitur was one thing, but the bile that he spewed was so gross, so
upsetting, so dangerous, that for one of the few times in my life up to that
point, I felt physically threatened. And, for the first time in my life, I
looked into someone’s eyes and I knew what it was like to look at evil.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Well, Ted, I’ve got to get back to work. Have a great day”
I said as I walked away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> As I made it back to my office I was ashamed. I was ashamed
that I didn’t have the courage to stand up and say something in the face of
such evil. Instead I cowered and slunk away. And I vowed that I would never,
ever stay silent again. And I won’t<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> That’s why Ted Nugent being invited to the State of The
Union matters. It matters because this man represents everything that goes
against the very thing this country stands for. And the fact that an elected
official in our government invited him is so disturbing, it literally makes me
sick to my stomach.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I will never forget looking into Ted Nugent’s eyes that day.
I will never forget how I felt when I didn’t speak up. I will never not speak
up again. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-70834036154512717272012-11-30T10:27:00.000-05:002012-11-30T10:29:41.976-05:00The laugh I was not supposed to hear<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 18px;">Four years ago I didn't know what was wrong with Ric. All I knew was that the man I loved beyond life itself was slipping beyond the reach of life and there was seemingly nothing I could do about it. As his decline accelerated and hope all but disappeared I had resigned myself to the fact that this elusive foe, whatever it was, would claim him within weeks.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 18px;"> Today, the man that four yea</span><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 18px;">rs ago I had turned over to the care of God with the certainty of his imminent demise, laughed. He laughed so hard that he couldn't stop. The kind of gasp-for-your-breath, belly-ache laugh that is so genuine it makes all other laughter seem counterfeit. In this season of great expectation and anticipation, I am grateful beyond all words for the sound of unadulterated, unrestrained, joyful, hopeful, boundless laughter!</span>Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-46946669017400166772012-05-09T14:38:00.003-04:002012-05-09T14:45:53.811-04:00The truth cannot be amended<span style="background-color: black; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;"> </span><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;"> Behind all their bluster and bravado, behind their high claims of righteousness and Godliness, behind their jingoistic pap are people who are, at their core, very afraid and little people. They pine for years gone by. Years where people were relegated to the back of the bus due to the color of their skin, where women were subject to the whims of men, where children slaved in sweatshops without pro</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">tection, where gays were voiceless pariahs. These are the people who vote for amendments that etch hate into the heart of sacred documents. These are the people whose time has come…and whose time will soon go.<br /> So let them wax nostalgic about the supposed “good ‘ole days”. Let them speak of protecting an institution that their actions otherwise mock. Let them attempt to take God hostage as means to their own twisted, selfish ends. It simply does not matter.<br /> We’ve already won. We’ve already won because we live and dwell in truth. And truth, no matter how hard they may try, cannot be amended.</span></span>Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-36400577326154333832011-07-09T17:46:00.006-04:002011-07-09T21:20:26.718-04:00Saving Race<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY3wbT86O_g9iXKDuY9H67FYMfzEw-_1GNvMIe1D0-u5TTU14HOngltHvc74xtRYPGQ5dwBBqWQynKngJYSLaTeVwNNDTI5pbHATtleG46etK2EsdWYcS19WEd7zbZHY05X-05yesjYSE/s1600/2009-11-22+Race+to+Deliver+in+Central++Park+finish+line.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 320px;" 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mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">I started running for one reason and one reason only. To save face. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">When Ric was at his worst and could not even feed himself, much less prepare even a simple sandwich, I signed him up for God’s Love We Deliver. For those that don’t know, God’s Love, as their mission statement states, prepares and delivers “nutritious, high-quality meals to people who, because of their illness, are unable to provide or prepare meals for themselves.” They do this at no cost to their clients and they have never…I repeat, never turned an eligible person away. In addition to their meals being amazing, they deliver special “feasts” for holidays, a cake for birthdays, “blizzard kits” for storms when they can’t make a delivery and so much more. They literally saved Ric’s -- and by extension my – life during a time when I didn’t know if either of us would survive. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">My gratitude for the work of God’s Love cannot be adequately put into words. The ineffable love I have for this organization is such never to be forgotten. And it was because of that love that I signed up for the 2009 annual Race to Deliver, a four mile fundraising race in Central Park for God’s Love. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Shortly after signing up I began raising a significant amount of money. So much so that I was the lead fundraiser for a race that would end up having 4,768 runners cross the finish line. I realized early on in my fundraising that I was going to have to actually run this thing. After all, my thinking went, what if I was still the lead fundraiser by race day, or even 2<sup>nd</sup> or 3<sup>rd</sup>, and I couldn’t complete the four miles? That would be slightly embarrassing!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So I started to train. Having quit smoking three months prior I was certain that, after a couple of weeks of training, I would breezily cross the finish line to the applause of the adoring masses. I was wrong.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My first day of training netted less than a quarter mile before I nearly fainted and died. The second day, just over a quarter mile. The third, back to less than a quarter mile. I was, um, out of shape. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Come race day, I would cross the finish line in 39:49 at a 9:57 minute/mile. I stopped three times, walked a half mile and wasn’t even in the top five of fundraisers. It was nothing like I’d imagined.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">But what it was was so much more. That race sparked something in me that would carry me through some of the darkest hours and days of my life. Running saved me from myself. It carried me above and beyond any and every thing I thought possible. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">During those first months of training my friend Charles L. bought me a new pair of running shoes because the pair I had were not only five years old but a size too small. He bought them for me because I couldn’t afford to get them myself.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My friend Helen C. invited me to her Saturday morning running group where I was able to socialize with other like-minded people. People from my daily life offered advice and tips. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Those first few months I suffered knee injuries, ankle injuries, plantar fasciitis and so much more. I was homebound weeks at a time incapable of even a walk to the mailbox. But that spark! Oh, that spark! It couldn’t be extinguished! </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Now close to two years later, I run almost every day.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I live in the hilliest and highest part of Manhattan. Washington Heights is hills and slopes and stairs and everything else and then more hills and more hills and just when you’re about done, more hills.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The first mile of most of my runs is the most brutal. My first mile of running is almost entirely uphill. The truth is by the time I hit half a mile I want to give up. My body, to this day after hundreds of first miles, tells me to turn around, go home and go back to sleep. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It wants nothing to do with 5:45am uphill running. But my mind, my mind usually has different plans. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Go for it, it says. This mile is almost done and then you have a downhill reprieve, it whispers. Don’t give up now, it pleads.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And nine times out of ten, my mind wins.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">There is nothing like the feeling, when the world seems about ready to break you in two and all your problems are crashing in all around you, when you are running and, at a different point every time, those pressures vanish. They seem to literally melt away. There is nothing but the road before you, the miles behind and the hope within you. Each person on God’s great planet should be blessed to experience that feeling just once in their lifetime. I get to experience it nearly every single day. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">There are many miles between the day I signed up for the Race to Deliver and today. There has been much heartache and triumph and everything in between .<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ric is thriving in Ric’s own way, God’s Love still comes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, and I still don’t know how we’re going to make it. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">But I do know this. I know that tomorrow morning I will run. I know my body will tell me to turn around and I know my mind will push me forward. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I know that at some point during that run all will be right with the world. I know that, probably between miles three and four, I will reach my hands towards the heavens and whisper a prayer of thanks. And ultimately I know that even if I am never able to run again, running will continue to save me from myself. </p>Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-73660403536290578442011-03-25T09:52:00.003-04:002011-03-25T10:21:37.049-04:00A view from the rooftop<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz_Yux3tbOwMH_gSZghOzSjangUZ5bTS8hir1GO970dKkQAA5iwes_bsEyqsVumJlyyUn6B-9uO-xbQ-fI6BPCIpz-BFOZ8MUxPw6iMdWJ7T0vWStoSNIrK9alYbQhWvmp3dPcUIio89c/s1600/2011-03-24+Namaster.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 290px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz_Yux3tbOwMH_gSZghOzSjangUZ5bTS8hir1GO970dKkQAA5iwes_bsEyqsVumJlyyUn6B-9uO-xbQ-fI6BPCIpz-BFOZ8MUxPw6iMdWJ7T0vWStoSNIrK9alYbQhWvmp3dPcUIio89c/s320/2011-03-24+Namaster.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588016861744639714" border="0" /></a><br />I've recently noticed a dramatic uptick in traffic on this site. Though I can speculate as to reasons, I do not know for sure.<br /><br />However I wanted you all to know that I will be returning to this site to post more of my writings, especially many more installments of <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Angels I Don't See</span>, which have been written but I have yet to publish here.<br /><br />I will also be writing more about my life and spiritual growth and less about politics and world affairs. At this point in my life I can't focus on anything that might detract from my peace and serenity.<br /><br />Mad love to all the recent visitors and the ones that have been around for a while. The Rooftop is open again so check back frequently.Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-43014304108436235302011-01-17T07:35:00.000-05:002011-01-17T07:33:14.697-05:00From his soul, he stirred...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpH97YgHBpNts6Pktj6SBFPfVNvWQwnntCwd5BNHOoDG7rPEIatDfTBpkv4YVFUl69qfDHV9ZNHwkcVQQOZx_pRIQNQPSY6FmTtssqwNhac0UpMbyrAoarl7yahDerjmfbkEeqJhj5TOI/s1600-h/MLK+arrest.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 287px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpH97YgHBpNts6Pktj6SBFPfVNvWQwnntCwd5BNHOoDG7rPEIatDfTBpkv4YVFUl69qfDHV9ZNHwkcVQQOZx_pRIQNQPSY6FmTtssqwNhac0UpMbyrAoarl7yahDerjmfbkEeqJhj5TOI/s320/MLK+arrest.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428057631424689842" border="0" /></a><br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic;">"We shall match your capacity to inflict suffering by our capacity to endure suffering. We shall meet your physical force with soul force. Do to us what you will, and we shall continue to love you. We cannot in all good conscience obey your unjust laws because noncooperation with evil is as much a moral obligation as is cooperation with good. Throw us in jail and we shall still love you. Bomb our homes and threaten our children, and we shall still love you. Send your hooded perpetrators of violence into our community at the midnight hour and beat us and leave us half dead, and we shall still love you. But be ye assured that we will wear you down by our capacity to suffer. One day we shall win freedom but not only for ourselves. We shall so appeal to your heart and conscience that we shall win you in the process and our victory will be a double victory."<br /></blockquote>Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-65904791854136323102011-01-07T19:43:00.009-05:002013-02-21T11:14:43.468-05:00On Dreams Fulfilled: My lifetime with Rue McClanahan<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuLFHv-oHRGGvtkoUDxzcUqxddESKnl71hOMimNAy7JGmi5Ax2ZZJKuiz8SmB9eeRP3eHWScZimngTP8iaQ5j5LYw2zvNsFLJ0ML_QwH88K3DBXCvvD__PSOHfq6VDn9YfB2omIt0Weps/s1600/2011-01-05+Rue+McClanahan%2527s+home+entryway+JMM.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559610642105435954" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuLFHv-oHRGGvtkoUDxzcUqxddESKnl71hOMimNAy7JGmi5Ax2ZZJKuiz8SmB9eeRP3eHWScZimngTP8iaQ5j5LYw2zvNsFLJ0ML_QwH88K3DBXCvvD__PSOHfq6VDn9YfB2omIt0Weps/s320/2011-01-05+Rue+McClanahan%2527s+home+entryway+JMM.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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The Maude episode, “Vivian’s First Funeral”, aired the day I was born. There they were, two girls that were indeed golden, seamlessly bouncing lines off each other as if it were in their very bones…which of course, it was. </div>
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Vivian, played by the incomparable Rue McClanahan, had never been to a funeral and it was left to Maude, the inimitable (except by great drag queens) Bea Arthur, to allay her fears and get her through. Of course, after it is realized that Vivian’s broach that she leant to Maude was now on the deceased, hilarity ensues. </div>
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Years later, living in McLean, Va, a 13 year old boy, unable to untangle the feelings deep within, would every Saturday sit at the foot of his parent’s bed, eating Hawaiian pizza, Doritos, drinking Coke, and watch The Golden Girls. </div>
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I was drawn to the four “girls” in a way that could not be explained But it didn't matter. I loved them. I loved them so much and knew that, in a way, they could untangle the feelings and quiet the noise within me if they only knew me. Sure, I knew it was fictitious, and sure I knew that they were just characters. But they were characters that spoke to me. And at that point in my life there was nothing more comforting than knowing that on the other side of that screen in my parents' bedroom there were four broads that had my back. </div>
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I especially loved Blanche, the saucy, slutty, unapologetic Blanche that never backed away but beneath her vivacious façade was a tender, loving, compassionate soul. I adored her. I wanted to be her. I wanted to know what it was like to have so many vying for my affection. I wanted to know a man as Blanche knew men. She saw me through my secrets in my teen years. I imagined she held them as her own until I was ready, and courageous enough, to reveal them. </div>
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Therefore it should come as no surprise that when I heard that Rue McClanahan passed away I cried. Actually, to be honest, I bawled my eyes out. I cried for hours and did not leave my apartment. It was odd, really. I don’t recall ever crying upon learning of a celebrity’s death but Rue was different. When Rue left, she took a little part of me with her. </div>
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Which made this past Wednesday all the more magical. There I was, all 34 years old of supposed grown-up, standing in the Manhattan apartment of none other than THE Rue McClanahan! Sure, I had produced hundreds of book signings that included many of the most admired people in the world. I had met enough celebrities to fill ten lifetimes. But standing in Rue’s apartment was different. She was my golden girl and I was standing in her home. </div>
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A few weeks ago my friend Michael J. La Rue and I got to talking about things and we realized we had a mutual friend who had a connection to Rue. I then learned that not only was Michael one of Rue’s closest friends and the producer of her Broadway bound show “My First Five Husbands”, but he was also the person to whom Rue’s family had entrusted to settle her estate. </div>
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“You should come over sometime. I’m there all the time organizing her stuff and preparing most of it for auction”</div>
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Are. You. F’in. Kidding. Me!?!?!?!?! COME OVER???? Um, let me think about this</div>
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“I’d love to come over!”</div>
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And with that, a couple of weeks later, there I was in Rue’s east side apartment, having tea and conversation with Michael. </div>
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It was true. As Michael took me through her apartment and told me wonderful stories about Rue and each of her belongings, he also talked about the auctions. Plural.</div>
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I was there for a reason, of course, and it was not to drool over Rue McClanahan’s belongings. Michael enlisted my help in getting the word out about the auctions and the film (see below) given my background in publicity and marketing. I was there on business. Nevertheless, I drooled. A lot. But get the word out I will. My girl wanted it that way. </div>
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You see, Rue was adamant about a few things. One of those things was that there be no funeral. She believed that the funeral industry preyed upon the vulnerable in their time of need and she wanted none of it. It was her wish that she be cremated and that there be memorial services in her homes for her family. She also wanted all her belongings, from her costumes and wardrobe to her personal effects, save the things her family wanted, to be auctioned off. Just call her No to-do Rue. </div>
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So Michael plans on doing just that. “I’m going to have close to ten auctions throughout the country. I want as many of her fans as possible to come and, even if they can’t buy anything, at least see some of the great things she owned. You know she got to keep most of her wardrobe from Golden Girls? Actually she kept every damn thing she ever owned!” That was for sure. I saw the woman’s prom dress. Her prom dress! Which, by the way, is in mint condition!</div>
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As we toured her home, I realized how multidimensional this woman really was. In the music room that led to her bedroom were book shelves filled with the most diverse selection of books that you’d be hard pressed find anywhere. In her closets (and believe me, this woman had closets) were shoes from Golden Girls and Maude and Broadway as well as shoes she bought herself. In addition to clothes and shoes and books , Rue owned over a thousand pieces of jewelry, including the gold Tiffany’s bracelet that the producers gave the gals on The Golden Girls at series end that was engraved with the initials GG and inside the clasp was etched the number 7 for seven seasons. </div>
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Every last bit of it and more will be coming to a city near you in the near future. And, per Rue’s wishes, every last bit will be sold. And soon enough someone else will own her apartment. Also, be on the lookout for a documentary about Rue, produced by Michael, to be out in the near future. The documentary was originally intended to follow Rue and Michael through the preparations and production of the Broadway bound autobiographical “My First Five Husbands”. Sadly Rue passed before that dream was realized. However Michael is now using the footage as well as so much more for a documentary about Rue. </div>
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She’d have it no other way. </div>
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And neither would I. </div>
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The 13 year old boy was with me last Wednesday. And as we walked through Rue’s home, the 34 year-old on business and the wide-eyed boy on a dream fulfilled, that boy never imagined 21 years ago that he would be in the very home of the woman to whom he had entrusted so much yet never knew. </div>
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So thank you Michael. Thanks for letting me travel down that road and back again. Thanks for letting me say goodbye to Rue. Thanks for letting me be a part of this journey moving forward. </div>
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Thank you, most of all, for being both our friend. </div>
Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-84082244744269550772010-12-30T11:34:00.006-05:002010-12-30T11:51:44.143-05:00Ruuning 2010-12-30<div style="text-align: center;">These shots are from my run this morning through the Washington Heights area of Manhattan as well as Fort Tryon Park<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUbgXg3vLmbOuFocsGxrZJi7m6nMNe1uXQ4FxJivBmfwuTT-lrGraRMPmJ1wJTURM1gb4xbzJKQV5kKxG-co2lM3TvYngKeRfrJTR0JOh1mJj-Ii26_hK0iMu43XjAvzVVJDHKZ71xfMU/s1600/2010-12-30+Cloisters+during+run+745am.jpg"><br /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(Click images to enlarge)</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuCu0pv_1yseXnDBBW3PvJS048fcsqnQrrobTt7Dxfzp1hHCZOX_kTNRVZb_g9FBWknI2hedGjdP5HFCJ6bQZv_l2i0RQ5wvd5GmtH_OBLM2ff_iSexUY4jGuGZ1TPjiVEgoqBiDUukgk/s1600/2010-12-30+GWB+View+from+Cabrini+735am.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuCu0pv_1yseXnDBBW3PvJS048fcsqnQrrobTt7Dxfzp1hHCZOX_kTNRVZb_g9FBWknI2hedGjdP5HFCJ6bQZv_l2i0RQ5wvd5GmtH_OBLM2ff_iSexUY4jGuGZ1TPjiVEgoqBiDUukgk/s320/2010-12-30+GWB+View+from+Cabrini+735am.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556516915503686626" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The George Washington Bridge from my run this morning, 2010-12-30</span><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiruRZ3d0Q-qBwVUmQMzOcJJHIAQhKinQVhIiBrk6AIhFOxOEGY5cSaVBUWfA8fSkSHrclcDVvab-47xDU_a3WG10b3h4HeCF2cDb_DRP2PZyLBes352L-ZSU9RrQEVT4WagC78frtAC0/s1600/2010-12-30+Hudson+view+from+Forrt+Tryon+745am.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiruRZ3d0Q-qBwVUmQMzOcJJHIAQhKinQVhIiBrk6AIhFOxOEGY5cSaVBUWfA8fSkSHrclcDVvab-47xDU_a3WG10b3h4HeCF2cDb_DRP2PZyLBes352L-ZSU9RrQEVT4WagC78frtAC0/s320/2010-12-30+Hudson+view+from+Forrt+Tryon+745am.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556515842993341058" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Hudson River view and the cliffs of Jersey, Fort Tryon Park</span> </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">from my run this morning, 2010-12-30</span><br />7:40am<br /><br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho80idAVmdZrfWgAojg4BciLBa2j8YxP1YU_qKbvSNgA6mW4zaBbSwNxcY1HamDWUIdeu_nIkwhweHfclB0zNedWa3X91uv7cOxTxx-LTtKR7ZjNMDkyVenBvAuv95NxuAjqR1vfH0akA/s1600/2010-12-30+Fort+Tryon+740am.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho80idAVmdZrfWgAojg4BciLBa2j8YxP1YU_qKbvSNgA6mW4zaBbSwNxcY1HamDWUIdeu_nIkwhweHfclB0zNedWa3X91uv7cOxTxx-LTtKR7ZjNMDkyVenBvAuv95NxuAjqR1vfH0akA/s320/2010-12-30+Fort+Tryon+740am.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556515837611837330" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">View from Fort Tryon Park </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">from my run this morning, 2010-12-30 7:45am</span><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTfoKKaI0DtV-7j-QbLUM035KWxcEYzaVS2i4DhZlOVvWQkUOhOLwlsqmEWSGBg7tnPqKi1Diuhw_mLR10SdedrtzYhtgjsW4vjjmNhjudYq_8MNPwFuVR9MbDC9mNFsnzsZjBpLX8wuU/s1600/2010-12-30+Cloisters+during+run+745am.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTfoKKaI0DtV-7j-QbLUM035KWxcEYzaVS2i4DhZlOVvWQkUOhOLwlsqmEWSGBg7tnPqKi1Diuhw_mLR10SdedrtzYhtgjsW4vjjmNhjudYq_8MNPwFuVR9MbDC9mNFsnzsZjBpLX8wuU/s320/2010-12-30+Cloisters+during+run+745am.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556515830934800514" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The Cloisters in Fort Tryon Park </span><span style="font-style: italic;">from my run this morning, 2010-12-30 7:46am<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUbgXg3vLmbOuFocsGxrZJi7m6nMNe1uXQ4FxJivBmfwuTT-lrGraRMPmJ1wJTURM1gb4xbzJKQV5kKxG-co2lM3TvYngKeRfrJTR0JOh1mJj-Ii26_hK0iMu43XjAvzVVJDHKZ71xfMU/s1600/2010-12-30+Cloisters+during+run+745am.jpg"><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7MoW7qskJu_aBzdxw3ENvKtRdM7TYqIbXb9CQ0ZMrMojD7sUKi-iRmUmKQC8z5FlE64hPCF5tnw-r_To7kGi2vx-u3Qn0Q7QQtGsGRUgh_WpeV-ywltQrRIDnSoEPzeMoXITZi5-z2Yk/s1600/2010-12-30+Hudson+view+from+Forrt+Tryon+745am.jpg"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></a></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNAsm_wQby12kaqHBNQ4WVZoxwAHU7f6peqKNNHrxhoxBi0j7P-Vp4FafcHp6DmerlcKVO1Pcu4lpEEqYh_sQeWI8KihIBGFzV-oD1bzrYWQgavH5eN8Tal1tQZXfjTvthqlXXwJUFa78/s1600/2010-12-30+GWB+View+from+Cabrini+735am.jpg"><br /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd4Cy-Wo3rNcMrB3cE8kUrYmQvuy3S3NHo9FmqgvwjFteOBhT-q89IY2qb2165Zp_Fx4uabPS0q4kc2Eu5v4bi0P5BhIntY0gAICdlpgscLHTtFeaw9i4NlMJKOFajHWzl-j25RYgYXx8/s1600/2010-12-30+Fort+Tryon+740am.jpg"><br /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUbgXg3vLmbOuFocsGxrZJi7m6nMNe1uXQ4FxJivBmfwuTT-lrGraRMPmJ1wJTURM1gb4xbzJKQV5kKxG-co2lM3TvYngKeRfrJTR0JOh1mJj-Ii26_hK0iMu43XjAvzVVJDHKZ71xfMU/s1600/2010-12-30+Cloisters+during+run+745am.jpg"><br /></a>Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-59712694671179719982010-09-25T09:51:00.004-04:002010-09-25T12:43:42.357-04:00Growing smaller<p class="MsoNormal">The room seemed larger then. Much larger. Some nine years ago when I walked in, terrified and alone, making one last attempt at saving my life so that I wouldn’t ultimately take it, the room appeared electric, almost as if were I to touch anything the current would kill me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">To be exact, the date was April 2<sup>nd</sup>, 2001 and I was just 24 years old. I’d not even lived in New York two months and it seemed as if, to turn a phrase, I was not going to make it there or anywhere. After weeks of drinking and tilting at windmills, I did the only thing left to do…I gave up.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Not gave up in the negative sense but gave up as in surrendered. I realized that I was not like the other fortunate people in this world who could drink with impunity. My giving up essentially saved my life. Had I not, I am more than certain I would be dead. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The interesting thing about returning to that room yesterday was the realization at how much my life had changed. If someone had told that scared 24 year old boy from Texas that within the span of 9 years his life would be where it is today, that boy would have turned and run away. I suppose that’s why we don’t get an advance copy of the script prior to the director screaming action. If we each knew the inevitable pain and adversities of life, we might never move forward.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">If I could go back in time and talk to that boy from nine years ago I would tell him that, no matter what, everything was going to be ok and turn out just as it should. I would tell him that no matter how many broken hearts and broken promises, no matter how many shattered dreams and shattered confidences, no matter how many countless relapses and counting days, life would always find a way to work itself out.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I would tell him that happiness is not really the goal but instead is the result of a life well loved.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I would tell him to live within the now and cling to that still small voice that reassures us all. Keep showing up, I’d say, because it may not get better but it will get easier and the troubles will seem less daunting and the pain will seem less severe. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The room seems so much smaller now. Much smaller. Yeah, that’s what I’d like to tell that young man from years gone by. I’d like to tell him that as you grow up and move on, the rooms will always grow smaller. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">And he...well, he will always grow stronger. </p>Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-22009560174927098702010-08-12T10:37:00.002-04:002010-08-13T10:40:44.321-04:00This would be the day...<div>We met nine years ago today at a place called Hannah’s Lava Lounge in the Hell’s Kitchen area of Manhattan. At the time I was the Corporate Communications and Marketing Officer for an international trade association and was preparing for a fashion show I was producing for New York Fashion Week (7th on Sixth, Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week, whatever you want to call it). </div><div><br /></div><div>I went to Hannah’s on that beautiful Sunday because I noticed a sandwich board outside that was advertising BINGO. When I got inside, he was there and my life changed forever. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have written before, and it’s still the same, that he was greatest love of my life. Through all the good and the bad, through all the hope and the heartache, he still remains the man I can’t live without.</div><div><br /></div><div>Our relationship has changed. We are no longer husbands in any sense of the term but we remain constant. That was the promise I made to him. That is the promise I will not break.</div><div><br /></div><div>There were great years. </div><div><br /></div><div>Those years have passed. </div><div><br /></div><div>The love I have for Ric transcends definition. It is not conventional but, of course, our relationship has defied convention from the start. It is, however, an unyielding love. </div><div><br /></div><div>It’s no longer romantic, no longer erotic, no longer passionate. What it is is something that I cannot describe in words. It has caused me the greatest hope and the worst torment and it has, above all, taught me. </div><div><br /></div><div>I ran rambunctious towards the illusion, foolishly believing its promise, mistaking the mirage for living water. I was running toward desperate anticipation. I anticipated happiness, glory, and whatever else in pursuit of the illusion. </div><div><br /></div><div>That’s what it was….the illusion.</div><div><br /></div><div>I learned, though, that love is messy, never perfect and often hurts. I learned that, despite my best laid plans, I am more flawed than I ever knew, more wounded than I ever felt and more cautious than I ever wished to be.</div><div><br /></div><div>And on this day, an anniversary if you will, I want you to know this:</div><div><br /></div><div>I don’t have much contact with people anymore. The details of life are beyond me. I simply understand that I reach for what I don’t know. And that’s ok. </div><div><br /></div><div>Are people better for knowing me? Not likely. </div><div><br /></div><div>Do I add value to people’s life? Not at all. </div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps, though, I can add something. </div><div><br /></div><div>This is what I propose…</div><div><br /></div><div>When I go, let me go.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am prepared to go.</div><div><br /></div><div>Do not leave me in the loving arms of Jesus. Just leave me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Don’t believe the words of your side only</div><div><br /></div><div>You can be an advocate for two things at once even if those two things seem antithetical of the other.</div><div><br /></div><div>I love you.</div><div><br /></div><div>God knows I love you! </div><div><br /></div><div>Fight for the right and dignity of the poor and unknown and also me. Fight for the gay one, and the unsure one, and the one that doesn’t seem to belong. Fight for him. Fight for her. Simply fight,</div><div><br /></div><div>Write your book. Sing your song. Dance your dance. Include me. I will always be here. I have always been here. </div><div><br /></div><div>Let go of the things you can’t control. Let go of the things you can. Just let go. </div><div><br /></div><div>Worry not. Period.</div><div><br /></div><div>Forgive. Repeat.</div><div><br /></div><div>Know where you stand and make your arguments coherent. Always coherent. </div><div><br /></div><div>This is your destiny. This will be your destiny. </div><div><br /></div><div>Learn.</div><div><br /></div><div>Unfold.</div><div><br /></div><div>Love</div><div><br /></div><div>And most of all</div><div><br /></div><div>Live!</div><div><br /></div>Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-50389074388760168992010-06-08T16:20:00.009-04:002010-06-08T17:24:55.132-04:00The Japan Run with NYRR (otherwise known as the Run of Maple Syrup Jesus)<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlRV2zIVwWduLIZtuVMSr8Lfr3lIJxq76iR2ebxekWRWOxcFMxRKC_HGPVqhHBcVLTVCXsfgRGkGWeqV1Dm7kltabrAXGOBt4B8lIaSUVcRHS-6l4Bsw_coezz3BpwMtD5cmOJJSNP2Fw/s1600/2010-06-06+Japan+Run+Central+Park+Post+Race+Ugly+Face.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480505144014631266" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlRV2zIVwWduLIZtuVMSr8Lfr3lIJxq76iR2ebxekWRWOxcFMxRKC_HGPVqhHBcVLTVCXsfgRGkGWeqV1Dm7kltabrAXGOBt4B8lIaSUVcRHS-6l4Bsw_coezz3BpwMtD5cmOJJSNP2Fw/s320/2010-06-06+Japan+Run+Central+Park+Post+Race+Ugly+Face.jpg" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(My post race ugly face at the Japan Run 2010-06-08)</span></div><div><div><p class="MsoNormal">I’m not superstitious at all. I don’t put much stock in horoscopes or good luck charms or curses or even prayers. When I pray, I try my best to pray, not for a changed outcome, but instead that I am able to handle and accept whatever the outcome might be. I ask God for a change in perspective instead of a change in events. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Having said (written) that, the Japan Day Run in Central Park on Sunday was the most horrible, terrible, no good, very bad, cursed, hot, dirty, stinky, crowded run that started last Friday afternoon. You see, last Friday afternoon, as I am wont to do, I went to the New York Road Runners (NYRR) offices on the Upper East Side at Fifth Avenue and 89<sup>th</sup> Street to pick up my race bib and t-shirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As I bound up the stairs and said hello to the kind volunteers I tripped.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Not in an “oops, that’s sort of embarrassing. Look at me! I tripped and stumbled” type of trip but a “hello stairs, this is my face and, if you don't mind, my face, instead of my arms, is going break my fall”. As I stood up I laughed it off<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>and spouted something to assure the 534 people in the office who saw my 6 foot 6 inch ass fall face first into the stairs that I was ok. “It’s a good thing I fell today instead of race day, hahahahahaha” I said to no one in particular.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> I’m nothing if not witty!</p><p class="MsoNormal">After leaving the offices I chalked my fall up to just some random incident and forgot about it. Well, I mean I forgot about it in the sense that I told everyone that would listen how bad I fell and stubbed my right big toe, one of the few toes left where the toenail is not black from running, but that I was a trooper, a runner’s runner, and I would brave the 4 whole long miles of the race on Sunday and prevail. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Fast forward to Sunday. It started perfect. There was no traffic up the West Side Highway and we arrived at Central Park West and West 100<sup>th</sup> Street 45 minutes early. Then the trouble began. I figured that since the race was at the north end of Central Park, parking would be a breeze. I figured wrong. We drove around for half-an-hour and there was no parking whatsoever. It seems that the residents of the Upper West Side don’t like to move their cars early on Sunday morning. Imagine that! As we circled and circled around I realized I had about 10 minutes before the race began. </p><p class="MsoNormal">“We could just go home. God and Jesus might not want us to go. Yeah, let’s just go home. I prayed and I don’t think God and Jesus want us to go to the race.”</p><p class="MsoNormal">Since Ric has been sick he frequently employs God and Jesus to do his heavy lifting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In this respect he is much like Sarah…oh never mind…back to the story.</p><p class="MsoNormal">With just a few<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>minutes before the race was to start I gave up on finding street parking and parked in a garage. </p><p class="MsoNormal">“Ok, I’m going to run to the corrals. I’ll call you when I am finished. Don’t get run over by runners. Stay off the course! Are you listening?”</p><p class="MsoNormal">“Yes, go! I’ll see you later”</p>The NYRR volunteers were moving us along. “Two minutes to start. Run up that hill and get to your corral”<br /><br />I ran up the hill, found my group and waited.<br /><br /></div><div>Did I mention it was humid? Because it was. My nifty Japan Day t-shirt was already soaked by the time I crossed the starting line. And it started oh-so well.<br /><br /></div><div>They say (whoever they are) not to run someone else’s race. What that means is, don’t get caught up in the excitement and run the tempo of those around you if their tempo is not your tempo. A race, for me especially, is a race against myself. My only goal is to beat my last race time…in theory.<br /><p class="MsoNormal">As we passed the 1 mile marker I remembered something my friend Charles, also a runner, told me about running the north end of the park. It’s hilly. Like really, really hilly. </p><p class="MsoNormal">As I was running at pace with the 7min/milers and began the ascent up what was the 57<sup>th </sup>hill of the day I noted to myself to tell Charles he was right. That is, if I made it to the end. Having already sweat half my body weight I was not certain I would ever see a finish line again. The race was beginning to kick my ass. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Just about that time, there she was. She being a pedestrian of no more than 5 feet tall that decided she might attempt to cross through the race about 2 feet in front of me. </p>“HOLY SHIIIIIIIIT!” I screamed as she stopped directly in my path with a look that put deer-in-the-headlights on the map.<br /><br />If I were not the vision of grace and elegance that I am, I would have probably run into the sorry sack of impatience. But luckily for her, I managed to swerve around and just miss her.<br /><br /></div><div>At mile two, Jesus was calling…audibly. I could hear him. He was calling me home.<br /><br /></div><div>Oh, have I mentioned that I smelled maple syrup?<br /><br /></div><div>“You clearly are not cut out for this race” he said in that holier than thou Jesus way that gets on my last nerve. “Just crawl on over there to that lovely patch of grass and give up.”<br /><p class="MsoNormal">When I later told this to my mother she jokingly told me it was the Lord’s subtle rebuke for choosing to run the race instead of go to church (At least I think she was joking).</p><p class="MsoNormal">Instead of listening to the good Lord I soldiered on and started to walk. I never regained my breath but I did start to run again. When I finally made it to the finish line I fumbled for my phone to call Ric. My phone was soaking wet and I had trouble getting the touch screen to respond to my trembling touch. Finally I dialed. </p><p class="MsoNormal">As I expectorated the last of my lungs, Ric answered.</p><p class="MsoNormal">“Babe, I fell. I’m really cut up and bleeding. I am sitting down on a hill and there are a bunch of people around me”</p><p class="MsoNormal">Calm, Jon-Marc. Stay calm.</p><p class="MsoNormal">“Ok, I need more information than that. Where are you? What do you see? Are you by the course? Are you by the bagel and water station?” I asked in full panic mode.</p><p class="MsoNormal">“I don’t know. I am just around people. On a hill. Bleeding”</p><p class="MsoNormal">“Ok, stay on the phone with me. Just describe to me what you see”</p><p class="MsoNormal">“There is a lady…”</p><p class="MsoNormal">My phone died. My $400.00 piece of phone caca that cannot hold a charge died and I had no idea where Ric was. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>I only knew that he said he was bleedingon a hill somewhere in Central Park and that I was physically exhausted. This was all too familiar.</p><p class="MsoNormal">After aimlessly wandering around in circles looking for Ric, I heard his voice. </p><p class="MsoNormal">“Babe, over here” he yelled.</p><p class="MsoNormal">And then, like a parent finding their lost child in a department store, my relief turned to relief with a tinge of anger. And by tinge I mean full on white hot </p><p class="MsoNormal">“What the hell happened?”</p><p class="MsoNormal">“I was walking to the race and got caught up in all these people and someone knocked me over and I fell. Then all these people ran over to help and gave me bandages and alcohol swabs and one lady poured water all over my cuts”</p><p class="MsoNormal">That’s the thing I love about the running community (and by community I mean the runners as well as those that come to cheer on the runners). There is a spirit, an unspoken code. Every person at that race, I truly believe, wanted every other person at that race to do their very best. And when someone was hurt – a perfect stranger to everyone there but me – people gathered around him and made sure he was ok. They didn’t know he suffers from dementia and how unbelievably scared he was but I’m certain even if they did it would not have mattered. Their only concern, based on what Ric told me, was making sure Ric was ok. </p><p class="MsoNormal">“Can you go get the car and pick me up?” Ric said, still sitting on the grass.</p><p class="MsoNormal">“No, the park is closed to cars. You are going to have to walk”</p><p class="MsoNormal">With that, he stood up, leaned on me, and we began to walk west towards the garage. What should have taken 5 minutes to walk took 45 but, after stopping many times so Ric could rest, we finally made it. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><em>Hey, I know I don’t usually ask for outcomes to be changed</em> I prayed as I drove us home, <em>but it would really help if you could heal him quickly</em>. <em>Also, I want to tell you how amazed and grateful I am for the human race at times like these. Those people that gathered around Ric and took care of him were incredible Thanks for them. Also, and this is just fair warning, if it is ever that humid again during a race I will immediately cease believing in you. Amen</em></p><p class="MsoNormal">Oh yeah, the other thing is, I still smell maple syrup. Pancakes anyone?</p></div></div></div>Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-33578634031337382422010-05-30T17:42:00.002-04:002010-05-30T17:45:09.032-04:00Angels I Don't See (Spotting Love) returns soon<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg9FAOLlgtLFFqaymUdJQMgriqWZpX4R3f8xG-pvH_GDqBtWniJDOTi5q-be42IMYl4xi12RO4385Z6dnlKHSuUrDTpVu_Tbo0MN2LGUQiwd5yw6421DQ2XSI-NEFTd_DJqyrpLw5MecY/s1600/ThomasEdison.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg9FAOLlgtLFFqaymUdJQMgriqWZpX4R3f8xG-pvH_GDqBtWniJDOTi5q-be42IMYl4xi12RO4385Z6dnlKHSuUrDTpVu_Tbo0MN2LGUQiwd5yw6421DQ2XSI-NEFTd_DJqyrpLw5MecY/s320/ThomasEdison.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477182166592169586" /></a><br />The latest chapters of <i><b>Angels I Don't See</b></i> have been written and I am excited to announce that they will be posted here soon.Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-16508061321228674312010-05-16T18:00:00.007-04:002010-05-16T18:15:31.049-04:0025th AIDS Walk New York 2010<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwrLepiCBf5pZz8AEWodnMwfZzNEv6gHeM0gk07fAC4BN2L5LxDLiwd6wB3T-QR_pZVGEic5yMEhyphenhyphenAXNs-Ac53Lt_6XpL0YHcSQKBuGZ_xJE6vPPqQSkQoR_AAJpvALSEQvs30m0e6pKM/s1600/2010-05-16+11.59.31.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwrLepiCBf5pZz8AEWodnMwfZzNEv6gHeM0gk07fAC4BN2L5LxDLiwd6wB3T-QR_pZVGEic5yMEhyphenhyphenAXNs-Ac53Lt_6XpL0YHcSQKBuGZ_xJE6vPPqQSkQoR_AAJpvALSEQvs30m0e6pKM/s320/2010-05-16+11.59.31.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471992390416421938" border="0" /></a>Team Friends In Deed on the walk (Team Friends In Deed was the 3rd overall top fundraising team in all of AIDS Walk New York for 2010<br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2QgnmbzxaqDdxBUMRNZYqeKTPq3SiY97xCvfQbvLBTYtxqUNbUe43Lh2qyCRSs3__1MHRvCeTF-BTRiGzqcnef2HkbrJZOgExl1KMozWc9K7QJhQf-cc_etgEs7lDn8jWeiejDKTiVWY/s1600/2010-05-16+11.34.48.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2QgnmbzxaqDdxBUMRNZYqeKTPq3SiY97xCvfQbvLBTYtxqUNbUe43Lh2qyCRSs3__1MHRvCeTF-BTRiGzqcnef2HkbrJZOgExl1KMozWc9K7QJhQf-cc_etgEs7lDn8jWeiejDKTiVWY/s320/2010-05-16+11.34.48.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471992384635381378" border="0" /></a><br />The Friends in Deed Banner. There's Osvaldo and um, Mark, Mark, he's Mark (FID Board Member Anthony Rapp)<br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHD-LM7otcxE1Nha42wnlCD5aaO2i1VYxr-R3j9w-tCtAhFQUJAOycVcFi5-UGRnGttCRiYO8iUcvw-1axYYXVxk_yWYzhh-AmwhM8UmcjEGcIOImqJvU0mOYCDZeWwgJhDZHKFcxWa94/s1600/2010-05-16+11.02.12.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHD-LM7otcxE1Nha42wnlCD5aaO2i1VYxr-R3j9w-tCtAhFQUJAOycVcFi5-UGRnGttCRiYO8iUcvw-1axYYXVxk_yWYzhh-AmwhM8UmcjEGcIOImqJvU0mOYCDZeWwgJhDZHKFcxWa94/s320/2010-05-16+11.02.12.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471992379981020898" border="0" /></a><br />Manhattan Samba entertaining the walkers<br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0P9rKk_bRu0ALAv4KcyVymlGYYbuxTrO1BA3ih__B50y_MYAwD6FioaWTwUH4-My3vN9UfWdztAxMB8b0rxlRt60rACXF0SJ67y18lSAS45lS8Ba_J0hl9HwLnUMcL6ZXsOZxL9cTRQk/s1600/2010-05-16+10.50.40.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0P9rKk_bRu0ALAv4KcyVymlGYYbuxTrO1BA3ih__B50y_MYAwD6FioaWTwUH4-My3vN9UfWdztAxMB8b0rxlRt60rACXF0SJ67y18lSAS45lS8Ba_J0hl9HwLnUMcL6ZXsOZxL9cTRQk/s320/2010-05-16+10.50.40.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471992368912243362" border="0" /></a>Team Friends In Deed Walking the Walk<br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixmbZcgR5byL2thyphenhyphenIxipjkIrokgoGXa7EJWtJLFa57J9yVJnE0QfqtZssatVJPKBdyQwJoe7TkR7v8latRkwa97ALeSDYzaMkpL4TPijCV-SJTQwI7v3aI6UuWHScFg0k9vZFBqhqbNBg/s1600/2010-05-16+10.37.45.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixmbZcgR5byL2thyphenhyphenIxipjkIrokgoGXa7EJWtJLFa57J9yVJnE0QfqtZssatVJPKBdyQwJoe7TkR7v8latRkwa97ALeSDYzaMkpL4TPijCV-SJTQwI7v3aI6UuWHScFg0k9vZFBqhqbNBg/s320/2010-05-16+10.37.45.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471992361039227586" border="0" /></a><br />Who's that in the hat? Why it's none other than Jon-Marc McDonald!<br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPrxMnV5jBDUcmWWcQZ5p90DxjTPTUelqCVfAZ91TJ3BRPx0LSvc4uZypYkJCEJ8enQ5rAVKiBQKOjcfBnsf_5aD3IxmwRQdnDCdCDbHsmm8w3PLT8SMT-2GpgUkn3UotZix0J6YSO53c/s1600/2010-05-16+10.37.31.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPrxMnV5jBDUcmWWcQZ5p90DxjTPTUelqCVfAZ91TJ3BRPx0LSvc4uZypYkJCEJ8enQ5rAVKiBQKOjcfBnsf_5aD3IxmwRQdnDCdCDbHsmm8w3PLT8SMT-2GpgUkn3UotZix0J6YSO53c/s320/2010-05-16+10.37.31.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471991947615283042" border="0" /></a><br />Whose hand is that? Why it's none other than Jon-Marc McDonald's hand!<br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidd4bq9TIXMDlVoo5fPpCF-pYlnbJ5Ngc9Imuh8w4H_gSRYrHlFJezYB-1SfDE7548UaGS1JrOf3oNE0CH_JNeVrU-ODWeqZuKKwK7UrgZkZvnRPNA6gy8qxqAVFiSWLUVTQ_RtOmWr3M/s1600/2010-05-16+10.31.40.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidd4bq9TIXMDlVoo5fPpCF-pYlnbJ5Ngc9Imuh8w4H_gSRYrHlFJezYB-1SfDE7548UaGS1JrOf3oNE0CH_JNeVrU-ODWeqZuKKwK7UrgZkZvnRPNA6gy8qxqAVFiSWLUVTQ_RtOmWr3M/s320/2010-05-16+10.31.40.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471991946274079122" border="0" /></a><br />Team Friends In Deed from the back<br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnjQ54CzBmWURRGmmbiRtVcOCoh8GnWTMFicenCS8txsrBq_-f6JchyTWn_SSnz3TGVa-b8GfPYPCNUczfg3WCTD_p36oPkU454SfVSMuAHWGVgx_gYsyDfv8oQ6ik2QhRppIVNQ8KfVI/s1600/2010-05-16+09.50.21.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnjQ54CzBmWURRGmmbiRtVcOCoh8GnWTMFicenCS8txsrBq_-f6JchyTWn_SSnz3TGVa-b8GfPYPCNUczfg3WCTD_p36oPkU454SfVSMuAHWGVgx_gYsyDfv8oQ6ik2QhRppIVNQ8KfVI/s320/2010-05-16+09.50.21.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471991934193115954" border="0" /></a>Opening ceremonies at AIDS Walk New York 2010<br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWP1KweRA2Jcp3YJvjLy9id0BHN-LYJFOpxpvUhwF6gpjSpa_sk7sXrQNnHKP-cINN9A6U3uIXz_9Zq0HdACNVjXcaPgGBGkBSIC64Hgp04KhowMP7BSNZhY7i6t0sMyWszLwaw1vE9UU/s1600/2010-05-16+09.24.13.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWP1KweRA2Jcp3YJvjLy9id0BHN-LYJFOpxpvUhwF6gpjSpa_sk7sXrQNnHKP-cINN9A6U3uIXz_9Zq0HdACNVjXcaPgGBGkBSIC64Hgp04KhowMP7BSNZhY7i6t0sMyWszLwaw1vE9UU/s320/2010-05-16+09.24.13.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471991929571632610" border="0" /></a><br />Team Friends In Deed waiting to get a move on<br />(aren't my captions just the cleverest things you ever did see)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQBLbzS1jPWJ8qNjuPbBr4Ecx1SF0LMZCXH6LmI4I_BGKOB41XY13tc0l3emaKACRHZtbXExRq3xFQoivHSO8clyp2PaNj_Py6rh0YMY2SDYFObY5TZW_RsFQSmIb2Iyr6LY5BZqNaPT8/s1600/2010-05-16+09.05.15.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQBLbzS1jPWJ8qNjuPbBr4Ecx1SF0LMZCXH6LmI4I_BGKOB41XY13tc0l3emaKACRHZtbXExRq3xFQoivHSO8clyp2PaNj_Py6rh0YMY2SDYFObY5TZW_RsFQSmIb2Iyr6LY5BZqNaPT8/s320/2010-05-16+09.05.15.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471991921422721106" border="0" /></a><br />That's my cowboy, Ric, having some coffee prior to the walk. He walked an incredible 5 miles at the AIDS Walk New York. Last year at this time he could not walk at all. A miracle, he is!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVFfkerPVEpME42mI1CGSWyqUQetEx_3W5nS4pSTBSduyuB-ur65nH0duga2qpc0auFk94zFBsXac7NjoTaOOgsyyCklNkC4teZZLBW7H6xI9YxjUfTKtP94sylh2njXoDB-s0CJtuw2M/s1600/2010-05-16+08.52.16.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVFfkerPVEpME42mI1CGSWyqUQetEx_3W5nS4pSTBSduyuB-ur65nH0duga2qpc0auFk94zFBsXac7NjoTaOOgsyyCklNkC4teZZLBW7H6xI9YxjUfTKtP94sylh2njXoDB-s0CJtuw2M/s320/2010-05-16+08.52.16.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471991696505322434" border="0" /></a><br />The Friends In Deed table prior to the big crowds<br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnXMPSyaKJDfeL9xvM3AD9DZbjK8DIvHobGcwEC54dnR0ZnnIQo2I4vxBHGfntQj1GdHDKsUbDkq2mbE5QKKFe1VdQPNS0MvUX3yOcg8QS2aGjxhzV2ynZQif_FpZwxuXrXeAy72dTkYA/s1600/2010-05-16+07.51.16.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnXMPSyaKJDfeL9xvM3AD9DZbjK8DIvHobGcwEC54dnR0ZnnIQo2I4vxBHGfntQj1GdHDKsUbDkq2mbE5QKKFe1VdQPNS0MvUX3yOcg8QS2aGjxhzV2ynZQif_FpZwxuXrXeAy72dTkYA/s320/2010-05-16+07.51.16.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471991684065855394" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2NN-E53XEAkEcxf3dFsr9RjmSh0VhTVKGxnW4pavpLToVDXwkAmeqzjOBQXBnuKwrviSas9Ma4CrZU77mT-PsQpCDnr7RCKEhf1HIhqswZk9QJtDMz5mpedgq8tDdxkpxIIMniBDu-R0/s1600/2010-05-16+07.32.56.jpg"><br /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRl397VBB6AZYNkTKS7CAHoS49NAp2JfIx7EoT_JsfwWez7lTQMtit6K6puV7w_sSy7Mex-fOuhiWk6mw5rbf595P8gR085UVjDn3951IGWWQSSwJyy75IKS8UJc19WChhwywm5kvzrW0/s1600/2010-05-16+08.01.40.jpg"><br /></a>Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-46811894742820888922010-04-19T08:09:00.004-04:002010-04-19T08:15:25.219-04:00Until there's a cure...we<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9c2D7rAbbj0klKdCwB51Afk1XAfRJk8rKc8f843LP0MajS7FADPXvynjah1xq0T_cdK0TDz-H1S-0zvEOaoK7QTg4G6kgbyIFL_5L3HLJ3W9-BzTXBN_ACSCT5_RATg-lfslipKL5QxE/s1600/STOP+AIDS+NOW.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 70px; height: 111px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9c2D7rAbbj0klKdCwB51Afk1XAfRJk8rKc8f843LP0MajS7FADPXvynjah1xq0T_cdK0TDz-H1S-0zvEOaoK7QTg4G6kgbyIFL_5L3HLJ3W9-BzTXBN_ACSCT5_RATg-lfslipKL5QxE/s320/STOP+AIDS+NOW.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461820033762385906" border="0" /></a><br />There is hope!<br /><br />With each day that passes we are one step closer to finding a cure. The rapacious executioner that AIDS was is no more. The idea that it is a plague is a thing of the past.<br /><br />However, as my household knows all too well, AIDS still debilitates and scars and even still sometimes kills swiftly. And until we find a cure, we must remain vigilant.<br /><br />Did you catch that?<br /><br />We.<br /><br />It is up to <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">we</span> to find a cure for this disease, it is up to <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">we</span> to care for those afflicted. It is is up to <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">we</span> to make sure that this disease does not claim thousands more lives. <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">We</span> give, <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">we </span>pray, <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">we</span> hope, <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">we</span> live.<br /><br />And <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">we </span>walk.<br /><br />I am walking this year in the AIDS walk in New York City. It would be such an honor if you could sponsor me. The link below will take you to my fundraising page where you can give anywhere from $25.00 to $1000.00. If you want to donate less than $25.00, just email me and I will give you instructions.<br /><br />Thank you in advance for giving of your hard earned money to help in the fight against HIV/AIDS.<br /><br />I will walk on May 16 for Ric. I will walk for my friends. I will walk for me. I will walk for you.<br /><br />I will walk, most importantly, for <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">we</span>. Until there’s a cure…<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">we</span><br /><br />Donate here: <a href="https://www.kintera.org/faf/donorreg/donorpledge.asp?ievent=331281&supId=284728509&msource=boundlessfun">Jon-Marc's AIDS walk page</a>Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-55011164823766889642010-04-15T11:22:00.011-04:002010-04-15T12:31:33.416-04:00My Trip Down the Pink Carpet with Leslie Jordan<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfSpWAu8EhpXrFkcb3MhwO2R72p68QJ9GZfIgWEDWpjh2QzdZyVhlQ7Uxwugb6fU1aMTUJWCPNlv31yMNFF_YNmyRc8MqYNQNBrkFXzcUZS68255P8i75ALboWVQrncMcUA8F4s_L6GBc/s1600/2010-04-14+My+Trip+Down+the+Pink+Carpet.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfSpWAu8EhpXrFkcb3MhwO2R72p68QJ9GZfIgWEDWpjh2QzdZyVhlQ7Uxwugb6fU1aMTUJWCPNlv31yMNFF_YNmyRc8MqYNQNBrkFXzcUZS68255P8i75ALboWVQrncMcUA8F4s_L6GBc/s320/2010-04-14+My+Trip+Down+the+Pink+Carpet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460387440645869026" border="0" /></a><br /><img src="file:///C:/Users/JONMAR%7E1/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot.png" alt="" />I was a bit nervous when Ric and I walked into the Midtown Theater to see Leslie Jordan’s new one man show, <a href="http://mytripdownthepinkcarpet.com/">My Trip Down the Pink Carpet</a>, and I realized it was cabaret. We were quickly escorted to table 20 where a waitress promptly took our drink order.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Crap</span>, I thought. <span style="font-style: italic;">I didn’t see anything in the press notes about this. What the hell? Isn’t Leslie in recovery? </span><br /><br />“Yeah, I’ll have a ginger-ale and he’ll have a coffee” I said to the waitress, still a bit put off by the entire setting.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I mean the tickets didn’t say anything about a drink minimum. I hate this. I hate this!<br /><br /></span><span>About that time I looked at our table and noticed a special drink menu made specifically for <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >My Trip Down the Pink Carpet</span>. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Well ain’t that a kick in the balls! So glad I could come to this booze fest with a splash of Jordan for good measure. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;" >There is no drink minimum</span> the top of the menu declared.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Oh?<br /><br /></span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Well, uh, ok! That works. Very well then. Carry on. Don’t mind me and the conversation I am having with myself. Nothing to see here. </span><br /><br />The show started about 15 minutes late but that was quickly forgotten the second Leslie stepped on the pink carpet.<br /><br />What can I say about this show? It’s crude, foul, chock full of tawdry anecdotes and lurid details about some <span style="font-weight: bold;">very</span> bold faced names.<br /><br />It’s also fall on the floor, laugh until it hurts and your ass falls off, downright hilarious. From the beginning until the end Jordan captivates with stories so cray-cray (wearing gold flecked contacts in the desert with Boy George, anyone?) you begin to wonder if he can top himself (ba-dum-bum). And he, of course, does!<br /><br />Leslie has more energy on stage than someone (moi) twenty years his junior. And with the sweat pouring down his face he keeps moving. Pratfalls abound, he’s on his knees, dancing on a box, jump-roping with a pink velvet rope, jumping and bumping from here to there in no time flat. In fact, one of the best lines in the whole show results from Jordan’s profuse sweat (I won’t give it away, but you’ll know it when you hear it)<br /><br />The thing that makes this show so effective is that a) it’s true and b) Jordan weaves just enough tenderness into the story that you walk away not only with new laugh lines but also with new lessons learned.<br /><br />“The saddest thing in the world is a man at war with his own nature” Jordan proclaims in clarifying seriousness. At that moment you realize that Jordan’s trip down the pink carpet is meant to serve more than just laughs. It’s meant to make us think. About us. About what we think about ourselves. About our own “internalized homophobia” and self hatred.<br /><br />To say that I enjoyed this is an understatement. There are not enough superlatives in the English language to attach to this show. Go see this. Go laugh. Go learn.<br /><br />But whatever you do, don’t go order the ginger-ale. It sucks!Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-15012148468029045502010-03-16T07:49:00.004-04:002010-03-16T15:29:46.322-04:00Spotting Love debuts on Broadway!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg5ym-ACh0PU7vUPF1m_kUBU1EeIzH0gVpZ2ypNihSma6JdsN8etZWy1plkjkcnWAUvYlLXyF-B2Juz9-7ilGNnW2nNchfoDyBXhy6iNZ1K5vTSDjaN_dmNofasWDo3B7pvvH3tcR8uBg/s1600-h/Spotting+Love+Poster+2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 271px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg5ym-ACh0PU7vUPF1m_kUBU1EeIzH0gVpZ2ypNihSma6JdsN8etZWy1plkjkcnWAUvYlLXyF-B2Juz9-7ilGNnW2nNchfoDyBXhy6iNZ1K5vTSDjaN_dmNofasWDo3B7pvvH3tcR8uBg/s400/Spotting+Love+Poster+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449295601841779250" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga7cr7TxDluRaRORCZfwoo-xdx3EDtCc2I70kzDAUJahWDbqy9YDOM2ZN0-uDVV-4M15qTwhIAAtrtYOyojuvAZmPNZNCbKVfMPXRckNWco2ZMfcJ0UZAcIoKXpaP4_uc5p-pfljH1pTE/s1600-h/Spotting+Love.jpg"><br /></a>My brother's play, based on my writing, will debut on [technically] Broadway this April! Please go to Grant's site and click on the words "Spotting Love". <a href="http://www.grantmcdonald.com/">Click here</a>Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-30297426822490193492010-01-25T06:10:00.004-05:002010-01-25T06:16:44.344-05:00The Mindfulness of Merton<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1FVUYmORPgiJ_L8FuFY7ysSauKqZcKay4StbuUdf1waxfCGcrxrBoOaNkop3qN7gnziE7UGt-m559pwbY5spC7POXRRYzaJ8mCaxOGTFk58kzg1hNtI33ZUDhTlor7QJ6mHURA0vow1k/s1600-h/Mount+Saviour+Monastery+2009-09-07+St+Joseph%27s+House+Dusk.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1FVUYmORPgiJ_L8FuFY7ysSauKqZcKay4StbuUdf1waxfCGcrxrBoOaNkop3qN7gnziE7UGt-m559pwbY5spC7POXRRYzaJ8mCaxOGTFk58kzg1hNtI33ZUDhTlor7QJ6mHURA0vow1k/s320/Mount+Saviour+Monastery+2009-09-07+St+Joseph%27s+House+Dusk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430633454339820194" border="0" /></a>"Do not depend on the hope of results. When you are doing the sort of work you have taken on, essentially an apostolic work, you may have to face the fact that your work will be apparently worthless and even achieve no result at all, if not perhaps results opposite to what you expect. As you get used to this idea, you start more and more to concentrate not on the results but on the value, the rightness, the truth of the work itself," - Thomas Merton, "Letter To A Young Activist"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><a href="http://www.andrewsullivan.com"><span style="font-style: italic;">h/t Sully</span></a></span>Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-83989569794370733742009-12-30T06:35:00.003-05:002009-12-30T08:12:20.457-05:00Let this be my daily prayerI received this email from a friend today. After researching the content, it seems the author is unknown. However, I claim this as my clarion call for each day of the new year.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><blockquote>On this day...mend a quarrel · Search out a forgotten friend · Dismiss a suspicion and replace it with trust · Write a love letter · Share some treasure · Give a soft answer · Encourage youth · Manifest your loyalty in a word or a deed · Keep a promise · Find the time · Forego a grudge · Forgive an enemy · Listen · Apologize if you were wrong · Try to understand · Flout envy · Examine your demands on others · Think first of someone else · Appreciate · be kind · be gentle · Laugh a little more · Deserve confidence · Take up arms against malice · Decry complacency · Express your gratitude · Worship your God · Gladden the heart of a child · Take pleasure in the beauty and wonder of the earth · Speak your love · Speak it again · Speak it still again · Speak it still once again.</blockquote><br /></div>Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156451130837824465.post-57253650429540102782009-12-29T06:50:00.002-05:002009-12-29T06:55:40.490-05:00A Week of Thomas Merton to end the decade ~ 4<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwg52CRrnQTIrjDaDHgCIYkys5UT7tUKt59zShCUplrdwf2ok542Tn-ROzIScYMwmt0Bf7FTJry5F2Aj3zhyphenhyphen61FMC_4swCWi3stm_CiLX_Zaa_vvuZejLFEJilVy258zA1Jg9KNhH_rQU/s1600-h/Mount+Saviour+Monastery+2009-09-06+Spider+Webs+Morning.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwg52CRrnQTIrjDaDHgCIYkys5UT7tUKt59zShCUplrdwf2ok542Tn-ROzIScYMwmt0Bf7FTJry5F2Aj3zhyphenhyphen61FMC_4swCWi3stm_CiLX_Zaa_vvuZejLFEJilVy258zA1Jg9KNhH_rQU/s320/Mount+Saviour+Monastery+2009-09-06+Spider+Webs+Morning.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420625483315538658" border="0" /></a><br />“Be careful of every vain hope; it is in reality, a temptation to despair. It may seem very real, very substantial. You may come to depend far too much on this apparent solidity of what you think is soon to be yours. You may make your whole spiritual life, your very faith itself, depend on this illusory promise. Then, when it dissolves into thin air, everything else dissolves along with it. Your whole spiritual life slips away between your fingers and you are left with nothing. In reality this could be a good thing, if only we could fall back on the substantiality of pure and obscure faith, which cannot deceive us. But our faith is weak. Indeed, too often the weakest thing about our faith is the illusion that our faith is strong, when the "strength" we feel is only the intensity of emotion or of sentiment, which has nothing to do with real faith"Jon-Marc McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14247271197681450826noreply@blogger.com0