Don't Be Ashamed Of Your Emotions

I don't read many blogs, admittedly. I barely update my own.

The blogs I do read happen to be either funny, interesting, inspirational or some combination of the three.

On Wednesday, a friend handed me a notebook that was given to her by another friend who knew it was my notebook. I had left that notebook behind at work carelessly. It had some work notes in it but it was predominantly a personal notebook with journal type entries, poetry, rants and attempts at lyrics for songs that may never be written.

I found myself embarrassed for the first time in a long time. No one noticed that I was embarrassed except for my inner critic, who, as expected, laughed his ass off. My embarrassment was rooted in the worry that one of my friends might have read through my notebook. My embarrassment was based in the idea that someone I care about might judge some of my darker, melancholy, unfiltered chicken-scratch.

I over-emote to friends constantly. I not afraid to share how I feel. I could argue that I've made some of the best and worst first impressions due to my inability to filter my emo-tsunami waves. I am not ashamed of those first impressions. I don't apologize for them. That's ultimately who I am. I'm the guy who tells you everything you asked for with or without asking for it explicitly. However, if you discover those same emotions on paper without my presence or implied permission, somehow it embarrasses me.

In April of 2006, I found some of my own emotional writing in a place I didn't expect to find it.
My Uncle Joe kept his important things in the top drawer of his bureau. His car keys. His wallet. Pictures of
his kids. My letter from Christmas 2003. I'll explain.

In December of 2003 (probably around the 22nd), I had my (since then) annual panic about how I'd afford to do anything of value for my family and friends. I'd chosen a path of financial risk. Hopeless romanticism and performing arts. Those crooks steal from me every fucking day.

My thrifty and, I thought, heartfelt decision was to write handwritten letters to my family to tell them how they've shaped me as a person, an artist and an adult, human man. I spent hours writing each letter. I'd do one or two a night and I remember feeling mixed emotions writing them. Ultimately, I felt like these letters were more than just a gift. They were a guaranteed connection. They were love. They were forgiveness. They were understanding. They were thank yous. They were me for you in an envelope.

My Christmas letters weren't universally well received. I'd be willing to bet most of them were recycled by 2004. No one outright chided me for the letters but I don't think, at the time, anyone realized how important the words on those effort crinkled papers were to me. To me emotionally charged, handwritten words should be transferred like a pint of blood, with care and purpose. This letter is mine but it's also yours.
Blood might be thicker than water but it's not thicker than words on paper, that's for sure.

In 2005, I tore my ACL doing an Unnatural Selection show on a Thursday Night in July at ImprovBoston, back when we still nested in a tiny, alcove in Inman Square. It just so happened to be my birthday.
At the time, I was two drinks away from completing my Dead Author's Club mug challenge at the neighboring Bukowski Tavern. I was also in the dead phase of a relationship that went on two years too long. There was much ado about Dana on July 17th in 2005. That night I earned mug #89 (Nostradamus) and the next morning I earned a date with an arthroscopic surgeon on September 1st.

For the next couple of months, I walked around on a cane. In August, my friends Bobby, Blake and I were in Toronto to perform our camping show Fort Awesome at the Toronto Improv Festival. I gimped around looking like even more of a douche than usual.

My mom, aunt, grandpa and Uncle Joe actually came to Toronto to catch our set at the festival. It baffled me that they'd be so unconditionally supportive. It even frustrated me. Seriously, I'm doing improv. It might suck this time. We don't know yet. IT'S IMPROV.

In retrospect, I wish I had been more respectful toward their pilgrimage. It was at an outdoor cafe in Toronto, Ontario, Canada that I learned about my Uncle Joe's cancer. Coming to see me pretend with my friends in Canada was an escape, a retreat, an apology, a trailer for a movie I don't want to see. It was a hint at goodbye.

A month later, I spent what should have been a miserable week of recovery at my grandfather's house recovering with Uncle Joe who had begun his radiation treatments. It was one of the best weeks of my life in the most matter of fact way possible. See, Uncle Joe was more than an uncle. He was a best friend. If he were here today, he'd be walking me through my latest heartbreak as if it was his job. He took even my most trivial speculations and made me feel justified going there. There are times I pick up my phone to call him, somehow forgetting that his phone number has long since changed hands. If only phone numbers took on the qualities and personality and life of the person who used to own them. I'd call his cell just for that comfort again even though there might be a voice I didn't recognize on the other end.

Joe reinforced everything good about me. Forgiveness. Kindness to strangers. Confidence. Standing up for yourself. Unconditional love. Humor. A love of music. Generosity. So, when I was writing his letter in December of 2003, I spent a long time trying to communicate just how much his contribution to me had been appreciated, recognized and indelible.

I had mentally recycled those letters in 2004 myself. Fast forward to April 2006.
I held the letter I had written 3 years earlier and it was the closest I'll ever come to zen. Despite the tears running down my face, I knew Uncle Joe got the message. It was the most bittersweet satisfaction I have ever experienced and I can't imagine the scope of the impact that moment had on my life.
The letter was still in it's original envelope. Mint condition. Either he wanted me to find it there or it was meaningful enough to him to keep it with the things he wanted everyday access to.

Since that day, I've made a promise with myself to tell people how I really feel to the best of my ability.
If you're lucky, I'll put it in writing for you.

I love you all.

DJB

Love Yourself

I spent way too much of my life trying to get people to like me. I would have changed anything to be the guy that people wanted me to be. I hated my nose because it was too big and broken. I hated my height because it was too short and broken. I hated my clothes because they weren't designer and expensive.

I wanted to be what people wanted me to be for the first half of my life. As such, I lived a terrified, nervous and sheltered adolescence.

In 7th grade, a popular guy I looked up to, gave me some unsolicited fashion advice. Popularity in 7th grade is so fleeting. If you fart, puke, fall or cry in middle school, that becomes your badge, your scarlet letter, your identity. Even the 1% in middle school is subject to social exile given tragic circumstances.

I remember it like it was yesterday. We were between classes after lunch and I was probably rocking my favorite (and only) Hypercolor tee and some MC Hammer pants from JC Penney.

By rocking, of course, I mean wearing.

By wearing, I mean trying to fit somewhere.

In this instance, I was trying to fit between the one hit wonder clothing fad and the one hit wonder hip hop artist. I fit there quite nicely.

I remember said popular guy being an athletic, well-dressed dude with a cross-breed of false modesty and arrogance. He had a slight lisp or speech impediment which kept him from being an alpha but he was alpha enough to give my clueless ass an unexpected sartorial schooling. And that's what he did. I remember admiring and hating him at the same time as he listed the brands of jeans I should be buying to replace my parachute pants collection. Girbaud. Cavaricci. (He had a tough time saying Cavaricci which secretly amused me) Guess. It slowly began to dawn on me that popular guy's mom didn't dress him. Nope, he had wardrobe sovereignty and the money to run with that sovereignty. I didn't.

Acquiring the clothes necessary to escape my prepubescent ineptitude was going to take some doing.

Money was always tight in my house unless it came to alcohol. There always seemed to be budget enough for beer. I knew that asking my mom to buy me anything legit was a lost cause.

Mom would always use gifts as a way to get back later. She gave to get. She was like the mob. She was the momster. I couldn't even imagine what I'd have to do to get designer jeans.

Despite the hopelessness of the situation, I gave it my all. At 13 giving it my all meant crying. Heck, at 33 giving it my all means crying. This is what happens when you're raised by women. That, and well coiffed bikini lines. See me in July.

I cried. I am a loser. I'm not popular. I need Guess jeans. People don't like me. Guess jeans will make people like me. Claudia Schiffer will like me. All of my problems will be solved by a pair of overpriced denim!!! Once these Guess jeans are on, no one will notice my retainer, my big nose, my distance from puberty, my squeaky voice or my own hand prints on my Hypercolor shirt.

BUY ME GUESS JEANS!

Mom didn't budge. But my message sunk in somehow. It sunk in enough that word of my crisis got through to my family. I didn't realize my impact until Easter. My aunt Eileen played Easter Bunny better than the rabbit himself. Jesus resurrected in the form of a pair of Guess jeans. Eileen had felt my plight and decided to make things right with me and my ego. I couldn't have been happier. I wore those fuckers for probably a week and a half. I think I slept in them. Man, did my Hypercolor shirt pop with those jeans on! My problems were solved!!!

I was walking tall. I didn't have an overbite anymore. I was the toughest 92 pound kid in the world. I could move mountains. I was on a fast climb to popularity. Until.

Lunchtime. Mid April. Full cafeteria. Me. My Guess Jeans. My lunch. My pride.

All present.

I proudly marched my lunch to my table and took a moment or two extra to sit just to make sure people knew I was wearing Guess Jeans. Oh they knew. And, unbeknownst to DJB, they had known for a week. It was on this day, the alpha popular girl - did me a huge favor. She approached me at my lunch table and I remember being confused and excited at the same time. She had some other popular girls in tow. This was when it was all gonna happen. I was becoming the man.

"I see you're wearing Guess Jeans." she said.

In my head, I was shocked that this one pair of jeans was really actually bringing me to the upper echelon of 7th grade but I refused to question it because this kind of face time with a terrifyingly gorgeous 'in' girl was more than enough to veil any sort of reality.

"Can I see them?"

Um. Yes. I stood up proudly and modeled confidently.

"Do you see how the writing in the logo triangle is red on your jeans?"

Yes. I said smiling proudly.

"Look at our jeans. It's the same. Red writing" Several popular girls then showed me the Guess triangle logo on their rear ends. This was amazing. They wear Guess Jeans. I wear Guess Jeans. I'M IN!

"Now, look at their jeans." The girls summoned a few football players from a nearby table.

"The logo has green writing. Guys Guess Jeans have green writing in the logo."

GULP. HUMILIATION. HOW COULD IT BE? I HAD BEEN WEARING GIRLS GUESS JEANS FOR ALMOST TWO WEEKS ONLY TO BE CALLED OUT BY THE POPULAR KIDS AT LUNCH. FUCK!

Needless to say, my face went to Hypercolor and I 'gave it my all' for a while.

Eileen had bought the jeans at Marshalls and they were in the wrong section. They fit like a glove. I bet they'd still fit. A one fit wonder.

I didn't live that down for a few years. I began to live it down when I stopped caring what I wore and who liked me and why. I began to live it down when I started to like me. I don't know when that was but I can guess.