Moment of Clairification

There’s more than 7 million Americans who have lost their jobs since 2007 and even more undocumented laborers who are scraping the barrel but have yet to be recognized as more than an illegal aliens. As a young journalist who’s written hundreds of please-hire-me letters in the past year, I can understand why many would gladly trade their idleness — and maybe a picnic, day at the lake or Monday-morning parade — for the late-1800s afflictions that led to the creation of Labor Day in the first place.

How will I be spending my holiday this year? Easy answer — counting my blessings and happily preparing for my new job, which I start Tuesday morning.

I ended up in an angelic town — literally — and I even found the perfect apartment, which happens to be on a street named Clare. This is just one of many coincidences that have been thrown my way in recent weeks, and things are good in my world. Whether that’s luck or fortune, I suppose, depends only on the level of optimism that comes from within.

We all know that coincidence is simply a synchronicity of two or more of the infinite random events from which we have the freewill to choose. Look at the word itself: “coincide-ence” or “co-incident.” But being the type who analyzes everything and gets frustrated at the thought of not having all the answers — I’ve been known to call the crossword hotline instead of sleeping on an empty box or two, so to speak — I can’t help but to also examine the word “incidental,” meaning “apart or aside from the main subject of attention,” and think that maybe we shouldn’t give so much precedence to the idea of coincidence.

My last big move was made out of urgency to discover, and being that I was on a journey, I took in every coincidence along the way. Everything was on my side — or maybe I was just blind to mishap. I wasn’t looking for fame or fortune, and I surely didn’t find either one of those things. I was, however, looking to challenge myself in a manner that would allow me to become more virtuous, self aware and capable of passing on any inspiration I may encounter to others. I left my (quite comfortable) comfort zone, shed my (quite good) reputation and flew north for the winter, somehow 100-percent confident that everything was falling into place perfectly. For the first time, I experienced what it’s like to be a stranger to everyone I encountered — to see how “I” would be perceived by those who knew nothing of who “I” was.

I was all-trusting and all-accepting, my only guide being whatever perception of truth I gained, independent of any reasoning process, from my observation of others’ actions, and more importantly, the unheard voices that seemed to speak loudly when people looked me in the eye. Call me crazy, but when I noticed that those looks were focused at someone else — not the “I” that I know — I got the urge to fly south for this year’s winter and renew my vows to my family and career. And isn’t that the way it should be?

I can’t say I didn’t learn a few lessons, however. Number one is that things may not always be as they seem. Deep down, I was looking to be convinced to stay, waiting for the mask to come off, perhaps. Number two is that you can’t expect every person you care about to reciprocate, and if they don’t, that makes them neither undeserving of love nor deserving of enmity. Number three is that your parents, admittedly, are usually right. Most importantly, I learned that some things just can’t be explained, whether that means there is no definitive answer or there are a number of possible answers floating among the infinite number of possible incidents out there.

In other words — pick a card, any card, but just play by the rules and choose your opponents wisely, if at all. You can’t force yourself to believe things you don’t believe, and you can’t ignore the truths that are in your heart. Sometimes it’s OK — and maybe a bit easier — to accept what you don’t know, and that is in no way equal to admitting ignorance or naivety.

I’ve always had a fascination with lesser-known beauties — or rather, I live by the notion that beauty can be anywhere or in anyone, but it doesn’t exist until you find it. Not to say that I’d try to take pleasure in known atrocities such as living underground or drinking grapefruit juice after brushing my teeth, but I have gotten a few curiously serious “whys” from loved ones in regard my places of relocation and lack of interest in finding a more wealth-inducing career. OK, and sometimes my sense of style.

But it’s no coincidence when things work out harmoniously; it’s a matter, once again, of the level of optimism that comes from within. Sometimes you’ll be in the Captain’s seat and sometimes on the poop deck — or whatever the bottom of the ladder is in boat terms — and sometimes you may have the wind taken out of your sails. Amid the country’s dark, stormy climate and in light of the upcoming holiday, joblessness or misfortune doesn’t necessarily have to mean stagnancy — it’s better to be swallowed by a wave than to be standing on shore.

OK. So I know it’s lame to post something about New Year’s a couple weeks late, but the important thing is how awesome my New Years was, right?

OK. So I’ll start with the Mummers’ Parade (the men in skirts), and I’ll keep this quick.

10 a.m… Thousands-o-men in fancy little silky dresses of all colors with mini-Mary-Poppins umbrellas… Check. Elaborate brigades of costumes and floats… Check. The porto-potty-equipped buses and trailers to carry all their wasted asses to Two Street after the parade… CHECK.

What’s crazy about the whole thing is that the most manly of beer-chugging Irish and Italian men are who make up (IN makeup) the parade… but it almost seems somewhat of an excuse for them to dress in drag. Just sayin’…. The parade’s beginnings date as far back at the 1800s but women weren’t allowed in the parade until the 1970s. Not to mention that there is an entire troupe of the parade called the “wenches” … and it has historically been performed by men in drag. Not even kidding.

These men were carrying out tradition while setting the example (most had kiddos in tow) and they were doing so by wearing skirts while pounding beers and sucking cigars. I’ve never really seen anything like it.

Most of these men are competing for nearly $400,000 in prizes, but the costs involved with putting on the show far outweigh the recognititon. They most often hold “beef and beer” fundraisers or perform in the 4th of July “Show of shows” parade in Atlantic City to raise dough.

And to touch on the “two street” thang I mentioned earlier… Basically, all the wasted mummers head down to South 2nd Street (Two Street) after the parade and continue the party. They pack clubhouses and bars, serenade the sidewalks, have dance parties in the streets and decorate trees with beer cans. It’s a riot, no less.

More sinful than a bowl of cheese.

This year it’s all watercolor (except I’ll throw in this acrylic I finished up) and most are 12 x 9 or so… all white frames