I’ve been around some real excellence the past couple weeks. The first was my 35th college reunion and running into many who were just absolutely and positively crushing it in medicine and in law and in money management and in real estate. Nobody that I ran into, anyway, was crushing it in writing, so there’s still a chance.
I saw this the other day and I copied it. It’s one of my new north stars.
Nothing against real estate development, but award-winning writer–it’s got a rather unique and sexy ring to it, kind of up there with decorated combat vet or astronaut or rebel leader. Of course a rebel leader wouldn’t show up to his reunion, but that’s not the point. The point is I’ve been around a preponderance of excellence lately.
Take more recently as another example. I visited with a homie I went to grad school with who was in town for a game. Talk about excellence. Just about everything this son of a bitch has put his mind to he achieves. He crushed it in the pre-digital, old-school advertising world, and now he writes books full time because, well, shit, he’s part owner of a WNBA team and doesn’t have to work ever again. He’s prolific as hell, was nominated for a Pushcart, which, believe me, is a huge deal in the short fiction community, and is hard at work on his second novel. In it, he says, a mascot gets his head blown off at halftime from a swag launcher gone faulty. I. Can’t. Wait.
Point is, I’ve been around some real excellence lately.
You gotta get special kind of ready for incoming excellence. Shed a few pounds, sure, order a suit, yeah yeah yeah, but what I mean is really get ready. Mentally. Get in the zone. Tell yourself in no uncertain terms, You’re about to be surrounded by excellence, asshole, so act accordingly if you do.
Of course in the case of a 35th college reunion that means you take some stock of the last 35 years, you blow the dust off a story or two worth retelling just in case you get asked to tell a story:
You know I once was on the ice floes of Antarctica? No shit, we were sent there very shortly after it was projected that the ice chunk the size of Rhode Island that broke off and was all over the news might impede our sister icebreaker from accessing the research station. I honestly couldn’t tell you now what we were going to do to save the day because, no shit, this sumbitch was huge. Well, we finally got down there and it was ice liberty and everyone knew what that meant: beer and football on the ice and later on a few indiscretions back on the boat and later later on, back at homeport, divorce papers.
I remember furthermore there was this seal not far from the kegs, a Weddell seal I’d come to find out later. Anyway, I walk up to this seal, oblivious to any Orca that might mistake me for food. It was not uncommon in Antarctica to observe them bobbing up and down off edges of ice floes in what I could only guess was their keeping close tabs on future meals. The seal just kind of looks at me. I don’t know what kind of teeth it’s packing or anything. I’m not even sure at this stage that it’s not a leopard seal, which my dive team and I had been warned about. Leopard seals are the assholes of Antarctica. Aggressive. Mean. Wouldn’t hesitate to rip open a diver. Well, thankfully this one’s not. Like I said, it’s a Weddell seal. Cutest, floppiest thing I ever saw. Fuck it, I thought, and I approached it. It didn’t budge. It didn’t budge when I leaned down to stroke it. It didn’t budge the whole time.
Now I don’t know anything about seal orgasms or anything, but judging by the snot coming out of this seal’s nose and the look of absolute transportation on its whiskered face and, well, all this damn excellence I’ve been around lately, I think I’ll just exercise a little creative license and say that I once watched and had a role in a Weddell seal busting a nut on the ice floes of Antarctica. Feels good.
It feels. . . excellent.
-tmc
Things Men Carry 