Daniel Ruettiger

Great movies transcend genres and achieve a universality that provokes human emotion. Rudy(1993) is a great movie. I cry, without fail, every single time I watch it. Based on a true story, the film chronicles a young man as he struggles to attend the University of Notre Dame and walk on the football team. Sure, it is a stereotypical account of an underdog that was glorified by Hollywood. However, it goes beyond football. It surpasses the symbolism of sport, and reminds the viewer of the importance of dreams.

Ever since I was a runt I have been infatuated with Notre Dame football, and being half Irish and raised Catholic the only two colors that mattered were blue and gold. Rudy just affirmed the only two options in my mind for college: 1) the University of Notre Dame, or 2) no college at all. Now that I have graduated from a university, that was not named Notre Dame, that had no football team to speak of, Rudy still remains a beacon of light.

Living in New York can be strenuous, even suffocating, and it can be easy to lose sight of things. Important things, like dreams. While football waved goodbye to me long ago, it was replaced by other dreams – modified dreams. However, living in NYC tends to bury them deep within my subconscious, and watching Rudy unearths them. Without dreams, I'm not convinced that life is worth living. While you may think that it's just a stupid movie about an undersized and talentless kid from a small town in Indiana who defies naysayers, I challenge you to consider your dreams and what you would be willing to sacrifice to achieve those dreams.

Tennis Shoes

By now we're all familiar with the cliche, that once we've struck it rich there will be something that we immediately buy, for whatever reason. Sometimes athletes will look to take care of their mother and buy them a mansion or maybe an actor will reward a family member with a Mercedes Benz. It's all so cliche, but I have one particularly special item that I will purchase upon "making" it. When I make my fortunes in the world I will skip the Bentley, skip the beach house in the Hamptons, skip hiring a personal chef and head directly to the nearest FootLocker. There I will buy the sneakers that I have wanted since 1997 - The Nike Air Max '97s. When they initially came out I was an eighth grader in middle school and tried to convince my parents that $160 was a small price to pay for my happiness, but they all of a sudden became selectively hard of hearing. Then in May of 2007, I was traveling throughout Europe and saw all of these filthy Italian kids with their D&G jeans and my favorite shoes. I walked into a shoe store and they were 160 Euros (x the $1.50 exchange rate), and I passed on them. Now I walk by shoe stores on a daily basis and see them calling for me, whispering in my ear, and begging me to stink them up, but I can't do it because I've committed my money elsewhere (namely rent and Ryan's). So when I finally make it to the PBA, the first thing I'm going to buy with all of that sweet moolah is a pair of Air Max '97s, because that's what I've always wanted.

Scribblings & Pints

How did I get here?
I can recall a time when the day's most difficult task was trying to color within the lines, and one day Mrs. Cavanaugh, my portly kindergarten teacher who coincidentally wanted to "leave me back a year" due to my coloring follies, sat the entire lot of us in a circle and told us we could be anything we wanted. She went around the circle and my classmates had legitimate answers, like a princess, a fireman, a police officer, a lawyer, or a doctor. One ambitious little teacher's pet responded, "I want to be an astronaut." All I could think of at the time was being paid to spit. A spitter. She was appalled, but the others laughed their grotesque little faces off. I soon learned how to count change and read a clock.

As my education progressed, so did my aspirations. By first grade I told my parents I was going to do the right thing for society and be a police officer. My parents lovingly steered me toward something else that didn't involve risking my life in the name of a pension. I could see them mouthing the letters l-a-w-y-e-r and d-o-c-t-o-r, as I proclaimed I would settle for being a fireman. They were less than thrilled, and if I recall that night I was forced to drink an extra glass of milk, a.k.a. arsenic at that age.

By third grade I had it figured out. I was going to be a professional basketball player. "Dad, I want to be like Magic Johnson," I said. "You mean Larry Bird," he corrected. He was silently hoping I had said Patrick Ewing. In his estimate I would have been ambitious to want to emulate a man that was rumored to have to tape his trouser snake to his leg with duct tape. I gave that dream up when it became apparent that there weren't any 5'9" Lebanese men in the NBA, which describes what my dad is.

In fifth grade I knew I was destined to be a drummer (see Flams & Paradiddles post). The phase slowly burned out when I realized I wasn't really that talented, but suffered through years of school band.

Then thirteen punched me in the face with braces and acne. Welcome to adolescence you cocky little bastard. I was at a crossroads in my life in terms of career paths. My parents had completely given up hope. They couldn't reach me, so they just begged me to do well in school. I ignored them and everything and focused on a movie that melted my face and planted a seed, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I couldn't really comprehend what the hell was going on in the movie, but the imagery was unparalleled. Directly after the viewing, I connected to AOL with the dial-up modem and looked up the movie to find that it was based on the Hunter S. Thompson book. I had to read it. I would later re-read the book three more times at various stages of my high school and college life.

This was my calling. I was destined to be a correspondent. The job would just be an excuse for me to go on the most mind-bending, drug-induced benders that God had ever seen. It was a lay-up and a physical challenge to endure such a strict drug regiment. I would convince some idiot to pay me to write something completely unimportant and slightly appealing. My lens would be influenced by LSD, various pills, weed, and liquor in an attempt to explore and describe some of the best and worst trips that only the most devoted addicts had ever experienced.

All of my friends were applying to colleges and I had no idea what I wanted to do or where I wanted to go, which forced my parents to pray daily to St. Jude that their second son would be found. I went to school in Boston and decided (like all true morons) to major in finance and accounting. My parents were so happy. I was in school, out of their hair, and doing well. I did well enough so they wouldn't question what I was doing in my leisure time, which was smoking trees regularly with my friends. Graduation reared its ugly head in May and reality set in. I would be working on Wall St. and not following in any rogue author's footsteps.

All of this brings us to the present. My drug of choice is strictly alcohol, mainly beer and red wine. The closest to a Thompson-esque demonstration is when I show up to work wreaking like a gin mill. It is highly frowned upon when my boss sees me sweating and chugging alternating gulps of lemon-lime Gatorade and coffee loaded with milk and sugar. Sometimes I get to live out my dreams and go out to lunch with some guys from work, easing my nerves with a Brooklyn Lager, and return to churn out some more irrelevant financial reports that nobody reads. Enter this blog you unlucky, devoted few. I can't thank you enough for indulging in this useless banter.

Note: I realize that I conveniently overlooked the following professions: skimboarder, surfer, and skateboarder. Ohh, and actor.

Flams & Paradiddles

It has been said that music has been critical to the development of the human race. In many instances throughout history one could look at music and realize the profound effect it had on each respective civilization. Scholars maintain that slaves communicated with the aid of music and more specifically with drums. Imagine that - people having conversations by simply and rhythmically beating a drum. As a child with self-diagnosed A.D.D. I had to drum, I needed to become fluent in that conversation.

I wanted to be remembered by one name. Drums would just be the tool I used to carve my name into the history of music. I would be mentioned in the same breath as Keith, John, and Ginger. Without these guys there was no Baba O'Reilly, no Fool in the Rain, no Sunshine of Your Love. These distinguished gentlemen were the heartbeat, the pulse for some of the greatest music ever composed. An alcohol and drug fueled fury would see these savages attacking the skins with reckless abandon, and I was hooked like heroin. Drums, rhythm and beats were my drug of choice.

I joined the school band in fifth grade and took to my practice pad. I worked on my rudiments and was anxious to advance to a real snare. My parents were so happy that I had taken to a creative outlet, and had no problem encouraging me. When I came to them requesting private lessons, they obliged. I worked hard on the drills and exercises in countless books with a bigger picture in mind. One day I'd be on stage assaulting a drum kit of my own, a barrage of tom-tom thuds with intermittent symbol splashes. I'd be shirtless twirling around like Tommy Lee (sans hep. C) keeping perfect time, or better yet I'd be with Anthony, Flea and the other Peppers fashioning only a tube sock while keeping the beat like a metronome, accented by the most intricate fills.

My teacher liked my progress but didn't think I was ready for a drum set, which devastated me worse than any lover ever could by claiming I was inadequate. I convinced my Dad that I needed a drum set if I was going to be the next Bonzo. He agreed. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was trying to walk before I could crawl. I couldn't understand all of the delicate nuances of percussion, which translates into a partial understanding of the drum set. It didn't matter, I was a natural, I needed to graduate to a Premier kit. Again, my parents caved and justified it by claiming it was purchased in the name of "creativity".

Years passed. I practiced, and played in countless jazz bands, tried to start a band with friends, and even played the quads in marching band. Needless to say, I've traded in Vic Firth dreams for Wall Street's poisonous reality.

Today I sit here punching the keys to this blog, sobered by the fact that people know me by one name - Pathetic. Here's to creative outlets.