London in New York

It starts with one thing
I don’t know why
It doesn’t even matter how hard you try keep that in mind
I designed this rhyme
To explain in due time
All I know
Time is a valuable thing
Watch it fly by as the pendulum swings
Watch it count down to the end of the day
The clock ticks life away
It’s so unreal
Didn’t look out below
Watch the time go right out the window
Trying to hold on, but didn’t even know
Wasted it all just to watch you go
I kept everything inside and even though I tried, it all fell apart
What it meant to me will eventually be a memory of a time when

I tried so hard
And got so far
But in the end
It doesn’t even matter
I had to fall
To lose it all
But in the end
It doesn’t even matter
–Linkin Park, 2000

An acquaintance came across my column in Social Life Magazine in the Hamptons, googled me, found my blog and said, “I really love the way you write and what you have to say. It struck a nerve. You are sort of a real writer.” I took her comment in stride, knew what she meant, appreciated her sentiments, thanked her but then playfully asked, what do you mean by “sort of.” And then she went there, sort of the same way a certain social gay blogger by the name of Micah Jesse went there when I exposed his social deception and labeled him a ridicutard, “who do you think you are, you are not a legitimate news outlet.” Ok, then so think of it this way, you are just completely full of shit social poseur who is famous for no apparent reason. I just decided to write about it on my non news source blog.” Don’t worry, none of your followers, most of whom have about a third grade reading level and suffer from A-d-d will read or can read my blog. Capische bitch? Go stand in front of a red carpet and flex your eyebrows. Getting back to my point. So, she continued, “Well you know, you should get a column in a newspaper like The Daily News or the Wall Street Journal or something, like a mainstream media, even like Fox News.” Yeah I know, then I would be a part of the media or a real writer, right?

I never expected to be in the position where my views would stand contrary to those of the existing social order. In the 1980’s upon graduating from UPenn Law School I felt like Michael J. Fox in the Secret of my Success even if I was temporarily distracted by the Bright Lights Big City. The vantage point I gained of the metropolis as a professional was different than the one I had growing up in Queens and Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. Things seemed different when you came through or over a bridge or tunnel and/or on the subway. In many respects, I was like a tourist in my hometown, discovering how things flowed for the very first time. I never had a dream of being a photographer, or to cover any beat, social or otherwise, writing about it or photographing it. I just wanted to see and understand it for myself. In fact, a good portion of my life is simply not documented because it never occurred to me that some day I might want photos of those times. It is only when an ex girlfriend, probably the only one who truly left a lasting impression on me, gave me a camera as a birthday gift. I thought I would be a teenager or even in my 20’s forever. Thus all this was never a concern. It’s like all the photos of my life were taken on 5 different days. Time periods all defined by the one same outfit I wore on that one particular day somehow evidences my existence during that time period.

If anything by now I was supposed to be Henry Kravis, Mike Milliken, Donald Trump, Mike Bloomberg, or even Senator Gillibrand. In short, I was to be the guy whose photo you were supposed to take when I walked into a room. I never imagined that I would be the insignificant one, the one trying to document what I thought was relevant or comment about that which frustrated or disturbed me with our culture. I was supposed to be doing deals, having cocktails or relaxing on the beach contemplating the next acquisition with my gorgeous wife or one of my five girlfriends. Yeah, that is how I expected to roll. Now, that is the life of many of the people I cover ironically. I am just that guy with a “quirky” website.

Were I to become a writer, it was to follow in the vein of folks like Norman Mailer, Jack Kerouac, Jimmy Breslin, Mike Lupica perhaps even Mort Zuckerman. I had no delusions. While knews that all of these folks were out of my league and accepted that I wasn’t going to be any James Joyce or Ernest Hemingway. If I could have looked into a crystal ball and you would have told me I would be writing for The Daily News or the Village Voice or even U.S. News & World Report but lived a rather humble existence while seeking to publish my next novel, I would have been quite happy. Some where along the way, life had a different plan for me. This is no Diary of a Yuppie, although I may certainly have qualified as one. I crashed and burned and was briefly homeless, walked the streets of the city down the proverbial boulevard of broken dreams, alone, my only connection to that other world I once lived in was an over extended Verizon cell phone, which was on the verge of being shut off until I woke up one day in my brother’s basement. I saw into the belly of the beast and and know that that Satan does live here on earth. I have witnessed his work. Read into that what you will, rape, murder, extreme violence. Sure it may be entertaining on screen. But Clockwork Orange in real life is another thing entirely.

The Lord, however, works in mysterious ways. And yes, as much as my rational mind informs me of the possibility that the higher authority may not be what we actually think, too many summers at Camp Good News on Cape Cod, Chop Point in Maine and Sundays at St. Paul’s Roman Catholic Church in Queens, my visits to Rome, Italy just serve as counter balance to ruling out that possibility entirely. If you visit the Vatican you pretty much will want to believe in god after that. That along with my kinship with some religious and not so religious Jews and Muslims and I have no choice but to believe that there is something going on, I am not aware of. So yes I have and can do a Passover Seder just please do not put me through a month of Ramadan, unless I can celebrate Ramadan at Ben Bensons. That I cannot take. I choose to believe that there is something to this whole religion thing, just not sure at times if it is the Christians, Catholics (a special brand of Christian), Jews or Muslims who have it right. It may sound intolerant but am pretty sure that the Mormonism is more fable than faith, although I am open to being proved wrong. All I know is BYU, Mitt Romney, South Park and some gorgeous women. So shoot me. I have a feeling someday someone will if I keep asking the questions that nobody dare ask or answer. I am a boy but at times, in my hometown, I feel like the nasty girl.

If this sounds like an existential crisis on some level, it is,although I have already gone through my journey through the dark night of the soul. I am well aware now of the machinations behind the mainstream media. And I specifically chose despite having some work published not to spend my life pitching the establishment media about my worthiness to be a part of it, especially when I often feel at times that shining a light on the truth is not really a goal. While there are certainly some interesting positions in the mainstream media, I do not have the temperament, discipline or the look. The internet came along and voila, Chris London is a media, at least online. I take a certain level of pride in the fact that the masses often just don’t get me. Truth be told, I have much respect for those who operate under tight deadlines, schedules and the never ending scrutiny of editors, publishers and other managers and that the final product of your work may often not be what the author always intended or desired. To do that day in and day out I can imagine will either destroy your ego or at least be incredibly trying or frustrating. Whether it makes you a better journalist is subject to debate. Which is why I guess on some level I am drawn to the art behind the media personalities and what it took to achieve and maintain their standing in one of the most competitive businesses in the world. In some ways, media industry professionals and personalities, especially those who deliver the news, whether right, left or center are sort of the my rock stars and the folks that I enjoy meeting and covering most. If I am home, writing, editing photos, news programming is most often what is on in the background whether it is the TV, often tuned to MSNBC, CNN or ABC. If it is the radio, then it is most likely NPR. And you will excuse my personal interest in that which is broadcast from Rockefeller Center. Top of the Rock is the center of my world.

It is not that I condemn the mainstream media or do not recognize the role it plays in preserving and maintaining a sense of order in the empire. My revolution stops short of bringing down the American Empire. That’s right, revolution for the sake of destroying everything, including some of the good with the false hope that starting from scratch may some how be better, is truly insane. In my estimation, this is why the 9/11 Truth Movement has sort of jumped the shark; often the life that is enabled for many through a capitalistic democracy requires some painful choices to be made to advance the interests of a nation. America is at a crossroads, the global economy is competitive. At this point, I choose to move forward rather than look back and recognize that some may label me a hypocrite for doing so. In the end I have seen “the man” and he is us. Ironically, I sort of accept that the vast majority of our citizens need very little mind control to essentially become sheep. And the sheep need minstrels to entertain them from time to time, perhaps even regularly. The culture of distraction is a lucrative industry creating many categories and sub categories of jobs and businesses for folks blogging, decorating, event planning, publishing, publicizing, basically lots of ing’s. And that is cool and fine and all, but well.

In my early years, I always hoped that I read and studied enough so that my vocabulary and reading comprehension skills did not render me a complete idiot or worse, someone my father was ashamed of. In the end, the kind of citizen I sought to be was one who my father could look at and regardless of how much money I had or did not have, he would conclude that I was basically a good citizen, one who had compassion and understanding for the less fortunate, a sense of history, perspective, an understanding of right and wrong and the ability and capacity to love. Although the last point is my mom’s main concern, she has always wanted to make sure that I am loved. I know I am mom. You made sure of that.

To see truth can often break a man. My father saw and understood too much truth. Maybe he wanted mind numbing financial success for me so I would never feel the pain that he did. Too late pop, I am already there. Our world is founded on a bed of lies, half truths, hope and faith and those that perpetuate it, distort the truth for entertainment sake and distract the masses from understanding it become the most famous, most celebrated. People like me, well I guess, I sort of can make you feel uncomfortable and cause you to lose some sleep at night. The Bogeyman I tell you about can scare the shit out of you in broad daylight.. And while I am no Einstein, I think it would be rather easy to shatter that foundation but in the end if we do, are we better off?

My crisis goes on. Would I like to be more well-known, respected or regarded or famous? Sure, I am no better than those that seek and pursue the FameGame at all costs. Perhaps I am the one who is foolish not to pursue that platform, but fame without context, meaning or achievement to me is empty, meanigless and would force me to become part of the culture of distraction and that, I can’t do. Smart Culture, now that is another story. Do I need the never ending spotlight of fame and notoriety and do I even care that I do not rank highly nor by any means really considered a mover and shaker? Not really. Besides which, if it does not happen, I have the few friends who think I am sort of a real writer anyway, a decent photographer and an insightful friend with some wisdom. If nobody loves me back, I am aware that as long as I have a few bucks in my pocket, I can rent a girl by the hour. Truth is many guys do including your boyfriend, your husband and your father, and who knows they may event rent a boy. It was not just Eliot Spitzer and Charlie Sheen. It’s not like one or two guys kept the industry at work. Come on now, please tell me you know better than that!

Besides which how is that any different from much of the transactional love in our society? Alliances in life, work or business to achieve security and stability from Park Avenue to the East End and Greenwich, Connecticut etc. The desire for “Instimacy” will always be there in a free society, given the level of loneliness one must endure at times in order to succeed. As stated by Henry David Thoreau, “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.” Money makes the world go round. I have compassion, a sense of truth, justice, and I have love for humanity in my heart. My parents will hopefully forgive the fact that I may never end up securing whatever dream I was supposed to have. Even I do not find it all that disappointing. My dream begins anew every day with the sun rising in the morning, access to espresso, a clean pair of fresh socks and comfortable underwear to put on in the morning after a high water pressure shower. After that, it’s all gravy. As long as I can continue this thing I do and someone out there finds some integrity in what I do, my purpose continues. For me, it ain’t about the Benjamins baby, although maybe it should be. Drama may make things frantic and the truth is often far less romantic, but if forced to choose between fame and truth, I choose truth. While the truth may set you free it may also remind us how free we may not be. And at times that is what is truly disturbing to me.

So the question I am left with is, are real writers only those who achieve commercial success and become widely read by an increasingly dumbed down population, one that has developed an intolerance for the written word that extends beyond a paragraph, has no celebrity gossip or pictures? In that case we might as well just toss them a box of crayons. Or is the art in learning how to communicate and get a serious message to resonate with the consumer zombies that our media has created? Writers vs. Artists or must a writer be an artist to break through? And if not, then the righteous must learn to live in pain and perhaps even obscurity.

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