BURN YOUR CAMO SHORTS, CHANNEL YOUR INNER RAY DRECKER, DIG DEEP AND WAIT FOR GOOD THINGS TO HAPPEN

I was happy to angrily throw the old camouflage shorts in the trash. I wish I would've burned them actually. Like ritualistically with sadistic pleasure.

And I love me a great pair of camo shorts.

But this pair...this frickin' pair....

Had become my nemesis.

I remember thinking at the end of last summer that I'd get rid of them. They had tears all over. Particularly in the right rear pocket. Where I keep my big ass Harley Davidson chain wallet. Sans the chain. Strategically moronic. You'll learn why here in a minute.

But I never did throw them out when I should have. As I pulled them out this spring, I forgot they were waning. And I wore them on the first day of my recent weekend trip to NYC.

I figured I was going to go see Madball, Booze & Glory, Turnstile and others play at the Black N Blue Bowl, and I'd be bouncing around like a helpless molecule with sweaty hardcore dudes, so why wear anything else but the old ass camo shorts?

Bad choice. Faulty thinking.

The trip was supposed to be a fun father-and-son bonding trip. Hit up BNB bowl on Saturday, visit some cool joints to eat and then some kitschy NYC touristy things on Sunday. Ya know, Hudson ferry tourist cruise, Irish Hunger Memorial visit, visit the NYC Apple store, and of course the 911 memorial.

My son and I got in the Uber car 6am Saturday. An extremely affable North African dude picked us up in the Uber car. The man explained how grateful he was to be in the US. No one messing with him if he didn't mess with them. Apparently it's not quite that way in North Africa. Imagine that.

North African dude went on to chit chat with us about our NYC trip. He recalled his last one with his family. He said it was perfect weather, great time, great everything. Until at the end when he realized he lost all his keys. He said, with complete emotional recollection palatable in his voice, that he could not describe the utter feeling of misfortune he felt when this occurred.

Struck with terror at the thought, I instantly took my keys out of my front right pocket and put them safely into the velcro secured right side cargo pocket of my camo shorts.

I was totally petrified of losing my keys after hearing the urgency in the voice of my new North African friend.

We got to the bus stop no problem. We boarded the bus, took our seats, and proceeded to clamp on our respective ear buds and chill for our two hour ride to NYC from Philly. This, in and of itself, was a deviation from our original itinerary. The horrific tragedy that occurred just a few days prior in Amtrak's northeast corridor had our train plans cancelled. Prayers to all those affected.

My son wasted no time asking me to pass the Anker portable charger that we brought. I swear my tech supremacist son was more excited with the possession of this charger than any sight, sound, or experience he could possibly encounter on the weekend excursion. No wonder our visit to the NYC Apple store was one of the highlights of the weekend for him. Along with his first Uber ride. Although he was still pissed we were staying in the Hampton Inn as opposed to an Air BNB room. Quintessential specimen of the great over-washed, unrugged, inherently privileged  millennial generation.  Neo tech supremacist snob, but I love him. Blood is blood.

After a brief stop at the hotel, we hailed a cabbie to Times Square. Again, my tech-focused fourteen year old was primarily enthralled with anything digital and new. The obnoxiously large LED screens in Times Square fit that bill.

We had watched a Louis CK stand up comedy the night before. In the cab, my son and I joked about Louis CK's comment that New York City was not the environment. Louis explained how he had thoughtlessly littered a candy wrapper on the street and his friend asked him if he cared about the environment. Louis CK responded by explaining that New York city was the giantest, shittiest piece of litter next to Mexico city in the world. It wasn't the environment at all-it was where people were.

This was the backdrop from which my son began his first NYC trip.

Minutes later we were dropped off right in front of the NYPD office in Times Square. We were excited to start the day and our weekend itinerary. I don't remember all that happened. The sequence, the conversations, whatever. It was bit of a blur.

I do remember paying the cab fair with my debit card.

And then I remember getting half way down the street and feeling the right back pocket of my camo shorts. I felt entirely way too much of my ass.

My wallet was gone.

Thanks to the cautionary tale from my North African Uber driver friend, I still had my keys.

But the damn wallet was MIA.

Frickin' camo shorts.

Deep horror struck me. My keys were safe but my frickin' wallet was AWOL. And I was smack dab in the middle of the giantest, shittiest piece of litter in the world next to Mexico city.

And my son, the tech supremacist, exhibited little by way of compassion or sympathy. All I remember him saying is "this wouldn't have happened if you had Apple Pay."

I love you too son. I work in the payments industry, and yet needed my son to remind me of my failure to adopt Apple Pay for personal use.

All the sudden I felt like a bald, tattooed cross between the lost and clueless Will Ferrell inElf and the semi-gridless, disconnected, pissed and hunted Will Smith in Enemy of the State.

Yeah, my imagination collides with strange, exaggerated circumstantial distortions. Sorry.

An hour or so later, I realized I was neither of the Wills.

Following the filing of an incident report with NYPD and a few new temporary debit cards from Wells Fargo, I was about half relieved. Half.

It was time to make chicken salad out of chicken shit and improvise, overcome and adapt. I was gonna make a good weekend out of this come hell or high water.

I decided instantly I was going to react the way the fictional character of Ray Drecker in the HBO series Hung would. I suppose a lil WWRDD (What Would Ray Drecker Do)

When his house burned down and he had failed to pay his home owners insurance bill on time, he reacted by improvising, overcoming and adapting and practicing advanced gratitude. He took inventory of his options and resources with the quickness and yielded a positive attitude as he told his distraught misfit children, "We'll pitch a tent and go camping out back. It'll be great. We'll make breakfast."

   

Might not have been his exact words, but something to that effect. Point is, Ray Drecker kept his roll going and didn't flinch when life forced an unexpected and unwanted pivot. He found the positive and the adventure in devastating and sudden misfortune. One much more devastating than me losing my wallet in NYC.

So I forced out the inherent state of extreme pisstivity (a word invented by Luke Cambell of 2 Live Crew) out of my mind and marched on to a memorable weekend. Like Ray Drecker, when life erupts and flames burn all around me, I push them to the rearview and I look for a sheltering tent. And breakfast.

I enjoyed a great My Father Flor De Las Antilles cigar sitting on a bench in Battery Park.

I got to briefly meet and introduce myself to Lars Frederickson of Rancid, Lars Frederickson and the Bastards and Old Firm Casuals. This, right after my son and I had just watched Rancid's Ruby Soho video at the Hard Rock cafe while eating lunch.

I got to meet Mark from Booze & Glory, a band I've been working with on Sailor's Grave, but hadn't yet met in person.

I said hello to my man Freddy Madball after not having seen him in years. And caught up with Madball's old manager Royce Lee. An old friend.

Then while watching Madball's fiercely energetic set at Black N Blue bowl, some drunken dude saw me hanging with my son and began chewing my ear off. But this dude was great.

He told me his whole life story. Told me how his dad took him to a VOD (Vision of Disorder) show and told him he'd never take him to another show again but how he always remembered his old man for taking him that one time. He told me how great it was that I was hanging with my son at a show. Told me I reminded him of his dad. Said his dad had tats and wore a fedora same as I do.

Dude got rather emotional as he continued on about his family history, upbringing, regrets for never having kids, sadness when his dad died. The whole nine. Heartfelt. Real. He was drunk as hell, but all heart. Moved me. For real. Dude made my weekend.

The next day as my son and I waited in line for the Hudson ferry cruise tour thing, there was an Indian family in front of use. Eastern, not native American. I overheard the father explaining to his son, after the young boy whined and fretted with impatience about the reality of waiting in line, that "You have to wait for good things to happen."

Earbuds firmly in place, and oblivious to the words of the Indian dad in front of us, minutes later my son started in on the "I'm bored" routine.

I parroted, "You have to wait for good things to happen."

He looked at me sheepishly and confused. Dunno if my son got what I meant, but the Indian dude looked back at me and smiled.

Bad things happen. Life's a bitch. We do have to wait for good things to happen. And when bad things happen - illnesses, failed marriages, loss of loved ones, addictions, business failures, bankruptcy, and even lost wallets in NYC -we need to remember the wait. And in the wait, we need to keep failing till we accidentally succeed. Keep pivoting until we find shelter and sustenance in a new tent. Keep improvising. Overcoming. Adapting. Sharpening our ability to create chicken salad out of chicken shit.

Forget the lost wallet and find other currency. Ideas are the only true currency anyhow. Find a new re-invented identity. Burn the camo shorts and leave them behind. Flickering threads of emerging ash flashing in the rear-view. Move forward and live life to the fullest. Dig deep for the strength that you seek.

While you wait for good things to happen.

 For more insights on how to fail to success, create chicken salad out of chicken shit, and to improvise, overcome and adapt with a balanced life, look for my forthcoming non-fiction book Failure Rules!: The Hard Times Handbook for the Die-Hard Entrepreneur.

 To read a kick-ass spy novel with a tattooed, cigar-smoking Mick anti-hero protagonist who bears strong generational contrast to his CIA director boss—as my son’s tech-focused snobbery contrast with me — give a read on to BLAZE: Operation Persian Trinity and dive-in to some supernatural near-term geo-political forecasting.

CIGAR REVIEW - ROMEO Y JULIETA HOUSE OF CAPULET TORO

Suggested Retailer: FAMOUS SMOKE SHOP

Strength: Medium

Shape: Toro

Size: 6 x 52

Country: Honduras

Wrapper Color: Natural

Wrapper Origin: Ecuadorian

Wrapper Leaf: Connecticut

My first attempt at enjoying one of the handful of Romeo Y Julieta House of Capulet Toro smokes I had acquired didn’t work out too well.

I lit one up promptly upon leaving the office one day to enjoy on my ride home. A fine cigar usually cures what ails me as I battle traffic and suppress road rage urges on the afternoon commute home. However, I’m usually prone to a heavy Maduro cigar. I do occasionally crave something lighter, but not often. Apparently, the lighter, albeit medium strength, cigar wasn't the right choice for a drive home smoke. The wind whipping through the Cadillac sun roof and front seat windows served to diminish the strength, consistency and flavor of the draw. Never mind the poor performance of the burn.

Never one to give up on the first try, a week later I gave it another whirl. After a short post-meal Sunday afternoon nap, I poured a few finger of Sailor Jerry Spiced rum with just a few rocks and sat in my favorite leather chair, feeling the kind breeze blow my way from the open screen door, as I lit up the 6 X 53 medium powered Toro. No traffic to battle. No horns. No agita. No wind whipping from the sun roof. No distractions for the lighter cigar to contend with.

After several preliminary puffs and the first few sips of rum, the enjoyment began to settle in. The natural Ecuadorian wrapper emitted its distinct flavor and the ash was holding quite nicely. The sweet spot hit its zenith somewhere around the middle of the stick. Just about the time I realized I needed to pour a few more fingers of rum.

The Romeo Y Julietta House of Capulet Toro finished, this time, the way it started—with care, with character, and as the perfect elixir companion to a lazy Sunday afternoon post-nap cocktail.

Need a Sunday afternoon smoke? Get some great Romeo Y Julieta's online from my friends at the Famous Smoke Shop.

Need a Sunday afternoon read to go along with your Romeo Y Julieta stick? Grab a paperback or e-book copy of BLAZE: Operation Persian Trinity and follow the misadventures of Blaze McIntyre as he smokes cigars and engages in rugged espionage missions. 

 

BLAZE BOOK SIGNING & CIGAR EVENT FRIDAY MAY 1st!

WHAT:  BLAZE: Operation Persian Trinity Book Signing and Cigar Event!

WHERE: Blaze Cigar House, 433 Saint John St. Havre De Grace, MD 21078

INFO: 443-388-0800 BlazeCigarHouse@yahoo.com

WHEN:  Friday May 1st, 2015

TIME: High Noon until Midnight

WHY?:  

1) Because its Havre De Grace’s first “First Friday” of the year and the town will be hopping

 

2) Because when else to you get to buy a great spy novel signed by its author at a new cigar shop that share the same name as the novel’s main character? 

3) Because your signed copy of the book is only $8 if you buy a cigar

4) Because I’d love to have a cigar and a drink with you and kick off the month of May

“My rule of life prescribed as an absolutely sacred rite smoking cigars and also the drinking of alcohol before, after and if need be during all meals and in the intervals between them.”

- Winston Churchill

In my novel BLAZE: Operation Persian Trinity, a fictional cigar lounge in Toledo, Ohio is converted into a CIA safe meeting room. The lounge is owned by a fictional charismatic, comedic Lebanese tobacconist named Butros who reckons that providing the safe room was “the least he could do” for his friend, CIA director Chuck Gallagher. Butros then figures that the most he could do would be to “provide some free cigars and top shelf liquor when those meetings occurred.” 

I don’t know if Winston Churchill ever enjoyed cigars and fine liquor with the CIA, but I’d imagine he would’ve been comfortable doing so. Given his legacy, I’m sure he’d comfortably wallow in and persistently produce bellowing clouds of premium cigar smoke for an extended period of time in such a meeting if a meal was also involved. 

On May 1st, the onset of Havre De Grace, Maryland’s “First Friday” tradition, the BLAZE CIGAR HOUSE will be hosting yours truly for an all day event of book signing, booze sipping, and fine cigar smoking. Winston Churchill will be likely often invoked and recalled, but not present, outside of maybe one’s belief in lingering ghosts. 

Your humble, yet proud, young entrepreneurial tobacconist will not be a comedic Lebanese fictional character, but instead, the passionate lover of the leaf, one Mr. Ray Leak. The cigars will not be free, but your signed copy of BLAZE: Operation Persian Trinity will be discounted if you purchase a cigar.

Ray’s character-rich cigar house rests seductively in front of a gorgeous view of the Chesapeake Bay that can be visually accessed by one by sitting on Ray’s divinely spacious back deck—when weather does not seek to interrupt. 

Inside, you will find comfortable leather seating, a strategically stocked humidor full of fine cigars, and accommodations for all your BYO libation catering needs. 

Outside, you will be a part of the procession of cabin fever weary townies and tourists eager to shake off winter and celebrate the first day of the annual “First Friday” unique to Havre De Grace, Maryland. Washington, St. John and Franklin streets will be closed to traffic. You’ll see market stalls lining the street.  You’ll hear street musicians charm your ears. Stores, cafes, and restaurants will entice your inner night owl by staying open later than normal. 

And special events will be ubiquitous throughout the town, including the book signing of BLAZE: Operation Persian Trinity at the BLAZE CIGAR HOUSE. Stop by. Puff and rotate. Pour a few fingers. Buy a book. Get your BLAZE on in text and in tobacco. 

BLAZE: Operation Persian Trinity. Pick up your copy today on AMAZON.

A DEEP DIVE INTO A ROSE TATTOO

Dropkick Murphys "Rose Tattoo" video
Dropkick Murphys "Rose Tattoo" Lyrics

A Rose Tattoo for My Daughter Chloe

Music has always been my proverbial go-to drug and the emotive prime mover and the synchronizing clarifier humming in the background of my life. It’s always been right there by my side as I swerve in and out of life’s various lanes of joy, treachery, and thrill.

Along this long tail journey of life, and all the quirky meta-journeys it imposes, there are some sonic moments that emerge out of the normal, absorbed soundtrack that are uniquely punctuated by a heightened relevance—a soul-searing connection to a song, album, or a lyrical phrase. Or even a video.

A handful of these moments have eternally cemented themselves to me via particular songs, bands, albums, video, and poignant lyrical poetic bullets.

In recent years, a tune that has animated all kinds of emotion, significance, and extrapolated personal meaning to me is the song and video for “Rose Tattoo” by Dropkick Murphys. The dichotomies and sentiments weaved into the lyrics and the images in the video paint a tapestry of life that very much mirrors many themes of my life.

So I’mma take a deep dive here and break this down almost line by damn line.

If you’re heavily tattooed and your ink has, at least in large part, some meaning to you, then likely for you it is also the case that “the pictures tell the story” and your “life has many shades”. As I expand here you’ll see that’s definitely true for me.

7 X 70 Room 101 Big Payback

I’ve got a passion for fine cigars. I love the way they go with coffee in the morning and 

bourbon at night. I love the aroma, the flavor, the feel. The way it tames a traffic-filled commute. Love the aesthetic of the cigar band and the thought and art that goes into most cigar branding. Cigars for me are contemplative facilitators that accompany so much of my decision-making. Cigars provide the relaxant mechanism for me to allow all factors of a pending decision to bubble up in clarity. So I can clearly underwrite the ever-changing course of my life. When Ken Casey sings “I’d wake up every morning and before I’d start each day / I’d take a drag from last nights cigarette / That smoldered in it’s tray / Down a little something and then be on my way”, I’m reminded not of last night’s cigarette but of the cigar butt left for my discovery every morning as I down my morning black coffee and head on my way. The cigar butt smoldered in the ashtray that signifies the completion of the previous night’s contemplations, writings, readings, and resolutions made. The coffee that shakes off any remnants of the previous night’s booze intake and soul-searching hangover. The coffee that catalyzes the energy of a bold new day.

When in the “Rose Tattoo” video the camera flashes to the Celtic cross hanging on the wall as Ken sings “I was guided by a compass / I saw beauty to the north”, I’m reminded of the overarching threads of heritage and faith represented in the Celtic cross. I’m struck by the power that those life forces have to guide us through a life that offers very few maps with specific directives of left and right turns. A life that more often than not colors us with the broad thematic direction that a compass provides—a directive that provokes curious margins of wonderment, beautiful instincts of free will, and a teasing hope that keeps us chasing vigorously past disappointments and failures.

As the song confesses that the singer “drew the tales of many lives /
And wore the faces of my own”, I’m reminded of the gift of the vast, diverse swathe of virtual mentors, real-life heroes, and deep impacting personal relationships that have sharply punctuated my life. People from whom whose lives I’ve collectively drawn the tales of—to enhance my life so I could wear the unique face of my own. Individuals whose lives and legacies have had profound impact on how I approach business, faith, loyalty, love, forgiveness, and redemption.

As the song persists and takes comfort that the singer has “had these memories all around me / So I wouldn’t be alone”,  I think of the carefully curated images and items that I’ve populated my living space with. Every selection was intentional and serves to remind me of inspirational sources that help inform my ongoing pursuit of discovering the multi-threaded composite of my calling. Images of my Irish heritage, of Americana beauty, of nautical metaphoric significance, of musical impact, of life’s poetic glory and of men who brought the world to new understanding of insightful profundities. I do my best work when I have the likes of Winston Churchill, Johnny Cash, the Liberty Bell, Norman ‘Sailor Jerry’ Collins, Popeye, Marine Corp slogans, Norman Rockwell paintings and Irish Blessings staring back at me.

Blood For Blood skull

My tattoos are a disjointed storyboard of my life. They detail a seemingly random path of

interests, images, and commitments. From a raging tiger to a trumpeting angel. From Jesus bearing a crown of thorns to a Blood for Blood skull. From a lighthouse to an atom bomb draped in the American flag pronouncing our times as the “Age of Quarrel”. Each stain triggers memories of different kinds and emotions and attachments of all varieties. Some of sweet pain and tumult and the strength of fighting through. Some of love, joy and persistent hope. Some, like the obligatory rose tattoo with the ex-wife’s name etched beside it, with piercing memories of complex relationships gone wrong. Indeed, the whole lot of them can be summed up concisely in the way DKM describes: “Some may be from showing up / Others are from growing up /Sometimes I was so messed up and didn’t have a clue.”

Me and My Daughter Violet

I’ve learned to strategically walk through life knowing when to ignore the false impressions I sense others have about me. I do impression management by simply not doing it at all.  Wearing full sleeve tattoos on both arms gives me lots of practice to exercise this skill. The images are primarily for me. They keep me anchored in who I am, where I’ve been, and where I purpose to go. And the ones etched as a tribute to loved ones, like the two rose tattoos bearing my daughters’ names, are there for their honor. When Ken sings “I ain’t winning no one over / I wear it just for you / I’ve got your name written here / In a rose tattoo”, I smile and think of who I wear those rose tattoos for, and who I ain’t concerned about winning over.

Wild-Eyed Sailor

One tattoo comes quickly to mind when I hear Ken singing “This ones for the mighty sea / Mischief, gold and piracy.”—my Popeye tattoo designed by Aaron Coleman and inked by Keith Reed. The image is of a maniacal looking Popeye with bloodshot eyes, tongue hanging out and steering wildly through the open sea. It is my nod to wild-eyed adventurism, bold risk taking, and sailing through life with curious mischief and a sense of life’s endless possibilities.

The “Rose Tattoo” video is littered with images of the band drinking, smoking, gambling, and playing music. It’s a familiar scene of men unpacking the events and troubles of the day amidst their choice pleasures, vices, and past times. A snapshot of the trimmings of male camaraderie and fellowship that helps tough guys distill unspoken moments of clarity amidst the constant hustle of life. These images remind me of my pals at the cigar lounge and the regular gatherings I share with my treasured, long held friends.

This One's for The Man That Raised Me

My old man almost never cursed. But he did once advise me that, “Sometimes life’s a beach, but most of the time life’s a bitch.” My old man followed the direction of his internal spirit voice no matter how much of a bitch life became. He dug deep and stayed the course of his calling through 

undesirable occupational detours—selling used cars, teaching unappreciative kids and other distractions. But he always saw the purpose in everything and found his way back to the pulpit where he belongs. Back to guiding others to a life focused on the internal. On the spiritual. I have a portrait tattoo of my dad on the inside of my left arm. I echo Ken’s sung words of “This ones for the man that raised me / Taught me sacrifice and bravery,” when I peer at this tattoo.

My middle name is Thorp, if you ain’t figured that out yet. It’s a name passed down from the English side of my family and it means ‘small village’ or ‘small farm’. Now I could care less about small villages or farms to be honest, but my family and heritage matters. I named one of my record labels THORP RECORDS and I gave my son Griffin the middle name Thorp to perpetuate the significance. I have the name tattooed in Old English script across my back because “This one’s for my family name / With pride I wear it to the grave.”

A sign reminding that “if you’re lucky enough to be Irish, you’re lucky enough” is seen in the “Rose Tattoo” video. True enough. This truth reminds me of my grandmother who grew up in a working class Irish family in the Kensington part of Philadelphia. My grandmother left home in her late teens. Her dad was a tortured alcoholic. ‘Ole

Betty hoisted herself through life with a bootstrapped Irish Catholic faith that converted to Protestantism only to later mingle back with Catholicism in her seventies after she re-married as a widow. But through it all she never stopped emphasizing the luck of the Irish. A luck that is theologically anathema to the constructs of her faith but somehow seemed to make sense and accent it in the way that she explained it. I think of this when I look at my ‘Blessed” tattoo consisting of a harp and  clovers. My grandmother’s maiden name was McIntyre. In honor of her, I named the protagonist in my spy thriller Blaze McIntyre. Lucky enough indeed.

Madball - A Reminder to Adapt & Overcome

As the “Rose Tattoo” video shows images of Dropkick Murphys posters and tattoos, I’m reminded of the strength music has always given me. A strength further represented by some of my tattoos honoring some of my favorite bands. A Madball tattoo to remind me of the band that has always been my musical workout companion and the angel in the boxing ring of my life coaching me to bob and weave and pivot for the next body shot. A Cro-Mags tattoo to help me traverse through hard times with perpetual PMA. A tattoo of Sheer Terror’s cover art for Love Songs For The Unloved to wrap up my divorce. A Blood for Blood skull with its trademark tear drop to remind me of the necessity of pain as one approaches life with an outlawed approach of risk-taking authenticity. And a set of Social Distortion lyrics from the song “When The Angels Sing” to memorialize a dear friend who passed away after a long battle with a heroin addiction.

A Ship That Always Stays The Course

I’m not a seaman. I don’t fish much. I don’t own a boat. I do love the water and cherish any time away in which I’m able to spend time near the water. So I’m not a nautical purist. But the image of a strong, towering ship has always captured me. Images I usually see in paintings. A ship holding fast through furious waves crashing against it. Through an angry sea begging the ship’s defiance. It’s been a metaphor that I’ve always internalized. Stay strong and hold fast through life’s crashing waves of difficulty and conditioning. Stay the course. Fortify the stern. This is what flashes to mind when I see the ship tattoo on my forearm. It’s what comes to mind when DKM sings “This one means the most to me / Stays here for eternity /A ship that always stays the course.” And when he follows it up with “An anchor for my every choice”, I think of the various anchor tattoos I wear. Mostly the one with banners around it reading “Truth”, “Love”, and “Discipline”—three virtues I strive to remain anchored to with every choice I make in life.

Another prominent thrust of images in the video are the barrage of boxers fighting in the ring. I don’t box other then amateur heavy bag training for exercise. I don’t really follow boxing adamantly and couldn’t really hold a strong fan boy conversation about the sport. But the sport itself still strongly attracts me because of the spirit it possesses. I love the raw lessons that can be wrought from the personal stories of fighters, both real and fictional. Whether its Micky Ward, Mohammed Ali, Jack Johnson, or Rocky Balboa. I internalize the fighting spirit of boxers as much as possible in a metaphoric way in my own life—in business, in parenting, in relationships, and in my spiritual life.  The tattoo on my left arm with boxing gloves stating “Never Give In” roots me in this life approach.

My left arm dons an angel tattoo blowing a trumpet with a skull coming out. It was designed by Dave Quiggle and inked by Ryan Pauliff. The piece is surrounded by two banners. One is the lyrics “Stand Up Strong, Feel The Pain, When The Angels Sing” from the song “When The Angels

In Memory of My Grandfather, Lothar H. Miller

Sing” by Social Distortion. The bottom banner reads “In Memory Of Richard Seiferheld”. Rich was one of my closest friends that passed in 2006 after years of battling a heroin addiction. On my right tricep is an eagle with a banner memorializing my grandfather, Lothar Helmut Miller, who served in World War II. When DKM sings “You’ll always be there with me / Even if you’re gone / You’ll always have my love / Our memory will live on”, it’s these sacred ink tributes that flood my mind with memories of the men they are dedicated to. They will always be in my heart and honored on my skin.

The end of the video showcases a flash to a scene of an American flag flapping gently in the wind. This buttons the whole thing up for me perfectly. Although imperfect like any other nation, America has offered its inhabitants an endless

stream of discovered opportunities, uniquely crafted streams of adventurism, and reformative revolutions that are historically special. These sentiments make me think of the American flag tattooed on my wrist. I don’t know DKM’s intentions for inserting the flag, but to me it’s an apolitical symbol of the land that I know and love.

So maybe I’ve taken this song and video a tad too much to heart. I’ve extrapolated all kinds of meaning, memories, and value out of it that others may not venture to pull. This is just how my mind works. How my soul thrives. When something resonates, I ingest and dig deep. I instinctively grab application and substance. Many times when such substance impacts my life I’ve put ink to truth and  “signed and sealed” the relevant “words in blood”. I hope you do too.

American Mick Spy Anti-hero, Blaze McIntyre is chronicled rocking Dropkick Murphys in his ear buds as he boxes CIA Director Chuck Gallagher in my new novel BLAZE: Operation Persian Trinity. Pick up your copy today on AMAZON.