So Long, School (???)

If I were to leave school after this semester, it would be a couple of months off that would settle down to a ton of free time, then develop into a whirlwind of new thoughts, emotions and anxiety-filled days.

For me, especially this semester, school is more than just an excuse to be social and experience new things outside my hometown, with some classes as a side dish.

School is a distraction

A distraction from my anxiety and its consequential, underlying depression.

And especially, this semester, for those of you who have been keeping up with this blog’s readings, you can only imagine how one with anxiety issues would be plagued with mental-malaria after this past Summer’s episode.

And it is certainly true—school is a distraction from these thoughts and their not-far-behind emotions and attitudes.

But don’t get me wrong—it isn’t as if I haven’t had my fair share of heightened and induced worries this semester, as a result from my broken neck.

Just thinking back to the entire day’s events from the beach, to the ambulance, to the emergency room, to the operating room, to the medically-induced, 12-hour coma and the three nights’ hospital stay gives me enough nervous fuel to take me to the moon and back.

So what remedies this combustible energy of explosive panic?

Distractions.

And thank God(?) for my speedy recovery. If I could write all the names of the doctors, family members, friends and even strangers who have told me how lucky I am just to be breathing on my own, let alone walking, I would have a thick set of papers rivaling “Moby Dick”. However, it would probably be equal to, if not greater than, the amount of shocked, confused faces I have encountered upon my telling them what happened five months prior, as well as my current activity level and physical abilities.

Not only does school allow me to be distracted with classes, it allows me to start playing volleyball, basketball, exercise and rehab on campus, unlike I would be able to do as easily or regularly back home.

School gives me the upper-hand to combat my easily awakened, always ready panic.

Long before anything dramatic ever happen to me physically, I fell to a rocky-bottom of different kinds of anxiety, depression and obsessive compulsive disorders. They’ve been kept at bay very well though, through medications and regular doctor’s visits. But this Summer and Fall, like a black bear waking from the Winter months, everything awoke from its hibernation.

So, back to the original question, what would I do if I took off a semester from school this Spring?

I think it’s pretty clear—keep myself distracted the best I can.

Get into shape, see my neurosurgeon, do some low-impact work, keep being active and pick up a ton of new hobbies to keep mentally sharp.

Medication has kept me stable, which makes me happy, but not being self-enabled or self-sufficient long-term is my greatest fear in life, and has been long before my injury.

My cure is my disease, so to speak.

It’s not that dramatic, though. I am a happy guy, and I bring a lot to the table in keeping people happy around me, as well.

It isn’t about do-or-die. It’s about do-or-find-something-else-that-keeps-you-doing.

My neck’s fractured vertebrae and my spines’ misalignment was the easy part.

The resulting mental toll has been the true battle of fight-or-flight.

And school’s accessibility to my recovery has been, in no doubt, the biggest impact since this Summer’s ending, and a gratitude I never thought I would have towards the one thing I used to despise more than anything else, has been given life.

Jack's Urban Eats is a delicious urban treat

Sacramento—the city of trees, rivers and endless corner restaurants, bars and diners—rarely leaves a hungry man or famished woman with a feeling of regret and disappointment. Today, like most days after moving to Sacramento, was no exception.

Keep in mind though, I am a 6-foot-5-inch eating machine. I am usually a tough customer to please in terms of filling the old gullet. The only think longer than my legs, arms and torso is my appetite.

This is why, by seeming intuition, the last item on any menu vocalized from me to a waiter is a salad.

But there is the rare exception to my faithful perception, and today, for an earlier lunch, that exception was found in Jack’s Urban Eats.

Don’t be foolish though, this salad is not your typical lettuce with croutons and a dash of ranch. This salad is a salad suitable for longshoremen, cage fighters, and men raised in the wild by a pack of wolves. Why? Because the salad is drenched in tri-tip steak that is as savory as it is cow.

The western barbeque steak salad took the form of a painter’s palette; so many different fresh ingredients left an array of mixed colors in an unintentional, unorganized pattern.

Chipotle tri-tip, corn, tomato, carrots, jicama, and kidney and garbanzo beans on top of mixed greens drizzled with fresh dill dressing—every ingredient complimenting the next in a true form of a well thought out dish.

How silly of me, I forgot to mention the melt-in-your-mouth fried onion rings that top the already over-flowing salad.

It is not for the lighthearted or the traditional salad enthusiast.

For a side, I ordered the mashed potatoes with gravy. Delicious. Forming the mash into a bowl and pouring the gravy in the middle made for an intriguing dipping system I had yet to encounter.

My lunchtime cohort also indulged in some fresh greens in the shape of a Chinese chicken salad. After a couple of shared bites of my own, I can safely say this place has won me over with salads. I don’t know if I could ever spare a future visit without one. Although the sandwiches look amazing as well, I know what I want.

Salads are just under $10 a plate, but don’t let that fool you. They are big enough to serve two. However, I don’t mess around. I get one for myself.

Jack’s was a mixed scene of youngsters with thick ear plugs to apparent government workers in a suit and tie on lunch break. I’m pretty sure every employee behind the counter had at least one exposed tattoo. It made me feel like I was in my old working days at Urban Outfitters.

But with a great spot located on 20^th and Capitol, in the heart of midtown and only blocks away from the capitol building, a unique mix of government bureaucrats and potential Occupy Sacramento protestors made people watching just as entertaining as the food itself.

Jack’s Urban Eats gets two very big thumbs up from me. Spread the word and preach the gospel—Jack’s is worthy of any and all hype.

Cops v. Undead

With all the teeny-bopping, blood-sucking, and weird-interspecies-super-natural-romance dramas suffocating the theater and TV, it’s about time a new TV show is treating it appropriately for what it is—an unfortunate epidemic. Death Valley shows a new spin on what life would be like if this trend ever manifests into a reality.

Oh yeah, there are zombies too.

MTV’s new cop-mockumentory depicts the San Fernando Valley in a fallout of zombies, werewolves and “vamps” and the special police unit, the Undead Task Force, that enforces the valley’s adapted laws.

The cast is the five police officers and their captain that make up the UTF. The task force is made of genuinely sincere friends who constantly take shots at one another and handle their work in a crude, unsettling manner.

Whether the UTF is going door-to-door to make sure registered werewolves are detained during a fool moon or setting up a sting for men who use vampire prostitutes in a trade of “blood for sex,” The UTF uses practical police enforcement in not-so-practical scenarios.

The writing of Death Valley is witty enough to get away with referencing what the show is actually satirizing and adds some modesty when an officer references True Blood when questioned about the laws of interaction between vampires and zombies.

The cast does a great job of conveying their tough love for one another, and the back and forth between the six of them is natural and believable.

But Death Valley is more than just a buddy-cop mockumentory—it’s also a blind dive into a pop-culture phenomenon put in an original light that most can relate to.

An easy comparison to make would be Reno 911, which is what lead me to an early write-off of disinterest in the show’s early episodes. However, Death Valley has some elements going for it that Reno 911 never quite polished off, which ultimately pulled me in.

Death Valley is able to obtain a higher level of realness than Reno 911 was able to, which is strange considering the paranormal v. normal contexts of the shows. The writing and production level of the former give it a workable value of fantasy mixed with reality.

Imagine an episode of Cops filmed where the “Twilight” saga is set, mixed with the crude humor of Comedy Central’s Ugly America and a hint of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

Bingo.

Despite its natural familiarity with Reno 911 and being aired on a network built on music and now survived on reality TV, Death Valley even fooled me into thinking it was just another seven-or-eight-episode-cancellation comedy that never catches on.

It’s not. Or at least, it shouldn’t be.

Death Valley has enough going for it to hold on to its credentials as the only in your face comedy capable of taking on the melodramatic trends of the faint skinned.

And on top of that, watching a couple of zombies getting mowed over by bored, on-duty cops is more than therapeutic.

So don’t be concerned on the future of the paranormal beauties that America's adolescence has obsessed itself with. The Undead Task Force has plans for extermination.

The Grandest

After my last trip to the neurosurgeon’s office, things have been a little less bleak.

The surgeon I was referred for examination was not my original surgeon; in fact, he seems to be the exact opposite from my ultra conservative operating surgeon from back home. Still, the news was good and I have been cleared for way more physical activity than I imagined.

Although I must say, after my most recent examination, the new doctor lost a scosche of credibility after saying he would “start Peyton Manning.”

Nevertheless, I trust his judgment when he says I can do “whatever I want,” although that, again, seems overly carefree. I don’t know if I could take a roundhouse to the neck, but I may feel a little more comfortable playing volleyball and running, which I have been progressing back into.

In fact, I ran a mile this week for only the second time since my injury and did it under six-and-a-half minutes. Beat that, Usain Bolt.

Apparently, he already has.

But to achieve this mile high obstacle of a mile long finish is a great mental encourager. Living less like a patient helps to feel less like a patient, which is the best feeling in four long months.

From the beginning I knew the mental battle would end up taking precedent over the physical battle; my life-long struggles with anxiety and obsessive-compulsive disorder rarely make even small things issues seem unlike a catastrophic disaster.

Surely this is why I neurotically relate more with Peyton Manning than Usain Bolt. I’m not saying I’m the fastest man alive, but I’m also not saying I’m sidelined with a neck injury—at least anymore.

Being able to run, play basketball, volleyball and lift weights (not just Thera-Bands) has done more for me mentally than physically by an infinite degree.

The other end of the spectrum from me contains a man who suffered a much worse accident, fracturing two vertebras and significant spinal cord injury. It happened on the football field, and the man, Eric LeGrand, was left paralyzed from the neck down after making a tackle on the already NFL-concerned kick-off.

However, LeGrand never made it to the NFL. He went down while playing for Rutgers. But like I said, opposite from me, he only went down in one dimension—physically.

“I've had low moments, but I can probably count them on one hand,” is an attitude that is unshakable, an attitude I can’t relate to.

But LeGrand is living it. His progress is unbelievable and his character is undeniable.

And LeGrand holds no grudges.

He still backs the kick-off in football, even with the NFL making several new controversial adjustments to that part of the game for this very reason. He has become very close to the Army football team, whom of which he Rutgers was playing that day, and was even upset to hear of a broken collar bone suffered from the man on other end of the hit that ended his playing days.

Still enrolled and taking classes through Skype at Rutgers, LeGrand hasn’t let anything within his own control change.

LeGrand has shown me that there is another disparity between Peyton Manning and Usain Bolt.

The disparity is Eric LeGrand. The difference is a mental edge that of which I envy to the highest degree.

LeGrand’s mentality not only is a savior to himself, but those who also know his story.

Stay Strong

Anthony Conner, cornerback for the University of Louisville football team, broke his neck yesterday (Oct. 21) during a tackle made against a Rutgers ball carrier.

He was not paralyzed, but his football career is over. Conner is a senior and is said to be well liked by his teammates. Louisville won the game 14-16.

Scars Not Scarves

Being scarred for life has been made into too much of a negative thing—physically scarred, of course.

Aesthetically, they may not be the prettiest addition to a palette of skin, but they are more than just an alteration of appearance.

After my surgery, one of the most common conversational pieces has been my scars. After all, they are the only visual cues to a story most want to hear.

However, after the story of the scars is over and the once upon-a-time concludes with a fairy tale ending, more often than not, I am told about all the different remedies and methods of fading away these leftover lines.

One thought always comes to mind: why?

There are more than enough reasons for me to hold onto my souvenirs; I had no other choice but to exit through the gift shop.

I share a past with a small amount of people, but one thing is true of all of us—identity. I am sure the day will come when a path crossed with another survivor takes its course, and a common experience can finally be heard.

I have been lucky enough to have similar experiences already while in a neck brace. At a beach volleyball tournament this summer, several strangers giving sentiments such as, “good luck” or “I’m sorry” approached me. My favorite was “F*** necks, who needs ‘em?” But one really got made an impression in me; a lady considering reconstructive surgery of her cervical spine telling me I was an inspiration for her to move ahead and do it. The whole day was pretty empowering to say the least.

But the brace is off now, and I don’t want to give that kind of ability up. I’ve been told it’s a miracle of a situation, but really—it isn’t, and I want to share that with others if it helps.

Besides, it may get me less dirty looks at Ikea when my tiny girlfriend is doing all the dirty work, and her giant boyfriend is instructing, “lift with your legs.”

There is no doubt that it will save a buck or two on future Halloween costumes as well.

Consequently, I definitely appear more dangerous now—daring even, which is the exact antonym of what I actually am. The scar of a knife slicing your neck provides ample street credibility in dark alleys, shady street corners and parks after hours. I look a little bit more like I belong.

My scars may also lead airport security to a more understanding mindset while I set off their metal detectors for the rest of my flying days.

But even more than these simple reasons of vanity and jester, my two scars are a badge of pride and a symbol of struggle—of the past, present and future—that have resulted from an injury that made me a “walking miracle.”

It is often that after a life-altering incident impacts someone deeply, a tattoo becomes a formality of displaying it on body.

For me, that tattoo is not made from ink or made in a colorful, buzzing room. It is made in a white, unwelcoming space from a cold scalpel and a hand more skilled than an artist’s.

And just like a tattoo, these scars aren’t going anywhere.

I’m okay with that.

A Man Worthy of His Own Words

William “Bill” Plaschke isn’t just a sports columnist with a questionably pronounced last name; He is an actor, an Olympian (kind of), an ESPN staple, and a man who has received ample recognition for his generous work in the community. Oh yeah, He’s also the owner of some pretty prestigious writing awards.

Bill Plaschke is a name most sports fans know in Los Angeles, Calif. As a columnist for the L.A. Times, it’s not uncommon to hear Angelinos either jeering or cheering along with Mr. Plaschke’s sentiments.

A mix of knowledge, perspective and humor make Plaschke’s column more than insightful and much more than entertaining. His column appears daily in the Times and is never short of provocative sport conversation.

Since 1987, Plaschke has been a fixture of L.A. sports prominence as a regular within the city’s biggest paper. His often outspoken opinions have made him a habitual panelist on ESPN’s show “Around The Horn”; a program where he and his loudmouth sports columnist acquaintances get together and share their quirky viewpoints in buzzer-beater fashion.

Here's a comical clip of the man at his best telling a story of himself as a ten-year-old reporter during a commercial break on "Around the Horn" (on the left screen). 

Interestingly enough, ESPN was the mutual friend who set me up on a blind date with Plaschke before I was aware of his greatness. His persona on “Around the Horn” somehow comes off as modestly arrogant with a touch of jubilance. His writing on my hometown area’s sports beat and his unwillingness to be told anything other than what he believes is right have won me over.

However, he is not just a loud and opinionated media man. He is also known as a giver to the community. His involvement in the Big Brother/Big Sister program in Los Angeles has earned him the city’s chapter honor of Man of the Year. Plaschke has also received a “Pursuit of Justice” award from the California Women’s Law Center for his regular coverage of women’s sports.

A great journalistic quality of Plaschke’s is his unbiased writing and vision. In a city with a reputation for having violence and local loyalty mixed together like blue and white or purple and gold, his column is never afraid of saying what needs to be heard. Whether that’s calling out the beloved Dodgers or dismissing the infallible Lakers, Los Angeles sports fans must hear the dirty truth sometimes, and that truth is often found in Bill Plaschke’s column.

And apparently his column is getting noticed. He has been honored with National Sports Writer of the Year by multiple organizations, is a Pulitzer Prize nominee and his writing has been featured in the annually published book “The Best American Sports Writing” on five separate occasions.

And if that wasn’t enough, he carried the Olympic torch during its travels through Los Angeles before the winter games in Salt Lake City in 2002, and he also has some IMDB credits for the portrayal of a sports journalist in the movie “Ali”.

Like most in the media, Plaschke has been around. After being born and raised in Louisville Ky., he spent his freshmen year at Baylor University in Waco Texas then earned his bachelor’s degree in mass communication at Southern Illinois University Edwardsville, where he was the sports editor for the university’s paper. As a professional, He has worked in Fort Lauderdale, Fla. and Seattle, Wash. before making the great city of Los Angeles his home and life’s work.

And from one Southern California to another—thank you Mr. Plaschke for making the greatest sports market in the world even better. In recent years alone, Plaschke has covered three Lakers’ championships, an Angels’ World Series victory, a Ducks’ Stanley Cup championship and too-many-to-count local college accolades.

The only thing left to improve the Los Angeles area sports scene would be a football team.

Or maybe even two.