How I learned to love the steep incline

The Millennium Force still makes me nervous. I’ve ridden it hundreds of times by now (okay, more like dozens but I’m trying to exaggerate for emphasis here—and to impress you), but I still get a fluttering in my stomach as I stand in line and look up towards its 300’ hill towering over Lake Erie. The fluttering increases as I stand on the platform with the pseudo-rave music echoing through my ears (if you’ve ridden it, you know the music I mean).

Up until a handful of years ago, I hated roller coasters. I had myself convinced I was afraid of heights—I think because once when I was younger my brother said he was so I was too. Oddly, he has always loved roller coasters. The first coaster I ever rode was the Beastie at King’s Island, a kid’s version of The Beast, and I hated it. The first real coaster I rode was the Millennium Force and I hated it. My eyes were closed for the entire minute-and-a-half ride. I think I was forced to ride it two or even three times that day by my then best friend. I know once I was soaking wet, having just ridden the flume ride or white water raft ride and I was terrified I was somehow going to slip right out. I felt bad for whoever had to sit in the wet seats of the car after us.

 

Towards the end of the day, I was finally starting to enjoy the roller coasters and was growing tired of my friend’s prodding of “Quit being a pussy.”

But then the park closed and we had to go home.

Next time. And yes, there was a next time.

My then best friend got me hooked on the physics-bending structures, which I never would have thought possible. Of all of the times my family had tried to get me to ride them when I was younger, I never would, but he was able to get me to do it; he gave me a confidence I didn’t know I had. I passed that confidence onto my now best friend, who also used to not like roller coasters but now loves them. In fact, he was the one who convinced me to ride in the first row of every roller coaster we rode—something my previous best friend had tried to get me to do too, but I never would. Recently I went to Cedar Point with a different friend and it was curious how I didn’t seem to push much to sit in the first row save for on a couple rides.

That night as we drove home, my friend asleep in the passenger seat, I found myself pondering this idea that we have more confidence around certain people than others. But why? Why must we rely upon the presence of someone else for that extra push we need? I don’t have that answer. I don’t think anyone does. I’m sure there are plenty of government grant-paid researchers who have theories. We’re societal beings. We like accompaniment. We thrive upon it. No matter how self-confident or motivated you are, you need someone to rely on, someone for support. 

Without our friends and family to back us up, we are nothing.

Doorstep, Stoplight... it's all semantics

When I was a teenager, much of my family for whatever reason seemed to think that I really, really liked Bob Marley. Even though I only owned one CD, Legend. I bought one t-shirt because I thought it was cool and then my family would give me more for birthdays and at Christmas. My dad even bought me a Bob Marley shirt just a Christmas or two ago; I didn’t have the heart to tell him I hadn’t listened to him in at least a year or two. My family also seemed to think I was really into Jimi Hendrix and Pink Floyd, totally ignoring how much I was digging The Who (I even had a tie-dye shirt). 

A few months back I heard “Three Little Birds” on CD 102.5 on one of the few occasions that I actually listen to the radio. CD 102.5 is one of few indie radio stations still around and one of the longest running in the nation. They play a pretty eclectic mix, not having to abide by ClearChannel standards, but it still threw me off to hear the peace-anthem on the radio. You don’t often hear Bob Marley on the radio and if you do, it’s generally “I Shot the Sheriff”. I turned it up because not doing so would have just been disrespectful to somebody.

Just over three weeks ago, I was fired from my job of nearly nine years. I worked for my uncle. It wasn’t a very great job: I worked at a grocery store for $9.25 an hour. There was a lot of physical labor involved and far too much stress—both on the body and mind—for a job that should be so easy. On my resume, I listed myself as the “Assistant Manager”, though I think I was about the only one who considered myself to be that. What it all boiled down to was that he lost his temper and took unrelated stress out on me. Nothing beyond that is important. But I was now left without a job and a lot of bills to pay, including a recent emergency bill room that seems to keep spawning.

I’ve spent the last three years since I graduated college looking for a job, applying for upwards of 200 positions, resulting in just one single interview, which obviously did not result in a job. In the last three weeks I’ve applied for 50 or more jobs and have had three interviews so far, but still no job. I even applied for what I felt was the perfect job: facilities manager for a local theatre run by a non-profit organization. It was only a 30-hour, part-time job, but I figured it couldn’t pay any less than my previous job did in 40 hours. Unfortunately, I did not even get an interview despite having experience with all facets of the job responsibilities. I had even recently put on a benefit show in that theatre, which was a wild success and have since had dozens of incredible ideas that could really help put it on the map and bring it back to its former glory. To be honest, not even getting an interview was a bit devastating. My heart sunk. It almost put a damper on my whole job search, but I knew I had to continue.

Just over a week ago I went to get dinner from my favorite local pizza place in the next town over, Firehouse Pizza. As I approached the sole stoplight in my small town, it turned red. I came to a stop and as I watched the light waiting for it to turn green, I noticed three small birds perched upon the top of the stoplight. And I smiled. As if it was an involuntary reaction, my brain started playing the chorus to Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” on a loop even though I hadn’t heard it in months:

Don’t worry ‘bout a thing, ‘cause every little thing gonna be all right.

I heard it in my head and I believed it. I needed to believe it. Everything will be all right in the end. I know this. I tell myself I know this. I cannot sit and worry and whether or not I am going to get a job or how long my money will last—that will not solve anything.

Why This Video is Amazing

There is so much that can be said about this video.

First, Scott Avett is awkward on stage when he doesn't have an instrument. Going along with that, I always forget this song doesn't feature a guitar until I see it performed live. I also wish my hair looked like Scott's. So perfectly disheveled.

The Avetts have a tendency of giving me exactly what I need to hear when I need to hear it (See: 'Why That Was What I Needed to Hear'). This was another one of those times. "I And Love And You" has had special meaning to me as of late. We're not going to go into why; that is all you really need to know. The boys could have performed one of their new songs, which is what I expected. But they didn't. They went with this. An amazing song. A beautiful song. A song about abandoning your family. It's hard to tell someone you love them in general; even harder when you're leaving them--and hurting them in the process. This is one of a few songs as of late that has held special meaning with me. "Some Nights" by fun., "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men, Mumford and Sons' "Ghosts That We Knew" being some others. "Murder in the City" will, of course, always hold a special place in my heart.

Never neglect to tell someone you love them. If you have the chance, take it. If you don't have the chance, do it anyway. Because sometimes it ends up being too late.