Tyler Fugazzie

Creative work starts with an idea. Or ideas.

These are the ingredients that form the organizations we interact with, the products and services we buy, the media we consume, and the tools we use.

And when we want ideas to move outside of the mind, we need to drag them through the mud.

Ideas in their birth stage, that beautiful “a ha moment” or the overdue realization from months of hard work, are precious, delicate, and pristine. We sometimes want to protect them from the dangers of the world. We’ll hold onto the idea, afraid that there are too many contaminates in the air that will ruin it. We’re afraid that a well-place criticism will crack it open, rendering it unsalvageable.

We would have to mourn the death of our precious idea.

From my personal experience, ideas are most worthwhile if we drag them through the mud. What I mean by drag them through the mud, is that we need to quickly test the strength of the idea and its ability to live in the real world.We need to develop it. We need to tell others about it.We need to test. We need to try.

Our ideas need to get dirty if they’re ever going to survive.

I interned at TerraCycle in college. It’s an extremely cool company that collects, recycles, and upcycles materials typically considered hard-to-recycle like Capri Sun pouches and Solo cups. They have a focus on “increasing environmental awareness and access” which, along with an interest in upcycling, drew me to work there.

A number of the student businesses that take part in the “school-day” economy ran by my current organization have businesses that either support or focus on environmentally-friendly and/or sustainable products and services. I was thinking about them today with a colleague and we gave some of them a shout-out on Twitter.

I love nature walks. My favorite days are the ones I spend far away from a computer screen and on a beach, or in a forest, or by a lake, or by a mountain or some other rock formation. I take advantage of these outdoor opportunities far less frequently than I’d like.

Nowadays, the prospect of a world with parking lots instead of forests, polluted oceans, a radically-shifted climate, and other telltales features of a fucked environment all feels less important to me. For some reason I feel more impending doom from a self-selected deadline to post words on the internet. Maybe I’ve lost touch and I need to get back to remembering the beauty held within our planet and play my part in ensuring it stays aesthetically-pleasing and legitimately habitable for future generations.

I know, with Interstellar’s recent entry into the public consciousness, and with the continued efforts of real-life scientists searching for feasible exoplanets, there is an underlying hope that no matter what happens to the Earth, we’ll persevere by leaving this rock just as it explodes in the background like some sort of epic action movie set in space.

I don’t have too much of that hope. Sometimes it’s easier to fix things than replace them. I live in a shared apartment in Manhattan now and a lot of what I see is litter, concrete, and a seclusion from natural settings. Yes Central Park is nice, but no I don’t want that to be a precursor to a future world in which the splendors and bounties of the natural world are reduced to a rectangular area enclosed by manmade objects.

I want to help save this world, but I need to remember that this takes consistent, deliberate, informed, and public action, and not occasional bursts of thought when I reflect and realize the grand ideals I used to have are slowly eroding away because of new priorities and apathy.

Deadlines won’t bring much anxiety when the Earth’s temperature makes it too hot to get a decent breath and our words will be impotent if our whole home is a shrine to neglect and decay.

Short Version:

My name is Reli Spunzelli. I’m a world-class tap dancer. My taps are so tops, I’ve tapped at Madison Square Garden, the Louvre, and the Great Wall of China. I turn a pair of shoes into an orchestra.

As I dined with the French Arts Ambassador and elite ballet dancers, I felt the urge. I couldn’t bury it any longer. I listened to it and followed a waiter to the kitchen. When I followed, the kitchen tiles revealed my intention. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. I tried to run away, back across the tiles, but my orchestra turned into a nightmare. My footsteps were desperate and I’d never known my feet could produce such ugliness.

I broke down. I dropped the money. I curled into a ball and cried until security came.

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Long Version:

My name is Reli Spunzelli, a noted choreographer and former tap dancer. I performed at Madison Square Garden, the Louvre, and the Great Wall of China. In my day, no one was better. No one could top my taps; my taps were the tops. I turned a pair of shoes into an orchestra with nothing more than a floor and a little flair.

I achieved everything I wanted in my career.

But I wanted more. There was an urge inside of me that formed, which was an urge I didn’t recognize, since it didn’t involve dancing. At first I dismissed the urge, and it went away. But when I thought it went away, I discovered it was only buried, because it came back stronger than ever, a month later when I was dining with the French Arts Ambassador and a group of elite ballet dancers. We were celebrating a performance. It was a happy time, a happy time except for the urge.

My eye caught a gentleman and his other. They had given a large wad of cash to a waiter, who pocketed the money and walked to the kitchen. I listened to the urge in this moment and it made me follow.

I wanted the money. I didn’t need the money, but I wanted the thrill. Or something.

The kitchen tiles revealed my intentions. My tapping was there. It was tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap until the take. I wrestled the waiter to the ground. I took the money and felt the urge going away, or filling, or whatever it was. I loved it. He yelled for help as I ran away.

I ran across the tiles and the sounds were grotesque. They were off-beat and random and desperate and I’d never known my feet could produce such ugliness.

I broke down crying and dropped the money. I curled into a ball and cried until the restaurant’s hired hands came to get me.

“Oh please oh please free me from this frozen gray tar!”
“Ma’am, we’re doing the best we can, but this mix was formulated to dry within five minutes.”
“What’s going to happen to me?”
“You’re going to be okay, we’re going to get you out of there.”
“…What’s really going to happen to me?”
“You’re probably going to be killed by the cement crushing your ribs into your lungs and other vital organs.”
“Well…I appreciate your honesty!”

I was wearing one of those “bear-proof” suits, a bulky, foamy sectional body armor with a blueish-gray chest piece and red limb protectors and a red helmet. I looked like a squishy Iron Man. I spit blood onto the ground as the bear crawled away. 

Two days later, I waited at the top of the green hill again. This time, I had my little furry friends attached to my suit. They were there to bite and pinch and scratch. 

We saw the grizzly in the distance. We sent ourselves, a living fluffy blobby shield, racing towards vengeance.

“Excuse me, pardon me, excuse – whoops, sorry, haha, excuse me.”

Gerald inspected his new seat in the balcony, wiped off the cushion, and dropped his butt.

A young couple wearing matching jerseys looked at him like a ghost, and then whispered something to each other. The gentleman crusader tapped Gerald on the shoulder, “Hey, why are you so late?”

Gerald finished sipping his beer, “I’m not late, well I am, but I just bought this ticket and rushed over here.”

The couple’s faces scrunched in five directions. They promptly sat up and walked out of the stadium. An older gentleman in a vintage jersey leaned over to Gerald to inform him that a stadium official, not five minutes earlier, announced this was a sold-out crowd. The older man got up and left. All around Gerald, people threw down merchandise, gathered their things, and walked toward the exits mumbling and groaning, precipitating the entire crowd to exit, and leaving Gerald alone in his seat.

Ten consecutive one-on-one confrontations that escalate from petty to pretty heavy.

Man vs. Backpack Zipper

“C’mon you stupid thing,” the zipper was snagged on the fabric surrounding the zipper tracks, “c’mon c’mon c’mon,” it wouldn’t budge and every motion the man made caused the zipper to tighten its grip. The man tried to resolve his situation, but eventually gave up and threw around some spit-laced obscenities. He tossed the backpack on the ground.

A Storn’s employee, busy politely patrolling the floor, heard the slight commotion and headed over to assist the man.

Man vs. Retail Employee

“Oh sir, please let me help you out there,” she said, grabbing the backpack from the ground and returning it to its rack with the other backpacks. The employee finessed the zipper and freed the fabric from the zipper’s teeth.

“I guess this is your first time using a zipper, huh?” the employee teased. The man rolled his eyes, not taking the comment lightly, and knocked over the backpack display.

The employee gasped and immediately walkie talkied her boss.

Man vs. Retail Authority Figure

“He knocked it over so violently I thought I was going to fall over,” the employee cried.

“Sir,” the manager clasped his hands in front of his IZOD suit and plastic-shielded name tag, “when you knocked over those bags, you endangered a valued employee, scared other customers, and ruined the integrity of our merchandise. I kindly ask that you leave the store at once.”

The man went from irritated to irate. He stared the manager right in the eye. The manager looked away. The man knew he made Mike Tyson proud with that skullduggery.

“Sir, please leave,” the manager whimpered. The man felt a tinge of regret in the pit of his stomach yet knocked over every single store display on his way out. Purses, jewelry, children’s books made from thick cardboard, not-quite-new-not-quite-old-and-definitely-not-popular DVD’s, wallets, and nose trimmers littered the reflective floor tiles.

Retail Authority Figure vs. Corporate Team Player

“Matt, how many times have we been through this?”

“Chet, the training we received doesn’t cover how to handle a deranged man ransacking the store. We were terrorized.”

“Matt, our training materials for emergency and unpredictable situations are field-tested and foolproof. We must adhere to our policies and trust in our materials. When a customer lets loose and endangers our merchandise, they make our stores look like disaster areas, which reflects poorly on our brand image. The bottom line is: it’s bad for business, which is why you need to follow the guidelines and contact security the moment you suspect a customer is a threat.”

“I didn’t have time to call security.”

“Matt, our training materials for emergency and unpredictable situations are field-tested and foolproof. We must adhere to our policies and trust in our materials. When a customer lets loose and endangers our merchandise, they make our stores look like disaster areas, which reflects poorly on our brand image. The bottom line is: it’s bad for business, which is why you need to follow the guidelines and contact security the moment you suspect a customer is a threat.”

“Did…did you just repeat the same thing?”

“Matt, our training materials for emergency and unpredictable situations are field-tested and foolproof. We must adhere to our policies and trust in our materials. When a customer lets loose and endangers our merchandise, they make our stores look like disaster areas, which reflects poorly on our brand image. The bottom line is: it’s bad for business, which is why you need to follow the guidelines and contact security the moment you suspect a customer is a threat.”

“Is this a recording?” Matt said as he removed his name tag.

“Matt, our training materials for-”

Matt hung up the phone. He got onto the computer and typed an email with two words then sent it to everybody who could be considered his boss or supervisor.

Corporate Team Player vs. His Own Sense of Worth

Chet Peterson returned from lunch and saw a button on his phone blinking red. His office had installed a program that allowed employees to record automated responses.

He sat at his desk, jiggled his mouse, and saw an email from Matt Baker – Clifton, NJ. It read, “I quit.” Chet closed his email and stared out the window. This was the sixth store manager to quit within two years. He didn’t understand why. Storn’s does everything in their power to ensure each and every manager runs a successful chain. His team developed, tested, re-tested, and refined training models and supporting materials.

He swigged the remainder of his bottled iced tea and paced around his 44th-floor home away from home.

Chet wondered to himself; maybe these materials aren’t suitable. Maybe the policies are inadequate. Maybe he needed to change the wording of the automated response machine.

Maybe he’s inadequate.

Corporate Team Player’s Sense of Worth vs. His Wife’s Dream of Finishing Her Doctorate

Chet tossed his keys on the Sonoma entryway console table, slipped off his Chap’s dress shoes, and slipped on his IZOD clogs.

He walked to a kitchen table covered in large textbooks, coffee cups encrusted with layers of caffeinated sediment, legal pads, cans of mixed nuts, and half a dozen pens.

“Hi honey,” Chet left a reasonable kiss on his wife’s cheek, “why aren’t you using the new MacBook I bought you?”

“I needed to get away from it; my eyes were turning into mashed potatoes. I’m sorry hun, but I have more work to do than hours to do it in, so I can’t really talk now.”

“Of course.”

Chet walked to the freezer and pulled out a Healthy Choice microwavable dinner. He punctured the plastic casing with a fork and tossed it in for the recommended time. He desperately wanted to tell his wife what was on his mind, his feelings of inadequacy, but he knew her mind was too full for him.

He ate his meal in silence.

Corporate Team Player’s Wife’s Dream vs. Her Institution’s Obligation to Their Largest Donor

“How do I look?” Mrs. Peterson asked.

“Like a prepared student ready to defend her thesis,” Chet pecked her on the forehead and rested an assuring hand on her shoulder.

Mrs. Peterson smiled, clutched her binder, and then left the house. After a short ride to campus, she arrived at Feldman Hall, home to anthropology and archeology students alike.

She walked to Dr. L’s office, and stopped outside of his imposing mahogany doors. When she arrived, she saw him scurrying around the office gathering papers.

“Melanie, dear, I didn’t have time to email or call, but we need to postpone today’s defense.”

Melanie’s whole body wobbled and she almost fell over. Postpone?

“The Watterson’s have made a ‘surprise’ visit to campus today and Kim requested that I be there to discuss our planned expansion. I’m terribly sorry about this, but this is out of my control.”

Dr. L shuffled through the doorway in a gray blur of apologies and last-minute paper gathering and promises of further discussion and explanation. Melanie remained motionless in the doorway.

Melanie’s Institution’s Obligation to Their Largest Donor vs. Filthy Protestors

“Bill, Harriet, it is always a pleasure to have you on campus! You picked a great time to visit. I’ve asked Deans Marino, Langston, and Hernandez to join our meeting so we can share some of our biggest news and most exciting projects,” President Cullen informed her visitors.

“Mmm,” Bill hummed, looking over President Cullen’s shoulder to see the cluster of tie-dyed students holding up hand-painted hate on campus-store-purchased poster board.

“Those shrubs could use a trimming. And those little protestors could use a hosing,” Harriet said, removing her sunglasses.

“What do we want?”
“More transparency!”
“When do we want it?”
“Now!”
“What do we want!”
“An explanation!”
“Who do we want it from?”
“Cullen!”

The chants hit a president in denial. Cullen clutched, but was losing grip on her smile. It wavered enough to cause Bill and Harriet to share an extended, judgmental conversation with their eyes.

Filthy Protestors vs. Militarized Police Department

The ringleader, a man with a beardtail and filthy Birkenstocks, held up a backpack. He opened his mouth, breath freshly-minted from an e-cigarette, to outline the indictment.

“A few days ago, the Campus Tellier revealed that our dear president has restructured the engineering department to serve as a lean manufacturing plant for Storn’s, Kohls, Target, and JCPenny. These students are no longer expected to learn, or expand their minds, or find innovative solutions to some large global problems, but are instead whipped to be zipper-producing robots. These students used to be able to compete in national robotics and go-kart competitions and now they’re factory workers! We demand, we deserve, an explanation! You can’t charge these students this much money to force them to serve as cheap labor!”

The crowd of protestors hurrahed. As soon as the celebration finished, each student found themselves surrounded by police officers in riot gear. The students were outnumbered 3-1. The police chief, clad in a futuristic viperskin suit, ripped the ringleader down from the podium and got on his megaphone.

“Go to your dorms, and study. Your parents, or the state, are paying a lot of money for you to be here, and they expect you to get jobs. Not arrested.”

Filthy Protestors vs. Retail Store Terrorist

“Fuck those zippers!” shouted a plum-faced man storming through the crowd, “I was at a Storn’s earlier today and the goddamn zipper got stuck!”

“Sir, what exactly do you think you’re doing?” the police chief asked.

The man, a head taller than the police chief and two arms bulkier, got up to the authority’s nose, at a defiant near-eskimo kiss.

“Fuck…those…zippers,” the man snarled, spitting on the chief’s face. The police chief hit a button on the back of his suit, igniting a deafening siren that incapacitated the crowd and sent the police officers running away. The button was a terrorist alert speed dial. A special agent arrived in seconds. He tackled the man to the ground, cuffed his hands, and tossed a black bag over his head.

“Got it from here,” the agent assured. He darted off into a van and tossed the man inside, along with the broken backpack.

Here’s a habit I’d like to correct: I’m listening to music and when a song comes on I don’t immediately recognize or respond to, I skip it.

I try to be open-minded, I try to listen to new music. I do this because finding new sounds that I connect with is an invigorating experience preferable to most of what life has to offer. There are too many times, however, that my finger’s on that digital trigger, ready to instantly move onto something else.

It’s a short attention span, it’s my need to get to the next thing before the current thing is finished, it’s a futile desire to fit the ever-growing index of the world’s tunes into my ears during the course of my limited lifetime.

It’s my struggle to keep my hand away from the controls.

“It’s already 4:30”
“It’s only 4:30”
“It’s already 4:30″
“It’s only 4:30″

Saying “already” communicates how fast the speaker believes time is going. When they checked his or her phone or clock, they were surprised, maybe even shocked about what they saw. They feel they’ve missed out on a large part of the day, like they’re only catching up to it and now they’ll be chasing the remaining hours.

The speaker who says “it’s only 4:30” believes it’s still early. They’re viewing the current time as a reminder of all that’s left in the day, of all the potential it still holds. They haven’t missed a thing; they’re just getting started.

They’re looking at the same time. They’re operating on the same socially-shared schedule, but in this instance, the difference of one word when referring to one point in the schedule leads to a totally different perception of that schedule.

1852 – not around

1887 – conceived

1887 – called a tragic street lamp

1887 – 1889 – became 324 feet tall

march 31, 1889 – born to public

1909 – became a radio antenna

1912 – improper parachute ramp

1925 – source of scrap metal for con artist

1930 – no longer tallest structure in world

1935 – low-res tv transmitter

1940 – 1944 – almost a nazi flagpole

1964 – became historical monument

1967 – almost moved to montreal

2000 – largest flashlight in paris

2007 – starred in rush hour 3

2010 – became most-visited paid monument in world

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that’s the life of the eiffel tower so far. you can verify the sources, most of them came from wikipedia which i take for truth if there are sources. who knows what else is in store for the statue of liberty’s younger brother. maybe i’ll get married there in 2020. maybe it’ll be relocated to brussels in 2024. maybe in 2027 it’ll be the site of wrestlemania. maybe i’ll get married there in 2025. maybe it’ll make a cameo in rush hour 4. i’ve never been there myself. we’ll see what the world has in store for this great, expensive monument.