R.I.P Jesse Marunde (updated)

Jesse Marunde, the 27-year-old local legend of my hometown, died last Wednesday night of a heart attack while doing what he loved most: lifting weights. Much like Pete Maravich passing on with a basketball in his hand and sweat dripping on his sneakers, Jesse collapsed under the weight of his own intensity, brutally pushing his body to new heights each and every day.     At 22, Jesse became the youngest competitor to ever compete in the World's Strongest Man event on ESPN. At 25, he placed second in the competition, showing he was the dominant force in American strongman and a future champion on the world stage for years to come. But those years would never be.     You know, you can be as tough as you want to be. You can put on all the weight you can, listen to all the death metal you can stand, punch endless holes in your wall without regret, and all that might help when your ex-girlfriend makes it a stressful day, but it can't help here. It can't help stop the pain of knowing that someone you grew up with - as the older brother of your close friend, someone that was always around Sequim athletics, someone that inspired you and others to not just enter the weight room, but to respect it with the fiercest intensity, someone who was close to so many you know, has passed on and is never coming back.     Jesse Marunde was a father, brother, son, husband, mentor, and friend. He was a local hero - the Sequim kid who became the strongest man in the world, or close to it. He was a personal trainer to many in the community, including my roommate and current training partner Jake. He was a mentor to my friend Chris Lee, whose commitment to strongman never ceases to demand respect. He was the hopes of a community, the superhero for children to look up to, the mentor for aspiring athletes, and a friend whose training provided the perfect outlet for so many.     Sequim is a community devastated by tragedy. Sequim High School alumni seem destined for an early exit to the beyond. The names are endless, and just the ones during my high school era bring back heartache. Greg Kreider. Aaron Gambell. Jeff Campbell and his younger sister. Dustin Scott. Mike Haley. The list goes on...     Right now there is a blank sign outside of Sequim - a sign that will never be painted, a sign that would have stood tall and proud. The sign would have been the trademark greeting of a small retirement community obsessed with expansion and fame. Instead, the imaginary sign serves as a reminder of a great man the local community has lost: "Welcome to Sequim: Home of the World's Strongest Man."     But no matter his recognition or fame, Jesse will always be remembered. I'll always remember staying the night at Brady's, only to see Jesse wake up and swallow a dozen eggs. I'll always remember hearing stories of him pranking other football players in the locker room and on the bus. I'll always remember watching him on ESPN for the first time, being excited that I knew him. I'll always remember watching him train, watching him perform, and being in awe of his focus and determination. I'll always remember the feeling of stepping into the weight room, remembering Jesse's example, and focusing intently. I know because I had that feeling this morning. I know because I'll carry that feeling with me every time I step into the weight room for the rest of my life. R.I.P. Jesse Marunde (1979-2007) **special note - this revised piece will be appearing in the Sequim Gazette next Wednesday, the same day as the memorial services for Jesse at Sequim Community Church at 1 p.m.**

Ozzfest 2007 - United In Hatred

(left: Hatebreed circle pit at the second stage)     This weekend I attended Ozzfest at the Gorge. I spent my Saturday out in the sun, shirt off, beer in hand, with metal in my eardrums. And as I stumbled around in my drunken haze, I began to see them. The desolate ones. The very dredges of society. The tweakers, the meth-heads, the coke addicts, the goths, the white trash, the sexually perverse, the overweight, the grossly overweight, the rejects, the high school drop-outs, the alcoholics, the drug abusers, the drug dealers, the bikers, the punks, the bad-asses. I saw them all. I saw people whom society rejects, young and old. I saw people drunk, stoned, tripping, and tweaking - all united under one common banner, under one common desire, under one universal feeling. Hatred.     Hatred of themselves. Hatred of their country, their government that lies to them, stabs them in the back, and bleeds them dry. Hatred of their family, their mothers, their fathers, their brothers and sisters, their teachers, their employers, their lives, their ex-boyfriends and ex-girlfriends, ex-wives and ex-husbands. Hatred of the society that rejects them, hatred of the popular culture that ignores them, and most importantly - hatred of all those not real enough, hardcore enough, to join them in the swirl of emotion that is heavy metal, that is the mosh pit, that is Ozzfest. In all of their drunken rage, I felt my own. In all of their hatred for the outside, I felt their love for one another. With each "unattractive" and drunk soul I ran into, I felt more and more at home.     There's nothing quite like being in the mosh pit for your favorite metal band (real metal, not any alternative/emo/pop bullshit). The most intense and blackest hatred you can summon in your heart isn't enough to overcome the unbelievably warm and comfortable feeling created by looking around and realizing that, amongst the shirtless, drunk masses, you are simply one of them. Everyone around you has as much pain as you do. Everyone around you hates as much as you do. Everyone has tattoos, has scars, has imperfect bodies and imperfect faces. Everyone has been through what you have. Everyone loves each other, because everyone understands each other.     I saw parents with their little kids. I saw dads with their teenage sons. I saw husbands and wives. I saw middle school posses, high school posses, college frat guys, and aging hippies. I saw people not giving a fuck about their appearance, not giving a fuck about how they acted. I saw people crying, laughing, meditating, puking, and fighting. And I've got the scars to prove it. One huge slice across the mid-section? Check. Bump on the forehead from a head-butt? Check. Bruised elbow? Check.     Jamey Josta of Hatebreed trashed religion, and the crowd went wild. He honored Dimebag Darrell, and the crowd went silent. Randy Blythe of Lamb of God called the crowd a bunch of syphilis-infested pussies, formed a wall of death, and unleashed hell on the hundreds of us in the mosh-pit. Each singer that came up unleashed their vocals on the beautiful scenery overlooking the Columbia River. Each singer came up and unleashed their hatred on the world. And in doing so united all of us in our most common emotion.

L.A. - My First, My Last, My Everything

Two quarters. Nine months. Seventeen credits. That's all that stands between me and the future. That's all that stands between me and my new life, a life full of surprises, struggles, and sunshine. A few more nights of studying. A few more parties on weekends. A few more days of the college lifestyle. And then...well...then it's time for something more. Then it's time for Los Angeles.     The City of Angels. Lalaland. L.A. Where every young artist goes to make it, because every creative industry is represented. Where heavy metal concerts happen more than once a year. Where marijuana has a presence outside the counterculture. Where 70 degrees and sunshine doesn't mean the best day of the summer, it means an average day in winter. Where working out and focusing on your body isn't vain, it's the norm. Where young men like myself go to find themselves when they are confused, uncertain, and desiring a complete and total change in lifestyle.     It's the place where Kobe Bryant plays, Arnold Schwarzenegger leads, and two of my personal heroes, Bill Maher and Larry David, reside. It's the place where smog, crime, and racial tensions come to relax and get away from the rest of the country. It's the place where dreams are born, made, shaped, changed, smashed, broken, and eventually forgotten. It's the center of California's economy, the fifth largest in the world. It's L-mother-fucking-A.     But soon it will have a new name, one already given it by nearly four million people: home.

Women of My Generation

Just by writing this column, I'm justifying Paris Hilton as newsworthy, something that makes me cringe. But I simply must protest the media coverage being paid attention to her, and the only way I can do that is by speaking out through my page here. I would hope, however, that behind my cynicism and sarcastic use of sexism, there is a heartfelt underlying point to be made here. But first, on to Paris.     Paris Hilton is being sent back to jail today to finish serving her 40-some-odd day sentence for multiple DUI's, probation violations, and reckless driving charges. As she left the court today, she was screaming how unfair it was, yelling out for her mother and crying hysterically as she is forced to enter back into minimum security prison for just over a month. That's right, a 26-year-old woman wants her mommy to come and save her from the bad man with the gavel.     Apparently, Paris doesn't think that the law applies to her because she's special. Not only that, but this isn't even a controversial decision or a crime that can be protested such as smoking marijuana or not wearing your seatbelt. This was Paris acting irresponsibly and repeatedly endangering the lives of others. And now she has to pay the price. A small price at that.     But what's really wrong here isn't Paris Hilton. The world will always have its morons. What is wrong here is that this incident highlights, for me, a growing trend in our young women of today. Look at Paris there on the left. This is what young women of today are emulating. Thin, plastic, overly sexualized, and lacking any intelligence whatsoever. And even that wouldn't upset me that much, because America has been and always will be a high-drama, sales-driven culture of sex when it comes to women. What bothers me is that I look at Paris Hilton and I not only see a lack of intelligence, I see a lack of interest.     As I said, the world will always have its morons. Some people are just dumb, point blank. It's like saying I'm a little chunky, or Shaq is tall, or that people like Jesse Marunde are strong. These are just facts of life, and diversity is what makes this country great. But Paris Hilton represents a troubling new fad amongst the young women of my generation. Because not only are many of these young women unintelligent, they have no interest in becoming so. Academia, science, politics, reading - these things don't matter. They aren't cool. They can't be bought and customized. So many young women today expect their sexuality to take them where they want to go. They are caught up in gossip, appearance, and the money that can be made from such endeavors.     I'm generalizing, stereotyping, and being unfair. You're right. I am. I know there are millions and millions of strong, intelligent, independent, driven women out there. I know there are, and I respect and love them. But when my roommates and I sat down this morning to come up with how many honestly intelligent young women we have met, dated, or been with in our eight collective years of college (an institution of higher learning), the list of names we came up with was decidedly short. That's a problem, no matter your perspective on our own intelligence or the women we have chosen to associate ourselves with.     Women that actually care about learning outside of their major. Women who enjoy watching the news, political conversations, and understanding the things around them. Women who are out to change the world. Women who can stand on their own two feet, without a man, without extraordinary good looks and six-pack abs, and still be incredibly sexy. I know these young women are out there, but they must be hiding somewhere in a dark corner. Because when I look around my campus, when I look around at the culture of my generation, I see not just stupidity, but apathy towards becoming smarter. And that's a concern.     The world is fucked up now more than ever, and it is only going to get worse as we continue to grow and overpopulate. People have to care about reason, about democracy, about science. People have to care about improving the intellectual level of our culture, otherwise we aren't going to survive. It doesn't matter what your opinion is, just be informed enough to actually have one. Better yet, actually care about having one.     Women of previous generations have done incredible things in advancing the feminist movement and attempting to put women on equal footing with men in the workplace, in the scientific and academic communities, and in government. But all the work that these glorious, beautiful women have put in is being destroyed by my generation, by the generation of Paris Hilton. It's a sad crisis that not enough people are paying attention to.     The statement here isn't that men are smarter than women. I know plenty of guys that are real morons, people I'd even call friends. And even in today's television universe, you see every husband on every sitcom, and you see a moron. A guy who is incapable of functioning without his wife there to take care of him. Men and women can both be retarded, spoiled, apathetic bitches. This much is clear. But young men I come across don't aspire to be Backstreet Boys or the guy from King of Queens. Many of today's young women aspire to be Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, or Britney Spears. Worse yet, we support them in doing so by giving these young women incredible fame, fortune, and media attention.     But, again, I'm not so troubled by stupidity. I'm troubled by the lack of interest, by the fact that so many young women of today care more about their vanity and social life than advancing their minds, goals, and aspirations. They see being hyper and being motivated as one and the same. Go talk to an older woman. Someone who fought for her rights, someone who had to work hard to establish herself in the career world. Go talk to someone like my mother and find out what they think of the young women of today. I'm sure their statements may be as unfairly generalized as mine here today, but that doesn't make them any less true on a universal scale.     I don't have much faith in my generation, male or female. The selfish apathy of today's 20-somethings is appalling. It's a result of being told how "special" we were growing up in the 80's and 90's, when self-esteem was the issue of the day and true media-driven culture began to explode. But now we're in trouble folks, because what I'm talking about is something more than youthful laziness and naivete. This is a massive trend on a national scale. Being dumb is the new youth movement of today. And that, my friends, is the most frightening fad we've seen in this country since Christian fundamentalism.

What Happened to R?

The last six months have been difficult. Not because I've been facing death, because I’m depressed and lonely, or because anything particularly bad happened to me. It wasn’t because someone broke my heart, or because I'm nearing the end of the proverbial college road. And it wasn’t because I put my hopes into things that I shouldn’t have. These last six months have been hell, and they’ve been hell for one reason. I’m insane.     I’m a crazy person. Saying it even makes me feel comfortable with it. I think I like being a crazy person. Who wouldn’t? Life’s more fun that way. It's very freeing. I don't have to explain myself anymore. I don't even have to make rational decisions. "Why did you do that?" Don't ask me. I'm crazy.     Driving home from school last Thursday, I was very nearly in a major car accident, one that would have t-boned my car and possibly ended my life. Fortunately, through some combination of braking and turning, both cars were able to walk away undamaged. Not a single scar. Except maybe one.     During the moment when I looked out my window, the moment I saw this car flying towards my door, I had a thought pop into my head so swiftly and calmly that it made my skin crawl the very moment it was over. I drove home angrily, clenching the steering wheel so tight that the veins I thought were lost began popping out of my arms. I was pissed off. Because in my one moment of honesty with myself, in my one moment of unfiltered, unanalyzed emotion, I thought, “Thank God.”     I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to kill myself. I’m a firm atheist. I know that this life is all there is. I want to live a long fucking time, and I give deep emotional meaning and context to useless daily activities because I cherish every chance I get to soak up life. I want to have kids, and get married, and have six careers, and travel the world. All those things you think are dumb growing up. All the things I’ve secretly wanted since I was five, no matter what representation of bitter cynicism and counterculture I may have evolved into.     But in that moment of sheer mortality, when it was going to end without my choice, all that I felt was sweet relief. Relief from all the needless emotion I go through, relief from my endless impatience, and relief from my need to question, understand, and in turn be cynical about everything. Relief from being crazy.     Upon reaching my bedroom, slamming the door behind me, my blood began to boil. My muscles tensed up, my heart's pace quickened, and my mind began to rage. Something in my life was seriously wrong. What the fuck was I doing? How fucked up is my life when I’m about to die, and all I can think of is “Thank God?”     “FUCK!” I screamed. “FUCK!” And with a rage I haven’t felt in years, I unleashed every violent force in my body into one punch, into one wall.     I stood back and stared at the massive hole my fist had just made. "That drywall's weak, I broke right through it," I thought. "Fuck that drywall, it’s pussy shit."     And I begin to laugh. I laugh at the drywall. I laugh, and laugh, and laugh.     Then I turn around and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked at the man in the mirror and uttered the truest words I’ve said in a while. “Look how messed up you are. You are a wreck.”     I sat on the floor sobbing, running over my life in infinite detail, and I couldn’t escape one fact. This is how I am.     I’m emotional. I’ve been ready to admit that since I was 19. I’m 21 now, and I think I’m ready to admit something more. I’m a crazy person. And this proves it.     I had gone nuts. Throwing out posters, movies, clothes, furniture – anything that I saw as unnecessary. I deleted my Facebook and MySpace accounts. At first I thought I was packing up to leave, to bail on school, on my friends, on life. Pack my car and hit the road. I wanted to drop off the face of the earth. I wanted to disappear forever. But this experience didn't happen because I wanted to die. It happened because I was dissatisfied with the current state of my so-called "life."     Realizing I was only 17 credits away from completing my degree, I knew I was stuck for now. I had to make it through the next 9 months. Somehow. Someway. I was determined to simplify, to reduce bullshit, to have new goals, new projects, new perspectives. I continued packing, rearranging, crying, ranting, raving, and throwing away. Who knows what I was doing. I went insane, because that’s what us crazy people like to do.     There are times I wish I wasn’t this person. The person that questions, and critiques, and analyzes, and draws deeper meaning, and becomes emotionally invested instantly. I do wish I wasn’t that person. I see the mindless, happy citizens. I see them and I wish that was me. But that’s not me. That’s never been me. That’s never going to be me. And now I think I can face that.     College has been a roller coaster ride of decisions, changes, emotions, turmoil, struggle, self-hatred, and emotional release. College was what it should have been; a time to grow, change, explore, and experiment. And I'm sure those processes will continue. But I'm done. I feel now like I did at the end of high school. Done. Ready to explore myself in new ways, in new places, with new people.     And I have no idea where my life is headed. And I’m terrified. And that’s ok. That’s life. Because I’m ready for a change. I could move back home. I could stay here. I could go to grad school. I could join Peace Corps. But more than likely, you'll find me in my car, headed for L.A.     Big changes are coming. Permanent goodbyes are imminent. Difficult times are ahead. And I can’t fucking wait.     And that’s what happened.