The About Page

Third-person biographical musings

GREG MOLESKY is a writer, filmmaker, director, actor, improvisationalist, poet, playwright, songwriter, recording artist, guitarist, collagist, meditator, oneironaut, and Tibetan Buddhist practitioner. In short, he has no idea what he wants to do with his life when he grows up. And he's already a fully-formed grown-up adult. Greg does know that he likes to do and say and create things that make people laugh, and he loves to inspire their creativity. And even though Greg wrote this biographical page, the writing voice is in third-person—which should tell you something about his psychological profile right off the bat.

About the The About Page Photo

Greg played Little League baseball for three years. His first two years were with a team called Little Rock. All the other teams in the league were named after cool Major League baseball team cities like New York, Boston, and San Francisco. Greg's first team was called Little Rock. As in Little Rock, Arkansas. Which, by the way, does not even have a Major League baseball team. Greg's team had no nickname, just Little Rock. For the two years Greg played on the team, they lost all of their games, going 0-15 both years.

In his last year, Greg played on a new team called the San Diego Padres (team photo above). At the time, the real life San Diego Padres were an early expansion team in the Majors who finished in last place in each of their first six seasons. While all the other kids were on teams called the Tigers, Giants, and Pirates, Greg played for the Padres. The Padres. As in, monks in brown housecoats with hoodies walking around chanting while planting beans.

Greg's Padres also lost all of their games. Zero wins, fifteen losses. The only way Little League could have been more of a complete Charlie Brown immersive experience for Greg is if the team logo on their piss-yellow baseball caps had been a kite stuck up in a tree.

Little League is an incubator, where the eggs of creative types are fertilized, for later hatching.

Getting to First Base

When it comes to baseball, Greg was born to play right field, out of harm's way, where nothing ever really happens. That's where all of his coaches realized that Greg's athletic talents could be best put to use, right field. Except for one year, when Greg's father coached the team and put him on the pitcher's mound for one game. For one inning. For one batter. Greg's pitching style was, to put it kindly, about as graceful as a drunken three-legged donkey foal trying to get its hoof unstuck from a bucket of peanut butter. His father finally pulled him, but only after his teammates' moms started hurling handfuls of small pebbles and profane Polish epithets at the mound.

The universe takes care of the miracle part, you just plant the seed

In his entire Little League batting career (that's probably not the right word), Greg got one hit, a single, in his very last at-bat in his very last game. Greg was determined when he stepped up to the plate for the last time on that cloudy Michigan afternoon that he was going to get a hit. He was not going to go three years in the Littles without getting at least one base hit.

And his determination worked. Greg got a base hit. He was astonished! It was the first time Greg saw the influence this his mind could have on shaping his physical reality, although it didn't really register at the time. It also proved to Greg that you could be a loser most of the time but still pull off some small great thing on occasion. Or, as e.e. cummings once wrote, nobody loses all the time.

All of the long-suffering parent fans in the stands rose to acknowledge Greg's monumental achievement—His First Base Hit!—and gave him a standing ovation. A few even cried. Greg was so excited to be on base, and so desperate for approval, that he turned to the adoring crowd and bent over to take a theatrical bow. The other team's first baseman, noticing that Greg had stepped off the base to take his bow, tagged him out.

And so this became Greg's baptismal experience with the first of the Three Marks of Existence in Buddhism: Impermanence. Life certainly dishes up its unbelievably great moments from time to time, but they are as fleeting as "bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim."

Live life accordingly.