The open stage I play on Monday nights at Tip Top Tavern had a songwriting competition. Last week the host came up with a phrase ("the crossroads of nowhere" or "the crossroads to nowhere", not really sure if it's of or to) and encouraged everyone to write a song that used the phrase. I had decided that with all the fuss and struggle writing a song can be for me, I wasn't going to try to force it. If I write a song, I want it to be about something that I feel I need to express; it should be a healthy release of creative forces. I was certain that trying to fulfill an outside requirement would dilute the entire process to the point that I wouldn't be able to come up with anything good.
After an extremely busy weekend, I hadn't really touched my guitar since Thursday. I made a post on Facebook about how I wasn't sure if I was even going to show up to open stage in the evening, but a small handful of people did their best to convince me otherwise. So I sat down at about 3 to play a bit. I put my capo on the third fret to play "Clementine", but before I even started the song, a few other random chords just stumbled out of my hands without even thinking about it. I sang some lyrics.
When you finally find where you should be
I hope it's next to me
So I can still see your smile
That's it; that's what I had to work with. Not the greatest lines I've ever written, by any means. It all just poured out in a flash, and I played the chords and sang those lyrics a hundred times. It seemed like it could be the beginning of a song about someone who wants to hit the road, and I thought that might combine well with the songwriting challenge phrase. I decided that if the song was just going to pretty much present itself to me, ripe for the plucking, I might as well see it through and do the competition after all.
I wrote the entire song in less than an hour. It was a blur. I look back on some of the phrases now and I don't even remember coming up with them. I recorded a comically sloppy demo in haste, threw it on my iPod Touch, and listened to it over and over in the car as I drove around town. I played through it a dozen times after I returned home, before heading out to the bar, but I was still having trouble with the melody.
I got to the bar just in time to write out the lyrics and chords before my turn. I wound up having a little trouble remembering some of the melody, as well as how to connect the verses and choruses and bridge, etc. But I covered my mistakes well and managed to get through the song without falling apart, and I suppose I couldn't have hoped for anything more with a song only a few hours old.
There were some other really great songs, both before and after me. I was happy to see so many other people participating. I had resigned that I wouldn't win, and it didn't bother me in the least. And why should it? I had been given a week to participate, had told myself that I wouldn't, and had decided in the final hour to give it a shot. I am and always have been and always will be a terrible procrastinator.
The vote was held by secret ballot and the winner was announced about half an hour later. And it was...me? I admit I was surprised. I kept trying to work out what I had just heard; there's no way it was my name. I just didn't expect to win with my hastily thrown together jingle jangle whiny junk.
Anyway, I'm glad I did it. It actually wound up being kind of fun writing the song. I don't often write fictional songs, but incorporating the challenge phrase seemed to trigger a series of creative reflexes that might not have otherwise occurred on my own. I still don't know if I'll include the song into my live set. Maybe with a bit of polish it might make it someday. Maybe I'll record it and put it online for you to hear someday. Maybe. Someday. Procrastination...
Oh, you're holding on to a faded memory
And losing sleep, though it's not like you to worry
Everyone who knows you knows you will get lost
Showing posts with label autobiographical. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autobiographical. Show all posts
Monday, June 14, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
New Song "Dandelion" (Recording)
Another new song. Again in kind of a different style for me. I've never offered up my own dissection of a song I've written, but what the heck, this is a blog. Here we go.
(I think it'd be a solid idea to listen to the song and read the lyrics before diving into all my forthcoming blathering.)
The car won't start
The bars are all dark
Your friends are all gone
And they wonder where you are
Yeah they're wondering where
The phone is dead
I'll write you instead
Scribble down some bullshit
About how I miss you in bed
Yeah I miss you
It's all I can do to watch you go home
The fumes of our lives still hang in the air
If there's a god, well he's left me alone
For twenty-six years, so honey why should I care?
The change, it came
But I'm still the same
And if I seem blue
Then maybe you're to blame
Yeah you're to blame
It's all I can do to watch you go home
The fumes of our lives still hang in the air
If there's a god, well he's left me alone
For twenty-six years, so honey why should I care?
Why should I care?
The car won't start
The bars are all dark
The keg is dry
There's smoke in our eyes
There's ash in the trays
And we're saying our goodbyes
Yeah we're saying goodbye
It's all I can do to watch you go home
The fumes of our lives still hang in the air
If there's a god, well he's left me alone
For twenty-six years, so honey why should I care?
Why should I care?
It all started a couple weeks ago with the opening guitar part, which I just played over and over again. I love the way it resonates; it's standard tuning, but it kind of sounds like an open D tuning. I actually recorded just that guitar part and threw it on my iPod and listened to that in the car a lot. The third and fourth lines of the chorus kind of happened simultaneously as the chorus chord progression appeared, and for a while that was all I had. It took about a week for me to sit down at midnight one evening, when I felt the creative forces flowing, and I was alone in the house. (That's a big one for me, I think, when it comes to songwriting: being alone.) I stayed up until 3 in the morning writing out the verses. I tried something new with those, too; I wanted to be descriptive of the surroundings, to sort of build up a scene. I liked using imagery of broken things, places that closed, things that are generally done or used up. The feeling is that it's the absolute end of the end of the night.
The second verse doesn't really fit this mold, but it seemed to come out of nowhere, and I liked how it just encapsulated me right now. The last year of my life has seen an inconceivable amount of growth and change, but sometimes I still feel like the same old me, for better or for worse. I mean, here I am back in Indy, after all, doing music. So what's new? Exactly. Well, there's more to it than that. A lot's new, or at least different. And the truth is that the good outweighs the bad, but I still find myself plagued by ridiculous and unfounded self-doubt from time to time.
Another new thing for me is to return to the verse after the bridge. I always liked the way Ben Folds does this in so many of his songs. I think too often I go straight back to the chorus as almost a knee-jerk thing; like "well, I wrapped up that little noodly doodly bridge with a weird key change or something (see also: "Clementine" or "This Medication"), now let's hammer out the chorus and clock out!" This time I wanted to continue the 'story' (not that there really is a definable one) and I felt like ending the third verse on the "goodbye" line really brought it to a close. I was also in this mindset when I wrote "Externalization of an Inner Monologue", where I didn't even bother with a bridge, although you could argue that the first of the final three choruses functions like a bridge.
There are a few lines in here that vaguely hint at this being a relationship/love song. But I'm leery of milking that theme too much, and I feel like there are some other things in life worth singing about, if I can just find a way to do so. To that end, I think there's more in this song that can apply to other things. Your friends wonder where you are when you've been away or out of it; you change a little or a lot; you bid farewell to people in your life. In fact, "our lives" in the chorus used to be "our love", but listening to the song in the car it just struck me that it's really what the whole song is about: the fumes of our lives, the remnants of the lives we (or I) would like to have had but didn't.
I haven't been able to think of a name for this song, so I've been asking for help in coming up with one every time I play it, and the only person to ever suggest anything was Kat from the Wah Wahs, and she christened it "Dandelion", and so it shall be. Thanks!
So, did I kill the mystique by breaking it down and spoon feeding everything? Sorry. Rest assured I'll never do the same for songs like "Speed Dial", "Metropolis", or "Willem Dafoe".
P.S. This was the best of six takes. If I had decided to do a more normal recording (i.e. in Pro Tools) I might have been tempted to edit between my favorite two, but I'm running with the live thing for now so that's how it'll be.
P.P.S. Buzz users need to click through to the actual post to view the embedded video.
(I think it'd be a solid idea to listen to the song and read the lyrics before diving into all my forthcoming blathering.)
The car won't start
The bars are all dark
Your friends are all gone
And they wonder where you are
Yeah they're wondering where
The phone is dead
I'll write you instead
Scribble down some bullshit
About how I miss you in bed
Yeah I miss you
It's all I can do to watch you go home
The fumes of our lives still hang in the air
If there's a god, well he's left me alone
For twenty-six years, so honey why should I care?
The change, it came
But I'm still the same
And if I seem blue
Then maybe you're to blame
Yeah you're to blame
It's all I can do to watch you go home
The fumes of our lives still hang in the air
If there's a god, well he's left me alone
For twenty-six years, so honey why should I care?
Why should I care?
The car won't start
The bars are all dark
The keg is dry
There's smoke in our eyes
There's ash in the trays
And we're saying our goodbyes
Yeah we're saying goodbye
It's all I can do to watch you go home
The fumes of our lives still hang in the air
If there's a god, well he's left me alone
For twenty-six years, so honey why should I care?
Why should I care?
It all started a couple weeks ago with the opening guitar part, which I just played over and over again. I love the way it resonates; it's standard tuning, but it kind of sounds like an open D tuning. I actually recorded just that guitar part and threw it on my iPod and listened to that in the car a lot. The third and fourth lines of the chorus kind of happened simultaneously as the chorus chord progression appeared, and for a while that was all I had. It took about a week for me to sit down at midnight one evening, when I felt the creative forces flowing, and I was alone in the house. (That's a big one for me, I think, when it comes to songwriting: being alone.) I stayed up until 3 in the morning writing out the verses. I tried something new with those, too; I wanted to be descriptive of the surroundings, to sort of build up a scene. I liked using imagery of broken things, places that closed, things that are generally done or used up. The feeling is that it's the absolute end of the end of the night.
The second verse doesn't really fit this mold, but it seemed to come out of nowhere, and I liked how it just encapsulated me right now. The last year of my life has seen an inconceivable amount of growth and change, but sometimes I still feel like the same old me, for better or for worse. I mean, here I am back in Indy, after all, doing music. So what's new? Exactly. Well, there's more to it than that. A lot's new, or at least different. And the truth is that the good outweighs the bad, but I still find myself plagued by ridiculous and unfounded self-doubt from time to time.
Another new thing for me is to return to the verse after the bridge. I always liked the way Ben Folds does this in so many of his songs. I think too often I go straight back to the chorus as almost a knee-jerk thing; like "well, I wrapped up that little noodly doodly bridge with a weird key change or something (see also: "Clementine" or "This Medication"), now let's hammer out the chorus and clock out!" This time I wanted to continue the 'story' (not that there really is a definable one) and I felt like ending the third verse on the "goodbye" line really brought it to a close. I was also in this mindset when I wrote "Externalization of an Inner Monologue", where I didn't even bother with a bridge, although you could argue that the first of the final three choruses functions like a bridge.
There are a few lines in here that vaguely hint at this being a relationship/love song. But I'm leery of milking that theme too much, and I feel like there are some other things in life worth singing about, if I can just find a way to do so. To that end, I think there's more in this song that can apply to other things. Your friends wonder where you are when you've been away or out of it; you change a little or a lot; you bid farewell to people in your life. In fact, "our lives" in the chorus used to be "our love", but listening to the song in the car it just struck me that it's really what the whole song is about: the fumes of our lives, the remnants of the lives we (or I) would like to have had but didn't.
I haven't been able to think of a name for this song, so I've been asking for help in coming up with one every time I play it, and the only person to ever suggest anything was Kat from the Wah Wahs, and she christened it "Dandelion", and so it shall be. Thanks!
So, did I kill the mystique by breaking it down and spoon feeding everything? Sorry. Rest assured I'll never do the same for songs like "Speed Dial", "Metropolis", or "Willem Dafoe".
P.S. This was the best of six takes. If I had decided to do a more normal recording (i.e. in Pro Tools) I might have been tempted to edit between my favorite two, but I'm running with the live thing for now so that's how it'll be.
P.P.S. Buzz users need to click through to the actual post to view the embedded video.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
A Sweeping Narrative on the Status of My Life
I haven't written anything in several weeks. Let's see what's new.
I. Songwriting
The last song I finished that I was truly happy with was "Externalization of an Inner Monologue". The story of how that song was written is kind of amusing; the entire thing was written in the car on the way from Muncie to Michigan City the evening before I left for that brief visit to North Dakota back in March. I mean everything; lyrics, melody, chord progression. I just started singing it, and I opened Virtuoso Piano on my iPod Touch to get a feel for what key I was in, then I got out my pocket notebook and wrote down the lyrics as they came to me as well as the Roman numerals of the chords, as I heard them in my head. It wasn't until several weeks later that I finally pulled out what I had written down and I just played the song, and there it was. After bombing it the first time I played it at an open mic (to be fair, I'd had a little too much to drink as well), I changed the key from F to D which made it both easier to sing and easier to play on guitar. I love the song and I haven't had a songwriting experience quite so sublime since I wrote "Speed Dial".
Since then I've noodled a bit, written page after page of lyric ideas, come up with some guitar parts, even have one or two songs that I could say are almost done, but nothing really seems to please me quite so thoroughly. I am getting a little hung-up with my tendency to overdo the whole love theme. A lot of my most popular songs (e.g. "Speed Dial") are unequivocally about love, so that's not a big deal, but as a songwriter I feel like there are other themes out there worth exploring; I just don't know exactly what I want to say or quite how to say it. That's a pretty big problem for a songwriter. I guess you'd call it writer's block. For now, I've got one song that I just finished writing at 3 a.m. last week that I briefly mentioned in a status update, and I'll probably get around to posting some sort of live basement recording of it when I find the motivation.
II. Performing
By now it's no secret that I've been playing open mics throughout Indy. I got this determined look on my face one night and just decided that it was time I embarked on my musical journey, and that for now my musical journey would consist of putting myself on a stage alone, somewhat awkwardly, and forcing myself to get reacquainted with that whole world. It's not often that I have played solo in the past, so it's taking some time to get adjusted. I find myself feeling nervous and rushing and making mistakes too often, so it's requiring some perseverance to be satisfied with my sound. It has been a very cool experience, meeting a plethora of different people. Alas, sometimes I will play four open mics in one week and get burned out on it and then play one or none the following week. Also I find myself vacillating between liking my material and hating it. I hear other guitarists and singers who impress me, and I go "wait, is my stuff even any good?" Thinking like that is probably dangerous and not very productive.
Some of you may be wondering why I haven't talked about this more, or why I haven't made it known beforehand online where I'll be playing, and the answer is kind of complicated and maybe a little weird. It's not that I wouldn't love to see you out there if you came; in fact, anyone is always invited. I mean that. It's more of a matter of consciously denying myself that security blanket of having an army of friends cheering me on from the crowd by default. Keep in mind several things. One, it's somewhat spontaneous; sometimes I don't even know until that evening where and when I'll go play. Two, I am more likely to meet new people, because I'm alone and awkward and forced to say hi to people. Three, no one I'm sitting with has to feel obligated to tell me it was great even if it wasn't that great. Four, and maybe this is mistaken, but I feel kind of cheap trying twist the arms of friends to come watch me play. I mean, I figure if people want to watch me play, they will do so of their own accord. If none of this makes any sense, just know that it's nothing personal. It's not you, it's me.
III. Jazz
Unfortunately, with playing all these open mics in the last month, I really haven't spent any time on jazz. This isn't necessarily to my liking, but it's the truth. I'm not done with jazz, by any means. Discovering how much I truly love it had an enormous impact on my musical health, and that's not going anywhere. I need to find a way to reincorporate it into my daily life so I can continue making progress. A friend of mine recently let me borrow Wes Montgomery Live in '65. I haven't watched it yet, but it's sitting directly beside me, and I'm really looking forward to it. Every time I hear him play, my brain just goes all asplodey.
I've considered bringing my guitar and amp to an open mic and running through some of the very limited, very beginner stuff I've learned so far. But I just can't convince myself that it's a good idea yet. If I'm going to do it, I'm going to do it right; I don't want to embarrass myself. Jazz has slightly higher standards (no pun intended) than the usual singer/songwriter junk, where it's okay to jangle some G, C & D and let fly with some whiny melodies.
IV. Studio
I've had the pleasure of working two sessions at Queensize Studios since I've been back in Indy. It has been a real treat, and it seems to fill the void that I perceived for so long. It's refreshing to be back in a studio environment, and one that just so happens to have a pretty good reputation for being a great place to go make a record. I haven't really talked this up much online, because it's the kind of thing I didn't want to get bugged about by two dozen people in the event that it fell through, but it hasn't fallen through yet and so far it's bringing me a new level of musical happiness and creative satisfaction.
As a side note, I've mentioned this in conversation with family and very close friends, but I hadn't really discussed it publicly: being highly recommended by my former studio manager down at Echo Park in Bloomington was a seriously validating feeling. It did a hell of a lot to give me a renewed sense of confidence and inspiration. It's entirely possible that I might not even be sitting here today writing this blog if he hadn't done so. That sounded really grim and morbid; I just meant I might not have come back to Indy, and I might not have some or all of this renewed vigor, and I might not even be pursuing music as diligently as I have been. It actually changed my life for the better, combined with the trip to North Dakota, and helped me put into better focus the picture of who I want to be.
V. Love
Nothing to see here. There's really only one person I have felt attracted to since returning to Indy, and I discovered shortly thereafter that she's dating a guy in a band that I am somewhat fond of. I'm not touching that with a 10-foot pole.
When I first got here, I was like "no way, I'm not dating anyone, eff that" because I wanted to devote myself fully to the various pursuits I'm currently engaged in, and they are many in number. But as the days pass, and spring is in bloom, I find myself ensnared by that old wistful feeling. Just last night I walked to a church a few blocks away where I like to lay down on this bit of cement by the stairs that is at just the right combination of angles to be kind of like a recliner; and I was listening to music and watching the stars and there was a moment when I thought to myself how lovely it would be if I had a lovely person to share the experience with. And then the moment passed. I don't really plan to act on it. If anything should come my way, then so be it, but for now I'm just going to continue to fly straight and try to stay productive. (How paradoxical that, as I write that statement, I'm having one of the most unproductive days since I've been here; I mean, that's part of the entire reason I'm even writing this disgustingly long entry.)
VI. Kitties!
Two of my friends (who happen to be dating) have a cat named Rocky, who is a bit less than a year old, by my estimation. This is a fantastic cat. He loves to play outside, like any kitten, but he also spends plenty of time sleeping inside and just being a cuddly little friend in general. That's my kind of cat. Every time I see him, I get all wistful and nostalgic for Fiona. I miss that little kitten. I really came to love it in only a matter of weeks. It was a special bond, but I guess you'll have that when raising a kitten that's only two or three weeks old. I looked at some pictures of her on Facebook yesterday and got kind of sad. I remember walking into the room after having been gone for some time, and she would waddle over as fast as she could on her flat back paws (it took her a few weeks to bend that joint and walk correctly), so excited to see me! Then there was bath time, which usually happened every time I tried to wean her onto solid food, and the resultant nap spent rolled up in my shirt to stay warm: too adorable for words.
I would maybe like to get another kitten someday, but now just doesn't feel like the right time. Granted, it wasn't the right time when I got Fiona, too; but look how that all turned out.
VII. Biking
I need a bicycle. I haven't ridden since October of last year when I used to ride six miles a day, and I miss it. The weather is so gorgeous out, it's the perfect time to be riding. I usually walk a mile or two each day, just around the neighborhood, to clear my head a little when it gets kind of cluttered in there. But I want to get another bike. If you see a decent, street-ready bike on the cheapsies, let me know; otherwise I'm going to hold out for a nice touring bike. I've got plans for trips I'd like to take someday...
Oh, you wonder what those plans entail? Sorry, that's an entry for another day, as I'm not really discussing it publicly. A small handful of people (four or five) know about it, but until I feel like it might actually happen, I'm not really talking about it.
VIII. Sleep
I know there's a phrase about burning the candle from both ends, but sometimes I feel like there are also other ends that don't get talked about, and I'm burning my candle from those ends as well. Or maybe the candle was just put in an oven. Yes, I am baking my candle.
A Sweeping Narrative on the Status of My Life:
A Character Study in Eight Acts
I. Songwriting
The last song I finished that I was truly happy with was "Externalization of an Inner Monologue". The story of how that song was written is kind of amusing; the entire thing was written in the car on the way from Muncie to Michigan City the evening before I left for that brief visit to North Dakota back in March. I mean everything; lyrics, melody, chord progression. I just started singing it, and I opened Virtuoso Piano on my iPod Touch to get a feel for what key I was in, then I got out my pocket notebook and wrote down the lyrics as they came to me as well as the Roman numerals of the chords, as I heard them in my head. It wasn't until several weeks later that I finally pulled out what I had written down and I just played the song, and there it was. After bombing it the first time I played it at an open mic (to be fair, I'd had a little too much to drink as well), I changed the key from F to D which made it both easier to sing and easier to play on guitar. I love the song and I haven't had a songwriting experience quite so sublime since I wrote "Speed Dial".
Since then I've noodled a bit, written page after page of lyric ideas, come up with some guitar parts, even have one or two songs that I could say are almost done, but nothing really seems to please me quite so thoroughly. I am getting a little hung-up with my tendency to overdo the whole love theme. A lot of my most popular songs (e.g. "Speed Dial") are unequivocally about love, so that's not a big deal, but as a songwriter I feel like there are other themes out there worth exploring; I just don't know exactly what I want to say or quite how to say it. That's a pretty big problem for a songwriter. I guess you'd call it writer's block. For now, I've got one song that I just finished writing at 3 a.m. last week that I briefly mentioned in a status update, and I'll probably get around to posting some sort of live basement recording of it when I find the motivation.
II. Performing
By now it's no secret that I've been playing open mics throughout Indy. I got this determined look on my face one night and just decided that it was time I embarked on my musical journey, and that for now my musical journey would consist of putting myself on a stage alone, somewhat awkwardly, and forcing myself to get reacquainted with that whole world. It's not often that I have played solo in the past, so it's taking some time to get adjusted. I find myself feeling nervous and rushing and making mistakes too often, so it's requiring some perseverance to be satisfied with my sound. It has been a very cool experience, meeting a plethora of different people. Alas, sometimes I will play four open mics in one week and get burned out on it and then play one or none the following week. Also I find myself vacillating between liking my material and hating it. I hear other guitarists and singers who impress me, and I go "wait, is my stuff even any good?" Thinking like that is probably dangerous and not very productive.
Some of you may be wondering why I haven't talked about this more, or why I haven't made it known beforehand online where I'll be playing, and the answer is kind of complicated and maybe a little weird. It's not that I wouldn't love to see you out there if you came; in fact, anyone is always invited. I mean that. It's more of a matter of consciously denying myself that security blanket of having an army of friends cheering me on from the crowd by default. Keep in mind several things. One, it's somewhat spontaneous; sometimes I don't even know until that evening where and when I'll go play. Two, I am more likely to meet new people, because I'm alone and awkward and forced to say hi to people. Three, no one I'm sitting with has to feel obligated to tell me it was great even if it wasn't that great. Four, and maybe this is mistaken, but I feel kind of cheap trying twist the arms of friends to come watch me play. I mean, I figure if people want to watch me play, they will do so of their own accord. If none of this makes any sense, just know that it's nothing personal. It's not you, it's me.
III. Jazz
Unfortunately, with playing all these open mics in the last month, I really haven't spent any time on jazz. This isn't necessarily to my liking, but it's the truth. I'm not done with jazz, by any means. Discovering how much I truly love it had an enormous impact on my musical health, and that's not going anywhere. I need to find a way to reincorporate it into my daily life so I can continue making progress. A friend of mine recently let me borrow Wes Montgomery Live in '65. I haven't watched it yet, but it's sitting directly beside me, and I'm really looking forward to it. Every time I hear him play, my brain just goes all asplodey.
I've considered bringing my guitar and amp to an open mic and running through some of the very limited, very beginner stuff I've learned so far. But I just can't convince myself that it's a good idea yet. If I'm going to do it, I'm going to do it right; I don't want to embarrass myself. Jazz has slightly higher standards (no pun intended) than the usual singer/songwriter junk, where it's okay to jangle some G, C & D and let fly with some whiny melodies.
IV. Studio
I've had the pleasure of working two sessions at Queensize Studios since I've been back in Indy. It has been a real treat, and it seems to fill the void that I perceived for so long. It's refreshing to be back in a studio environment, and one that just so happens to have a pretty good reputation for being a great place to go make a record. I haven't really talked this up much online, because it's the kind of thing I didn't want to get bugged about by two dozen people in the event that it fell through, but it hasn't fallen through yet and so far it's bringing me a new level of musical happiness and creative satisfaction.
As a side note, I've mentioned this in conversation with family and very close friends, but I hadn't really discussed it publicly: being highly recommended by my former studio manager down at Echo Park in Bloomington was a seriously validating feeling. It did a hell of a lot to give me a renewed sense of confidence and inspiration. It's entirely possible that I might not even be sitting here today writing this blog if he hadn't done so. That sounded really grim and morbid; I just meant I might not have come back to Indy, and I might not have some or all of this renewed vigor, and I might not even be pursuing music as diligently as I have been. It actually changed my life for the better, combined with the trip to North Dakota, and helped me put into better focus the picture of who I want to be.
V. Love
Nothing to see here. There's really only one person I have felt attracted to since returning to Indy, and I discovered shortly thereafter that she's dating a guy in a band that I am somewhat fond of. I'm not touching that with a 10-foot pole.
When I first got here, I was like "no way, I'm not dating anyone, eff that" because I wanted to devote myself fully to the various pursuits I'm currently engaged in, and they are many in number. But as the days pass, and spring is in bloom, I find myself ensnared by that old wistful feeling. Just last night I walked to a church a few blocks away where I like to lay down on this bit of cement by the stairs that is at just the right combination of angles to be kind of like a recliner; and I was listening to music and watching the stars and there was a moment when I thought to myself how lovely it would be if I had a lovely person to share the experience with. And then the moment passed. I don't really plan to act on it. If anything should come my way, then so be it, but for now I'm just going to continue to fly straight and try to stay productive. (How paradoxical that, as I write that statement, I'm having one of the most unproductive days since I've been here; I mean, that's part of the entire reason I'm even writing this disgustingly long entry.)
VI. Kitties!
Two of my friends (who happen to be dating) have a cat named Rocky, who is a bit less than a year old, by my estimation. This is a fantastic cat. He loves to play outside, like any kitten, but he also spends plenty of time sleeping inside and just being a cuddly little friend in general. That's my kind of cat. Every time I see him, I get all wistful and nostalgic for Fiona. I miss that little kitten. I really came to love it in only a matter of weeks. It was a special bond, but I guess you'll have that when raising a kitten that's only two or three weeks old. I looked at some pictures of her on Facebook yesterday and got kind of sad. I remember walking into the room after having been gone for some time, and she would waddle over as fast as she could on her flat back paws (it took her a few weeks to bend that joint and walk correctly), so excited to see me! Then there was bath time, which usually happened every time I tried to wean her onto solid food, and the resultant nap spent rolled up in my shirt to stay warm: too adorable for words.
I would maybe like to get another kitten someday, but now just doesn't feel like the right time. Granted, it wasn't the right time when I got Fiona, too; but look how that all turned out.
VII. Biking
I need a bicycle. I haven't ridden since October of last year when I used to ride six miles a day, and I miss it. The weather is so gorgeous out, it's the perfect time to be riding. I usually walk a mile or two each day, just around the neighborhood, to clear my head a little when it gets kind of cluttered in there. But I want to get another bike. If you see a decent, street-ready bike on the cheapsies, let me know; otherwise I'm going to hold out for a nice touring bike. I've got plans for trips I'd like to take someday...
Oh, you wonder what those plans entail? Sorry, that's an entry for another day, as I'm not really discussing it publicly. A small handful of people (four or five) know about it, but until I feel like it might actually happen, I'm not really talking about it.
VIII. Sleep
I know there's a phrase about burning the candle from both ends, but sometimes I feel like there are also other ends that don't get talked about, and I'm burning my candle from those ends as well. Or maybe the candle was just put in an oven. Yes, I am baking my candle.
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
Can I Get a Witness?
This evening I was at Locals Only with a few friends. Upon arriving, one of them immediately noticed the collection of art displayed on the wall that was for sale. He commented that he really liked them and appreciated their cartoony quirks. I agreed that they were pretty cool. He mentioned the one that he liked the most, coincidentally the biggest one of the bunch.
He spent the evening debating with himself about whether he should buy a piece. He questioned aloud what we thought the prices would be for original art. I said I had no idea. He asked if they would take card or cash. I said I have no idea. He asked if he bought it, if we thought he could just take it home tonight. I said I have no idea. He did a brief survey of the area and reported back on some of the prices. He declared that the one he wanted was $100; he thought that was a bit too steep.
A bit later he informed me that a smaller piece that resembled it but was in no way as cool was only $50. He said he thought he'd just get that one. He disappeared and returned in a bit with a piece of paper declaring him the proud new owner, and he said that he was supposed to just take it with him when he left.
I asked him why he didn't buy the one he wanted. He said the price was just too much. I told him that he's buying a piece of original, hand-made art that he won't find anywhere else; and he's going to settle for one other than the one that he wanted? He repeated that $100 was just too much for him. I said that he is doing just fine money-wise (he is gainfully employed, more than I can say for myself), and that for him spending $50 or $100 on this art was not a drastic difference when it came to pleasing his aesthetic sense. I said that days, weeks, months, years from now, he won't regret spending the money. He'll be happy that he bought the art that he wanted. I urged him to do exactly what his heart was tellling him; he knew which piece he wanted, but he was going to deny himself of it entirely. I told him that a very powerful thing I had learned over the past year or so was to follow your god damn heart when you should, and to do what you know is right without questioning it. He wanted that art the moment he saw it, and it should not be otherwise.
This went on for several minutes. He said he didn't know if he could since he had already bought the one. I told him there's no way he can't just walk up and say "here's more money, please and thank you". His will was cracking. He was beginning to listen to the voice inside him telling him what he wanted. He begrudgingly agreed to go try, saying "if it'll make you happy." I shouted "no, it will make you happy! That's the whole point!"
He disappeared and came back a few minutes later with a grin on his face and a piece of paper declaring him the proud new owner of the one he fell in love with at first sight. I could tell that he was secretly and very truly, somewhere deep down beyond the reaches of the rational and intellectual recesses of his brain, happy. And those of us who were with him were happy to see him happy! He thanked me for helping him to realize what he should do. I'm glad I did. And I'm glad he did. It was awesome getting him to the point at which he would allow himself to pursue that which would bring him such great happiness.
He spent the evening debating with himself about whether he should buy a piece. He questioned aloud what we thought the prices would be for original art. I said I had no idea. He asked if they would take card or cash. I said I have no idea. He asked if he bought it, if we thought he could just take it home tonight. I said I have no idea. He did a brief survey of the area and reported back on some of the prices. He declared that the one he wanted was $100; he thought that was a bit too steep.
A bit later he informed me that a smaller piece that resembled it but was in no way as cool was only $50. He said he thought he'd just get that one. He disappeared and returned in a bit with a piece of paper declaring him the proud new owner, and he said that he was supposed to just take it with him when he left.
I asked him why he didn't buy the one he wanted. He said the price was just too much. I told him that he's buying a piece of original, hand-made art that he won't find anywhere else; and he's going to settle for one other than the one that he wanted? He repeated that $100 was just too much for him. I said that he is doing just fine money-wise (he is gainfully employed, more than I can say for myself), and that for him spending $50 or $100 on this art was not a drastic difference when it came to pleasing his aesthetic sense. I said that days, weeks, months, years from now, he won't regret spending the money. He'll be happy that he bought the art that he wanted. I urged him to do exactly what his heart was tellling him; he knew which piece he wanted, but he was going to deny himself of it entirely. I told him that a very powerful thing I had learned over the past year or so was to follow your god damn heart when you should, and to do what you know is right without questioning it. He wanted that art the moment he saw it, and it should not be otherwise.
This went on for several minutes. He said he didn't know if he could since he had already bought the one. I told him there's no way he can't just walk up and say "here's more money, please and thank you". His will was cracking. He was beginning to listen to the voice inside him telling him what he wanted. He begrudgingly agreed to go try, saying "if it'll make you happy." I shouted "no, it will make you happy! That's the whole point!"
He disappeared and came back a few minutes later with a grin on his face and a piece of paper declaring him the proud new owner of the one he fell in love with at first sight. I could tell that he was secretly and very truly, somewhere deep down beyond the reaches of the rational and intellectual recesses of his brain, happy. And those of us who were with him were happy to see him happy! He thanked me for helping him to realize what he should do. I'm glad I did. And I'm glad he did. It was awesome getting him to the point at which he would allow himself to pursue that which would bring him such great happiness.
Thursday, April 01, 2010
This is an April Fools' Day joke
This entire post is a joke; it is being written in observation of April Fools' Day. Do not believe anything contained within.
Today is April 1, the day of merry pranks and jokes. To that end, I am posting this in the hopes of catching some of you unawares. A portion of you will read this and know that it is all a prank; you will have likely also read pranks and jokes on other websites. But chances are high that a majority of you will read through this entire post and not realize the irony or humor contained within, and you may even tell a few friends about it before you realize the error of your ways. At that point, you may feel slightly embarrassed. Don't worry, it's all in the nature of the joke.
I can't take all the credit for catching you unawares. I had ample help preparing for this deception. Several of my closest friends were indispensable in the labyrinthine planning stages of this elaborate spoof. We spent hours going over the details, and now that you have been sufficiently taken for a ride, I can safely admit their involvement. If some of you feel cheated or deceived, please take your frustrations out on me and not them, as they were kept mostly in the dark about the eventual purpose of their machinations.
To those who may suppose that posting such a farcical tale of whimsy as this would perhaps discredit future writings of a more serious nature, you need not worry. I assure you that this preposterous and comedic anecdote is the only one of its kind.
Today is April 1, the day of merry pranks and jokes. To that end, I am posting this in the hopes of catching some of you unawares. A portion of you will read this and know that it is all a prank; you will have likely also read pranks and jokes on other websites. But chances are high that a majority of you will read through this entire post and not realize the irony or humor contained within, and you may even tell a few friends about it before you realize the error of your ways. At that point, you may feel slightly embarrassed. Don't worry, it's all in the nature of the joke.
I can't take all the credit for catching you unawares. I had ample help preparing for this deception. Several of my closest friends were indispensable in the labyrinthine planning stages of this elaborate spoof. We spent hours going over the details, and now that you have been sufficiently taken for a ride, I can safely admit their involvement. If some of you feel cheated or deceived, please take your frustrations out on me and not them, as they were kept mostly in the dark about the eventual purpose of their machinations.
To those who may suppose that posting such a farcical tale of whimsy as this would perhaps discredit future writings of a more serious nature, you need not worry. I assure you that this preposterous and comedic anecdote is the only one of its kind.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Anti-Climactic Ending
This evening was interesting. After unexpectedly bumping (quite literally) into an old friend at Yats, I went with a couple other friends to a screening of the new movie How to Train Your Dragon. I thought it was a documentary about how to train dragons; I was partially right. After that we went to Broad Ripple to patronize The Egyptian, but upon arriving we decided we didn't want to wait in a line, so we opted instead to go back to the apartment. We drove across town and wound up hanging out a bit, catching up and discussing life over a sampling of beer and hookah, which make for a splendid partnership. It was enjoyable. Then we watched Up, which I hadn't seen. I thought it was quite good, much better than the evening's earlier animated affair.
Many hours later, at about 3:30 in the a.m. I began the lugubrious task of driving home. I got to the intersection of Kessler & Meridian to find a billowing cloud of smoke, and in the middle of the haze was a stationary car. I paused behind it, while through an entire light cycle a handful of other vehicles passed and went on their merry, early morning ways. I sat and thought about it and decided that I wouldn't just pass without inquiring. I considered the relative safety (or lack thereof) of the situation, and decided that I would approach on his driver's side and let down my passenger window. I did so. My caution meter was at guarded.
The guy in the car—who seemed a bit flustered and perhaps surprised to see someone beckoning him roll down his window—rolled down his window. I asked if he needed to make a phone call; he said he did. I'm not stupid, I'm not putting my phone in this guy's hands, nor am I putting my body within arm's reach of him. Still seated in my car, I pulled out my phone and told him I could inform someone of his location. I asked the number, which he gave me. I paused mid-dial: "Northwest Indiana?" "Yeah!" It was a 219 area code. No answer. "No answer! You want me to leave a message?" I tried another number, also 219; also no answer, and again I left no message. Two calls, no answers, and he didn't have me leave a message. My caution meter rose to ominous. I asked where he was headed. He asked which way was south on Meridian, to get downtown. I pointed and told him. He wondered if he could get a ride to some hotel near downtown. My caution meter spiked to portentous. I told him matter-of-factly that these phone calls were all I could offer to him. He seemed to understand my hesitation and thanked me nonetheless. He asked how long I thought it would take to walk; I said it's about five miles, so if he kept up a decent pace, probably a couple of hours. I told him I could call 911 for him. He seemed to hesitate.
Just as it was about to get awkward—I mean, what do you really do at this point in the situation?—a fire truck arrived behind us with lights flashing. This is either some serious good timing, or another passer-by had the good will to make a phone call to the authorities. As three or four of them approached his vehicle and began asking him questions, my light turned green, and I shouted out my wish for good fortunes to him then drove through the intersection.
A lot of thoughts raced through my head before I approached his car. I envisioned a gun being drawn (this would not be the first time I'd had a gun pointed at me); all of my money being taken (which was admittedly only $1 at the time); my car being stolen (the joke is on you if you steal my car); a bullet sliding effortlessly through my thorax (seems uncomfortable). I also remembered the man in the coffee shop, and the prevalence of the good will of humanity, and I decided that I would make a meager attempt at propagating that. It turns out there was little to nothing for me to do to help, and my story tonight ends not with a bang but with a whimper; but I am somewhat comforted by the simple fact that I pulled up next to this gentlemen while so many others were content to ignore his plight. Would I not have appreciated the same if our positions were reversed?
Many hours later, at about 3:30 in the a.m. I began the lugubrious task of driving home. I got to the intersection of Kessler & Meridian to find a billowing cloud of smoke, and in the middle of the haze was a stationary car. I paused behind it, while through an entire light cycle a handful of other vehicles passed and went on their merry, early morning ways. I sat and thought about it and decided that I wouldn't just pass without inquiring. I considered the relative safety (or lack thereof) of the situation, and decided that I would approach on his driver's side and let down my passenger window. I did so. My caution meter was at guarded.
The guy in the car—who seemed a bit flustered and perhaps surprised to see someone beckoning him roll down his window—rolled down his window. I asked if he needed to make a phone call; he said he did. I'm not stupid, I'm not putting my phone in this guy's hands, nor am I putting my body within arm's reach of him. Still seated in my car, I pulled out my phone and told him I could inform someone of his location. I asked the number, which he gave me. I paused mid-dial: "Northwest Indiana?" "Yeah!" It was a 219 area code. No answer. "No answer! You want me to leave a message?" I tried another number, also 219; also no answer, and again I left no message. Two calls, no answers, and he didn't have me leave a message. My caution meter rose to ominous. I asked where he was headed. He asked which way was south on Meridian, to get downtown. I pointed and told him. He wondered if he could get a ride to some hotel near downtown. My caution meter spiked to portentous. I told him matter-of-factly that these phone calls were all I could offer to him. He seemed to understand my hesitation and thanked me nonetheless. He asked how long I thought it would take to walk; I said it's about five miles, so if he kept up a decent pace, probably a couple of hours. I told him I could call 911 for him. He seemed to hesitate.
Just as it was about to get awkward—I mean, what do you really do at this point in the situation?—a fire truck arrived behind us with lights flashing. This is either some serious good timing, or another passer-by had the good will to make a phone call to the authorities. As three or four of them approached his vehicle and began asking him questions, my light turned green, and I shouted out my wish for good fortunes to him then drove through the intersection.
A lot of thoughts raced through my head before I approached his car. I envisioned a gun being drawn (this would not be the first time I'd had a gun pointed at me); all of my money being taken (which was admittedly only $1 at the time); my car being stolen (the joke is on you if you steal my car); a bullet sliding effortlessly through my thorax (seems uncomfortable). I also remembered the man in the coffee shop, and the prevalence of the good will of humanity, and I decided that I would make a meager attempt at propagating that. It turns out there was little to nothing for me to do to help, and my story tonight ends not with a bang but with a whimper; but I am somewhat comforted by the simple fact that I pulled up next to this gentlemen while so many others were content to ignore his plight. Would I not have appreciated the same if our positions were reversed?
Friday, March 26, 2010
I Stream, You Stream, We All Stream
Last night I was playing guitar and I decided on the spur of the moment that I wanted to hear myself to check out my progress. I didn't want to spend an eternity setting up a mic and running some cables and opening up recording software and going through all that. I had my webcam set up from talking on Skype earlier in the evening, so I turned it on and went to the Facebook video page where you can just hit record. Quick and simple. So I did that. And I played a song or two. And I listened back. And I hated it! I hated everything. I thought that I was singing with as much emotion as I could, you know, impassioned. But I was wrong; it just sounded strained and mostly out of tune. It was a disaster. I wonder: did I sound that bad at McGinnis a few weeks ago? God, I hope not. I got discouraged, posted a pretty negative status update, and went to bed.
Well, I didn't quite make it to bed. I was thinking about that webcam. I got the idea to do live streams of some sort, somehow involving my music, and I wound up making a profile on Ustream. I played around with it a bit, set it up to push Facebook updates when I start a broadcoast, and then finally went to bed.
I woke up this morning and figured I'd give it a whirl by just having it on the whole time I was playing anything whatsoever. I figure in the long run I wouldn't have it on all the time, so I can have a bit of privacy when writing new material or when learning a new song. But in the meantime I thought it'd be fun to see what happens today.
It turns out, not much happened. A few anonymous people dropped by. One or two said something in chat, but by their usernames I could tell that they weren't friends of mine, so I wonder if they just happened upon my broadcast through some randomized link on the Ustream site. I started off doing my warm-ups: scales, arpeggios, finger exercises, etc. Then I took a long break and came back to run through all the jazz stuff I know, which isn't much. After another break, I ran through all the pop/rock songs in the little songbook I've been keeping recently; it's where I write down any song I learn that I'd like to play again, as well as a few songs I've written that I feel are worthy of inclusion. One or two people poked their heads in for a few seconds at a time. Right near the end, with about two songs left to go, someone dropped by and didn't leave until the end. Thanks to the anonymity of the internet, I have no idea who it was, but I have to say thanks for listening and I hope you enjoyed it!
I recorded the whole pop/rock bit and just got done watching it, and I have to say I'm much happier today than I was last night. It wasn't perfect, by any means, but it was a good deal better. I got a little nervous when I realized someone was sticking around, but that's part of what I enjoy about doing this. Ever since I "got back into it", I get so nervous when I start to play in front of anyone. After watching the video last night, I realized some of the things I'm doing with my voice right now (e.g. straining) that result in such a disastrous sound, and I'm pretty sure that it's only made worse when I know I'm being recorded or when someone's watching. Today I tried consciously to take it easy on my voice. It wasn't perfect, but it was a lot better than what I heard last night. I've been exploring the lower register of my voice recently, and I'm inspired by Nick Drake's sound, so maybe it's something I should take a closer look at. I just don't feel like I can sing stuff like "Eleven Thirty Fifty" anymore. Oh well.
I don't really think it's worth coming up with anything resembling a schedule. I'll probably just use it on a whim when I feel like it. When I do, Ustream will push an update to Facebook, so if you're at your computer you might know. That's about all the notice I can really give. For now. Anyway, here's the link: Songs from a Basement.
And now, thanks to the title I came up with, I have a very serious craving for ice cream. And when I get a craving for ice cream, it's a very serious thing.
"It's been a while since I could remember when..."
Well, I didn't quite make it to bed. I was thinking about that webcam. I got the idea to do live streams of some sort, somehow involving my music, and I wound up making a profile on Ustream. I played around with it a bit, set it up to push Facebook updates when I start a broadcoast, and then finally went to bed.
I woke up this morning and figured I'd give it a whirl by just having it on the whole time I was playing anything whatsoever. I figure in the long run I wouldn't have it on all the time, so I can have a bit of privacy when writing new material or when learning a new song. But in the meantime I thought it'd be fun to see what happens today.
It turns out, not much happened. A few anonymous people dropped by. One or two said something in chat, but by their usernames I could tell that they weren't friends of mine, so I wonder if they just happened upon my broadcast through some randomized link on the Ustream site. I started off doing my warm-ups: scales, arpeggios, finger exercises, etc. Then I took a long break and came back to run through all the jazz stuff I know, which isn't much. After another break, I ran through all the pop/rock songs in the little songbook I've been keeping recently; it's where I write down any song I learn that I'd like to play again, as well as a few songs I've written that I feel are worthy of inclusion. One or two people poked their heads in for a few seconds at a time. Right near the end, with about two songs left to go, someone dropped by and didn't leave until the end. Thanks to the anonymity of the internet, I have no idea who it was, but I have to say thanks for listening and I hope you enjoyed it!
I recorded the whole pop/rock bit and just got done watching it, and I have to say I'm much happier today than I was last night. It wasn't perfect, by any means, but it was a good deal better. I got a little nervous when I realized someone was sticking around, but that's part of what I enjoy about doing this. Ever since I "got back into it", I get so nervous when I start to play in front of anyone. After watching the video last night, I realized some of the things I'm doing with my voice right now (e.g. straining) that result in such a disastrous sound, and I'm pretty sure that it's only made worse when I know I'm being recorded or when someone's watching. Today I tried consciously to take it easy on my voice. It wasn't perfect, but it was a lot better than what I heard last night. I've been exploring the lower register of my voice recently, and I'm inspired by Nick Drake's sound, so maybe it's something I should take a closer look at. I just don't feel like I can sing stuff like "Eleven Thirty Fifty" anymore. Oh well.
I don't really think it's worth coming up with anything resembling a schedule. I'll probably just use it on a whim when I feel like it. When I do, Ustream will push an update to Facebook, so if you're at your computer you might know. That's about all the notice I can really give. For now. Anyway, here's the link: Songs from a Basement.
And now, thanks to the title I came up with, I have a very serious craving for ice cream. And when I get a craving for ice cream, it's a very serious thing.
"It's been a while since I could remember when..."
Monday, March 22, 2010
Five Stupid Things
I now present five things about me that you had absolutely no desire nor need to know but that I felt the strange narcissistic urge to write about.
1. I absolutely, positively must fall asleep on my left side.
It's not that the right side isn't comfortable; in fact, in the process of falling asleep, it's quite common for me to spend a bit of time on the right side, and a bit of time on my back. But for some reason, whenever I start to fall asleep, when I start to feel my consciousness slip, and whatever train of thought I happen to be entertaining at the time begins to wander aimlessly and cease making any kind of sense, I simply must find myself on my left side or else I slip back to consciousness and begin the entire process over again. This is actually pretty common for me; it's a process of drifting, returning, rolling over, drifting, returning, etc.
I don't know why it's like this for me. It could be one of many things. My right ear has drastically reduced sensitivity, so maybe I just tended to naturally favor sleeping with the more sensitive ear buried in a pillow; any auditory distraction makes it pretty much impossible for me to fall asleep. In fact, I have been sleeping with earplugs in more and more recently. Or maybe it's the fact that I'm right-handed? I can't see how that would affect sleeping, though. Maybe it has something to do with the proximity of my bed to a wall during formative years, and whether I would have favored facing the wall or facing away. I really just think it's the ear thing.
2. It's really tough for me to drive at dusk.
This is something I've been aware of since I first started driving, about ten years ago. It's not that it's actually difficult, like my motor skills or hand-eye coordination becomes jeopardized, but it's more of a difficulty in maintaining visual focus; it's the contrast between the sky and road. As the sun creeps behind the horizon, the road becomes quite dark, but the sky remains just a bit lighter for a slightly longer period. This contrast between the darkening road and the still light sky causes some kind of strain for my eye. It's fatiguing and distracting, and I find the entire ordeal to be difficult and uncomfortable.
Something tells me this might actually be more common than I originally thought; it might be like writing about how odd it is that I brush my teeth in the morning (read: not very).
3. I like to drive with my headlights off for brief intervals on country roads, during clear nights when there's a full moon.
This could almost be called 2a; nighttime is very different from dusk for me. Driving down Wozniak when there is little cloud cover and the moon is full (or near enough, at least), I like to briefly turn off my headlights and drive for a bit with nothing but the moonlight reflecting off the road. It sounds more dangerous than it is; it's really quite well illuminated at the time. The road glows a gentle, dark blue. It bears a strange, quiet, solitary tranquility that is something I've come to enjoy. It's particularly bright and especially beautiful if there is a fresh blanket of untrodden snow. I highly suggest anyone to try it next winter if the opportunity presents itself.
Safety precaution: turn your lights back on at the first sight of any other vehicle or wildlife, no matter the distance. And don't go very fast; it's dangerous and ruins the experience anyway.
4. I probably don't remember your name.
...unless we've known each other for a while. For some reason, I just can't seem to register names for long-term recollection. I could recall a dozen facts about you or describe your appearance with unfaltering accuracy, but I'm probably at a total loss for your name. I even try to use little reminders, like explicitly saying your name immediately after you say it while I give my own, and then repeating it in my head a few times shortly after our conversation ends. But before too long, I'll think back on it and there will simply be a gaping hole where that information should be.
The worst was the guy I met at the coffee shop who gave me the books. I thoroughly enjoyed our conversation and I could tell you the names of every author we discussed, including ones he mentioned or recommended that I hadn't heard of before; but as soon as he had walked back downstairs, I had completely forgotten his name. I actually made the attempt to walk back down and ask him, but he had disappeared. Luckily, I was discreetly reminded of it when I received the box a few days later. (More on this in a forthcoming post.)
5. I enjoy organizing things into numbered lists.
I also enjoy pretentious self-reflexivity.
1. I absolutely, positively must fall asleep on my left side.
It's not that the right side isn't comfortable; in fact, in the process of falling asleep, it's quite common for me to spend a bit of time on the right side, and a bit of time on my back. But for some reason, whenever I start to fall asleep, when I start to feel my consciousness slip, and whatever train of thought I happen to be entertaining at the time begins to wander aimlessly and cease making any kind of sense, I simply must find myself on my left side or else I slip back to consciousness and begin the entire process over again. This is actually pretty common for me; it's a process of drifting, returning, rolling over, drifting, returning, etc.
I don't know why it's like this for me. It could be one of many things. My right ear has drastically reduced sensitivity, so maybe I just tended to naturally favor sleeping with the more sensitive ear buried in a pillow; any auditory distraction makes it pretty much impossible for me to fall asleep. In fact, I have been sleeping with earplugs in more and more recently. Or maybe it's the fact that I'm right-handed? I can't see how that would affect sleeping, though. Maybe it has something to do with the proximity of my bed to a wall during formative years, and whether I would have favored facing the wall or facing away. I really just think it's the ear thing.
2. It's really tough for me to drive at dusk.
This is something I've been aware of since I first started driving, about ten years ago. It's not that it's actually difficult, like my motor skills or hand-eye coordination becomes jeopardized, but it's more of a difficulty in maintaining visual focus; it's the contrast between the sky and road. As the sun creeps behind the horizon, the road becomes quite dark, but the sky remains just a bit lighter for a slightly longer period. This contrast between the darkening road and the still light sky causes some kind of strain for my eye. It's fatiguing and distracting, and I find the entire ordeal to be difficult and uncomfortable.
Something tells me this might actually be more common than I originally thought; it might be like writing about how odd it is that I brush my teeth in the morning (read: not very).
3. I like to drive with my headlights off for brief intervals on country roads, during clear nights when there's a full moon.
This could almost be called 2a; nighttime is very different from dusk for me. Driving down Wozniak when there is little cloud cover and the moon is full (or near enough, at least), I like to briefly turn off my headlights and drive for a bit with nothing but the moonlight reflecting off the road. It sounds more dangerous than it is; it's really quite well illuminated at the time. The road glows a gentle, dark blue. It bears a strange, quiet, solitary tranquility that is something I've come to enjoy. It's particularly bright and especially beautiful if there is a fresh blanket of untrodden snow. I highly suggest anyone to try it next winter if the opportunity presents itself.
Safety precaution: turn your lights back on at the first sight of any other vehicle or wildlife, no matter the distance. And don't go very fast; it's dangerous and ruins the experience anyway.
4. I probably don't remember your name.
...unless we've known each other for a while. For some reason, I just can't seem to register names for long-term recollection. I could recall a dozen facts about you or describe your appearance with unfaltering accuracy, but I'm probably at a total loss for your name. I even try to use little reminders, like explicitly saying your name immediately after you say it while I give my own, and then repeating it in my head a few times shortly after our conversation ends. But before too long, I'll think back on it and there will simply be a gaping hole where that information should be.
The worst was the guy I met at the coffee shop who gave me the books. I thoroughly enjoyed our conversation and I could tell you the names of every author we discussed, including ones he mentioned or recommended that I hadn't heard of before; but as soon as he had walked back downstairs, I had completely forgotten his name. I actually made the attempt to walk back down and ask him, but he had disappeared. Luckily, I was discreetly reminded of it when I received the box a few days later. (More on this in a forthcoming post.)
5. I enjoy organizing things into numbered lists.
I also enjoy pretentious self-reflexivity.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Busted!
This is easily one of the weirdest/craziest things to ever happen to me. Last night I was driving Joe and Katie (and myself) from the hotel where Katie was staying to the Slippery Noodle. Some time a little after 10 we left the hotel room and got into my car. I drove across the parking lot, came to a stop before entering the street, put on my turn signal, then slowly turned left onto the street. So far, so good.
Within two seconds, there was a screech of tires and two police cars were behind me with lights flashing. Joe and I exchanged incredulous glances; I had done nothing even remotely wrong in the 15 seconds we'd been in the car. I pulled over to the side of the road, put the car in park, and turned the music down. We waited. After what seemed like just a bit too long, a cop walked up to the side of the car and I rolled my window down.
Here's where it starts to get weird. Instead of strolling up to the window and asking to see my license and registration or if I knew how fast I was driving, he stood near the back door and shouted at us.
"Where did you just come from?"
"The hotel."
"Do you have any weapons?"
"What?"
"Do you have any weapons in the vehicle?"
"Uh, no."
I was pretty shocked to be asked such a question and in such a fashion. Also, he had a very thick Mexican accent, and I wasn't even sure of what I'd heard. He told us to stay there and that he'd be back. He disappeared back to the glare of lights behind us. I turned off my headlights and there we sat. We discussed what had already happened and came up with theories about what could be happening.
A few minutes later, a third car with lights on appeared around the corner and came to rest beside the others. We figured it was some sort of sting at the hotel and that my car was mistaken for someone else's. Joe suggested that I turn off the car. I said that I thought there was some length of time for which it was correct to leave the car running, and that you should turn it off if it was longer than that time. He said that for newer cars it was something of the order of about 20 seconds. So I turned off the car and we continued to wait.
We heard the unmistakable and slightly disturbing sound of guns being cocked. Like in the movies. You know, kk-chkk. That seemed odd.
"Driver!" It was a different voice, no accent. I assumed he meant me, although there were other cars around that were slowly maneuvering past the scene. "Turn the vehicle off and throw your keys out the window onto the ground!" Well, the vehicle was already off, and I found the whole thing to be pretty damn confusing, but I figured I could comply with the second part. I pulled the keys out and hesitantly tossed them out the window onto the ground.
"Put both of your hands where I can see them!" I held my hands up to the window. "Higher!" I held my hands up higher. "Now put them outside the window against the body of the car!" I put them outside the window against the body of the car. "Open the door and step out of the vehicle!" I pulled my right hand in to undo my seat belt. "Keep your hands where I can see them!" I put my hand back outside. "I have to take off my seat belt," I said meagerly. "Using your right hand, take off your seat belt, then put your hand back outside!" It seemed like sound advice, so I followed it. "Now using that same hand, open the car door from outside!" What? Okay. So I leaned over and looked and found the handle and pulled it and the car door swung ajar.
"Slowly, keeping your hands where they are, step out of the car and turn around!" I got out, slowly. As I got up, I saw the silhouettes of four or five police offers behind the cars with shotguns pointed at my face. Shotguns. That explains the kk-chkk. "Now turn around!" Jesus, I hadn't even gotten the chance to turn around, but okay. I turned around. "Lift your shirt up!" What? I lifted my shirt a little. "Higher! Let me see the other side!" I lifted it higher and turned. "Now back up slowly." I started to back up slowly, in the middle of the street with cars passing and watching, holding my god damn shirt up to my armpits, doing the moonwalk.
I peeked at the ground behind to make sure I wasn't going to stumble or anything. "Turn back around!" Right, I probably should have seen that one coming. I continued to back up, giving everyone a show of my wonderful, manly physique. "Between the cars!" I assumed he meant that I should continue to walk backwards directly in between the two cars that I was not supposed to look at. This is either very serious or I'm a contestant on some crazy new game show.
"Facing that same direction, put your hands behind your head!" I let my shirt down and put my hands behind my head. A pair of hands appeared out of nowhere and frisked me. They moved my hair around and looked at my neck. "He doesn't have a tattoo!" Yes, I don't have a tattoo. He then took my wallet. "Now get on your knees!" This is about the point where I was getting pretty pissed off about all this. Being ordered to moonwalk with your shirt up to your chest with shotguns in your face and then being told to get to your knees—without the slightest idea of what's going on—can be a little frustrating. I kneeled in the middle of the road. "Put your hands behind your back!" I did so. Almost immediately I was put into handcuffs. They felt pretty tight and not the least bit comfortable.
"We need to figure out if you're our guy. We're going to figure this out."
"Uh, okay. Here or at the station?"
"Here. Just wait."
I heard some shouting a few yards away. They were summoning Joe from the vehicle. He was being given similar treatment, although without the moonwalk peep show.
"Stand up, walk over to the curb, and sit down." With the rather surly assistance of the cop who cuffed me, I was brought standing and guided in the direction of the curb. "Now sit." I sat in the grass. Joe was led there as well. They asked who else is in the car. I told them a girl, our age. They brought Katie out. They didn't aim shotguns at her or make her give them a peepshow or make her walk backwards. They just walked her over beside us.
We were told that there had been an armed robbery just minutes ago and that my car was spotted leaving the scene; wrong place and wrong time. They were pretty sure we weren't them, but they had to be sure. One of them disappeared into a car to run our licenses.
"Where are you headed tonight?"
"The Noodle."
"Ah, the Noodle. Well, you'll have a pretty good story to share when you get there. You might have to get a few more shots."
I think he was trying for humor, but I wasn't interested. Go figure. Joe apparently found the entire situation to be most comical, and tried to jest back at the cops. He leaned over to me. "Not in a laughing mood?" I glared at him. "Not really."
They gave us back our wallets. They took off the handcuffs. They said we could go. No apologies whatsoever. "Where are my keys?" I asked. "I put your keys on the dashboard." We slowly walked back to the car, got in, and drove to the Slippery Noodle.
Within two seconds, there was a screech of tires and two police cars were behind me with lights flashing. Joe and I exchanged incredulous glances; I had done nothing even remotely wrong in the 15 seconds we'd been in the car. I pulled over to the side of the road, put the car in park, and turned the music down. We waited. After what seemed like just a bit too long, a cop walked up to the side of the car and I rolled my window down.
Here's where it starts to get weird. Instead of strolling up to the window and asking to see my license and registration or if I knew how fast I was driving, he stood near the back door and shouted at us.
"Where did you just come from?"
"The hotel."
"Do you have any weapons?"
"What?"
"Do you have any weapons in the vehicle?"
"Uh, no."
I was pretty shocked to be asked such a question and in such a fashion. Also, he had a very thick Mexican accent, and I wasn't even sure of what I'd heard. He told us to stay there and that he'd be back. He disappeared back to the glare of lights behind us. I turned off my headlights and there we sat. We discussed what had already happened and came up with theories about what could be happening.
A few minutes later, a third car with lights on appeared around the corner and came to rest beside the others. We figured it was some sort of sting at the hotel and that my car was mistaken for someone else's. Joe suggested that I turn off the car. I said that I thought there was some length of time for which it was correct to leave the car running, and that you should turn it off if it was longer than that time. He said that for newer cars it was something of the order of about 20 seconds. So I turned off the car and we continued to wait.
We heard the unmistakable and slightly disturbing sound of guns being cocked. Like in the movies. You know, kk-chkk. That seemed odd.
"Driver!" It was a different voice, no accent. I assumed he meant me, although there were other cars around that were slowly maneuvering past the scene. "Turn the vehicle off and throw your keys out the window onto the ground!" Well, the vehicle was already off, and I found the whole thing to be pretty damn confusing, but I figured I could comply with the second part. I pulled the keys out and hesitantly tossed them out the window onto the ground.
"Put both of your hands where I can see them!" I held my hands up to the window. "Higher!" I held my hands up higher. "Now put them outside the window against the body of the car!" I put them outside the window against the body of the car. "Open the door and step out of the vehicle!" I pulled my right hand in to undo my seat belt. "Keep your hands where I can see them!" I put my hand back outside. "I have to take off my seat belt," I said meagerly. "Using your right hand, take off your seat belt, then put your hand back outside!" It seemed like sound advice, so I followed it. "Now using that same hand, open the car door from outside!" What? Okay. So I leaned over and looked and found the handle and pulled it and the car door swung ajar.
"Slowly, keeping your hands where they are, step out of the car and turn around!" I got out, slowly. As I got up, I saw the silhouettes of four or five police offers behind the cars with shotguns pointed at my face. Shotguns. That explains the kk-chkk. "Now turn around!" Jesus, I hadn't even gotten the chance to turn around, but okay. I turned around. "Lift your shirt up!" What? I lifted my shirt a little. "Higher! Let me see the other side!" I lifted it higher and turned. "Now back up slowly." I started to back up slowly, in the middle of the street with cars passing and watching, holding my god damn shirt up to my armpits, doing the moonwalk.
I peeked at the ground behind to make sure I wasn't going to stumble or anything. "Turn back around!" Right, I probably should have seen that one coming. I continued to back up, giving everyone a show of my wonderful, manly physique. "Between the cars!" I assumed he meant that I should continue to walk backwards directly in between the two cars that I was not supposed to look at. This is either very serious or I'm a contestant on some crazy new game show.
"Facing that same direction, put your hands behind your head!" I let my shirt down and put my hands behind my head. A pair of hands appeared out of nowhere and frisked me. They moved my hair around and looked at my neck. "He doesn't have a tattoo!" Yes, I don't have a tattoo. He then took my wallet. "Now get on your knees!" This is about the point where I was getting pretty pissed off about all this. Being ordered to moonwalk with your shirt up to your chest with shotguns in your face and then being told to get to your knees—without the slightest idea of what's going on—can be a little frustrating. I kneeled in the middle of the road. "Put your hands behind your back!" I did so. Almost immediately I was put into handcuffs. They felt pretty tight and not the least bit comfortable.
"We need to figure out if you're our guy. We're going to figure this out."
"Uh, okay. Here or at the station?"
"Here. Just wait."
I heard some shouting a few yards away. They were summoning Joe from the vehicle. He was being given similar treatment, although without the moonwalk peep show.
"Stand up, walk over to the curb, and sit down." With the rather surly assistance of the cop who cuffed me, I was brought standing and guided in the direction of the curb. "Now sit." I sat in the grass. Joe was led there as well. They asked who else is in the car. I told them a girl, our age. They brought Katie out. They didn't aim shotguns at her or make her give them a peepshow or make her walk backwards. They just walked her over beside us.
We were told that there had been an armed robbery just minutes ago and that my car was spotted leaving the scene; wrong place and wrong time. They were pretty sure we weren't them, but they had to be sure. One of them disappeared into a car to run our licenses.
"Where are you headed tonight?"
"The Noodle."
"Ah, the Noodle. Well, you'll have a pretty good story to share when you get there. You might have to get a few more shots."
I think he was trying for humor, but I wasn't interested. Go figure. Joe apparently found the entire situation to be most comical, and tried to jest back at the cops. He leaned over to me. "Not in a laughing mood?" I glared at him. "Not really."
They gave us back our wallets. They took off the handcuffs. They said we could go. No apologies whatsoever. "Where are my keys?" I asked. "I put your keys on the dashboard." We slowly walked back to the car, got in, and drove to the Slippery Noodle.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Back in Indiana
Yesterday I once again made the very long drive back to Indiana from North Dakota. It's amusing to me that you can wake up in one time zone and go to sleep in another. You spend the whole day in a little high-speed vessel, clipping along at a brisk pace against the rotation of the earth, and when you resume normal time you find your body wrenched back into the spin and sway of normal life. You're heading east, but you're really still heading west, only less so. It isn't literally traveling through time but you could almost convince your body of it—only I didn't change time zones; I went from the west side of the central time zone to the east side. The sun merely rises and sets half an hour earlier here. Does my body notice?
It was tough to say good-bye to Elizabeth again. I suppose I should just get used to it, as I have nothing but her entire lifetime (or perhaps the rest of mine, as it's likely to be the shorter) to say hello and goodbye. Still, as someone who has spent the greater part of a quarter-century under the belief that he is A) not good with children and B) not likely to become good with children, it's interesting to find myself in this position. I guess spending several hours with her every day for four months can have that effect. I never know what to do or say around other peoples' children; but in this position, the social awkwardness is replaced by genuine love, and it becomes easy. Conscious thought is replaced by involuntary affection. If I hadn't spent those months there, would it be different? Probably.
I truly enjoyed the moment when we first arrived last Thursday and she dashed over to me for a hug first; the uncle lets out a grin in triumph over the grandparents for the child's immediate attention. I only hope the bond will last as long as possible. It's true that using Skype has been extremely beneficial for preserving that relationship in the 2 & 1/2 months since we last saw each other, but I can only wonder how long it might hold out. Will it diminish by the time she reaches 10? What about as a teenager? And I wonder what it will be like when Lauren gets older as well. Will it be similar? I have to admit—maybe not, since I don't know if/when I'll get to spend such an extraordinary amount of time in North Dakota again.
This relatively short and very late entry was brought to you by the semicolon and the em dash. (Don't let the timestamp fool you; it's really 4 in the morning.)
It was tough to say good-bye to Elizabeth again. I suppose I should just get used to it, as I have nothing but her entire lifetime (or perhaps the rest of mine, as it's likely to be the shorter) to say hello and goodbye. Still, as someone who has spent the greater part of a quarter-century under the belief that he is A) not good with children and B) not likely to become good with children, it's interesting to find myself in this position. I guess spending several hours with her every day for four months can have that effect. I never know what to do or say around other peoples' children; but in this position, the social awkwardness is replaced by genuine love, and it becomes easy. Conscious thought is replaced by involuntary affection. If I hadn't spent those months there, would it be different? Probably.
I truly enjoyed the moment when we first arrived last Thursday and she dashed over to me for a hug first; the uncle lets out a grin in triumph over the grandparents for the child's immediate attention. I only hope the bond will last as long as possible. It's true that using Skype has been extremely beneficial for preserving that relationship in the 2 & 1/2 months since we last saw each other, but I can only wonder how long it might hold out. Will it diminish by the time she reaches 10? What about as a teenager? And I wonder what it will be like when Lauren gets older as well. Will it be similar? I have to admit—maybe not, since I don't know if/when I'll get to spend such an extraordinary amount of time in North Dakota again.
This relatively short and very late entry was brought to you by the semicolon and the em dash. (Don't let the timestamp fool you; it's really 4 in the morning.)
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Back in North Dakota
Earlier today I made the long drive with my parents up to Grand Forks, North Dakota. I got up at 4:30 a.m. after going to bed at 1:30 a.m. and then spent the next 12 & 1/2 hours in the car. Upon exiting the interstate and making the drive downtown for dinner, I immediately felt it: the surreal, dream-like effect of being back here, before I even got out of the car. It didn't feel like I had ever left North Dakota and stayed in Indiana for the past three months; instead, it felt like the past three months had actually been some kind of dream and that I had woken up where I was still living all along. It honestly feels like I never left. I know people say that all the time, that it feels like just yesterday, but it really does.
It's similar to the feeling I get every time I'm in Muncie and I drive past the old house on Neely. It's a very powerful nostalgia. I expect that if I went in the front door, I would find Dan and Greg (and Brian, if we're concerning ourselves with the house on Ashland) hanging out, about ready to start band practice; my bed and all my belongings would be in my old room; my shelves in the kitchen would be well stocked with my favorite foods. It's like that, only it's real. It's 100% real. It's the only time in life that you could ever get to act on that nostalgic desire. You want to open that door and look inside? You're going to be sorely disappointed and disillusioned. Only it's real. I am back in the room I lived in (albeit for only four months), and scarcely anything has changed.
I walked up to the front door with Joe as we carried in my bags and blankets, and it felt like I had just stepped out for groceries. We opened the front door and I went back to my old room and set my stuff down. The mattress I slept on was in the exact same spot as it was when I left. I'm currently sitting on that mattress and I just can't wrap my brain around this concept. My bed is still here. There's my roommate sitting on the couch watching the TV in the living room; all precisely as I left them. The teriyaki sauce and frozen vegetables I left in the refrigerator are still there, untouched, waiting for me to make stir fry right now. Where have I been all this time? Not here, but surely not there.
I can't tell what month it is; it could be September or October for all I know. I feel like I'm in a time warp, that I'm rewinding, like coming here turned the clock back to immediately before I left in December, and leaving again in a few days will then wind it right back to just before I originally came here; I will return to Indiana and it will be August 2009 again. Everything that has happened to me will unhappen. Decisions I made will be unmade. All my mistakes will be unmistook. The people who entered my life will unenter, and the people who have left my life will unleave.
It's similar to the feeling I get every time I'm in Muncie and I drive past the old house on Neely. It's a very powerful nostalgia. I expect that if I went in the front door, I would find Dan and Greg (and Brian, if we're concerning ourselves with the house on Ashland) hanging out, about ready to start band practice; my bed and all my belongings would be in my old room; my shelves in the kitchen would be well stocked with my favorite foods. It's like that, only it's real. It's 100% real. It's the only time in life that you could ever get to act on that nostalgic desire. You want to open that door and look inside? You're going to be sorely disappointed and disillusioned. Only it's real. I am back in the room I lived in (albeit for only four months), and scarcely anything has changed.
I walked up to the front door with Joe as we carried in my bags and blankets, and it felt like I had just stepped out for groceries. We opened the front door and I went back to my old room and set my stuff down. The mattress I slept on was in the exact same spot as it was when I left. I'm currently sitting on that mattress and I just can't wrap my brain around this concept. My bed is still here. There's my roommate sitting on the couch watching the TV in the living room; all precisely as I left them. The teriyaki sauce and frozen vegetables I left in the refrigerator are still there, untouched, waiting for me to make stir fry right now. Where have I been all this time? Not here, but surely not there.
I can't tell what month it is; it could be September or October for all I know. I feel like I'm in a time warp, that I'm rewinding, like coming here turned the clock back to immediately before I left in December, and leaving again in a few days will then wind it right back to just before I originally came here; I will return to Indiana and it will be August 2009 again. Everything that has happened to me will unhappen. Decisions I made will be unmade. All my mistakes will be unmistook. The people who entered my life will unenter, and the people who have left my life will unleave.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Another Performance of Sorts
Just got home from a night out at McGinnis. I was asked by John Vermilye to play again, and I happily obliged. Luckily I had my songbook and capo in the car. (Okay, it wasn't purely luck; I may have brought them along just in case.) I went for four songs tonight, and I'm glad I did, I really liked the set list. Here it is:
"Your Heart Is an Empty Room" (Death Cab for Cutie)
"If You Don't Mind (Version 2)" (original)
"Doubting Thomas" (Nickel Creek)
"Clementine" (original)
It wasn't perfect, but then it never really is. I know there were a few flubs in there, but significantly fewer than last time. I've been playing a lot of guitar in the last month or so, and I felt pretty comfortable tonight, despite the fact that I'd already had two Dogfish Head IPAs (which make me feel less inhibited, but also probably more prone to mistakes). I think of all things my vocals felt particularly great; my rhythm guitar playing is still rough around the edges, but I thought my vocal delivery was exactly what I'd want it to be right now. I spent about five or ten seconds before each song just sitting in silence, thinking about the song, trying to imagine myself playing and singing it, so that when I started it I could just chill out and get lost in the melody and not be so prone to rush the tempo.
I have to give a big thank-you to Johnny for inviting me to play. It's an awkward transition to get over the nervousness I've accumulated from going so long without playing in front of people, but it feels good, really good. I had an absolute blast tonight. I also have to thank my friends that were there tonight. It means a lot to me to see them there enjoying it and offering words of encouragement. I tend to need a bit of that at the moment.
"Your Heart Is an Empty Room" (Death Cab for Cutie)
"If You Don't Mind (Version 2)" (original)
"Doubting Thomas" (Nickel Creek)
"Clementine" (original)
It wasn't perfect, but then it never really is. I know there were a few flubs in there, but significantly fewer than last time. I've been playing a lot of guitar in the last month or so, and I felt pretty comfortable tonight, despite the fact that I'd already had two Dogfish Head IPAs (which make me feel less inhibited, but also probably more prone to mistakes). I think of all things my vocals felt particularly great; my rhythm guitar playing is still rough around the edges, but I thought my vocal delivery was exactly what I'd want it to be right now. I spent about five or ten seconds before each song just sitting in silence, thinking about the song, trying to imagine myself playing and singing it, so that when I started it I could just chill out and get lost in the melody and not be so prone to rush the tempo.
I have to give a big thank-you to Johnny for inviting me to play. It's an awkward transition to get over the nervousness I've accumulated from going so long without playing in front of people, but it feels good, really good. I had an absolute blast tonight. I also have to thank my friends that were there tonight. It means a lot to me to see them there enjoying it and offering words of encouragement. I tend to need a bit of that at the moment.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
The Good Things
Here's a brief list of things that have made me happy recently.
1. My mom's vegetable beef soup
This is simply the best soup I've ever had in my life. People who have had it know what's up. My mom has used this soup to 'compensate' friends of mine for doing favors, like fixing a computer or helping to move some furniture. What you might not know is that it oftentimes tastes even better the second day. A bowl of this soup, a piece of lightly buttered wheat bread, and a few pieces of cheese. It's hard to be in a bad mood about, well, anything really, after a meal like that.
2. My aunt getting married
My Aunt Kathy lost her only son, my cousin Chris, in a car accident about 7 years ago. It was extremely difficult for me, and that could only have been a minuscule portion of what she has had to go through. At the time, she was married to someone who was a pretty big asshole. He was selfish and manipulative and emotionally abusive; he somehow found a way to make the hardest part of her entire life even harder. They divorced about four or five years ago, and for the last few years she's been dating a long-time friend of hers. He's a nice, honest guy who treats her right. Everyone in the family is happy and relieved that she has ended up with him. Last Thursday they got married, and they are currently in Hawaii on honeymoon. She's finally got the kind of happiness she deserves.
3. Cake from Truffle's
This could almost be labeled 2(b), as it was at the wedding dinner on Thursday that we had cake from Truffle's (located in downtown Michigan City). The thing to know is that I don't even generally like cake. It's all just too...cakey. And sugary. And oh, the frosting; I generally can't stand the stuff. When it comes to cupcakes, I usually have to scrape off the giant mound of frosting, leaving just a faint paste along the top. A few bites of any kind of cake, and I've usually had my fill. Not with this cake, though. It's extremely light and not very sugary at all. The frosting is whipped cream frosting, and man is it good. Oh, and there's a thin layer of strawberry in the middle, not so much that it overwhelms but just enough to give a little hint of fruity deliciousness. Below that is a layer of what I believe to be cream cheese frosting? I don't actually know, but it's also not overpoweringly sweet. It all adds up to something that I find ridiculously delicious. There isn't a part of my brain that signals when I've had enough; I could probably eat myself to death on it. What a great way to go out, too.
4. Singing "Army" at karaoke night
Show of hands, who saw this coming? Yeah? Me either. I'm not one to generally like karaoke, but I was dragged willingly to a place with karaoke on Friday night. At first, I was my normal, hesitant, self-conscious, awkward self; I didn't want to do it. All it took was few beers and a healthy dose of good laughter and I changed my mind. I sang "Ziggy Stardust" (David Bowie) first and later "Everlong" (Foo Fighters). These were both fun choices. But it wasn't until I was sufficiently drunk and we were about to leave that my third choice "Army" (Ben Folds Five) started. I cut loose a little. I mean I got into it. It was good times. I hardly remember it; all I remember is that I loved it. I also remember that the lyrics on-screen were "Well I thought about the army / Dad said, son, you must be high" but we all know those aren't the real words and that's not what I sang.
5. The library
I have probably been to the library a dozen times this year already. I've checked out tons of books and movies. It's the sole reason that so many uninteresting evenings have been somewhat bearable. Unfortunately, the Michigan City Public Library doesn't have free wireless internet, which is something of a joke, but most libraries these days do. I just can't fathom all the money people can spend on entertainment when so much is available for free at the library. Netflix? Kindle? What's the point? The main library in Indianapolis is four or five floors! You could go in there every day after work for five years and barely scratch the surface. All for free.
1. My mom's vegetable beef soup
This is simply the best soup I've ever had in my life. People who have had it know what's up. My mom has used this soup to 'compensate' friends of mine for doing favors, like fixing a computer or helping to move some furniture. What you might not know is that it oftentimes tastes even better the second day. A bowl of this soup, a piece of lightly buttered wheat bread, and a few pieces of cheese. It's hard to be in a bad mood about, well, anything really, after a meal like that.
2. My aunt getting married
My Aunt Kathy lost her only son, my cousin Chris, in a car accident about 7 years ago. It was extremely difficult for me, and that could only have been a minuscule portion of what she has had to go through. At the time, she was married to someone who was a pretty big asshole. He was selfish and manipulative and emotionally abusive; he somehow found a way to make the hardest part of her entire life even harder. They divorced about four or five years ago, and for the last few years she's been dating a long-time friend of hers. He's a nice, honest guy who treats her right. Everyone in the family is happy and relieved that she has ended up with him. Last Thursday they got married, and they are currently in Hawaii on honeymoon. She's finally got the kind of happiness she deserves.
3. Cake from Truffle's
This could almost be labeled 2(b), as it was at the wedding dinner on Thursday that we had cake from Truffle's (located in downtown Michigan City). The thing to know is that I don't even generally like cake. It's all just too...cakey. And sugary. And oh, the frosting; I generally can't stand the stuff. When it comes to cupcakes, I usually have to scrape off the giant mound of frosting, leaving just a faint paste along the top. A few bites of any kind of cake, and I've usually had my fill. Not with this cake, though. It's extremely light and not very sugary at all. The frosting is whipped cream frosting, and man is it good. Oh, and there's a thin layer of strawberry in the middle, not so much that it overwhelms but just enough to give a little hint of fruity deliciousness. Below that is a layer of what I believe to be cream cheese frosting? I don't actually know, but it's also not overpoweringly sweet. It all adds up to something that I find ridiculously delicious. There isn't a part of my brain that signals when I've had enough; I could probably eat myself to death on it. What a great way to go out, too.
4. Singing "Army" at karaoke night
Show of hands, who saw this coming? Yeah? Me either. I'm not one to generally like karaoke, but I was dragged willingly to a place with karaoke on Friday night. At first, I was my normal, hesitant, self-conscious, awkward self; I didn't want to do it. All it took was few beers and a healthy dose of good laughter and I changed my mind. I sang "Ziggy Stardust" (David Bowie) first and later "Everlong" (Foo Fighters). These were both fun choices. But it wasn't until I was sufficiently drunk and we were about to leave that my third choice "Army" (Ben Folds Five) started. I cut loose a little. I mean I got into it. It was good times. I hardly remember it; all I remember is that I loved it. I also remember that the lyrics on-screen were "Well I thought about the army / Dad said, son, you must be high" but we all know those aren't the real words and that's not what I sang.
5. The library
I have probably been to the library a dozen times this year already. I've checked out tons of books and movies. It's the sole reason that so many uninteresting evenings have been somewhat bearable. Unfortunately, the Michigan City Public Library doesn't have free wireless internet, which is something of a joke, but most libraries these days do. I just can't fathom all the money people can spend on entertainment when so much is available for free at the library. Netflix? Kindle? What's the point? The main library in Indianapolis is four or five floors! You could go in there every day after work for five years and barely scratch the surface. All for free.
Friday, March 05, 2010
Strange Generosity
I walked into Lakeshore Coffee this afternoon with my laptop bag and Catch-22 under my arm. As I paid for my small coffee, an older man standing next to me noticed the book and asked if it's still in print. I replied that I wasn't sure, and I had gotten it from the library, but I was pretty sure that books like this never go out of print, you can always find them. He then asked a few questions about the plot and characters and whether I had seen the movie, and I replied that I was only about fifty pages in so far and had not seen the movie so I didn't really know much about it yet. He told me it was one of his favorite books when he was younger, and he remembered when it came out.
I told him I had been on a mission recently to catch up on literary classics that I had always heard so much about but never read. We talked at length about Vonnegut, specifically comparing and contrasting the two I had read in the past month (Slaughterhouse-Five and Cat's Cradle). He made a few recommendations of great books I should read, and I added them to my handy dandy reading list. I thanked him for the recommendations as he sat down with his wife, and I went up to the second floor (where I like to sit when I come here) and got out my laptop.
Not one minute later, he came up the steps and asked if he could interrupt, which was more of a polite formality as I wasn't actually even doing anything. He told me then that he would like to give me some of his old books, dozens of them, that have been on his bookshelves for decades but he doesn't read anymore. He asked if I would give him my address, if I would mind if he sent them to me. I told him that would be way too generous of him. He insisted, saying that they would get more use in my possession than his. He recommended that when I'm done with them I give them away to someone else to read. I once more told him that it sounds wonderful, but it's far too generous of him. He insisted once more that he wanted to do it, so I whipped out my pocket notebook, tore out a sheet, and gave him my address as well as my email address.
He went back downstairs and I elatedly opened up my laptop and set about writing this entry. I'm beside myself with the simple joy that is imparted by a complete stranger's utter generosity, with no expectation of reciprocation. It's completely selfless benevolence. And I very much look forward to passing on the books after I finish them.
The funny part of this story is that just a few days ago I was on the phone with a friend and I had lamented that, only fifty pages in, I wasn't really enjoying Catch-22 so far. He suggested that I just jump ship if I'm not enjoying it, but I said that wasn't the point of what I was doing. I need to finish these books so I can understand them and absorb them, good and bad. If I had quit reading it, I wouldn't have had it with me in the coffee shop, it wouldn't have sparked that conversation, he wouldn't have offered to bequeath to me the books, and I wouldn't be writing this right now.
I suppose the cynic inside me admits the possibility that he may forget about it or never get around to it, and I may never see the books. Even still, I don't think that's entirely the point. I think the point is remembering that there are a lot of assholes in the world, but there are also some genuine good souls. All you gotta do is carry Catch-22 with you everywhere and hope they find you.
I told him I had been on a mission recently to catch up on literary classics that I had always heard so much about but never read. We talked at length about Vonnegut, specifically comparing and contrasting the two I had read in the past month (Slaughterhouse-Five and Cat's Cradle). He made a few recommendations of great books I should read, and I added them to my handy dandy reading list. I thanked him for the recommendations as he sat down with his wife, and I went up to the second floor (where I like to sit when I come here) and got out my laptop.
Not one minute later, he came up the steps and asked if he could interrupt, which was more of a polite formality as I wasn't actually even doing anything. He told me then that he would like to give me some of his old books, dozens of them, that have been on his bookshelves for decades but he doesn't read anymore. He asked if I would give him my address, if I would mind if he sent them to me. I told him that would be way too generous of him. He insisted, saying that they would get more use in my possession than his. He recommended that when I'm done with them I give them away to someone else to read. I once more told him that it sounds wonderful, but it's far too generous of him. He insisted once more that he wanted to do it, so I whipped out my pocket notebook, tore out a sheet, and gave him my address as well as my email address.
He went back downstairs and I elatedly opened up my laptop and set about writing this entry. I'm beside myself with the simple joy that is imparted by a complete stranger's utter generosity, with no expectation of reciprocation. It's completely selfless benevolence. And I very much look forward to passing on the books after I finish them.
The funny part of this story is that just a few days ago I was on the phone with a friend and I had lamented that, only fifty pages in, I wasn't really enjoying Catch-22 so far. He suggested that I just jump ship if I'm not enjoying it, but I said that wasn't the point of what I was doing. I need to finish these books so I can understand them and absorb them, good and bad. If I had quit reading it, I wouldn't have had it with me in the coffee shop, it wouldn't have sparked that conversation, he wouldn't have offered to bequeath to me the books, and I wouldn't be writing this right now.
I suppose the cynic inside me admits the possibility that he may forget about it or never get around to it, and I may never see the books. Even still, I don't think that's entirely the point. I think the point is remembering that there are a lot of assholes in the world, but there are also some genuine good souls. All you gotta do is carry Catch-22 with you everywhere and hope they find you.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Box
I spent an hour or so the other day looking through a box that I've kept with me since I put my things into storage last August. I don't know exactly why I took it with me to North Dakota; I never once looked inside it while I was there. It was in the storage unit up until my absolute final trip down the long, dim hallway with the last few remaining items; I picked it up and put it in the car instead, perhaps with the idea of finding something inside it to inspire me again while I was away. The box contains most of my scrap lyrics and song ideas from the past decade or so. I'm sure there are some things that belong in there that aren't, and maybe they're hidden somewhere in that storage space, or maybe they're lost in a sea of clutter in my parents' basement.
I looked through every notebook, every folder, every scrap of paper (which makes it sound like a bit more than it really is). I was abysmally embarrassed of most things I had written in high school and freshman year of college. There were only two or three things I read from that period that I can still appreciate. That's not to say that everything written from sophomore year on is necessarily great, but I was able to find a pretty enormous number of little ideas that never became songs, ideas that I really enjoyed reading, whether they were two lines or ten. I recognized most of them, but there were a few that I didn't remember writing; these struck me as particularly interesting. It's the same basic awe and respect you have when you first read something wonderful that's written by someone else, but with the embedded irony of knowing that you were the writer. There's a disconnect there, and your brain tries to fill it with something, and that something is emotion: the emotion felt at the time, but it's gone now, and it's replaced with something different.
I was surprised by how much I had written during those years, roughly from sophomore year to senior year of college. Not surprised by the writing itself, but by the knowledge that I hadn't done nearly as much writing since. Things have happened, to be sure, the kinds of things you typically think lead to the kinds of songs that are about those kinds of things; and generally they are. Things like heartbreak. And I've written those kinds of songs in the past. I even tried to write some in the last few years. In fact, I know that somewhere are a few song ideas and lyrics that got jotted down, maybe even a few demos. But the difference is that it is with less and less consistency that these are becoming actual songs. I wrote "Clementine" and I love it, but it's inspired by someone else's powerfully beautiful creation. There has been no "Speed Dial", no "Metropolis". I wonder if there ever will be again, if I'm wasting my time even wondering.
I struggled then, as I've done for quite some time now, to come up with a good reason for me to have so drastically reduced my output in the ensuing years. When I look at my situations, then and now, with an eye for differences, it strikes me that the primary difference is that I'm not in a band. Maybe that's it. I'm not actively performing on a regular or semi-regular basis. I'm sure that plays a significant part of it, but it can't be the only thing. I'm looking beyond that for something else. I wish I could say that I had thought of it, or come close. That would make such a satisfying conclusion to this piece.
I can't sit very still
when the body's very ill
makes the brain swell up until
I can't see very straight
and I laugh a bit too late
digging holes for fun at night
you can join if the weather's right
we can sleep there when it gets light
cause we'll be far below
where the roots of tall trees grow
I looked through every notebook, every folder, every scrap of paper (which makes it sound like a bit more than it really is). I was abysmally embarrassed of most things I had written in high school and freshman year of college. There were only two or three things I read from that period that I can still appreciate. That's not to say that everything written from sophomore year on is necessarily great, but I was able to find a pretty enormous number of little ideas that never became songs, ideas that I really enjoyed reading, whether they were two lines or ten. I recognized most of them, but there were a few that I didn't remember writing; these struck me as particularly interesting. It's the same basic awe and respect you have when you first read something wonderful that's written by someone else, but with the embedded irony of knowing that you were the writer. There's a disconnect there, and your brain tries to fill it with something, and that something is emotion: the emotion felt at the time, but it's gone now, and it's replaced with something different.
I was surprised by how much I had written during those years, roughly from sophomore year to senior year of college. Not surprised by the writing itself, but by the knowledge that I hadn't done nearly as much writing since. Things have happened, to be sure, the kinds of things you typically think lead to the kinds of songs that are about those kinds of things; and generally they are. Things like heartbreak. And I've written those kinds of songs in the past. I even tried to write some in the last few years. In fact, I know that somewhere are a few song ideas and lyrics that got jotted down, maybe even a few demos. But the difference is that it is with less and less consistency that these are becoming actual songs. I wrote "Clementine" and I love it, but it's inspired by someone else's powerfully beautiful creation. There has been no "Speed Dial", no "Metropolis". I wonder if there ever will be again, if I'm wasting my time even wondering.
I struggled then, as I've done for quite some time now, to come up with a good reason for me to have so drastically reduced my output in the ensuing years. When I look at my situations, then and now, with an eye for differences, it strikes me that the primary difference is that I'm not in a band. Maybe that's it. I'm not actively performing on a regular or semi-regular basis. I'm sure that plays a significant part of it, but it can't be the only thing. I'm looking beyond that for something else. I wish I could say that I had thought of it, or come close. That would make such a satisfying conclusion to this piece.
I can't sit very still
when the body's very ill
makes the brain swell up until
I can't see very straight
and I laugh a bit too late
digging holes for fun at night
you can join if the weather's right
we can sleep there when it gets light
cause we'll be far below
where the roots of tall trees grow
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Progress
Tonight, before I went to bed, I went to put my guitar in its case and I instead wound up playing it for about half an hour. (That's how it goes sometimes.) I played it quietly, unamplified. I've found that this is one of my favorite ways to hear this guitar. It's a very intimate, personal experience. It's late, it's quiet, it's secret.
I realized tonight, just as I stopped playing and finally put the guitar away, that I finally feel like I've made some discernible progress. I feel like all the fundamentals (scales, arpeggios, etc.) and exercises that I've been focusing on for the past six months have really started to pay off. I feel like I am the best guitarist I've ever been. I'm humble enough to know what that statement really means, though. Truth is, I was never a great guitarist to begin with. I got by with some chords and some pentatonic scales¹, but I always knew I had merely scratched the surface. For years.
It has been my goal for the past six months to dig deeper, to study and learn, to teach myself. To pick up where I left off learning eight years ago.²
Back when I was first learning to play, I was subscribed to an email newsletter by some guitarist whose name escapes me, although I think it's something like Jamie Andreas; yeah, that sounds about right. It was just something I found while I was searching online for educational materials, and I did a lot of searching online for educational materials. I remember he introduced two concepts: horizontal growth and vertical growth. Horizontal growth is using skills and concepts you've developed and applying them. Vertical growth is learning new skills and concepts.
You can see how this applies to guitar. Horizontal growth is basically learning new songs. I got by with only horizontal growth for many, many years. But vertical growth is something else entirely. Vertical growth is the acquisition of new skill and the improvement of technique. It's improving picking technique, or it's learning a new chord voicing, or it's transcribing a difficult solo. Or something. I'm just making this up as I go along, but it sounds right. I'm pretty sure it's what he talked about. Or it's how I feel about it now. Truthfully, I don't remember much of anything he said or if I gleaned anything important from the newsletters. The point is, for the first time since, I don't know, high school, I feel like I'm making vertical growth on guitar.
Don't get me wrong. I still have an exorbitantly long way to go. I still feel like an incompetent jackass on guitar a great majority of the time. But I feel like slightly less of an incompetent jackass than, say, six months ago.
¹ The best discovery I ever made in high school was that I could play the minor pentatonic scale three half-steps down from whatever major key a song was in, and it would sound good. (i.e. "Wow, A minor pentatonic sounds great in C major!") Little did I know how crippled my guitar skills would remain when I left it at that. "Oh, you're in G? I'll just noodle around with my E minor pentatonic scale." In hindsight, I feel like a phony and a fool.
² This is also why my foray into jazz has been a slow-moving one, because it's coupled with this remedial stuff.
I realized tonight, just as I stopped playing and finally put the guitar away, that I finally feel like I've made some discernible progress. I feel like all the fundamentals (scales, arpeggios, etc.) and exercises that I've been focusing on for the past six months have really started to pay off. I feel like I am the best guitarist I've ever been. I'm humble enough to know what that statement really means, though. Truth is, I was never a great guitarist to begin with. I got by with some chords and some pentatonic scales¹, but I always knew I had merely scratched the surface. For years.
It has been my goal for the past six months to dig deeper, to study and learn, to teach myself. To pick up where I left off learning eight years ago.²
Back when I was first learning to play, I was subscribed to an email newsletter by some guitarist whose name escapes me, although I think it's something like Jamie Andreas; yeah, that sounds about right. It was just something I found while I was searching online for educational materials, and I did a lot of searching online for educational materials. I remember he introduced two concepts: horizontal growth and vertical growth. Horizontal growth is using skills and concepts you've developed and applying them. Vertical growth is learning new skills and concepts.
You can see how this applies to guitar. Horizontal growth is basically learning new songs. I got by with only horizontal growth for many, many years. But vertical growth is something else entirely. Vertical growth is the acquisition of new skill and the improvement of technique. It's improving picking technique, or it's learning a new chord voicing, or it's transcribing a difficult solo. Or something. I'm just making this up as I go along, but it sounds right. I'm pretty sure it's what he talked about. Or it's how I feel about it now. Truthfully, I don't remember much of anything he said or if I gleaned anything important from the newsletters. The point is, for the first time since, I don't know, high school, I feel like I'm making vertical growth on guitar.
Don't get me wrong. I still have an exorbitantly long way to go. I still feel like an incompetent jackass on guitar a great majority of the time. But I feel like slightly less of an incompetent jackass than, say, six months ago.
¹ The best discovery I ever made in high school was that I could play the minor pentatonic scale three half-steps down from whatever major key a song was in, and it would sound good. (i.e. "Wow, A minor pentatonic sounds great in C major!") Little did I know how crippled my guitar skills would remain when I left it at that. "Oh, you're in G? I'll just noodle around with my E minor pentatonic scale." In hindsight, I feel like a phony and a fool.
² This is also why my foray into jazz has been a slow-moving one, because it's coupled with this remedial stuff.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
A Performance of Sorts
Last night I had a rather neat opportunity. For the past month or so, I've been going to McGinnis occasionally on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Well, I've been going on other days, too, when it's convenient. But on those particular evenings, a guy by the name of John Vermilye ("Johnny V") plays guitar and sings. He's got a good set that covers a lot of bases, including folk, early rhythm & blues, and classic rock. There's an emphasis on acts like Paul Simon, Neil Young, The Beatles, that sort of thing. It's a relaxed, laid back, and enjoyable atmosphere.
Johnny graciously offered to have me fill in on his break with a few songs that I had worked up to a respectable level, having never heard me play. (Crazy!) I was both nervous and excited. See, it has been over a year and a half since the last time I played guitar or sang in front of anyone. Yep. For the last, oh, nearly a decade, I've been in and out of bands, playing acoustic and electric; doing covers and originals; classic rock to modern pop to jazz; basement shows, battle of the bands, open mics; from high school through college. But since I graduated college, I sort of lost touch. I've been out of it so long, I don't even know how to get back into it, or what to play, and I've become pretty shy about my playing. Not that I wasn't before, but I guess now it feels more pronounced, more of an obstruction to the process entirely.
When he asked if I'd like to play, I had a feeling that it was something like fate knocking. I felt obliged to accept. I have a tendency to view things in this light right now; if something great comes along, I just accept it, embrace it, and move with it, figuring that all paths have led me here.
(To be fair, I actually had to turn him down the first time he offered, because I'd already had two pints of Dogfish Head IPA. And that does not make me into a better guitarist, by any means.)
So I spent a few days over the past couple weeks trying to work up several songs that I felt comfortable playing. I showed up at McGinnis last night and Johnny asked if I was interested in playing that night, and I said I was.
About an hour and a half later, I was sitting on the barstool with my stupid little book of lyrics (because after all this time I still can't get through most songs without a reminder), guitar and pick in hand, with faces of people I don't know watching me. (There were a few faces I did know, too. Thanks to Casey, Shelby, Kristen, and Rachel for being there!) It was a familiar feeling, but it also felt kind of strange and new. I got nervous all over again. I played my three songs. There were a few mistakes. Nothing fell apart or sounded like a disaster, though. Mostly just a flubbed note, a bit of rushing, or an extraneous beat to fit in a syllable because I dragged on a phrase. All in all, it could have been quite a bit worse. I got some compliments on "Clementine", which was nice.
I don't feel like I'm any closer to figuring everything out. I'm still somewhat perplexed as to how my life is supposed to make any sense regarding music, and what role it will ultimately play. But I feel that I at least took a good step last night toward continuing to rediscover the things that used to give me such pleasure and joy.
Johnny graciously offered to have me fill in on his break with a few songs that I had worked up to a respectable level, having never heard me play. (Crazy!) I was both nervous and excited. See, it has been over a year and a half since the last time I played guitar or sang in front of anyone. Yep. For the last, oh, nearly a decade, I've been in and out of bands, playing acoustic and electric; doing covers and originals; classic rock to modern pop to jazz; basement shows, battle of the bands, open mics; from high school through college. But since I graduated college, I sort of lost touch. I've been out of it so long, I don't even know how to get back into it, or what to play, and I've become pretty shy about my playing. Not that I wasn't before, but I guess now it feels more pronounced, more of an obstruction to the process entirely.
When he asked if I'd like to play, I had a feeling that it was something like fate knocking. I felt obliged to accept. I have a tendency to view things in this light right now; if something great comes along, I just accept it, embrace it, and move with it, figuring that all paths have led me here.
(To be fair, I actually had to turn him down the first time he offered, because I'd already had two pints of Dogfish Head IPA. And that does not make me into a better guitarist, by any means.)
So I spent a few days over the past couple weeks trying to work up several songs that I felt comfortable playing. I showed up at McGinnis last night and Johnny asked if I was interested in playing that night, and I said I was.
About an hour and a half later, I was sitting on the barstool with my stupid little book of lyrics (because after all this time I still can't get through most songs without a reminder), guitar and pick in hand, with faces of people I don't know watching me. (There were a few faces I did know, too. Thanks to Casey, Shelby, Kristen, and Rachel for being there!) It was a familiar feeling, but it also felt kind of strange and new. I got nervous all over again. I played my three songs. There were a few mistakes. Nothing fell apart or sounded like a disaster, though. Mostly just a flubbed note, a bit of rushing, or an extraneous beat to fit in a syllable because I dragged on a phrase. All in all, it could have been quite a bit worse. I got some compliments on "Clementine", which was nice.
I don't feel like I'm any closer to figuring everything out. I'm still somewhat perplexed as to how my life is supposed to make any sense regarding music, and what role it will ultimately play. But I feel that I at least took a good step last night toward continuing to rediscover the things that used to give me such pleasure and joy.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
The Accident
You may have heard that I was in an accident. If not, well, now you know. Here's how it went down.
Casey and Paul decided to have a co-birthday party in Indy last Friday, February 5. Nevermind that their birthdays are, in fact, weeks apart. Both Shelby and Casey had to sub that day, so when they were done we all gathered at the Brown house and made our departure. Shelby drove us in the trusty ol' Buick. We headed south on 421.
A winter storm had been hammering central Indiana all day, but the most Michigan City had gotten was a smattering of flurries. The further south we went, the more white we saw, and the more ominous it became. I had recently pulled The Hobbit out of my bag and began reading. After getting through not more than a page or two, I heard Shelby exclaim a loud, mono-syllabic utterance. I looked up from the backseat and saw that we were approaching a wide curve to the left in the road. I gathered from Shelby's reaction that something was not right.
We were sliding. The car suddenly lurched to the left as Shelby attempted to keep it on the road. Good thing, too, as we would have been headed full-speed straight into an electrical pole along our current route. As the car continued to swerve, we found ourselves mostly perpendicular to the road and edging into the other lane. A black pickup truck was headed right for us. I encouraged Shelby to just try to maneuver the car off the road. Because we were sliding at an angle into the turn, the far edge of the road, which we now faced, seemed elusively out of reach.
The truck loomed closer. Casey, in the front passenger seat, and I, in the back passenger seat, looked on. With a slam and a crunch, the vehicles collided.
We were completely at rest. I could see the truck out the opposite window some twenty yards away. Nobody was hurt. Shelby made an attempt to drive the car forward a few feet to get it off the road, and with a grinding of metal he was actually successful. We got out to assess the situation, although Casey's door wouldn't open and he had to crawl across the front seat. The front bumper was missing entirely, along with the passenger-side fender, and the door was crumpled in. We found the bumper on other side of the street, behind the car, about 30 feet away; this we found somewhat comical as we were at a loss to even contemplate the physics of its trajectory. The front left tire had come completely off the rim. Everything under the hood looked remarkably intact. The driver of the truck was completely unharmed. His vehicle was damaged but not nearly as badly as Shelby's.
We had no idea where we were. All of those little towns along 421 kind of look the same. We waited in the car for the police to arrive, which took a bit longer than expected, no doubt due to increased numbers of calls that day. After assessing the scene, he said he had to move on to an accident that involved a child. He told us we were a few miles south of Francesville, gave us the phone number of a towing company in town, and told us a county officer would arrive shortly. That also took way longer than expected. Eventually he showed up and took the report, followed shortly by the tow truck.
As the tow truck headed back in the direction of Francesville, we meandered aimlessly behind along the side of the road. Shelby said that the driver of the pickup truck had mentioned that he could help us arrange to get a ride to town if we needed. We didn't know what to do except awkwardly ask. As we walked in the direction of the truck, we passed the police car that had yet to leave the scene. The officer rolled down his window and asked if we needed a ride into town. We all got in.
He dropped us off at a gas station in Francesville that was conveniently right across the street from where Shelby's car had been towed. Gotta love small towns. We walked in and were greeted by an elderly couple that were sitting at a table inside, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and just generally passing the evening. They invited us to sit, and we were soon joined by a friend of theirs, who looked to be about 30. They talked with us for a while and we told them what had happened while we waited for a ride back to Michigan City in the form of Rachel.
Shelby and I decided to go over to the car to get a few things out of the trunk. When we got there, the trunk latch inside wouldn't work, and we didn't have the keys. We walked back over and sat and talked some more. We heard a lot of stories from these people who knew each other quite well and, in fact, it was pretty entertaining. The 30-year-old fellow was quite fond of 75-person motorcycle racing on a frozen lake just outside of town. Fancy that.
Not too much later, the guys who had towed the car walked in. Gotta love small towns. They went over to the car with us and opened the trunk so we could get our stuff out. We walked back to the gas station and sat and waited some more. Eventually Rachel showed up, and our little gas station party was at an end, as they all went home and we piled into Rachel's car and headed back north.
The next day, Shelby and his dad drove down to Francesville to see what could be done about the car. I wondered if it might still be drivable, since everything under the hood looked completely fine, as long as a tire was put on the front left wheel. They discovered that the front axle was too mangled for that to be possible. So it goes.
The heroes of our story—Shelby, Casey, and myself—have quite a bit to be thankful for with regard to this accident. There are many different ways it could have played out. Casey told me later that he was certain that we (or at least, from his vantage point, he) would surely die. Automobile tragedy is no strange thing to me. My uncle and his wife were killed in a car accident caused by a drunk driver before I was even born. My cousin, with whom I was extremely close growing up, was killed only seven years ago, along with two friends of his, when the driver of their car fell asleep at the wheel.
Any number of factors could have been infinitesimally altered, and the outcome of this accident could have been very different. The only thing we can do now is be thankful that it wasn't.
Casey and Paul decided to have a co-birthday party in Indy last Friday, February 5. Nevermind that their birthdays are, in fact, weeks apart. Both Shelby and Casey had to sub that day, so when they were done we all gathered at the Brown house and made our departure. Shelby drove us in the trusty ol' Buick. We headed south on 421.
A winter storm had been hammering central Indiana all day, but the most Michigan City had gotten was a smattering of flurries. The further south we went, the more white we saw, and the more ominous it became. I had recently pulled The Hobbit out of my bag and began reading. After getting through not more than a page or two, I heard Shelby exclaim a loud, mono-syllabic utterance. I looked up from the backseat and saw that we were approaching a wide curve to the left in the road. I gathered from Shelby's reaction that something was not right.
We were sliding. The car suddenly lurched to the left as Shelby attempted to keep it on the road. Good thing, too, as we would have been headed full-speed straight into an electrical pole along our current route. As the car continued to swerve, we found ourselves mostly perpendicular to the road and edging into the other lane. A black pickup truck was headed right for us. I encouraged Shelby to just try to maneuver the car off the road. Because we were sliding at an angle into the turn, the far edge of the road, which we now faced, seemed elusively out of reach.
The truck loomed closer. Casey, in the front passenger seat, and I, in the back passenger seat, looked on. With a slam and a crunch, the vehicles collided.
We were completely at rest. I could see the truck out the opposite window some twenty yards away. Nobody was hurt. Shelby made an attempt to drive the car forward a few feet to get it off the road, and with a grinding of metal he was actually successful. We got out to assess the situation, although Casey's door wouldn't open and he had to crawl across the front seat. The front bumper was missing entirely, along with the passenger-side fender, and the door was crumpled in. We found the bumper on other side of the street, behind the car, about 30 feet away; this we found somewhat comical as we were at a loss to even contemplate the physics of its trajectory. The front left tire had come completely off the rim. Everything under the hood looked remarkably intact. The driver of the truck was completely unharmed. His vehicle was damaged but not nearly as badly as Shelby's.
We had no idea where we were. All of those little towns along 421 kind of look the same. We waited in the car for the police to arrive, which took a bit longer than expected, no doubt due to increased numbers of calls that day. After assessing the scene, he said he had to move on to an accident that involved a child. He told us we were a few miles south of Francesville, gave us the phone number of a towing company in town, and told us a county officer would arrive shortly. That also took way longer than expected. Eventually he showed up and took the report, followed shortly by the tow truck.
As the tow truck headed back in the direction of Francesville, we meandered aimlessly behind along the side of the road. Shelby said that the driver of the pickup truck had mentioned that he could help us arrange to get a ride to town if we needed. We didn't know what to do except awkwardly ask. As we walked in the direction of the truck, we passed the police car that had yet to leave the scene. The officer rolled down his window and asked if we needed a ride into town. We all got in.
He dropped us off at a gas station in Francesville that was conveniently right across the street from where Shelby's car had been towed. Gotta love small towns. We walked in and were greeted by an elderly couple that were sitting at a table inside, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and just generally passing the evening. They invited us to sit, and we were soon joined by a friend of theirs, who looked to be about 30. They talked with us for a while and we told them what had happened while we waited for a ride back to Michigan City in the form of Rachel.
Shelby and I decided to go over to the car to get a few things out of the trunk. When we got there, the trunk latch inside wouldn't work, and we didn't have the keys. We walked back over and sat and talked some more. We heard a lot of stories from these people who knew each other quite well and, in fact, it was pretty entertaining. The 30-year-old fellow was quite fond of 75-person motorcycle racing on a frozen lake just outside of town. Fancy that.
Not too much later, the guys who had towed the car walked in. Gotta love small towns. They went over to the car with us and opened the trunk so we could get our stuff out. We walked back to the gas station and sat and waited some more. Eventually Rachel showed up, and our little gas station party was at an end, as they all went home and we piled into Rachel's car and headed back north.
The next day, Shelby and his dad drove down to Francesville to see what could be done about the car. I wondered if it might still be drivable, since everything under the hood looked completely fine, as long as a tire was put on the front left wheel. They discovered that the front axle was too mangled for that to be possible. So it goes.
The heroes of our story—Shelby, Casey, and myself—have quite a bit to be thankful for with regard to this accident. There are many different ways it could have played out. Casey told me later that he was certain that we (or at least, from his vantage point, he) would surely die. Automobile tragedy is no strange thing to me. My uncle and his wife were killed in a car accident caused by a drunk driver before I was even born. My cousin, with whom I was extremely close growing up, was killed only seven years ago, along with two friends of his, when the driver of their car fell asleep at the wheel.
Any number of factors could have been infinitesimally altered, and the outcome of this accident could have been very different. The only thing we can do now is be thankful that it wasn't.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Resuscitation! Reinvigoration! Regurgitation!
First entry in over three years. This is an awkward transition, because in those three years I posted a hell of a lot of content on my MySpace blog. So it looks like I haven't written anything since I was a lowly intern at Echo Park Studios in Bloomington, but that's not the whole truth. I recently re-read some of those MySpace entries, and I'm pretty fond of them, so I recommend going to that blog and catching up, at least back through early 2008.
Actually, reading through all of these, I notice that 2008 seems to have been a pretty interesting and mostly good year, despite getting off to a rocky start. I recall fondly that I wrote quite a bit of music that year (even if not many of them turned into full songs, there are a lot of demos from that year that I still really enjoy), recorded even more of others' music, and I wrote a lot in that blog. So why was most of 2009 such a god damn train wreck? (That's not including the four-month layover in North Dakota, by the way.) Come to think of it, I wasn't too fond of 2007 either.
...Maybe it's something to do with odd-numbered years...
I've been doing a lot of reading lately. I mean, a lot. I have read seven books in the past month. They're mostly books whose names (or whose authors' names) I'm familiar with but had never read and just decided it was time that I did so. For example, Fight Club and Slaughterhouse-Five. I haven't read much in the past week or so, because my mind has been a little distracted. I decided for my latest round of choices I would revisit an old favorite: Tolkien. I'm currently halfway through The Hobbit, and I'm planning to enjoy The Lord of the Rings next. When I read, I often come across certain passages that strike me as particularly beautiful or moving, but I never write them down! I regret that. So I changed that very recently. I wish I had done it sooner, but what can you do. I'm now putting my favorite excerpts from books I read into my Facebook profile. Also, I've considered writing down my opinions on the books I read as I finish them to put online, but I haven't decided if the internet really needs any more opinions.
...Maybe it's because I was single for a majority of 2008...
The journey of teaching myself jazz guitar has also stalled momentarily. Again, it's mostly just because my mind has been distracted for about the last week. Up until this set in, I was making pretty good progress. The last thing I did was transcribe the first chorus of Wes Montgomery's solo in "West Coast Blues". That's about 30 seconds of music. It took me approximately four hours. I didn't realize before I started it that it's actually an incredibly popular solo, and that jazz guitarists frequently use it for audition material, and that ohmygodwhathaveigottenmyselfinto? I don't know that my playing and my ear are advanced enough yet to tackle this, but I'm going to stay on it for the time being. That is, once I pick up my guitar again.
...Maybe there's no connection to anything at all...
I'm actually going to stop this right here. I have a feeling that I could probably keep typing until, oh, the sun rises. And that might actually be a good thing, from a certain point of view. But if I slather my sloppy linguistic excrement all over the place tonight, there will be nothing to save for future updates, and you won't come back to read, and I won't be able to keep my sponsors happy, and they'll revoke sponsorship, and then I'll go broke, and then I'll have to sell my body for cocaine money.
Actually, reading through all of these, I notice that 2008 seems to have been a pretty interesting and mostly good year, despite getting off to a rocky start. I recall fondly that I wrote quite a bit of music that year (even if not many of them turned into full songs, there are a lot of demos from that year that I still really enjoy), recorded even more of others' music, and I wrote a lot in that blog. So why was most of 2009 such a god damn train wreck? (That's not including the four-month layover in North Dakota, by the way.) Come to think of it, I wasn't too fond of 2007 either.
...Maybe it's something to do with odd-numbered years...
I've been doing a lot of reading lately. I mean, a lot. I have read seven books in the past month. They're mostly books whose names (or whose authors' names) I'm familiar with but had never read and just decided it was time that I did so. For example, Fight Club and Slaughterhouse-Five. I haven't read much in the past week or so, because my mind has been a little distracted. I decided for my latest round of choices I would revisit an old favorite: Tolkien. I'm currently halfway through The Hobbit, and I'm planning to enjoy The Lord of the Rings next. When I read, I often come across certain passages that strike me as particularly beautiful or moving, but I never write them down! I regret that. So I changed that very recently. I wish I had done it sooner, but what can you do. I'm now putting my favorite excerpts from books I read into my Facebook profile. Also, I've considered writing down my opinions on the books I read as I finish them to put online, but I haven't decided if the internet really needs any more opinions.
...Maybe it's because I was single for a majority of 2008...
The journey of teaching myself jazz guitar has also stalled momentarily. Again, it's mostly just because my mind has been distracted for about the last week. Up until this set in, I was making pretty good progress. The last thing I did was transcribe the first chorus of Wes Montgomery's solo in "West Coast Blues". That's about 30 seconds of music. It took me approximately four hours. I didn't realize before I started it that it's actually an incredibly popular solo, and that jazz guitarists frequently use it for audition material, and that ohmygodwhathaveigottenmyselfinto? I don't know that my playing and my ear are advanced enough yet to tackle this, but I'm going to stay on it for the time being. That is, once I pick up my guitar again.
...Maybe there's no connection to anything at all...
I'm actually going to stop this right here. I have a feeling that I could probably keep typing until, oh, the sun rises. And that might actually be a good thing, from a certain point of view. But if I slather my sloppy linguistic excrement all over the place tonight, there will be nothing to save for future updates, and you won't come back to read, and I won't be able to keep my sponsors happy, and they'll revoke sponsorship, and then I'll go broke, and then I'll have to sell my body for cocaine money.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Caffibacco
He looked me in the eye.
"I don't have any vices," he said, exhaling smoke.
"I know," I said.
We both slurped noisily from hot mugs of coffee.
This isn't meant to a completed work of sheer wonder. It just popped into my head because it's something that actually happened.
"I don't have any vices," he said, exhaling smoke.
"I know," I said.
We both slurped noisily from hot mugs of coffee.
This isn't meant to a completed work of sheer wonder. It just popped into my head because it's something that actually happened.
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