I have been tagged by both Muse and JeR so I shall arise from the cave for a post:
1) For 3 years, I was a genetic engineering major. I had done well in school, but despised the arrogance and indifference of the science department. During Finals week of my Junior year, I was sitting in Biochemistry and Molecular Biology class wherein I reached an epiphany. As a blanket of Utter calm descended upon me, I knew with utter certainty that I was going to tank every final that week... and I did. After my last final on Thursday afternoon, I called my parents to tell them that I didn't want to be a genetic engineer. There was a long pause on the line then my mother said, "So what do you want to do." I had not put a single thought into that question, but without a moment's hesitation I answered, "I want to be a filmmaker." The rest is history... or something.
2) For 3 years, I lived in Alaska. One of my fondest memories of childhood was ice skating up and down city streets. Rather than plow the mounting feet of snow, the military base would steamroll it flat, then send gravel trucks to throw rocks over it. I would skate on the snow after the steamrollers had made the pass, beneath the orange streetlights and three months of darkness.
3) I went to the State Finals for Pinewood Derby racing. My Cub Scouts troop made all the kids buy this kit that involved a piece of pinewood, 4 wheels and nails for axles. The kids then cut piece of wood to make it aerodynamic, then added some weight (there is a maximum weight the car could be). Then, they raced these cars against one another by rolling them down a big wooden ramp. It was pretty frigging fun, actually, and I won all the way to the state finals where I tied the overall winner twice until he beat me on the tiebreaker.
4) I hit my dog in the face with a baseball bat. I cringe writing those words, even though it's been 20 years since the incident. We had a black lab who was proficient at drooling and fetching tennis balls. After 3 throws, the tennis ball would morph into a heinous ball of drool. Normally, I would wear a gardening glove but one day I got the brilliant idea of hitting them with a baseball bat instead. So, I hit a couple dingers off and we're all having a great time until the last time. As I tossed the ball in the air and unloaded with my little-league baseball bat, my dog decided that he could save a lot of running time by just catching the ball NOW. I clobbered him in the face with such force, I left a tooth indentation on my bat. For 5 minutes, he howled in pain and writhed on the ground.
One of the top-five worst moments of my life.
After a few minutes of utter misery, he got up, slowly lumbered to his water dish, slopped a drink of water then retreated to his doghouse. Despite my child instinct to flee the scene of my crime, I went and told my dad. He came out, examined our dog and miraculously, could find no evidence of the blow. The next day, I was back to throwing the tennis ball with the gardening glove. Damn, dogs are forgiving!
5) I volunteered for Bible Camp. Who knows how it happened. The details are fuzzy although that my be my subconscious protecting me from trauma. One summer, I couldn't find a job the Texas town where my parents lived, so my mom thought it would look good on my resume if I did some volunteer work. Now, I am not religious. I'm not even religious-adjacent. My Bible knowledge is limited to half-waking moments in church pews and coloring books with David slaying the mighty Goliath.
O.K., I might know a little more than that. At some point, I think that I could even recite all the books of the Old and New Testament. Those days, however, are long gone. Even back in college those were receding memories. However, one day I found myself at a Baptist(?) Bible Camp in southeastern Texas, wrangling 12 year old boys. I even had to sleep in a single-room cabin with 10 boys (that sentence is just wrong on so many levels). Looking back on this, I don't know how I did this, particularly with no alcohol. I do remember a lot of evenings of bad pizza and games of Spades with fellow-counselors.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
A Fifth of a Second
As Wren and I enjoyed our lunch at the 56th Street atrium, an old gentleman approached us. He wore an impeccable suit beneath a long, fitted coat and clutched a copy of the New York Times in one arm.
"What is the best city in the world," he asked.
I fumbled to answer his question earnestly, but Wren knew the punchline.
"New York," she answered.
The man pressed himself against the table and leaned towards Wren.
"Do you know the difference between a New Yorker and a Midwesterner," he asked.
Both of us shrugged.
"A fifth of a second!"
The man leaned back, grinned, then strode away.
"What is the best city in the world," he asked.
I fumbled to answer his question earnestly, but Wren knew the punchline.
"New York," she answered.
The man pressed himself against the table and leaned towards Wren.
"Do you know the difference between a New Yorker and a Midwesterner," he asked.
Both of us shrugged.
"A fifth of a second!"
The man leaned back, grinned, then strode away.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
the Longest month of the year
February is always a terrible month for me. The short days, the cold weather- I don't precisely know why but fortunately, it's the shortest month (calendar-wise) of the year and now it's finally over. Now, I can get back to work with the blogging. I have friends and family visiting over the next months so hopefully I'll have some good New York-themed posts and a few pics.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Feeeeling up the fruit
I stood over a sea of plantains- eight, cardboard boxes of plantains in all stages of ripeness, from the earliest, jungle green through the death throes of yellow and black. I picked over the two boxes of brown-and-yellow ones. I couldn't call myself an expert, but I had cooked my fair share of sweet plantains as an accompaniment to black beans and rice. I had fallen in love with them a dozen years ago at a tiny, Cuban restaurant in Hollywood.
I had been recently burned by some unripened plantains. They left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth that still set my teeth on end whenever I thought of them. This time, I was determined to not make the same mistake twice. As I poked and pinched through the box in front of me, a diminutive, elderly woman stepped up to the second box of ripened fruit.
She looked over the plantains, but I could see that she was checking me out from the corner of her eye. Finally, she dropped the facade. She turned towards me and leaned back to get a good, long look at the towering, indecisive Anglo looming over her. She turned back to her box and picked up a bright-yellow fruit.
"I like to set these out in my home for a few days," she announces in a thick, Dominican accent. I glanced at her with an exaggerated 'Who Me?" look but she is paying no attention to my face. It was my plantains she was scrutinizing and, perhaps, talking to.
"Yeah," I offered in reply and dropped the plantain back into the pile. I picked up another brown fruit.
"That one is no good."
"Well, I was wanting to use them today," I explained, "I don't have time to wait for them to ripen at home."
She reached across and squeezed my plantain.
"Feel that," she ordered. I complied.
"No! Don't peench it," she cried. "You've got to feeeel it! Like this-" The old woman reached into my box, seized a yellow plantain and massaged it with her hand. Had she been 30 years younger, I would have sworn that she was hitting on me.
Kat stood beside the organic produce, laughing as I stuttered to explain myself.
"Well, maybe I have really strong fingers," I suggested.
The little, old woman thrusted her hand into my box, pulled out another plantain and slapped it into my open hand.
"That one is good for eating now," she said.
I opened my mouth to thank her.
"Feel it," she barked. I felt it.
"Oh, yeah," I marvel with a bit too much vigor. They did feel pretty good.
'Is that wrong,' I wondered.
"Those are good ones! Feeel it," she stabbed at the plantains with her finger as I attempted to pleasure her with my plantain-squeezing skills.
"Well... thanks," I said, but she had already turned away to continue her business of plantain shopping. The lesson was over.
I had been recently burned by some unripened plantains. They left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth that still set my teeth on end whenever I thought of them. This time, I was determined to not make the same mistake twice. As I poked and pinched through the box in front of me, a diminutive, elderly woman stepped up to the second box of ripened fruit.
She looked over the plantains, but I could see that she was checking me out from the corner of her eye. Finally, she dropped the facade. She turned towards me and leaned back to get a good, long look at the towering, indecisive Anglo looming over her. She turned back to her box and picked up a bright-yellow fruit.
"I like to set these out in my home for a few days," she announces in a thick, Dominican accent. I glanced at her with an exaggerated 'Who Me?" look but she is paying no attention to my face. It was my plantains she was scrutinizing and, perhaps, talking to.
"Yeah," I offered in reply and dropped the plantain back into the pile. I picked up another brown fruit.
"That one is no good."
"Well, I was wanting to use them today," I explained, "I don't have time to wait for them to ripen at home."
She reached across and squeezed my plantain.
"Feel that," she ordered. I complied.
"No! Don't peench it," she cried. "You've got to feeeel it! Like this-" The old woman reached into my box, seized a yellow plantain and massaged it with her hand. Had she been 30 years younger, I would have sworn that she was hitting on me.
Kat stood beside the organic produce, laughing as I stuttered to explain myself.
"Well, maybe I have really strong fingers," I suggested.
The little, old woman thrusted her hand into my box, pulled out another plantain and slapped it into my open hand.
"That one is good for eating now," she said.
I opened my mouth to thank her.
"Feel it," she barked. I felt it.
"Oh, yeah," I marvel with a bit too much vigor. They did feel pretty good.
'Is that wrong,' I wondered.
"Those are good ones! Feeel it," she stabbed at the plantains with her finger as I attempted to pleasure her with my plantain-squeezing skills.
"Well... thanks," I said, but she had already turned away to continue her business of plantain shopping. The lesson was over.
Friday, January 05, 2007
drums... drums, in the deep
So, I finally got hired full-time at my non-profit job. I had been looking for a job elsewhere for the last 6 months, but it never happened. Finally, one of my co-workers got a new job and I was offered her vacated position. It's more pay and I'll have health benefits for the first time in nearly 2 1/2 years.
I fucking hate getting older. Suddenly things like health insurance have become a big deal as I've become more and more aware of exactly how fucked up the healthcare industry is in this country. Gives me a goddamn headache. So, I'm full-time now and that means that I can finally save a little money for the big move.
That's right. After 5 and a half years of living in NYC, Kat and I are planning to move. Colorado, most-likely. Fort Collins, quite possibly. Both Kat and I were born in Colorado (separated by 8 years). We both left at a young age and our memories are dim, but last summer rekindled things and now we're looking to move there. We have friends there and Nebraska, and it'll be an ideal place to recharge our batteries with some outdoor activities (I am particularly psyched about learning snowboarding).
I have no idea what the fuck we're going to do for a living. I've been looking for teaching work in the hope of gathering a little experience and teaching a community college after we move, but there's a glut of broke artists looking for work in NYC. I so badly want to get back into the arts, but I'm at a loss and have no idea what Colorado has to offer.
The reason we're thinking about Fort Collins is that it's a college town and is gaining a rep as a hip, cheap place. Boulder is too expensive and white for my tastes. People keep telling me I should move to Denver because I live in a city now, but why would I want to live in a smoggy city that isn't as dynamic and interesting as NYC and has no public transportation? If I wanted to live in another NYC, then I'd stay put.
As a result of this big event, Kat and I have posted a list on our refrigerator of all the things we want to do before we leave. Despite the unaffordability, I really LOVE this city and will have a very hard time leaving it.
I'm starting to freak out even as I write this.
It's time for another chapter in this life. It'll be six years this summer and it's time to acknowledge that the Dream just isn't gonna happen in this City. I'm tired of being broke, living hand-to-mouth, and going nowhere with my career. I'm ready to go. Kat is ready to go. We need new possibilities and a little more nature in our lives.
I fucking hate getting older. Suddenly things like health insurance have become a big deal as I've become more and more aware of exactly how fucked up the healthcare industry is in this country. Gives me a goddamn headache. So, I'm full-time now and that means that I can finally save a little money for the big move.
That's right. After 5 and a half years of living in NYC, Kat and I are planning to move. Colorado, most-likely. Fort Collins, quite possibly. Both Kat and I were born in Colorado (separated by 8 years). We both left at a young age and our memories are dim, but last summer rekindled things and now we're looking to move there. We have friends there and Nebraska, and it'll be an ideal place to recharge our batteries with some outdoor activities (I am particularly psyched about learning snowboarding).
I have no idea what the fuck we're going to do for a living. I've been looking for teaching work in the hope of gathering a little experience and teaching a community college after we move, but there's a glut of broke artists looking for work in NYC. I so badly want to get back into the arts, but I'm at a loss and have no idea what Colorado has to offer.
The reason we're thinking about Fort Collins is that it's a college town and is gaining a rep as a hip, cheap place. Boulder is too expensive and white for my tastes. People keep telling me I should move to Denver because I live in a city now, but why would I want to live in a smoggy city that isn't as dynamic and interesting as NYC and has no public transportation? If I wanted to live in another NYC, then I'd stay put.
As a result of this big event, Kat and I have posted a list on our refrigerator of all the things we want to do before we leave. Despite the unaffordability, I really LOVE this city and will have a very hard time leaving it.
I'm starting to freak out even as I write this.
It's time for another chapter in this life. It'll be six years this summer and it's time to acknowledge that the Dream just isn't gonna happen in this City. I'm tired of being broke, living hand-to-mouth, and going nowhere with my career. I'm ready to go. Kat is ready to go. We need new possibilities and a little more nature in our lives.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Flexing at the Y
Location: Men's Locker Room at the YMCA, Upper West Side
As I was getting dressed and ready to go home, four, black teenagers began to pose in front of a full-length mirror at one end of the room. They jockeyed for position as they flexed their thin, wiry frames for one another. Finally, the smallest one pushes his way to the front.
Kid 1: Yo! Lookit me, man! I do have a back, see? Lookit that! I got wings!
Kid 2: You got wings?! What are you now- a tampon?
As I was getting dressed and ready to go home, four, black teenagers began to pose in front of a full-length mirror at one end of the room. They jockeyed for position as they flexed their thin, wiry frames for one another. Finally, the smallest one pushes his way to the front.
Kid 1: Yo! Lookit me, man! I do have a back, see? Lookit that! I got wings!
Kid 2: You got wings?! What are you now- a tampon?
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
the Wedding Day
I wish that I could take credit for it. I guided a few decisions, bought the beer, hand-picked the music for the reception, and said "I do" at the right time. Kudos, however, must go to Kat. The cakes were awesome, the food was fantastic and the tent was gorgeous. Friends and family played no minor role, either. Kat's aunt made the amazing flower arrangements, using nothing but local flora. My friend, Eliot and his wife took great pictures. Kat's friends decorated the guest book, organized tables, printed programs and teased Kat's hair for the big moment. The weather cleared a day and a half before the ceremony. The bugs kept to the outer edges of the tent. I didn't suffer any panic attacks, shakiness or hesitation.
It's really quite disgusting how smoothly it went.
It makes for a really boring blog.
UPDATE: Pictures have been posted to Flickr!
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
around the world and Home again...
Many thanks to Muse and Jerry for the warm words. The Deed has been done. 5,500 miles have been logged. Pictures and words are pending. It was real. It was wonderful. It was a fantastic time.
Much to do on the long (though better-lit) road ahead.
Much to do on the long (though better-lit) road ahead.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
hip deep in Life
It feels like it's been weeks since I've written anything on this blog... hold on a minute. That's because I haven't.
My evenings and weekends have been chock-full of Business as I prepare for my month-long hiatus from the Cave, and the City. June 3rd is the official wedding date and June 5th is the beginning of our month-long tour of America's national parks and gas stations. Most of the big stuff for the wedding has been taken care of, so now we are in Anxious Waiting stage. Meanwhile, I am trying to teach myself the intricacies of Adobe Premiere, After Effects and Encore as I scramble to complete a wedding DVD for my friend, Eliot (the fellow who got married in Sweden last summer). So there's that, and the short story I've been knocking around for the last 4 months, and the Japanese kanji characters I was trying to teach myself as a part of another ongoing project, and the book on Mutual Funds that I checked out of the library 3 weeks ago because I wanted to learn about investing, and the copy of "Everything is Illuminated" that I've been reading on the subway to and from work, and then there's that tiny little detail of the wedding that hasn't been completed called the VOWS...
...
So, when I realized that I'd been neglecting my blog on top of all the other stuff, I decided that I HAD to take 15 minutes out of my workday (I'm sure no one will mind) and touch base... Or, I could just ramble.
My evenings and weekends have been chock-full of Business as I prepare for my month-long hiatus from the Cave, and the City. June 3rd is the official wedding date and June 5th is the beginning of our month-long tour of America's national parks and gas stations. Most of the big stuff for the wedding has been taken care of, so now we are in Anxious Waiting stage. Meanwhile, I am trying to teach myself the intricacies of Adobe Premiere, After Effects and Encore as I scramble to complete a wedding DVD for my friend, Eliot (the fellow who got married in Sweden last summer). So there's that, and the short story I've been knocking around for the last 4 months, and the Japanese kanji characters I was trying to teach myself as a part of another ongoing project, and the book on Mutual Funds that I checked out of the library 3 weeks ago because I wanted to learn about investing, and the copy of "Everything is Illuminated" that I've been reading on the subway to and from work, and then there's that tiny little detail of the wedding that hasn't been completed called the VOWS...
...
So, when I realized that I'd been neglecting my blog on top of all the other stuff, I decided that I HAD to take 15 minutes out of my workday (I'm sure no one will mind) and touch base... Or, I could just ramble.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Ran - horny teenagers need not apply
When I was in high school, my best friend, also named John, was a huge Akira Kurosawa enthusiast. The idea of sitting through 3-hour, black-and-white, samurai warrior epics could not have appealed to me less. John would tell me scenes from the movie and practically beg me to watch it, but there were Forces far greater than friendship working beneath the surface. I was in love/lust with Suzie, a cute Vietnamese-American chick whose obsession with sappy, 80's, teen movies was in direct contrast to my taste in movies. The sexual highlight of my high school years was when Suzie buried her face in my shoulder for 30 seconds as Glenn Close attacked Michael Douglas with a knife in Fatal Attraction. Sitting 3 hours in John's living room and watching anything without Suzie in the picture had no chance of happening. Of course, my passive-aggressive dating technique to become best friends with Suzie, then Hope for something to happen, wasn't a success. She left me for a college kid who drove a Porsche, butthat'sanotherstoryandIdon'twanttotalkaboutitrightnow!
...
Still, I couldn't blame her. She was cute as a button, it was high school and I was up to my eyeballs in self-deprecating longing.
Good thing I got THAT out of my system...
I CANNOT, however, forgive Suzie for her taste in movies. How I could willingly spend money to witness the vacuous train-wrecks called Johnny Be Good, Teen Wolf, and Short Circuit instead of bowing to John's enthusiastic rants and watched Rashomon, The Seven Samurai, or Throne of Blood is beyond me. Nothing speaks to the crippling stupidity of a hormonal teenager than this. Akira Kurosawa is now my favorite director of all time, but whenever I sit down to see one of his movies, I must give pause for the shame that my introduction to Kurosawa was delayed by over 6 years because of Suzie... and I didn't even any heavy petting.
Fortunately, video allows me to make up for my past mistakes. Last weekend, I sat down to re-visit one of the longer, and better, of Kurosawa's films- Ran. Ran is Kurosawa's fantastic, Nobu-theater inspired adaptation of Shakespeare's King Lear. Instead of Lear having 3 daughters, Kurosawa presents us with three samurai sons. After 20 years of abysmal video transfers, Criterion has mercifully stepped in and restored Ran to all it's fantastic, colorific glory. Ran isn't my favorite of Kurosawa's films. I'm a big fan of his smaller stories, like Ikiru, Rashomon, Stray Dog and Dersu Uzala. Still, it's hard to not like watching a director at the top of his game and nobody can pull off a sweeping epic quite like Kurosawa. The film has an expressionistic sweep with bigger-than-life acting and fantastic composition. Like any great tragedy, it is a very long fall to the final comeuppance, but it's a hell of a ride along the way.
What I particularly love about this version is the audio commentary. Stephen Prince is a fantastic commentator and should be required viewing. I've heard his commentary on a couple other Criterion Collection releases and he does a fantastic job of flushing out some of the better details of Kurosawa's life, his philosophy and his technical style. Prince also does a tremendous job of flushing out the story and illuminating some of Kurosawa's brilliant details. You owe it to yourself to check this new copy out, even if you've seen it before. If you haven't... well, what were YOU doing in high school?
...
Still, I couldn't blame her. She was cute as a button, it was high school and I was up to my eyeballs in self-deprecating longing.
Good thing I got THAT out of my system...
I CANNOT, however, forgive Suzie for her taste in movies. How I could willingly spend money to witness the vacuous train-wrecks called Johnny Be Good, Teen Wolf, and Short Circuit instead of bowing to John's enthusiastic rants and watched Rashomon, The Seven Samurai, or Throne of Blood is beyond me. Nothing speaks to the crippling stupidity of a hormonal teenager than this. Akira Kurosawa is now my favorite director of all time, but whenever I sit down to see one of his movies, I must give pause for the shame that my introduction to Kurosawa was delayed by over 6 years because of Suzie... and I didn't even any heavy petting.
Fortunately, video allows me to make up for my past mistakes. Last weekend, I sat down to re-visit one of the longer, and better, of Kurosawa's films- Ran. Ran is Kurosawa's fantastic, Nobu-theater inspired adaptation of Shakespeare's King Lear. Instead of Lear having 3 daughters, Kurosawa presents us with three samurai sons. After 20 years of abysmal video transfers, Criterion has mercifully stepped in and restored Ran to all it's fantastic, colorific glory. Ran isn't my favorite of Kurosawa's films. I'm a big fan of his smaller stories, like Ikiru, Rashomon, Stray Dog and Dersu Uzala. Still, it's hard to not like watching a director at the top of his game and nobody can pull off a sweeping epic quite like Kurosawa. The film has an expressionistic sweep with bigger-than-life acting and fantastic composition. Like any great tragedy, it is a very long fall to the final comeuppance, but it's a hell of a ride along the way.
What I particularly love about this version is the audio commentary. Stephen Prince is a fantastic commentator and should be required viewing. I've heard his commentary on a couple other Criterion Collection releases and he does a fantastic job of flushing out some of the better details of Kurosawa's life, his philosophy and his technical style. Prince also does a tremendous job of flushing out the story and illuminating some of Kurosawa's brilliant details. You owe it to yourself to check this new copy out, even if you've seen it before. If you haven't... well, what were YOU doing in high school?
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Neutral Milk Hotel gets a spin
I don't know if you will care but I WILL tell you that I have been listening to Neutral Milk Hotel's phenomenal album In the Aeroplane Over the Sea every day now for the last 3 weeks and that you Have to listen to it and love it because it's that Fucking good. If you're an indie geek, you already know the album and have just made some derisive comment about how it's about frigging time I noticed it because You listened to it when it First Came Out and You went to the concert and got a T-shirt to show how oh-so special you are even though only your boyfriend/girlfriend will ever see it because it's buried with all your other concert shirts in the closet (What? Me?? Defensive?!). As for the rest of Civilization, my enthusiasm probably won't matter but I can't keep It to myself. The fact is that this album isn't First-Listen. First-Listen music is usually fun, always catchy and sells itself 15 seconds into the first track, assuming that the artist hasn't made the always-regretful mistake of placing a dialogue track on the first track. This is the method by which many people (and, unfortunately, record execs) evaluate their music. If a song doesn't grab them P.D.Q., then nothing is going to change their mind about the artist, no matter how hard I push 'em.
I have had this album sitting on my iPod since last October, but it wasn't until March that I finally Got It. Whenever I felt like listening to something new, I would throw it on. But then, I'd get a few songs into it and I'd started to get irritated, and finally pissed off with the wailing and the dissonance. I'd have to throw switch to a Death Cab for Cutie or Iron & Wine song just to chill myself out. I couldn't concentrate on anything when I listened to it, but I kept at it, though. I kinda liked "The King of Carrot Flowers Part 1" so the music never entirely dipped under the radar. Then, a few weeks ago,... I heard the frustration and anger and longing in the dissonance and felt the energetic, emotional arc and it carried me and with that kind of buzz of a long, epic movie or an all-nighter with good friends. Suddenly, I found myself at the end of the album, exhausted and thrilled.
It was a hard nut to crack, though. I kept that album in my iPod for months instead of deleting it out on the first listen. When I was in college, I barely gave a song a second chance. If I liked it- good. If I didn't- fuck it. Why the big change? Well, two reasons: 1) I started listening to the right people instead of the Top 40 rotation on commercial radio, and 2) I had experience. Even with the good word from bloggers and friends, I wouldn't have held onto that album (or a lot of my favorite music) if I hadn't endured the trial by fire that was the Move of 1994.
If I had moved to Los Angeles with any sense of preparation, I would not be the indie music enthusiast I am today. Prior to 1994, my taste in music was, to say the least, abysmal. My collection of audio tapes was highlighted by the likes of Bell Biv DeVoe, Poison and Paul Simon. The bravest musical choice I had made in the previous three years was when I purchased the cassette single of "Smells Like Teen Spirit". My old friend, Eliot, introduced me to the power of live, indie music by dragging me to see bands like Uncle Tupelo and Yo La Tengo, but I always scuttled back to my Top 40. I loved seeing bands, but I just wasn't engaged enough in the scene to know what was worth hearing. I was in the last year of film school and sleeping in my editing room. Eliot made me a couple tapes, but I'd barely get through a couple songs before I'd toss back into my case and whip out my single of "Mistadobbalina" for one more spin. It just felt like too much Work to explore college radio or buy something different. Music was largely background noise, or melodramatic theme tracks to express a mood or feeling. I know. I suck. I'm a bad, bad friend.
In May, I graduated and, two weeks later, was on the Road from Illinois to the Hills of Hollywood. It was a couple hours into the 4 day journey when the enthusiastic buzz in my head had abated enough for me to notice that the car was silent. I reached for my cassette tape case and immediately had one of those sci-fi movie memory flashbacks where some screaming engine noise accompanies a reverse-time collage of driving backwards down the road, into my parents' driveway as I turn off the car, walk backwards to the house and freeze-frame on the image of my cassette case, sitting innocently on my the kitchen counter. "Fucking hell," I proclaimed to my dashboard. Four frigging days on the road and I had forgotten all my music. I scrounged in the glove compartment in a desperate bid to find my copy of Rhythm of the Saints when I discovered one of Eliot's tapes. One side had Surfer Rosa from the Pixies and the other was Nothing's Shocking by Jane's Addiction. For four days, I had to choose between either this tape or the radio and if you've ever driven through the mountains of Colorado or western Kansas, you know that the radio is no kind of option.
I liked The Pixies from the beginning. There was no doubt about that. They were catchy and fun. True, they were a little Stop-Go, but the contrast had already been buffered by my introduction to the pop-catchier style of Nirvana that curiously seemed to emulate some of the Pixies stuff (hmmm). Jane's Addiction, however, was another story. I couldn't stand the lead singer with his high-pitched, off-key wailing. The only song on that side that I could stand was "Summertime Rolls". It was in the middle of the tape and if I fast forwarded the tape and counted to 30, I could listen to that one song before fast forwarding to the end and flipping back to The Pixies.
For 2 days, this was my routine. Then, somewhere in middle of nowhere, I got bored of the routine and just let the other side play. First, "Jane Says" started to sound a little better to me. Then, "Mountain Song" didn't turn out to be so bad. Then, "Ted, Just Admit It" was worth a listen. Maybe it was the heat of that 200 mile stretch of Utah desert. Perhaps it was the fact that I hadn't spoken 5 words to another human being in days. Somewhere, along that long road to Cali, my mental mania rose just high enough to peek over the fence and get a really good look at the Jane's Addiction mania on the other side, and it Liked what it Saw. By the time I reached the Santa Monica, I was wailing with Perry from "Ocean Size", all the way through "Pigs in Zen". Jane's Addiction wasn't a band any more. It was My Band. I had ownership of that frigging album because I had worked at it and finally Got It.
Sometimes, a little work will do you good (damned you Dad for being Right!).
I have had this album sitting on my iPod since last October, but it wasn't until March that I finally Got It. Whenever I felt like listening to something new, I would throw it on. But then, I'd get a few songs into it and I'd started to get irritated, and finally pissed off with the wailing and the dissonance. I'd have to throw switch to a Death Cab for Cutie or Iron & Wine song just to chill myself out. I couldn't concentrate on anything when I listened to it, but I kept at it, though. I kinda liked "The King of Carrot Flowers Part 1" so the music never entirely dipped under the radar. Then, a few weeks ago,... I heard the frustration and anger and longing in the dissonance and felt the energetic, emotional arc and it carried me and with that kind of buzz of a long, epic movie or an all-nighter with good friends. Suddenly, I found myself at the end of the album, exhausted and thrilled.
It was a hard nut to crack, though. I kept that album in my iPod for months instead of deleting it out on the first listen. When I was in college, I barely gave a song a second chance. If I liked it- good. If I didn't- fuck it. Why the big change? Well, two reasons: 1) I started listening to the right people instead of the Top 40 rotation on commercial radio, and 2) I had experience. Even with the good word from bloggers and friends, I wouldn't have held onto that album (or a lot of my favorite music) if I hadn't endured the trial by fire that was the Move of 1994.
If I had moved to Los Angeles with any sense of preparation, I would not be the indie music enthusiast I am today. Prior to 1994, my taste in music was, to say the least, abysmal. My collection of audio tapes was highlighted by the likes of Bell Biv DeVoe, Poison and Paul Simon. The bravest musical choice I had made in the previous three years was when I purchased the cassette single of "Smells Like Teen Spirit". My old friend, Eliot, introduced me to the power of live, indie music by dragging me to see bands like Uncle Tupelo and Yo La Tengo, but I always scuttled back to my Top 40. I loved seeing bands, but I just wasn't engaged enough in the scene to know what was worth hearing. I was in the last year of film school and sleeping in my editing room. Eliot made me a couple tapes, but I'd barely get through a couple songs before I'd toss back into my case and whip out my single of "Mistadobbalina" for one more spin. It just felt like too much Work to explore college radio or buy something different. Music was largely background noise, or melodramatic theme tracks to express a mood or feeling. I know. I suck. I'm a bad, bad friend.
In May, I graduated and, two weeks later, was on the Road from Illinois to the Hills of Hollywood. It was a couple hours into the 4 day journey when the enthusiastic buzz in my head had abated enough for me to notice that the car was silent. I reached for my cassette tape case and immediately had one of those sci-fi movie memory flashbacks where some screaming engine noise accompanies a reverse-time collage of driving backwards down the road, into my parents' driveway as I turn off the car, walk backwards to the house and freeze-frame on the image of my cassette case, sitting innocently on my the kitchen counter. "Fucking hell," I proclaimed to my dashboard. Four frigging days on the road and I had forgotten all my music. I scrounged in the glove compartment in a desperate bid to find my copy of Rhythm of the Saints when I discovered one of Eliot's tapes. One side had Surfer Rosa from the Pixies and the other was Nothing's Shocking by Jane's Addiction. For four days, I had to choose between either this tape or the radio and if you've ever driven through the mountains of Colorado or western Kansas, you know that the radio is no kind of option.
I liked The Pixies from the beginning. There was no doubt about that. They were catchy and fun. True, they were a little Stop-Go, but the contrast had already been buffered by my introduction to the pop-catchier style of Nirvana that curiously seemed to emulate some of the Pixies stuff (hmmm). Jane's Addiction, however, was another story. I couldn't stand the lead singer with his high-pitched, off-key wailing. The only song on that side that I could stand was "Summertime Rolls". It was in the middle of the tape and if I fast forwarded the tape and counted to 30, I could listen to that one song before fast forwarding to the end and flipping back to The Pixies.
For 2 days, this was my routine. Then, somewhere in middle of nowhere, I got bored of the routine and just let the other side play. First, "Jane Says" started to sound a little better to me. Then, "Mountain Song" didn't turn out to be so bad. Then, "Ted, Just Admit It" was worth a listen. Maybe it was the heat of that 200 mile stretch of Utah desert. Perhaps it was the fact that I hadn't spoken 5 words to another human being in days. Somewhere, along that long road to Cali, my mental mania rose just high enough to peek over the fence and get a really good look at the Jane's Addiction mania on the other side, and it Liked what it Saw. By the time I reached the Santa Monica, I was wailing with Perry from "Ocean Size", all the way through "Pigs in Zen". Jane's Addiction wasn't a band any more. It was My Band. I had ownership of that frigging album because I had worked at it and finally Got It.
Sometimes, a little work will do you good (damned you Dad for being Right!).
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
friends (what We good for?)
*This began as a response to Muse's insight on my previous post, but I just kept going on and on so...
For the first 18 years of my life, I never lived anywhere for more than 3 years. I never had the opportunity to make lasting friendships. By the age of 10, I could readily recognize the stages of loss where best friends first promised to visit, then vowed to write until, finally, they disappeared altogether. I don't begrudge them- they had lives and friends and... well, we were all just kids. Eventually, I came to accept that friendships were short-term and I found other things to motivate and entertain me. I loved to read comic books and play computer games- particularly roleplaying games. I created dynamic characters, then helped them to develop and grow as they undertook these great adventures. Movies were critical. They took me far away and, although our relationship was a bit one-sided, they filled some big, emotional holes in my life.
I don't think it's mushy or corny to want friends around you. After retiring from the military, my dad has spent years trying to find small town diners or church communities where he might find meaningful friendships. People were friendly, yet they already had their good friends and weren't interested (or needed) to call on him whenever they felt like having friends for dinner or see a movie. The only people that my parents can do things with are sisters and brothers so, after years of resisting, they're moving closer to family.
It's a fundamental need. I've deeply craved it all my life- in my work and personal life. I didn't want to repeat the same stories over and over and re-introduce myself to strangers with the fervent hope that I won't blow it and they'll like me and think to call me when they need to talk to somebody. I'm not afraid to meet new people. Kat and I have tried for years to make new friends in the City. It grows tiring to go to parties and re-explaining yourself to others. I can't tell you the number of times that poor Kat has had to endure my "Theory of Porn" speech or hear another defense of why I think Michael Bay is an assmonkey who should never be allowed to direct another film.
I love having friends who know me well enough that they know my passions so we can have a conversation that comes from the end of my last thought rather than an explanation from the start. I love being able to sit in a room and just enjoy being there with a person instead of filling the empty moment. I love it when a friend introduces me to something new and interesting because they are excited about seeing my excitement. I even love a good tweak to my ego when a friend pokes a hole in an attitude that I've got all figured out. I love my fiancé and there are tons of moments that we share, but it's ennobling to also have friends with different rhythms and ideas who want to hang you with you just because you're You.
It's the same thing in my professional life. When I discuss movies, I want to be able to talk about how Woody Allen's new movie "Match Point" is an interesting return to his directing style in "Crimes and Misdemeanors" instead of explaining to someone who Woody Allen is. I want to work with contemporaries who challenge me as much as I challenge them. I want competition that makes me want to be better rather than frustrate me. I want to hear about other people's choices and discoveries, and root for them to succeed.
I read a story one time about how, back in the 1960's, Francis Ford Coppola and George Lucas talked about buying a big Victorian house outside of San Francisco. They wanted to start a production company, buy some 16mm cameras and create a communal space where artists could mingle and make movies. I don't know whether the story was true but I always loved that idea of having a space where artists could hang out, exchange ideas and work near each other. Painters could inspire filmmakers who inspire musicians and everyone would believe in creating great things.
All great movements got their start in places where various people from various disciplines ate, drank, and partied together. I still hold onto dreams like that and I don't believe they're sappy or unrealistic. It's a quick and slippery beast to catch, though. I've spent years chasing it- moving to one city, then another, hoping to find an open, vibrant community. People don't know their power and can easily get fixated on the idea that they should do it alone. I've found myself in spaces and times where I have glanced the tremendous power of a group of people believing in one another.
My friends are scattered all over the world, now. They all have such vibrant, creative fires but I worry that they are in danger of going out or drifting out of my life altogether. I often get this intense, Catcher-in-the-Rye feeling and I think of that quote-
I want to gather my friends before we all completely lose sight of our dreams- before we fall off the cliff.
For the first 18 years of my life, I never lived anywhere for more than 3 years. I never had the opportunity to make lasting friendships. By the age of 10, I could readily recognize the stages of loss where best friends first promised to visit, then vowed to write until, finally, they disappeared altogether. I don't begrudge them- they had lives and friends and... well, we were all just kids. Eventually, I came to accept that friendships were short-term and I found other things to motivate and entertain me. I loved to read comic books and play computer games- particularly roleplaying games. I created dynamic characters, then helped them to develop and grow as they undertook these great adventures. Movies were critical. They took me far away and, although our relationship was a bit one-sided, they filled some big, emotional holes in my life.
I don't think it's mushy or corny to want friends around you. After retiring from the military, my dad has spent years trying to find small town diners or church communities where he might find meaningful friendships. People were friendly, yet they already had their good friends and weren't interested (or needed) to call on him whenever they felt like having friends for dinner or see a movie. The only people that my parents can do things with are sisters and brothers so, after years of resisting, they're moving closer to family.
It's a fundamental need. I've deeply craved it all my life- in my work and personal life. I didn't want to repeat the same stories over and over and re-introduce myself to strangers with the fervent hope that I won't blow it and they'll like me and think to call me when they need to talk to somebody. I'm not afraid to meet new people. Kat and I have tried for years to make new friends in the City. It grows tiring to go to parties and re-explaining yourself to others. I can't tell you the number of times that poor Kat has had to endure my "Theory of Porn" speech or hear another defense of why I think Michael Bay is an assmonkey who should never be allowed to direct another film.
I love having friends who know me well enough that they know my passions so we can have a conversation that comes from the end of my last thought rather than an explanation from the start. I love being able to sit in a room and just enjoy being there with a person instead of filling the empty moment. I love it when a friend introduces me to something new and interesting because they are excited about seeing my excitement. I even love a good tweak to my ego when a friend pokes a hole in an attitude that I've got all figured out. I love my fiancé and there are tons of moments that we share, but it's ennobling to also have friends with different rhythms and ideas who want to hang you with you just because you're You.
It's the same thing in my professional life. When I discuss movies, I want to be able to talk about how Woody Allen's new movie "Match Point" is an interesting return to his directing style in "Crimes and Misdemeanors" instead of explaining to someone who Woody Allen is. I want to work with contemporaries who challenge me as much as I challenge them. I want competition that makes me want to be better rather than frustrate me. I want to hear about other people's choices and discoveries, and root for them to succeed.
I read a story one time about how, back in the 1960's, Francis Ford Coppola and George Lucas talked about buying a big Victorian house outside of San Francisco. They wanted to start a production company, buy some 16mm cameras and create a communal space where artists could mingle and make movies. I don't know whether the story was true but I always loved that idea of having a space where artists could hang out, exchange ideas and work near each other. Painters could inspire filmmakers who inspire musicians and everyone would believe in creating great things.
All great movements got their start in places where various people from various disciplines ate, drank, and partied together. I still hold onto dreams like that and I don't believe they're sappy or unrealistic. It's a quick and slippery beast to catch, though. I've spent years chasing it- moving to one city, then another, hoping to find an open, vibrant community. People don't know their power and can easily get fixated on the idea that they should do it alone. I've found myself in spaces and times where I have glanced the tremendous power of a group of people believing in one another.
My friends are scattered all over the world, now. They all have such vibrant, creative fires but I worry that they are in danger of going out or drifting out of my life altogether. I often get this intense, Catcher-in-the-Rye feeling and I think of that quote-
Anyway, I keep picturing these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean- except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy.
I want to gather my friends before we all completely lose sight of our dreams- before we fall off the cliff.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
getting my Fix (on tour)
After 4 days of eating, spending and touring the city, one of my best friends and his wonderful wife have returned to the Land of Nebraska. Despite the fact that I have seen Eliot 3 times since graduating from college 12 years ago, he is my best friend and one of 3 people I would have to stuff in my suitcase if I was heading to a deserted island along with the books, movies and all those other "Top 3 Things" I'd have to take with me (I might be mixing my clichéd metaphors here). I could have easily spent the entire time hanging out in the cave, drinking beer, smoking cigarettes and talking.
On the other hand, Kat and I were excited about showing Eliot and Anna our Wonderful City in what might have been a defensive attempt to justify why we continue to live here despite the exorbitant rent and neurosis-breeding loneliness we regularly endure. It's also True that walking friends around New York City has always been a Botox injection of the Soul- it all looks fresh and New! I get to return to places I love but no longer visit, like the Brooklyn Bridge, the West Village, the Lower East Side, etc.. I also get to see a Vibrant, energetic city through the eyes of a newbie- I see it in that wide-eyed way when I first arrived. Like Botox, however, the feeling eventually fades (which is good because our lips don't look that good when they're poofy).
This time, however, things didn't play out the way I had expected. I never found that renewed sense of Pride in my City. Neighborhoods that I loved had changed. Punk and goth kids no longer ringed the Cube statue at St. Mark's Place. Long, glass-encased facades, featuring overpriced food and chain-stores lined a street that once choked with second-hand record shops, funky T-shirts and underground gothwear and videos. Gleaming buildings of million-dollar apartments towered over tenement buildings. I was pointing along streets that bared no resemblance to the artistic havens they once held. I felt as if I were an old man who pointed at where things 'used to be' and reminisced about ghosts of the past that no one could possibly recognize among the people who frequented those streets today.
I realized that I was living in this city, waiting for times long-lost to return. The revolutions of Abstract Expressionism, folk rock, street poetry, punk, glam, vaudeville, the White Way are long, long gone. And here I am, standing at the bus stop, adamant that one of those buses would realize that it had forgotten a passenger and come back to get me. As I get older, I don't want to be a part of a Movement or find immortality through my art. I just want my best friend to be able to drop in, watch a movie, and hang out... and that'd probably be all the inspiration I'd need.
On the other hand, Kat and I were excited about showing Eliot and Anna our Wonderful City in what might have been a defensive attempt to justify why we continue to live here despite the exorbitant rent and neurosis-breeding loneliness we regularly endure. It's also True that walking friends around New York City has always been a Botox injection of the Soul- it all looks fresh and New! I get to return to places I love but no longer visit, like the Brooklyn Bridge, the West Village, the Lower East Side, etc.. I also get to see a Vibrant, energetic city through the eyes of a newbie- I see it in that wide-eyed way when I first arrived. Like Botox, however, the feeling eventually fades (which is good because our lips don't look that good when they're poofy).
This time, however, things didn't play out the way I had expected. I never found that renewed sense of Pride in my City. Neighborhoods that I loved had changed. Punk and goth kids no longer ringed the Cube statue at St. Mark's Place. Long, glass-encased facades, featuring overpriced food and chain-stores lined a street that once choked with second-hand record shops, funky T-shirts and underground gothwear and videos. Gleaming buildings of million-dollar apartments towered over tenement buildings. I was pointing along streets that bared no resemblance to the artistic havens they once held. I felt as if I were an old man who pointed at where things 'used to be' and reminisced about ghosts of the past that no one could possibly recognize among the people who frequented those streets today.
I realized that I was living in this city, waiting for times long-lost to return. The revolutions of Abstract Expressionism, folk rock, street poetry, punk, glam, vaudeville, the White Way are long, long gone. And here I am, standing at the bus stop, adamant that one of those buses would realize that it had forgotten a passenger and come back to get me. As I get older, I don't want to be a part of a Movement or find immortality through my art. I just want my best friend to be able to drop in, watch a movie, and hang out... and that'd probably be all the inspiration I'd need.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
an optimistic walk through the Park
Yesterday, I was taking my usual walk across Central Park towards the 'A' subway line and, ultimately home, when I found myself overcome by a sensation so foreign, I had nearly forgotten what it felt like - optimism. I was seized with a mystical calm as I made my way around The Pond. The sunset was casting an orange tint on the side of the buildings that rose above the trees along Central Park West. The setting sun rendered the skyline into an Edward Hopper painting with fiery highlights and deep, blue shadows. It gave a vivid, magical quality to the air. My strides shortened and breeze against my face slackened as I looked around me.
It felt like the first time I visited New York City. I no longer felt the burden of experience that I had come to resent- the infestation of corporate culture, the moneyed gentrification of dynamic neighborhoods, the crippling cost of daily living. For a few minutes, New York was a land where Woody Allen's Manhattan might still live. I felt that I was at the center of a bustling humanity- 13 miles of innumerable possibilities. The weight of the Now fell from my shoulders and I was anytime I wanted to be. I could race along the great arm of history and imagine myself on a stroll through the City of Ziegfeld or Scorsese or Warhol or Dylan or LaGuardia or The Ramones or Duke Ellington or the myriad of people who found greatness and contributed to this great quilt of community. I loved that I was here and that I was participant who cared what this city Was and Is and I want to make something for it.
I crossed 6th Avenue, ahead of a horse-drawn carriage and the furrowed path carved into the pavement. Past toy dogs and double-wide baby carriages with ivory infants and Caribbean women at the helm, I held my soft buzz of optimism beneath my jacket and skirted the cliches and disappointments. My pace quickened until I discovered that I had taken the wrong path and now I was out of the park and on the corner of 59th and 7th Avenue. I frantically weaved between Japanese, punk tourists and a young, smug hipster as he fruitlessly tried to hail a taxi. It felt that if I could just get home or maybe even into the subway or Somewhere, then I might be able to preserve this feeling and not lose it.
I ducked down a shallow path that allowed me a few yards between me and Now but it was already too late. By the time I reached the bustle of Columbus Circle, the Optimism had bled through my jacket and evaporated into the cold, night air. The sunset was fading into the glow of marquees and streetlights. The sky would be black by the time I reached home. I descended the subways steps and trudged back to the cave.
It felt like the first time I visited New York City. I no longer felt the burden of experience that I had come to resent- the infestation of corporate culture, the moneyed gentrification of dynamic neighborhoods, the crippling cost of daily living. For a few minutes, New York was a land where Woody Allen's Manhattan might still live. I felt that I was at the center of a bustling humanity- 13 miles of innumerable possibilities. The weight of the Now fell from my shoulders and I was anytime I wanted to be. I could race along the great arm of history and imagine myself on a stroll through the City of Ziegfeld or Scorsese or Warhol or Dylan or LaGuardia or The Ramones or Duke Ellington or the myriad of people who found greatness and contributed to this great quilt of community. I loved that I was here and that I was participant who cared what this city Was and Is and I want to make something for it.
I crossed 6th Avenue, ahead of a horse-drawn carriage and the furrowed path carved into the pavement. Past toy dogs and double-wide baby carriages with ivory infants and Caribbean women at the helm, I held my soft buzz of optimism beneath my jacket and skirted the cliches and disappointments. My pace quickened until I discovered that I had taken the wrong path and now I was out of the park and on the corner of 59th and 7th Avenue. I frantically weaved between Japanese, punk tourists and a young, smug hipster as he fruitlessly tried to hail a taxi. It felt that if I could just get home or maybe even into the subway or Somewhere, then I might be able to preserve this feeling and not lose it.
I ducked down a shallow path that allowed me a few yards between me and Now but it was already too late. By the time I reached the bustle of Columbus Circle, the Optimism had bled through my jacket and evaporated into the cold, night air. The sunset was fading into the glow of marquees and streetlights. The sky would be black by the time I reached home. I descended the subways steps and trudged back to the cave.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Deckard's Windows of Good(and Bad!)
Well, I've been solicited twice to fill one of these out for others and I saw UrbanMuse had one up and I haven't written a blog this week so...
http://kevan.org/johari?name=Deckard
Give it a shot, if you're interested. It'd help if you've read my blog or know me. I'll post the results as they come in.
Here's another one, but it's not as 'friendly'. I'd actually be more interested in seeing the results of this one...
http://kevan.org/nohari?name=Deckard
http://kevan.org/johari?name=Deckard
Give it a shot, if you're interested. It'd help if you've read my blog or know me. I'll post the results as they come in.
Here's another one, but it's not as 'friendly'. I'd actually be more interested in seeing the results of this one...
http://kevan.org/nohari?name=Deckard
Arena(known to self and others) intelligent, kind, self-conscious | Blind Spot(known only to others) clever, complex, energetic, friendly, loving, observant, searching, trustworthy, witty |
Façade(known only to self) accepting, reflective, tense | Unknown(known to nobody) able, adaptable, bold, brave, calm, caring, cheerful, confident, dependable, dignified, extroverted, giving, happy, helpful, idealistic, independent, ingenious, introverted, knowledgeable, logical, mature, modest, nervous, organised, patient, powerful, proud, quiet, relaxed, religious, responsive, self-assertive, sensible, sentimental, shy, silly, spontaneous, sympathetic, warm, wise |
Dominant Traits
66% of people think that Deckard is complex
66% of people agree that Deckard is intelligent
66% of people think that Deckard is observant
66% of people think that Deckard is searching
66% of people think that Deckard is witty
All Percentages
able (0%) accepting (0%) adaptable (0%) bold (0%) brave (0%) calm (0%) caring (0%) cheerful (0%) clever (33%) complex (66%) confident (0%) dependable (0%) dignified (0%) energetic (33%) extroverted (0%) friendly (33%) giving (0%) happy (0%) helpful (0%) idealistic (0%) independent (0%) ingenious (0%) intelligent (66%) introverted (0%) kind (33%) knowledgeable (0%) logical (0%) loving (33%) mature (0%) modest (0%) nervous (0%) observant (66%) organised (0%) patient (0%) powerful (0%) proud (0%) quiet (0%) reflective (0%) relaxed (0%) religious (0%) responsive (0%) searching (66%) self-assertive (0%) self-conscious (33%) sensible (0%) sentimental (0%) shy (0%) silly (0%) spontaneous (0%) sympathetic (0%) tense (0%) trustworthy (33%) warm (0%) wise (0%) witty (66%)
Created by the Interactive Johari Window on 21.2.2006, using data from 3 respondents.
You can make your own Johari Window, or view Deckard's full data.
You can make your own Johari Window, or view Deckard's full data.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
digging for my Bliss
I've been running jangly for the last few weeks. I can't get a grip on anything. I destroyed my 4-month-old iPod Nano/birthday gift last week. What should have been a smooth, 'Pick up item/put item in pocket' maneuver turned into 'pick up item/try to get better grip on item/launch item across the room and under the dresser'. Last night, I lost all motor skills and got waxed in a game of Madden 2005. I became so irate, I had to stand on the fire escape in 30 degree (F) temperatures and 20 m.p.h. winds to calm myself. That took a good 15 minutes to get over a computer game.
Defeatism is in full bloom and the stench would fell a Pollyanna. I can stand outside myself and observe the irrational behavior, yet still be utterly unable to control it. My focus goes off in brilliant, red and blue fireworks as thoughts shimmer and crackle with insipiration then instantly dissolve into blackness. Mania is swinging the pendulum wide and for the first time ever, I've actually entertained the notion that, perhaps, I might need some form of medication... now, all I need is health insurance.
Of course, the City has done little to improve my mood, either. I've noticed that many of my friends have been feeling the same, anxious irritation. New York City is feeling unaffordable even for the full-timers. Many people have glanced up after a few years of earnest, nose-to-the-grindstone effort and can't figure out why they chose to move here in the first place... or why they should stay. Rents have continued to skyrocket, even in the few years I've lived here. Moving to New York has felt like drilling a well. As I start digging deeper and deeper, I fret about whether I chose the right spot and whether I should try another place. A little deeper, I start to think that if I did stop, then I'd be wasting all the time/money I've put into it. So, I throw myself into it all-the-harder, thinking that I'm just being a chicken-shit and losing my nerve. Nowadays, I'm starting to wonder whether I've just dug myself a really expensive hole to Nowhere.
For our honeymoon, Kat and I are going to roadtrip America. We've wanted to do it for years, just as an adventure. Now, it's starting to look like chance to find if there's somewhere in this country where an artist might find a way to both live and work on his art. My parents are so desperate to get us out of the City, they've eagerly offered to lend us a car and help pay for the trip. We're planning on visiting friends and relatives in Nebraska and South Dakota, then check out Colorado, Washington, California, the Southwest and who knows where else before returning the car. Kat and I were both born in Colorado so there's a part of us that thinks Colorado might be the place we'll end up, but who knows? Maybe we'll stay a bit longer and finally strike water in NYC so we can start building.
But the hole keeps getting deeper.
Defeatism is in full bloom and the stench would fell a Pollyanna. I can stand outside myself and observe the irrational behavior, yet still be utterly unable to control it. My focus goes off in brilliant, red and blue fireworks as thoughts shimmer and crackle with insipiration then instantly dissolve into blackness. Mania is swinging the pendulum wide and for the first time ever, I've actually entertained the notion that, perhaps, I might need some form of medication... now, all I need is health insurance.
Of course, the City has done little to improve my mood, either. I've noticed that many of my friends have been feeling the same, anxious irritation. New York City is feeling unaffordable even for the full-timers. Many people have glanced up after a few years of earnest, nose-to-the-grindstone effort and can't figure out why they chose to move here in the first place... or why they should stay. Rents have continued to skyrocket, even in the few years I've lived here. Moving to New York has felt like drilling a well. As I start digging deeper and deeper, I fret about whether I chose the right spot and whether I should try another place. A little deeper, I start to think that if I did stop, then I'd be wasting all the time/money I've put into it. So, I throw myself into it all-the-harder, thinking that I'm just being a chicken-shit and losing my nerve. Nowadays, I'm starting to wonder whether I've just dug myself a really expensive hole to Nowhere.
For our honeymoon, Kat and I are going to roadtrip America. We've wanted to do it for years, just as an adventure. Now, it's starting to look like chance to find if there's somewhere in this country where an artist might find a way to both live and work on his art. My parents are so desperate to get us out of the City, they've eagerly offered to lend us a car and help pay for the trip. We're planning on visiting friends and relatives in Nebraska and South Dakota, then check out Colorado, Washington, California, the Southwest and who knows where else before returning the car. Kat and I were both born in Colorado so there's a part of us that thinks Colorado might be the place we'll end up, but who knows? Maybe we'll stay a bit longer and finally strike water in NYC so we can start building.
But the hole keeps getting deeper.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
an Engagement with futility
Shopping in New York City can be a trying existence. It's not difficult to find midtown's 5th Avenue boutiques or Macy's down along Herald Square. Even your mainstream tourist guide can point you downtown to the discount fare at Century 21. But what about a large, healthy houseplant? Or caulk? Or affordable storage bins? Or artsy jewelry? Without deep pockets or an ideal home base in the city, finding the necessities can be a struggle. My first 6 months in New York was spent on humiliating treks to the trashy K-Marts in Penn Station and St. Mark's. Big box stores and malls were all Kat and I knew. It took months before someone told us where the flower district was or that the hole-in-the-wall hardware store carried wood putty and a pretty solid selection of kitchen utensils, or that there was a free, shuttle bus from Penn Station that could take us to the Swedish Eden in New Jersey that is named Ikea. Without such valuable knowledge, a person might wander the city for hours, without finding the Thing he/she is searching for... much as I did on Friday.
The biggest news for the last few months of my life has been my engagement. Kat and I decided, over the weekend of Halloween, to get married. The second biggest drama (ongoing) in my life is the Search for the Engagement ring. Sauron had an easier time finding the One Ring. The first two months involved a phenomenally bad attempt to have a family friend make a ring. That story is too long and necessitates a fictionalizing of the names to preserve the dignity of those involved. Let me say that it is over and done with and now, I am balanced upon a fence where I could either get a ring for Kat or forgo the whole thing and just try to get the wedding ring right. Kat says she doesn't need an engagement ring, but her eyes beg otherwise. When in doubt, Citysearch and New York Metro becomes my guide. Soon, I found a few places in the City where I hoped I might find a simple or used ring that we could afford. With a list of addresses scrawled on a piece of paper, I cast myself into the City.
Along the way, I hoped to find a cafe where I could write away from home. I didn't have any solid leads but I knew of a couple places over near NYU and figured that there had to be a place where I could sit down. My first mistake was to attempt a Multitasking operation. This rarely goes well for me. My second mistake was thinking that Citysearch or NY Metro were going to give me the low-down on anything I might possibly afford. Most places were hideously-expensive. Some, were heinously-gaudy. Others... well let's just say that Kat probably isn't looking for a skull ring, even if the rubies in the eye sockets Are real.
My third mistake, was thinking that wandering would make up for my first two mistakes. I walked from one end of the Village to the other. From SoHo to the Lower East Side to the East Village to the West Village, back to the East Village... I'm aware that there are cross-town buses in the city but I rationalized that if I walked everywhere, then I would Surely find that Perfect side street where a quaint, quiet cafe would offer me sanctuary and happen to be right above that gem-of-a-store, nestled in the basement.
On a positive note, the journey ended at a Happy Hour where cheap beer, salty snacks, and a work-weary girlfriend helped to soften the sting in my legs and the soles of my shoes.
The biggest news for the last few months of my life has been my engagement. Kat and I decided, over the weekend of Halloween, to get married. The second biggest drama (ongoing) in my life is the Search for the Engagement ring. Sauron had an easier time finding the One Ring. The first two months involved a phenomenally bad attempt to have a family friend make a ring. That story is too long and necessitates a fictionalizing of the names to preserve the dignity of those involved. Let me say that it is over and done with and now, I am balanced upon a fence where I could either get a ring for Kat or forgo the whole thing and just try to get the wedding ring right. Kat says she doesn't need an engagement ring, but her eyes beg otherwise. When in doubt, Citysearch and New York Metro becomes my guide. Soon, I found a few places in the City where I hoped I might find a simple or used ring that we could afford. With a list of addresses scrawled on a piece of paper, I cast myself into the City.
Along the way, I hoped to find a cafe where I could write away from home. I didn't have any solid leads but I knew of a couple places over near NYU and figured that there had to be a place where I could sit down. My first mistake was to attempt a Multitasking operation. This rarely goes well for me. My second mistake was thinking that Citysearch or NY Metro were going to give me the low-down on anything I might possibly afford. Most places were hideously-expensive. Some, were heinously-gaudy. Others... well let's just say that Kat probably isn't looking for a skull ring, even if the rubies in the eye sockets Are real.
My third mistake, was thinking that wandering would make up for my first two mistakes. I walked from one end of the Village to the other. From SoHo to the Lower East Side to the East Village to the West Village, back to the East Village... I'm aware that there are cross-town buses in the city but I rationalized that if I walked everywhere, then I would Surely find that Perfect side street where a quaint, quiet cafe would offer me sanctuary and happen to be right above that gem-of-a-store, nestled in the basement.
On a positive note, the journey ended at a Happy Hour where cheap beer, salty snacks, and a work-weary girlfriend helped to soften the sting in my legs and the soles of my shoes.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah on New Year's Eve
Ahh! Sweet mana from Heaven! The long drought has lifted. Let the righteous tunes flow as a river unto my puckered soul. For the Love of God, give me something that Rocks! Or, at least makes me tap my foot and nod my head in that enthusiastic, satiated way.
Kat and I spent the X-Mas holiday at my parents' rural home in the Heart of the American Midwest. The silence was deafening, the knick-knacks were charming and the parents were... doting. The second I slipped into the plane that would sweep me back to my concrete homeland, I knew that something had to happen. Either 1) I would be required to commit some filth act that would instantly outrage every human being West of the Hudson River/East of Pasadena and thus re-calibrate my cultural pH, or 2) I must do Something in the City to re-affirm my faith that there are pockets of world that have advanced beyond the 1980's. Since I had tickets to see Clap Your Hands Say Yeah on New Year's Eve, I opted for the latter. It was cheaper and allowed me to avoided possible jail time.
I'd been psyched about this concert from the beginning, despite the fact that it was taking place at Irving plaza (Clear Channel venue! Evil! Evil!). Back in November, I e-mailed friends, but nobody was willing to commit to any New Year's plans (lest something better come along). Oh, did they lose out on this one. It was pretty funny when I started getting e-mails about articles in various music publications and the New York Times. You snooze, you loose folks (insert derisive laughter, and insidious hand-wringing of a shameless, Indie music snob).
Irving Plaza is one of those joints that tries to manufature a quirky, intimate scene but instead comes across as some Indie Theme Park. The place is nice-enough. It has a medium-sized floorspace and a U-shaped balcony. A bar rests on each level where they dispense such delicacies as $5 cans of Rheingold beer and $6 cans of Heineken. Four and a half years in this city and I still can't get over the trapped-in-an-airport price scale that these bars charge. The whole theater area is painted black. To amuse the natives, they drop a projection screen in front of the stage and run 'kitschy' movies through a video effects machine (or their projector is broken). The New Year's Eve line up was a Pee Wee Herman movie with cutaways to Schoolhouse Rock bits sans sound. Wow.... gotta love that retro thing.... it's so clever... I get to relive my memories in front of others and take pride in the power of my brain to remember such esoteric classics as "Verb! That's What's Happenin'!", but without actually hearing it... it makes me feel so... un-mainstream... in that safe, pop culture kind of way... This scene was old in the mid 90's, folks.
For the New Year's Eve festivities, a pair of middle-aged men on stilts wandered the crowd. They juggled bowling pins/rings or blew soap bubbles upon the heads of unsuspecting patrons. The joint could have used a few more performers, but the effort was a nice surprise. A pregnant cocoon of balloons was attached to the ceiling in anticipation of the last gasp of the year. For the first time in years, I was actually excited about ringing in the New Year. I'm sure that Kat was relieved to be out of the cave too. The last few years have seen me cooking 'special' meals that take 4 hours and 10 rounds of dishes to complete and normally left 15 minutes of "enjoyment".
The opening band was Dr. Dogg. I'd never heard of Dr. Dogg. Their most memorable feature was that the majority of the group was sporting beards. It's the new hipster thing, those beards. It's nice to see adults trying to look like adults even when the hipsters are dressed like me when I was 8. One of the lead singers looked like a smaller version of Ric Ocasek from The Cars, except with a hat... and without the musical sensibility. He enjoyed swinging his oversized hollow-body guitar around and was having entirely too much fun for the stuff that was coming out of it. The band was tight but their songs were instantly forgettable. They had a lot of energy but it wasn't coming out in the music. They need a year in the UK to see what to do with it.
It wasn't until after the concert had sold out (early December) that they announced their "Very Special Guest". It was *drumroll* The National! I was so... actually, I didn't know anything about The National. I'd seen their 2005 release, Alligator, appear on the Top 10 lists of a number of Pitchfork-reading bloggers, but I'd never listened to their stuff. Indie blogs and hipster friends were psyched about this band! I was sure that I was going to get a fantastic two-for-one- Clap Your Hands and The National! Yeah!
Welllllll... no. I didn't get it. No. Check that. I Got it. It sounded exactly like Coldplay, except without the orchestration or the lilting, crooning voice or the songs... but it was just as sappy and soporific! The girls beside me rocked in ecstasy to the music, holding themselves and crooning every. single. word. that came out of the lead singer's mouth. Just when I thought that I could take it no longer, the stage lights turned blue, a single, white light rose at center stage, and the lead singer stepped into so that he could crooooon to the light and get a facial tan at the same time. $5 Beer break, coming right up!
Despite the disappointment of The National, Kat and I were having a pretty good time. The crowd around us was younger but mercifully-free of the aggressive, putzes who crowd into your personal space then angle past as if they are going to meet somebody then stop right in front of you. During Clap Your Hands Say Yeah's set, I actually had a guy ask Kat if she could see. Seriously. I saw it. He wasn't even hitting on her.
So, when people ask me what Clap Your Hands Say Yeah sound like, I tell them that they sound something in between Talking Heads and The Arcade Fire. As the projection screen rose and the band launched into their opening song, I was struck by how much the lead singer reminded me of a young Bob Dylan. Although the songs don't carry the raw, evangelical poetry of Dylan, they had a high-pitched wailing quality that danced along that fine line between challenging and bitter complaining. The current landscape of (smart) rock music has been carrying a frustrated tone. People are frustrated and furious with the state of living but it feels like we're all boxing against shadows. My favorite bands of the year have been hitting on this frustration again and again. The Kills, Deathcab for Cutie, Sufjan Stevens, Art Brut, Wilco, MIA and The Arcade Fire- all of them have at least one song that's about looking around and asking themselves "What the fuck?!" MIA has big, international injustices to point her finger at while Art Brut has the most entertaining bitch session on the pretenders who infest the music scene. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah is the steady gaze of that friend who tells you that you're probably flat footing it through life and we could all be doing better, but let's have some fun while we're being frustrated.
Onstage, they were great. The sound mixer had the bass jacked up too high and bottomed out the speakers a few times, but the band still managed to sound strong and tight. The stilted jugglers stood along the left side of the stage and juggled their little hearts out. When the clock hit midnight, the balloon cocoon was released and 10 balloons descended into the audience. Kat grabbed my oggling face and turned me around so she could plant a New Year's kiss on me and there we were - 2006. Two songs later, an audience member convinced others to let him stand on their shoulders and the balloons were finally set free. Pandemonium (the good kind) ensued as fans popped, threw, and shook inflated pieces of colored rubber.
Good times.
Check out the pictures I posted on Flickr. I got a couple good ones. Click the Flicker graphic to the right.
Kat and I spent the X-Mas holiday at my parents' rural home in the Heart of the American Midwest. The silence was deafening, the knick-knacks were charming and the parents were... doting. The second I slipped into the plane that would sweep me back to my concrete homeland, I knew that something had to happen. Either 1) I would be required to commit some filth act that would instantly outrage every human being West of the Hudson River/East of Pasadena and thus re-calibrate my cultural pH, or 2) I must do Something in the City to re-affirm my faith that there are pockets of world that have advanced beyond the 1980's. Since I had tickets to see Clap Your Hands Say Yeah on New Year's Eve, I opted for the latter. It was cheaper and allowed me to avoided possible jail time.
I'd been psyched about this concert from the beginning, despite the fact that it was taking place at Irving plaza (Clear Channel venue! Evil! Evil!). Back in November, I e-mailed friends, but nobody was willing to commit to any New Year's plans (lest something better come along). Oh, did they lose out on this one. It was pretty funny when I started getting e-mails about articles in various music publications and the New York Times. You snooze, you loose folks (insert derisive laughter, and insidious hand-wringing of a shameless, Indie music snob).
Irving Plaza is one of those joints that tries to manufature a quirky, intimate scene but instead comes across as some Indie Theme Park. The place is nice-enough. It has a medium-sized floorspace and a U-shaped balcony. A bar rests on each level where they dispense such delicacies as $5 cans of Rheingold beer and $6 cans of Heineken. Four and a half years in this city and I still can't get over the trapped-in-an-airport price scale that these bars charge. The whole theater area is painted black. To amuse the natives, they drop a projection screen in front of the stage and run 'kitschy' movies through a video effects machine (or their projector is broken). The New Year's Eve line up was a Pee Wee Herman movie with cutaways to Schoolhouse Rock bits sans sound. Wow.... gotta love that retro thing.... it's so clever... I get to relive my memories in front of others and take pride in the power of my brain to remember such esoteric classics as "Verb! That's What's Happenin'!", but without actually hearing it... it makes me feel so... un-mainstream... in that safe, pop culture kind of way... This scene was old in the mid 90's, folks.
For the New Year's Eve festivities, a pair of middle-aged men on stilts wandered the crowd. They juggled bowling pins/rings or blew soap bubbles upon the heads of unsuspecting patrons. The joint could have used a few more performers, but the effort was a nice surprise. A pregnant cocoon of balloons was attached to the ceiling in anticipation of the last gasp of the year. For the first time in years, I was actually excited about ringing in the New Year. I'm sure that Kat was relieved to be out of the cave too. The last few years have seen me cooking 'special' meals that take 4 hours and 10 rounds of dishes to complete and normally left 15 minutes of "enjoyment".
The opening band was Dr. Dogg. I'd never heard of Dr. Dogg. Their most memorable feature was that the majority of the group was sporting beards. It's the new hipster thing, those beards. It's nice to see adults trying to look like adults even when the hipsters are dressed like me when I was 8. One of the lead singers looked like a smaller version of Ric Ocasek from The Cars, except with a hat... and without the musical sensibility. He enjoyed swinging his oversized hollow-body guitar around and was having entirely too much fun for the stuff that was coming out of it. The band was tight but their songs were instantly forgettable. They had a lot of energy but it wasn't coming out in the music. They need a year in the UK to see what to do with it.
It wasn't until after the concert had sold out (early December) that they announced their "Very Special Guest". It was *drumroll* The National! I was so... actually, I didn't know anything about The National. I'd seen their 2005 release, Alligator, appear on the Top 10 lists of a number of Pitchfork-reading bloggers, but I'd never listened to their stuff. Indie blogs and hipster friends were psyched about this band! I was sure that I was going to get a fantastic two-for-one- Clap Your Hands and The National! Yeah!
Welllllll... no. I didn't get it. No. Check that. I Got it. It sounded exactly like Coldplay, except without the orchestration or the lilting, crooning voice or the songs... but it was just as sappy and soporific! The girls beside me rocked in ecstasy to the music, holding themselves and crooning every. single. word. that came out of the lead singer's mouth. Just when I thought that I could take it no longer, the stage lights turned blue, a single, white light rose at center stage, and the lead singer stepped into so that he could crooooon to the light and get a facial tan at the same time. $5 Beer break, coming right up!
Despite the disappointment of The National, Kat and I were having a pretty good time. The crowd around us was younger but mercifully-free of the aggressive, putzes who crowd into your personal space then angle past as if they are going to meet somebody then stop right in front of you. During Clap Your Hands Say Yeah's set, I actually had a guy ask Kat if she could see. Seriously. I saw it. He wasn't even hitting on her.
So, when people ask me what Clap Your Hands Say Yeah sound like, I tell them that they sound something in between Talking Heads and The Arcade Fire. As the projection screen rose and the band launched into their opening song, I was struck by how much the lead singer reminded me of a young Bob Dylan. Although the songs don't carry the raw, evangelical poetry of Dylan, they had a high-pitched wailing quality that danced along that fine line between challenging and bitter complaining. The current landscape of (smart) rock music has been carrying a frustrated tone. People are frustrated and furious with the state of living but it feels like we're all boxing against shadows. My favorite bands of the year have been hitting on this frustration again and again. The Kills, Deathcab for Cutie, Sufjan Stevens, Art Brut, Wilco, MIA and The Arcade Fire- all of them have at least one song that's about looking around and asking themselves "What the fuck?!" MIA has big, international injustices to point her finger at while Art Brut has the most entertaining bitch session on the pretenders who infest the music scene. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah is the steady gaze of that friend who tells you that you're probably flat footing it through life and we could all be doing better, but let's have some fun while we're being frustrated.
Onstage, they were great. The sound mixer had the bass jacked up too high and bottomed out the speakers a few times, but the band still managed to sound strong and tight. The stilted jugglers stood along the left side of the stage and juggled their little hearts out. When the clock hit midnight, the balloon cocoon was released and 10 balloons descended into the audience. Kat grabbed my oggling face and turned me around so she could plant a New Year's kiss on me and there we were - 2006. Two songs later, an audience member convinced others to let him stand on their shoulders and the balloons were finally set free. Pandemonium (the good kind) ensued as fans popped, threw, and shook inflated pieces of colored rubber.
Good times.
Check out the pictures I posted on Flickr. I got a couple good ones. Click the Flicker graphic to the right.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
a New paint job
It's the end of the year and the habits are performing their familiar, high-arching return. Lately, the act of Living has felt like a perpetual battle to break free from the rip-tides of habit. As the road signs of my twenties slowly dissolve into the horizon of my rearview mirror, I am struggling to keep my eyes on the Road. Manic depression has begun to swing me further and further onto the gravely shoulders of the road. The Fear grows that one bad winter could send me into the ditch or wrapped around cement-anchored, telephone pole in the median. It's apparent that preemptive action Must be taken.
Last week, a new gym membership was secured with plastic promises to my debtors. The next step is the purchase of another Thing to add to my collection - a laptop. The dream of a quiet office space will have to be saved for the next Move, either from the Big City or to another tier of wealth alien to my existence. It is time to recognize that my cave is no kind of place to write and the only Hope lies in cafes and bars of Manhattan.
So, after scouring the pages of lenovo.com, toshiba.com, fujitsu.com, dell.com, mobilityguru.com, apple.com, notebookreview.com, laptoplogic.com and numerous forums, I've come the the conclusion that everything is Too Expensive and Utterly Baffling. Whoever is in charge of the numbering scheme for Intel laptop processors should be shot. Years ago, a laptop purchase was made from Dell by yours truly and from that Incident I have learned the two things that I MUST have in this new machine: 1) A decently-sized keyboard, 2) a weight that will NOT render the idea of Portability to a joking quip.
It appears that a Lenovo Thinkpad will be the way to go. A Z60T or T42, perhaps. It certainly isn't the cheapest model on the market today, but it looks like a workhorse. I'm praying that there are some New Year deals to be had in the next week so I don't have to make too many more promises I can't keep.
Then, let the Magic begin...
Last week, a new gym membership was secured with plastic promises to my debtors. The next step is the purchase of another Thing to add to my collection - a laptop. The dream of a quiet office space will have to be saved for the next Move, either from the Big City or to another tier of wealth alien to my existence. It is time to recognize that my cave is no kind of place to write and the only Hope lies in cafes and bars of Manhattan.
So, after scouring the pages of lenovo.com, toshiba.com, fujitsu.com, dell.com, mobilityguru.com, apple.com, notebookreview.com, laptoplogic.com and numerous forums, I've come the the conclusion that everything is Too Expensive and Utterly Baffling. Whoever is in charge of the numbering scheme for Intel laptop processors should be shot. Years ago, a laptop purchase was made from Dell by yours truly and from that Incident I have learned the two things that I MUST have in this new machine: 1) A decently-sized keyboard, 2) a weight that will NOT render the idea of Portability to a joking quip.
It appears that a Lenovo Thinkpad will be the way to go. A Z60T or T42, perhaps. It certainly isn't the cheapest model on the market today, but it looks like a workhorse. I'm praying that there are some New Year deals to be had in the next week so I don't have to make too many more promises I can't keep.
Then, let the Magic begin...
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
fixing a hole
I feel that I have lost track of an old friend. I have gone nowhere, yet I've become lost in the sea of my Twitch. Such are the lands I travel when winter approaches and I feel the tightening grip of shorter days around my neck. I have a half-dozen projects at my fingertips- none of them close to completion.
Must get back into the thick of things... human contact so I can get it Out.
Must get back into the thick of things... human contact so I can get it Out.
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