sky light.

All of my years spent living in apartment complexes have never resembled the situations you see in movies and on TV. Sure, the space itself has a similar structure to many of them, the appliances are temperamental, and the walls rumble with some semblance of the story unfolding next door. But neighbors in reality are rarely like those who seem to have captured back story and current thread of those residing adjacently, nearby, and betwixt.

So, it certainly stands out when an airbrushed couple unloading a rental moving truck jump at the chance to introduce themselves to myself and my sensual partner in crime. It was primarily an exchange of names and acknowledgement that we'd be sharing a wall and an approximate floor plan. For the one bedroom shadow of an apartment they were moving into, their truck held a lot of goodies. That and their jumbo pick-up truck seemed filled to the hilt with the sort of sundry bits kids accumulate at their age, apparent spoilage, or low level of credit card understanding.

Though on the shallower side of their twenties, they were an attractive duo, in that young Hollywood sense that made my woman's and my brief interactions with them seem akin to the tolerable early moments of the fortunately panned TV series Swingtown. There was tightness and tone to their overtly tanned bodies that drew much suggestion from our combined wild imaginations, as to their going-ons and presumed willingness.

Newness takes time to create routine. On the one side of our building, we can hear what has always seemed like clumsy poltergeist activities involving furniture on every third day of the week. Their tiled floor could only have suffered in umbrage and physical damage unrepairable. Somehow their dog who we see much of, outside in person and in poop, seems to keep it down to a whisper inside. Their television and bass heavy instrument playing is far more notable than a peep, bark, or growl.

Moving into a new place brings with it desire. There's the desire to get settled in, by solidifying a home space as swiftly as feasible, and a desire for a couple of hot, sweaty folks to get their freak on in as many new spaces as possible. I think it's written in our DNA. I can only guess the amount of caves whose stalagmites may just hold some primitive love spray within it's glimmering layers.

Think about that the next time you're spelunking.

In anticipation of creating a home from nine cracked bare walls, I have found myself hammering a thing or two in the wee hours of the morning, if only to cover up that intrusive water stain. Unpacking can go long and extensively depending on just how expansive one's collection of trinkets and whatnot might be, to say nothing of the heightened energy level brought on by change.

On the one hand, the sounds on the other side of their wall at 3AM were indicative of the well chosen placement of a few framed posters, likely black light-ready or otherwise raised up from their origins from that art sale at the edge of the gas station lot. Or, on the other hand, the sounds were representative of the flushes of steady pounding, human racquetball in their final sticky throes. The disturbance was brief but noticeable. For a split second the noise seemed warranting of a walk through one courtyard and along a stretch of sidewalk to suggest our new neighbors keep it down. But when new people move in, it takes a few weeks to tap into their rhythms, so we thought it an isolated incident. Plus, we're the last two folks to be the proverbial asshole neighbors. So, we drifted back to sleep.

That was the last of that.

Several days passed and we heard through the grapevine that we had been in earshot of a late night B&E. In spite of the substandard parking lot that we lived with for so long, or the questionable gunshot pops in the middle of the night, and any number of other stereotypical details, this is an uncommon circumstance for this complex. Not that it makes it right, but it doesn't surprise me that some young kids moving in with some fancy, new shiny things in broad daylight who then left for a week long foray somewhere else would be a shout out to local chaos.

They were, as they say, asking for trouble.

The following weekend, after a fantastic evening at our favorite pub, my lady and I pulled into our lot. We stepped out of the car, in a likely too-buzzed-to-drive, getting-a-bit-handsy-and-frisky-to-boot condition. Out of the shadows stepped a dark figure. We could hear the leaves rustling and saw the whites of his eyes before piecing together that our community evidently had stirred up a quick fix security guard to man our dark corner of the rental kingdom.

And boy could the guy talk! Maybe he talked too much. He was going on about all of the apartment's efforts to remedy this singular situation by planting him during such and such hours, by considering putting up barbed wire of all things, and every other detail that maybe isn't necessary to go into with every person encountered. How awkward, though, to have some stranger lurking outside our windows with quick chatter on his lips and gun on a holster. I have never been one who enjoyed the thought of living in a gated community, so the thought of local security never really drove me wild either. Fire begets fire. You get what you give. You see, I feel people have more control over their own lives and what disrupts it than most could digest.

But there he was: our regular welcome home greeter, as it were. It was damage control. It didn't make me feel any more comfortable. Then again, I wasn't worried that it was suddenly an epidemic. I feel that's a lot of people's first thought. Worry. Fear. Paranoia. It's weaved deeply into our culture.

Jump forward a month or two. The security situation is becoming more and more unnecessary. I suppose it must have started to be a monetary and superfluous burden on our complex, because as swiftly as the security team showed up, their disappearance occurred equally fast.

In their place sprouted a big wooden pole, amongst our comforting tree canopy. Then out of seemingly nowhere, a street light companion grew out of it, like an unexpected social glom. Suddenly there was a UFO in constant hover mode above our ordinarily darkened courtyard, emitting an off-color disconcerting orangey glow that began spending the evening, night, and dawn with us. It was no doubt some small panel's answer to our local crime, but an insulting eyesore and interference to enjoying any outdoor ambiance. Screw our string of comforting blue lights, or multi-colored strand, or even candles. Hell, our front porch light has become obsolete! Our enjoyment of our courtyard is now restricted to daylight hours and in anticipation of the cooler weather of the same.

The punishment certainly doesn't answer the crime. I'll tell you that.

(206)

mortal coil

These days we are constantly advertising for ourselves. We have become so used to creating profiles representing all of those things we are about, that we support, that define us. We update like mad our bylines on the likes of Twitter and Facebook, as a means to stay prominent and noticeable. When we're out in the warm glow of human interaction, our phones come out ready for presentation and proof of our popularity and importance. We are a growing concern.

Right? Aren't we? We're special. We stand out. I swear it!

The need for external validation is huge. Our disconnect is so extreme that in a drive to be seen for who and what we are, I have seen too many reinvent themselves at the cost of their own identity. They wear their new and improved packaging with discomfort and a painted on smile. Reinvention at its core is a beautiful theory and philosophy, but so many are a dishonest representation of it.

(200)

cuddle, please.

Do you wanna come home with me, so we can cuddle?

I have it on good authority that this line has been used. So, what's your first inclination upon reading it? I wouldn't suspect anyone would read that literally. Even without trying everything has subtext. And the obvious one here is that cuddling is but a precursor for sharing a pot of coffee in the morning.

But according to this morning's edition of Good Morning America some chick in New England would like to dispell this theory. She's opened up a joint she calls The Snuggery, which supposedly leaves the sexual connotations at the door, but charges an hourly fee for some cuddle time.

Shenanigans, I say!

I get the point. People need intimacy. Prisoners stuck in the box get messed up without human contact. Spouses seek out a quick physical fix when their homefires are non-existent, or mere embers. Close friends and family often be seen using embrace as their greeting of choice. I've heard of non-sexual hugging parties that disconnect the nookie from the orgy imagery. But that's giving it away for free. If you're going to pay sixty dollars for an hour's touch, why not seek out a massage therapist? They're at least certified, and have skill sets that might actually be beneficial.

Perhaps I'm just cynical. Holding or being held by a complete stranger at a cost can't possibly be fulfilling. Add sexual arousal, a component actually referenced on the website, and add paying for sexual frustration to the emotional disconnect that must be felt in the first place to get a patron in the door.

Then again, maybe it goes back to the sage advice about giving a man a fish versus teaching him how to cook.

in(visible) touch

I'm being punished for making my job look easy.
~Roger Sterling (Mad Men ep.3.6)

The shake-up at work has burdened my mind lately.

Let's get a few things out of the way, though. Initially I only applied to work there as a last resort. I hesitated accepting my first position. And I am loathe to working for a large corporate entity whose interest in their employees well-being and morale is a sixteenth afterthought.

This is not my calling. This is not where I belong long term, but I am still insulted that I wasn't given the respect of even a professional thanks for my temporary store management. And to add insult to injury, it has become continually necessary to translate the way I do things into trainable terminology for the old hag who took over my role.

That's the most peculiar of all. I remember in grade school having to explain the procedure of doing something simple, such as making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It was an exercise in communication. Some of its impact comes from recognizing how much we internalize.

The way we do things doesn't necessary flow into words. Maybe we've found a ritual or a quick and easy system that makes sense to us, but when spoken doesn't have a logical flow. There's an underlying current to our every motion that can't be taught. I deem it impossible and impractical to demonstrate to someone else how to be us. Consider for a moment an actor developing a character from a real life person.

My workplace is continually looking for best practices in terms of dealing with customers. It's one of the reasons most of the sales world irritates the piss out of me. It's kind of like dating. In theory everyone has a line. It's just not as discernible coming from a smaller percentage of people. The rest of them sound like disingenuous, smarmy robots.

(180)

over joy

(167)

karaoke rules

A karaoke buddy of mine passed this list along to me. My thoughts follow:

THE TEN COMMANDMENTS OF KARAOKE

• Thou shall not jeer, heckle, boo, harass or otherwise interrupt a singer. Be supportive.

I have been a karaoke regular for several years and had never actually seen this happen until last weekend when this one putz decided that making frat boy seal calls was the missing ingredient during every song for a full set. For the longest while I thought it was just one of those activities that only happened in movie reality, given the fact that karaoke still has not seen a good portrayal from Hollywood, but I suppose every three years isn't a bad record.

• Thou shall not drink to the point of intoxication if you are planning to perform.

This is true. I maintain a record of every single song I have performed at karaoke. I can practically write lists when I am asleep. There are songs I have on my list that I simply don't remember getting up for, because I was so ridiculously wasted. I'm sure it was subpar, at best.  

• Thou shall not whine about when your next turn is.

I'm friends with the karaoke DJ at my favorite local dig, so this rule becomes null and void. This is true too of certain other regulars. It is interesting to watch how often others put in songs and leave, though. Perhaps they were abducted but more than likely they got tired of waiting.

• Thou shall not be upset if another performer sings a song you were planning to sing.

I have worked to expand my repertoire to the point that no one ever performs one of my intended tunes. The closest I have come to this was an appearance by one of my tentative tunes during the gap fill time between singers.

• Thou shall not use foul language when at the microphone.

Initially I was thinking about the last time I sang Nine Inch Nails "Closer", but I realize this rule is for those guys (and it's always guys) who decide to add bitches to the end of perfectly fine instrumental moments or decide that fuck will add flow to the lyrics in a place intended for nearly any other word. It's this third grade - my third grade, anyway - mentality that gives karaoke a bad reputation.

• Thou shall not juggle, toss or flip the microphones. Respect the equipment.

Again. This is guys. I have seen this a few times. A microphone quickly becomes a penis. We get it. It's bad enough that people with colds choose to go sing backup on "Baby Got Back". Keep the mics away from your crotch. That said, every karaoke night I go to has a cordless mic. Getting stuck with a corded mic might inspire a quick Pete Townsend swing, just for good measure. Oh, and hypocracy.

• Thou shall not sing along louder than the performer. Respect the singer.

I don't agree with this one. Some people really destroy good memories of very fine songs. They need the assistance. And it goes without saying that people who do the same song every week are to lose respect, five percent at a time.

• Thou shall not join in with a singer unless you are invited.

I know the intention here is to focus on singing along, but you might be surprised to discover that there are karaoke groupies lurking about. They know no boundaries, tend to grind, and often reek of one of the scents from the Britney line.

• Thou shall not carry on loud conversations next to the stage.

I'm not certain what pub the folks who put this list together frequents, but where I go I'll be lucky if I can hear my own conversations, much less need to worry about interrupting the singer. That said, I get involved in the night, as do my fellow karaoke crew. If we're talking, it's often about the goings on of the current singer. It's Mystery Science Theatre's karaoke edition.

• Thou shall applaud! Everyone who performs deserves some attention.

I have grown to really enjoy the audience reaction. You can sense a lot about the vibe of the night by what they respond to.

(141)

empty orchestra.

As of today the world's population is estimated to be 6.994 billion. With those sort of numbers who is all that surprised when God doesn't answer their prayers? Isn't it any wonder our call really isn't all that important to them? Most of us really just blend into the background, without an exposé or reality show or even fifteen minutes of anything particular to our fame.

I posit that we all want to have our imprint on something. We all want some variation on our moment, something beyond that impersonal shout-out during some equivalent to that namedrop graduation ceremony or something beyond that mass mailer who happens to know us by our first name. For me, one thing that definitely fuels my fire is karaoke, that much maligned and often misunderstood Japanese art form.

Whether due to an economic downturn or simply an upsurge of involvement by me and my scattershot friend base during the past several years, karaoke has become a bit of an event here in town. For something that was once squeezed to the back corner of a local bowling alley now can be committed every single night of the week, at venues varying in degrees of dive factor. It's not everyone's pint of beer, and certainly some prefer to watch than to participate, but regardless it's a thoroughly interactive event. One of the reasons I love it so much is that it puts the focus for a block of time on music, for lack of a keener phrase.

I'd suggest that I'm a bit hardcore about it. I can't even remember the last time I had nerves about stepping up to the mike, which is consistently the reason some hold themselves back from it. That, and audience response. I've had my fair share of ho-hum performances, but it's the doing it that matters more than anything else. As of the four new tracks I added to my repertoire this past Saturday night, I have concluded that I have gotten behind the mic 339 times, doing the likes of 267 different songs.

So, without further ado and for the insanely curious, these are the songs I have done:

Dancing Queen by ABBA
No Excuses by Alice in Chains
Sister Golden Hair by America
House of the Rising Sun by The Animals
Obsession by Animotion
Never Gonna Give You Up by Rick Astley
Rock Lobster by The B-52s
Ready for Love by Bad Company
The Weight by The Band
Alcohol, Brian Wilson, & What a Good Boy by Barenaked Ladies
Paul Revere by Beastie Boys
Hard to Handle by The Black Crowes
Adam's Song by Blink-182
You've Made Me So Very Happy by Blood, Sweat & Tears
Song 2 by Blur
Changes, Let's Dance, Space Oddity, & Under Pressure by David Bowie
The Letter by The Box Tops
For What it's Worth by Buffalo Springfield
Spill the Wine by Eric Burdon & War
Chemicals Between Us & Everything Zen by Bush
Pepper by Butthole Surfers
Never There & Short Skirt/Long Jacket by Cake
Dangerous Type, Moving in Stereo, Tonight She Comes, & You Might Think by The Cars
Bad Moon Rising & Have You Ever Seen the Rain? by Creedence Clearwater Revival
Under the Milky Way by The Church
London Calling & Train in Vain by The Clash
I Can See Clearly Now by Jimmy Cliff (and Johnny Nash)
Everybody Knows by Leonard Cohen
A Girl Like You by Edwyn Collins
Brick House by The Commodores
Round Here by Counting Crows
Low by Cracker
If It Makes You Happy by Sheryl Crow
Don't Dream it's Over by Crowded House
Friday, I'm in Love & Lovesong by The Cure
Mother by Danzig
Punk Rock Girl by Dead Milkmen
New Age Girl by Deadeye Dick
Roll to Me by Del Amitri
Enjoy the Silence, People are People, Personal Jesus, Policy of Truth, & Somebody by Depeche Mode
Whip it by Devo
Come on Eileen by Dexy's Midnight Runner
Sultans of Swing by Dire Straits
She Blinded Me with Science by Thomas Dolby
Sunshine Superman by Donovan
Black Water by The Doobie Brothers
Alabama Song, Five to One, Love Her Madly, Love Me Two Times, People are Strange, & Roadhouse Blues by The Doors
Subterranean Homesick Blues by Bob Dylan
Save Tonight by Eagle Eye Cherry
Heartache Tonight, Lyin' Eyes, Take it Easy, Take it to the Limit, & Witchy Woman by The Eagles
Novocaine for the Soul by the eels
Missionary Man by the Eurythmics
What It's Like by Everlast
The Way by Fastball
Signs by Five Man Electrical Band
One Thing Leads to Another by The Fixx
The Chain by Fleetwood Mac
Dirty White Boy by Foreigner
Do You Want to?, Take Me Out, & This Fire by Franz Ferdinand
You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch
Sledgehammer by Peter Gabriel
You Dropped the Bomb on Me by The Gap Band
Thunder Rolls & Two of a Kind, Working on a Full House by Garth Brooks
That's All by Genesis
Crazy by Gnarls Barkley
Voodoo by Godsmack
Twilight Zone by Golden Earring
Basketcase by Green Day
No Sugar Tonight/New Mother Nature by The Guess Who
Maneater & You Make My Dreams by Hall and Oates
Sunglasses at Night by Corey Hart
Flagpole Sitta by Harvey Danger
Hey Joe by Jimi Hendrix
Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress by The Hollies
Don't You Want Me by Human League
Vehicle by Ides of March
Dancing with Myself, Eyes without a Face, & White Wedding by Billy Idol
Torn by Natalie Imbrugula
Drive by Incubus
Devil Inside, Don't Change, & Never Tear Us Apart by INXS
Laid by James
Walk Away by The James Gang
Superfreak by Rick James
Draggin' the Line by Tommy James
Aqualung by Jethro Tull
Big Shot, Don't Ask Me Why, It's Still Rock and Roll to Me, Only the Good Die Young, &She's Always a Woman by Billy Joel
Don't go Breaking My Heart by Elton John & Kiki Dee
No One Ever is to Blame by Howard Jones
Me and Bobby McGee by Janis Joplin
You've Got Another Thing Comin' by Judas Priest
I Predict a Riot by Kaiser Chiefs
Somebody Told Me by The Killers
Detachable Penis by King Missile
Lola by The Kinks
Going to California by Led Zeppelin
Nobody Told Me & Working Class Hero by John Lennon
Brandy (You're a Fine Girl) by Looking Glass
So Alive by Love & Rockets
Sex & Candy by Marcy Playground
Paradise by the Dashboard Light by Meatloaf
Who Can it Be Now? by Men at Work
The Safety Dance by Men without Hats
Fade to Black & Stone Cold Crazy by Metallica
Beds are Burning by Midnight Oil
Abracadabra by Steve Miller
I Melt with You by Modern English
Moondance by Van Morrison
88 Lines About 44 Women by The Nails
Always on My Mind by Willie Nelson
Bizarre Love Triangle & Blue Monday by New Order
Leather & Lace by Stevie Nicks & Don Henley
Coconut by Harry Nilsson
Closer by Nine Inch Nails
Cat Scratch Fever by Ted Nugent
Dead Man's Party & Weird Science by Oingo Boingo
If You Leave by OMD
Blue Monday by Orgy
Somewhere Out There by Our Lady Peace
I Didn't Mean to Turn You On by Robert Palmer
Jolene by Dolly Parton
Better Man, Black, & Elderly Woman… by Pearl Jam
Judith by A Perfect Circle
West End Girls by Pet Shop Boys
American Girl, Breakdown, Don't Do Me Like that, Mary Jane's Last Dance, Stop Draggin' My Heart Around, & You Don't Know How it Feels by Tom Petty
Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd
Nothin' but a Good Time by Poison
Don't Stand So Close to Me & King of Pain by The Police
Suspicious Minds & You're the Boss by Elvis Presley
Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth… by Primitive Radio Gods
Little Red Corvette & Raspberry Beret by Prince
I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles) by The Proclaimers
Silent Lucidity by Queensryche
I Love a Rainy Night by Eddie Rabbitt
Right Down the Line by Gerry Rafferty
Black Betty by Ram Jam
By the Way, Californication, Can't Stop, Give it Away, Otherside, soul to Squeeze by Red Hot Chili Peppers
Walk on the Wild Side by Lou Reed
Banditos by The Refreshments
Drive by R.E.M.
I'm too Sexy by Right Said Fred
Somebody's Watching Me by Rockwell & Michael Jackson
Islands in the Stream by Kenny Rogers & Dolly Parton
Beast of Burden, Bitch, Honky Tonk Woman, Jumpin' Jack Flash, Love is Strong, & Paint it Black by The Rolling Stones
Major Tom by Peter Schilling
Broken by Seether featuring Ami Lee of Evanescence
Turn the Page by Bob Seger & the Silver Bullet Band
It Wasn't Me by Shaggy
Cecilia by Simon & Garfunkel
Still Crazy After all These Years by Paul Simon
Don't You (Forget About Me) by Simple Minds
All for You by Sister Hazel
Walkin' on the Sun by Smash Mouth
A Girl Like You by The Smithereens
How Soon is Now? by The Smiths
Tainted Love by Soft Cell
Man of Constant Sorrow by The Soggy Bottom Boys
Runaway Train by Soul Asylum
I'm on Fire & Secret Garden by Bruce Springsteen
Flowers on the Wall by The Statler Brothers
Stuck in the Middle with You by Stealers Wheel
Wild World by Cat Stevens
Bother by Stone Sour
Interstate Love Song by Stone Temple Pilots
Stray Cat Strut by The Stray Cats
Rapper's Delight by Sugarhill Gang
Green-Eyed Lady by Sugarloaf
Ballroom Blitz by Sweet
Aerials, Innversion, & Toxicity by System of a Down
Bang a Gong (Get it On) by T. Rex
And She Was, Burning Down the House, Life During Wartime, Once in a Lifetime, & Wild, Wild Life by Talking Heads
Everybody Wants to Rule the World & Head Over Heels by Tears for Fears
Birdhouse in Your Soul & Instanbul (Not Constantinople) by They Might Be Giants
Move it on Over by George Thorogood
Mama Told Me Not to Come by Three Dog Night
Kryptonite by 3 Doors Down
Future's So Bright I Gotta Wear Shades by Timbuk 3
Possum Kingdom by The Toadies
Greased Lightning by John Travolta
Slow Hand by Conway Twitty
Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon by Urge Overkill
The Freshman by Verve Pipe
Add it Up, Blister in the Sun, & Kiss Off by Violent Femmes
Mexican Radio by Wall of Voodoo
Low Rider by War
Wake Me Up Before You Go Go by Wham!
The Promise by When in Rome
White and Nerdy by Weird al Yankovic
Love is in the Air by John Paul Young
Werewolves of London by Warren Zevon
I'm Bad, I'm Nationwide & Tush by ZZtop

(100)

i exist

I am fast approaching my thirty-fifth birthday.

The Friday morning preceding seemed like an apropos time to sit, waiting in the DMV for license renewal with a huge stack of seeming proof of my identity and whereabouts. It's intriguing to me that an expired identification card could call into question the aforementioned identity.

Does identity really have a shelf life? Does it truly require outside validation to prove who any of us really are?

Much of life extends from the challenge well-known by a fourth grader whose arm is stretched high toward oblivion, hand waving about, with answer fully pressed on tongue, but with acknowledgement consistently overlooked. We'd all like to be seen for who we are, what we know, where our capabilities and talents lie, but more often than not we instead become merely the projection of others - others' wants and others' insecurities packaged into full time underestimation of us.

Some might even work equivalently to how they're paid, giving even themselves the impression that all they're worth is the circumference of that leather bound ass print. Some people really do nurture this believe in themselves. They create walls of self-doubt and loathing around themselves like a Freudian twist on the Cask of the Amontillado. Some people waste away in the status quo.

I say thankless routine builds long term regret. So frequently we pop a squat on what could be by fearing what might be. One thing we all forget is how much of our existence transpires in our head. We dream big, we dream wild and we contemplate so much, disappointed when John Quiñones rounds the corner wondering why we hesitated to act or to do more than simply feel. So often our true actions disagree with our true potential. It's been noted that some prefer failure, because success would be too much work.

Birth we can certify and be assured about. It's living that comes under question.

What are the parameters of living to the hilt? I spent the best part of five hours, sitting in the DMV lobby watching people work, seeing others interact, grow weary, cranky and overheard one man talking about having to register himself as a career criminal. Judgment aside, how's that for taking life by the balls? Everyone's life is a topographical map. For some it's laid out full of flat lands and arid deserts, whereas others are lush and full of stories that inspire envy.

What would yours look like?

(98)

this corrosion

Places don't change. We do.

(22)

else where

I spent the better part of the evening in a tree house.

That's not something most adults can say. Not very often, at least.

It was one of those sturdy, well-structured affairs like they have in the movies. They're usually the "property" of some spoiled corporate brat. The key difference was a complete lack of children, slingshots, and "no girls" signs. In their place were the adult comforts like an excess of pillows, electric outlets, i-Tunes, and plenty of vino.

Oh, I failed to mention the frequent circulation of upwards of twenty people!

This gathering was in celebration of yet another friend's departure from town. Having lived here for the last five years and off-and-on another three years before that, there's always an exodus. Plenty of others get their ticket out. I sit back and watch this town become so many other's springboard.

So there we all were passing around the bottles of pomegranate wine, champagne, and some others, nibbling on the vegan scones my wife made, sharing close quarters with a few friends, strangers, and whatever lies in between. These are merely titles that we wear or brandish upon others.

During a localized lull in conversation I tuned my ears around the "house". Our departing friend is fresh out of college and several of the others have the same predicament. It didn't surprise me to hear somebody going on about not wanting to be represented by their major.

This feeling clearly doesn't go away. It changes shape as people yearn to be more than their job title or represented by more than their credit rating. I was thinking recently that there might be more power in recognizing what you're not than what you are. There's a lot to be said for negative space. It provides a new perspective at least.

Like a tree house.

mortal majority

I started to write something new this past Tuesday night. I didn't end up posting it because I wasn't certain if I had anything interesting to say. Some thoughts began connecting in my mind, but there is a filter which all of these ideas, observations, and revelations are shoved through. There's a personal censor that seeks to thwart my every attempt at keeping up with this blog. I have that part of me sedated at the moment.

The wife and I have been meeting our friend at films on the lawn type screenings for the past several Tuesdays. The season has been arranged as somewhat of a world tour. Last Tuesday's film was in Britain for "The War Game", a short anti-war pseudo-documentary from the mid-sixties that deals candidly and topically with a theoretical aftermath of a nuclear attack. Clearly it's a perfect date movie - an upbeat, laugh-a-minute sort of affair, if you will. Actually some people did laugh a lot, but I think they were drinking.

Separate from the tenuous political situation and short mental fuse of our government, what I really want to talk about is the dream I had the night before this. As usual I don't remember very many details, but it did contain a surprising nuclear attack of our small Northern Florida town. The predictable emotional elements of such a thing were intact from the consommate fear and panic, but it's not as if my dream was without whimsy. The bomb itself flew right past where I was and was shaped not unlike the animation in "Rocky & Bullwinkle".

I'm hardly the paranoid folk that my parents are, so I quickly wrote off the obvious, foreboding implications of my mind's inner musings and dashed straight toward a Google search. The dream interpretation site Dream Moods says this dream:

...suggests feelings of helplessness, being threatened and loss of control. You may be experiencing great hostility and rage to the point of being destructive. Alternatively, you may be expressing a desire to wipe out some aspect of yourself. It may also be an indication that something crucial and precious to you has ended and important changes are about to occur.

There might be something to that. The strength of my slumber has changed drastically, especially over the course of the six months since we moved to this new house. The immediate changes that happened were stark. The insomnia wasn't hitting me. I was sleeping through the night and all of that. In itself this is something unusual for me.

Lately my body has followed my natural circadian rhythms toward official night owl status. Now my sleep has been deep, my dreams intense, and I feel myself leaving a heavy indention on the mattress. There's clearly something recognizable going on.

Toss this into the mix:

I dreamt that I was going up the side of a hill. It was visually a hill at distance, but once I began to make my ascent it was a fuckin' mountain that I was foisting myself up with my bare hands. I held on for dear life, as I groped at dirt and clumps of sod to get to this specific destination, this hotel, or some such. What was peculiar was that no one else around me seemed to be having the same struggles. Bicyclists, pedestrians, and runners moved along with seemingly no effort.

This one seems a touch more obvious, but:

To dream that you are climbing a hill signifies your struggles in
achieving a goal.

To see mountains in your dream signifies many major obstacles and challenges that you have to overcome. Alternatively, mountains denote a higher realm of consciousness, knowledge, and spiritual truth. To dream that you are climbing a mountain signifies your determination and
ambition.

time tunnel

I love live music!

Whether it means listening to some one-a-kind performance tucked away on an otherwise sorry compilation CD, tuning into Austin City Limits or CMT Crossroads or the long gone MTV unplugged or VH-1 Storytellers, or simply going to a show, the core of musical passion comes from being near it.

Before last night, it had been three long years since I'd been to a concert. It was October 2004 at Hard Rock Live in Orlando, and possibly the penultimate concert experience of my life. For years I didn't know I was waiting for the Pixies to reunite. It had seemed like a forgone conclusion that I'd never get to see them live, but then it happened. The clouds separated and a minor miracle occurred.

You can always get a sense of people's familiarity with the music at a concert based on their bodily response. There were so many young kids traipsing around and dancing about, clearly introduced to the band during the end credits of "Fight Club", and possibly having full knowledge of the singles collection. I remember having these strange feelings of entitlement, as if I wanted to be there far more than other people, but I know the high school version of me that constantly cranked up the Pixies to my parent's displeasure was hardly in the league of fan that knew them since the Purple Tape days. What is it about fandom that makes people so competitive?

In my mind, it was hard to follow up the Pixies show. Nonetheless, the Shiny Toy Guns concert was a hell of a lot of fun. They are a band on the rise, as they say, with only five years under their collective belt. I'd only first heard about them when I saw their video to the infectious dance-pop-rock "Le Disko" on MTV2 some late night last year. I was absolutely smitten two or three beats in. It was like something pulled directly from new wave rotation, circa 1983.

Some might want to pass off their sound as derivative for this very reason. Although they, The Killers, Franz Ferdinand, Kaiser Chiefs all wear the synth nature of new wave on their sleeves, in ways they all happen to create more solid albums than their single-heavy 80's one-shots. I was actually quite impressed by the show. The band has a tight if tailored sound on the album, however the true test is on stage and I'd say they're even better in concert.

The opening act was a nice Florida electronica duo called Indigovox, who mixed in performance art with their quite competent dance beats. The singer was a young woman who kept reminding me of pictures I'd seen of Tina Yothers (from "Family Ties") in her later years when she darkened her hair and started a rock band.

The venue was this club called Common Grounds that I think has a fun little history. There used to be a coffee house called Common Grounds. They moved locations a number of years ago, to a location that was previously a venue called the Covered Dish. Now they're a music venue/bar that doesn't serve coffee even though their name remains the same.

Ten years ago I saw the South Carolina funk-jam band Uncle Mingo there when it was still the Covered Dish, which might have been the best "small" show I've ever seen. Their show had so much energy and not a single person in the crowd was still the whole time. I think it was part of their shtick, but I remember their keyboard/saxophone player Jason Moore getting up on a pogo-stick and playing his sax simultaneously. Knowing the sax from five years of school band, I can assure you it's no small task.

The whole time I've been writing I've been thinking about the way I am interpreting live music here. It's assuming the definition of concert isn't merely being in close proximity to someone performing music, because in that case all of the free downtown smooth jazz and guys with acoustic guitars on the street during the Micanopy Fall Festival would figure in. I guess Joni Mitchell was right.

Nobody stopped to hear him

Though he played so sweet and high

They knew he had never

Been on their TV

So they passed his music by

(from "For Free" - 1970)

amateur hour

"Comedy is tragedy plus time." (Mark Twain)



We took in some local stand-up tonight at the dimly lit lounge of the Holiday Inn. That in itself has a depressing ring to it. One after another brave, young soul stepped behind the microphone to deliver five to six minutes of material to a small, quiet crowd. It was one of those occasions when you expect feedback to shriek through the speakers, allowing the performer a moment to run away from their flaming crash already in progress with some of their dignity intact. Clearly this weekly comedy show is but a training ground for many years to come of futons and Top Ramen.

Getting up in front of an audience is no easy feat. It must be twice as hard while attempting to stroke a room full of funny bones. The evening wasn't all bad, but as predicted for this sort of thing the end result comes down to averages. Of the ten guys (yes, only guys) that performed maybe three of them were deserving of the spotlight and a few others were downright despondent by the lack of applause, laughter, and love the audience was offering. We were supposedly a "shit audience", to quote one Lenny Bruce wannabe. In the middle was everyone else, who seemed to have either too little material, decent material but no idea when the joke was over, an incessant need for audience validation, the occasional minority "joke" misstep that marred the rest of their set, or some combination therein.

f-f-f-fake it

previously published by me elsewhere:

I really suck at maintaining this blog.

I have several friends who post all of the time. It's so much more interesting to read theirs than to write one of my own.

Most of the time my life feels too empty to remark on.

I woke up around 5 AM. I was awkwardly positioned across our couch wearing last night's clothes. The remote control was poking into my ribcage, probably shooting cancer through my flesh. Sugar Ray's Mark McGrath was on the TV assuring us of his washed-up career by hosting the infomercial for the "Buzz Box", a radio friendly alternative CD collection.

I feel strangely refreshed from my sleep.

It couldn't have possibly been long enough, given the expectations of so-called health professionals. I do the math, but I have to count back first based on the last thing I remember watching. I didn't even remember watching TV. Maybe I was just flipping channels. Either way I went narcoleptic for a stretch in my own private Idaho, thankfully without having to be outdoors.

I wash down a glass of water, contemplating whether or not to grab more sleep. I'm not tired in the least, even though I must be running on about three and a half hours or so. It's nothing a couple cups of coffee can't cure. I'll make some in a couple hours, maybe when I think about sleep again. There's a system to spacing out your caffeine intake that just works.

But what's the point, anyway? I have a plain life, with minimal exertion. I went to a party last night. My whole day was building up to this, as if having anything scheduled starts to feel like busy. The problem is I didn't enjoy myself in the least. One of our friends has these low-key gatherings at his house every month with twenty or thirty people and eating, drinking, music, maybe a bonfire, but most especially drinking.

It's frustrating. There are always familiar faces who have been there previously, but they're consistently strangers. Any conversation at one of these seems all but forgotten by the next. It's all shallow chit-chat anyway, often just obligatory due to spatial proximity and not real interest. I hate feeling like I crashed somebody's party when I was invited.

That's not all, though. What did I say? My life is empty and plain. Wow, I must be great at parties! Truthfully, I have an ability to fake a better mood so if there's something wrong most people's radar completely misses it. It's an easy trick when doses of sarcasm are a regular guest, and not just representative of an irksome state.

Unfortunately like putting powder and rouge over bruises, it doesn't actually change anything except appearances. It turns out that a new coat of paint works just as poorly. We splashed a few coats onto our kitchen and living room of our rental last month, after four years of residence in hopes to introduce a new vibe and pleasure to coming home.

This isn't home, though.

I'm not sure what it will take to be satisfied with my life. Perhaps control. One of my friends tuned me into getting free daily horoscopes in my e-mail from this site. On a lark, I signed up for the whole gamut, and 95% of the time they are way off the mark. Half the time I delete them without looking.

I took at peek a little while ago at one that goes into more specifics about the general cycle of life, love, career, and whatnot. I was intrigued to find this being said in my career section. "Your quest right now is this: Does the end always justify the means? If you're in doubt, don't cock the trigger."

It always comes back to career with me, whether it's dealing with small town malaise, working long hours for free or literal peanuts, being seen as an un-hirable risk at regular day jobs, or going from one pointless endeavor to the next. There's a miniscule film scene in this town, who strangely do not all know one another, so I keep finding new people who are making the same crap elsewhere. I'm in the midst of trying to sell myself to these newly found folks, but what's the point? I'd like to think there's art in the process and not just the product, but what if it's just another ugly piece of crap no matter which direction you throw it?

Should I just fake it? AGAIN!

sweet tooth

previously published by me elsewhere:

We just got back from our friend's house, who had invited us over to give out candy to the neighborhood kids as a low key Halloween celebration. Little did I realize that her neighborhood is amazingly popular with local families from elsewhere.

This became quite apparent as we pulled onto the first of a couple roads that lead to her house, and encountered lines and lines of parked cars on either side of the roadway as if every house on the block were hosting a party. We coasted through the neighborhood as the trick-or-treaters were in full swing.

There were so many little kids and their adult companions strolling the sidewalks and crisscrossing the street that it demanded almost constant pressure on the clutch to keep from stalling out. Either that or I could have run over some kid with an ugly costume, but that just wouldn't have been kosher.

The whole process of giving out candy was quite an interesting one this time around, given our friend prefers to forego the trick or treat method for her own trick for treat method. As a trade for the candy, depending on the general age of the kid it involves any number of things such as singing songs, delivering tongue twisters, or doing dances, etc.

When she first mentioned this bartering mode she uses, I kept my displeasure to myself. It just brought back a lot of the negative things about childhood, and how much of it had to do with adults wanting kids to do things, be they chores or homework or Sunday school or what else.

What really got me was how much most of the kids, of which there were a whole freakin' lot of 'em, really got into this exercise of tit for tat. There were a lot of untapped creative personalities in several of them, and some genuinely discouraging blank stares on a great many others.

Many of the kids whose parents didn't wait at the sidewalk would get impatient while waiting for other people's kids who were in the midst of "performing", and lead their kid on to an easier to exploit house. That's the thing I recall most about giving out candy. Quickly open the door, give the beggars some stash, shut the door, and go back to whatever you were doing. As a kid, there was always this assumption that you say those three words, and suddenly the elderly grandmother on the other side of the screen door would just OOH and AHH and that was that.

My friend seems to get this thrill from energizing the kids to think on their feet, and to think with new parts of their brains, and that sort of thing. Strange it may be that giving them all of that candy is just gonna fuck it all up. That's what I was busy doing most of the time myself.

I sat back a couple feet from the wide open door, watching the goings-on, knocking back that smack for kids: smarties. I remember spending a lot of time, as a kid, very meticulously shuffling through the 7-11 buying loads of candy with my lunch money. I guess you know you've gotten old when that sort of thing is just a passing fancy, or a faded memory.

Although I'm still not set on this method of making kids into child stars, it was nice to see the array of them on a more personal level. The brief interactions made many of them a bit more memorable. The old standbys of princesses and witches are still in heavy rotation for girls, as are pirates and ninjas for boys.

I stopped trick or treating in elementary school, but I know a lot of people who continued on through high school. Most of the oldest kids that passed through were in middle school, though. That's the age of the kid with my favorite costume, and the one that really caught me off-guard: Frank, the bunny, from "Donnie Darko"! There was also a Corpse Bride, a couple Darth Vaders, a lot of demons, and a couple of self-proclaimed whores.

Yes, whores (ranging in age from 10 to 14). I guess one could say that this all speaks loudly about our culture, but I resist putting some umbrella statement across these isolated incidents. It's intriguing nonetheless.

goddamn dog

previously published by me elsewhere:

I remember a period early on in college when I would frequently be asked if I were majoring in acting. It wasn't as if my Blanche DuBois was in good shape, nor was I particularly suicidal. Nah, I was pretty shameless when it came to saying whatever the hell was on my mind, not giving a shit about what people thought of me, and generally "acting" like myself.

Tonight I was described as stoic by an acquaintance to a few people who I'd never met. It was in reference to whether or not I'd get offended by something that was going on, which got the prompt assessment that I don't get phased by anything. Oh, and that I'm stoic. Supposedly. Perhaps I was expected to take flattery for being described at all, but it does make me wonder if life has hardened me in some disappointing fashion after all these years.

Although looking back it seems like an obvious choice to connect those awkward formative years more directly to my long-term goals, I was not involved in high school drama. Hell, I wasn't even involved in that other sort of high school drama that plagued most people and has become the main subject of any number of poorly made films and TV shows. Back then the dream of filmmaking was very much in the incubation stage.

I don't really remember knowing a whole lot I could do with the dream at the time, except by watching a bunch of movies and speaking about the future as if there wasn't all of this crazy competition. Sure, I wrote some tentative movie scripts, put together some little video shoots with friends, and bit my tongue as my parents called the whole movie thing a phase. It was life lived in a vacuum that I think the internet kids with similar dreams miss out on these days.

The whole high school theater experience always seemed to be an actors only club, therefore I never felt like there was a place for someone like me. The behind the scenes stuff that I might have been good at seemed quite downplayed, so I didn't realize the option at the time. Besides, I was busy for the first couple years of high school right down the hall from the drama folk in the band room.

I know, Band Camp. Blah, blah, blah. The actual music always seemed like the nerdy part to me, so I spent a fair amount of time just fingering. The far more social, female-centric aspect was what it became for me. I did befriend a number of the theater people, and quietly admired several others. It wasn't so much their acting talent that got me, but amazement at how much fucking they were all doing with one another. And in all sorts of interesting combinations, too!

Tonight I went out to our local independent blackbox theater for Bert V. Royal's "Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead", whose director and several cast members I consider friends. I was there to film the performance, so I'm going to be going back tomorrow night to really enjoy and savor the damn thing. I feel like it'll be the first time I've seen the same theatrical production performed more than one time. Isn't that strange?

Okay, so maybe there was the time in seventh grade when I went to "Twelfth Night" at my sister's high school with her and a group of her friends. As it went, the evening's show was cancelled before the second act when one of the actors got stabbed in the eye during a sword fight. So, I guess I saw that show one and a half times. All I seem to recall about it was some strangely fitting Billy Idol and David Bowie music, as well as a couple hot young actresses. Sorry, Bill, but I don't remember your play.