Surrender
My brother sent me an Internet link today and simply asked, "Have you seen this?"
I clicked to the story and it was about a guy who'd been arrested for throwing rocks at the door at a small county courthouse in my home state. The article said police walked outside to see what was going on and the man walked willingly toward the officers with his hands out ready to be cuffed. When they asked him why he was throwing rocks at the door, he simply said, "I wanted to see if it was bullet proof." That man is my cousin.
The news upset me, but I can't say it was a shock. I've been concerned about him for a while. He always was sort of a "rebel," but his actions have become increasingly suspect.
When I was a kid, I idolized my cousin. He was the cool high school guy who everyone loved having around. He was super smart, possibly too smart for his own good. He was fascinated with the solar system, communication, chemistry... and drugs. To my knowledge, mainly pot.
When I was in college he gave me a bag of pot for Christmas. I never even smoked, but, coming from my older cousin, I thought it was cool. I was the big man on campus for a week. I got high with everyone I knew and every single time I just fell asleep. When the bag was gone, I never did it again.
It's not the first time he's been arrested, but this one really makes me sad. It's telling when someone walks deliberately into an arrest. It is so final. It is also one of those stories that everyone laughs about on the morning radio or news about "stupid criminals."
A lot of the psychology/self help gurus of the day are pointing at how dangerous it can be to live in the mind. That people are literally thinking themselves sick. I've seen a few of my really smart friends get into trouble because they are bored and living in the past or future too often. Using their mind to escape the present and create illusions that keep them preoccupied. I am always grateful for good friends and hobbies to keep me grounded and it's really hitting home.
As I write, my cousin is probably staring at a jail cell wall wondering what went wrong. How a life can turn inside out in a flash. I wish I could call and have a meaningful conversation that gives him hope, but we haven't spoken in years and I'm not sure we could right now. The only thing I can do is hope he gets the love and help he was desperately seeking.
STP
Okay, here's the thing. I have always loved Stone Temple Pilots. They hit a spot with me years ago and have seemingly remained this cool and relevant band even when you're not really sure if they really are a band.
Five scorching records in the 90's that put them on top of the Rock-n-roll world. They've always sort of been tagged as a Nirvana/Pearl Jam followers, but I don't really see it. They're more L.A. than Seattle and more psychedelic than grunge.
Last night I saw them for the first time at the Grand Ole Opry. It's a bizarre juxtaposition and I fully expected two worlds to collide and the byproduct to be reminiscent of The Doors. For Scott Weiland to channel Jim Morrison and finally perform his last show with STP in a drug induced flurry for the record books.
None of that happened. In fact, Weiland seemed quite lucid (when he wasn't telling stories). He pranced about with the flare of Jim Carey in Mask, making the simplest of moves look very difficult and elegant at once. Calculating his next step as if contemplating a cliff dive, then forging ahead with the confidence of a seasoned rock star.
Weiland's voice and the instruments sounded pretty good, but two things gnawed at me all night. The video screen and the band's tempo.
For some reason they felt like they needed a full-on visual assault behind their performance. It was a combination drug trip meets car chase and neither was needed. The video screen was huge and took up nearly every inch behind the stage, all the while spewing random ink blots, oozing oil, and raging fire. It was hard to focus on the performance.
Secondly, (and I know STP's style is drag the groove a bit) I thought they seemed tired. Most of their songs seemed slower than the recordings, which took away energy. I will acknowledge that part of this may have been because I was tired, but the fact that they made us wait a full hour after the opening act didn't help.
Weiland gushed about playing at the Opry and embraced the "fortunate to be here" position instead of the mysterious angst I expected, but in some ways it was a relief. I can't get enough of touring musicians praising Nashville and its venues, especially the Ryman. But the Grand Ole Opry and Stone Temple Pilots was a first. I never even would have thought that could happen. The Opry? The same place I got my stodgy Uncle tickets for? Maybe that's why STP seemed a little slow to me. Maybe it's impossible to rock too hard at the Opry. Or maybe it was even a subtle tribute the the room.
--------Addendum---------
A guy at work just told me Pink Floyd always slowed down their live set so that people could hear the intricate parts of a song better. This, he says, is because acoustics of large rooms can make things muddy. The important part is that the tempo is consistent, which is was last night, so maybe that's what they were doing. Or maybe I was just tired. Either way, I'm glad I got to see them.
Capitalism
Whenever I get gas I expect to meet at least one panhandler. Today, I pulled up to the pump
and saw him standing next to the ice machine at the corner of the store. I thought, hey,
there's the new friend I will meet in a few minutes.
Using pay at the pump I focused on the task at hand. Staying in the now with techniques
I've been hearing about on Oprah. Clutching the handle, I poured the fuel into my tank.
Staring nowhere in particular I listened to the bass driven pulse blasting from a brown
PT Cruiser. It was loud and I found the groove infectious. Eventually the car pulled by and the driver nodded his head.
For some reason my mind left the now and went back a few years to the night a young rapper came up to me
and asked if I wanted to buy his cd. He was street peddling and I found it admirable. I have always
felt that panhandlers should at least sell something. A poem, a sketch, a rock sculpture, anything... begging
is so 90's. Anyway, I gladly forked over the five dollars to this aspiring rapper and diligently tried to
get into his music, but it wasn't that good.
So, as I'm daydreaming about why more musicians don't sell directly to the customer on the street
I hear that pulsing bass pull up behind me. Next I hear, "Hey man, you ever listen to hip hop?"
I turn around and the driver is holding up a CD.
"Uh, sometimes...."
"This is my new cd. I'm up here from Atlanta spreadin' the word about my music."
He had me! I looked at the cover and sure enough it was him, "Sixman."
The name of the record is "American Muscle: A Hustler's Story"
Me: You ARE a hustler.
Sixman: Hey man, a brotha's gotta do what it takes.
Me: No doubt, how's it goin for u?
Sixman: Aww man, it is perfect.
(I hand him five bucks)
Me: Straight. Word.
Sixman: Thanks, man. Lata.
I'm thinking to myself as I'm crank the first song -- and hear nothing but gun shots and racial slurs -- that I have
made a fine purchase. I'm proud of my new friend, Sixman, and get the feeling he just might make it some
day.
He made a personal connection with me and I cannot wait until the first time someone gets in my
car and asks what we're listening to. "Oh, this? That's my buddy, Sixman."
The Aura
Today I've chosen self love as my topic. Who impacts how we feel about ourselves? Can outside factors truly make a difference or does it come from a spiritual center that is balanced and grounded in a place that insulates us from destruction and blooms with purity that spreads into those around us?
Yes, it is a hidden desire of mine to be a psychologist. For a brief stint I even declared it my major in college, but quickly changed my tune after peering at rats in a cage for a week. I didn't want the science, I wanted the couch sessions. The all-out spill your guts discussion that dove into places we are afraid to go. I guess I liked everything about the "exchange" but didn't necessarily like the idea of telling someone else how to live their lives.
Last night I stood like cattle in a crowd of rabid Springsteen fans and looked on as he seduced me for three hours. He is a poet...a performer... a rock-n-roll icon. I have always acknowledged these facts, but I had never embraced them.
For me it was spiritual. It was the little things... Returning a smile to the eye of a stranger while he sang along at the top of his lungs. The look on the face of the young girl in a cowboy hat while Bruce held her close and sang her a song. It was the older woman who lived a lifelong dream as she danced face to face with the Boss to Clarence's sax solo. It was the genuine look of "love for the music" in Max Weinberg's 57-year-old eyes as he locked down the aggressive back beat for three grueling hours. It was Bruce Springsteen, head to toe in his standard black, trudging about the stage like an awkward teen, while somehow projecting the aura of Barishnikov.
Yes, the aura. The magic. The ability to captivate by mere presence. The last time I felt this way was at a U2 concert. I realize it's trite and potentially obvious, but Bono is simply the most magnetic performer I have ever seen. When I watch a band, I am traditionally glued on the drummer, but for U2 I couldn't peel my eyes from Bono.
I really believe that certain people project from a place that unleashes my true self. The purest, most genuine place that leaves me frozen in that moment, oblivious to what doesn't matter and completely aware of what does.
The question is, can we get there alone or do others help us get there? Springsteen surely didn't hurt and it made me wonder whether he was hitting me in a place that needed development or a spot that reminded me we are all connected as one.
Which leads me to my favorite lyric:
Is it getting better
Or do you feel the same
Will it make it easier on you now
You got someone to blame
You say...
One love
One life
When it's one need
In the night
One love
We get to share it
Leaves you baby if you
Don't care for it
Did I disappoint you
Or leave a bad taste in your mouth
You act like you never had love
And you want me to go without
Well it's...
Too late
Tonight
To drag the past out into the light
We're one, but we're not the same
We get to
Carry each other
Carry each other
One...
Have you come here for forgiveness
Have you come to raise the dead
Have you come here to play Jesus
To the lepers in your head
Did I ask too much
More than a lot
You gave me nothing
Now it's all I got
We're one
But we're not the same
Well we
Hurt each other
Then we do it again
You say
Love is a temple
Love a higher law
Love is a temple
Love the higher law
You ask me to enter
But then you make me crawl
And I can't be holding on
To what you got
When all you got is hurt
One love
One blood
One life
You got to do what you should
One life
With each other
Sisters
Brothers
One life
But we're not the same
We get to
Carry each other
Carry each other
One...life
One
- U2
Two Socially Important Events
So I'm hanging out in the self help section at Borders and notice this attractive woman nestled into the co-dependent corner. I immediately felt a little awkward...not because she was lucious in the vein of a college professor's wife, but it's just a little uncomfortable crowding with a stranger in such a openly personal setting. Just then I notice a very short (not that I am towering) older (not that I am younger) man oozing his way into her air space and quickly realize this guy does not adhere to my personal-space principles.
Now, this dude nestles up next to Ms. Professor and immediately starts pulling the biggest "sex books" in the world off the shelf right next to her. He is brazenly leafing through these erotic tomes and is so close to her she is probably smelling the filth flying from his pages. What makes it increasingly ungainly is the speed at which is is firing through his erotica. We've all seen them, the 1,000 page hard cover guides to better sex...and he is assimilating the ancient words of wisdom like they are thought bubbles in a comic book. I think I even heard him snort a few times.
At the same time, the woman is gracefully paging through her book (which I am now imagining must be something about healing from an abusive relationship) and not even paying attention to her homosapien neighbor. Was it a ploy? Could she hang on until he had exhausted his rack full of exotic fare? Turns out yes, because eventually he slithered into the next row and she, rather agressively, shut her book, reshelved it, and made a dramatic, yet classy exit.
And I thought I needed self help before that exchange?
No worries, though. As it turns out I bought a book about Steve Jobs and his entrepreneurial insight.
---------------------------
Part two of my evening was a short trip to West End Walgreens or, Rite Aid or whatever they call it. Some call it a drug store, but, since I'm not big on drugs, I like to call it the "whatever I'm going to get" place. Tonight, it was the Ankle Brace Shop.
(Man, I just realized how lame my night is seeming at the moment....)
Anyway, the real action happened outside the store.
When I got out of my car I heard this strange "clucking" noise and noticed two young girls sitting on the curb, paying attention to no one inparticular, except themselves. They looked to be high school age and they leaned on each other while they clucked, cawed like a crow, and "goo goo gaa gaa'd" like little babies.
They were oblivious and I just watched for about 30 seconds. That's when I noticed a guy that reminded me of my grandpa looking on, too. He had that look in his eye like, "What the hell is going on over there?" It wasn't that, "Boy that's kinda funny, what the hell is going on there," look, it was a genuine gaze of fear. I just gave him that "kids will be kids," look and he shook his head like he couldn't wait to get home and tell his wife to lock the doors and get the shotgun.
I limped away and the old man promptly backed into the car behind him.... (no, not really, he was a cautious driver, but if this were a movie that's what would have happened).
What I forgot to mention is that I was actually returning one of those ankle wrap things because the first one I bought was too big. They sell them in small-medium or large-xl and I figured, you know, I'm not a huge man, but still, I have a size ten foot, how can that not be in the large-xl range? Well, not even close, it felt like a loose sock when I put it on.
You see, they size these wraps by "ankle size." Who the hell knows the size (in inches) of their ankle?? Needless to say, I must be a medium, but it's a good thing women don't gauge the prowess of a man's c*ck by the size of his ankles.
Indecision
My obsession with convenience stores continues. Today, I stopped by to get some cash and grab a Coke. (Those two actions just reminded me of how impossibly human I remain). One of the clerks was on break, surfing wirelessly from her laptop near the ATM and she complimented my jacket. Of course, I did a double-take because I can assure you compliments by employees in these places are hard to come by. I said thanks, and told her I was doing my part in bringing back the leisure suit. She smiled and said, "I don't blame you."
Then, the counter guy actually said "Hi" as I walked by the counter to grab my Coke. "Uh, hi..." I said, then thought the world must be on a slightly different axis today, so I'd better enjoy it while it lasts.
As I was leaving I noticed a woman and her child walking toward me from the outside. I was much closer to the door than she was, so I did the ole' "purposely slow down a bit" so I wouldn't be holding the door open for an awkward amount of time. I fumbled with my keys a bit, then slid to the side of the door, smiling with ease on the heels of my pleasant experience and proudly held the door open for the woman and her child.
Not only did she not say thank you, that woman didn't even look at me. To make matters worse, her 3-year-old daughter looked up at me like I was Satan!
Well, two out of four is pretty good in the Convenience store "positive reaction department."
Jim Morrison's Grave
Tonight we played a gig with a band from France, Breakfast Show, that is on a U.S. tour. Sure, that sounds glamorous until you tee it up at Springwater on a Sunday night. It's like the best dive bar in town, but nobody was really out for the show. It was our 3rd internationally shared bill in a month. England, Israel, and France.
We played before them and the drummer came up to me and simply said, "Hi, we're from France, can we use your drums....and bass amp... and uh, your guitar amp, too?" Talk about putting it into perspective... These guys are winging it! I was like, hell yeah, you can use my drums.
They played kind of a raw Sex Pistol-ish thing that was edgy rock and definitely entertaining. I think just by the fact that they are from France there is something unique that has to come out and I would assume there would be reciprocity if the Frolics landed in Europe.
I asked them if that Jim Morrison grave thing was a big deal and the guitar player said, "Actually, it's a really little grave." They can't be that literal over there, are they? I was wondering a little if they think Americans hate the French as much as the French allegedly hate Americans. It sure seemed like a viable possibility. Especially when they asked me if Memphis (their next stop) is dangerous. This after they had just played in Detroit two nights ago! I'm like, just stay away from those Elvis freaks and you'll be fine.
Finally, I asked where they were headed next and their tour goes like this: Memphis, Austin, Dallas, Phoenix, LA! Holy Shit... and all in a rent a car. I'm like, Bro, that is a little bit of a haul.
All in all it was pretty cool and they said they'd hook us up with some shows in Paris. Anyone want to come along for that?
Body Building
Yes, I went to GNC tonight. Must have been about 20 minutes before closing. Let me tell you, I don't know if I've ever seen anyone else in that store besides me. How they stay open is beyond me... but then again, everything in that place will break the bank.
"How much is this back-up powder scoop?"
"$23.99"
"Oh."
Anyway, I walk in and no one is there. Not even a worker. I walked around for about 5 minutes and nothing. Hello?? Anyone here??
I haven't stolen anything since I was 7 years old (when I unconsciously shoved a box of pop tarts in my back pack at Buzz's Wildcat and subsequently got caught by the mean lady) but I tussled with the idea that I could walk out of GNC with a year's supply of Protein Powder.
Luckily I didn't because dude came out of the back room all jacked up on roids, and I shit you not he asked me, "Can I help you with something?"
Uhh, yeah, I was hoping you could go behind your little cash register and let me buy this product that your store sells.
Maybe he was watching me on camera from the back room and saw that, "I could rip this place blind" look in my eye. Whatever it was he had quite an attitude with what could easily have been his first customer of the day. Then the bastard had the nerve to try and up-sell me.
"Have you thought about trying this GNC version of that product you have?"
Not really, what's the difference, I say. And he starts looking at the box...
"Well, this has 6 more grams of protein than yours."
Oh, is that right?? Just get your ass behind the counter and swipe my card.
Great News
I haven't blogged here in ages. I've been writing on my MySpace page, but I think those people are just trying to get into my pants.
So... I will transfer some of those writings here and continue with the Liquid Kosmos. Thanks for reading.
The Story of All Stories
Sometimes things happen to me that seize the inside of my chest and I know they be forever branded on my brain. A lot of times they are subtle events of the day that you don't really notice at the time, but drag your memory to a situation or conversation. It never fails if you trust your ability to respond to a situation.
Really...ok, what is triggered when I say, oh.... Judge Judy?
For me, it's a long string of painful images due to the fact that she's been on the tv in my office every single day for the last 9 years that I've worked in television because my station broadcasts her show. And you wonder why I'm a little off-center??
BUT there is also a really cool story about this hilarious and rather attractive woman who was on Judge Judy one day... now remember it is total background noise for me, but on this day, the aforementioned woman cut through with her cat-like responses to Judy and the witty tract she took on slamming her scam-driven ex-boyfriend.
The woman was a gallery owner in NYC and he allegedly stole money and paintings from her. I was glued to the set while this woman's charisma gripped me for 15 straight minutes.
The gallery name was mentioned several times and I wondered if this was all a bunch of crap, or if, in fact, these cases WERE real. Sure enough, there was the gallery website, and there on the home page was the funny woman's head shot. On a whim I decided to email her and thank her for easing my "Judge Judy pain" for one day. She got back to me and we eventually met on one of my trips to New York. A couple drinks led to a wild ride through her gallery, a lot of nude painting, and buckets full of hot ginsing tea.
Well.... not all of that is true, but some of it is, and isn't that really what stories are all about? How many good stories are really all true? I mean, yeah, they happened, but good storytellers always twist a few things around, don't they? Leave a few untimely moments out of the copy? Sure they do... but, THAT is not the story of all stories. It was just something triggered by an outside stimuli, which is my point.
Have you told your story yet? Or has it gone unnoticed deep inside your conscience? Did it happen on a day when you weren't living in the moment?
Think about floor tiling for a minute. What story does that rekindle for you? For me, it was the time I worked at McDonalds for a week.
I never worked at the counter serving food. (that is the part I will omit from this story to make it better, although, that story is kind of funny, too, but it gets in the way of the tile story, not to mention makes my time at McDonald's seem much more glamorous than it really was). The part where I worked there for one week and the only thing I did was paint the cement cracks between the tiles with linseed oil is much better.
For 5 straight days one summer vacation, I painted concrete cracks with oil. I would dab my paintbrush into a McDonald's courtesy cup full of the oil and masterfully paint the seam without getting any on the tile. If I did splash, I'd just wipe it off with a rag. Unreal, huh? Not really, but it gets BETTER... well, kinda.
After a long day, I mistook the oil cup for my glass of root beer and slammed down some linseed oil, then promptly puked.
Ahh...nice. But if you think that is nowhere near the story of all stories... you're right.
The big story is happening right now. It's me. It's you. It's this moment. The stories I've just told have been part of it, but all that matters is what is happening now. At least that's what they tell me, and who am I not to believe them, right?
They know, but of course, they really means us. You... me. So, if they is you and they is me, I guess that makes me, you.
If you haven't figured it out yet, I am both rambling for the sake of it and proving that I like to think I dabble in philisophical geometry...which reminds me of the first time I had to wear glasses. It was in geometry class in 10th grade and man, was that a blow to my ego. I only wish I realized at the time that any blow to the ego is a good one.
If you're still reading, give yourself a star for patience and to prove it, leave the comment: this truly is the story of all stories. Or just say what you want and I will work your quote into my next department head meeting.
