As you were
There is nothing quite as fascinating as staring at a blank white page. The world and opportunities seem endless.
I was thinking about what state of mind I was in when I used to write a lot of witty banter about mundane events that happen. Also, why is it so fascinating to me? I suppose because people and life are so compelling. Even in their simplest forms the layers can unfold forever.
Tonight I walked through Macy's for no particular reason. I suppose to see if something struck my fancy, but nothing did. It was late and I only had 15 minutes before they closed. I saw all the hot new trends and had a difficult time putting myself inside of those outfits. That was tonight, of course. Sometimes I can imagine myself feeling comfortable in anything. It's all a state of mind really. There are certain people that can seemingly pull off anything, but they have to bring the attitude from within.
I hesitate to give an example because it seems like anything is game these days. It's like everything else, fashion is slowly melting into couture. People are staking their claim on individuality like never before and it is not easy so the examples are more extreme.
Everyone's a writer, a musician, a photographer, a chef, and that's how it should be. For how long did I burn inside wanting to do things that seemed off limits when I was a kid? I wanted to write a comic strip, I wanted to play drums, to sing, to write, to make movies, ride motorcycles, to record music, to voice my opinion. Now, it's all here. Right at my finger tips and I must say it's a daunting opportunity.
"Can't" is losing it's cache in our vernacular. Never before were our dreams this accessible. The hard part is going after them with passion and accepting defeat if it doesn't work.
For years when I had just started playing drums it was so much fun to "form" bands and walk around town with group members and professing that "we were starting a band" to anyone that would listen. We would brainstorm about how cool our shows would be, how many women would be hanging around after gigs, and generally how cool we were for starting a band. We'd even practice sometimes, but the hard part was actually pulling it all together and doing a show.
I must confess, I enjoyed being in an imaginary band. Many times it proved to be more fun than actually doing a show that nobody came to. Not to mention having crappy music.
The music was always better in my head. We had our magical nirvana that no one could criticize or touch. The example crosses many platforms. I can't tell you how many times I've proclaimed that I was writing a book or a screen play. I never lied about it, but how many books are in my bookography? Exactly zero.
But, I AM writing a book. I'm writing several, actually. They are all going to be amazing, but god knows when they will be finished. I'm also painting and making movies and creating my bad ass motorcycle image and laying out my photography studio and...... It's all in there, but where's the time? Where's the energy? What's the point?
I guess the point is that is who we are. We seek, we search, we create. I used to ask that question a lot. Begging to know what am I supposed to be doing. Why am I here? But, I have tweaked the question as of late and it is more on the lines of, what is my purpose? How can I be of value to humanity?
That shift of perspective has made things a lot easier. Sometimes I believe my purpose is simply to help others find themselves. I have faith in others and rarely find a joy as satisfying as helping someone else uncork their desires. Whether it's convincing my dad that he can still be a comedian or giving our 60 year old receptionist confidence she can still do that cooking show she's always dreamed about.
It's a magical time and I hope we don't lose sight of that.
As One
Your breath
My face
Both
In the right place
Awake
Asleep
Both
At peace
Your thigh
My hand
Both
Depend
Your light
My reflection
Both
As one
A Badger State
People ask me all the time, “What was it like growing up in Wisconsin?” Well, they don’t really ask me that all the time, but I sorta wish they did. Last night I watched the Tennessee/UCLA game and it reminded me of an infamous day in my childhood.
Back in the day, a friend of mine’s dad somehow knew the back up quarterback for UCLA. We actually got to meet him and he was a cool guy, but I can’t remember his name. Anyway, we met him in the summer and that Fall UCLA was actually playing against Wisconsin in Madison, so we asked him to get us 8 tickets. He’s like, no problem and we started counting the days.
My friend’s dad called a couple weeks before the game and told our UCLA quarterback friend to send the tickets to MY house. This is and was confusing to me because I barely knew the guy and on and on and on, but I proudly offered the mailbox for UCLA tickets. It was LA man… and valuable mail coming straight to my house!
I waited patiently for a week or so, then a little more anxiously as they never showed up. When should we start bugging him with phone calls? Always a tough decision and one that applies with women to this day.
The game was on a Saturday and it was now Wednesday. The second call was made and Mr. Quarterback assured us that it was taken care of. Cool… Thursday came and went. Friday had to be the day, right? Nope. So now, we’re in a pickle. Luckily my parent’s mail came in the morning and it offered hope. The decision was made. Early morning party at my house.
This is where things get interesting. There were eight of us set to go and that meant we’d need a lot of beer. One problem was solved when my buddy John showed up in his bright orange Plymouth Duster. He had ingeniously rigged his trunk to house a cooling unit for a ¼ barrel. The tube for the beer keg would then slide up through the speaker holes in the back window. What a priceless operation that was.
It was a beautiful Fall day in Wisconsin. We started throwing around the football and drinking beers around 9 am. The game was at 1:00 and we lived about an hour from Madison. The mail usually came around 10:30.
The debate raged on about whether or not this hot shot quarterback had stiffed us, but for the most part we were blindly optimistic. We met that guy and he loved us, too. It was a done deal.
Now, this was before FedEx was popular and things generally moved pretty slow, so in context there were many times when the mail actually did show up on the last day.
We knew our mailman. His name was Howie. If we would have had his phone number, we would have called him in advance. In fact, I think someone suggested we call him at home the night before, but cooler heads prevailed.
Just when we started to catch a little buzz, someone noticed Howie plodding his way up the street. Our world stopped. I remember looking at his mailbag and thinking, he is carrying gold in there. Then, just as quickly I would think, his bag looks a little lighter than usual. I think we’re screwed. Then, but tickets don’t take up that much room… plus, it’s a Saturday, mail must be slower, right? I couldn’t remember ever noticing Howie’s satchel before. But today it was more interesting than the hot new girl that moved in down the street.
The bag was weathered. Not as impressive when you looked closely, but for a brief moment I wanted to make love to that man purse.
“Hey Howie!,” we all shouted as he walked over from the neighbor’s yard… He was the kinda guy that seemed to beg for attention. He sold Amway and I think he actually started licking his chops at the site of potential fish in his sea of distributors. I can’t be sure, but I think he may have laid a brief pitch on us. “How would you boys like to make a couple extra bucks a week?”
We didn’t hear a word. We were laser focused on his right hand. All looking for that shiny gold UCLA envelop holding our destiny. We all stood back and watched our savior glide toward our mailbox (we knew tampering with mail was a federal offense and let the scene play out legally), then watched as he pulled one envelope from his pouch, drop it in the mail box, then walk away.
I scrambled to the box and flipped it up in a manner my mother would not have been proud of. As I reached inside, there it was. The last thing on earth I cared about. The phone bill.
We were stunned. Shocked. Mortified. Our fail was cemented by Howie.
“Howie,” I shouted. “Are you sure this is it??” Can you double check?
“Sure.”
For a split moment our hopes rose from the dead. I KNEW those tickets slipped into a side pocket.
“Well,” said Howie, “This is all I can find.”
(Ear to ear grins on the boys).
“But, I didn’t think you’d want it.”
He handed me a marketing flyer from K-Mart addressed to current resident.
We were officially screwed.
What happened after that, I’m not really sure, but I know how it ended.
Eight guys sprawled about in the park listening to Pink Floyd and taking tapper hits from the orange Duster.
I guess that’s one example of what it’s like to grow up in Wisconsin.
Blocked
I can't write today and that's why I have to do it. Oddly enough that was the second sentence I wrote and I thought it said everything the first one said, but better. But, from here on out, there is no editing. It's straight off the top. It's a cleanse.
I've been cleaning and watching a VH1 80's countdown marathon. I am simply fascinated with stories behind songs.
From U2's "In the Name of Love," to Poison's "Every Rose Has its Thorn," I have been clinging on the back story. Some are better than others, but they are all good. Even if they're bad. Which brings me to the world today.
Back in the 90's it was hip to talk about the future of what was being called "desktop publishing." What are you gonna do with your life, son? "I'm gonna be a desktop publisher." There's no way my parents could understand that concept because I couldn't even understand it. Computers were blowing up and no a day has gone by since when I haven't been amazed by the possibilities.
It has literally shrunk the world and leveled the playing field in ways that, even today, people don't understand. The Long Tail is a concept (or science) that basically says marketing to the masses is old thinking and music is a great example of an industry that is at a crossroads. Artists don't sell millions of records anymore and the labels are scrambling to figure out how to survive and thrive in a world of desktop selling artists.
I'm not sure how many cities there are in the world, but for the sake of argument, let's say there are 10,000. If an artist can directly sell a song to an average of 5 people in every city that's $50,000 in sales with no label in the middle. Of course that is an oversimplification, but the point is that people can find a niche that doesn't even register with the mainstream and create a career. Whatever, I'm rambling, but it's important because now is the time for dreams to come true. For you, for me, for anyone whose had an idea. It just takes a leap of faith. One that I am trying to find.
So, Queen's "Under Pressure" was just on VH1 and they had an interview with Vanilla Ice who was accused of stealing their bass line for his first big hit. Ice pulled a complete Milli Vanilli by verbally interpreting the bass and claiming it was different, but his example was exactly the same.
I once heard someone say, "Everything is cliche'" and I think there's a lot of truth there, but it's probably a cultural analogy of the Long Tail. There's similarities, bits and pieces of everything in this big melting pot of creativity. How can there not be? Everyone is creative and the Internet along with technology has thrust everyone into the game. That is, if they want to play.
This doesn't seem to be working for me, but at least it's something.
