Return to the gym
Lately, the gym and I have been enemies, but tonight we had a reunion. As I got to the check in counter I realized that my key chain membership card had once again fallen off and stood in line to get a new one. It took the young black girl 4 times to find me in the computer and after three my innate paranoia kicked into gear. Surely something got screwed up in the billing. Or I haven't been here in so long they assumed I quit, but eventually there was my dorky smile from the picture they took 8 years ago.
She said, "Your hair looks different in that picture."
I told her it should, I was only 12 when they took it. She seemed to like that and took a strange turn toward paying me genuine attention.
"Yeah, it's like you have a faux hawk going."
I looked closer and I did. My hair was trimmed down and looked pretty sweet.
"Which one do you like better him or me?"
She laughed and I walked toward the locker room feeling good and bad about myself.
The plan was simple. Loosen up with a few walking laps around the track then do a light round of the circuit training to "ease back into my workouts."
After about one walking lap, I couldn't fathom not jogging, so I took off and said to myself, "You're gonna do 20 laps." Okay, I said back.
Three laps in I changed my agreement to 10 laps and was finishing number 9 when a friend saw me and started jogging along. We had to talk about a video project and sure as hell didn't want to stop after one lap, so I kept going. I think I got to 16.
Birthdays and Freak Shows
Where do we go from here? Since this is my birthday I have made yet another commitment to writing. It is my dream, my passion, and it typically takes a backseat. The reason I like to write is because there are no boundaries. The reader's mind paints its own picture and anything is possible.
Today is the first day of my new work schedule. I will now be going in at noon and staying till 9. For most that probably sounds strange, but it fits my lifestyle perfectly. For one, I am not a morning person, especially when that translates to waking up and going straight to work. Today, for example, I got up at roughly the same time and went to work out. Took it slow and woke up at my own pace. Did a few things around the apartment and now have time to write. I'm also meeting co-workers for lunch at noon, so I'll be late on my first day.
But anyway... I just remembered I'm supposed to be funny, so I'd like to get back in that groove of social observation and satire.
I've been going to the YMCA for years now and typically go at night. The last two times before today, I noticed a man sitting in the lobby with his laptop and a full on headset. I thought, damn, that dude is knocking out a podcast straight from the YMCA. Kinda cool. Then as I left I heard something along the lines of "You sure as hell wouldn't like it if I did the same thing to YOUR wife." I'm like, huh? What is this dude doing here? Skyping from the "Y" lobby with his buddy? It wouldn't have been "SO" awkward, but he was there when I came in and left. I mean, really? Do you have to sit in the Y lobby and talk on your computer?
But the kicker was this morning. Completely different time of the day and he's there again! Sitting with his headset and blasting out conversation with no care in the world. The balls of that guy! I both loved and hated the situation. I thought, man, I could never do that... it's just too..... weird.... Then it took on the air of creepy. An older guy sitting there with his lame looking PC talking on the horn. Free WiFi... I get that part, but does he sit there all day and night? Talking non-sense at the top of his lungs? And how uncomfortable must that be for employees who see him wearing a hole in the new chairs?
I think I'm gonna get to the bottom of this if he's there tomorrow. Dude, you gotta fill me in on this podcast...
Saturday is Halloween... my favorite holiday, but since I stopped drinking it is oozing with anxiety this year. I used to love getting dressed up in the freakiest of costumes, getting into a different character and pounding beers. Can I really go to these off the wall parties and just drink water? I don't know... why do I not drink anymore? Has it changed my life? I can't really tell, but think it has something to do with the gradual nature of changes like this. It's like watching construction of a building. You can watch for days on end while they are wiring but nothing seems to be happening. Then one day....BAM... that building is amazing. Is that what it's like when you make life changes? Slowly, but surely your life comes together... then one day it all clicks? Let's hope.
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.
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.
