San Francisco is blessed with a large homeless population. When I moved to the Bay Area from Iowa in 2000, interacting with homeless people was a new experience for me. Willie Brown, the mayor of San Francisco at the time, was engaged in an active battle against the homeless. Millions of dollars were spent on things like confiscating shopping carts and removing park benches. There were no public restrooms and busking (street performing) required purchasing a permit. Meanwhile, housing costs soared, largely due to an influx of money from Silicon Valley, and the climate remained balmy year round, so the net effect of these policies were solely to increase the suffering of the homeless.
I couldn’t afford to live in San Francisco, so I lived in Richmond on the Easy Bay. When Amy and I moved there, I quickly got a part-time job as a barista at the coffee shop in Borders books in Emeryville, landed an internship at a recording studio complex in The City and joined a weekly jazz improvisation workshop. (For the unaware, “The City” is San Francisco’s rather smug and, if you live there, only acceptable nickname.) Amy got a full-time job in Berkeley. We shared a 1986 Toyota Tercel- she usually used it during the day and I used it whenever I had to haul my drumset somewhere. Most of the time, I got around using BART, the area’s monorail system, whose furthest north station was very close to our quadplex apartment, where rent was $800 per month plus utilities.
In San Francisco, I worked in the Tenderloin district, which is sort of in the middle of town but well removed from tourists, in a well-tagged (graffitied) area full of amazing Thai restaurants and taquerias. The recording studio was about four blocks north of the Civic Center Plaza BART station. The train ride took 45 minutes and costed something like $3.25 each way. The last train left the first station at midnight, and whenever I missed it I slept on a couch in a hallway of the studio.
One day, not long after I’d starting working at the recording studio, an engineer was chatting with me about the homeless in the area. He had a BMW motorcycle, and felt bad that he worried about parking it at the motorcycle parking area next to the BART station, because there were always so many people milling about it. What he would do, when he parked his bike, was give money to a nearby homeless person and say, “Could you watch my bike while you’re, please?” His worry was when he returned and if the same person was there, things could get socially awkward, because, well, dealing with homeless people is awkward.
During this conversation, I buzzed Paul Stubblebine in through the heavy blue door. Paul was a highly-regarded mastering engineer who had presumably worked at the studio for awhile, and was one of those guys who you immediately realized was highly competent. In truth, as I would find out later, he was an extraordinary human being. I’m going to segue a bit here so I can tell my Paul Stubblebine story:
On two occasions while I was there, Paul was hired as a recording/mixing engineer and I was assigned to be his assistant. During one of these sessions, Paul went to the restroom while the band was listening to a mix he had done. While he was away, one of the band members asked if I could turn the guitar up and vocals down a little. Strictly speaking, this was a major no-no; I had no business touching the famed Neve 8038 console. But, being a brash kid, I marked the location of the faders in question with a grease pencil and moved them both half a decibel. Now, answering the question, “How loud is a decibel?” is a complicated one; it doesn’t even make sense to describe decibels in terms of how far you move the fader. Roughly speaking, an increase of 10 decibels is twice as loud. (To truly understand how decibels are calculated, you have to understand the neper, and I don’t.) Half a decibel is about how far you need to adjust the volume to create a minimally perceptible difference. The minimum you can adjust most modern consumer volume knobs is a full decibel.
Paul returned to the mixing room, and while sitting down- so before he was even situated between the speakers- he nonchalantly reached out and adjusted the two faders back to where I had marked their original locations. Everyone who witnessed this realized the appropriate volumes of the guitar and vocals within the mix were definitive. I was too speechless to ever admit I had even moved the faders. It was, and is, the most superhuman thing I have ever witnessed a person do. The only other thing I can think of that comes close is watching Barry Bonds effortlessly crush a baseball.
Anyway, the engineer with the motorcycle asked Paul how he dealt with the homeless. Paul said he followed advice he had been given when he had first come to the area- find one homeless person that resonates with you and give them whatever change you have in your pocket every time you see them. When he said this, I immediately thought of a person who I had ignored asking if I wanted to buy a poem a few days prior.
The person in question was a gaunt, sickly woman draped in layers of rags who looked to be in her 50’s, with long, thinning reddish-brown hair. It was evident she had a drug problem.
People often say that they don’t like to give money to homeless because they will just spend it on booze and drugs. This rationalization hides behind the arrogant premise that we are qualified to judge what others spend their money on. These same people will then proudly explain that their concern is for the other’s health and safety. To follow this logic, the reason they don’t give is out of compassion and charity. They would rather give food, shelter or jobs to the homeless. They don’t do any of those things, of course, but that’s what they “would rather” do. It is telling of our society that those who have a place to sleep at night become so haughty toward those who don’t. I didn’t have food, shelter or jobs to offer, so I began giving this lady my spare change whenever I had it. When I did not have change, I would at least smile and say, “hi!”
In return, she would sometimes give me incoherent scribbling on scraps of paper. Some days, she would chat with me in slurred, garbled speech that I could barely decipher, and I would find myself struggling to stand, smile and listen instead of hurrying on my way. Other days she would be listless and sad and I would feel compelled to talk to her. I found out her name was Candi. I would not have pegged her as a Candi- those kinds of names were more common further up by Van Ness and Post- but I never did find out much about who she was or where she had come from.
One day Candi said she had written a poem especially for me. She fished through her pockets, found it and gave it to me. It was basically, “Andrew I love you.” I felt honored that she actually knew my name. For me, Candi was a face among the faceless. Until then, it had not really occurred to me that I was the same for her.
I would often see Candi twice a day for the next couple of years, and it was the thing I most looked forward to on my trips to and from work. Of course, sometimes she wouldn’t be there. If I didn’t see Candi for a week, I would begin to worry. She wasn’t the type of person about whom you’d think, maybe she found a place to live. In the end I was the one who disappeared for good- and I suppose this was something she was used to.
I have been privileged to meet many amazing people throughout the years, including Paul Stubblebine, but no one has been more important or influential on me and how I perceive the world than Candi. I wish I had thanked her.
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Monday, January 5, 2015
Friday, February 21, 2014
Portland, Part II
Carl and Ann, Jeremy and Sandy and Rachel and I started meeting up at the Hedge House every Tuesday night to take advantage of the weekly $2.50 pint special offered by all of the Lompoc Brewery destinations. I liked their Sockeye Cream Stout, especially on nitro, but their popular beer was C-Note IPA. The Hedge House was a small, clean place with a nice outdoor area in easy walking distance from where I was living.
Carl and I had met playing hacky-sack and then had been in a couple bands together back in the ‘90’s. The two of us had a great rapport and could riff together effortlessly for hours, both musically and comically. When Jeremy’s dry, understated observations were added to the mix, the shit got over-the-top. Carl would alternate between trying to make Ann laugh and gross her out. It was easy for anybody to make Sandy laugh. I was constantly trying to make Rachel laugh, and was usually successful. She had a boisterous, infectious cackle that softened the cloud of sadness that usually hung over her, especially when she was in Portland. She didn’t want to be in Portland. I think that’s why we went on camping trips as often as we could.
I enjoyed these regular social engagements precisely because I am not a sociable person. A major reason for, or perhaps result of this is that I’ve never gotten the hang of the unwritten rule that you’re generally supposed to do little more than amuse, indulge and placate others in group settings. Once I had a set of friends who understood that whatever I said was probably going to be inappropriate, I didn’t want to waver from them.
That is why it would be sometime before I went to “Tuna Tuesday,” which one of my co-workers, a genuinely quirky girl named Molly, persistently invited me to. Although I’ve heard her explain it several times, I don’t exactly recall the origins of Tuna Tuesday, but think it was a tradition Ted and Molly had inherited several years prior. Molly culled Portland’s art studios and super markets, looking for overly-educated, underpaid 20-somethings to invite over to this BYOB gathering, and Ted and Molly made and served Tuna sandwiches. That was pretty much it.
Neither Rachel nor I knew how to cook, so we worked together figuring it out. We made a lot of pasta dishes, which we paired with every red wine sold at Trader Joe’s. Then we started getting wines, breads and cheeses from a nearby Italian specialty shop, but that quickly got expensive, so we switched to sampling bourbons. Instead of finishing off one bourbon before moving on to the next, we saved the last few ounces until we had five or six that we would drink together with Rachel’s roommates in a blind tasting. On the second such tasting, we were surprised by the winner, so we tried the same bourbons again and a different one was the best- but it was in the same glass that had contained the winner the first time. (We were just using random shot glasses.) So finally, I put the same bourbon in both the winning glass and another, and was quite blown away by the difference the glass made.
Rachel had a roommate who worked as a bartender in a Peruvian restaurant. He spent his days sullying their kitchen with fruity rum-based cocktail combinations. They were too sweet for my palate, but he had several cocktail books lying around, and one day I read one in which each chapter explored both the life of an author and a beverage they are connected with, and it piqued my interest. I ordered a martini at a restaurant, since I’d never tried one before, and it was absolutely disgusting. I intuited that cocktail-making might be a lost art which had led to a public preference for drinks that tasted like Kool-Aid, and began buying and experimenting with cocktail-making ingredients, apparatus and glassware, reading cocktail books and seeking out competent bartenders to order drinks from.
In the autumn of 2007, Rachel and I moved into the Tuna Tuesday house with Molly, which was not far from both Carl and Ann and Jeremy and Sandy. But while Rachel and I now stayed home to be part of the household festivities on Tuesdays, they went to Fifth Quadrant, which was now the closest, but much less cozy, Lompoc location. Rachel and I began going out to eat every Friday evening.
On one summer Friday in 2008, Rachel didn’t return home from work. I called and asked if we were still planning on going out to eat that night, and she said, “No.” She stopped answering the phone after that. A few weeks later, I moved from the Tuna Tuesday home into my first ever solely occupied apartment, bought a pickup truck (with money granted from my mom) and switched from bourbon to Scotch. Looking back, I think the most important thing I lost when Rachel disappeared was an incentive to be funny.
Carl and I had met playing hacky-sack and then had been in a couple bands together back in the ‘90’s. The two of us had a great rapport and could riff together effortlessly for hours, both musically and comically. When Jeremy’s dry, understated observations were added to the mix, the shit got over-the-top. Carl would alternate between trying to make Ann laugh and gross her out. It was easy for anybody to make Sandy laugh. I was constantly trying to make Rachel laugh, and was usually successful. She had a boisterous, infectious cackle that softened the cloud of sadness that usually hung over her, especially when she was in Portland. She didn’t want to be in Portland. I think that’s why we went on camping trips as often as we could.
I enjoyed these regular social engagements precisely because I am not a sociable person. A major reason for, or perhaps result of this is that I’ve never gotten the hang of the unwritten rule that you’re generally supposed to do little more than amuse, indulge and placate others in group settings. Once I had a set of friends who understood that whatever I said was probably going to be inappropriate, I didn’t want to waver from them.
That is why it would be sometime before I went to “Tuna Tuesday,” which one of my co-workers, a genuinely quirky girl named Molly, persistently invited me to. Although I’ve heard her explain it several times, I don’t exactly recall the origins of Tuna Tuesday, but think it was a tradition Ted and Molly had inherited several years prior. Molly culled Portland’s art studios and super markets, looking for overly-educated, underpaid 20-somethings to invite over to this BYOB gathering, and Ted and Molly made and served Tuna sandwiches. That was pretty much it.
Neither Rachel nor I knew how to cook, so we worked together figuring it out. We made a lot of pasta dishes, which we paired with every red wine sold at Trader Joe’s. Then we started getting wines, breads and cheeses from a nearby Italian specialty shop, but that quickly got expensive, so we switched to sampling bourbons. Instead of finishing off one bourbon before moving on to the next, we saved the last few ounces until we had five or six that we would drink together with Rachel’s roommates in a blind tasting. On the second such tasting, we were surprised by the winner, so we tried the same bourbons again and a different one was the best- but it was in the same glass that had contained the winner the first time. (We were just using random shot glasses.) So finally, I put the same bourbon in both the winning glass and another, and was quite blown away by the difference the glass made.
Rachel had a roommate who worked as a bartender in a Peruvian restaurant. He spent his days sullying their kitchen with fruity rum-based cocktail combinations. They were too sweet for my palate, but he had several cocktail books lying around, and one day I read one in which each chapter explored both the life of an author and a beverage they are connected with, and it piqued my interest. I ordered a martini at a restaurant, since I’d never tried one before, and it was absolutely disgusting. I intuited that cocktail-making might be a lost art which had led to a public preference for drinks that tasted like Kool-Aid, and began buying and experimenting with cocktail-making ingredients, apparatus and glassware, reading cocktail books and seeking out competent bartenders to order drinks from.
In the autumn of 2007, Rachel and I moved into the Tuna Tuesday house with Molly, which was not far from both Carl and Ann and Jeremy and Sandy. But while Rachel and I now stayed home to be part of the household festivities on Tuesdays, they went to Fifth Quadrant, which was now the closest, but much less cozy, Lompoc location. Rachel and I began going out to eat every Friday evening.
On one summer Friday in 2008, Rachel didn’t return home from work. I called and asked if we were still planning on going out to eat that night, and she said, “No.” She stopped answering the phone after that. A few weeks later, I moved from the Tuna Tuesday home into my first ever solely occupied apartment, bought a pickup truck (with money granted from my mom) and switched from bourbon to Scotch. Looking back, I think the most important thing I lost when Rachel disappeared was an incentive to be funny.
Monday, February 17, 2014
Portland, Part I
My reasons for moving to Portland, Oregon on Halloween of 2005 were fairly simple: I knew people there, it was on the west coast and I needed to get out of the San Francisco Bay Area rat race. My primary goal upon arriving in Portland was to entrench myself in the local experimental music scene. I was both excited and confident in the development of my personal musical vision that had been formed over five years of intensive listening, practice and performance while in the Bay Area, which offered an atmosphere of many talented, educated and/or veteran musicians hungry to discover sonic potentialities, both improvised and compositional. Upwards of a hundred of us bounced between several underground clubs, aggressively pushing boundaries and challenging conventions. We intentionally tortured our instruments with alternate tunings, techniques and all manner of objects. We liked things fractured, microtonal and transitory.
Among the first people I met in Portland, at a competent music performance I attended the Friday after my arrival, was a welcoming girl named Whitney. She was taking money at the door. I paid in loose change representing, very literally, the last of my life’s savings. When I mentioned I was a drummer and new in town, she invited me to play along as atmospheric accompaniment for a contact dance group on Monday night. I didn’t know what contact dance was, but it proved an interesting opportunity to explore percussive textures and ambiences. Afterwards, Whitney invited me to join a housewarming party at the yurt she was moving into on the outskirts of town. Yep- a yurt. It was actually in a sheep pasture, and you had to be wary of the ram on the walk in.
Whitney had said she was going to spend that day hiking a trail near her novel dwelling and anyone was free to join her, but I was the only person that showed up for that. We talked about our somewhat sympathetic, somewhat divergent plans for the future as we walked. Whitney was never shy about voicing her views but also listened respectfully to my overly-opinionated opinions. She was focused, but didn’t take herself seriously. I never worried about offending her and vice versa. After the walk, a group of around a dozen or so gathered in the yurt and we spent the evening eating snacks, stoking the wood fire and playing the card game “Mafia.” It was one of the best nights I would ever spend in Portland, and it was my second weekend there….
Not long after, I attended a gathering in a warehouse featuring a cast of musicians and dancers in a continuous 12 hour performance, perhaps to celebrate the winter solstice, although I don’t exactly recall. The possibilities in exploration and experimentation over such a long period promised to bring out the best in what Portland musicians had to offer. Instead, they just spent the seven hours I was there playing un-interactive atmospheric whole tones. My approach would have been to drain all of my energy into the music and then find a way to keep going; theirs was to conserve as much energy as possible. I suppose they were envisioning a meditation on understatement and simplicity, but I found it absolutely appalling.
The bulk of the “fringe” musicians in Portland were either into contemporary hip-hop like Kanye West or late 19th and 20th Century French Classical composers such as Messiaen and Saint-Saens. (There was also a strong interest in Indian Classical music, which I adore, but the pretentiousness of those who attended such events was through the roof.) Portlanders preferred pure tones, rustic melodies and soothing harmonies. It soon became evident that nobody was interested in my musical vision, which was heavily influenced by mid 20th century European improv., spearheaded by the likes of Peter Brotzmann, Evan Parker and Alexander von Schlippenbach. To the uninitiated, it sounds like noise, and indeed the musicians I encountered who attempted pure improv. did so by simply making noise, which I found infuriating and they observed to be pointless.
I decided to take things into my own hands and developed a monthly class introducing improvisational music concepts, expanding on a project I had curated at a venue in Oakland before it got turned into a parking lot. I held these workshops, thanks to Noah Mickens, in one of the surprisingly few performance venues in town. It lasted for about four sessions, and then Noah was fired as the promoter for that club.
I was invited to participate as part of a series of duet performances organized by Tim DuRoche, who was essentially the only jazz drummer in town and also someone familiar with the Bay Area scene. I had continued to join and play along with Whitney and the other contact dancers every Monday, and chose one of them to be the other half of my duet. I think Whitney was a bit miffed I didn’t choose her, but her dancing style was hip, elegant and suave, whereas the girl I wanted to work with was intense, abrupt and somewhat bipolar. Because Music and Dance by Derek Bailey and Min Tanaka is one of those pieces that had profoundly affected me about five years prior, I was very keen on the prospect, and indeed I thought our performance was fantastic.
Playing music is controlling an avalanche of moments in time. I endeavored to pour my entire being into each one of those moments. There were times when I felt this task had been successful to the point that I’d feel as I’d become detached from my body or begin seeing the music as colors or creatures, and whenever that occurred, I sort of had this anticipation, when the music finally stopped, that the entire universe would have been somehow radically changed. Perhaps the audience would be so alight with epiphanies they’d begin floating toward the ceiling or something. Instead, in California anyway, these moments would be met with polite applause. In Portland, they were met with the audience politely asking each other if there was any way to politely remove themselves from earshot as quickly as possible.
After the duet performance, the dancer said she was not interested in doing any other work together. I contacted and played with every musician whose name and number I could get a hold of, but nothing developed. I played several times with a girl who sang with an almost-absurd child-like voice, and finally she explained she was looking for a drummer like the one that played for Neutral Milk Hotel. After listening to one of their albums, I suggested she should find a young, inexperienced drummer enthusiastic about showing off the one lick they had learned, and she did.
In the meanwhile, I had quickly acquired a job a few blocks from the room-share where I lived, at a UPS Store. It was a really dumb job and I had to work weekend. Despite that, I kept a busy social life that first winter in Portland, due to Whitney always including me on various group excursions. I would not realize how novel being sociable during the winter was in Portland until later. Also, the weekend work was relatively fun because the managers weren’t there and my co-workers were often just Rachel and Cole, and the three of us got along famously.
Whitney was originally from Illinois, and I don’t even think she had been in Portland very long, but because she was the first person I met there, she had completely skewed my perception of the so-called City of Roses. In the spring, she moved away and joined a successful dance troupe based in New York City. I stopped going to the Monday night contact dance thing and gave up looking for musicians to play with. I finished up a manual on drumming insights that I had begun shortly after moving to the Bay Area back in 2000. For many years now, music had been more important to me than life itself. It seemed now that all music was good for was making me delusional. It was time to change that paradigm, and learn to enjoy living.
Rachel and I decided we should get jobs where we had the weekends free. After doing so, we spent the summer camping in the various environments offered throughout Oregon and Washington. It was sublime.
Among the first people I met in Portland, at a competent music performance I attended the Friday after my arrival, was a welcoming girl named Whitney. She was taking money at the door. I paid in loose change representing, very literally, the last of my life’s savings. When I mentioned I was a drummer and new in town, she invited me to play along as atmospheric accompaniment for a contact dance group on Monday night. I didn’t know what contact dance was, but it proved an interesting opportunity to explore percussive textures and ambiences. Afterwards, Whitney invited me to join a housewarming party at the yurt she was moving into on the outskirts of town. Yep- a yurt. It was actually in a sheep pasture, and you had to be wary of the ram on the walk in.
Whitney had said she was going to spend that day hiking a trail near her novel dwelling and anyone was free to join her, but I was the only person that showed up for that. We talked about our somewhat sympathetic, somewhat divergent plans for the future as we walked. Whitney was never shy about voicing her views but also listened respectfully to my overly-opinionated opinions. She was focused, but didn’t take herself seriously. I never worried about offending her and vice versa. After the walk, a group of around a dozen or so gathered in the yurt and we spent the evening eating snacks, stoking the wood fire and playing the card game “Mafia.” It was one of the best nights I would ever spend in Portland, and it was my second weekend there….
Not long after, I attended a gathering in a warehouse featuring a cast of musicians and dancers in a continuous 12 hour performance, perhaps to celebrate the winter solstice, although I don’t exactly recall. The possibilities in exploration and experimentation over such a long period promised to bring out the best in what Portland musicians had to offer. Instead, they just spent the seven hours I was there playing un-interactive atmospheric whole tones. My approach would have been to drain all of my energy into the music and then find a way to keep going; theirs was to conserve as much energy as possible. I suppose they were envisioning a meditation on understatement and simplicity, but I found it absolutely appalling.
The bulk of the “fringe” musicians in Portland were either into contemporary hip-hop like Kanye West or late 19th and 20th Century French Classical composers such as Messiaen and Saint-Saens. (There was also a strong interest in Indian Classical music, which I adore, but the pretentiousness of those who attended such events was through the roof.) Portlanders preferred pure tones, rustic melodies and soothing harmonies. It soon became evident that nobody was interested in my musical vision, which was heavily influenced by mid 20th century European improv., spearheaded by the likes of Peter Brotzmann, Evan Parker and Alexander von Schlippenbach. To the uninitiated, it sounds like noise, and indeed the musicians I encountered who attempted pure improv. did so by simply making noise, which I found infuriating and they observed to be pointless.
I decided to take things into my own hands and developed a monthly class introducing improvisational music concepts, expanding on a project I had curated at a venue in Oakland before it got turned into a parking lot. I held these workshops, thanks to Noah Mickens, in one of the surprisingly few performance venues in town. It lasted for about four sessions, and then Noah was fired as the promoter for that club.
I was invited to participate as part of a series of duet performances organized by Tim DuRoche, who was essentially the only jazz drummer in town and also someone familiar with the Bay Area scene. I had continued to join and play along with Whitney and the other contact dancers every Monday, and chose one of them to be the other half of my duet. I think Whitney was a bit miffed I didn’t choose her, but her dancing style was hip, elegant and suave, whereas the girl I wanted to work with was intense, abrupt and somewhat bipolar. Because Music and Dance by Derek Bailey and Min Tanaka is one of those pieces that had profoundly affected me about five years prior, I was very keen on the prospect, and indeed I thought our performance was fantastic.
Playing music is controlling an avalanche of moments in time. I endeavored to pour my entire being into each one of those moments. There were times when I felt this task had been successful to the point that I’d feel as I’d become detached from my body or begin seeing the music as colors or creatures, and whenever that occurred, I sort of had this anticipation, when the music finally stopped, that the entire universe would have been somehow radically changed. Perhaps the audience would be so alight with epiphanies they’d begin floating toward the ceiling or something. Instead, in California anyway, these moments would be met with polite applause. In Portland, they were met with the audience politely asking each other if there was any way to politely remove themselves from earshot as quickly as possible.
After the duet performance, the dancer said she was not interested in doing any other work together. I contacted and played with every musician whose name and number I could get a hold of, but nothing developed. I played several times with a girl who sang with an almost-absurd child-like voice, and finally she explained she was looking for a drummer like the one that played for Neutral Milk Hotel. After listening to one of their albums, I suggested she should find a young, inexperienced drummer enthusiastic about showing off the one lick they had learned, and she did.
In the meanwhile, I had quickly acquired a job a few blocks from the room-share where I lived, at a UPS Store. It was a really dumb job and I had to work weekend. Despite that, I kept a busy social life that first winter in Portland, due to Whitney always including me on various group excursions. I would not realize how novel being sociable during the winter was in Portland until later. Also, the weekend work was relatively fun because the managers weren’t there and my co-workers were often just Rachel and Cole, and the three of us got along famously.
Whitney was originally from Illinois, and I don’t even think she had been in Portland very long, but because she was the first person I met there, she had completely skewed my perception of the so-called City of Roses. In the spring, she moved away and joined a successful dance troupe based in New York City. I stopped going to the Monday night contact dance thing and gave up looking for musicians to play with. I finished up a manual on drumming insights that I had begun shortly after moving to the Bay Area back in 2000. For many years now, music had been more important to me than life itself. It seemed now that all music was good for was making me delusional. It was time to change that paradigm, and learn to enjoy living.
Rachel and I decided we should get jobs where we had the weekends free. After doing so, we spent the summer camping in the various environments offered throughout Oregon and Washington. It was sublime.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Inspirations
The greatest gift life has to offer is the opportunity to be blindsided by sublimity. Perceptive people are confronted by inspirations compelling enough that they merge with overwhelming. The triggers for these passions are impossible to calculate or explain, so it is not surprising that frustration is passion’s frequent companion. Maybe that’s why some actively avoid risking confrontations with anything potentially stimulating. This can also be due to fear, prudence or laziness. Others somehow manage to obliviously navigate through existence content with an uninspired impression or incapable of anything other than torpidity. This definitively demonstrates a divergence in genetic brain chemistry between humans.
Skepticism surrounding inspiration is understandable, especially since inspiring things, such as phrases, are often used to disguise untruths. It is probably impossible to determine whether someone is skeptical of a thing that excites or that a thing can elicit excitement for them regardless of the experiences of others. For instance, many are incredulous that drumming can induce hallucinations despite the many cultures that have been using it for this purpose for millennia, but rather than explore the possibility they will dismiss these practices as witchcraft. It is indeed a common conclusion that the existence of things that can evoke such intense sensual phenomena are undeniable proof of supernatural consciousness. On the contrary, from my perspective, the extreme diversity in what can thrill us demonstrates subjective experiences exist independent of any universally objective reality, purpose, truth or ideal.
The novice artist’s response to something inspiring is to attempt to preserve, dissect, and/or replicate it. This compulsion stems from a desire to understand, relive and share these things which seem to make life worthwhile, and can result in everything from covering your bedroom walls with posters of your favorite sports team to moving to France to craft burgundy wine. Further, it is not absurd to assume that capturing an embodiment of some profound and relevant experience could bring relevance and import to oneself. Strong inspirations can re-manifest themselves as motivation and drive.
I tend to be suspicious of those that don’t obsess over whatever might intrigue them, assuming they either lack commitment or soul. I find flippancy preposterous. In truth, some simply aren’t that curious. Habit and routine are important for keeping us comfortable, productive and sane, but they don’t provide joy. The thing that probably best encapsulates that which brings us the most joy is experiencing magic. Learning the processes behind a trick risks despoiling the magic, but also opens up the opportunity of appreciating another, more profound magic contained in the process itself. Further, the wielder of magic possesses a certain power, which can be used to impress or make money.
The secret of an inspirational experience lies in confronting perceived uniqueness, and of course that cannot be replicated through imitation. A more mature artistic response to being inspired is to attempt to generate novel concepts, which usually includes a fresh take on an old idea. To this end, it is more constructive to absorb perspectives that do not resemble our own. That is not to suggest influences should be avoided for fear of replicating them. In fact, there is no reason to assume that being influenced by someone will turn oneself into a clone or that avoiding influences will prevent duplication. The best influences are those that spark and encourage your own creative juices regardless of the ease with which they can be replicated. It is not uncommon for me to watch a video of an influential drummer and continue to find it challenging to try to pick out how they’re approaching the instrument. At other times, I’ll witness a drummer I’ve never listened to before approach things very similar to myself. I have found both of these experiences inspiring. This reveals the importance of having exposure in order to develop novel ideas and avoid limiting the information from which expansion and growth can occur. I am extremely wary of those who claim to have no influences, because if they aren’t just liars trying to take undue credit, it is probable they are undeveloped, unintentional imitators.
Inspirations that inform and stimulate our pursuits intertwine themselves into our being, until any perceived slight of them seems a personal affront. It is easy to take another’s disinterest or disapproval of our interests as a personal rejection. Ironically, our willingness to defend our own influences does not prevent us from ridiculing those of others, and we do so without fathoming why another would take it personally. I suppose it’s unavoidable to not have strong opinions regarding the things we are passionate about, as it is easy to forget that our inspirations are subjectively relative to our experiences, expectations and interests. Nostalgia and context are non-transferable. Also, memory is unreliable, which is why I no childhood inspiration should be assumed to contain quality. Perhaps these are most useful in giving us experience to relate from and encouraging us to continue to explore.
I feel that having a solid foundation of relevant human history is the only way to have an adequate context for making judgments. It is useless to be provided book recommendations from someone who has never read the classics or listen to someone gushing about the architecture of a particular city if that’s the only one they’ve ever been in. A couple years ago, someone extolled a movie, enthralled by how it was filmed “just like they did it in the 20’s.” When I responded that that’s a pretty broad range of cinema and asked which particular movies, genres or directors it reminded him of, he fell silent. I wasn’t surprised upon watching the movie to find, outside of being a “silent” movie, it didn’t actually resemble early cinematography in the least.
There is usefulness in seeking out those with common interests. I keep a mental record of those with movie tastes similar to mine, and put a lot of stock in their recommendations. Far beyond that, there is something magical in harmonically shared tastes. A couple years ago, I was completely enthralled by an exhibit of these three-dimensional boxes covered with windows and collages of artifacts at an art museum in New Orleans and was gobsmacked upon discovering my companion knew everything about these “shadow boxes” and their creator, Joseph Cornell. A trivial connection such as this can create a genuinely strong bond. Our brain seeks linkages between various interests and pursuits, so that we are not only attracted to those with common interests, but we are compelled to introduce and encourage our loved ones to empathize with our delights. In fact, our human impulse to connect with others easily overwhelms any inclination to simply be silently content with our own amusements.
I read a study that claimed shared preferences are less important in creating attachments than mutual dislikes. Without knowing the specifics of this study, I’m willing to guess this is partly due to the fact that it is easier to find general dislikes than it is to connect with specific likes. It might not particularly matter if another appreciates Evan Parker or Tool, because what are the odds of that, so long as they don’t love smooth jazz or 1990’s era boy bands, for example. I am easily irritated by things others are interested in that I find plebian. For every Cornell shadow box there are 10,000 insipid craft ideas on Pinterest.
We can become unreasonably annoyed when confronted with the reality that our influences or irritants aren’t universally appreciated or shared. Perhaps we worry that if our passions aren’t validated, our pursuits are a waste of time. Although many (frighteningly) seem to desire a homogenous world in which everyone is attracted to the same thing, even those who don’t experience legitimate confusion as to how something that can inspire us so much affects others so little.
Growing up, I had a subscription to National Geographic, and one of my favorite articles was on the restoration of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel paintings. I was mesmerized with the whimsically muscular caricatures cleverly intertwined to symbolically communicate stories and ideas. Years later, I met someone who had actually been there when she was twelve who described it as “dumb.” That effectively removed for me any legitimacy to her artistic palate. While that may be an extreme reaction, I found myself unable to excuse her adamant opinion. When I was around twelve, I thought to myself, I had been completely blown away by a gigantic canvas covered with layer upon layer of shades of white paint by Rauschenberg at the Art Institute of Chicago.
Our inclination is to paint everything surrounding something that we are keen on in the best possible light, which makes it difficult to place inspirations in proper context. It requires maturity to balance expectations with reality and maintain a sound perspective of vitality and relevance. While good or bad and right or wrong are not always subjective ideas, they usually are. Similarly, we easily forget the disparity between things that encourage us and their creators. It is important to maintain the perspective that having the ability to demonstrate talent or competence does not make one a decent human being, and that having unfavorable traits does not of necessity taint the entirety of one’s work.
Skepticism surrounding inspiration is understandable, especially since inspiring things, such as phrases, are often used to disguise untruths. It is probably impossible to determine whether someone is skeptical of a thing that excites or that a thing can elicit excitement for them regardless of the experiences of others. For instance, many are incredulous that drumming can induce hallucinations despite the many cultures that have been using it for this purpose for millennia, but rather than explore the possibility they will dismiss these practices as witchcraft. It is indeed a common conclusion that the existence of things that can evoke such intense sensual phenomena are undeniable proof of supernatural consciousness. On the contrary, from my perspective, the extreme diversity in what can thrill us demonstrates subjective experiences exist independent of any universally objective reality, purpose, truth or ideal.
The novice artist’s response to something inspiring is to attempt to preserve, dissect, and/or replicate it. This compulsion stems from a desire to understand, relive and share these things which seem to make life worthwhile, and can result in everything from covering your bedroom walls with posters of your favorite sports team to moving to France to craft burgundy wine. Further, it is not absurd to assume that capturing an embodiment of some profound and relevant experience could bring relevance and import to oneself. Strong inspirations can re-manifest themselves as motivation and drive.
I tend to be suspicious of those that don’t obsess over whatever might intrigue them, assuming they either lack commitment or soul. I find flippancy preposterous. In truth, some simply aren’t that curious. Habit and routine are important for keeping us comfortable, productive and sane, but they don’t provide joy. The thing that probably best encapsulates that which brings us the most joy is experiencing magic. Learning the processes behind a trick risks despoiling the magic, but also opens up the opportunity of appreciating another, more profound magic contained in the process itself. Further, the wielder of magic possesses a certain power, which can be used to impress or make money.
The secret of an inspirational experience lies in confronting perceived uniqueness, and of course that cannot be replicated through imitation. A more mature artistic response to being inspired is to attempt to generate novel concepts, which usually includes a fresh take on an old idea. To this end, it is more constructive to absorb perspectives that do not resemble our own. That is not to suggest influences should be avoided for fear of replicating them. In fact, there is no reason to assume that being influenced by someone will turn oneself into a clone or that avoiding influences will prevent duplication. The best influences are those that spark and encourage your own creative juices regardless of the ease with which they can be replicated. It is not uncommon for me to watch a video of an influential drummer and continue to find it challenging to try to pick out how they’re approaching the instrument. At other times, I’ll witness a drummer I’ve never listened to before approach things very similar to myself. I have found both of these experiences inspiring. This reveals the importance of having exposure in order to develop novel ideas and avoid limiting the information from which expansion and growth can occur. I am extremely wary of those who claim to have no influences, because if they aren’t just liars trying to take undue credit, it is probable they are undeveloped, unintentional imitators.
Inspirations that inform and stimulate our pursuits intertwine themselves into our being, until any perceived slight of them seems a personal affront. It is easy to take another’s disinterest or disapproval of our interests as a personal rejection. Ironically, our willingness to defend our own influences does not prevent us from ridiculing those of others, and we do so without fathoming why another would take it personally. I suppose it’s unavoidable to not have strong opinions regarding the things we are passionate about, as it is easy to forget that our inspirations are subjectively relative to our experiences, expectations and interests. Nostalgia and context are non-transferable. Also, memory is unreliable, which is why I no childhood inspiration should be assumed to contain quality. Perhaps these are most useful in giving us experience to relate from and encouraging us to continue to explore.
I feel that having a solid foundation of relevant human history is the only way to have an adequate context for making judgments. It is useless to be provided book recommendations from someone who has never read the classics or listen to someone gushing about the architecture of a particular city if that’s the only one they’ve ever been in. A couple years ago, someone extolled a movie, enthralled by how it was filmed “just like they did it in the 20’s.” When I responded that that’s a pretty broad range of cinema and asked which particular movies, genres or directors it reminded him of, he fell silent. I wasn’t surprised upon watching the movie to find, outside of being a “silent” movie, it didn’t actually resemble early cinematography in the least.
There is usefulness in seeking out those with common interests. I keep a mental record of those with movie tastes similar to mine, and put a lot of stock in their recommendations. Far beyond that, there is something magical in harmonically shared tastes. A couple years ago, I was completely enthralled by an exhibit of these three-dimensional boxes covered with windows and collages of artifacts at an art museum in New Orleans and was gobsmacked upon discovering my companion knew everything about these “shadow boxes” and their creator, Joseph Cornell. A trivial connection such as this can create a genuinely strong bond. Our brain seeks linkages between various interests and pursuits, so that we are not only attracted to those with common interests, but we are compelled to introduce and encourage our loved ones to empathize with our delights. In fact, our human impulse to connect with others easily overwhelms any inclination to simply be silently content with our own amusements.
I read a study that claimed shared preferences are less important in creating attachments than mutual dislikes. Without knowing the specifics of this study, I’m willing to guess this is partly due to the fact that it is easier to find general dislikes than it is to connect with specific likes. It might not particularly matter if another appreciates Evan Parker or Tool, because what are the odds of that, so long as they don’t love smooth jazz or 1990’s era boy bands, for example. I am easily irritated by things others are interested in that I find plebian. For every Cornell shadow box there are 10,000 insipid craft ideas on Pinterest.
We can become unreasonably annoyed when confronted with the reality that our influences or irritants aren’t universally appreciated or shared. Perhaps we worry that if our passions aren’t validated, our pursuits are a waste of time. Although many (frighteningly) seem to desire a homogenous world in which everyone is attracted to the same thing, even those who don’t experience legitimate confusion as to how something that can inspire us so much affects others so little.
Growing up, I had a subscription to National Geographic, and one of my favorite articles was on the restoration of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel paintings. I was mesmerized with the whimsically muscular caricatures cleverly intertwined to symbolically communicate stories and ideas. Years later, I met someone who had actually been there when she was twelve who described it as “dumb.” That effectively removed for me any legitimacy to her artistic palate. While that may be an extreme reaction, I found myself unable to excuse her adamant opinion. When I was around twelve, I thought to myself, I had been completely blown away by a gigantic canvas covered with layer upon layer of shades of white paint by Rauschenberg at the Art Institute of Chicago.
Our inclination is to paint everything surrounding something that we are keen on in the best possible light, which makes it difficult to place inspirations in proper context. It requires maturity to balance expectations with reality and maintain a sound perspective of vitality and relevance. While good or bad and right or wrong are not always subjective ideas, they usually are. Similarly, we easily forget the disparity between things that encourage us and their creators. It is important to maintain the perspective that having the ability to demonstrate talent or competence does not make one a decent human being, and that having unfavorable traits does not of necessity taint the entirety of one’s work.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
How To Fall In Love Without Really Trying
Part One
When I arrived in Iowa, I had gone almost a decade without watching television. Overwhelmed by the hundreds of programs offered on my brother’s gigantic flatscreen, I spent the first several weeks catching myself up to date while looking for work. As nearly everything on television is constantly being rerun, this wasn’t particularly difficult. One day, while flipping through channels, I paused at some program about guys who have romantic relationships with life-sized dolls. At first I thought it was a documentary Janine had recommended, but then I became curious whether the people on it resembled the character played by the satisfyingly ceaselessly creepy Dennis Hopper in the cult classic movie River’s Edge (1986), starring Crispin Glover (in a hilariously quotable performance), Keanu Reeves and Ione Skye. I really, really enjoy this movie, despite the fact the director seems to have had little clue as to what to do with what he potentially had.
One interviewee in this television program explained that he dates dolls because he doesn’t know how to meet real women. Maybe your conversation ice-breaker needs work, I snickered to myself.
One trait I possess but have never been able to fully explain is that, as an anonymous person in a group of people, I am completely uninteresting. I was always the last kid picked for the elementary recess football team, despite the fact that I wasn’t really too bad. Whenever I go to any gathering with a group of male friends, I watch in the background while girls swoon over everyone in my group except me.
However, and this is a big but, if I am able to finagle myself into a one-on-one conversation in a setting relatively free of distractions, I become a bit of a babe magnet, as long as the girl can get (past) my rather tasteless and often punny sense of humor. Other prerequisites include the avoidance of small-talk, which I can never pull off, and someone who finds cockiness and clumsiness attractive when paired.
Perhaps the lynchpin to this contrast in dating success lies in my rather entrancing baby blue eyes, which I can use to full effect only when I capture someone long enough to lock gazes. I tend to not make eye contact with people I have no interest in; it can cause unwanted attention/confusion. (I fully realize these are ridiculous statements to be making of oneself, but my friends with vouch for me that it’s true: my eyes are magic.)
I had pondered the doll fetish guy’s concern long enough that the next time someone whined, “I don’t know how to meet women,” I’d prepared a rather brilliant (I say so myself) response: “I’ll tell you how to meet them if you tell me how to avoid them.”
My eyes get me in trouble sometimes. One nuisance is I have a rather strong weakness for pretty girls. On another television show, one that I actually enjoy, called Iron Chef America, there’s often a curmudgeonly judge named Jeffrey Steingarten, and in one episode he rudely says to the lubricious Jeri Ryan aka Seven of Nine, “It’s no accident that beautiful women have bad personalities- they think they can get away with anything.” It’s a fact, Jack.
Right after my last relationship ended in misery, females were invisible. I had no interest and no sex drive for perhaps the first time since puberty. This was a very nice state to be in, actually, as it greatly tapered distractions. Then one morning about five months after the fiasco, a woman got onto the bus, and as she turned and bent slightly to put her ticket into the machine, I found myself thinking, holy crap that is a fine ass. Uh, oh. Fortunately, she didn’t sit close enough to make eye contact.
I determined that my next tattoo would be an anatomical heart inside of a birdcage on my ribcage, the most painful area I’ve had inked, to remind myself not to let another girl run recklessly off with my easily-seduced and gullible self. It would also bring to mind Molly, who hearts hearts and is my closest female friend with whom I remained prudently platonic.
Part Two
A few months more solidly on my feet, a co-worker asked whether Carolyn and I had met. “I’ve seen her around,” I deadpanned. Carolyn laughed. I instantly wanted to make her laugh more. Too bad she’s so cute, otherwise she might be fun to converse with, I thought. With the exception of her finely contoured backside, I hadn’t looked at her yet.
When we did get around to striking up a conversation, my tat plans somehow came up. The next time I saw her, she stated, “I’ve been thinking about your tattoo idea- the imagery seems pretty intense.” I heard, “I’ve been thinking about you….”
I decided to find out what this chick was about, which I was obliged to wait a week to do as we work together only on Sundays. In the meantime, that other co-worker mentioned Carolyn was my age. (I can’t discern ages at all.) Noon on Sunday arrived. Carolyn mentioned robots. I heart robots. I mentioned Fast, Cheap and Out of Control. She admitted, “I started watching that but fell asleep. I’ve just been watching a lot of fluff lately, like Dr. Who.”
This is somewhat akin to mentioning to an 80’s era Bulls fan that you’re closely related to Michael Jordan. We’re talking Times Square ball-drop. In fact, I once jokingly declared I model my life after The Doctor to an ex who’d never heard of the show, but months later read aloud a sentence from a book which described it as a “children’s television program,” to which I responded, “That’s harsh.”
It goes without saying that I went into a diatribe about the second (and best!) Doctor (played by Patrick Troughton) and attempted to score some easy bonus points by explaining how the female sidekicks were much stronger characters before Tom Baker, the fourth Doctor, started complaining of being upstaged.
We moved onto hobbies. “Lately, I’ve been trying to learn to skateboard.” Okay, timeout. Molly and I once had a stalemate discussion about which was hotter, girls who skateboard or girls who play bass guitar.
Carolyn and I share an affinity for direct communication, juvenile humor, the absurd and macabre. We both read obituaries, appreciate wandering aimlessly through cemeteries, shop almost exclusively at Goodwill, enjoy science fiction and find children unnerving. We like chess and can’t stand Scrabble. We are bi-centennial babies (and therefore Dragons), which comes in handy when swapping memories as we experienced each year at the same time. When I casually mentioned I would love to study Kendo, she exclaimed, “Swordfighting? Me, too!”
“Too bad our interactions are limited to Sundays during work. We should meet up in another setting sometime. Like dinner, or something?”
“That would be great,” she responded, “but I have dietary restrictions in that I’m a vegetarian.”
“So am I.” I tried not to sound shocked. This is happening in the middle of nowhere, Iowa.
Leaning into the counter which separated our areas of work, my oceanic orbs drank deeply into a pair of bottled whisky worlds. It occurred to me that we were the same height. “Let me get your number and we’ll figure out a time to do something,” I suggested.
“Do you have severed heads in your freezer?” she replied.
“I shrink them so they can be displayed chronologically on my mantle.” My attempt at humor fell flat.
“There’s an Indian restaurant in Hiawatha.” It gets better. “Do you like the X-Men?” It gets better.
After the dinner and movie, my brother asked how it went. I shrugged, “First dates are easy; it’s two years from now that’s the tricky part.” I then instantly bombarded her email box with a series of mistakes and personality traits from previous experiences I intended to avoid henceforth. I realized this might be received as absurd after one date, but my fears were assuaged when she replied not only with answers but a longer list of her concerns. Our sense of ethics, desires and expectations were not just compatible; they were virtually identical.
For our second outing, we played a leisurely game of disc golf on an overcrowded course in Coralville. When Carolyn headed toward the wrong tee early on, I intoned, “Don’t go that way! Never go that way!” in my poor impersonation of a blue-haired worm with a British accent. Our conversation quickly and excitedly turned to all manner of things pertaining to The Labyrinth (1986), but mostly David Bowie and Terry Jones.
By the fifth hole, where the basket lies directly beyond a steep slope, play had bottlenecked. When our turn came, a small crowd had gathered on a little ridge behind us. As I approached the concrete platform, I was remembering that last time I played this course, during which this drive had flown directly into a tree on the right and rolled down the hill before resting under a log just in front of where people were now watching expectantly. (The difficulty in this particular throw lies in that, if you don’t throw the disc steep enough, it won’t clear the incline, but if you throw it too steep, it will tend to fall short and also curve too far to the left. My previous mistake was most likely a result of anticipating I’d error by throwing too steep and attempting to compensate by throwing the disc too far to the right.)
As I positioned my feet for the throw, a voice behind me demanded, “Andrew- don’t fuck it up.”
I glanced back to spy her mischievous grin and responded, “With a crowd, too. Under pressure!” I thought of something and smiled back. “I won’t,” I added, then broke into the Bowie/Queen collaborative bass line famously copped by Vanilla Ice. My drive neatly cleared the incline and landed a few feet in front of the hole.
Based on my dating track record, it would be fair to be skeptical that this relationship will fair better, but after all the dealings with women I’ve had over the past 15+ years, I consider myself something of an expert in the process. Being with Carolyn is both comfortable and engaging, and she has demonstrated herself to be reliable and trustworthy. I already look forward to the tricky part….
When I arrived in Iowa, I had gone almost a decade without watching television. Overwhelmed by the hundreds of programs offered on my brother’s gigantic flatscreen, I spent the first several weeks catching myself up to date while looking for work. As nearly everything on television is constantly being rerun, this wasn’t particularly difficult. One day, while flipping through channels, I paused at some program about guys who have romantic relationships with life-sized dolls. At first I thought it was a documentary Janine had recommended, but then I became curious whether the people on it resembled the character played by the satisfyingly ceaselessly creepy Dennis Hopper in the cult classic movie River’s Edge (1986), starring Crispin Glover (in a hilariously quotable performance), Keanu Reeves and Ione Skye. I really, really enjoy this movie, despite the fact the director seems to have had little clue as to what to do with what he potentially had.
One interviewee in this television program explained that he dates dolls because he doesn’t know how to meet real women. Maybe your conversation ice-breaker needs work, I snickered to myself.
One trait I possess but have never been able to fully explain is that, as an anonymous person in a group of people, I am completely uninteresting. I was always the last kid picked for the elementary recess football team, despite the fact that I wasn’t really too bad. Whenever I go to any gathering with a group of male friends, I watch in the background while girls swoon over everyone in my group except me.
However, and this is a big but, if I am able to finagle myself into a one-on-one conversation in a setting relatively free of distractions, I become a bit of a babe magnet, as long as the girl can get (past) my rather tasteless and often punny sense of humor. Other prerequisites include the avoidance of small-talk, which I can never pull off, and someone who finds cockiness and clumsiness attractive when paired.
Perhaps the lynchpin to this contrast in dating success lies in my rather entrancing baby blue eyes, which I can use to full effect only when I capture someone long enough to lock gazes. I tend to not make eye contact with people I have no interest in; it can cause unwanted attention/confusion. (I fully realize these are ridiculous statements to be making of oneself, but my friends with vouch for me that it’s true: my eyes are magic.)
I had pondered the doll fetish guy’s concern long enough that the next time someone whined, “I don’t know how to meet women,” I’d prepared a rather brilliant (I say so myself) response: “I’ll tell you how to meet them if you tell me how to avoid them.”
My eyes get me in trouble sometimes. One nuisance is I have a rather strong weakness for pretty girls. On another television show, one that I actually enjoy, called Iron Chef America, there’s often a curmudgeonly judge named Jeffrey Steingarten, and in one episode he rudely says to the lubricious Jeri Ryan aka Seven of Nine, “It’s no accident that beautiful women have bad personalities- they think they can get away with anything.” It’s a fact, Jack.
Right after my last relationship ended in misery, females were invisible. I had no interest and no sex drive for perhaps the first time since puberty. This was a very nice state to be in, actually, as it greatly tapered distractions. Then one morning about five months after the fiasco, a woman got onto the bus, and as she turned and bent slightly to put her ticket into the machine, I found myself thinking, holy crap that is a fine ass. Uh, oh. Fortunately, she didn’t sit close enough to make eye contact.
I determined that my next tattoo would be an anatomical heart inside of a birdcage on my ribcage, the most painful area I’ve had inked, to remind myself not to let another girl run recklessly off with my easily-seduced and gullible self. It would also bring to mind Molly, who hearts hearts and is my closest female friend with whom I remained prudently platonic.
Part Two
A few months more solidly on my feet, a co-worker asked whether Carolyn and I had met. “I’ve seen her around,” I deadpanned. Carolyn laughed. I instantly wanted to make her laugh more. Too bad she’s so cute, otherwise she might be fun to converse with, I thought. With the exception of her finely contoured backside, I hadn’t looked at her yet.
When we did get around to striking up a conversation, my tat plans somehow came up. The next time I saw her, she stated, “I’ve been thinking about your tattoo idea- the imagery seems pretty intense.” I heard, “I’ve been thinking about you….”
I decided to find out what this chick was about, which I was obliged to wait a week to do as we work together only on Sundays. In the meantime, that other co-worker mentioned Carolyn was my age. (I can’t discern ages at all.) Noon on Sunday arrived. Carolyn mentioned robots. I heart robots. I mentioned Fast, Cheap and Out of Control. She admitted, “I started watching that but fell asleep. I’ve just been watching a lot of fluff lately, like Dr. Who.”
This is somewhat akin to mentioning to an 80’s era Bulls fan that you’re closely related to Michael Jordan. We’re talking Times Square ball-drop. In fact, I once jokingly declared I model my life after The Doctor to an ex who’d never heard of the show, but months later read aloud a sentence from a book which described it as a “children’s television program,” to which I responded, “That’s harsh.”
It goes without saying that I went into a diatribe about the second (and best!) Doctor (played by Patrick Troughton) and attempted to score some easy bonus points by explaining how the female sidekicks were much stronger characters before Tom Baker, the fourth Doctor, started complaining of being upstaged.
We moved onto hobbies. “Lately, I’ve been trying to learn to skateboard.” Okay, timeout. Molly and I once had a stalemate discussion about which was hotter, girls who skateboard or girls who play bass guitar.
Carolyn and I share an affinity for direct communication, juvenile humor, the absurd and macabre. We both read obituaries, appreciate wandering aimlessly through cemeteries, shop almost exclusively at Goodwill, enjoy science fiction and find children unnerving. We like chess and can’t stand Scrabble. We are bi-centennial babies (and therefore Dragons), which comes in handy when swapping memories as we experienced each year at the same time. When I casually mentioned I would love to study Kendo, she exclaimed, “Swordfighting? Me, too!”
“Too bad our interactions are limited to Sundays during work. We should meet up in another setting sometime. Like dinner, or something?”
“That would be great,” she responded, “but I have dietary restrictions in that I’m a vegetarian.”
“So am I.” I tried not to sound shocked. This is happening in the middle of nowhere, Iowa.
Leaning into the counter which separated our areas of work, my oceanic orbs drank deeply into a pair of bottled whisky worlds. It occurred to me that we were the same height. “Let me get your number and we’ll figure out a time to do something,” I suggested.
“Do you have severed heads in your freezer?” she replied.
“I shrink them so they can be displayed chronologically on my mantle.” My attempt at humor fell flat.
“There’s an Indian restaurant in Hiawatha.” It gets better. “Do you like the X-Men?” It gets better.
After the dinner and movie, my brother asked how it went. I shrugged, “First dates are easy; it’s two years from now that’s the tricky part.” I then instantly bombarded her email box with a series of mistakes and personality traits from previous experiences I intended to avoid henceforth. I realized this might be received as absurd after one date, but my fears were assuaged when she replied not only with answers but a longer list of her concerns. Our sense of ethics, desires and expectations were not just compatible; they were virtually identical.
For our second outing, we played a leisurely game of disc golf on an overcrowded course in Coralville. When Carolyn headed toward the wrong tee early on, I intoned, “Don’t go that way! Never go that way!” in my poor impersonation of a blue-haired worm with a British accent. Our conversation quickly and excitedly turned to all manner of things pertaining to The Labyrinth (1986), but mostly David Bowie and Terry Jones.
By the fifth hole, where the basket lies directly beyond a steep slope, play had bottlenecked. When our turn came, a small crowd had gathered on a little ridge behind us. As I approached the concrete platform, I was remembering that last time I played this course, during which this drive had flown directly into a tree on the right and rolled down the hill before resting under a log just in front of where people were now watching expectantly. (The difficulty in this particular throw lies in that, if you don’t throw the disc steep enough, it won’t clear the incline, but if you throw it too steep, it will tend to fall short and also curve too far to the left. My previous mistake was most likely a result of anticipating I’d error by throwing too steep and attempting to compensate by throwing the disc too far to the right.)
As I positioned my feet for the throw, a voice behind me demanded, “Andrew- don’t fuck it up.”
I glanced back to spy her mischievous grin and responded, “With a crowd, too. Under pressure!” I thought of something and smiled back. “I won’t,” I added, then broke into the Bowie/Queen collaborative bass line famously copped by Vanilla Ice. My drive neatly cleared the incline and landed a few feet in front of the hole.
Based on my dating track record, it would be fair to be skeptical that this relationship will fair better, but after all the dealings with women I’ve had over the past 15+ years, I consider myself something of an expert in the process. Being with Carolyn is both comfortable and engaging, and she has demonstrated herself to be reliable and trustworthy. I already look forward to the tricky part….
Saturday, July 9, 2011
I Will Survive
At first I was afraid- I was petrified! Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side… but then I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong and I grew strong… and I learned how to get along. And so you're back from outer space- I just walked in to find you here with that sad look upon your face. I should have changed that stupid lock, I should have made you leave your key, if I had known for just one second you'd be back to bother me.
Go on now- Go! Walk out the door. Just turn around now, 'cause you're not welcome anymore. Weren't you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye? Did you think I'd crumble? Did you think I'd lay (sic) down and die? Oh no, not I! I will survive! Oh, as long as I know how to love I know I’ll stay alive. I've got all my life to live and I've got all my love to give and I'll survive. I will survive! Hey, hey….
It took all the strength I had not to fall apart, just trying hard to mend the pieces of my broken heart, and I spent oh, so many nights just feeling sorry for myself. I used to cry, but now I hold my head up high and you see me, somebody new! I'm not that chained up little person still in love with you. And so you felt like dropping in and just expect me to be free? Well, now I'm saving all my loving for someone who's loving me.
Go on now- Go! Walk out the door. Just turn around now, 'cause you're not welcome anymore. Weren't you the one who tried to break me with goodbye? Did you think I'd crumble? Did you think I'd lay (sic) down and die? Oh no, not I! I will survive! Oh, as long as I know how to love I know I’ll stay alive. I've got all my life to live and I've got all my love to give and I'll survive. I will survive! Oh…!
-Gloria Gaynor
Go on now- Go! Walk out the door. Just turn around now, 'cause you're not welcome anymore. Weren't you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye? Did you think I'd crumble? Did you think I'd lay (sic) down and die? Oh no, not I! I will survive! Oh, as long as I know how to love I know I’ll stay alive. I've got all my life to live and I've got all my love to give and I'll survive. I will survive! Hey, hey….
It took all the strength I had not to fall apart, just trying hard to mend the pieces of my broken heart, and I spent oh, so many nights just feeling sorry for myself. I used to cry, but now I hold my head up high and you see me, somebody new! I'm not that chained up little person still in love with you. And so you felt like dropping in and just expect me to be free? Well, now I'm saving all my loving for someone who's loving me.
Go on now- Go! Walk out the door. Just turn around now, 'cause you're not welcome anymore. Weren't you the one who tried to break me with goodbye? Did you think I'd crumble? Did you think I'd lay (sic) down and die? Oh no, not I! I will survive! Oh, as long as I know how to love I know I’ll stay alive. I've got all my life to live and I've got all my love to give and I'll survive. I will survive! Oh…!
-Gloria Gaynor
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Beating on Death's Door
She's a slick one, born of greed
Speaking endless words, long and empty
A beggar who still wants to choose
A dethroned queen still demands her due
If you want something for nothing you take what you get
A virgin whore in a dirty wedding dress
Scream for salvation, beating on death's door
But just be careful what you wish for
There's a blood stain on the ceiling
But you're the only duck in the shooting gallery
Trying to look out through a bricked-in window
Your destiny lies in the alley below
Trying to see yourself in a shattered mirror
When all else fails, she holds you with broken arms
There's poison in her veins, but the bitch comes for free
A quick fix for all that you think that you need
Scream for salvation, beating on death's door
But just be careful what you wish for
The patron saint of fools answers all your requests
She's all yours now, so deal with it
She’s all yours now
She’s all yours
Your whore, deal with it
There's no shoulder left to cry wolf on
You're tied in knots that can't be undone
No more warnings will fall on deaf ears
You lied too many times, now no one cares
No one cares
No one cares
You liar
No one cares
No one cares
An empty promise with a heart of tin
Her crooked smile beguiles and it draws you within
The hope for something more, all that you wish for
A kick to the head and a boot to the door
Chasing a crack under the lady’s clothes
A paper trail ends in choking smoke
But you know you lit the match yourself
Play the burning cards that you dealt
Scream for salvation, beating on death's door
But just be careful what you wish for
The patron saint of fools answers all your requests
She's all yours now, so deal with it
She's all yours now, so deal with it
She's all yours now, so deal with it
-Lamb of God
Speaking endless words, long and empty
A beggar who still wants to choose
A dethroned queen still demands her due
If you want something for nothing you take what you get
A virgin whore in a dirty wedding dress
Scream for salvation, beating on death's door
But just be careful what you wish for
There's a blood stain on the ceiling
But you're the only duck in the shooting gallery
Trying to look out through a bricked-in window
Your destiny lies in the alley below
Trying to see yourself in a shattered mirror
When all else fails, she holds you with broken arms
There's poison in her veins, but the bitch comes for free
A quick fix for all that you think that you need
Scream for salvation, beating on death's door
But just be careful what you wish for
The patron saint of fools answers all your requests
She's all yours now, so deal with it
She’s all yours now
She’s all yours
Your whore, deal with it
There's no shoulder left to cry wolf on
You're tied in knots that can't be undone
No more warnings will fall on deaf ears
You lied too many times, now no one cares
No one cares
No one cares
You liar
No one cares
No one cares
An empty promise with a heart of tin
Her crooked smile beguiles and it draws you within
The hope for something more, all that you wish for
A kick to the head and a boot to the door
Chasing a crack under the lady’s clothes
A paper trail ends in choking smoke
But you know you lit the match yourself
Play the burning cards that you dealt
Scream for salvation, beating on death's door
But just be careful what you wish for
The patron saint of fools answers all your requests
She's all yours now, so deal with it
She's all yours now, so deal with it
She's all yours now, so deal with it
-Lamb of God
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Like A Rolling Stone
Once upon a time you dressed so fine- threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn't you? People'd call, say, "Beware doll, you're bound to fall-" you thought they were all a’kiddin' you. You used to laugh about everybody that was hangin' out. Now you don't talk so loud, now you don't seem so proud, about having to be scrounging your next meal.
How does it feel? How does it feel to be without a home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone…?
Aw, you've gone to the finest school all right, Miss Lonely, but you know you only used to get juiced in it. Nobody’s ever taught you how to live out on the street and now you're gonna have to get used to it. You say you’d never compromise with a mystery tramp, but now you realize he's not selling any alibis as you stare into the vacuum of his eyes and say, “Do you want to make a deal?”
How does it feel? How does it feel to be on your own with no direction home, a complete unknown, like a rolling stone…?
Aw, you never turned around to see the frowns on the jugglers and the clowns when they all did tricks for you. You never understood that it ain't no good- you shouldn't let other people get your kicks for you. You used to ride on a chrome horse with your diplomat who carried on his shoulder a Siamese cat. Ain't it hard when you discover that he really wasn't where it's at, after he took from you everything he could steal?
How does it feel? How does it feel to have (sic) on your own, with no direction home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone…?
Aw, princess on the steeple and all the pretty people they're all drinkin', thinkin' that they’ve got it made. Exchanging all precious gifts, but you'd better take your diamond ring- you'd better pawn it, babe. You used to be so amused at Napoleon in rags and the language that he used. Go to him now, he calls you- you can't refuse. When you ain’t got nothing, you’ve got nothing to lose. You're invisible now; you’ve got no secrets to conceal.
How does it feel? Aw, how does it feel to be on your own, with no direction home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone…?
-Bob Dylan
How does it feel? How does it feel to be without a home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone…?
Aw, you've gone to the finest school all right, Miss Lonely, but you know you only used to get juiced in it. Nobody’s ever taught you how to live out on the street and now you're gonna have to get used to it. You say you’d never compromise with a mystery tramp, but now you realize he's not selling any alibis as you stare into the vacuum of his eyes and say, “Do you want to make a deal?”
How does it feel? How does it feel to be on your own with no direction home, a complete unknown, like a rolling stone…?
Aw, you never turned around to see the frowns on the jugglers and the clowns when they all did tricks for you. You never understood that it ain't no good- you shouldn't let other people get your kicks for you. You used to ride on a chrome horse with your diplomat who carried on his shoulder a Siamese cat. Ain't it hard when you discover that he really wasn't where it's at, after he took from you everything he could steal?
How does it feel? How does it feel to have (sic) on your own, with no direction home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone…?
Aw, princess on the steeple and all the pretty people they're all drinkin', thinkin' that they’ve got it made. Exchanging all precious gifts, but you'd better take your diamond ring- you'd better pawn it, babe. You used to be so amused at Napoleon in rags and the language that he used. Go to him now, he calls you- you can't refuse. When you ain’t got nothing, you’ve got nothing to lose. You're invisible now; you’ve got no secrets to conceal.
How does it feel? Aw, how does it feel to be on your own, with no direction home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone…?
-Bob Dylan
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Convent
Catholics have devised an ingenious method for recruiting free labor in exchange for room and board by taking advantage of the limited opportunities and insecurities of women who have had a relationship go bad or affair exposed and institutionalizing them inside a convent. Many women have been forced into convents by relatives as a way of punishment and to be “educated.” Others simply find themselves with nowhere else to go. Christians predictably stress the notion of penance: the idea that one should make good as compensation for behaving foolishly. The main duty of a Christian is to indoctrinate others. In business, this is called a pyramid scheme. In religion, it’s called a cult.
Christianity preys heavily on ignorance, insecurity, guilt and fear. It is very adept at exploiting the misfortunate by opportunistically enlisting the confused, stressed and vulnerable with the promise of guidance, success and love. Instead of considering or respecting the desires of individuals, Christianity claims to know what is best for everybody. By following God instead of your own impulses, you will find peace. Religion can be considered little more than a means of shirking personal responsibility.
They’ve established a notion that there are things nobody should ever do and calls them “sins.” Conveniently for anybody wanting to point out the flaws in others, most of these have to do with seeking enjoyment or indulging instinctual impulses, most notably sex. It stresses that flaws should and will be punished, while strict discipline and obedience will lead to an honorable life after death. This militaristic way of thinking is only useful for someone raising and training an army. Think about that!
After experiencing a personal relationship gone wrong, having a place you can stay for free with food provided and a roof over your head in relative peace and quiet while being able to distract yourself by spending your time serving your fellow man sounds idyllic. And probably no two things are more successful at making you feel better about yourself than being accepted as part of a group and helping others.
Another nice thing about a convent is that you don’t have to worry about personal one-on-one affection and intimacy. Real love makes you vulnerable and leads to disappointment. When grand ambitions leave you feeling helpless with your faith in humankind shattered, it is tempting to resign to a simple life where little opportunity is given for anything to go wrong. With religion, you can simply imagine yourself being loved while keeping a professional distance from it. It’s nice to feel safe from disillusionment. Eschewing responsibility in favor of reliance on an omnipotent, omni-present being who controls the fate of all and loves you personally can seem very safe and comforting, even if that being is suspiciously invisible and non-communicative.
The offering of something to believe is especially seductive and vivid after one is confronted with betrayal or the folly of one’s own assumptions. While nihilism is an ironic concept, I consider it a noble pursuit. It’s pathetic to assume one must believe in something, so if one belief system falls flat, it is a necessity to pick another one. The notion that having made mistakes somehow proves there’s a god is laughable. To quote The Big Lebowski: “Just because we’re bereaved, that doesn’t make us saps.”
Disappointment is a potent libido destroyer. The celibate nature of a convent can actually seem a refreshing change immediately after exiting a disastrous relationship. After all, the desire for sex was a major incentive for starting the relationship to begin with. Perhaps that means sex is bad after all, right? Following that logic, it stands to reason anything enjoyable has the potential to lead to disappointment, whereas asceticism will never let you down- it simply keeps you there while providing the illusion that desires are tamable and fate is under control. Life in a convent encourages you to let go of possessions and carnality, which is exactly the situation you’re likely to find yourself confronted in after a relationship falls apart anyway, unless you find/already have another relationship to pursue. Living alone, especially if you’ve never done it before, is pretty daunting. You don’t have to live alone in a convent!
I don’t buy into the concept of karma. Christians prefer to call it retribution. There are simply far too many assholes living comfortable lives to buy into any sort of cosmic justice. While it’s nice to suppose that someone who has wronged us has it coming back to them, wishful thinking should never be mistaken for actuality. Future behaviors or circumstances do not somehow cancel out or balance past blunders. Believing this is a gross misunderstanding of time.
I don’t understand how one would get out of a convent. I can’t think of a career where it is helpful to put “nun” on your resume. A convent isn’t designed to help women get back on their feet, but a cleverly devised trap in which fears are reinforced, suffering is celebrated, disillusionment with the world is encouraged and a promised reward not arriving until after death. Indeed, a convent seems the perfect place to be for someone who would rather be dead.
Epilogue
There are as many degrees of foolishness as there are humans. A distinction must be made between mistakes and transgressions. The guiding principle I use for judging human behavior is that all humans should be treated with respect, and unfortunately this concept is not found anywhere in Christianity. I define a mistake as a wrong or poor decision made in earnest, and contrast a transgression as a deliberate attempt at taking advantage of others. I’m not suggesting that it is possible to discern whether every act is a mistake or transgression, but I am stating there’s a difference between the two.
Having or exploring a relationship with another human can rarely be considered a mistake. Continuing a relationship with someone who treats humans poorly almost certainly is. But in the grand scheme of things, trusting an untrustworthy person or failing to communicate successfully are minor transgressions.
Life not working according to plan does not make the person living it a failure. Mistakes can be discouraging, and contrary to popular rhetoric, there’s sometimes nothing to be learned from them except how to accept responsibility, pick up pieces, leave pieces and move on.
Being a manipulative liar, on the other hand, is a transgression, not a mistake. Once you’ve proven yourself untrustworthy, it is a very long, nearly impossible path to regain any sort of integrity. One method for expediting the process of regaining trust is to remove yourself to a place where nobody knows your past. Of course, if this is done to create new opportunities for exploitation, this act is in itself a transgression. But if a charlatan joins a convent in order to remove themselves from society, realizing they are a detriment to it, I can respect that.
Christianity preys heavily on ignorance, insecurity, guilt and fear. It is very adept at exploiting the misfortunate by opportunistically enlisting the confused, stressed and vulnerable with the promise of guidance, success and love. Instead of considering or respecting the desires of individuals, Christianity claims to know what is best for everybody. By following God instead of your own impulses, you will find peace. Religion can be considered little more than a means of shirking personal responsibility.
They’ve established a notion that there are things nobody should ever do and calls them “sins.” Conveniently for anybody wanting to point out the flaws in others, most of these have to do with seeking enjoyment or indulging instinctual impulses, most notably sex. It stresses that flaws should and will be punished, while strict discipline and obedience will lead to an honorable life after death. This militaristic way of thinking is only useful for someone raising and training an army. Think about that!
After experiencing a personal relationship gone wrong, having a place you can stay for free with food provided and a roof over your head in relative peace and quiet while being able to distract yourself by spending your time serving your fellow man sounds idyllic. And probably no two things are more successful at making you feel better about yourself than being accepted as part of a group and helping others.
Another nice thing about a convent is that you don’t have to worry about personal one-on-one affection and intimacy. Real love makes you vulnerable and leads to disappointment. When grand ambitions leave you feeling helpless with your faith in humankind shattered, it is tempting to resign to a simple life where little opportunity is given for anything to go wrong. With religion, you can simply imagine yourself being loved while keeping a professional distance from it. It’s nice to feel safe from disillusionment. Eschewing responsibility in favor of reliance on an omnipotent, omni-present being who controls the fate of all and loves you personally can seem very safe and comforting, even if that being is suspiciously invisible and non-communicative.
The offering of something to believe is especially seductive and vivid after one is confronted with betrayal or the folly of one’s own assumptions. While nihilism is an ironic concept, I consider it a noble pursuit. It’s pathetic to assume one must believe in something, so if one belief system falls flat, it is a necessity to pick another one. The notion that having made mistakes somehow proves there’s a god is laughable. To quote The Big Lebowski: “Just because we’re bereaved, that doesn’t make us saps.”
Disappointment is a potent libido destroyer. The celibate nature of a convent can actually seem a refreshing change immediately after exiting a disastrous relationship. After all, the desire for sex was a major incentive for starting the relationship to begin with. Perhaps that means sex is bad after all, right? Following that logic, it stands to reason anything enjoyable has the potential to lead to disappointment, whereas asceticism will never let you down- it simply keeps you there while providing the illusion that desires are tamable and fate is under control. Life in a convent encourages you to let go of possessions and carnality, which is exactly the situation you’re likely to find yourself confronted in after a relationship falls apart anyway, unless you find/already have another relationship to pursue. Living alone, especially if you’ve never done it before, is pretty daunting. You don’t have to live alone in a convent!
I don’t buy into the concept of karma. Christians prefer to call it retribution. There are simply far too many assholes living comfortable lives to buy into any sort of cosmic justice. While it’s nice to suppose that someone who has wronged us has it coming back to them, wishful thinking should never be mistaken for actuality. Future behaviors or circumstances do not somehow cancel out or balance past blunders. Believing this is a gross misunderstanding of time.
I don’t understand how one would get out of a convent. I can’t think of a career where it is helpful to put “nun” on your resume. A convent isn’t designed to help women get back on their feet, but a cleverly devised trap in which fears are reinforced, suffering is celebrated, disillusionment with the world is encouraged and a promised reward not arriving until after death. Indeed, a convent seems the perfect place to be for someone who would rather be dead.
Epilogue
There are as many degrees of foolishness as there are humans. A distinction must be made between mistakes and transgressions. The guiding principle I use for judging human behavior is that all humans should be treated with respect, and unfortunately this concept is not found anywhere in Christianity. I define a mistake as a wrong or poor decision made in earnest, and contrast a transgression as a deliberate attempt at taking advantage of others. I’m not suggesting that it is possible to discern whether every act is a mistake or transgression, but I am stating there’s a difference between the two.
Having or exploring a relationship with another human can rarely be considered a mistake. Continuing a relationship with someone who treats humans poorly almost certainly is. But in the grand scheme of things, trusting an untrustworthy person or failing to communicate successfully are minor transgressions.
Life not working according to plan does not make the person living it a failure. Mistakes can be discouraging, and contrary to popular rhetoric, there’s sometimes nothing to be learned from them except how to accept responsibility, pick up pieces, leave pieces and move on.
Being a manipulative liar, on the other hand, is a transgression, not a mistake. Once you’ve proven yourself untrustworthy, it is a very long, nearly impossible path to regain any sort of integrity. One method for expediting the process of regaining trust is to remove yourself to a place where nobody knows your past. Of course, if this is done to create new opportunities for exploitation, this act is in itself a transgression. But if a charlatan joins a convent in order to remove themselves from society, realizing they are a detriment to it, I can respect that.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
My Cats
Boo Radley and Nobody were born on June 21st, 2003. I learned of this through Amy, my girlfriend at the time. Her co-worker had three female cats that had all had litters at the same time, and Amy had volunteered to take one off her hands. I was Four Square against it, but in compromise agreed to visit the kittens.
This co-worker was some sort of hippie/Buddhist/pothead/slacker squatting in an abandoned store in Berkeley. The place looked and smelled as if a port-a-potty had tipped over inside of it. Semi-feral cats were free to roam in and out of broken and boarded-over windows. The urine-soaked carpeting had been ripped up from the floor and left rolled up in piles for the multitude of cats and kittens to play and shit in.
There was something like 13 kittens, all a few weeks old, and amongst them was a tiny grey thing too weak to fend off the others for milk. Fortunately, one of his brothers, who was grey and white, made room for him so he could nurse. Then these two bounced around and played together. This camaraderie was endearing enough to persuade me to agree to adopt both kittens.
When they were eight weeks old, the kittens came to live in our split-level apartment. They had fleas and ear mites, which Amy got rid of with frequent baths and q-tips, both of which the kittens enjoyed very much. While neither kitten was particularly shy, the grey and white one was more suspicious of us. The all grey one liked being tossed around and spanked. I ended up naming them after characters from two of my favorite American black-and-white movies: Boo Radley from To Kill A Mockingbird and Nodody from Dead Man.
I was eking out a living as a drummer at the time, so I spent my days practicing drums in the basement, watching Judge Judy and running around with a light bulb pull-chain which was Nobody’s favorite toy. They would hang around while I practiced, and were eerily unafraid of the noise of my drums.
There was no way we were going to keep these curious cats indoors, but they did seem to quickly understand that they were not to go into the road. I started opening a back window every day so they could come and go as they pleased. Our back yard was full of gopher piles, and Boo was soon bringing critters in and leaving their guts for us to clean up. Amy didn’t like the cats being out after dark, and the cats did not like to come in at night.
Nobody will copy any new thing Boo does to explore what he may have discovered, but they’ve had distinct personalities from day one. Boo’s favorite thing is to climb on top of people when they are in bed, and Boo’s favorite spot was on top of Amy’s head. Nobody’s favorite thing is to be spanked, and he’ll tap you with a paw incessantly until he wins your attention and then sticks his butt in the air. Nobody’s nickname is Tapper. When he gets bored he’ll provoke Boo by poking at his hind legs. Boo sleeps more than Nobody. Boo is more complex than Nobody in that he seems to have a greater spectrum of emotions. Sometimes Boo will get really excited and will adamantly demand affection. At other times he will be aloof. Boo has a more diverse repertoire of sounds and better strategies for getting his point across. He makes an amazing chattering noise at birds.
Boo is more particular about which humans he likes. There are certain people, usually girls, whom he seems to recognize and favor. Nobody will go up to random strangers on the sidewalk, and it’s very cute watching people stop to pet him- except I get nervous somebody’s going to walk off with him. Fortunately, Nobody does not like to be carried. Boo is very protective of Nobody, and has never met another cat he liked. He used to whine whenever he didn’t know where Nobody was, and he still tries to keep an eye on him when Nobody’s outdoors.
When Amy and I broke up, I cried for two days- because I was going to have to live without the cats. This is the truth. In an act of supreme empathy and generosity, and because she was sick of all the crying, Amy offered to let me keep them.
I rented a bedroom in an apartment where I left the window open at all times for the cats to come and go at their leisure. My roommates had four cats, One of the roommates’ cats would piss in a corner of my room, which I successfully remedied by moving the cat box to that spot. A bite from another apartment’s cat resulted in an infection that required Boo to wear a cone on his head for two weeks. He spent that time walking backwards. When our stay in Oakland came to an end and I started packing, Boo ran for it and hid. He delayed the move for 24 hours while I outsmarted him with food to trap him. They did a very good job moving to Portland.
I found a place to live with this condescending prick who Nobody was seemingly fond of, except that he pissed on his bed a few times when we first moved there. I got a cat door and built a wood frame to fit it into my bedroom window. Eventually the thing fell apart. I began dating Rachel, who quickly became Boo’s all-time favorite person (to this day). Seriously, Boo would snuggle with Rachel in the cutest positions ever. She was very fond of my kitties.
Boo and Casey did not get along, perhaps because Boo likes to sprawl out on paper and she likes to read. Casey openly did not like Boo, which I found both startling and annoying, and insisted Boo knew she didn’t like him, but she either thought that notion was absurd or didn’t care. Nobody liked her very much though (exactly why that’s such a fun name), and, while he generally taps people at every instant they are not petting him, he was content to lie beside her and watch her read. Casey liked that Nobody is more like a dog than a cat. My cats are deathly afraid of dogs, by the way.
When we moved cross-country through the desert/south this summer, I crammed them in the back of an SUV and rigged up tubing running from the air-conditioning vents to keep them alive and monitored their temperature with a remote thermometer I bought along the way. Nobody got really sick on the first day and pretty much turned himself inside-out all over the truck. One night we stayed in a motel and they were so disgusting I bathed them twice. I had to keep them shut in the bathroom because otherwise Boo would have crawled and hid in the box springs of the torn-up crappy motel bed, and the poor guy cried and cried in that bathroom pretty much all night. They were pretty miserable during the trip, but recovered quickly.
Both cats always sleep with/on me, and I guess I pretty much let them do whatever they want except scratch on things other than their scratch pad and climb on kitchen counters. I guess they’re kind of annoying- but not nearly as much as most humans. My cats have never lied to me. Whenever I move, someone inevitably asks, “Are you taking the cats with you?” This never ceases to be an incredibly odd question to me. Of course! I fail to fathom what the alternative could be.
Boo rarely goes outside these days; I suspect because he’s sick of dealing with new cats every time he moves. Nobody is just crazy about my brother, and whines at him constantly, which I’d never witnessed before. Both cats have generally been pretty quiet, except when they think they are about to get treated with moist food, which is rarely. They prefer seafood. Which reminds me- I haven’t fed them this morning. I don’t monitor how much they eat but they’ve always stayed skinny. But when Boo gets hungry he eats too fast and throws it back up….
Monday, March 22, 2010
Intolerance
I don't wanna be
Hostile
I don't wanna be
Dismal
And I don't wanna
Rot in an
Apathetic existence
See I wanna
Believe you
And I wanted to
Trust you
And I wanna have
Faith to
Put away the dagger
But you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
And I tolerated it
Veil of
Virtue
Hung to
Hide your
Method while I
Smile and
Laugh and
Dance and
Sing your
Praise and glory
Shroud of
Virtue
Hung to
Mask your
Stigma as I
Smile and
Laugh and
Dance and
Sing your
Glory
While you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
How can I tolerate you?
Our guilt
Our blame
I've been
Far too
Sympathetic
Our blood
Our fault
I've been
Far too
Sympathetic
I am not innocent
I am not innocent
You are not innocent
No one is innocent
You lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
How can I tolerate you?
I will not tolerate you
I will go down beside you
I must go down beside you
No one is innocent
-Tool
Hostile
I don't wanna be
Dismal
And I don't wanna
Rot in an
Apathetic existence
See I wanna
Believe you
And I wanted to
Trust you
And I wanna have
Faith to
Put away the dagger
But you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
And I tolerated it
Veil of
Virtue
Hung to
Hide your
Method while I
Smile and
Laugh and
Dance and
Sing your
Praise and glory
Shroud of
Virtue
Hung to
Mask your
Stigma as I
Smile and
Laugh and
Dance and
Sing your
Glory
While you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
How can I tolerate you?
Our guilt
Our blame
I've been
Far too
Sympathetic
Our blood
Our fault
I've been
Far too
Sympathetic
I am not innocent
I am not innocent
You are not innocent
No one is innocent
You lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
How can I tolerate you?
I will not tolerate you
I will go down beside you
I must go down beside you
No one is innocent
-Tool
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
It’s Been a Long, Long Time
Kiss me once, then kiss me twice
Then kiss me once again
It's been a long, long time
Haven't felt like this, my dear
Since I can't remember when
It's been a long, long time
You'll never know how many dreams
I've dreamt about you
Or just how empty they all seemed without you
So kiss me once, then kiss me twice
Then kiss me once again
It's been a long, long time
-Sammy Cahn
Then kiss me once again
It's been a long, long time
Haven't felt like this, my dear
Since I can't remember when
It's been a long, long time
You'll never know how many dreams
I've dreamt about you
Or just how empty they all seemed without you
So kiss me once, then kiss me twice
Then kiss me once again
It's been a long, long time
-Sammy Cahn
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Balance
Last night, while talking with Ann and Sandy, I suggested the following: “The consensus is that I talk too much and she doesn’t talk enough.” This was met with the inevitable response: “Maybe you could help each other find a balance.” My reaction: “Screw that! I like being extreme. We don’t want balance.” And with that, I punched Aristotle right in the face.
Granted; balance is not as overrated as peace. It has its place; in a cocktail, for example. I suppose you could say I enjoy balance in moderation. But consider how boring “balance” generally is. Symmetry, average, repetition. It’s immediately obvious that most people desire and even depend on these things. Comfort is another similarly categorized idea that others venerate. Contrarily, my passion is serendipitously finding something I love and then exploring it by obsessing over all the unfamiliar it contains. I tend to love that which is anomalous, inexplicable or even shocking. I don’t rest on laurels or seek comfort. I’m far too impatient and curious to ever be idle.
Others like to preach about bad balancing good or whatnot. I don’t even believe in unequivocal goodness or badness, let alone that they could somehow neutralize each other. I appreciate the difficult times because they give me the most to learn from; not because they somehow balance out the most enjoyable times. That argument is absurd enough that I’ll plan on devoting another blog post to it soon.
Compromise has its place, but I don’t think it should be demanded or expected. It would be a tragedy for anyone to get their way all of the time and miss out on all the unknown and unexpected life has to offer. I enjoy surprising myself by participating in adventures that I wouldn’t have chosen to do if it were only up to me. But I’m not going to continue to do things I don’t enjoy or disregard my own opinion. I’m not going to water myself down in an attempt to become more palatable to others. I refuse to go out of my way to convince anyone to like me. I don’t want others to dislike me, either. I’m just not going to pretend to agree or passively participate in anything. I won’t rely on someone else to form my opinions. I’ve observed that most tip-toe through life too afraid to even try to form their own opinions.
Most seem to either want to change you or want you to change them. I’m not like most. I much prefer being whoever and whatever I feel like being and letting others do the same. I expect little other than honesty. My love is unconditional, and has no balance whatsoever. Love might be the willingness to do anything for another and, in return, expecting only to be allowed to express that love. Extreme.
Granted; balance is not as overrated as peace. It has its place; in a cocktail, for example. I suppose you could say I enjoy balance in moderation. But consider how boring “balance” generally is. Symmetry, average, repetition. It’s immediately obvious that most people desire and even depend on these things. Comfort is another similarly categorized idea that others venerate. Contrarily, my passion is serendipitously finding something I love and then exploring it by obsessing over all the unfamiliar it contains. I tend to love that which is anomalous, inexplicable or even shocking. I don’t rest on laurels or seek comfort. I’m far too impatient and curious to ever be idle.
Others like to preach about bad balancing good or whatnot. I don’t even believe in unequivocal goodness or badness, let alone that they could somehow neutralize each other. I appreciate the difficult times because they give me the most to learn from; not because they somehow balance out the most enjoyable times. That argument is absurd enough that I’ll plan on devoting another blog post to it soon.
Compromise has its place, but I don’t think it should be demanded or expected. It would be a tragedy for anyone to get their way all of the time and miss out on all the unknown and unexpected life has to offer. I enjoy surprising myself by participating in adventures that I wouldn’t have chosen to do if it were only up to me. But I’m not going to continue to do things I don’t enjoy or disregard my own opinion. I’m not going to water myself down in an attempt to become more palatable to others. I refuse to go out of my way to convince anyone to like me. I don’t want others to dislike me, either. I’m just not going to pretend to agree or passively participate in anything. I won’t rely on someone else to form my opinions. I’ve observed that most tip-toe through life too afraid to even try to form their own opinions.
Most seem to either want to change you or want you to change them. I’m not like most. I much prefer being whoever and whatever I feel like being and letting others do the same. I expect little other than honesty. My love is unconditional, and has no balance whatsoever. Love might be the willingness to do anything for another and, in return, expecting only to be allowed to express that love. Extreme.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Animal Sacrifice
The Old Testament is surely the most violent book ever assembled. Today, I have been empathizing with a major theme of the OT: being separated from Love. The cathartic drive to kill in order to demonstrate the frustration of being cursed to live apart from Love while being overwhelmed by its reality is suddenly powerfully familiar imagery to me.
I daresay I would do anything to be with her. Every time you fall in love it feels a little different; but this time it feels reciprocated, which is novel for me. It is inexplicable why I am so compelled to trust her after having had my heart broken multiple times before. Then again, I've always been tenacious. I am fully cognizant that I barely know her. But GODDAMN I love this girl. She is 2,485.86 driving miles away according to Mapquest. It hurts. I miss her profoundly.
This is unlike me. I am very used to doing my own thing and being alone. I am an independent person! Was. Now I'm a caged canary begging to be poked at. I am King Kong.
Could be worse....
I daresay I would do anything to be with her. Every time you fall in love it feels a little different; but this time it feels reciprocated, which is novel for me. It is inexplicable why I am so compelled to trust her after having had my heart broken multiple times before. Then again, I've always been tenacious. I am fully cognizant that I barely know her. But GODDAMN I love this girl. She is 2,485.86 driving miles away according to Mapquest. It hurts. I miss her profoundly.
This is unlike me. I am very used to doing my own thing and being alone. I am an independent person! Was. Now I'm a caged canary begging to be poked at. I am King Kong.
Could be worse....
Friday, October 9, 2009
Potential Land Mine
“Goodnight.”
Intending to reply in kind, but it somehow came out, “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Immediate yet calm. Natural even.
…
She just said she loved me. Excited confused interrobang. Wait, did I say I love her? How the hell…? Why did I…? He counted the days again. Two weeks, one day, ten hours. Have I completely lost it again? I didn’t want this to happen. He realized he was holding his breath. Silence to his left, and he dared not move to peek. The inexplicable thing is I believe her. I don’t believe ANYBODY. In a world full of lies I believe this goddamn potential land mine.
Still silent.
She flies out in a few hours and I’ll never see her again anyhow. But I DO love her. In the morning I’ll tell her I really do love her. It’s only been two weeks, but I’ve figured out how she melts. If I’m lucky she’ll melt. I don’t know what to do after that.
He exhaled as unobtrusively as possible. He fell asleep fast. The alarm didn't go off in the morning.
Intending to reply in kind, but it somehow came out, “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Immediate yet calm. Natural even.
…
She just said she loved me. Excited confused interrobang. Wait, did I say I love her? How the hell…? Why did I…? He counted the days again. Two weeks, one day, ten hours. Have I completely lost it again? I didn’t want this to happen. He realized he was holding his breath. Silence to his left, and he dared not move to peek. The inexplicable thing is I believe her. I don’t believe ANYBODY. In a world full of lies I believe this goddamn potential land mine.
Still silent.
She flies out in a few hours and I’ll never see her again anyhow. But I DO love her. In the morning I’ll tell her I really do love her. It’s only been two weeks, but I’ve figured out how she melts. If I’m lucky she’ll melt. I don’t know what to do after that.
He exhaled as unobtrusively as possible. He fell asleep fast. The alarm didn't go off in the morning.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
H.
What's coming through is alive
What's holding up is a mirror
But what's singing songs is a snake
Looking to turn my piss to wine
They're both totally void of hate and
Killing me just the same now
The snake behind me hisses
What my damage could have been
My blood before me begs me
Open up my heart again
And I feel this coming over like a storm again now
Considerately
Venomous voice tempts me
Drains me bleeds me
Leaves me cracked and empty
Drags me down like some sweet gravity
Take me
The snake behind me hisses
What my damage could have been
My blood before me begs me
Open up my heart again
And I feel this coming over like a storm again now
And I feel this coming over like a storm again now
I am too connected to
Slip away fade away
Days away I still feel you
Touching me changing me
Considerately killing me
Considerately killing me again
Considerately killing me
Considerately killing me again
Without the skin here
Beneath the storm
Under these tears now
The walls came down
Once the snake was drowned
And as I look in his eyes
My fear begins to fade
Recalling all of the times
I could have cried then
I should have cried then
As the walls come down
And as I look in your eyes
My fear begins to fade
Recalling all of the times
I have died
I will die
It's all right
I don't mind
I don't mind
I don't mind
I am too connected to you to
Slip away fade away
Days away I still feel you
Touching me changing me
Considerately killing me
Considerately killing me again
Considerately killing me
-Tool
What's holding up is a mirror
But what's singing songs is a snake
Looking to turn my piss to wine
They're both totally void of hate and
Killing me just the same now
The snake behind me hisses
What my damage could have been
My blood before me begs me
Open up my heart again
And I feel this coming over like a storm again now
Considerately
Venomous voice tempts me
Drains me bleeds me
Leaves me cracked and empty
Drags me down like some sweet gravity
Take me
The snake behind me hisses
What my damage could have been
My blood before me begs me
Open up my heart again
And I feel this coming over like a storm again now
And I feel this coming over like a storm again now
I am too connected to
Slip away fade away
Days away I still feel you
Touching me changing me
Considerately killing me
Considerately killing me again
Considerately killing me
Considerately killing me again
Without the skin here
Beneath the storm
Under these tears now
The walls came down
Once the snake was drowned
And as I look in his eyes
My fear begins to fade
Recalling all of the times
I could have cried then
I should have cried then
As the walls come down
And as I look in your eyes
My fear begins to fade
Recalling all of the times
I have died
I will die
It's all right
I don't mind
I don't mind
I don't mind
I am too connected to you to
Slip away fade away
Days away I still feel you
Touching me changing me
Considerately killing me
Considerately killing me again
Considerately killing me
-Tool
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Go Home
Well let me tell you if you’re feeling alone
Instead of whining and moaning
Just get on the phone, tell her you’re coming home
If you need her, you should be there
If you scream in your sleep, or collapse in a heap
And spontaneously weep, then you know you’re in deep
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
There’s nothing better than affairs of the heart
To make you feel so good then tear you apart
Make up your mind and stick it out or start again
You can’t imagine what an effort it takes
When you make a mistake
And you know in the wake that her heart’s going to break
If you need her, you should be there
If you’re flummoxed and flushed
And your heartbeat is rushed
Then get out of the slush, tell your dog team to mush
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
If you think of her as Joan of Arc
She’s burning for you, get your car out of park
If you think of her as Catherine the Great
Then you should be the horse to help her meet her fate
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
You can’t believe it, but it’s true
She’s given everything to you
Now take a moment to be sure
Before you give it all to her
Well now you’re thinking that its over at last
All your woes in the past
But you’ve got to be fast; put your foot on the gas
If you need her, you should be there
So now you’re out from under the gun
And its over and done
I won’t spoil all the fun but if you ever wonder
She’ll be there if you need her
Go home
If you’re lucky to be one of the few
To find somebody who can tolerate you
Then I shouldn’t have to tell you again
Just pack your bags and get yourself on a plane
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
- Steven Page and Ed Robertson
Instead of whining and moaning
Just get on the phone, tell her you’re coming home
If you need her, you should be there
If you scream in your sleep, or collapse in a heap
And spontaneously weep, then you know you’re in deep
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
There’s nothing better than affairs of the heart
To make you feel so good then tear you apart
Make up your mind and stick it out or start again
You can’t imagine what an effort it takes
When you make a mistake
And you know in the wake that her heart’s going to break
If you need her, you should be there
If you’re flummoxed and flushed
And your heartbeat is rushed
Then get out of the slush, tell your dog team to mush
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
If you think of her as Joan of Arc
She’s burning for you, get your car out of park
If you think of her as Catherine the Great
Then you should be the horse to help her meet her fate
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
You can’t believe it, but it’s true
She’s given everything to you
Now take a moment to be sure
Before you give it all to her
Well now you’re thinking that its over at last
All your woes in the past
But you’ve got to be fast; put your foot on the gas
If you need her, you should be there
So now you’re out from under the gun
And its over and done
I won’t spoil all the fun but if you ever wonder
She’ll be there if you need her
Go home
If you’re lucky to be one of the few
To find somebody who can tolerate you
Then I shouldn’t have to tell you again
Just pack your bags and get yourself on a plane
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
- Steven Page and Ed Robertson
Monday, September 14, 2009
I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)
When I wake up, well I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who wakes up next you
When I go out, yeah I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who goes along with you
If I get drunk, well I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who gets drunk next to you
And if I haver, yeah I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who's havering to you
But I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walks a thousand miles
To fall down at your door
When I'm working, yes I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who's working hard for you
And when the money comes in for the work I do
I'll pass almost every penny on to you
When I come home (when I come home), well I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who comes back home to you
And if I grow old, well I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who's growing old with you
But I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walks a thousand miles
To fall down at your door
da dada da (da dada da)
da dada da (da dada da)
Da Da Dun Diddle Un Diddle Un Diddle Ah Da Da
da dada da (da dada da)
da dada da (da dada da)
Da Da Dun Diddle Un Diddle Un Diddle Ah Da Da
When I'm lonely, well I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who's lonely without you
And when I'm dreaming, well I know I'm gonna dream
I'm gonna dream about the time when I'm with you
When I go out (when I go out), well I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who goes along with you
And when I come home (when I come home), yes I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who comes back home with you
I'm gonna be the man who's coming home with you
But I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walks a thousand miles
To fall down at your door
da dada da (da dada da)
da dada da (da dada da)
Da Da Dun Diddle Un Diddle Un Diddle Ah Da Da
da dada da (da dada da)
da dada da (da dada da)
Da Da Dun Diddle Un Diddle Un Diddle Ah Da Da
da dada da (da dada da)
da dada da (da dada da)
Da Da Dun Diddle Un Diddle Un Diddle Ah Da Da
da dada da (da dada da)
da dada da (da dada da)
Da Da Dun Diddle Un Diddle Un Diddle Ah Da Da
And I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles
To fall down at your door
-The Proclaimers
p.s. Haver means to talk nonsense.
I'm gonna be the man who wakes up next you
When I go out, yeah I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who goes along with you
If I get drunk, well I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who gets drunk next to you
And if I haver, yeah I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who's havering to you
But I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walks a thousand miles
To fall down at your door
When I'm working, yes I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who's working hard for you
And when the money comes in for the work I do
I'll pass almost every penny on to you
When I come home (when I come home), well I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who comes back home to you
And if I grow old, well I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who's growing old with you
But I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walks a thousand miles
To fall down at your door
da dada da (da dada da)
da dada da (da dada da)
Da Da Dun Diddle Un Diddle Un Diddle Ah Da Da
da dada da (da dada da)
da dada da (da dada da)
Da Da Dun Diddle Un Diddle Un Diddle Ah Da Da
When I'm lonely, well I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who's lonely without you
And when I'm dreaming, well I know I'm gonna dream
I'm gonna dream about the time when I'm with you
When I go out (when I go out), well I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who goes along with you
And when I come home (when I come home), yes I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who comes back home with you
I'm gonna be the man who's coming home with you
But I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walks a thousand miles
To fall down at your door
da dada da (da dada da)
da dada da (da dada da)
Da Da Dun Diddle Un Diddle Un Diddle Ah Da Da
da dada da (da dada da)
da dada da (da dada da)
Da Da Dun Diddle Un Diddle Un Diddle Ah Da Da
da dada da (da dada da)
da dada da (da dada da)
Da Da Dun Diddle Un Diddle Un Diddle Ah Da Da
da dada da (da dada da)
da dada da (da dada da)
Da Da Dun Diddle Un Diddle Un Diddle Ah Da Da
And I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles
To fall down at your door
-The Proclaimers
p.s. Haver means to talk nonsense.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Love’s Been Good to Me
I have been a rover
I have walked alone
Hiked a hundred highways
Never found a home
Still in all I'm happy
The reason is, you see
Once in a while along the way
Love's been good to me
There was a girl in Denver
Before the summer storm
Oh, her eyes were tender
Oh, her arms were warm
And she could smile away the thunder
Kiss away the rain
Even though she's gone away
You won't hear me complain
I have been a rover
I have walked alone
Hiked a hundred highways
Never found a home
Still in all I'm happy
The reason is, you see
Once in a while along the way
Love's been good to me
There was a girl in Portland
Before the winter chill
We used to go a-courtin'
Along October hill
And she could laugh away the dark clouds
Cry away the snow
It seems like only yesterday
As down the road I go
I've been a rover
I have walked alone
Hiked a hundred highways
Never found a home
Still in all I'm happy
The reason is, you see
Once in a while along the way
Love's been good to me
-Johnny Cash (Lyrics are actually by Rod McKuen)
I have walked alone
Hiked a hundred highways
Never found a home
Still in all I'm happy
The reason is, you see
Once in a while along the way
Love's been good to me
There was a girl in Denver
Before the summer storm
Oh, her eyes were tender
Oh, her arms were warm
And she could smile away the thunder
Kiss away the rain
Even though she's gone away
You won't hear me complain
I have been a rover
I have walked alone
Hiked a hundred highways
Never found a home
Still in all I'm happy
The reason is, you see
Once in a while along the way
Love's been good to me
There was a girl in Portland
Before the winter chill
We used to go a-courtin'
Along October hill
And she could laugh away the dark clouds
Cry away the snow
It seems like only yesterday
As down the road I go
I've been a rover
I have walked alone
Hiked a hundred highways
Never found a home
Still in all I'm happy
The reason is, you see
Once in a while along the way
Love's been good to me
-Johnny Cash (Lyrics are actually by Rod McKuen)
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Be For Real
Are you back in my life to stay
Or is it just for today
Oh, that you're gonna need me?
If it's a thrill you're looking for
Honey I'm flexible. Oh, yeah
Just be for real, won't you, baby?
Be for real, oh, baby
You see I, I don't want to be hurt by love again
So you see I'm not naive
I just would like to believe
Ah, what you tell me
So don't give me the world today
And tomorrow take it away
Don't do that to me, darling
Just be for real won't you, baby?
Be for real won't you, baby?
You see I, I don't want to be hurt by love again
Been hurt so many times
You see I, I don't want to be hurt by love again
I don't give a damn about the truth, baby
Except for the naked truth. Oh yeah
Just be for real won't you, baby?
Be for real won't you, baby?
You see I, I don't want to be hurt by love again
Oh no, oh no
It's just that I, I don't want to be hurt by love again
Thanks for the song, Mr. Knight
-Leonard Cohen
Or is it just for today
Oh, that you're gonna need me?
If it's a thrill you're looking for
Honey I'm flexible. Oh, yeah
Just be for real, won't you, baby?
Be for real, oh, baby
You see I, I don't want to be hurt by love again
So you see I'm not naive
I just would like to believe
Ah, what you tell me
So don't give me the world today
And tomorrow take it away
Don't do that to me, darling
Just be for real won't you, baby?
Be for real won't you, baby?
You see I, I don't want to be hurt by love again
Been hurt so many times
You see I, I don't want to be hurt by love again
I don't give a damn about the truth, baby
Except for the naked truth. Oh yeah
Just be for real won't you, baby?
Be for real won't you, baby?
You see I, I don't want to be hurt by love again
Oh no, oh no
It's just that I, I don't want to be hurt by love again
Thanks for the song, Mr. Knight
-Leonard Cohen
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