... Yesterday I kicked myself right in the balls.
Didn't think that was possible, did ya? Yep. Me either. But thanks to a middle-aged chinese woman, a hour of "Yani's Slowest Hits", and a steam room, I accomplished the impossible, and racked myself.
Twice.
Once with each foot.
I've never really been a "Spa Whore" or a "Massage Junkie", but I've gone with Lektor a few times now, and I gotta say, I'm becoming attached. Lily (pronounced: "Lee-Lee") is apparently the queen of a profoundly intrusive and discomforting style of massage - one that is priceless and unforgettable once your muscles (and testicles) heal.
Getting closer to 30 everyday, I notice every once in a while that things that didn't always hurt me are now quite painful with no apparent escape (40 yearolds, bite it. This is MY blog). Kneeling or squatting in longer than 2.4 second intervals makes my knees grow internal toothpicks that stab into my brain and begin shutting down bodily functions... like standing.
Then, after a few weeks of working, working out, and walking my usual 40 blocks or so a day just to get a sandwich, I go back to Lily, and I get my crap straightened. I stay on my stomach for the first 45 minutes, and I usually fall asleep. The first time I did this, I awoke to try and respond to her question that I couldn't understand.
"Oh Di-pah?"
What the hell is she saying to me? I really don't want to get hurt here, and she's made it clear that she's capable of causing some serious damage... uh... "Yes?"
AHHHHHHH sweet Jesüs Gonzales! Did she break skin? I think she just put her fist through my back.
"Moh Dee-pah?"
"Yea! I said Yes!" This better feel good when I leave, 'cause right now I suddenly have sympathy for my mother. I feel like reading the Vagina Monologues and studying ancient rituals of glass eating in order to ease the pain those tiny Chinese hands are inducing on my back... and then it dawns on me what she's been asking me.
"NO MORE DEEPER! PLEASE! NO MORE DEEPER!"
"Oh, okay. You feel pain?"
"Yes! I feel pain!"
This breakthrough was the beginning for me. Now that I know that Lily is fully capable of climbing around on my back like a spider monkey looking for coconuts, and that she's got the strength of samurai, I am more comfortable with the fact that I need to tell her NOT to hurt me when I lie down. Which I did very well the next time I went back.
Lektor gets massages as often as is available because of the belief that it is not a luxury, but a necessity for a healthy, comfortable, and relaxed body. I tag along and subscribe to this belief as often as my testicles allow. Even that hindrance shouldn't be much of a factor after the most recent visit, when Lily demonstrated to me her ability to break my legs at the hip, curl them around into an oddly hairy pretzel, and slam my own foot into my scrotum.
"MOAH DEEPA?"
"NO LEE LEE! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. NO MORE DEEPER!"
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Monday, December 11, 2006
Candid. Apes.
Colin Powell - He's not gonna run. There. I put it out there. Deal with it. I really don't think he will. He's the (sorta) black Oliver North of my generation. He stepped up when asked, and presented a compelling case of facts for Afghanistan, Iraq, whatever. I wasn't really listening. The point is, it made him look smart. Then we went to war. Now he looks kinda dumb-founded. Like, "Uh, I meant Watery Magnet Ducks. Or Wayward Malignant Discharges. Wafers of Mass Digestion... Crap."
His military background and political experience would be great for foreign policy... for about 1 year. The first sign of conflict, turmoil, confusion, and the whole country would turn on him. Republicans would vote against him 'cause he's black. The black community would turn on him 'cause he's making them look bad. Democrats everywhere would just sit back and say, "Yeup, that's a Republican for yah." Meanwhile, we'd be another 40 years before a black president could get nominated.
Nope. General Powell, you need to stay outta this one. You're a brilliant man with too much experience to go being a guinea pig for america. Leave it to the young bucks to do the hard stuff. You've done your time. Call it a day. Stay low. Pray another old white man wins in '08, and you'll get a fair shake in '12... as long as the VP was black, and made some amazing breakthroughs behind the scenes that you could ride in on.
John McCain - What an unfortunate time to be a compelling, honest, logical, articulate, old, rich, white man in politics. Any other time, your war experience (ex freakin' P.O.W.), your political background (Congressman, then Senator), and your party (Republicans won't give up easily... here's a Republican as Liberal as Clinton was conservative), added to the political timing (after a 2-term President who could endorse you and step down) would just be money in the bank.
Then there's the fact that you're an old, wealthy, white man. I say wealthy only by default. You're no Donald Trump, but certainly aren't skipping trips to the golf course anytime soon either. This, unfortunately for you, is not the year to be old, white, or male, much less all three. You kinda can't win.
Think about it. Democrats aren't going to pass on an opportunity to be the first to nominate a woman, UNLESS they can be the first to nominate a black man. Republicans only hope is to drag Colin Powell and Condoleza Rice through the process, hoping no one loses their cookies laughing at the absurdity, and then actually nominate a "more of the same" kinda candidate, using the argument that "we're already at war, let's not go changing too much or else the Terrorists will attack us again." Meanwhile, John McCain gets slapped around publicly like a political Piñata, and probably has his national career ruined in the process.
After which he'll be doomed to Political Correspondence and committee votes to ban school vouchers because their clause to endorse union wage cuts is too much of a trade off. (In other words, the most boring and disgustingly competitive part of politics... forever).
Al Gore - Here's an Inconvenient Truth for you, Al. You're a great guy, who's public perception places you somewhere between the likable next door neighbor who's lawn is always perfectly mowed and never leaves the paper on his front porch, and the half-crazed New Ager who swears he met you in a past life.
His politics are solid. He's been careful about having a steady voting history (as much as can be expected for someone who's been in for as long as he has), and he's formulated a solid front on issues of family, the environment, and ... uh... family? Not that these aren't very important issues, but now that they're out there, can't anyone tackle 'em? It's not like he INVENTED global warming. I mean, if he's a war vet with tons of experience in negotiation, and had an idea for how to handle foreign affairs, sure. He's got the knowledge that justifies his discovery, and the experience that calls for his being the person to execute his own plan.
The problem with Al is, though he's brilliant (IQ of 135 or so, Harvard grad, etc...), he doesn't have his OWN plans... about anything. Then again, no one really does. Trump, Sharpton, Nader, maybe. None of the serious candidates, though. No one who has been in politics for long (successful politics, Nader) has gotten to where they are with their own ideas. They have committees, think tanks, debates, studies, etc... Al Gore worked with teams of scientists and engineers to "invent" the internet.
He certainly did help push funding through the proper channels to make it happen, and certainly is working hard to raise awareness on issues of the environment, but once those issues are in the public mind, they're no longer his ideas. He doesn't have any more qualification than I do, once I've heard all the facts that he has to share. He's no environmental analyst. He's a politician. He's not a web developer or a hardware engineer. He's a guy who's used his entire life to form powerful relationships, a working biography that would "read" impressively, and probably a genuinely decent human being. The only advantage he could have on issues of technology and the environment is if he withheld the information to which he had access, giving him the upper hand. The problem with that is, who would know he had the upper hand until he gave us his information?
Barack Obama - Career Politicians. These are people who make a career around looking like a great candidate for office. I have friends who are "in politics." They talk about it in lots of different ways. There are friends who chose law school because it sets you up to look really good as a candidate (the "He's obviously smart. And apparently knows the whole law now... " approach). Others who got degrees in Political Science because the process itself (the grit, the dirt, the leveraging, the angles, the studies, the media, the PR, etc...) was appealing to them. Some friends get into politics because there is some issue that is particularly important to them, and they honestly want to make a difference. Still others who just power-tripping psychos who want to have their hands in all the right pockets so that whatever they want in life, someone owes it to them to provide.
Barack Obama seems like one of the guys who, had you met at, say 21, would have already been able to layout a plan for how he could get elected into national politics. Who's names he could use to advance in each place. What connections he would use to build up a resume. Not in a slimy way. In much more of a "this would sound just like a police academy student talking about how he'll one day be police chief, then mayor" kinda thing. However, if you asked him at 21, 34, or even 45 (his current age), what his plans are for, say, Social Security, Foreign Oil Dependency, Gay Marriage, Immigration, or a slew of other issues that our next President should be able to attack, his answers would be (and, incidentally, are...) formulaic politician-speak, offering generic answers with no originality, creating just as many problems as the previous "solution", and generally just being a gigantic let-down.
Having given "Ralph" such a hard time about his name, I have to tell a story. One of the first off-hand comments a friend made to me about Barack Obama over 2 years ago when we first heard about him, was that he'd never vote for him. "Well, no. You're Republican, he's a Democrat, why would you?" My friend said no, the reason he wouldn't vote for him was that he didn't have an "American name." This struck me as particularly funny, as this friend and I share a common racial strand. We're both part native American. I busted out laughing as asked, "would you vote for someone named 'Sitting Bull'?"
As absurd as the notion is, I have to admit that I think a lot of people, though they don't admit it openly, think about much more vain and petty issues than that when deciding for whom they'll vote. Statistically, George Bush is pretty much right on the money. Clinton and Nixon, Kennedy and Reagan, Carter and Bush Sr. All middle-to-late aged white men, all around six feet tall, all reasonably fit for their age, all either graying or dark haired, all celebrate traditional American religions (Baptist, Catholic, etc...)... I could go on.
The one thing he has going for him, is the fact that this election is 100% about change, and he's an intelligent, articulate, well-spoken, and accomplished black man who knows the game he's playing, and knows that this very well may be his time. Barack, all the best.
Hillary Clinton - I was 12 years old the first time I heard of Hillary Clinton. She and her husband were running for President and First Lady. She was the most out-spoken first lady I'd ever heard of. Still is. The way I first heard her name was in a joke by someone (can't remember who, but had to have been a Bible-Belt Conservative), who was clearly excited about the opportunity to tell me.
"D'jew you hear that the Governor of Arkansas is thinkin' 'bout running for president?"
"Um. I just wanna buy a coke and some gum."
"Yeah, but d'jew hear?"
"No. I'm 12."
"Well, she says she'll have to ask her husband first!" (queue the big belly laughs)
I walked away from that conversation confused. First, at the joke itself. Was the governor of Arkansas a woman? If so, why would she have to ask her husband about being President? She's already the Governor, isn't she? The logic of the joke escaped me. Then I heard it again when Clinton was President, with all the appropriate terms changed. I was 14 by then, a man of the world, and I understood it. I think I even laughed. Probably repeated it once.
Over the next 8 years, it was a sorely played-out comment, that Hillary was really running things, and that Bill was kinda just a womanizing wimp. Then, a couple years ago, I read "My Life" by Bill Clinton. I felt like praying for forgiveness. Honestly. The strange thing is, now people are talking about how the only way Hillary could get the upper hand in the elections, making her the first woman president in history, and breaking rules and ground everywhere, is if people realize that Bill will be back in the White House again.
"Man," I think to myself, "Payback's a bitch."
Domestic policy by Hillary Clinton. Foreign Policy by Bill. With a Democratic Congress and Senate, I gotta say, I'm interested in seeing what happens.
Ralph Nader - Ralph, Ralph, Ralph... I know Lincoln lost a buncha elections before he became president. But you should read his biography sometime. He was... brilliant. He was... persistent. He was... IN THE 1800's! AND he wore a TOP HAT! You have no gimmics, no personality, Ralph! Your name is RALPH for crying out loud!
There will not, in my life time, or in the life time of my children's children's children for that matter, ever be a "President Ralph". Ain't goh'ne happ'n.
"President Baraco"? Maybe. "President Hillary"? Maybe. "President Ralph"? You're 80 years too late for that one, pah'dna. Sorry. Global warming is important and all, and so is foreign debt, but Bono will be having sex in the Lincoln bedroom before you... aren't having sex in the Lincoln bedroom. Come to think of it, Bono probably already has. Ouch, that has to hurt, huh? An Irish rockstar with no college education whatsoever who has more international political influence than a Princeton and Harvard Law grad. Welcome to America, Ralph. And to the 21st Century, for that matter.
Donald Trump - Dear The Donald, I sincerely respect your business savvy, and must admit that I kinda dig your hair. I think your ability to market yourself as a bad marketer is brilliant, and shouldn't be changed. New to New York City, I must say that I don't know the 'full story' of your success, but having read your account in a few forms, I'm impressed. Your moral character leaves a bit to be desired (see: Nihilism and Neitzche's world view), but I gotta say, you know how to run a business.
Having built up all of this goodwill, good publicity, and great fortune, now you wanna go and run for president. I like you, the Donald. So don't screw it up.
If you run, do it with style. No smear campaigns, just public debates only on properties that you own. It'll give you a chance to branch out into every state. You could host Kings and Prime Ministers in your home ... wait. You already do that. Well, you get my point. It'd be a step up, you gotta admit. The money is crap, we all know that. But if you're interested, I won't promise you my vote, but I guarantee that I'll be talking more about you than any other candidate, if only for the chance to someday say, "The President of the United States... The Donald."
Al Sharpton - Al Sharpton scares me. There. I said it. What scares me isn't that you only see him when something terrible happens, like a 12 year old's body found in the woods, or a bachelor party ended with 51 shots from the NYPD into the chest of the groom, or a black kid in Milwaukee wakes up and realizes he's the only one there.
It's also not that helmet of shiny perfection he calls hair. Though that's not exactly comforting. I mean, when I cropped the pictures, his hair wouldn't even fit in the square. That rhymes, and I know he'd want it that way.
Al Sharpton, for all of our potential differences of opinion, I believe is a sincere, moral, and intelligent man. However, I can just see him dealing with the Prime Minister of Saudi Arabia in the back Garden of the White House, and border-line rapping and rhyming with his poetic since of speech and gospel preacher inflections, and just freaking them the hell out. It's one thing for a middle-eastern oil tycoon to walk away from talking to our President and feeling insulted by the Elementary level of communication. It's another for him to be Insulted AND confused.
"Now you throwin' some big words at me right now, and since I don't understand 'em, I'm gonna consider 'em insults. Now back yourself down and have a civilized conversation wit' me, or my boys here are gonna have to you back you down for me."
(at which point the secrete service kills the prime minister for threatening the President, and we go to yet another war in the middle east, just because our president used the words Ethnocentricity and Transdisermification while discussing the meal they were just served at lunch.)
Al, I don't think we're quite ready for you. You're 3 generations ahead of your time.
Jon Stewart - The first black man? The first Woman? NAY! The FIRST JEW! Let's ease into this, people. This dude's got more common sense, is more articulate, more trust-worthy (looking), has better writers, less experience (thank God), and fewer chances of being a douche-bag about the Palistinian-Israelite conflict than any other candidate. Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert could wake this country up.
Four years with these two, and it wouldn't only be the idealistic, young, single people in the country who are freaking out and crying for change. It'd be old, comfortable, rich white men who line up and picket. It'd be right-wing extremists and left-wing extremists marching arm-in-arm on the capitol steps crying for change. That'd be great. Electing Jon Stewart to the white house after Clinton, then Bush would be like your dog taking a dump on the Monopoly board right in the middle of a huge argument over who should get Park Place since Mom's assets are mortgaged. Now the whole family can join together, stop being mad at each other, and focus their energy on dragging the dog outside, and making him eat the Monopoly board he's just desecrated.
Jon Stewart in 2008. It's our only chance to take politics seriously again. After he leaves.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Enough Already.
Let's talk about Market Share. Share of mind, share of market, share of wallet. A close friend of mine who happens to also be a brilliant business man once explained share of mind as a concept to me. He used Q-Tips as an example. He stated his illustration by simply asking me, "What do you use to clean your ears?"
"A Towel." I answered.
"Okay, but what do most people in America use to clean their ears?"
"Q-Tips."
"Right. Now, what are Q-Tips?"
"... uh... " [blank stare]
"Cotton Swabs."
His point was simply that most people in the world call what they're sticking deep into their ear canals by the name of the company Brand who most heavily markets the product, instead of by the name of the product itself.
MY point, however, is this...
I USE A TOWEL.
I offer you exhibit A:
In case you can't read the warning in the pic, I'll help you out. (This is on the back of a box of QTips, by the way)...
WARNING: Do not insert swab into ear canal. Entering the ear canal could cause injury. If used to clean ears, stroke swab gently around the outer surface of the ear only. Keep out of reach of children. Idiot.
(italics mine).
"So wait a second", you may ask. "Then what are Q-Tips for?"
"Well, first of all it's Cotton Swabs. Secondly, I'll answer you with exhibits B and C:
I have tried it all. I've kept just the pinky nail on my right hand long enough to scrap out the excess crap from my ear so that I always have the option. I have horrible sinus problems every day of the year, so there's always something in there. I've also tried the whole wet tissue thing, doesn't work for me. Then I started hearing horror stories about people slipping while they had a Q-Tip... er... Cotton Swab in their ear, and being deaf from then on. Then I realized that there was a simple solution to the concerns of both audio hygene and the physical safety of my precious ear drums.
Step out of the shower. Roll up the corner of the towel. Swab. Dab. Swirl. Wipe. Switch corners. Switch ears. Repeat.
I have had this conversation so many times with people who aren't plagued with either the sinus disease that is yet to be named but has managed to haunt me throughout my existence, or the fear of jabbing some compressed cardboard stick through the soft tissue inches from their brain. The conversation, as one I had just recently with Spektor, goes something like this...
"Oh my God, Q-Tips are so amazing. Don't you love using Q-Tips? Doesn't it feel great!?"
"Nope. I don't use 'em."
"WHAT!?!?!?! How do you not use Q-Tips? What do you use?"
"A towel. I dry off. I use the corner of the towel."
"HOW is that POSSIBLE!?!?!?! That's so gross! Let me see your ears..."
"k."
"You liar. You have to use Q-Tips, your ears are clean. How are your ears so clean?"
"Exhibit D, man. Exhibit D."
So, this is the beginning of my official revolt. No more BS. Halitosis is already too far (see Listerine INVENTING diseases so their products are needed), but what's going to be the name of the disease that represents caked up orange ear wax?
I don't know. And I don't care. I don't have nasty, greasy ears. They're clean.
But I'm not going to succumb to the peer pressure to cram little white sticks past the welcome ropes and into the private party that is my skull. No More. It's painful if you have crazy sinuses. It may feel great if you don't, but it better be worth your hearing. Count me out. If soap, water, and a towel can't make it clean, then it's goh'ne stay dirty.
Nah'm sayin'?
"A Towel." I answered.
"Okay, but what do most people in America use to clean their ears?"
"Q-Tips."
"Right. Now, what are Q-Tips?"
"... uh... " [blank stare]
"Cotton Swabs."
His point was simply that most people in the world call what they're sticking deep into their ear canals by the name of the company Brand who most heavily markets the product, instead of by the name of the product itself.
MY point, however, is this...
I USE A TOWEL.
I offer you exhibit A:
In case you can't read the warning in the pic, I'll help you out. (This is on the back of a box of QTips, by the way)...WARNING: Do not insert swab into ear canal. Entering the ear canal could cause injury. If used to clean ears, stroke swab gently around the outer surface of the ear only. Keep out of reach of children. Idiot.
(italics mine).
"So wait a second", you may ask. "Then what are Q-Tips for?"
"Well, first of all it's Cotton Swabs. Secondly, I'll answer you with exhibits B and C:
I have tried it all. I've kept just the pinky nail on my right hand long enough to scrap out the excess crap from my ear so that I always have the option. I have horrible sinus problems every day of the year, so there's always something in there. I've also tried the whole wet tissue thing, doesn't work for me. Then I started hearing horror stories about people slipping while they had a Q-Tip... er... Cotton Swab in their ear, and being deaf from then on. Then I realized that there was a simple solution to the concerns of both audio hygene and the physical safety of my precious ear drums.
Step out of the shower. Roll up the corner of the towel. Swab. Dab. Swirl. Wipe. Switch corners. Switch ears. Repeat.I have had this conversation so many times with people who aren't plagued with either the sinus disease that is yet to be named but has managed to haunt me throughout my existence, or the fear of jabbing some compressed cardboard stick through the soft tissue inches from their brain. The conversation, as one I had just recently with Spektor, goes something like this...
"Oh my God, Q-Tips are so amazing. Don't you love using Q-Tips? Doesn't it feel great!?"
"Nope. I don't use 'em."
"WHAT!?!?!?! How do you not use Q-Tips? What do you use?"
"A towel. I dry off. I use the corner of the towel."
"HOW is that POSSIBLE!?!?!?! That's so gross! Let me see your ears..."
"k."
"You liar. You have to use Q-Tips, your ears are clean. How are your ears so clean?"
"Exhibit D, man. Exhibit D."
So, this is the beginning of my official revolt. No more BS. Halitosis is already too far (see Listerine INVENTING diseases so their products are needed), but what's going to be the name of the disease that represents caked up orange ear wax?
I don't know. And I don't care. I don't have nasty, greasy ears. They're clean.
But I'm not going to succumb to the peer pressure to cram little white sticks past the welcome ropes and into the private party that is my skull. No More. It's painful if you have crazy sinuses. It may feel great if you don't, but it better be worth your hearing. Count me out. If soap, water, and a towel can't make it clean, then it's goh'ne stay dirty.
Nah'm sayin'?
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Dear Red Fraggle
I have 23 minutes of battery life on my laptop, so let's make it snappy.
I'm going to see MuteMath tonight in Times Square. I'll report back, but for now, suffice it to say that I'm excited. I'm bringing Lektor, who has never seen them before.
Lektor and I went to see Martin Short's one man play on Broadway last night. Amazing. Very funny, and really displays his broad talent. More notably, we had literally the best seats in the house, front row center with no one on either side of us. I don't know how she did it, but I was grateful. I had read before that Martin Short had written into the show a segment where he would dress as Gimini Glick and call celebrities from the audience onto the stage and interview them. Last night the celebrity in the audience was Jerry Springer. It made me focus on the first time I saw Jerry Springer in person. I was on the Jerry Springer show with my family. Aweful. Absolutely Aweful. I'll tell you all about it some day.
We're going to see Rent next week.
Rosco is still a bad ass, and getting stronger and bigger everyday. I've got some pics online, but for now, just take this one, taken on his 10 month birthday.
... a short, furry, Ahnold. Right?
For those still not completely worn out with reports about a record that is seemingly never going to be released, Roy Mitchell-Cardenas is bringing my record to me tonight, and possibly coming back into the city this weekend to hang for a day or so, and maybe even work with me on my live show, which is yet to be developed.
Expect me to be talking a LOT about the new Damien Rice album. Even if I don't actually talk about it very much, 'cause I'll be thinking about it constantly. It's good. Surprising at places, mainly 'cause he made such a big stink about wanting to release a "heavy" record, but also because it's surprising how good he can consistently be. Oh, and Lisa Hannigan is still an Angel filled with Magic Juice that makes her voice massage your soul and... she's ridiculous.
That's all for now. I'm tired, it's too early to be blogging, but I'm almost out of battery, and I'm very very busy today, so I thought I'd get this out of the way. I love New York. I really do.
I'm going to see MuteMath tonight in Times Square. I'll report back, but for now, suffice it to say that I'm excited. I'm bringing Lektor, who has never seen them before.
Lektor and I went to see Martin Short's one man play on Broadway last night. Amazing. Very funny, and really displays his broad talent. More notably, we had literally the best seats in the house, front row center with no one on either side of us. I don't know how she did it, but I was grateful. I had read before that Martin Short had written into the show a segment where he would dress as Gimini Glick and call celebrities from the audience onto the stage and interview them. Last night the celebrity in the audience was Jerry Springer. It made me focus on the first time I saw Jerry Springer in person. I was on the Jerry Springer show with my family. Aweful. Absolutely Aweful. I'll tell you all about it some day.
We're going to see Rent next week.
Rosco is still a bad ass, and getting stronger and bigger everyday. I've got some pics online, but for now, just take this one, taken on his 10 month birthday.
... a short, furry, Ahnold. Right?
For those still not completely worn out with reports about a record that is seemingly never going to be released, Roy Mitchell-Cardenas is bringing my record to me tonight, and possibly coming back into the city this weekend to hang for a day or so, and maybe even work with me on my live show, which is yet to be developed.
Expect me to be talking a LOT about the new Damien Rice album. Even if I don't actually talk about it very much, 'cause I'll be thinking about it constantly. It's good. Surprising at places, mainly 'cause he made such a big stink about wanting to release a "heavy" record, but also because it's surprising how good he can consistently be. Oh, and Lisa Hannigan is still an Angel filled with Magic Juice that makes her voice massage your soul and... she's ridiculous.
That's all for now. I'm tired, it's too early to be blogging, but I'm almost out of battery, and I'm very very busy today, so I thought I'd get this out of the way. I love New York. I really do.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
On losing my status as a planet.
So I get anxiety attacks. So what. So sometimes I'm standing in line at starbucks during a perfectly productive and normal day, and my mind starts racing about some particular topic, and I suddenly realize that my heart is racing, and I'm standing in a cold sweat. I have a headache within seconds, and my breathing is irregular. It's not necessarily the same thing that sets me off, but I would have to say that the large majority of these mental rampages are close to the topic of money. Not having it, but... well, not having it.
I'm drinking hot coffee now. I have been a total wuss about my cafeine intake until this Saturday.
"Single Grande No-Whip Mocha Frappucino, Please. Oh, and can you put that in a Venti cup?" That was even a step up for me. A year ago, I couldn't stand the taste of espresso, so I would get the grande caramel frappucino. Whip cream and all. Now, I've progressed beyond my wildest dreams.
"Single Grande No-Whip Mocha, Please." See the difference? IT'S HOT!!! That's the difference. I have been a clumsy fool when it comes to hot drinks for the duration of my life thus far. Now, having clearly established that I am ill-prepared for the New England winter at hand, I am taking my first steps toward full-body warmth. Hot mocha. With a shot. So I'm warm, and jittery.
A new member of my ever-swelling and contracting inner-circle of influential relationships (hereafter referred to as "Lektor") has helped with a couple of the other steps. She's begun buying me wool hats that cover my ears and are "soooo cute" on me. I've generally had a helluva time finding hats, 'cause my head is so big, it's just slightly not a planet (I feel your pain, Pluto), so the new headwear is greatly appreciated. Gloves, on the other hand, have not yet been added to my 3 ft of closet space, but should be soon.
I'm rambling, but that's mainly 'cause I have only about 3 things on my mind, and I am not allowing myself to discuss any of them here... yet. I just really want to get over this anxiety, and get back to my luscious hot mocha.
Oh, and... go out and buy the latest cd by the roots. Now. And get ready to ... well, have your face melted.
I'm drinking hot coffee now. I have been a total wuss about my cafeine intake until this Saturday.
"Single Grande No-Whip Mocha Frappucino, Please. Oh, and can you put that in a Venti cup?" That was even a step up for me. A year ago, I couldn't stand the taste of espresso, so I would get the grande caramel frappucino. Whip cream and all. Now, I've progressed beyond my wildest dreams.
"Single Grande No-Whip Mocha, Please." See the difference? IT'S HOT!!! That's the difference. I have been a clumsy fool when it comes to hot drinks for the duration of my life thus far. Now, having clearly established that I am ill-prepared for the New England winter at hand, I am taking my first steps toward full-body warmth. Hot mocha. With a shot. So I'm warm, and jittery.
A new member of my ever-swelling and contracting inner-circle of influential relationships (hereafter referred to as "Lektor") has helped with a couple of the other steps. She's begun buying me wool hats that cover my ears and are "soooo cute" on me. I've generally had a helluva time finding hats, 'cause my head is so big, it's just slightly not a planet (I feel your pain, Pluto), so the new headwear is greatly appreciated. Gloves, on the other hand, have not yet been added to my 3 ft of closet space, but should be soon.
I'm rambling, but that's mainly 'cause I have only about 3 things on my mind, and I am not allowing myself to discuss any of them here... yet. I just really want to get over this anxiety, and get back to my luscious hot mocha.
Oh, and... go out and buy the latest cd by the roots. Now. And get ready to ... well, have your face melted.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Monday, October 09, 2006
Research and Development for Rheumatoid Authritis
She's training to be a physical therapist,
and in the mean time, she's a certified palates instructor
this to say that she's incredibly beautiful
this to say that she can do the splits
this to say that she's incredibly smart and funny
this to say sharp, with her wits.
she's training for a marathon that she will never win
it's not that kind of race
it's the kind that everybody wins just for running,
and everyone cheers for everyone else
it's the kind where all the proceeds go to R&D4RA
this to say Research and Development for Rheumatoid Authritis
She's ridiculous, and beautiful
she's beautifully ridiculous
she is ridiculously beautiful
and seriously, don't smoke.
She says we haven't yet figured out what causes rheumatoid authritis
but we think we've got it narrowed down to two things
it's either women's periods, or smoking
so everyone put down your cancer sticks and stop the bleeding all the time
She's ridiculous, and beautiful
she's beautifully ridiculous
she is ridiculously beautiful
and seriously, what's with all the bleeding?
If you smoke, you'll never run a marathon
and that's the only way we ever raise any money for this crap
dozens of people all over Florida are suffering from this terribly disease
and all you can think about is a lousy drag
oh, and your period.
She's ridiculous, and beautiful
she's beautifully ridiculous
she is ridiculously beautiful
and seriously, don't smoke.
She wants to learn spanish by the end of the summer,
'cause she's going to Brussels in the fall.
she says if you get lost anywhere in Europe, you can speak spanish and they'll help you out.
the locals will think you're local too,
and since no one likes america but americans, it works out for everyone
She's ridiculous, and beautiful
she's beautifully ridiculous
she is ridiculously beautiful
and seriously, Español.
She wants to be ironic, and iconic, and funny
she wants to wear Manolo Blahnik, and make money
she wants to sip her gin and tonic,
and discuss her last colonic
and pretend that all her dark days are sunny
She wants to learn the difference between wrong and right
and feign interest in leaning to the latter
she wants me mad when she has to break a date
but when she breaks a heel, be madder.
she's ridiculous, and beautiful
she's beautifully ridiculous
she is ridiculously beautiful
and seriously, don't smoke.
She says that she likes the cordoroy pants the best 'cause they go squish, squish when I walk.
and in the mean time, she's a certified palates instructor
this to say that she's incredibly beautiful
this to say that she can do the splits
this to say that she's incredibly smart and funny
this to say sharp, with her wits.
she's training for a marathon that she will never win
it's not that kind of race
it's the kind that everybody wins just for running,
and everyone cheers for everyone else
it's the kind where all the proceeds go to R&D4RA
this to say Research and Development for Rheumatoid Authritis
She's ridiculous, and beautiful
she's beautifully ridiculous
she is ridiculously beautiful
and seriously, don't smoke.
She says we haven't yet figured out what causes rheumatoid authritis
but we think we've got it narrowed down to two things
it's either women's periods, or smoking
so everyone put down your cancer sticks and stop the bleeding all the time
She's ridiculous, and beautiful
she's beautifully ridiculous
she is ridiculously beautiful
and seriously, what's with all the bleeding?
If you smoke, you'll never run a marathon
and that's the only way we ever raise any money for this crap
dozens of people all over Florida are suffering from this terribly disease
and all you can think about is a lousy drag
oh, and your period.
She's ridiculous, and beautiful
she's beautifully ridiculous
she is ridiculously beautiful
and seriously, don't smoke.
She wants to learn spanish by the end of the summer,
'cause she's going to Brussels in the fall.
she says if you get lost anywhere in Europe, you can speak spanish and they'll help you out.
the locals will think you're local too,
and since no one likes america but americans, it works out for everyone
She's ridiculous, and beautiful
she's beautifully ridiculous
she is ridiculously beautiful
and seriously, Español.
She wants to be ironic, and iconic, and funny
she wants to wear Manolo Blahnik, and make money
she wants to sip her gin and tonic,
and discuss her last colonic
and pretend that all her dark days are sunny
She wants to learn the difference between wrong and right
and feign interest in leaning to the latter
she wants me mad when she has to break a date
but when she breaks a heel, be madder.
she's ridiculous, and beautiful
she's beautifully ridiculous
she is ridiculously beautiful
and seriously, don't smoke.
She says that she likes the cordoroy pants the best 'cause they go squish, squish when I walk.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Of The Metaphore That Angels Fall
It's true, dear
The metaphore that Angels fall
and of all the fallen Angels found
it's you that I find
You fall for
a reason unknown to me
but a reason just the same
you didn't fall just to rhyme
And it's falling
that makes you so cold
so hard, and so bitter
and so just out of reach
I've fallen
to feel a kindred soul with you
and hope you show me what to do
to find the core of your peach.
She means broken
when she says tired
She means lonely
by uninspired
So sue me
I only wanted time to sing
I never meant to mend your wings
featherless and lame
I've no regrets
save standing at the door
and waving farewell, but well
they're regrets just the same
She means never
when she says soon
She means my eyes
by the light of the moon
A hundred thousand stars are out tonight.
And they all fall down. They all fall down.
A hundred thousand stars are shining bright.
To watch you hit the ground.
'Cause we all fall down. We all fall down.
The metaphore that Angels fall
and of all the fallen Angels found
it's you that I find
You fall for
a reason unknown to me
but a reason just the same
you didn't fall just to rhyme
And it's falling
that makes you so cold
so hard, and so bitter
and so just out of reach
I've fallen
to feel a kindred soul with you
and hope you show me what to do
to find the core of your peach.
She means broken
when she says tired
She means lonely
by uninspired
So sue me
I only wanted time to sing
I never meant to mend your wings
featherless and lame
I've no regrets
save standing at the door
and waving farewell, but well
they're regrets just the same
She means never
when she says soon
She means my eyes
by the light of the moon
A hundred thousand stars are out tonight.
And they all fall down. They all fall down.
A hundred thousand stars are shining bright.
To watch you hit the ground.
'Cause we all fall down. We all fall down.
Here's what I meant. That's what I said.
I said I wanted to say one more thing. I meant I wanted you to hear me the first time.
I said it made me want to listen more. I meant it made me want to weep.
I said tired. I meant on the verge of falling apart.
I said I liked it. I meant it made me want to love you.
I said in a few days. I meant immediately, or sooner, if possible.
I said it frustrated me. I meant I wanted to punch him in the throat.
I said we have a lot in common. I meant you remind me of my dreams.
I said there's something off. I meant I want to crawl into a cave and disappear for a month.
I said I miss you. I meant to not hurt you by admitting I'm feeling home here.
I said I hate you, and I laughed. I meant the laughter.
I said not to worry about it. I meant that if I worried more about it, I'd go insane.
I said I'd be there. I meant I feel stuck there.
I said I'd pray. I meant I wish I would have prayed before.
I said I'd call. I meant don't leave.
I said I knew a guy. I meant sometimes I feel...
I said you should have been there. I meant you should never be away again.
I said I feel trapped. I meant I feel the weight of failure for staying still.
I said I could handle it. I meant I want to be strong enough.
I said what I meant once. Now I can't take it back.
I said it made me want to listen more. I meant it made me want to weep.
I said tired. I meant on the verge of falling apart.
I said I liked it. I meant it made me want to love you.
I said in a few days. I meant immediately, or sooner, if possible.
I said it frustrated me. I meant I wanted to punch him in the throat.
I said we have a lot in common. I meant you remind me of my dreams.
I said there's something off. I meant I want to crawl into a cave and disappear for a month.
I said I miss you. I meant to not hurt you by admitting I'm feeling home here.
I said I hate you, and I laughed. I meant the laughter.
I said not to worry about it. I meant that if I worried more about it, I'd go insane.
I said I'd be there. I meant I feel stuck there.
I said I'd pray. I meant I wish I would have prayed before.
I said I'd call. I meant don't leave.
I said I knew a guy. I meant sometimes I feel...
I said you should have been there. I meant you should never be away again.
I said I feel trapped. I meant I feel the weight of failure for staying still.
I said I could handle it. I meant I want to be strong enough.
I said what I meant once. Now I can't take it back.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Smile Sample
Download the sample of Smile, the first single from my new album. Lemme know what you think.
Thanks for listening.
Meshach
Thanks for listening.
Meshach
Heaven, Hell, and the Inches (or Ions) between
I don't THINK I'm bipolar, but God, I feel like it sometimes. It seems like I'm speaking in exactly the same way that I spoke yesterday, but somehow, that's not what anyone hears.
When one person calls you an ass, don't sweat it.
Then, I go through my day, and while I interact with people I can see their expression reflect the discomfort that whatever I'm saying (or however I'm saying it) is causing them. It's like having a huge pimple on the tip of your nose, and not knowing it. Or maybe, just Oral Malodor that somehow escapes my own nostrils. (Sinuses. That's the problem.)
Now that pimple is causing me pain for no reason. Not pain. Discomfort. Whatever this thing is growing out of my face is causing me frustration and confusion, and I'm lost as to how to remove it. Should I be on medication?
Nothing will ever go as planned. Nothing is ever as bad as it seems. In the end, you will most certainly be alone.
Ray Lamontagne, The Roots, MuteMath, TV On The Radio, The Mars Volta, DJ Shadow, Kasabian, and Beck have all released records recently. This is the time, I guess. A new friend, Mario Vasquez, just released his record as well, and all signs are pointing to it doing well. Meanwhile, my record is in post-production. It's slow-going, and I'm more anxious than ever to let people hear it. So, I'm uploading a small sample. Hopefully today. Not in this post, but I'll work on it.
Cornelius Rosco P Coltrane Jr. is doing well. Heartguard and a new rubber toy ball helped a lot. He's putting on weight again (somewhere around 70lbs now), and hopefully will stay healthy, obedient, and intimidating for a long time - (my only goals for his life).
My car, recently towed and rescued (long story), is now back up for sale on Craigslist. Click the enormous link on the top of this site to buy it. Please.
The real problem with Halitosis is that no one cared about bad breath until Listerine invented the word.
I'm going to buy Beck and Kasabian's new records today. That should help the funk. Not my breath (as far as I know, it's fine), just the ... other funk. The one I can't find, but everyone else sees. Hell. I need something. I had two different people yesterday comment on my being "off".
If two people call you an ass, buy a saddle.
When one person calls you an ass, don't sweat it.
Then, I go through my day, and while I interact with people I can see their expression reflect the discomfort that whatever I'm saying (or however I'm saying it) is causing them. It's like having a huge pimple on the tip of your nose, and not knowing it. Or maybe, just Oral Malodor that somehow escapes my own nostrils. (Sinuses. That's the problem.)
Now that pimple is causing me pain for no reason. Not pain. Discomfort. Whatever this thing is growing out of my face is causing me frustration and confusion, and I'm lost as to how to remove it. Should I be on medication?
Nothing will ever go as planned. Nothing is ever as bad as it seems. In the end, you will most certainly be alone.
Ray Lamontagne, The Roots, MuteMath, TV On The Radio, The Mars Volta, DJ Shadow, Kasabian, and Beck have all released records recently. This is the time, I guess. A new friend, Mario Vasquez, just released his record as well, and all signs are pointing to it doing well. Meanwhile, my record is in post-production. It's slow-going, and I'm more anxious than ever to let people hear it. So, I'm uploading a small sample. Hopefully today. Not in this post, but I'll work on it.
Cornelius Rosco P Coltrane Jr. is doing well. Heartguard and a new rubber toy ball helped a lot. He's putting on weight again (somewhere around 70lbs now), and hopefully will stay healthy, obedient, and intimidating for a long time - (my only goals for his life).
My car, recently towed and rescued (long story), is now back up for sale on Craigslist. Click the enormous link on the top of this site to buy it. Please.
The real problem with Halitosis is that no one cared about bad breath until Listerine invented the word.
I'm going to buy Beck and Kasabian's new records today. That should help the funk. Not my breath (as far as I know, it's fine), just the ... other funk. The one I can't find, but everyone else sees. Hell. I need something. I had two different people yesterday comment on my being "off".
If two people call you an ass, buy a saddle.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Smile
You can cry all you want, until you're facing things
You can write a lovely song that no one will ever sing
You won't change a thing.
You can glad-hand or worse, grin to cast your spell
You can quote chapter and verse, and still be wrong as hell
You won't change a thing.
Catch me if you can, I'm falling like a star into your sky
You won't change a thing.
You can write a lovely song that no one will ever sing
You won't change a thing.
You can glad-hand or worse, grin to cast your spell
You can quote chapter and verse, and still be wrong as hell
You won't change a thing.
Catch me if you can, I'm falling like a star into your sky
You won't change a thing.
Obsoletely.
If I have any southern pride, it's very little, and deep into my subconscious. I hope it stays there. I love my heritage. I love my family. I love my home. But I'm not more "proud" to be from the south than ... not.
Being "nice" means absolutely nothing to me. When I looked up "nice" in the dictionary, I get words like "obsolete, wanton, dissolute, coy, reticent, finicy, delicacy, trivial, agreeable, socially acceptable, respectable, polite."
Not all that appealing, to me. "obsolete", "agreeable", "appropriate". In other words, "Adjustable to other people's fickle desires". I have no intention of ever again, being nice.
However.
I have to subscribe to the belief that there is intrinsic value in being a "kind" person. The difference is this. Being "nice" is meaningless. Being "kind" is being generous. Being "nice" is smiling and nodding in a conversation. Being "kind" is having empathy for someone while you're talking and engaging them to inspire confidence and trust. Being "nice" is socially acceptable. Being "kind" will get you into a lot of trouble.
You read that right.
I don't think it's because I'm from "the south". I think it MIGHT have something to do with growing up in church (though I must admit that most people in that world are anything but kind. Nice, maybe. But not kind.) But I have to learn to draw the line. Being kind is exhausting. It's involved. It's hard. It's not worth it to be kind to everyone. It's a great thought to try, but I'm learning that it's really not worth it. So here's what I propose...
Screw it. Be Kind. Just be a generous, kind, trusting person. You absolutely will piss people off. You will get hurt. You will want to stop being kind. Don't. There is no alternative to being hurt. You will be. There is no means of making everyone happy (which is what being Nice is for). When it's all said and done, there is only you. And you have to live with yourself. You have to justify to only yourself your actions. Your motives are clear as crystal to you. Your excuses are shot down when you give them to yourself.
Don't be fake.
Screw being nice.
If you can, with any energy you have, give. Be kind. It won't pay off, but that's not why you're doing it.
Being "nice" means absolutely nothing to me. When I looked up "nice" in the dictionary, I get words like "obsolete, wanton, dissolute, coy, reticent, finicy, delicacy, trivial, agreeable, socially acceptable, respectable, polite."
Not all that appealing, to me. "obsolete", "agreeable", "appropriate". In other words, "Adjustable to other people's fickle desires". I have no intention of ever again, being nice.
However.
I have to subscribe to the belief that there is intrinsic value in being a "kind" person. The difference is this. Being "nice" is meaningless. Being "kind" is being generous. Being "nice" is smiling and nodding in a conversation. Being "kind" is having empathy for someone while you're talking and engaging them to inspire confidence and trust. Being "nice" is socially acceptable. Being "kind" will get you into a lot of trouble.
You read that right.
I don't think it's because I'm from "the south". I think it MIGHT have something to do with growing up in church (though I must admit that most people in that world are anything but kind. Nice, maybe. But not kind.) But I have to learn to draw the line. Being kind is exhausting. It's involved. It's hard. It's not worth it to be kind to everyone. It's a great thought to try, but I'm learning that it's really not worth it. So here's what I propose...
Screw it. Be Kind. Just be a generous, kind, trusting person. You absolutely will piss people off. You will get hurt. You will want to stop being kind. Don't. There is no alternative to being hurt. You will be. There is no means of making everyone happy (which is what being Nice is for). When it's all said and done, there is only you. And you have to live with yourself. You have to justify to only yourself your actions. Your motives are clear as crystal to you. Your excuses are shot down when you give them to yourself.
Don't be fake.
Screw being nice.
If you can, with any energy you have, give. Be kind. It won't pay off, but that's not why you're doing it.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Monday, September 18, 2006
Giant steps.
He doesn't know it, but he's not so big. He tries to be. Big, I mean. He tries.
To be big. To be strong. To be unbreakable. He's not unbreakable. He's not even that big.
All my life, he's tried to be big. He's tried to get bigger, stronger, tougher, scarier, more fearless. He got there.
Now, he is so afraid of not being what he's worked so hard to be... that he's not. He's afraid, and that makes him small. He's concerned, and that makes him nervous. His nerves make him vulnerable. He's far too afraid to be vulnerable.
That side of him just isn't there yet. The side of him that takes the hit when no one cares how big he is. The side of him that breaks when he feels like he can't get any bigger. The side that wakes in a cold sweat after the dream about being small. That side of him is weak. Frail. Afraid.
There is a mouse in this Giant. There is a boy wearing the crown in that kingdom. There is a traitor in his army of one.
It's him. He's so obviously afraid of only himself. And of how small only he really knows he is. Still he tries. But I know, too.
There is a part of me that sees him as me. There is a part of me that wants him to be stronger. To be unbreakable. To arrive at the invisible place he's been going to forever. To be big. Part of me wants to be big like him. But the other part knows better. The other part knows that I can be. And that scares us both.
It scares him to think that he can work his whole life to become something that I could be in a year, if I wanted to. And I'm not that big. I'm just... not him.
The other part, though. The other part of me knows that if I did, I'd be just as scared as him. The other part of me knows that if I was ever as strong, as fearless, as unbreakable as him, that we'd both crumble.
I'd lose knowing that there's always someone out there bigger than me. He'd lose everything. He'd suddenly be small. Not to anyone else. Just me.
The one who needs him.
To Be.
Big.
To be big. To be strong. To be unbreakable. He's not unbreakable. He's not even that big.
All my life, he's tried to be big. He's tried to get bigger, stronger, tougher, scarier, more fearless. He got there.
Now, he is so afraid of not being what he's worked so hard to be... that he's not. He's afraid, and that makes him small. He's concerned, and that makes him nervous. His nerves make him vulnerable. He's far too afraid to be vulnerable.
That side of him just isn't there yet. The side of him that takes the hit when no one cares how big he is. The side of him that breaks when he feels like he can't get any bigger. The side that wakes in a cold sweat after the dream about being small. That side of him is weak. Frail. Afraid.
There is a mouse in this Giant. There is a boy wearing the crown in that kingdom. There is a traitor in his army of one.
It's him. He's so obviously afraid of only himself. And of how small only he really knows he is. Still he tries. But I know, too.
There is a part of me that sees him as me. There is a part of me that wants him to be stronger. To be unbreakable. To arrive at the invisible place he's been going to forever. To be big. Part of me wants to be big like him. But the other part knows better. The other part knows that I can be. And that scares us both.
It scares him to think that he can work his whole life to become something that I could be in a year, if I wanted to. And I'm not that big. I'm just... not him.
The other part, though. The other part of me knows that if I did, I'd be just as scared as him. The other part of me knows that if I was ever as strong, as fearless, as unbreakable as him, that we'd both crumble.
I'd lose knowing that there's always someone out there bigger than me. He'd lose everything. He'd suddenly be small. Not to anyone else. Just me.
The one who needs him.
To Be.
Big.
Spin.
She walks the way a spider spins it's web.
Each step spits her foot in front of her.
It lands, and grips down.
Her body leans back in rebellion against the momentum.
The muscles of her thigh contract and whip the rest of her into place, and she spits again.
I have to wonder, "Does she drink poison like the rest of them?
Does she know what she wants?
Does she sing loudly with the radio to a hairbrush wearing her curtains like a veil?
Does she cry when she's lonely?
Does she ever let herself get lonely?
Does she suck the nectar from her day like she's diseased, and laughter is the antidote?
Does she dress to look like that?
Or does she just look like that?
Does she want to be seen?
Does she want to say hello?
Does she want me to do that for her?"
Hi.
She walks the way a spider spins it's web.
Each step spits her foot in front of her.
It lands, and grips down.
Her body leans back in rebellion against the momentum.
The muscles of her thigh contract and whip the rest of her into place, and she spits again.
I have to wonder, "Does she drink poison like the rest of them?
Does she know what she wants?
Does she sing loudly with the radio to a hairbrush wearing her curtains like a veil?
Does she cry when she's lonely?
Does she ever let herself get lonely?
Does she suck the nectar from her day like she's diseased, and laughter is the antidote?
Does she dress to look like that?
Or does she just look like that?
Does she want to be seen?
Does she want to say hello?
Does she want me to do that for her?"
Hi.
She walks the way a spider spins it's web.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Talk to strangers.
When I decided to move to New York, I started telling friends about how much I loved this city, and how desperate I was to be there. I had experienced the city only on vacation, for one week, during perfect weather, with money to spend.
Everyone who had lived there, or lived there now, told me all the things that I should expect. They told me to expect to pay more for everything. Then I got here and there were Wendy's, Taco Bell's, and Pizza Huts all over Manhattan. So... pay more if you plan to live like a New Yorker. (this is obviously excluding rent... I'll get to that)
I was told to expect to walk everywhere. What I wasn't told was that by doing so, my total number of used shoes per year would go up by about 5000%.
I was told to expect New Yorkers to be rude by everyone who HADN'T lived here. I was told the opposite by everyone who had. What I wasn't told is that "being rude" has completely different definitions for those two types of people. For people who live here, there are so many people, every day, asking you to stop walking where you're going, just essentially to waste as much of your time as possible. Selling you a cd of absolutely horrible hip-hop. Talking to you about donating to the "help this gay guy get an apartment in the lower west side" fund. Taking a survey to ask how you feel about the Wakashu tribe in Burkina Faso and their plite. The thing is, I don't have time to stop. Honestly. Because...
I was NOT told to expect for EVERYTHING to take longer to do here. If you want to go to the grocery store and buy bread, you're going to stand in line. Not wait behind a few people at the register. I'm talking about Cold War Russia stand in line. I mean, you stand in line for everything. They didn't tell me that. They didn't tell me.
You.
Will.
Wait.
In Line.
For.
Ever.
y.
Thing.
Sometimes, the lines move pretty quickly, because the stores here are used to handling long lines all day. So there are employees at "Trader Joes" (the major grocery in my neighborhood) or "Whole Foods" who simply stand at the start of the lines (about 10-15 lines form at a time - each a few dozen people deep... all day) and just direct traffic. "Sir, you can head to register 27, it's the 4 one past the 2nd pole on your left." "Ma'am, go to register 13. It's the closest to the 2nd exit door on from the right."
I was told lots of things about the city that weren't lies. Weren't really misleading, even. It's just that you really have to be here to experience it to understand. You see, if you expect to stand in line for absolutely everything, you plan for it. You never go to the store just for bread. You go with a list. You make it quick. You go with a friend, who gets in line for you as soon as you get there, and you shop quickly so you're done by the time they get to the front. You also never go with a large list, 'cause you're gonna have to carry all of it home when you're done. 4 bags, no matter how full, is pretty much the max. I am very fortunate to live near Union Square (where both of the aforementioned grocery stores are), and I still have a 15 minute walk one-way. Carrying a bag of dog food on one shoulder, and 4 bags of groceries in one hand gets old after a block. I walk about 12. About 2wice a week.
Then we get to the prices of things. Let's break this down. When I moved here, I was coming from a place where I spent about 35% of my monthly income on "home" (rent, utilities, cable, etc...), and another 45% or so on everything else (phone, car, insurance, food, etc...) and then I'd use pretty much all the rest on "gear" (new computer, guitar, paying for recording costs, etc...).
In the city, if you want to live in Manhattan, you're not going to need a car. So after all the expences add up, you get back about 20% or more that you don't have to spend now. Then, you just spend the rest on rent, right?
Sure. Except. You also need to have, on average, about 5 - 8 months rent ready. In cash. To get an apartment. You will NOT find a place for less than $1500 a month to live by yourself. Don't even look. You're going to move to Harlem, the Bronx, or MAYBE you'll find something in Brooklyn for that (again, if you're living alone). Not only that, but you need, on average, to prove an annual salary of about 40-60 times your monthly rent. That means if your rent is $1500 a month, you have to not only have about $10k to put down on an apartment, but then you need to prove that you make about $60k a year. Now, you'll make more money in New York, if you have the skill set to get a job here. However, if you don't move here with cash (which, I didn't), and your job doesn't pay for relocation (which, mine didn't), then you need what every New Yorker seems to have or have needed at some point... a couch buddy. You need a friend who will let you stay on their couch, use their shampoo, move their leftovers around in the fridge to make room for yours, tolerate your schedule, etc... for usually half the rent. (This, thankfully, I had - Matthew saved my life).
Now you're here. You've got a job, a place to stay, money coming in (and going out), and a plan (save, work, save, work, save, and save). I'm set.
Then I settled in. What No One told me about moving to New York are the subtle, psychological things that go along with it. The things that happen completely internally. The things that effect your mind. I was prepared for crowds of people being everywhere. I was prepared for loud traffic and constant distractions. I was prepared to see celebrities that eat at the same diners, and go to the same bookstores. But I wasn't prepared for the conflict.
What no one told me about New York was something that I really should have just figured out. That is: No matter what it is you want, you can find it here. Want sports? Everywhere you go, people are ready and willing to talk about the Knicks, the Yankees, the Giants, etc... Want religion? There are churches, cathedrals, mosks, synagogues, and temples everywhere. Want Entertainment? The best music, movies, art, and culture in the world finds it's way here.
What I really couldn't have gotten myself prepared for is the second part of that statement. The obvious opposite implication. That is: No matter what it is you are afraid of, you will be confronted with it here.
Afraid of conflict? People will tell you what they think, 'cause they don't have time for pleasantries when they're upset. They have somewhere to be, and they will tell you off in time to make their meeting.
Homophobic, Racist, aloof? There are flamboyant drag queens, strange "what is that?" couples, and (my personal favorite to see) Glamorous Gay Gangsters (think soft pastel colors of sports jersey's tied in knots at the stomach, drenched in Bling and Gold, talking ghetto with a lisp). There are truly intimidating thugs, built like GI Joe's, and constantly talking trash about violence to whomever is nearby. There are homeless people who will call you out and threaten you if you ignore them (but most of them are grateful if you treat them like a human). There is every cartoon-like character of every stereotype you can imagine.
Finally, there is the silence. What no one told me, and what I could not have possibly prepared myself for, is the simple majority of your day that you, out of basic courtesy for people around you (and they are ALWAYS around), are quiet. I work in an office where I share an open room with about 40 people. Not cubicles, just desks with the occasional dividing wall. I live with a roommate in a 13x15 ft apartment with a half kitchen, one bed, a futon, and a dog pin. You're never alone on the subway. You're never alone on the street. I find myself speaking about 1/2 as many words each day just because I'm simply trying "not to be loud". When I take a phone call at home, if my roommate's there, I go out into the stairwell so I can talk without disturbing him, 'cause there's no where else to go.
And somehow despite the constant crowds and the long lines, there is an unmistakable loneliness that hits you when you finally settle in. And that's where it breaks.
That's where you start becoming a "New Yorker", I think. When you learn to break through the silence with overt pleasantness and kindness and just ... talk to strangers. Standing in line at the grocery is the perfect time to talk to someone. It doesn't matter any more that they'll probably never see you again. You can see them now. So you talk to them. You talk about the weather. Because they're a human being, and if they've been here for more than a week or two, they feel the same way as you. They want contact. I want contact. I pine for community. I can't wait for Sunday so that I can make it to church and just connect with other human beings that I can count on to be there. I can't wait to go out so I can communicate with people, anyone.
I'm still in love with this city. But I feel the honeymoon ending, and I'm glad for it. I want to love it when the flame of being in love has burned out. I want to live here when I would rather be elsewhere. I want New York to keep me when I want to leave. But to get there, I've got to learn to perfect the art of talking to strangers.
Your friend and mine,
Meshach
Everyone who had lived there, or lived there now, told me all the things that I should expect. They told me to expect to pay more for everything. Then I got here and there were Wendy's, Taco Bell's, and Pizza Huts all over Manhattan. So... pay more if you plan to live like a New Yorker. (this is obviously excluding rent... I'll get to that)
I was told to expect to walk everywhere. What I wasn't told was that by doing so, my total number of used shoes per year would go up by about 5000%.
I was told to expect New Yorkers to be rude by everyone who HADN'T lived here. I was told the opposite by everyone who had. What I wasn't told is that "being rude" has completely different definitions for those two types of people. For people who live here, there are so many people, every day, asking you to stop walking where you're going, just essentially to waste as much of your time as possible. Selling you a cd of absolutely horrible hip-hop. Talking to you about donating to the "help this gay guy get an apartment in the lower west side" fund. Taking a survey to ask how you feel about the Wakashu tribe in Burkina Faso and their plite. The thing is, I don't have time to stop. Honestly. Because...
I was NOT told to expect for EVERYTHING to take longer to do here. If you want to go to the grocery store and buy bread, you're going to stand in line. Not wait behind a few people at the register. I'm talking about Cold War Russia stand in line. I mean, you stand in line for everything. They didn't tell me that. They didn't tell me.
You.
Will.
Wait.
In Line.
For.
Ever.
y.
Thing.
Sometimes, the lines move pretty quickly, because the stores here are used to handling long lines all day. So there are employees at "Trader Joes" (the major grocery in my neighborhood) or "Whole Foods" who simply stand at the start of the lines (about 10-15 lines form at a time - each a few dozen people deep... all day) and just direct traffic. "Sir, you can head to register 27, it's the 4 one past the 2nd pole on your left." "Ma'am, go to register 13. It's the closest to the 2nd exit door on from the right."
I was told lots of things about the city that weren't lies. Weren't really misleading, even. It's just that you really have to be here to experience it to understand. You see, if you expect to stand in line for absolutely everything, you plan for it. You never go to the store just for bread. You go with a list. You make it quick. You go with a friend, who gets in line for you as soon as you get there, and you shop quickly so you're done by the time they get to the front. You also never go with a large list, 'cause you're gonna have to carry all of it home when you're done. 4 bags, no matter how full, is pretty much the max. I am very fortunate to live near Union Square (where both of the aforementioned grocery stores are), and I still have a 15 minute walk one-way. Carrying a bag of dog food on one shoulder, and 4 bags of groceries in one hand gets old after a block. I walk about 12. About 2wice a week.
Then we get to the prices of things. Let's break this down. When I moved here, I was coming from a place where I spent about 35% of my monthly income on "home" (rent, utilities, cable, etc...), and another 45% or so on everything else (phone, car, insurance, food, etc...) and then I'd use pretty much all the rest on "gear" (new computer, guitar, paying for recording costs, etc...).
In the city, if you want to live in Manhattan, you're not going to need a car. So after all the expences add up, you get back about 20% or more that you don't have to spend now. Then, you just spend the rest on rent, right?
Sure. Except. You also need to have, on average, about 5 - 8 months rent ready. In cash. To get an apartment. You will NOT find a place for less than $1500 a month to live by yourself. Don't even look. You're going to move to Harlem, the Bronx, or MAYBE you'll find something in Brooklyn for that (again, if you're living alone). Not only that, but you need, on average, to prove an annual salary of about 40-60 times your monthly rent. That means if your rent is $1500 a month, you have to not only have about $10k to put down on an apartment, but then you need to prove that you make about $60k a year. Now, you'll make more money in New York, if you have the skill set to get a job here. However, if you don't move here with cash (which, I didn't), and your job doesn't pay for relocation (which, mine didn't), then you need what every New Yorker seems to have or have needed at some point... a couch buddy. You need a friend who will let you stay on their couch, use their shampoo, move their leftovers around in the fridge to make room for yours, tolerate your schedule, etc... for usually half the rent. (This, thankfully, I had - Matthew saved my life).
Now you're here. You've got a job, a place to stay, money coming in (and going out), and a plan (save, work, save, work, save, and save). I'm set.
Then I settled in. What No One told me about moving to New York are the subtle, psychological things that go along with it. The things that happen completely internally. The things that effect your mind. I was prepared for crowds of people being everywhere. I was prepared for loud traffic and constant distractions. I was prepared to see celebrities that eat at the same diners, and go to the same bookstores. But I wasn't prepared for the conflict.
What no one told me about New York was something that I really should have just figured out. That is: No matter what it is you want, you can find it here. Want sports? Everywhere you go, people are ready and willing to talk about the Knicks, the Yankees, the Giants, etc... Want religion? There are churches, cathedrals, mosks, synagogues, and temples everywhere. Want Entertainment? The best music, movies, art, and culture in the world finds it's way here.
What I really couldn't have gotten myself prepared for is the second part of that statement. The obvious opposite implication. That is: No matter what it is you are afraid of, you will be confronted with it here.
Afraid of conflict? People will tell you what they think, 'cause they don't have time for pleasantries when they're upset. They have somewhere to be, and they will tell you off in time to make their meeting.
Homophobic, Racist, aloof? There are flamboyant drag queens, strange "what is that?" couples, and (my personal favorite to see) Glamorous Gay Gangsters (think soft pastel colors of sports jersey's tied in knots at the stomach, drenched in Bling and Gold, talking ghetto with a lisp). There are truly intimidating thugs, built like GI Joe's, and constantly talking trash about violence to whomever is nearby. There are homeless people who will call you out and threaten you if you ignore them (but most of them are grateful if you treat them like a human). There is every cartoon-like character of every stereotype you can imagine.
Finally, there is the silence. What no one told me, and what I could not have possibly prepared myself for, is the simple majority of your day that you, out of basic courtesy for people around you (and they are ALWAYS around), are quiet. I work in an office where I share an open room with about 40 people. Not cubicles, just desks with the occasional dividing wall. I live with a roommate in a 13x15 ft apartment with a half kitchen, one bed, a futon, and a dog pin. You're never alone on the subway. You're never alone on the street. I find myself speaking about 1/2 as many words each day just because I'm simply trying "not to be loud". When I take a phone call at home, if my roommate's there, I go out into the stairwell so I can talk without disturbing him, 'cause there's no where else to go.
And somehow despite the constant crowds and the long lines, there is an unmistakable loneliness that hits you when you finally settle in. And that's where it breaks.
That's where you start becoming a "New Yorker", I think. When you learn to break through the silence with overt pleasantness and kindness and just ... talk to strangers. Standing in line at the grocery is the perfect time to talk to someone. It doesn't matter any more that they'll probably never see you again. You can see them now. So you talk to them. You talk about the weather. Because they're a human being, and if they've been here for more than a week or two, they feel the same way as you. They want contact. I want contact. I pine for community. I can't wait for Sunday so that I can make it to church and just connect with other human beings that I can count on to be there. I can't wait to go out so I can communicate with people, anyone.
I'm still in love with this city. But I feel the honeymoon ending, and I'm glad for it. I want to love it when the flame of being in love has burned out. I want to live here when I would rather be elsewhere. I want New York to keep me when I want to leave. But to get there, I've got to learn to perfect the art of talking to strangers.
Your friend and mine,
Meshach
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
This is the land that I love...
I think I've been in about 437829473892573295 church services that have sounded incredibly similar to that. This made me laugh so hard I bit a hole in my tongue.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
I want to buy a powerbook. Does that make me racist?
I passed Ron Rifkin (the dad from Boiler Room and the D.A. in LA Confidential) on my way to work this morning. He's really short, and appeared to be in a hurry. Then again, that may just be his "shell." I find myself frequently star struck here, but increasingly more endeared to celebrities in general. I can't really explain that, but it's true. I don't feel sympathy, or sorry for them. Just, endeared. It's hard to explain. - Got back in touch with some old friends on myspace yesterday. Nic Vanzee and his brother Ben were my two favorite people in college. They are from St. Paul, and were Greco Roman Wrestling Coaches. That was so much fun to walk around saying. I'm not small by normal standards, but these two were/are... big. I also happen to love wrestling (though even then, I had a hard time finding people who were my size and enjoyed it, so I ended up wrestling a lot of people smaller than me - Sorry, Adam. The alternative was wrestling Ben, and that wasn't gonna happen.)
Anyway, it all got me thinking, I really hate myspace, but I've been connected with like 100 old friends on that god forsaken website. I just try to think of it like the DMV, or some insurance-induced physical. You gotta do it. It's gonna suck. But if you run into friends in the waiting room, that makes it better. Not worth it, necessarily, 'cause there still should be a more acceptable alternative to getting spammed by 14 year old porn stars and terrible, terrible bands, but still... better.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Ode To Balls...
At 7:30AM today, Rosco and I walked 50 uptown blocks and 6 cross-town blocks (that's a solid hour + of walking - with a dog) to drop off Rosco at the New York Humane Society. He's getting his balls cut off. I'm not going to say he's getting "castrated" or "neutered", or "fixed" 'cause it all sounds too nice, and it sounds like someone who didn't grow up with balls made up those terms so they wouldn't have to say what's actually happening.
Rosco is a male dog.
Male dogs have balls.
Rosco, as of this afternoon, will no longer have balls.
After that, he'll only be a male in spirit and mind.
And, in that he'll (soon) not squat to pee.
That sucks.
Rosco, also known as "the bad@$$ Mother F@#$er who don't take no $hi2 from no body", has no idea what was waiting for him behind that big metal door. He doesn't know that there are scissors somewhere back there or some knife, that will end his sex drive for ever. He just knows there were lots of little dogs and whining cats, that he was hungry, and they all looked pretty tasty.
He weighed in at a healthy (and now official) 59 lbs. As an 8 month old, that's pretty freakin' good. He also scared the crap out of a full grown german shepherd when I wasn't looking, 'cause he wanted to play, and threw the shepherd on the ground before the owner knew what to do.
"Sorry. He doesn't mean any harm. He's just a lot more manly than your dog. But don't worry, the nice people here are gonna cut off his nuts in a couple hours, then your wussy dog will be okay."
For the record, I don't normally think like this about Rosco. When small dogs come up, I make him lie on his back so they can sniff him and so Rosco knows he's not supposed to eat them. But today I feel (and I think this is understandable) nostalgic about my dogs testicles.
The "bright side" to all of this is that he'll no longer feel the need to mark his territory while he's IN the apartment. He'll also (supposedly) be more submissive when we're walking as he won't feel the need to dominate other dogs. Then again, the down side is...
They're cutting.
Off.
His freaking.
Balls.
Rosco is a male dog.
Male dogs have balls.
Rosco, as of this afternoon, will no longer have balls.
After that, he'll only be a male in spirit and mind.
And, in that he'll (soon) not squat to pee.
That sucks.
Rosco, also known as "the bad@$$ Mother F@#$er who don't take no $hi2 from no body", has no idea what was waiting for him behind that big metal door. He doesn't know that there are scissors somewhere back there or some knife, that will end his sex drive for ever. He just knows there were lots of little dogs and whining cats, that he was hungry, and they all looked pretty tasty.
He weighed in at a healthy (and now official) 59 lbs. As an 8 month old, that's pretty freakin' good. He also scared the crap out of a full grown german shepherd when I wasn't looking, 'cause he wanted to play, and threw the shepherd on the ground before the owner knew what to do.
"Sorry. He doesn't mean any harm. He's just a lot more manly than your dog. But don't worry, the nice people here are gonna cut off his nuts in a couple hours, then your wussy dog will be okay."
For the record, I don't normally think like this about Rosco. When small dogs come up, I make him lie on his back so they can sniff him and so Rosco knows he's not supposed to eat them. But today I feel (and I think this is understandable) nostalgic about my dogs testicles.
The "bright side" to all of this is that he'll no longer feel the need to mark his territory while he's IN the apartment. He'll also (supposedly) be more submissive when we're walking as he won't feel the need to dominate other dogs. Then again, the down side is...
They're cutting.
Off.
His freaking.
Balls.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Friday, August 18, 2006
Please be...
- be delicate, but not fragile.
- be more talented than you let on.
- be more in love with your family that you care to talk about.
- be happy with your body, and disciplined with keeping it healthy.
- be careful to wrap criticism in encouragement.
- be graceful when you're dressed up - and when you're not.
- be a princess with tomboy tendencies.
- be in touch with a darkest side of yourself, and unafraid.
- be a baseball fan so I don't have to be.
- be unimpressed by money.
- be graceful in heels.
- be sexy in sweats.
- be able to appreciate the humor in the erratic.
- be a fan of corny jokes, but be disdainfully loathsome of corny art.
- be a hopeless romantic with a wild streak.
- be an ex-athlete who doesn't dwell on it.
- be committed to getting the smile from a stranger.
- be broken hearted for the unlovable.
- be the champion for the loser.
- be a rock.
- be an ocean.
- be as slow as the sunset
- be swift like a bandage.
- be able to tell the difference.
- be able to say no.
- be able to hear no.
- be able to move - a lot.
- be able to stay put.
- be happy in silence.
- be the conversation piece.
- be a queen.
- be a servant.
- be shy when you know it's sexy.
- be strong when you know it's needed.
- be funny when you don't feel pretty.
- be humble when you know you look your best.
- meshach.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Today's favorites...
I just launched BuzzGorilla as a music blog site. I plan to have several contributing writers, but as of now it's Roy Mitchel-Cardenas and I.
For those of you who know more about BuzzGorilla from earlier conversations, those features are still in the works, and WaxJelly hopes to launch that site soon. This variation is a precursor to the real thing, so enjoy.
Other than that, there isn't much news to report, so I'll leave with the following:
For those of you who know more about BuzzGorilla from earlier conversations, those features are still in the works, and WaxJelly hopes to launch that site soon. This variation is a precursor to the real thing, so enjoy.
Other than that, there isn't much news to report, so I'll leave with the following:
- learn to speak French (explicit)
- Great line that I was too chicken to use today... "Excuse me. You have a magnificent posterior, and those are my favorite jeans in the world for hugging it so tightly. Hi. I'm Meshach."
- I'm going to see Duncan Sheik tonight, and plan to blog about that on BuzzGorilla. However, if there's any non-musical story to tell, you can, as always, look for it here.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
christmas in August?
My official wish list has begun. The following is in line on my to-buy list after Rosco's "surgery" (he gets clipped Aug 21st), paying for my record (studio costs, mixing / mastering, design, packaging...), rent (I looked at a 500 sq ft apt last week for $2400 / mo), and savings...
... but once that crap's out of the way...
... but once that crap's out of the way...
- Fender Jaguar Baritone reissue
This has become my dream guitar. Fender introduced its new Fender Jaguar Baritone Custom guitar in response to overwhelming requests for a contemporary version of its famous Bass VI guitar, an instrument beloved of artists from the Beatles to George Jones to Aerosmith.
The Jaguar Baritone Custom combines the down-and-dirty sound of the Bass VI and the classically cool early-’60s look of Fender’s famous Jaguar guitar in one truly distinctive instrument. With years of manufacturing expertise in high quality guitar amplifier design, Vox have taken the best AC15 designs, both old and new and added a number of useful and interesting features. The result is to give you the most tonally flexible AC15 to date!
Decades ago the AC15 stamped its tonal trademark on the rock n roll revolution. Many top performers of the era were first in line to sample its unique warm tone. People started to notice this new evocative guitar sound and soon many other new artists were using the Vox AC15.
Today, the AC15 Custom Classic is set to become the new leader in its class. Built in Vox's vertically integrated manufacturing facility means total control of the design, the quality and the sound of your amplifier. Many processes not found in most guitar amplifier factories are employed in the factory and Vox design and manufacture their own transformers, speakers (except for the venerable VOX "Blue" & "Neodog" which are manufactured by Celestion), cabinets and electronics. All components have been designed, manufactured or selected so that the performance and sound of the AC15 Custom Classic is second to none.- AKAI MPC1000
The Akai Professional MPC1000 Music Production Center combines a 64-Track MIDI Sequencer and a 2-voice Stereo Digital Sampler, with 16 velocity and pressure sensitive rubber pads in a compact and rugged package that makes it ideal for carrying around.
The MPC1000 inherits many of the major features of older MPCs such as the legendary 'feel' and 'groove' so that you can be sure that your beats and sequences swing. It also features the original MPC60’s intuitive transport and locate controls, the unique NOTE REPEAT function plus new additions such as the two Q-Link sliders that allow real-time interaction with tuning, filter cutoff, layer switching, attack and decay. Add to these a well established, friendly and intuitive user interface, two separate multi-effects processors plus a master output effects processor, resonant multi-mode filters, 4-way sample layering and velocity switching per pad, two MIDI ins and 32 MIDI channels via the two MIDI outputs, multiple audio outputs as standard, footswitch inputs for hands-free control and you have a dependable alternative to computer sequencer headaches.
The MPC1000 comes with 16MB of on-board memory as standard that can be expanded up to 128 MB of RAM. It includes internal preset sounds in flash memory (factory sounds are user-replaceable). Standard Compact Flash is used as the storage medium. A 32MB Card is included and present testing has verified the use of up to 2GB cards. Furthermore, the MPC1000 supports the ‘Mass Storage Class’ USB standard. When connected to a Mac or PC via its built-in USB port, this implementation allows to simply drag & drop data between the computer and the MPC1000's CF card.
Monday, August 14, 2006
The legendary Roots crew, and the pageant of symbols...
I've seen The Roots on a few occasions. All in Austin. Always amazing. Last night was no exception. What WAS an exception was the general... atmosphere of the setting in which they played.
I knew that they'd be in town for 3 nights. I knew last night would be the most accessible for me, being at BB King's in Times Square. I also heard that ?uestlove would be spinning, which is something I've wanted to see for a while. So I bought my ticket online, showed up to the venue right as the doors were opening, and walked into the equivalent of a 1968 Black Panther rally. No lie. There were SEVERAL people introducing themselves on stage as "Black Panthers for life". Which is fine. Whatever. I didn't wear my "Whiteboy" t-shirt (though I was strongly tempted to before I left - again, thinking I was going to a "Roots" show), so I figured, "I'm fine".
The first group comes out, a new local act with 3 rappers and a dj. They're in uniform. First words. "Black Power!" I think, "man, this is... neat."
"Hold up those black fists. I wanna see 'em all! Black Power!"
(At this point, should I put up a very white fist? Should I NOT?!?!? Should I just squat down on the floor and start text messaging friends? Should I just turn and walk away like I'm disgusted or scared in the first 10 seconds?)
Black August turned out to be probably the best performance I've seen by the Roots (yes, I stayed until the end - all 5 1/2 hours), and also the best possible culture shock for breaking me into the New York hip-hop scene. There are DJ's who are white, culture vultures who go to hip-hop shows who are white. There are writers, photographers, and media personalities who are white in the hip-hop world. Then there are people like me. Who don't know the meanings of the Black Muslim names that are thrown around. Who don't wear hats with the tags still on, and baggy shorts that reach to the tops of perfectly cleaned shoes.
I just like the music. I REALLY like the music. ?uestlove was so on his game last night, it was frightening (so I hardly noticed). Captain Kirk Douglas has officially made me fall back in love with guitar solos again. And Malik B. (bass) is ... really snazzy.
I knew that they'd be in town for 3 nights. I knew last night would be the most accessible for me, being at BB King's in Times Square. I also heard that ?uestlove would be spinning, which is something I've wanted to see for a while. So I bought my ticket online, showed up to the venue right as the doors were opening, and walked into the equivalent of a 1968 Black Panther rally. No lie. There were SEVERAL people introducing themselves on stage as "Black Panthers for life". Which is fine. Whatever. I didn't wear my "Whiteboy" t-shirt (though I was strongly tempted to before I left - again, thinking I was going to a "Roots" show), so I figured, "I'm fine".
The first group comes out, a new local act with 3 rappers and a dj. They're in uniform. First words. "Black Power!" I think, "man, this is... neat."
"Hold up those black fists. I wanna see 'em all! Black Power!"
(At this point, should I put up a very white fist? Should I NOT?!?!? Should I just squat down on the floor and start text messaging friends? Should I just turn and walk away like I'm disgusted or scared in the first 10 seconds?)
Black August turned out to be probably the best performance I've seen by the Roots (yes, I stayed until the end - all 5 1/2 hours), and also the best possible culture shock for breaking me into the New York hip-hop scene. There are DJ's who are white, culture vultures who go to hip-hop shows who are white. There are writers, photographers, and media personalities who are white in the hip-hop world. Then there are people like me. Who don't know the meanings of the Black Muslim names that are thrown around. Who don't wear hats with the tags still on, and baggy shorts that reach to the tops of perfectly cleaned shoes.
I just like the music. I REALLY like the music. ?uestlove was so on his game last night, it was frightening (so I hardly noticed). Captain Kirk Douglas has officially made me fall back in love with guitar solos again. And Malik B. (bass) is ... really snazzy.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Thought bubble on the privacy bubble
Myspace.com recently surpassed the 100 million user mark. No surprise, really, but it raises a question or two to me about the future of American politics. It may seem unrelated, but hear me out.
When I discussed the concept of myspace with my mom, her reaction was so surprising to me. It was simply one of concern for the revealing of "private" information about yourself to strangers. I tried to argue that the information that you give is completely voluntary, none of the fields are required except for valid contact info (email) so that you can manage your account. The argument defending myspace was difficult for me to make because I have loathed the site since I first saw it (way back when it was about 12 million users). However, it's not the concept of the site that bothers me, it's the execution of their concept, but that's another post altogether.
My mom made statements like "how do you know other people aren't lying about what they say on their profile?" My response was simply, "I don't. But I don't care." The reality is, I don't have anything invested in the idea that everyone online is being truthful with me. I've been burned before (which is another post for another day), believe me. But this was primarily my own lack of knowledge and experience, vs someone else's creativity in their willingness to deceive. On myspace, the most you have invested is reserved for the level to which you interact with any given person. If you add someone as a friend because of some information they put on their profile, the only thing you have invested into that "lie" (if it is a lie) is the 30 seconds it took to add them (or more frequently with myspace, the 3 browser reboots, 2 error messages, 47 ads, and 20 minutes of waiting for a page to load that looks exactly like the page you just left).
The thing that interests me about my mom's concerns versus the 100+ million people who are using myspace, is the difference in the view of privacy. The media and politics are bashing the hell out of the privacy issue because the government wants to be able to tap people's phone lines and listen in on conversations. Nothing new. Watch "enemy of the state". That was 8 years ago. The thing that's so stupid about that to me, is the same information (or more, probably) could be gathered by a few internet socialites getting paid to target people online and find information there. The point is, politicians are once again, completely behind the game when it comes to using technology.
I'm not endorsing the idea of having phones tapped illegally. I am just saying that the major issue of tomorrow is going to be the fact that people are voluntarily putting more information about themselves online everyday, and then fighting to protect their "privacy". This really isn't an issue of privacy for a younger generation though, I believe. I think it's an issue of Control.
I don't have a problem with information being out about me. I don't even really have a problem with the government wanting to know more. I don't even have a problem being told to surrender more information about myself when needed. I have a problem with NOT being told that the information is being used in a way that I didn't intend. And I have a problem with not be allowed to simply say "No." (or click, "no thanks"). It's an issue of control.
When I sign up for something using my email address, and myspace sells that email address to true.com, christiansingles.com, and other blood-sucking hack job websites that have absolutely no interest in helping humanity in any way, I have a problem with it. It's not "private data", I PUT IT ONLINE. It's just that I didn't put it online for someone else to make money by selling it. But that's exactly what happens. Myspace sold for $580 million because they were the largest, most profitable and thorough survey in human history. 100 million people listing their favorite movies and music (FOR FREE - years ago you could get paid for giving people this info), means a helluva lotta cash can be made by marketing firms who can target that audience with exactly what they want.
One day, the bubble we each live in will become so small for each of us, that people will revert from the desperation to be noticed (which is, I believe the primary tool of success for myspace and sites like it - people wanting to be known, to not feel insignificant), to the desperation to be left alone.
The celebrities of tomorrow are 18 year old girls who have 50 million downloads a week from what they do on a webcam in their room, or 16 year old boys who have weekly podcasts filming illegal activities. But when normal people become celebrities for doing nothing special at all, those people, we've seen, usually can't handle it because they don't have any sense of deserving that notoriety, and therefore can't be gracious and welcoming to the intrusion that is fame. People like Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie are great examples - celebrities by default. Talentless socialites with no gratitude for recognition. It's power without dignity. Frightening stuff.
So, keep posting pictures of yourself on flickr (I do), keep renewing your favorite music and movies list on myspace (I do), and keep subscribing to your favorite email newsletters and using credit cards online (I do), 'cause the only hope we have for privacy at this point is the notion that the sheer number of people using these technologies, and offering their information will create a sort of "white noise" that is impossible to filter completely, especially for a government that is dumb enough to TELL people they're tapping phones (don't broadcast it, genius, just do it!)
When I discussed the concept of myspace with my mom, her reaction was so surprising to me. It was simply one of concern for the revealing of "private" information about yourself to strangers. I tried to argue that the information that you give is completely voluntary, none of the fields are required except for valid contact info (email) so that you can manage your account. The argument defending myspace was difficult for me to make because I have loathed the site since I first saw it (way back when it was about 12 million users). However, it's not the concept of the site that bothers me, it's the execution of their concept, but that's another post altogether.
My mom made statements like "how do you know other people aren't lying about what they say on their profile?" My response was simply, "I don't. But I don't care." The reality is, I don't have anything invested in the idea that everyone online is being truthful with me. I've been burned before (which is another post for another day), believe me. But this was primarily my own lack of knowledge and experience, vs someone else's creativity in their willingness to deceive. On myspace, the most you have invested is reserved for the level to which you interact with any given person. If you add someone as a friend because of some information they put on their profile, the only thing you have invested into that "lie" (if it is a lie) is the 30 seconds it took to add them (or more frequently with myspace, the 3 browser reboots, 2 error messages, 47 ads, and 20 minutes of waiting for a page to load that looks exactly like the page you just left).
The thing that interests me about my mom's concerns versus the 100+ million people who are using myspace, is the difference in the view of privacy. The media and politics are bashing the hell out of the privacy issue because the government wants to be able to tap people's phone lines and listen in on conversations. Nothing new. Watch "enemy of the state". That was 8 years ago. The thing that's so stupid about that to me, is the same information (or more, probably) could be gathered by a few internet socialites getting paid to target people online and find information there. The point is, politicians are once again, completely behind the game when it comes to using technology.
I'm not endorsing the idea of having phones tapped illegally. I am just saying that the major issue of tomorrow is going to be the fact that people are voluntarily putting more information about themselves online everyday, and then fighting to protect their "privacy". This really isn't an issue of privacy for a younger generation though, I believe. I think it's an issue of Control.
I don't have a problem with information being out about me. I don't even really have a problem with the government wanting to know more. I don't even have a problem being told to surrender more information about myself when needed. I have a problem with NOT being told that the information is being used in a way that I didn't intend. And I have a problem with not be allowed to simply say "No." (or click, "no thanks"). It's an issue of control.
When I sign up for something using my email address, and myspace sells that email address to true.com, christiansingles.com, and other blood-sucking hack job websites that have absolutely no interest in helping humanity in any way, I have a problem with it. It's not "private data", I PUT IT ONLINE. It's just that I didn't put it online for someone else to make money by selling it. But that's exactly what happens. Myspace sold for $580 million because they were the largest, most profitable and thorough survey in human history. 100 million people listing their favorite movies and music (FOR FREE - years ago you could get paid for giving people this info), means a helluva lotta cash can be made by marketing firms who can target that audience with exactly what they want.
One day, the bubble we each live in will become so small for each of us, that people will revert from the desperation to be noticed (which is, I believe the primary tool of success for myspace and sites like it - people wanting to be known, to not feel insignificant), to the desperation to be left alone.
The celebrities of tomorrow are 18 year old girls who have 50 million downloads a week from what they do on a webcam in their room, or 16 year old boys who have weekly podcasts filming illegal activities. But when normal people become celebrities for doing nothing special at all, those people, we've seen, usually can't handle it because they don't have any sense of deserving that notoriety, and therefore can't be gracious and welcoming to the intrusion that is fame. People like Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie are great examples - celebrities by default. Talentless socialites with no gratitude for recognition. It's power without dignity. Frightening stuff.
So, keep posting pictures of yourself on flickr (I do), keep renewing your favorite music and movies list on myspace (I do), and keep subscribing to your favorite email newsletters and using credit cards online (I do), 'cause the only hope we have for privacy at this point is the notion that the sheer number of people using these technologies, and offering their information will create a sort of "white noise" that is impossible to filter completely, especially for a government that is dumb enough to TELL people they're tapping phones (don't broadcast it, genius, just do it!)
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Thursday, August 10, 2006
New records and the things Chris Martin and I have in common.
- So I found some new 12" vinyls I found for pretty cheap:
Kraftwerk - Trans Europe Express - Kraftwerk was a mysterious "80's band" before I started working on this record. Roy introduced me to them in the process of finding inspiration, and told me that my impression of them was off a whole decade. They sounded like a progressive 80's band, but they were doing all of that in the 70's. They were far ahead of their time, and the stuff I've heard so far... brilliant. For those of you who disagree with me on the issue, see the side note. I've got some heavy hitters on my side.
Thom Yorke - The Eraser - I was one of the thousands of people who downloaded this entire record before it was released. What can I say, I'm a fan. However, once it was released, I paid for improprieties in full by getting it on 12" vinyl. i'm very excited.
187 Soundtrack feat. Massive Attack, Method Man, and DJ Shadow - I actually had to look up the info for the film, as I mainly bought the record because of the DJ Shadow and Massive Attack tracks. The film looks cool too. It was made before Samuel L Jackson started really getting on my nerves. (first the star wars crap, then Freedomland, now Snakes on a Plane? Are you serious, dude?)
Flight to The Moon - Actual transmissions from Appolo 11 and other flights surrounding it. Very kewl. - SIDE NOTE: Coldplay loves Kraftwerk
In 1981, German futuristic band "Kraftwerk" released an album called "Computer World" on which they had recorded a very hooky, but far ahead of their time song called "Computer Love". The song starts with a digital (MIDI, I think) hook that you may recognize from Coldplay's "Talk" on their "X+Y" album. The hook is just as central to the coldplay tune as it was 25 years before on the Kraftwerk tune. Great melodies never die.
I was very proud of myself for having discovered this, until I found an article on the song and it's influence, which contained this quote from Coldplay frontman Chris Martin...
"To begin with, they were a band I didn't quite get. Then suddenly one day it clicked and it was the best music I'd ever heard. They've totally influenced us on this record. (X+Y)
I think if we're going to do anything after X+Y we're going to have to retreat behind a mask. I love the idea that they're Kraftwerk but nobody really knows who they are. They're like the original Gorillaz. Or the electronic Beatles."
Amen, Chris. (Can I call you chris?). Amen.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
the following is a caption of my thoughts taken from 5am to 7:30 am today...
5:17 AM - "Rosco, for the love of God, it's 5 in the morning. Dude, you have got to SHUT THE HELL UP!!!"
5:42 AM - (finally awake) "I stink. I gotta take a shower"
6:13 AM - (out of the shower) "Holy crap! Rosco, stop freakin' whining! You stay in the same pen every night and you n... AAAOHHHHH MY GOD THAT SMELLS AWEFUL!"
6:15 AM - (tie Rosco's leash to the towel rack in the shower) "Dude, did you roll around in it? Seriously, this is disgusting. It's on everything"
6:16 AM - (run back into the bathroom after I hear a rack of shampoo and soap crashing to the ground. Tie Rosco's leash TIGHTER to the faucet) "Oh my God. I'm going to kill you."
6:32 AM - (still cleaning up. still finding footprints of feces trailing to the bathroom) "You need to take a shower."
6:35 AM - (take pen apart. bring it piece by piece to the shower and lean against wall to wash it off) "Rosco. I hate you."
6:36 AM - (gag)
6:41 AM - (place doggy bed in garbage bag along with doggy toys and rawhide) "You're just a puppy. You don't know any better."
6:49 AM - (wash Rosco with lots of shampoo) "You are gonna be such a badass dog one day. If you live that long."
7: 03 AM - (try to hide on my way downstairs with a wet dog and a bag full of laundry that smells like shit) "Dear God, please don't let this be the day that I finally see a beautiful woman on my elevator"
7:11 AM - (outside, we take the block to ponder what just happened) "Rosco, don't eat the plants. Rosco, don't jump on that person. Rosco, don't eat that little dog. Rosco, come. Rosco Come ROSCO COME."
7:19 AM - (more crap) "Sweet God almighty. How do you still have any left?"
7:20 AM - (crap again) "Okay, that's ridiculous."
7:25 AM - (head to work) "Coffee. I need coffee. I've never been to work this early. This is 3 hours before I normally go in. This is kinda good. I'll get so much done today. First, I gotta blog about this, but after that... Nah. First, Coffee"
7:36 AM - (locked out of work) "How. The. Hell. Does a company. Stay. In. Business?"
----------------------------------
The rest of the day went fine. Rosco had LOTS more to offer the sidewalk in later treks around the block. I finally got into my building to do some work at around 9:15 AM. Talked to Princess about what happened (briefly), and she said, for the 47th time, "get rid of the dog, he's too big for the city".
To this I responded, "So am I."
Besides, little dogs take craps too.
- meshach
5:42 AM - (finally awake) "I stink. I gotta take a shower"
6:13 AM - (out of the shower) "Holy crap! Rosco, stop freakin' whining! You stay in the same pen every night and you n... AAAOHHHHH MY GOD THAT SMELLS AWEFUL!"
6:15 AM - (tie Rosco's leash to the towel rack in the shower) "Dude, did you roll around in it? Seriously, this is disgusting. It's on everything"
6:16 AM - (run back into the bathroom after I hear a rack of shampoo and soap crashing to the ground. Tie Rosco's leash TIGHTER to the faucet) "Oh my God. I'm going to kill you."
6:32 AM - (still cleaning up. still finding footprints of feces trailing to the bathroom) "You need to take a shower."
6:35 AM - (take pen apart. bring it piece by piece to the shower and lean against wall to wash it off) "Rosco. I hate you."
6:36 AM - (gag)
6:41 AM - (place doggy bed in garbage bag along with doggy toys and rawhide) "You're just a puppy. You don't know any better."
6:49 AM - (wash Rosco with lots of shampoo) "You are gonna be such a badass dog one day. If you live that long."
7: 03 AM - (try to hide on my way downstairs with a wet dog and a bag full of laundry that smells like shit) "Dear God, please don't let this be the day that I finally see a beautiful woman on my elevator"
7:11 AM - (outside, we take the block to ponder what just happened) "Rosco, don't eat the plants. Rosco, don't jump on that person. Rosco, don't eat that little dog. Rosco, come. Rosco Come ROSCO COME."
7:19 AM - (more crap) "Sweet God almighty. How do you still have any left?"
7:20 AM - (crap again) "Okay, that's ridiculous."
7:25 AM - (head to work) "Coffee. I need coffee. I've never been to work this early. This is 3 hours before I normally go in. This is kinda good. I'll get so much done today. First, I gotta blog about this, but after that... Nah. First, Coffee"
7:36 AM - (locked out of work) "How. The. Hell. Does a company. Stay. In. Business?"
----------------------------------
The rest of the day went fine. Rosco had LOTS more to offer the sidewalk in later treks around the block. I finally got into my building to do some work at around 9:15 AM. Talked to Princess about what happened (briefly), and she said, for the 47th time, "get rid of the dog, he's too big for the city".
To this I responded, "So am I."
Besides, little dogs take craps too.
- meshach
Monday, August 07, 2006
No, I never played "with" Shaq, but I was in the same gym with him once...
Woo hoo! I'm officially done with my part of the first part of the process of the pre-mix recording and tracking of my record or EP (if nothing drastic changes, like this morning when I remixed a song and now have to email it, track by track, to Roy)!!!
I can't tell you how relieved I almost am about this process being close to being close to being almost finished. Most importantly, I'm excited about the fact that it is now in much more capable hands as Roy will be working on some of the "finishing" touches over the next couple months.
------
Yesterday was ... exciting. I loaned my car to Matthew to borrow for the week on vacation. As I only needed a car for the night, I swapped for a friend's car... hereafter referred to as "perp #1" or "my second-least-favorite go-cart". This is a long story and was a very long day, so I'll spare the details and just give you the hilights.
The Hate and I headed out at 11:30 am to pick up Roy from Newark. We got there at 12:30. It's about 9 miles away. This began our pattern of getting lost in New Jersey on the way to warped tour to see Mute Math play 4 songs. Heading back, the gas gauge read 1/4 tank, and we putted to a stop less than 2 miles from the festival, and more than 3 miles from a gas station. Got some gas from a (or THE) friendly New Jersey-ite, and headed home. Made great time on the way back until we hit traffic at the Holland tunnel, which took almost an hour just to cross a red light. We played a game where we told 2 truths about ourselves and 1 lie, and everyone else had to pick which one was the lie. Deep secrets were revealed, and there was much rejoicing when the game was over.
The 40 mile trip one way and 30 minute show turned into a 10 hour trip that left us all feeling exhausted, delirious, and dirty. The go-cart had no AC, cd player, or, on occasion, brakes. Once in the city, I proceeded to get us completely lost as I mistook Broadway for heading north when it actually goes south, and added another 30 minutes to our trip for absolutely no reason.
Beer, pizza, coffee, and a lot of walking to places that we decided not to go into once we got there, ended our night. Princess joined us for the coffee and the walking. Greg Hill was along for the whole trip (who apparently has/had deep secrets about going to the bathroom at church as a kid). He and Roy (who, for the record DOES NOT have a distant cousin in Spain) stayed at "my place" for the night, as they were flying out with the rest of the band from JFK airport this morning.
This all got me thinking, "I should really have more interesting things to talk about on my blog, but I honestly can't have many original thoughts after days like this - which seem to happen to me far too often." On that note...
.meshach.
I can't tell you how relieved I almost am about this process being close to being close to being almost finished. Most importantly, I'm excited about the fact that it is now in much more capable hands as Roy will be working on some of the "finishing" touches over the next couple months.
------
Yesterday was ... exciting. I loaned my car to Matthew to borrow for the week on vacation. As I only needed a car for the night, I swapped for a friend's car... hereafter referred to as "perp #1" or "my second-least-favorite go-cart". This is a long story and was a very long day, so I'll spare the details and just give you the hilights.
The Hate and I headed out at 11:30 am to pick up Roy from Newark. We got there at 12:30. It's about 9 miles away. This began our pattern of getting lost in New Jersey on the way to warped tour to see Mute Math play 4 songs. Heading back, the gas gauge read 1/4 tank, and we putted to a stop less than 2 miles from the festival, and more than 3 miles from a gas station. Got some gas from a (or THE) friendly New Jersey-ite, and headed home. Made great time on the way back until we hit traffic at the Holland tunnel, which took almost an hour just to cross a red light. We played a game where we told 2 truths about ourselves and 1 lie, and everyone else had to pick which one was the lie. Deep secrets were revealed, and there was much rejoicing when the game was over.
The 40 mile trip one way and 30 minute show turned into a 10 hour trip that left us all feeling exhausted, delirious, and dirty. The go-cart had no AC, cd player, or, on occasion, brakes. Once in the city, I proceeded to get us completely lost as I mistook Broadway for heading north when it actually goes south, and added another 30 minutes to our trip for absolutely no reason.
Beer, pizza, coffee, and a lot of walking to places that we decided not to go into once we got there, ended our night. Princess joined us for the coffee and the walking. Greg Hill was along for the whole trip (who apparently has/had deep secrets about going to the bathroom at church as a kid). He and Roy (who, for the record DOES NOT have a distant cousin in Spain) stayed at "my place" for the night, as they were flying out with the rest of the band from JFK airport this morning.
This all got me thinking, "I should really have more interesting things to talk about on my blog, but I honestly can't have many original thoughts after days like this - which seem to happen to me far too often." On that note...
.meshach.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
... a case of "the Icks" (pt 4)
There is a restaurant in Union Sq called "Coffee Shop". It's name is meant to be ironic, I guess. Lots of people go there. It's trendy, hip, over priced for it's quality, and welcomes patrons from every shade of snob. At midnight tonight Princess, The Hate, and myself, having been turned away from the place we actually wanted to eat, and knowing that most every other kitchen would be closed, headed for Coffee Shop for supper. I had not before had the priviledge, and tonight was an "occasion" as I finally got paid for being in New York - a milestone for many reasons.
Our "waitress" was either an unfortunately frail and feminine man with breasts, long fingernails, and hair-extensions, or a slightly masculine girl with the social grace of Lurch (from the Adams' family) and a probable crack addiction. We couldn't decide. "Lurchess" kept staring at me (as the Hate was quick to point out), and called me "baby" and/or "sugar" when I asked for something. Alas, my charming disdain wasn't enough to get us moved out of the kiddy pool and into the adult swim area, and I was stuck in the aisle of the patio to be bumped and jarred by every passer-by, having been refused my request for relocation by the she-beast with huge feet. In the middle of it all, Princess claimed to have gotten "a sudden case of the Icks."
It was a bumping kinda day. Directly in front of my building on my way home this afternoon, I brushed shoulders with Bill Murray. He was obviously out for a jog, wearing shades, a bandana, and thigh-high blue running shorts, and humming to himself. He made eye contact as I passed, smirked, and kept humming. I didn't meet him. Never said a word. But he knew. He'd met greatness.
...
Strike that.
Reverse it.
...
I'll close tonight with a story. A short one, I hope. "The Girls" brought up tonight that though we've exchanged lots of information about our current lives, and they have each shared lots of erratic facts about college and their home lives, I haven't "expounded" on any particularly "scandolous" or "funny" stories about mine. I asked if they wanted "scandolous" or if they wanted "funny". They said both. I'm not sure I have either, and I'm not sure why I asked. So here's a random one. It's an excerpt from a book I'm working on about my parent's lives.
Princess.
The Hate.
Enjoy.
................
Looking back, it probably wasn’t that great. If I were to hear it now, I wouldn’t be impressed, I think.
Stephen was a coke-addict when he came to live with us. His life was broken, and Dad helped him fix it. At about 18, he was older than most boys we took in. No one knew he was a musician.
Stephen was sharp-tongued and street-wise. He was cool-looking, well dressed, and incredibly intimidating. Asked later to recall his first impression of Stephen, my dad said, "He was the meanest teenager I've ever met in my life. I was honestly scared of him."
We loved him immediately, even when we were afraid of him, which, for me, was pretty often. I think I was 11.
Mom plays the piano, so we’ve always had one. I don’t remember not having one close-by. Stephen just kinda sat down one day and played. If I were to hear it today, I probably wouldn’t listen for long. He would just play, and I, and a few others (we followed him around the way zombies follow the living), we would just sit and listen.
I don’t remember what he played. I do remember trying to do it myself. Only when he wasn’t there. Stephen. When he was gone, I’d sit down and just hit keys and try to “let it happen”. It was terrible. Even then.
Stephen was charismatic, tender, and intense. He was passionate about whatever he said, and he worked himself ragged, always with a smile. This isn’t to say he didn’t have his struggles.
I’d wake up late on Saturday and hear the daily publication of gossip around Stephen running away to score drugs, and come back after a night of heavy partying and some crazy story about him beating up some of the other boys. I don’t even know exactly how much of it was true, but he did seem to lapse a lot over the course of a few years.
Oh, but when he played, my God.
Still, if I heard it today, it’d probably be crap.
I remember the first day he came to live with us. We stopped at wal-mart on the way home. I don’t know why we picked him up. Most people got dropped off at our house by their P.O., some school official, a Pastor, or their parents. Anyway, he told me his brother liked to skateboard, and I immediately wished I wasn’t terrified of skateboards. Not so much the boards, but falling from them in motion. He was instantly the kind of person you wanted to please. The guy who you wished liked you. The guy who’s respect you wanted to earn. To deserve. To not need.
The same day, his first day, was the second time in my life I heard someone say something “sucks”. The first was years before when Greg Primm (a counselor at the home, and Principal of the private school), in one of his classic moves, called all the boys from the school outside. All 20 or so of us. All ages. He wanted us to stop saying things “sucked”. He said it was a perverted word. This was around 1986 (so I was about 7). I was lost, but I remember thinking, “Wow, what a great word. Why is it dirty?”
Stephen said it about my Nintendo. He couldn’t beat the 3rd level of Super Mario Bro.'s. This was about four years after I'd heard it the first time. I felt grown up. I knew what he meant.
I told on him.
I hoped when he got in trouble for saying it, he’d see the light, come back to me, and have tremendous respect for my honesty. My integrity. My conviction.
The same day, after being assigned his bunk bed, he beat the crap out of one of the guys. I don’t remember which one. I just know Stephen won the fight. As soon as the light went off, he warned the guy to stop doing something, I think smacking gum.
Well, he warned him.
I don’t think he ever got in trouble for his language that day. There were bigger fish to fry.
Stephen became a staple for our ministry. He was “the” success story. I’m sure a lot of people were jealous of him. I know I was. I didn’t know we weren’t competing. All I knew was he got a lot of attention. I mean, a lot. He was so cool, so dangerous, so smart, so sincere, so rude, so… Stephen.
Stephen professed, profaned, and pretended a lot in those first few years. But after a while, the days of his random escapades grew less frequent, and the days I’d see him volunteering to clean the kitchen for my mom, or sitting under a tree reading his Bible, or practicing his guitar grew steadily more prevalent.
My dad started asking Stephen to travel with him to churches. Dad would speak to raise money for the ministry, but the opening act would be this handsome ex-drug addict to sing a song on his guitar. This violent, institutionalized thug. This tender, sweet-spirited musician.
I knew this marked a change.
I had to make some changes too.
I had to learn to play the guitar.
Stephen loaned me his guitar to learn on. I'd go to the dorm, where he lived, and pick it up on Sunday nights. I'd keep it until Monday, when I'd have my lesson, then return it on Tuesday morning.
When Stephen died, I was about 14, I think. The guitar was given to me. A month ago, for the first time since then, I parted ways with it, leaving it in Texas with my parents while I moved to New York.
I know that, looking back, he probably wasn't some amazing musical freak. If I heard him now, I would probably be unimpressed. I'm a "man of the world" now (or so I'd like to think). I've seen it all when it comes to music and instrumental prowess. Still, sometimes when I play, I can't help but hope I'm someday able to "play like Stephen".
...
I told you. Neither scandalous, nor funny.
Meshach.
Our "waitress" was either an unfortunately frail and feminine man with breasts, long fingernails, and hair-extensions, or a slightly masculine girl with the social grace of Lurch (from the Adams' family) and a probable crack addiction. We couldn't decide. "Lurchess" kept staring at me (as the Hate was quick to point out), and called me "baby" and/or "sugar" when I asked for something. Alas, my charming disdain wasn't enough to get us moved out of the kiddy pool and into the adult swim area, and I was stuck in the aisle of the patio to be bumped and jarred by every passer-by, having been refused my request for relocation by the she-beast with huge feet. In the middle of it all, Princess claimed to have gotten "a sudden case of the Icks."
It was a bumping kinda day. Directly in front of my building on my way home this afternoon, I brushed shoulders with Bill Murray. He was obviously out for a jog, wearing shades, a bandana, and thigh-high blue running shorts, and humming to himself. He made eye contact as I passed, smirked, and kept humming. I didn't meet him. Never said a word. But he knew. He'd met greatness.
...
Strike that.
Reverse it.
...
I'll close tonight with a story. A short one, I hope. "The Girls" brought up tonight that though we've exchanged lots of information about our current lives, and they have each shared lots of erratic facts about college and their home lives, I haven't "expounded" on any particularly "scandolous" or "funny" stories about mine. I asked if they wanted "scandolous" or if they wanted "funny". They said both. I'm not sure I have either, and I'm not sure why I asked. So here's a random one. It's an excerpt from a book I'm working on about my parent's lives.
Princess.
The Hate.
Enjoy.
................
Looking back, it probably wasn’t that great. If I were to hear it now, I wouldn’t be impressed, I think.
Stephen was a coke-addict when he came to live with us. His life was broken, and Dad helped him fix it. At about 18, he was older than most boys we took in. No one knew he was a musician.
Stephen was sharp-tongued and street-wise. He was cool-looking, well dressed, and incredibly intimidating. Asked later to recall his first impression of Stephen, my dad said, "He was the meanest teenager I've ever met in my life. I was honestly scared of him."
We loved him immediately, even when we were afraid of him, which, for me, was pretty often. I think I was 11.
Mom plays the piano, so we’ve always had one. I don’t remember not having one close-by. Stephen just kinda sat down one day and played. If I were to hear it today, I probably wouldn’t listen for long. He would just play, and I, and a few others (we followed him around the way zombies follow the living), we would just sit and listen.
I don’t remember what he played. I do remember trying to do it myself. Only when he wasn’t there. Stephen. When he was gone, I’d sit down and just hit keys and try to “let it happen”. It was terrible. Even then.
Stephen was charismatic, tender, and intense. He was passionate about whatever he said, and he worked himself ragged, always with a smile. This isn’t to say he didn’t have his struggles.
I’d wake up late on Saturday and hear the daily publication of gossip around Stephen running away to score drugs, and come back after a night of heavy partying and some crazy story about him beating up some of the other boys. I don’t even know exactly how much of it was true, but he did seem to lapse a lot over the course of a few years.
Oh, but when he played, my God.
Still, if I heard it today, it’d probably be crap.
I remember the first day he came to live with us. We stopped at wal-mart on the way home. I don’t know why we picked him up. Most people got dropped off at our house by their P.O., some school official, a Pastor, or their parents. Anyway, he told me his brother liked to skateboard, and I immediately wished I wasn’t terrified of skateboards. Not so much the boards, but falling from them in motion. He was instantly the kind of person you wanted to please. The guy who you wished liked you. The guy who’s respect you wanted to earn. To deserve. To not need.
The same day, his first day, was the second time in my life I heard someone say something “sucks”. The first was years before when Greg Primm (a counselor at the home, and Principal of the private school), in one of his classic moves, called all the boys from the school outside. All 20 or so of us. All ages. He wanted us to stop saying things “sucked”. He said it was a perverted word. This was around 1986 (so I was about 7). I was lost, but I remember thinking, “Wow, what a great word. Why is it dirty?”
Stephen said it about my Nintendo. He couldn’t beat the 3rd level of Super Mario Bro.'s. This was about four years after I'd heard it the first time. I felt grown up. I knew what he meant.
I told on him.
I hoped when he got in trouble for saying it, he’d see the light, come back to me, and have tremendous respect for my honesty. My integrity. My conviction.
The same day, after being assigned his bunk bed, he beat the crap out of one of the guys. I don’t remember which one. I just know Stephen won the fight. As soon as the light went off, he warned the guy to stop doing something, I think smacking gum.
Well, he warned him.
I don’t think he ever got in trouble for his language that day. There were bigger fish to fry.
Stephen became a staple for our ministry. He was “the” success story. I’m sure a lot of people were jealous of him. I know I was. I didn’t know we weren’t competing. All I knew was he got a lot of attention. I mean, a lot. He was so cool, so dangerous, so smart, so sincere, so rude, so… Stephen.
Stephen professed, profaned, and pretended a lot in those first few years. But after a while, the days of his random escapades grew less frequent, and the days I’d see him volunteering to clean the kitchen for my mom, or sitting under a tree reading his Bible, or practicing his guitar grew steadily more prevalent.
My dad started asking Stephen to travel with him to churches. Dad would speak to raise money for the ministry, but the opening act would be this handsome ex-drug addict to sing a song on his guitar. This violent, institutionalized thug. This tender, sweet-spirited musician.
I knew this marked a change.
I had to make some changes too.
I had to learn to play the guitar.
Stephen loaned me his guitar to learn on. I'd go to the dorm, where he lived, and pick it up on Sunday nights. I'd keep it until Monday, when I'd have my lesson, then return it on Tuesday morning.
When Stephen died, I was about 14, I think. The guitar was given to me. A month ago, for the first time since then, I parted ways with it, leaving it in Texas with my parents while I moved to New York.
I know that, looking back, he probably wasn't some amazing musical freak. If I heard him now, I would probably be unimpressed. I'm a "man of the world" now (or so I'd like to think). I've seen it all when it comes to music and instrumental prowess. Still, sometimes when I play, I can't help but hope I'm someday able to "play like Stephen".
...
I told you. Neither scandalous, nor funny.
Meshach.
Friday, August 04, 2006
... and the Fiery Furnaces.
A few of you have asked about my sudden "change" of name. "'David Jackson' is such a simple, rock star name, why would you change it?", you ask. And I will respond, "Google David Jackson." Six or seven years from now, when you're done reading the 132,000,000 results, come back and tell me what a unique and great name it is.
Don't get me wrong. I love my name. I think it's all the things you friends of mine have said it was. I don't expect or require that many of you call me "Meshach", but the simple fact is, if you google "Meshach Jackson", you get 12 results. Most of these (8, I think) are about this kid. Big shoes to fill, I know. But I'm up for the challenge.
My logic is simple. I don't expect you to know me only as Meshach Jackson from here on out (though I just bought the domain name: meshachjackson.com), I just expect you to associate ME with that name. When you hear of Meshach Jackson doing something great, unless that something great is winning a grade school spelling bee, or preaching at 11 (well... that one is a toss up), then you should, from here on out, think of me.
Here's the story behind it. My Dad, a southern Christian minister, wanted to have 3 boys. He wanted to name them "Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego" - like the story in the Bible. However, my mother talked him out of naming my older brother "Shadrach", stating the logical problem, "Do you really wanna bet on having 3 boys in a row?"
I have 4 brothers now, and 2 sisters (I was the second of three boys born in a row). My legal name is James David Joshua Jackson. I could've been named Meshach. I'm just fulfilling my dad's dream, that's all.
So, give me your opinions. Comment on how cheesy it is to change everything now. Leave me voicemails telling me to stop the nonsense.
Meshach is staying.
I like it.
I'll answer to my slave name, "David". Just like I've always answered to "James" at the DMV, hospital, court, and school. Just like I answered to "watermelon head" in Jr High. Just like I answered to "Muffin" at Camp Liberty.
But I will, from here on out, whenever I can remember, introduce myself as "Meshach" (MEE-SHACK).
Don't get me wrong. I love my name. I think it's all the things you friends of mine have said it was. I don't expect or require that many of you call me "Meshach", but the simple fact is, if you google "Meshach Jackson", you get 12 results. Most of these (8, I think) are about this kid. Big shoes to fill, I know. But I'm up for the challenge.
My logic is simple. I don't expect you to know me only as Meshach Jackson from here on out (though I just bought the domain name: meshachjackson.com), I just expect you to associate ME with that name. When you hear of Meshach Jackson doing something great, unless that something great is winning a grade school spelling bee, or preaching at 11 (well... that one is a toss up), then you should, from here on out, think of me.
Here's the story behind it. My Dad, a southern Christian minister, wanted to have 3 boys. He wanted to name them "Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego" - like the story in the Bible. However, my mother talked him out of naming my older brother "Shadrach", stating the logical problem, "Do you really wanna bet on having 3 boys in a row?"
I have 4 brothers now, and 2 sisters (I was the second of three boys born in a row). My legal name is James David Joshua Jackson. I could've been named Meshach. I'm just fulfilling my dad's dream, that's all.
So, give me your opinions. Comment on how cheesy it is to change everything now. Leave me voicemails telling me to stop the nonsense.
Meshach is staying.
I like it.
I'll answer to my slave name, "David". Just like I've always answered to "James" at the DMV, hospital, court, and school. Just like I answered to "watermelon head" in Jr High. Just like I answered to "Muffin" at Camp Liberty.
But I will, from here on out, whenever I can remember, introduce myself as "Meshach" (MEE-SHACK).
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Stuff I love that I'll totally understand if you don't...
To Whom It May Concern:
I realize that I have ... peculiar tastes. I like a lot of things that very few other people enjoy. Understandable. I'm a preacher's kid, I work in technology, and I have spent the huge majority of the past 10 years in the indie music scene. I'm bored by political loyalty. I'm disengaged by predictable romantic comedies. I'm generally unimpressed with pop culture.
Having said all of that, there are a handful of things that I enjoy that I cannot actually endorse for anyone else. There are sounds, sights, colors, themes, feelings, and moments that strike a nerve with me and make me grateful which, having experienced the same, you may very well have the distinct feeling that your head is going to explode. I would like to list a few of those things here, if I may, just to clear the air. (This is not a line in the sand as much as an intervention I'm performing on myself.)
This is my post for the day. Deal with it.
I realize that I have ... peculiar tastes. I like a lot of things that very few other people enjoy. Understandable. I'm a preacher's kid, I work in technology, and I have spent the huge majority of the past 10 years in the indie music scene. I'm bored by political loyalty. I'm disengaged by predictable romantic comedies. I'm generally unimpressed with pop culture.
Having said all of that, there are a handful of things that I enjoy that I cannot actually endorse for anyone else. There are sounds, sights, colors, themes, feelings, and moments that strike a nerve with me and make me grateful which, having experienced the same, you may very well have the distinct feeling that your head is going to explode. I would like to list a few of those things here, if I may, just to clear the air. (This is not a line in the sand as much as an intervention I'm performing on myself.)
- Aqua Teen Hunger Force, The Brak Show, and others - I simply can't get enough of this, and I MAY know 2 other people on the planet who share my addiction. However, here they are.
- Blonde Redhead, Bjork, Tom Waits, and others - I have no intention of converting you on this, but the way Blonde Redhead blends their poppy melodies with intimately daunting vintage tones, or the way Bjork grunts and scraps in the middle of her damn-near-perfectly articulated lyrics and flawlessly discomforting production, or Tom Waits' ... Waits... iness.
Jeeeeeeeze.
Can't.
Get.
Enough. - Chuck Palahniuk, Quentin Tarantino, Irvine Welsh - I know. It's "violent" and "gratuitous", but they're just so GOOD AT IT! Fight Club for me, like many people, was the introduction to Chuck P's work. But Choke, Haunted, Diary, Stranger than Fiction, and a few others later, and I've gotten some strange internal callousness that won't allow me to be moved by much else.
Until I see the newest Tarantino film. Exposing a new and revolting side of both Hollywood (he does Hollywood so well that it makes Hollywood look stupid) and bad guys in general, QT has made my list of the top 10 people I'd pay money to meet if I could.
Trainspotting is a great movie. But the book makes "To Kill a Mockingbird" look like it was scribbled in cat urine on an alley wall. Irvine Welsh creates worlds on paper (and therefore, in your mind) that will give you jitters at night and nightmares during the day. He shows you a way that people's everyday life can progress into utter surrealist chaos. Apocalyptic on an individual level. For that, I'm grateful.
This is my post for the day. Deal with it.
Princess, Meshach, and the Hate between them... (Living in the City pt 3)
A friend of mine who, for reasons far outreaching the scope of this blog will hereafter be referred to as "the hate", came back into town tonight. She's from L.A., or somewhere nearby (but really, it's all L.A. to people who don't live there, isn't it? Just like Louisiana is all New Orleans and New York is all... okay, that one makes sense), and has spent the last month traveling the country attending weddings of close friends and family. The Hate introduced me to my first New York-based friend, hereafter known as "Princess".
Princess is from Alaska. She and the Hate are pretty much the same person when it comes to interests, and all but polar opposites in personality. It's worth noting that they are each over 5'10", and generally wear heels, standing at 6'3" or more, shadowing me, and most guys. Princess calls the three of us her "Urban Family".
"The Family" was together for the first time tonight as the Hate returned to the city from her hiatus. She quickly settled us all in for a midnight pig-out of cheesy fries, bagel and salmon, and a fat, plain cheeseburger.
The Hate has established herself as the middle sibling. Centralized in age, she's also the median in that she's nicer than me, but meaner than Princess. She's interested in design (one thing the whole Family has in common - Princess is going to Parsons for a graduate degree in Fashion, and the Hate is an innovative and inspiring photographer), she's grounded enough to bring me up to the common social graces of the New York scene, and keeps Princess leveled with her common sense and brutal honesty.
Princess has gotten involved with a Messianic Jewish Synagogue in town, and frequently discusses Israel and Jewish law as a point of reference in almost any conversation. We compromised tonight on not watching the O'Reilly Factor (my request, Princess conceded), if I don't make them watch South Park (which I will cheat on whenever I can). Instead, Princess had us watching Will & Grace, Frasier, and Golden Girls... On mute. There are still some kinks to work out in this Family, but we'll get there.
I like the idea of an Urban Family. I hope we can stay together.
... to be continued.
- Meshach.
Princess is from Alaska. She and the Hate are pretty much the same person when it comes to interests, and all but polar opposites in personality. It's worth noting that they are each over 5'10", and generally wear heels, standing at 6'3" or more, shadowing me, and most guys. Princess calls the three of us her "Urban Family".
"The Family" was together for the first time tonight as the Hate returned to the city from her hiatus. She quickly settled us all in for a midnight pig-out of cheesy fries, bagel and salmon, and a fat, plain cheeseburger.
The Hate has established herself as the middle sibling. Centralized in age, she's also the median in that she's nicer than me, but meaner than Princess. She's interested in design (one thing the whole Family has in common - Princess is going to Parsons for a graduate degree in Fashion, and the Hate is an innovative and inspiring photographer), she's grounded enough to bring me up to the common social graces of the New York scene, and keeps Princess leveled with her common sense and brutal honesty.
Princess has gotten involved with a Messianic Jewish Synagogue in town, and frequently discusses Israel and Jewish law as a point of reference in almost any conversation. We compromised tonight on not watching the O'Reilly Factor (my request, Princess conceded), if I don't make them watch South Park (which I will cheat on whenever I can). Instead, Princess had us watching Will & Grace, Frasier, and Golden Girls... On mute. There are still some kinks to work out in this Family, but we'll get there.
I like the idea of an Urban Family. I hope we can stay together.
... to be continued.
- Meshach.
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