My friend, Jim Carr died last night. I was on the phone. With someone else, talking about nonsense. While he died.
I met Jim in 2002 when I moved to Austin and went to work at the company he'd be at for two years. Tall. Red-haired. Gentle. Jim became my friend instantly. When I left the company to start my own, I had plans to do something big. He wanted to help. He had always offered kind and encouraging words before, but now he offered guidance and brain power to help with something he knew well, but was bigger than me. Jim wanted to help lift the load. We met at starbucks on a couple occasions. He was positive. He was confident. He was my best bet.
Jim, with his wife, Amy had been trying to have a baby together for years to no avail. I spoke with him about their desire to adopt a child from China in 2005. Jim was excited. Jim had a website (www.carrtexas.com) to track the progress of the adoption. He and Amy, the most capable potential parents I knew, would finally be able to raise a child. Jim would certainly need a more stable job than what he and I would be doing together. We wished each other well, and said we'd keep in touch.
On May 24, 2005, after months of paperwork, phone calls, research, and interviews, Jim and Amy posted the following on their website: "May 24, 2005 - We find out Amy is pregnant. Due date is 01/30/2006. Adoption is temporarily put on hold."
So giving, they said "temporarily".
I was on the phone with Jim shortly after, and he was beside himself. He would finally be a dad.
They named him Landon. He was the interruption for which they'd prayed for over 13 years. Landon was 8 months old when his dad went to the doctor for a routine checkup, and was diagnosed with cancer.
I had already moved to New York, and was unable to visit Jim. I will be in Austin in 2 weeks. I was excited about finally being able to drop in. 3 days ago I emailed Amy, and let her know that I was planning to be in town, and that I'd like to come and see him. Yesterday I got an email back. I thought it was a response with visitation times. It's subject line said "Funeral arrangements". I was 2 weeks too late, to say goodbye.
This is Jim, the way I remember him.
This is what cancer did to my friend.
I miss you, Jim.
Showing posts with label Updates. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Updates. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
When it rains...
I'm in Texas. Which means, by obligation of the pack, Rosco (my boxer) is in Texas. He was born here. But he's not from here. He's a New Yorker. He loves the snow. He loves hating NYC rats in Washington Square Park. He's a 75lb brown boxer from New York.
He's been in Texas about 3 weeks now, and Texas, slowly but surely, is killing him. It's rained damn-near every hour we've been here. Unheard of for Texas summer, the mosquitoes are unreal. The first week we were here, Rosco was drinking the bright blue water from my parents' swimming pool, and his front paws slipped forward, sending him head first in a hilariously clumsy dive into 3 feet of water. In that moment (I was in the pool at the time) I realized that he both (a) had never swam before, and (b) had scraped his stomach from the brick side of the pool, and left a nasty 5 inch gash straight down his sternum.
The next day, I was treating his new wound with peroxide when I noticed him limping. Somehow, he'd cut his back right paw about 1/4 inch deep and wide, and had gotten it filthy in the pin where he's currently dwelling. I took him to the vet 2 days after that, when I noticed that a few random bumps that had popped up around his body had presently swollen into full-scale boils all over him. He'd scratched one on the side of his face to the status of open wound, looking like something had just scraped the skin right off the left side of his face. The vet gave him a shot of Cortisone and some antibiotics to be taken daily. Also, some antiseptic spray, which he hates.
The bumps went down, but not before they had been rubbed completely raw, and become open sores. Hairless, gross, open sores. About 50 or so of them. All over his body.
About an hour ago, he scratched on the back door of my parent's bedroom, where I'm stationed at the desk while they're away. I opened the door to find him nursing a fresh wound on the aforementioned paw, this time up near the "elbow" joint, and chopped, down to the bone.
I have absolutely no idea what is causing all this shit, or if he's just not used to his surroundings and is constantly finding new things to hurt himself. I just wish it'd stop. While I was cleaning the latest injury (peroxide, neosporin, gauze, tape, etc...), I had the distinct feeling that I needed to decide if I could afford to treat him any further. The simple answer to that question, without hesitation, was a resounding no.
My parents return home from Africa tomorrow. It should be a joyous day. I may have to give up my dog... or worse.
Fuck.
He's been in Texas about 3 weeks now, and Texas, slowly but surely, is killing him. It's rained damn-near every hour we've been here. Unheard of for Texas summer, the mosquitoes are unreal. The first week we were here, Rosco was drinking the bright blue water from my parents' swimming pool, and his front paws slipped forward, sending him head first in a hilariously clumsy dive into 3 feet of water. In that moment (I was in the pool at the time) I realized that he both (a) had never swam before, and (b) had scraped his stomach from the brick side of the pool, and left a nasty 5 inch gash straight down his sternum.
The next day, I was treating his new wound with peroxide when I noticed him limping. Somehow, he'd cut his back right paw about 1/4 inch deep and wide, and had gotten it filthy in the pin where he's currently dwelling. I took him to the vet 2 days after that, when I noticed that a few random bumps that had popped up around his body had presently swollen into full-scale boils all over him. He'd scratched one on the side of his face to the status of open wound, looking like something had just scraped the skin right off the left side of his face. The vet gave him a shot of Cortisone and some antibiotics to be taken daily. Also, some antiseptic spray, which he hates.
The bumps went down, but not before they had been rubbed completely raw, and become open sores. Hairless, gross, open sores. About 50 or so of them. All over his body.
About an hour ago, he scratched on the back door of my parent's bedroom, where I'm stationed at the desk while they're away. I opened the door to find him nursing a fresh wound on the aforementioned paw, this time up near the "elbow" joint, and chopped, down to the bone.
I have absolutely no idea what is causing all this shit, or if he's just not used to his surroundings and is constantly finding new things to hurt himself. I just wish it'd stop. While I was cleaning the latest injury (peroxide, neosporin, gauze, tape, etc...), I had the distinct feeling that I needed to decide if I could afford to treat him any further. The simple answer to that question, without hesitation, was a resounding no.
My parents return home from Africa tomorrow. It should be a joyous day. I may have to give up my dog... or worse.
Fuck.
Friday, May 18, 2007
on smells, and the ways my body is changing.
There is a growth on my tongue. It's as if my tongue is swelling to conquer my chest. I feel it pressing the back of my teeth. When I read email, I take breaks to stretch and massage my jaw for the pain. I could choke. There is a chance that my tongue is morphing into another person. A little villain. A not-so-little-as-yesterday Lex Luther.
My hands are bony. They're not growing. They're shrinking, I feel. My wrists were always small, my hands freakish and rubbery in comparison. But now, they're shrinking. It's fitting, I think. Large tongue, tiny hands. My forehead is secreting the strangest goo. Back to my tongue.
My tongue doesn't taste odd. It's not even a new texture. It's just progressively - daily - occupying more space in my mouth. I don't know why. I wasn't bitten. Was I bitten? No. I wasn't bitten. I didn't bite it. I didn't eat anything strange. I may have swallowed more than I should have. I may have chewed up and swallowed a buncha stuff I should have spit out. I probably shouldn't have even eaten it, now that I think about it, but since I did, I should have just spit it out. Now, I'm paying for it. My tongue is rejecting it. Rejecting me. I may have to amputate. Should have thought of that sooner.
I get phone calls (sometimes), and I feel myself sweating. I pace. I walk a mile in a 10 minute phone call. I start to hyperventilate. I can smell copper. I taste pennies. My cheeks feel red. Like Jaundice. No. Jaundice is yellow. What's red? Fire. My cheeks feel red. Like Fire. My eyelids are heavy, but won't shut.
It's just within reach. This thing. This goal. It's so close that I can see how far I need to go. Before, I couldn't even see it. It was so far away, that I thought I was closer than i was. Now, I'm close enough to see just far I have to go. I hear smart people say that the more they learn, the more they realize they don't know. That's dumb. The more I learn, the more I realize I like learning, and hope I never run out. I digress.
My feet are covered in blisters, and I walk a fraction of what I used to. I miss her. I forgave her. Then she hurt me again. I asked her to stop, and she accused me of hurting her on purpose. I just wanted it to stop. My feet are sweaty. They're not swollen, just sweaty. I wish all this would stop. I wish there were some reason. Some excuse for the excess in failure. I wish I could just quit. I wish I had no ambition. No drive. I would be a much happier person. I wish I expected less. Delivered more. Was more stable. More predictable. More dependable. I wish I wasn't so selfish. I was once very selfless. I am not anymore. I don't think so. I'm a freakish, big-tongued, sweaty-footed, hyperventilating, overweight, cross-eyed, vagabond.
I didn't want this. I'm afraid. I don't laugh as often as I want. I don't cry as often as I probably should. My eyes water, but there are no tears. Not real tears. I'm tired. I'm too young to be this tired. I'm too old to be this scared. What the hell is that smell?
My hands are bony. They're not growing. They're shrinking, I feel. My wrists were always small, my hands freakish and rubbery in comparison. But now, they're shrinking. It's fitting, I think. Large tongue, tiny hands. My forehead is secreting the strangest goo. Back to my tongue.
My tongue doesn't taste odd. It's not even a new texture. It's just progressively - daily - occupying more space in my mouth. I don't know why. I wasn't bitten. Was I bitten? No. I wasn't bitten. I didn't bite it. I didn't eat anything strange. I may have swallowed more than I should have. I may have chewed up and swallowed a buncha stuff I should have spit out. I probably shouldn't have even eaten it, now that I think about it, but since I did, I should have just spit it out. Now, I'm paying for it. My tongue is rejecting it. Rejecting me. I may have to amputate. Should have thought of that sooner.
I get phone calls (sometimes), and I feel myself sweating. I pace. I walk a mile in a 10 minute phone call. I start to hyperventilate. I can smell copper. I taste pennies. My cheeks feel red. Like Jaundice. No. Jaundice is yellow. What's red? Fire. My cheeks feel red. Like Fire. My eyelids are heavy, but won't shut.
It's just within reach. This thing. This goal. It's so close that I can see how far I need to go. Before, I couldn't even see it. It was so far away, that I thought I was closer than i was. Now, I'm close enough to see just far I have to go. I hear smart people say that the more they learn, the more they realize they don't know. That's dumb. The more I learn, the more I realize I like learning, and hope I never run out. I digress.
My feet are covered in blisters, and I walk a fraction of what I used to. I miss her. I forgave her. Then she hurt me again. I asked her to stop, and she accused me of hurting her on purpose. I just wanted it to stop. My feet are sweaty. They're not swollen, just sweaty. I wish all this would stop. I wish there were some reason. Some excuse for the excess in failure. I wish I could just quit. I wish I had no ambition. No drive. I would be a much happier person. I wish I expected less. Delivered more. Was more stable. More predictable. More dependable. I wish I wasn't so selfish. I was once very selfless. I am not anymore. I don't think so. I'm a freakish, big-tongued, sweaty-footed, hyperventilating, overweight, cross-eyed, vagabond.
I didn't want this. I'm afraid. I don't laugh as often as I want. I don't cry as often as I probably should. My eyes water, but there are no tears. Not real tears. I'm tired. I'm too young to be this tired. I'm too old to be this scared. What the hell is that smell?
Sunday, April 29, 2007
On Eggers, Burgess, and why, as I sit in starbucks this sunday afternoon I can't feel my legs (or at least, nothing below the thighs)...
Two things: (Have you ever seen or read "Shopgirl"? This isn't one of the aforementioned "things", rather an explanation of why I would begin a sentence so poorly as to number the "things" that said sentence would describe. In "Shopgirl", a flawlessly delicate masterpiece of a book, and later adapted film written and starring respectively Steve Martin, Jason Schwartzman's character occasionally begins sentences containing 2-part questions with the declaration, "two things" - accompanied by a casual right-handed peace sign.)
This is why, as I allowed my bowels to move and my mind to wander reading such heartbreaking work of staggering genius, I can no longer feel my legs (or at least, nothing below the thighs).
- I have terrible circulation. I don't know why, but I have for a long time. If I sit in a chair, or worse, on the toilet for more than, say, 15 minutes without moving my legs or otherwise adjusting my position, I'm numb. From the thighs down.
- Dave Eggers has the ability to make mundane and "normal" things embarrassingly hysterical, just as Anthony Burgess has the ability to make menacing and disgusting acts so intricate you can't help but turn the page to read on.
This is why, as I allowed my bowels to move and my mind to wander reading such heartbreaking work of staggering genius, I can no longer feel my legs (or at least, nothing below the thighs).
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Hey, It's me.
I said "good" when she asked how I was doing, and my face started burning. My ears swelled and started closing and the whole world muddled like a yawn. I could hear my throat constrict and the insides of my eyelids grew shards of glass and I blinked. I smiled. My eyes felt like burning... I'm not just happy... Strike that. What I meant to say was
I'm Just.
Not.
Happy.
I'm enthusiastically miserable. More than is acceptable. I'm unhappy enough - and have been for long enough - for my blandness and cold misery to call for a good tough love cleansing speech from a friend or worse - my mom. I can hear her saying "enough is enough, it's time to snap out of it and move on already" underneath her "dad and I really love you" speech. If she only knew how bad this feeling hurts, she'd understand. And she'd want to kick my ass.
"Well that's good to hear, darlin'."
I'm Just.
Not.
Happy.
I'm enthusiastically miserable. More than is acceptable. I'm unhappy enough - and have been for long enough - for my blandness and cold misery to call for a good tough love cleansing speech from a friend or worse - my mom. I can hear her saying "enough is enough, it's time to snap out of it and move on already" underneath her "dad and I really love you" speech. If she only knew how bad this feeling hurts, she'd understand. And she'd want to kick my ass.
"Well that's good to hear, darlin'."
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
What the hell am I thinking? Who the hell do I think I am?
Yesterday I found out that my younger brother, while serving 10 years in prison in Louisiana, has been "written up", and had 6 months added to his sentence. The 10 years charge was for armed robbery, which was committed with my older brother. 2 brothers, both arrested together, on Christmas Eve, 1999. They were scheduled to be released together in August 2008,
after serving 85% of their sentence (the state minimum for a violent crime).
after serving 85% of their sentence (the state minimum for a violent crime).
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
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
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.
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
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.
I passed 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.
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.
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.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
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.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
For those who don't give a crap, skip this one...
Here's the latest:
Meshach
- I found a job. I started working at fusebox.com as a Flash Developer recently, and I'm very excited about the possibilities.
- Rosco has begun adjusting to the city by repeatedly crapping and pissing in all the wrong places, and by picking on every dog that weighs less than 60 lbs in the dog park.
- My addiction to poker reached an all time low recently when I woke up in the middle of the night sweating because I dreamt that I caught a bad beat with my 3 Aces, losing to a full house on the river.
- I've seen Julia Styles (walking in my neighborhood), Fred Armisen (at *$'s in Union Sq), and Alan Kalter (lives 2 blocks from me) since I've been here.
- My record is coming along. I am almost in mix-down stage. We're polishing up vocals, adding a few layers here and there, and it's finally starting to sound like a record. Hopefully, this will be released sometime this fall, but we'll have to wait and see.
- For those who've been following the other posts, Dakota is definitely prego.
Meshach
New York Summer Survival Checklist... (living in the city pt 2)
- Baby Powder - Can't have enough of this covering those hard-to-reach areas. The ONLY way to prevent chaffing. What you want is a snug fitting pair o' "drawers" and your gentlemen covered in the softest white powder you can find. Absorption. That's what it's all about. Geezum, it's hot.
- Flip-flops - Thongs, Sandals, whatever. I remember being a kid and complaining about being cold at night during the winter. My mom would always tell me to first go get some socks on (I have always hated sleeping in socks, but when it's cold... this works), and secondly, use a few blankets. "Layers, sweetie. It's all about layers". Well, beating the heat requires the exact opposite. If you can flop around in beach attire to work, go for it. However, and I can't stress this enough, don't try free-ballin' it! The guy's swimsuit is not condusive to walking 60 blocks a day (see #1 in this list).
- Water - Not to drink, but to pour down your pants when the powder has absorbed so much sweat that you can feel the chunks of dough balling up and rolling down your leg.
- Grappling Hook - 'Cause it's still New York, and you never know.
- Iced Coffe / Frappucino, etc. - You don't have to slack on the stimulants just 'cause it's hot out. Get yourself a Venti Frappucino (the adult version of a slurpy - gay, but adult), and save the water for the crotch.
- Backup Deodorant - You want 3 cans at least. #1 for home. Cake it on, get ready for it to melt. #2 at work. #3 in your gay man-purse ('cause you'll frequently find yourself needing to refresh while out).
- An Indoor Job - Standing on the sidewalk cooking stir-fry all day long for sales reps on the go has got to be the worst job in the city right now. Second, MAYBE, to construction, but at least construction workers get to break and walk away from the heat. Go in the shade. These street vendors just go from standing over a stove to walking home in one. Bet they carry a lot of powder on 'em.
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