So everybody is coming up with lists around this time of year, best books, best albums, or just the best of the year in general. So I've decided to come up with a list of the top 50 of my favorite things of 2008. By the way, the idea was taken from another blogger, so kudos to the electic penguin guy, a superior blogger to me.
(In no particular order)
1. Election night 2008-"I don't have any gwape nuhds and I didn't put stickuhs on Weid's Caw!"
2. Change-everybody wanted it, and now we have it and we never have to hear of John McCain and Sarah Palin ever again.
3. Sarah Palin-She inspired one of the best SNL satirization of any political figure...EVER!
4. Magazines-I got to see Barack Obama's face of half the magazine covers in 7-Eleven while I was buying beer, it was like "Hey man, buying some beer? Vote for me!"
5. Beer- It was a good year for beer. I drank it in 6 different countries, 3 US states, 5 National Capitols, Oktoberfest, 30,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean and while staring up at Ryan Adams' jeans smoking a cigarette with him 4 feet away.
mmmmm beer
6. Vampire Weekend- "Blakes's got a new face!!"
7. The Lord of the Rings
8. Amazon.com-the national yard sale. Where else can you buy books and CD's for a penny and pay 3.99 shipping. Where else would someone pay 5 dollars for a book that you bought at Goodwill for a dollar because the guy behind the counter was too old to see that it was a hardback and hardbacks cost 2.00.
9. Goodwill-Cosby sweaters, cheap pants, picture frames, books and records (I bought an Alvin and the Chipmunks Christmas album and it had Bob Marley and the Wailers "LIVE!" in it. Niccccee.
10. South Park- From Imaginationland up to the Election episode, they have been pretty much spot on reminding us of how fucking rediculous we all are for being Americans and getting caught up in anything Fox News tells us. The election episode was particularly poignant. It depicted Obama supporters partying their asses off after he won and screaming "WE DID IT!!" and "CHANGE HAS COME!!" and puking everywhere and when they woke up, they realized the only thing that had changed was that the were hungover as shit. Yeah...I did all that, so...yeah...change.
11. emusic.com
12. It's Always Sunny in Philedelphia-for obvious reasons
13. Netflix.com-how can anything so amazing actually exist.
14. The end of the writer's strike. I was in Germany the whole time, so I really didn't even notice it until the site that I streamed the Office from stopped posting episodes for Season 4. wtg?
15. The death of Jerry Falwell-I know it happened last year, but I wanted to remind everyone that the fat-ass Jesus freak died and his soul...never existed. (But you can buy a piece of it sown inside of a Bible on www.liberty.edu/store
16. Gas-holy shit, $4.00 a gallon? I think most people just sat in their houses and sweated watching netflix and ordering delivery food for the month of July. Now, Roanoke has the third cheapest gas in the country $1.25 per gallon (about 2.5 litres).
17. Walking-it's fucking awesome!
18. Records-embracing the next cultural revolution: the death of the CD and re-emergence of vinyl as the preferred medium of music. I mean, the record is cheaper than the CD AND you get a free digital download or even the copy of the CD itself. Now I can sell all my CDs on Amazon and use the money to by records Woo-Hoo!!
19. Going Green-Roanoke City can afford to have 2 trolleys running between the hospital and the market but can't figure out how to recycle green and brown glass!! Fuck you for making me feel guilty about drinking beer that doesn't come in a can!!
20. Roanoke City mayor David Bowers claiming that having rats in the Market building was like 9/11.
21. Ratface
22. Being gay-it seemed like everyone was gay this year.
23. Nintendo Wii-have you seen Wii Music? it looks fucking awesome. While everyone else is playing ass-hole Guitar Hero/Rock Band, we could be composing banjo concertos!
24. The English language-the fall of Bush and the rise of the ever-eloquent Barack Obama has dropped the English language back to its number 5 spot on the worst languages to listen to:
1. Dutch
2. Flemmish
3. German
4. French Canadian
5. American English
*(list compiled by the National Association for the Advancement of Texas People).
25. Cooking-it's back!
So that's some of it, I didn't really think it through, but that's enough for now. Of course, this wasn't my best of music list, that will come later. Songs from last year or this year that meant the most to me throughout this crazy fucking year of my life.
Samstag, 13. Dezember 2008
Mittwoch, 10. Dezember 2008
headphones and headlines
Luke will be in America in 12 days. Christmas will be here in 15 days. 2009 will be here in 21 days. Barack Obama will be sworn in to the presidency in 41 days and in 88 days I will be 25 years old. Numbers. Days. Time pass by, marking the cadence of life with ticks and tocks reminding us constantly of the passage of time. And yet, there's something comforting falling asleep to the sound of a ticking clock.
Times are tough for Americans. When Americans can't charge as much as they want whenever they want, they get a little upset. And now the wasteful spending of the rich and the poor alike is hurting everyone's pocket. Which leads Americans to the "simple life." What does that mean? It means not going out to eat 20 times a week and throwing away the leftovers the next day. It means not taking the Expedition out for a spin in the mountains for a weeked of fishing. It means learning how to cook meals and shop within a budget. All of these cut backs are the change that's needed to happen to middle to upper-class Americans, to remind us of how lucky we are to have had what we've had for so long. There are poor people in America, homeless people, destitute people, yes. But they still get to eat. We're not living in Haiti or Ethiopia where, even if you have money, there's not much food to buy and we throw away more food in a day than they eat as a country in a year. Sad stuff, right?
Even Kanye West is feeling a bit down. For an artist whose previous hits had titles such as "Stronger," "The Glory," "Champion," "Touch the Sky," and "Jesus Walks" has released an album suffused with sadness, heartbreak and general angst. The thing that I love about hip hop and the reason I've been listening to it so much this past month is the contrast and drama that rock sometimes lacks, especially indie rock. There's something about rap that's eye-opening. The contrast becones apparent when I put on Chronic 2001 or Lil Wayne as I drive through little ole South Roanoke. Dre rapping about gang violence and murder, drugs and street life. Wayne rapping about "bodies still floating," in New Orleans and "you wonder why black people still voting" when your "president's still choking." It's like watching footage from some war for the first time, like those images in the Time magazine of all of those Vietnamese people with their eyes bulging from their skulls, covered in flies with Americans standing around smoking cigarettes posing for the picture. It's a slap in the face. It's truth without metaphor, anger, irony, hatred, love. But it can also be very funny, which I also like. (see Eminem).
Then there's the cross-refrencing. Lil Wayne quotes Kanye, Kanye praises Lil Wayne. And of course there's the infinite references to 2 Pac and Notorious BIG who are referred to as martyrs to the rap game. They make it sound like it was inevitable that they would have to be sacrificed in order to end the fueding between rappers. This drama spans two decades and countless rappers.
So if 2 pac and BIG died for the sake of peace, what has rock offered up to the music gods? Rock's drama exists within the artists tortured head. Several tortured artists have taken their own lives either intentionally or otherwise (drugs). Kurt Cobain was the big one, Bradley Nowell's music was not exactly tortured emotionally charged music, but he gave up his life to his heroin addiction. Rock hasn't lost any big stars since then. Hunter S. Thompson would be on the list of martyrs, another tortured soul, tormented by the personas created for him that he was forced to act out (Duke). The only martyr that comes to mind that was murdered was John Lennon. Ironically, his war was against peace and his life was prematurely ended by an instrument of hate.
Insecurity is the voice that must be silenced for rock stars, not the voices of haters or rival gangsters. The violence that rock stars deal with the pain inflicted upon them by the world. Pain and drama and violence exists in both genres of music, rock singers channel all of this through their guitars or in their strained voices, shrouded in vague lyrics about the universal girl that broke his heart, the pain of his past life, his insecurities, his anger, all expressed through a combination of instruments voice. The rapper has his words. Yes, metaphors exist, but names are used, specific events, public or private, or discussed openly.
Kanye has a song about how his grandmother was sick in the hospital and the pain he felt, the helplessness, the feeling that poor people get cheated by the system and "if my grandmother were in the NBA, right now everything would be okay?" They invite people into their lives where rock musicians attempt to alienate themselves farther by their vaguness and mystique. Conor Oberst wrote songs about his personal life and it tore him apart. He felt to insecure and hated the feeling of people watching him, whereas Lil Wayne claims that he's "the greatest rapper alive" on his album and never shys away from a photo shoot. Hip hop is refreshing because it welcomes the listener into a full serial drama that exists both within the headphones and in the headlines and for that, I owe a debt of graditude to Mr. Shakur, Mr. Wallace, Mr. Young, Mr. West, and Mr. Carter. Not to mention all of those before, after or unheard of that will one day inspire me.
Times are tough for Americans. When Americans can't charge as much as they want whenever they want, they get a little upset. And now the wasteful spending of the rich and the poor alike is hurting everyone's pocket. Which leads Americans to the "simple life." What does that mean? It means not going out to eat 20 times a week and throwing away the leftovers the next day. It means not taking the Expedition out for a spin in the mountains for a weeked of fishing. It means learning how to cook meals and shop within a budget. All of these cut backs are the change that's needed to happen to middle to upper-class Americans, to remind us of how lucky we are to have had what we've had for so long. There are poor people in America, homeless people, destitute people, yes. But they still get to eat. We're not living in Haiti or Ethiopia where, even if you have money, there's not much food to buy and we throw away more food in a day than they eat as a country in a year. Sad stuff, right?
Even Kanye West is feeling a bit down. For an artist whose previous hits had titles such as "Stronger," "The Glory," "Champion," "Touch the Sky," and "Jesus Walks" has released an album suffused with sadness, heartbreak and general angst. The thing that I love about hip hop and the reason I've been listening to it so much this past month is the contrast and drama that rock sometimes lacks, especially indie rock. There's something about rap that's eye-opening. The contrast becones apparent when I put on Chronic 2001 or Lil Wayne as I drive through little ole South Roanoke. Dre rapping about gang violence and murder, drugs and street life. Wayne rapping about "bodies still floating," in New Orleans and "you wonder why black people still voting" when your "president's still choking." It's like watching footage from some war for the first time, like those images in the Time magazine of all of those Vietnamese people with their eyes bulging from their skulls, covered in flies with Americans standing around smoking cigarettes posing for the picture. It's a slap in the face. It's truth without metaphor, anger, irony, hatred, love. But it can also be very funny, which I also like. (see Eminem).
Then there's the cross-refrencing. Lil Wayne quotes Kanye, Kanye praises Lil Wayne. And of course there's the infinite references to 2 Pac and Notorious BIG who are referred to as martyrs to the rap game. They make it sound like it was inevitable that they would have to be sacrificed in order to end the fueding between rappers. This drama spans two decades and countless rappers.
So if 2 pac and BIG died for the sake of peace, what has rock offered up to the music gods? Rock's drama exists within the artists tortured head. Several tortured artists have taken their own lives either intentionally or otherwise (drugs). Kurt Cobain was the big one, Bradley Nowell's music was not exactly tortured emotionally charged music, but he gave up his life to his heroin addiction. Rock hasn't lost any big stars since then. Hunter S. Thompson would be on the list of martyrs, another tortured soul, tormented by the personas created for him that he was forced to act out (Duke). The only martyr that comes to mind that was murdered was John Lennon. Ironically, his war was against peace and his life was prematurely ended by an instrument of hate.
Insecurity is the voice that must be silenced for rock stars, not the voices of haters or rival gangsters. The violence that rock stars deal with the pain inflicted upon them by the world. Pain and drama and violence exists in both genres of music, rock singers channel all of this through their guitars or in their strained voices, shrouded in vague lyrics about the universal girl that broke his heart, the pain of his past life, his insecurities, his anger, all expressed through a combination of instruments voice. The rapper has his words. Yes, metaphors exist, but names are used, specific events, public or private, or discussed openly.
Kanye has a song about how his grandmother was sick in the hospital and the pain he felt, the helplessness, the feeling that poor people get cheated by the system and "if my grandmother were in the NBA, right now everything would be okay?" They invite people into their lives where rock musicians attempt to alienate themselves farther by their vaguness and mystique. Conor Oberst wrote songs about his personal life and it tore him apart. He felt to insecure and hated the feeling of people watching him, whereas Lil Wayne claims that he's "the greatest rapper alive" on his album and never shys away from a photo shoot. Hip hop is refreshing because it welcomes the listener into a full serial drama that exists both within the headphones and in the headlines and for that, I owe a debt of graditude to Mr. Shakur, Mr. Wallace, Mr. Young, Mr. West, and Mr. Carter. Not to mention all of those before, after or unheard of that will one day inspire me.
Samstag, 6. Dezember 2008
Lil Wayne
Have you heard Lil Wayne? He's the best rapper in the world and becoming one of the most successful. There's a list of the top 77 songs he released (or was featured on) of 2007. While everyone was freaking of Graduation, Weezy was sneaking his way into the best of list-topper of 2008. He's played on the radio to the point of nausea. My first listen was when I once again caved and bought an album on iTunes at 1 in the morning. I was curious.
So it's definitely like nothing I've ever heard before. Not since Dylan has such a fucked-up sounding voice been so popular and sought after. At times, he sounds like an old man on his death bed croaking out random phrases that just happen to rhyme and make sense. Other times, he sounds like a cartoon character, then switching to the square white guy voice then into some high pitched Louis Armstrong impersonation. And most of the time, it sounds like he's rapping while exhaling a big cloud of smoke.
I went to my dad's house today and picked up an issue of Oxford American magazine, published at the University of Arkansas and covers all things Southern, from music to books. I opened it to whatever page and started reading. A man had written a journal-style essay explaining how he survived his first year teaching in New Orleans (where Lil Wayne is from). He talked about how much the kids idolized him and celebrated his complete collection of mix tapes, and albums. Essays written about him, and how he used his music to relate to the kids. He listened to basically nothing but Lil Wayne for an entire year. To say the least, I'm interested in this guy.
So it's definitely like nothing I've ever heard before. Not since Dylan has such a fucked-up sounding voice been so popular and sought after. At times, he sounds like an old man on his death bed croaking out random phrases that just happen to rhyme and make sense. Other times, he sounds like a cartoon character, then switching to the square white guy voice then into some high pitched Louis Armstrong impersonation. And most of the time, it sounds like he's rapping while exhaling a big cloud of smoke.
I went to my dad's house today and picked up an issue of Oxford American magazine, published at the University of Arkansas and covers all things Southern, from music to books. I opened it to whatever page and started reading. A man had written a journal-style essay explaining how he survived his first year teaching in New Orleans (where Lil Wayne is from). He talked about how much the kids idolized him and celebrated his complete collection of mix tapes, and albums. Essays written about him, and how he used his music to relate to the kids. He listened to basically nothing but Lil Wayne for an entire year. To say the least, I'm interested in this guy.
Donnerstag, 27. November 2008
101 things to be thankful for
1. Dance Parties
2. Roommates
3. Mog
4. Pasta
5. emusic
6. tv on the internet
7. blank CD's
8. Weed
9. Flight of the Conchords
10. TV on DVD
11. Cheap Gas
12. Fork in the Alley
13. Cuddling
14. Hoodies
15. Hats with earflaps
16. Randy Newman
17. Szechuan
18. 7 Eleven
19. Macs
20. Barack Obama
21. used books
22. Amazon.com
23. Sharpies
24. Guitars
25. Arcade Fire
26. Trivial Pursuit
27. The lake house
28. Coffee
29. Hugs
30. Letters
31. Coloring
32. Goodwill
33. Text Messaging
34. Jeans
35. Family
36. Tapestries
37. Recliners
38. Not living in Salem
39. The downtown market
40. The sun
41. Chocolate
42. Hot baths
43. Wes Anderson
44. Lord of the Rings
45. Voting
46. Wolves
47. Records
48. Canned food
49. Beer
50. Netflix
51. High fives
52. The fish eye
53. Blogs
54. Washer and dryer
55. Headphones
56. Jeanette
57. Gypsy Tears
58. Conversations that end when the sun comes up
59. Autumn
60. Snow
61. ipods
62. Walking
63. Laughing
64. Big brothers
65. Bongs
66. the Family Circus
67. Sunday crossword puzzles
68. Days off
69. Saturday Night Live
70. Inside Jokes
71. Curry
72. Shoes without laces
73. Grandparents
74. Bubbles
75. Sushi
76. Milkshakes
77. Apples
78. Contact Lenses
79. Guinness
80. Indoor plumbing
81. Scented candles
82. T-shirts
83. Peacoats
84. Sweaters
85. Digital Cameras
86. The Simpsons
87. Phillip Pullman
88. Trees
89. New friends
90. Old friends
91. Reusable grocery bags
92. Fresh Market
93. Tea
94. Monkeys
95. The Beatles
96. Scarves
97. Bacon, egg and cheese biscuits
98. Living in Virginia
99. Rainy days
100. Rock and Roll
101. Halogen bulbs
2. Roommates
3. Mog
4. Pasta
5. emusic
6. tv on the internet
7. blank CD's
8. Weed
9. Flight of the Conchords
10. TV on DVD
11. Cheap Gas
12. Fork in the Alley
13. Cuddling
14. Hoodies
15. Hats with earflaps
16. Randy Newman
17. Szechuan
18. 7 Eleven
19. Macs
20. Barack Obama
21. used books
22. Amazon.com
23. Sharpies
24. Guitars
25. Arcade Fire
26. Trivial Pursuit
27. The lake house
28. Coffee
29. Hugs
30. Letters
31. Coloring
32. Goodwill
33. Text Messaging
34. Jeans
35. Family
36. Tapestries
37. Recliners
38. Not living in Salem
39. The downtown market
40. The sun
41. Chocolate
42. Hot baths
43. Wes Anderson
44. Lord of the Rings
45. Voting
46. Wolves
47. Records
48. Canned food
49. Beer
50. Netflix
51. High fives
52. The fish eye
53. Blogs
54. Washer and dryer
55. Headphones
56. Jeanette
57. Gypsy Tears
58. Conversations that end when the sun comes up
59. Autumn
60. Snow
61. ipods
62. Walking
63. Laughing
64. Big brothers
65. Bongs
66. the Family Circus
67. Sunday crossword puzzles
68. Days off
69. Saturday Night Live
70. Inside Jokes
71. Curry
72. Shoes without laces
73. Grandparents
74. Bubbles
75. Sushi
76. Milkshakes
77. Apples
78. Contact Lenses
79. Guinness
80. Indoor plumbing
81. Scented candles
82. T-shirts
83. Peacoats
84. Sweaters
85. Digital Cameras
86. The Simpsons
87. Phillip Pullman
88. Trees
89. New friends
90. Old friends
91. Reusable grocery bags
92. Fresh Market
93. Tea
94. Monkeys
95. The Beatles
96. Scarves
97. Bacon, egg and cheese biscuits
98. Living in Virginia
99. Rainy days
100. Rock and Roll
101. Halogen bulbs
Mittwoch, 5. November 2008
A big Change....
We stood staring at the screens, not knowing what to expect. Our candidate was the dark horse. Who could win this election? We've seen the signs, we've heard the political analysts. Who will it be. Starting in on the 12 pack of Yuengling I honestly wasn't sure. After an hour or so of pleading from my roommates that we should go downtown to witness the historic outcome were fruitless.
I sat staring at the computer screen tired and fed up with political analysts. But, I gave in. Let's go witness history. We went to 202 where a huge Democratic party was held. We got beers and scoffed at the "projections" that the news media spewed on the screen. "what's final?" we asked. We talked with fellow Democrats. A mother with two kids with special needs demanding that the next president understand and help her situation. Obama was her man. The local news woman was in position to record her place in history and packed up and left as soon as the final decision was made. McCain made his concession speech and it began to sink in. Seconds after the polls closed on the West Coast, it was over. We had a president. the polar opposite of the Yale-educated son of a president rich kid that we have now. We now have an unknown, an outsider, an American, a person, a human that can understand what the rest of us go through day in a day out.
The announcement was made and hugs were obligatory. Blacks hugging whites, whites hugging blacks, people hugging people. Humanity, Americans united under the smiling, dignified face of Obama on the big screen. This was our unifying moment. This was us looking back on years and years of blacks on the back of the bus and separate water fountains. and now, we have a true American as president. A unifying figure bringing together all different parts of the American landscape, hugs for Obama. :Here we are, on a new landscape, a new horizon for America, for humanity, for working mothers, for working fathers, for gay citizens, for Hispanic citizens, for infants, for teens, for imagrants, for Canadians, for Mexicans, for the disabled, for POWs, for veterans, Army, Navy, National Guard, Coast Guard, Red Cross, for the elderly, for blacks, whites, and every other citizen of the United States, here we are. Lets work together to make this the country we want to be a part of rather than the countr we're ashamed to admit we're from. nothing can stop us.
I sat staring at the computer screen tired and fed up with political analysts. But, I gave in. Let's go witness history. We went to 202 where a huge Democratic party was held. We got beers and scoffed at the "projections" that the news media spewed on the screen. "what's final?" we asked. We talked with fellow Democrats. A mother with two kids with special needs demanding that the next president understand and help her situation. Obama was her man. The local news woman was in position to record her place in history and packed up and left as soon as the final decision was made. McCain made his concession speech and it began to sink in. Seconds after the polls closed on the West Coast, it was over. We had a president. the polar opposite of the Yale-educated son of a president rich kid that we have now. We now have an unknown, an outsider, an American, a person, a human that can understand what the rest of us go through day in a day out.
The announcement was made and hugs were obligatory. Blacks hugging whites, whites hugging blacks, people hugging people. Humanity, Americans united under the smiling, dignified face of Obama on the big screen. This was our unifying moment. This was us looking back on years and years of blacks on the back of the bus and separate water fountains. and now, we have a true American as president. A unifying figure bringing together all different parts of the American landscape, hugs for Obama. :Here we are, on a new landscape, a new horizon for America, for humanity, for working mothers, for working fathers, for gay citizens, for Hispanic citizens, for infants, for teens, for imagrants, for Canadians, for Mexicans, for the disabled, for POWs, for veterans, Army, Navy, National Guard, Coast Guard, Red Cross, for the elderly, for blacks, whites, and every other citizen of the United States, here we are. Lets work together to make this the country we want to be a part of rather than the countr we're ashamed to admit we're from. nothing can stop us.
Montag, 3. November 2008
November 3
Today is/was November 3. Tomorrow/Today millions of Americans will go to their respective voting places and vote for the person whom they think will best run the country. today, I woke up extra early after having spent the night drinking beer and watching TV at the local bar with my roommates and drinking beer on the way home and finally when we got home. I woke up with urgency, realizing that I had to take some paperwork to the main office where I work. I awoke, showered, got dressed and went downstairs to drink coffee, check e-mail, etc and print off the papers. The computer I needed to use that was hooked up to the printer was on password protect for the first time since I've lived here. Irony. I did a the NYtimes crossword on the other computer and waited.
The other two roommates woke up, I printed out the papers and sat and read and ate mac and cheese for breakfast. Eggs grow old after eating them day in and day out for breakfast. Jenny asked me if I was okay. I nodded and said yes after she has snapped me out of a trance of staring out the window and wondering why I'm here...typical Monday morning. I'm fine, yeah. Of course. Why wouldn't I be. I finished my breakfast and Brett went to class. I grabbed my keys and left the house without telling Jenny where I was going.
I drove the 10 minutes out to the main office. I drive which I've grown to hate. Droppe off my shit and drove back into town. I stopped at the bank to get about 20 bucks out thinking I could go to goodwill and buy maybe a second new sweater (I've only bought two new articles of clothing since arriving back in the USA. an old sweater and a pair of courdoroys total: $7.00) but after checking my account and realizing not only that I have no money, but that my overdraft is way beyond anything I had estimated, I decided against the luxury of buying new used clothing that poor people have given away. Instead I turned my car back toward the downtown area thinking about the one place where I knew work was guarunteed. The coffee shop has always and will always be a beacon of free easy work. There's nothing that the coffee shop can throw at me that I can't handle. And...desperate times call for desperate measures. I ordered a cup of tea and after dealing with the new employee behind the counter I spoke with a manager...sorta. He was younger than me and told me that the GM was out on maternity leave and that things would be different when she got back. So, I filled out an application listing two of my previous job experiences as being an assistant manager at one of the stores for alomost a year and a normal employee at the store for three years. So I had more experience pushing coffee than the three people working there combined...still, I didn't have a job there and they did. Just sip your tea and find peace you broke bastard.
So, that was that. Pride swallowed, application filled out, hands shaken, tea drank. Off to work. A normal day. No peed or shitted pants, only a few tears shed, doge ball played, etc. Tutoring was a breeze. I helped a Vietnamese girl read a book about a dog that farted a lot. In fact, it was called something like "Walter the Farting Dog." It was a good night. I drove back home and found a letter to me from Leah. I emptied the dishwasher, loaded the dishwasher, cleaned the kitchen, took out the trash and recycling, cleaned the living room and made dinner and sat down and read the letter. My first since I've been back in America...3 months.
She made me feel important in her letter. She said that Munich was somehow "our city" that every corner bar or random spot that we walked through was only special because we drank there or walked through that spot. She's so right. I thought about how little time we spent together, but how the little time we did spend together defined everything I'll ever think about that city and how no one else will ever understand about my experience there because they were'nt there on those Sunday nights in the rain or in the could walking through the city looking for that experience, to help us learn German (when all we ever talked to were people from out of the country trying to learn German like us--Italian, Moraccan, Sweidsh, Austrian). But that was our city.
I guess everyone in Munich is waking up and getting ready for work at this time. I know I would be in the shower, trying to catch the 8:20 S-Bahn to Starnberg. If I had it to do again I would have skipped work a lot more and gone to the lake and hung out and napped all day, but I did love hanging out with those kids. Those kids that were 100 times smarter than the kids I work with now. So much more driven and curious. But...I have no regrets. It's all there waiting for me when I go back. A kid asked me today why I where the bracelet that I do (from the Rock Werchter Festival) and I said, well I can't take it off, its stuck and she said, well just cut it off. and I said, I'm not ready too. And she said, you could always get another one. And I said, it's from Belgium (at which point I explaid where Belgium was). And she said, well next summer vacation you could just go back and get another one. At which I replies, it's really expensive to go visit Europe. And she said, well just start saving now. I stared off into the distance imagining the possiblities and the realities of an 11 year olds mind.
Munich is always going to be there waiting for me.
The other two roommates woke up, I printed out the papers and sat and read and ate mac and cheese for breakfast. Eggs grow old after eating them day in and day out for breakfast. Jenny asked me if I was okay. I nodded and said yes after she has snapped me out of a trance of staring out the window and wondering why I'm here...typical Monday morning. I'm fine, yeah. Of course. Why wouldn't I be. I finished my breakfast and Brett went to class. I grabbed my keys and left the house without telling Jenny where I was going.
I drove the 10 minutes out to the main office. I drive which I've grown to hate. Droppe off my shit and drove back into town. I stopped at the bank to get about 20 bucks out thinking I could go to goodwill and buy maybe a second new sweater (I've only bought two new articles of clothing since arriving back in the USA. an old sweater and a pair of courdoroys total: $7.00) but after checking my account and realizing not only that I have no money, but that my overdraft is way beyond anything I had estimated, I decided against the luxury of buying new used clothing that poor people have given away. Instead I turned my car back toward the downtown area thinking about the one place where I knew work was guarunteed. The coffee shop has always and will always be a beacon of free easy work. There's nothing that the coffee shop can throw at me that I can't handle. And...desperate times call for desperate measures. I ordered a cup of tea and after dealing with the new employee behind the counter I spoke with a manager...sorta. He was younger than me and told me that the GM was out on maternity leave and that things would be different when she got back. So, I filled out an application listing two of my previous job experiences as being an assistant manager at one of the stores for alomost a year and a normal employee at the store for three years. So I had more experience pushing coffee than the three people working there combined...still, I didn't have a job there and they did. Just sip your tea and find peace you broke bastard.
So, that was that. Pride swallowed, application filled out, hands shaken, tea drank. Off to work. A normal day. No peed or shitted pants, only a few tears shed, doge ball played, etc. Tutoring was a breeze. I helped a Vietnamese girl read a book about a dog that farted a lot. In fact, it was called something like "Walter the Farting Dog." It was a good night. I drove back home and found a letter to me from Leah. I emptied the dishwasher, loaded the dishwasher, cleaned the kitchen, took out the trash and recycling, cleaned the living room and made dinner and sat down and read the letter. My first since I've been back in America...3 months.
She made me feel important in her letter. She said that Munich was somehow "our city" that every corner bar or random spot that we walked through was only special because we drank there or walked through that spot. She's so right. I thought about how little time we spent together, but how the little time we did spend together defined everything I'll ever think about that city and how no one else will ever understand about my experience there because they were'nt there on those Sunday nights in the rain or in the could walking through the city looking for that experience, to help us learn German (when all we ever talked to were people from out of the country trying to learn German like us--Italian, Moraccan, Sweidsh, Austrian). But that was our city.
I guess everyone in Munich is waking up and getting ready for work at this time. I know I would be in the shower, trying to catch the 8:20 S-Bahn to Starnberg. If I had it to do again I would have skipped work a lot more and gone to the lake and hung out and napped all day, but I did love hanging out with those kids. Those kids that were 100 times smarter than the kids I work with now. So much more driven and curious. But...I have no regrets. It's all there waiting for me when I go back. A kid asked me today why I where the bracelet that I do (from the Rock Werchter Festival) and I said, well I can't take it off, its stuck and she said, well just cut it off. and I said, I'm not ready too. And she said, you could always get another one. And I said, it's from Belgium (at which point I explaid where Belgium was). And she said, well next summer vacation you could just go back and get another one. At which I replies, it's really expensive to go visit Europe. And she said, well just start saving now. I stared off into the distance imagining the possiblities and the realities of an 11 year olds mind.
Munich is always going to be there waiting for me.
Samstag, 18. Oktober 2008
i'm poor, but so is everyone else
The realization this week that I didn't have any money and that I was in dect to at least 4 different corporations was upsetting but not as bad as driving back from Choice to pick up the mail and realize that my car insurance policy had been cancelled because I didn't pay. there's nothing much to do in a situation like that. I tried to call, but their offices closed at 1pm on Saturdays. So, at 5pm I opened a beer and smoked a clove cigarette. What are we supposed to do? I started to make a list of all the luxury items in my life that I see as superfluous. Beer being number one on the list. What else, my emusic subscription. For someone as obsessed with music as I am, 20 dollars a month is too much to pay. What else? I think I can afford 60 dollars every two weeks for groceries. But, I can't afford to shop or even go into Fresh Market. What about weed? Is it better to be poor and fucked up than to have money and be sober? I'll get back to you on that one.
But honestly. I feel like I'm living in poverty. I see the plight of the American. Fast food is cheap food even though it can lead to obesity and heart disease which in the end cost one more in the long run in doctors' and hospital bills. It's funny that we chose to have a contest to see who can lose the most weight and now I feel like the one who gained the most will be the true winner because they got to eat that month. Its possible to live on the money that I make, I know that. People do it everyday. I'm not anything special... I just to remind myself that simple tastes are what you must accept. SIMPLER tastes. That means only buying Yuengling, if you're going to let yourself drink at all. Ukrops is off limits. Online shopping is off limits. Driving anywhere but to work and back, done. No concerts, no joy rides around the county. Thinking seriously about finding a second job, maybe I'll be able to work the after school program, tutor and serve people pizza and beer and if I'm lucky I'll be able to save up enough money to go to the dentist or buy a new pair of glasses. I'm nostalgic for the times when people worried about 9/11 and Y2K and Bill Clinton getting his dick sucked at least then I wouldn't have to drive through a nice part of town and see 5 for sale signs and one FOR RENT sign sitting on the lawn of my grandmother's house. The house that my mom grew up in, the house that sold for less than what we thought so no my grandmother might have to move into a small room at her retirement home..... sigh.....
It's Saturday night, and staying in, listening to records and thinking and finding 4 very sympathetic, empathetic ears waiting to hear everything I had to say and offering anything they could to help out. The church of poor hipsters...let's go shopping together and split the cost, let's find a way to sell more books on-line and, don't feel bad about it, you need the money, and thoughts of family dinners every night, gathered around the table in the cold like Van Gogh's "The Potato Eaters." I say fuck it, lets be poor. Lets reduce our lives to exactly what we need, lets clip coupons, lets walk to buy our groceries with a back-pack on. Lets live on the bare essentials and realize that the poor of our country live like the middle class of others. Life is fucking complicated when you make it that way, but poor people have only the basic needs to fill. This is my goal, fuck Walden. Let's find our own economy and thrive in nothingness
But honestly. I feel like I'm living in poverty. I see the plight of the American. Fast food is cheap food even though it can lead to obesity and heart disease which in the end cost one more in the long run in doctors' and hospital bills. It's funny that we chose to have a contest to see who can lose the most weight and now I feel like the one who gained the most will be the true winner because they got to eat that month. Its possible to live on the money that I make, I know that. People do it everyday. I'm not anything special... I just to remind myself that simple tastes are what you must accept. SIMPLER tastes. That means only buying Yuengling, if you're going to let yourself drink at all. Ukrops is off limits. Online shopping is off limits. Driving anywhere but to work and back, done. No concerts, no joy rides around the county. Thinking seriously about finding a second job, maybe I'll be able to work the after school program, tutor and serve people pizza and beer and if I'm lucky I'll be able to save up enough money to go to the dentist or buy a new pair of glasses. I'm nostalgic for the times when people worried about 9/11 and Y2K and Bill Clinton getting his dick sucked at least then I wouldn't have to drive through a nice part of town and see 5 for sale signs and one FOR RENT sign sitting on the lawn of my grandmother's house. The house that my mom grew up in, the house that sold for less than what we thought so no my grandmother might have to move into a small room at her retirement home..... sigh.....
It's Saturday night, and staying in, listening to records and thinking and finding 4 very sympathetic, empathetic ears waiting to hear everything I had to say and offering anything they could to help out. The church of poor hipsters...let's go shopping together and split the cost, let's find a way to sell more books on-line and, don't feel bad about it, you need the money, and thoughts of family dinners every night, gathered around the table in the cold like Van Gogh's "The Potato Eaters." I say fuck it, lets be poor. Lets reduce our lives to exactly what we need, lets clip coupons, lets walk to buy our groceries with a back-pack on. Lets live on the bare essentials and realize that the poor of our country live like the middle class of others. Life is fucking complicated when you make it that way, but poor people have only the basic needs to fill. This is my goal, fuck Walden. Let's find our own economy and thrive in nothingness
Donnerstag, 9. Oktober 2008
Buck
Jenny and I sat outside of the Backcreek Grill. My view was of someone's house and backyard, her's was of the fish tank with an artificial waterfall keeping the water oxygenated for fish eaten long ago. We talked about writing. I mentioned that I had a few ideas for short stories. So, in the spirit of blogging pushing us to write more, here goes. This story was written in a journal that I burned while on the AT.
Part 1:
Although he was 65, the one thing that always brought back to him childhood memories so acute, so accurate that he lost himself as he walked through the town was the Autumn leaves. He collected everything he needed for the day's excursion and set off on his own. The cool air required a maroon and white striped wool cap to keep his bald head cool. His blue cover-alls took care of the rest of his body.
This was his daily routine. Waking, dressing, coffee and a sesame seed bagel at the coffee shop with his butter and jam that he brought on his own and collecting newspapers. He didn't care that the people that worked at the coffee shop, and people everyone else, laughed at him behind his back or played mean tricks on him. One time when he wasn't looking, one of the employees took a bite of his bagel and walked away without him knowing. He looked down at the bagel, paused and continued eating as if he had no other choice. He was used to being the clown. He used to work for a traveling rodeo. He dressed up in garish clothing and distracted the bulls from the riders. What he loved most was talking with the small children after the rodeo and making balloon animals for them and juggling and falling down on purpose to make them laugh. Now, his wrinkled face and sunken eyes made him appear threatening to kids prompting their mothers to pull them away when he approached.
So he walked. He pulled behind him a wagon filled, at various times, with old newspapers, recyclable bottles and cans or nothing at all. He walked to the fire station and tried to talk with the firemen only to be picked on and laughed at. He had a history at that particular fire department.
He was injured one day at the rodeo. He was performing his usual distraction act, pulling red scarves from his pockets, running then jumping into a barrel or behind the fence. The rider and bull burst forth from behind the gate and Buck stood behind the fence waiting for the rider to fall off. He fell and ran out in the ring, flailing and dancing about, but the bull was still after the cowboy. He ran straight toward him, but the bull came thrashing toward him and he trembled all over. The bull thrust his horn through his side and tossed him over his shoulder. Other clowns came to his rescue, diverting the bull's attention while the paramedics came. He was in the hospital for a week or so then released into the care of his brother.
He volunteered at the fire department, but his injuries left him unfit to enter burning buildings, drive the engine or do much else besides be a sort of mascot for the department. He didn't have to worry about money after the accident, so he showed up to volunteer everyday for 35 years. He was a clown every year for Halloween, the fall Brunswick Stew and Barbecue Festival and every other excuse he gave himself to make balloon animals, fall on purpose and make small children laugh. They even held a retirement ceremony on his 55th Birthday. But now he just walks, dragging behind him his red wagon.
Part 2:
Buck walked into the coffee shop with the morning sunlight behind him, making him appear like an alien deboarding a UFO. His round, bald head and large, floppy ears exaggerating the effect. The air inside was warm and dry and always smelled like fresh-brewed coffee, musty and sweet and brought a flourish of memories of cold mornings and warm cups. He walked to his table and put down his coat, hat, newspaper, butter and jam. A few of the locals smiled at him sympathetically and said "Mornin Buck." But he only glared at them through his thick-rimmed glasses and went to stand in line. He put his mug on the counter and spat the words "Mill Mountain and a sesame seed bagel."
The young girl behind the counter smiled cheerfully and got his coffee and bagel. She secretly hoped this would be a "Buck Moment" when Buck says or does something that will become coffee shop legend, like the time he was seen eating his sesame seed bagel with his cover-alls around his ankles in the men's room. He pulled out a few crumpled dollar bills and some change, picked up his food and walked back to his table. One time, an employee put a sticker on his wagon that said "Remember My Name, You'll Be Screaming It Later." It lasted 2 weeks before he realized it was there and took it off. But this morning was one like any other.
The usual customers came in and warmed themselves with hot coffee and baked goods, then went on their ways to do whatever they were meant to do that day. He poured his vitamin supplement into his travel mug and walked back to the counter for a refill. The powder danced out of the cup as the coffee went in, causing the pourer to cough and say "Buck, have you gotten this thing tested by HazMat?" No response from Buck but an unsteady, knobby hand reaching out for his coffee.
After his breakfast, he walked over to the table where there were always complimentary newspapers set out for customers. This was a Monday morning which meant three days of newspapers to sort through, including Sunday. This was his favorite part of the week. He sat down by the table with a stack of newspapers on his lap. He picked one up, thumbed through it, put one section in one pile and the rest back on the table. He worked diligently at this task for nearly half an hour. Several customers put down their coffees or books and watched him. There were several theories about why he did this. One employee mused that he was like A Perfect Mind and had thousands of newspaper clippings hanging up in his room spelling out a secret code that only he could read and only existed in his head. Others said that he was just looking for "recylcable" articles or sections. But no one really knew what he was looking for. Maybe he just needed something to do.
It had been an hour. The morning crowd had left and the employees were left cleaning up after them and getting ready for the lunch crowd. No one had really noticed that Buck had sat, staring at the front section of the New York Times, motionless for an hour. Finally, someone walked over and tapped him on the shoulder, asking if he was all right. He looked slowly up at the man with his gray-blue eyes. Behind his glasses, the man could see his eyes, voids of age and regret and mystery. They stared at each other intently for a few moments, then Buck went back to looking at the paper. No one bothered him again. He eventually got up and wandered off, leaving piles of newspaper scattered about the floor.
Part 3:
He laid on his back, staring at the ceiling. He looked over and saw his stuffed monkey Reginald lying beside him, his shiny black eyes staring back at him. He smelled bacon cooking in the kitchen and rolled out of bed onto the cold wood floor. His mother called to him, telling him to come down for breakfast.
The gray sky magnified the vibrant colors of the autumn leaves and the green evergreens surrounding his house. He walked to the window and watched as his grandfather walked across the lawn wearing his red and black plaid jacket, brown wool pants and brown boots, carrying his metal army-issue mug that was always with him. Sometimes Buck smelled what was in the mug, sometimes burning fumes that tickled his nose, other times, a weird mossy smell with steam coming from it. He was told it was his special tea that helps him to see better. He quickly got dressed and ran downstairs just as he was coming in the front door. He gave him a big hug and looked up at him. His grandfather smiled a little and lifted his magnanimous gray eyebrows. Buck smiled back and ran to the breakfast table.
He was to work outside with his father that day, raking leaves. The property around the house was home to 16 old-growth trees, oak, chestnut, maple and elm mostly. The maples were Bucks favorite. Every year for Christmas, his grandmother gave him a small jug of maple syrup just for him and for the few weeks after, everything from his corn flakes to his eggs got a small dose of syrup.
He finished his breakfast and picked up his hat and jacket and walked outside to where his father had already started with the chores. He handed Buck a rake and canvas tarp. Buck surveyed the enormous lawn and scanned his father’s face for mercy but found none. He walked over to the edge of the endless sea of browns and oranges and began the arduous process of clearing the lawn. This was the second year he was old enough to do this for his father. The previous year, he jumped at the chance to earn extra money to buy Christmas presents. The following years he was forced to make presents for his family, and he had found that he had neither talent nor patience for craft, songs or art. He made 15 cents for the entire lawn and had found a way to buy presents for all of his family and still have a little left over to buy two Cokes at Woodfins pharmacy down the street.
He thought about what he was going to buy for his family this year while he diligently, yet absent-mindedly raked the leaves onto the canvas. There was the pair of reading glasses for sale at Woodfins for 3 cents for his mom who always squinted when she was reading her books, a new deck of playing cards for his father for 4 cents, a small baby doll for his little sister Rachel for 2 cents and so on. The progress was slow, but steady and by lunch time he had nearly a quarter of the backyard finished.
He walked inside and looked at his red, raw hands and plopped down at the table and breathed in the sweet, salty smell of his mom’s chicken soup, the steam rising lazily from the bowl. He picked up his grilled cheese sandwich and dipped it into the soup. He did this every time he ate soup to test the temperature. He was always weary of burning himself on hot foods and often waited for others to take a bite first before he did to see how they reacted. The soup was safe. He picked up his spoon and ate hungrily while his grandfather sat down across from him and put down his metal mug. Buck couldn’t see what was in it this time, but steam rose from it. Probably coffee, he thought.
He tilted his bowl and drank the rest of his soup and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve which brought on endless chiding from his mother. He walked outside with his grandfather and picked up the rake. His grandfather sat down on the tree stump used for chopping firewood and picked up his grandson’s hands. Buck noticed the difference between the hands. His, puffy, small, red and perfectly smooth. His grandfather’s, knobby, mangled, covered in spots. He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a pair of small leather gloves and handed them to Buck. “These might help,” he grumbled and slapped the gloves in his small hands. He looked at his grandfather and smiled a little and walked back over to the rake. His grandfather walked over to his garden where he grew tomatoes, squash, carrots, onions and turnips. Buck watched him walk and wondered if he would ever grow that old and tired.
The sun had almost set behind the tree line and nearly half the yard was finished. He looked back at the work he had done and was amazed at his own progress. He could smell dinner cooking in the house and watched the small tendril of smoke rising from the chimney. He loaded up one more load of leaves and started walking back to the house. He walked under the oak tree and suddenly heard a great knocking sound on his head and felt a terrible sting. He dropped the tarp and froze. His hands hovering above the spot where the nut had struck him. He began to cry. Sobbing, big wet tears smeared the dirt and sweat on his face but still he couldn’t move. He stood there for a full minute as if he were posing for a painting for which he felt terribly embarrassed to be in. The trance eventually broke when he saw his father moving toward him through the blur of tears. “What the hell’s the matter with you, boy? Are you crying?” Buck started running. He could barely see where he was going, but running was the only option. Fear, shame and pain blended together perfectly and running as far and as fast as he could was the only way to dissipate the awful feeling. He ran straight toward the burn pile at the edge of the upper field where he had brought dozens of loads of leaves that day and dove head first into the pile of leaves and dug himself in deep until oblivion swallowed him and the darkness and the sound of his heavily breathing comforted him.
Some time had passed, but Buck was unsure of how long. The sun was probably long gone, he thought, and hunger was his main focus. His father had seen him crying. He must have looked like a little girl. But what bothered him the most was what had caused the terrible pain in his head. He rubbed the injury again and again while buried in the leaf pile and felt the small bump. The last thing he could remember before he fell asleep was the faint echoes of someone calling out in the darkness and then sleep overtook him and then there was nothing.
He woke up in a daze. His dreams had been strange and haunting. He had the same dream over and over, it seemed. The preacher from church stood at the front of a great gilded altar. He seemed enormous and god-like, dressed all in black, his eyes dark pools of night sky. Then, the altar behind him caught fire and everyone around him was running and screaming as he sat and listened to the preacher and focused on his eyes. Then he woke up. He heard the rooster crow and saw small specks of light coming in through the leaves. He stood up and pushed the leaves away, disinterring himself from the tomb. He rubbed his eyes and tried in vain to dust off the specks of dried leaves and twigs from his jacket and hair. He began walking back towards the house in a complete daze. He tried to reconstruct the events of the night before, the pain, the shock. He walked closer to the house and saw his mother running toward him with open arms. She gave him a big hug and carried him inside the way she used to carry him when he was a baby. The rest of the family was already at the table having coffee and hot cocoa. Everyone was starting at him with accusing eyes. “Go upstairs and get ready for your bath,” his mother said. He walked slowly up the stairs and began removing his jacket, shirt and pants.
When he got downstairs, breakfast was over and everyone had left to go to church. There was a plate with toast and eggs on it for him. He sat and ate in the cold, empty house. After he ate, he walked outside, put on his gloves, picked up his rake and got back to work on the yard. Why had his family left for church without him? What was wrong with him? These questions ran through his head as he slowly but surely cleared the leaves. His family returned and Buck was exhausted. He walked into the house and everyone was acting perfectly natural as if nothing happened. “Come on and get some food Buck,” his father said using his fork to point at the bacon sandwiches on the table. He sat and ate and stared out the window trying to avoid eye contact with anyone. The family ate in a silence only broken by the occasional murmurings about the sermon.
Part 4:
He walked outside the coffee shop and picked up the handle to his wagon and began dragging it back towards home. The newspaper clipping he found was a story about the death of a World War II veteran. He had died mysteriously forty years ago and the article described how new technologies were going to be used to determine how he actually died. Buck walked through town, staring at the picture of his father in his uniform wearing his Purple Heart and several other decorations he had earned fighting in both World Wars. He walked unconsciously, past his house and through the other side of town. The sun began to set and still Buck walked. He only snapped out of his focused state when he caught a strange glow out of the corner of his eye. He looked up and saw the blaze blowing up from the roof of a house. He stood and watched the strange beauty of the flame and a tear rolled down his check, through the wrinkles and divots of his skin like a mountain stream flowing through the cracks of rock down a mountain.
He dropped his wagon and tucked the newspaper in the front pocket of his coveralls. He walked as fast as he could toward the house. He took his handkerchief out and put it on the handle of the front door and twisted it. He could feel the heat coming from the inside and the smoke burned his lungs as he walked into the house. He called out and waited for a response. He heard a faint voice coming from upstairs. He grabbed onto the banister and pulled himself up the stairs. He was already feeling light-headed. He found the room and opened the door. A woman was lying in bed, her gray hair masked by the smoke. Buck stared at her for a moment and thought about the incident with the leaf pile. It all came flooding back and the shame and fear stung him like needles behind his eyes. She stared back at him as if she understood what he was thinking, as if she knew his pain and embarrassment that had caused him to live a life of ridicule. She knew why he hated his father so much and why he could never tell anybody what he did, she knew about the newspaper clipping and why he had looked through dozens of newspapers a day, she knew what he was looking for. “I,” he said and took a step forward. An enormous crack startled him and he looked up just in time to see several large trunks falling through the ceiling and the blaze that came with it. He fell down coughing and the old lady slowly moved to get out of bed, but her old bones were no help to her. Buck stood up and walked through the flames over to her. He tried to help her out of bed, but she just lay there with her white, stringy hair fanned out on the pillow. She looked up at him and Buck understood. She was done fighting and so was he. He took off his glasses and lay down on the bed with her and closed his eyes.
Part 1:
Although he was 65, the one thing that always brought back to him childhood memories so acute, so accurate that he lost himself as he walked through the town was the Autumn leaves. He collected everything he needed for the day's excursion and set off on his own. The cool air required a maroon and white striped wool cap to keep his bald head cool. His blue cover-alls took care of the rest of his body.
This was his daily routine. Waking, dressing, coffee and a sesame seed bagel at the coffee shop with his butter and jam that he brought on his own and collecting newspapers. He didn't care that the people that worked at the coffee shop, and people everyone else, laughed at him behind his back or played mean tricks on him. One time when he wasn't looking, one of the employees took a bite of his bagel and walked away without him knowing. He looked down at the bagel, paused and continued eating as if he had no other choice. He was used to being the clown. He used to work for a traveling rodeo. He dressed up in garish clothing and distracted the bulls from the riders. What he loved most was talking with the small children after the rodeo and making balloon animals for them and juggling and falling down on purpose to make them laugh. Now, his wrinkled face and sunken eyes made him appear threatening to kids prompting their mothers to pull them away when he approached.
So he walked. He pulled behind him a wagon filled, at various times, with old newspapers, recyclable bottles and cans or nothing at all. He walked to the fire station and tried to talk with the firemen only to be picked on and laughed at. He had a history at that particular fire department.
He was injured one day at the rodeo. He was performing his usual distraction act, pulling red scarves from his pockets, running then jumping into a barrel or behind the fence. The rider and bull burst forth from behind the gate and Buck stood behind the fence waiting for the rider to fall off. He fell and ran out in the ring, flailing and dancing about, but the bull was still after the cowboy. He ran straight toward him, but the bull came thrashing toward him and he trembled all over. The bull thrust his horn through his side and tossed him over his shoulder. Other clowns came to his rescue, diverting the bull's attention while the paramedics came. He was in the hospital for a week or so then released into the care of his brother.
He volunteered at the fire department, but his injuries left him unfit to enter burning buildings, drive the engine or do much else besides be a sort of mascot for the department. He didn't have to worry about money after the accident, so he showed up to volunteer everyday for 35 years. He was a clown every year for Halloween, the fall Brunswick Stew and Barbecue Festival and every other excuse he gave himself to make balloon animals, fall on purpose and make small children laugh. They even held a retirement ceremony on his 55th Birthday. But now he just walks, dragging behind him his red wagon.
Part 2:
Buck walked into the coffee shop with the morning sunlight behind him, making him appear like an alien deboarding a UFO. His round, bald head and large, floppy ears exaggerating the effect. The air inside was warm and dry and always smelled like fresh-brewed coffee, musty and sweet and brought a flourish of memories of cold mornings and warm cups. He walked to his table and put down his coat, hat, newspaper, butter and jam. A few of the locals smiled at him sympathetically and said "Mornin Buck." But he only glared at them through his thick-rimmed glasses and went to stand in line. He put his mug on the counter and spat the words "Mill Mountain and a sesame seed bagel."
The young girl behind the counter smiled cheerfully and got his coffee and bagel. She secretly hoped this would be a "Buck Moment" when Buck says or does something that will become coffee shop legend, like the time he was seen eating his sesame seed bagel with his cover-alls around his ankles in the men's room. He pulled out a few crumpled dollar bills and some change, picked up his food and walked back to his table. One time, an employee put a sticker on his wagon that said "Remember My Name, You'll Be Screaming It Later." It lasted 2 weeks before he realized it was there and took it off. But this morning was one like any other.
The usual customers came in and warmed themselves with hot coffee and baked goods, then went on their ways to do whatever they were meant to do that day. He poured his vitamin supplement into his travel mug and walked back to the counter for a refill. The powder danced out of the cup as the coffee went in, causing the pourer to cough and say "Buck, have you gotten this thing tested by HazMat?" No response from Buck but an unsteady, knobby hand reaching out for his coffee.
After his breakfast, he walked over to the table where there were always complimentary newspapers set out for customers. This was a Monday morning which meant three days of newspapers to sort through, including Sunday. This was his favorite part of the week. He sat down by the table with a stack of newspapers on his lap. He picked one up, thumbed through it, put one section in one pile and the rest back on the table. He worked diligently at this task for nearly half an hour. Several customers put down their coffees or books and watched him. There were several theories about why he did this. One employee mused that he was like A Perfect Mind and had thousands of newspaper clippings hanging up in his room spelling out a secret code that only he could read and only existed in his head. Others said that he was just looking for "recylcable" articles or sections. But no one really knew what he was looking for. Maybe he just needed something to do.
It had been an hour. The morning crowd had left and the employees were left cleaning up after them and getting ready for the lunch crowd. No one had really noticed that Buck had sat, staring at the front section of the New York Times, motionless for an hour. Finally, someone walked over and tapped him on the shoulder, asking if he was all right. He looked slowly up at the man with his gray-blue eyes. Behind his glasses, the man could see his eyes, voids of age and regret and mystery. They stared at each other intently for a few moments, then Buck went back to looking at the paper. No one bothered him again. He eventually got up and wandered off, leaving piles of newspaper scattered about the floor.
Part 3:
He laid on his back, staring at the ceiling. He looked over and saw his stuffed monkey Reginald lying beside him, his shiny black eyes staring back at him. He smelled bacon cooking in the kitchen and rolled out of bed onto the cold wood floor. His mother called to him, telling him to come down for breakfast.
The gray sky magnified the vibrant colors of the autumn leaves and the green evergreens surrounding his house. He walked to the window and watched as his grandfather walked across the lawn wearing his red and black plaid jacket, brown wool pants and brown boots, carrying his metal army-issue mug that was always with him. Sometimes Buck smelled what was in the mug, sometimes burning fumes that tickled his nose, other times, a weird mossy smell with steam coming from it. He was told it was his special tea that helps him to see better. He quickly got dressed and ran downstairs just as he was coming in the front door. He gave him a big hug and looked up at him. His grandfather smiled a little and lifted his magnanimous gray eyebrows. Buck smiled back and ran to the breakfast table.
He was to work outside with his father that day, raking leaves. The property around the house was home to 16 old-growth trees, oak, chestnut, maple and elm mostly. The maples were Bucks favorite. Every year for Christmas, his grandmother gave him a small jug of maple syrup just for him and for the few weeks after, everything from his corn flakes to his eggs got a small dose of syrup.
He finished his breakfast and picked up his hat and jacket and walked outside to where his father had already started with the chores. He handed Buck a rake and canvas tarp. Buck surveyed the enormous lawn and scanned his father’s face for mercy but found none. He walked over to the edge of the endless sea of browns and oranges and began the arduous process of clearing the lawn. This was the second year he was old enough to do this for his father. The previous year, he jumped at the chance to earn extra money to buy Christmas presents. The following years he was forced to make presents for his family, and he had found that he had neither talent nor patience for craft, songs or art. He made 15 cents for the entire lawn and had found a way to buy presents for all of his family and still have a little left over to buy two Cokes at Woodfins pharmacy down the street.
He thought about what he was going to buy for his family this year while he diligently, yet absent-mindedly raked the leaves onto the canvas. There was the pair of reading glasses for sale at Woodfins for 3 cents for his mom who always squinted when she was reading her books, a new deck of playing cards for his father for 4 cents, a small baby doll for his little sister Rachel for 2 cents and so on. The progress was slow, but steady and by lunch time he had nearly a quarter of the backyard finished.
He walked inside and looked at his red, raw hands and plopped down at the table and breathed in the sweet, salty smell of his mom’s chicken soup, the steam rising lazily from the bowl. He picked up his grilled cheese sandwich and dipped it into the soup. He did this every time he ate soup to test the temperature. He was always weary of burning himself on hot foods and often waited for others to take a bite first before he did to see how they reacted. The soup was safe. He picked up his spoon and ate hungrily while his grandfather sat down across from him and put down his metal mug. Buck couldn’t see what was in it this time, but steam rose from it. Probably coffee, he thought.
He tilted his bowl and drank the rest of his soup and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve which brought on endless chiding from his mother. He walked outside with his grandfather and picked up the rake. His grandfather sat down on the tree stump used for chopping firewood and picked up his grandson’s hands. Buck noticed the difference between the hands. His, puffy, small, red and perfectly smooth. His grandfather’s, knobby, mangled, covered in spots. He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a pair of small leather gloves and handed them to Buck. “These might help,” he grumbled and slapped the gloves in his small hands. He looked at his grandfather and smiled a little and walked back over to the rake. His grandfather walked over to his garden where he grew tomatoes, squash, carrots, onions and turnips. Buck watched him walk and wondered if he would ever grow that old and tired.
The sun had almost set behind the tree line and nearly half the yard was finished. He looked back at the work he had done and was amazed at his own progress. He could smell dinner cooking in the house and watched the small tendril of smoke rising from the chimney. He loaded up one more load of leaves and started walking back to the house. He walked under the oak tree and suddenly heard a great knocking sound on his head and felt a terrible sting. He dropped the tarp and froze. His hands hovering above the spot where the nut had struck him. He began to cry. Sobbing, big wet tears smeared the dirt and sweat on his face but still he couldn’t move. He stood there for a full minute as if he were posing for a painting for which he felt terribly embarrassed to be in. The trance eventually broke when he saw his father moving toward him through the blur of tears. “What the hell’s the matter with you, boy? Are you crying?” Buck started running. He could barely see where he was going, but running was the only option. Fear, shame and pain blended together perfectly and running as far and as fast as he could was the only way to dissipate the awful feeling. He ran straight toward the burn pile at the edge of the upper field where he had brought dozens of loads of leaves that day and dove head first into the pile of leaves and dug himself in deep until oblivion swallowed him and the darkness and the sound of his heavily breathing comforted him.
Some time had passed, but Buck was unsure of how long. The sun was probably long gone, he thought, and hunger was his main focus. His father had seen him crying. He must have looked like a little girl. But what bothered him the most was what had caused the terrible pain in his head. He rubbed the injury again and again while buried in the leaf pile and felt the small bump. The last thing he could remember before he fell asleep was the faint echoes of someone calling out in the darkness and then sleep overtook him and then there was nothing.
He woke up in a daze. His dreams had been strange and haunting. He had the same dream over and over, it seemed. The preacher from church stood at the front of a great gilded altar. He seemed enormous and god-like, dressed all in black, his eyes dark pools of night sky. Then, the altar behind him caught fire and everyone around him was running and screaming as he sat and listened to the preacher and focused on his eyes. Then he woke up. He heard the rooster crow and saw small specks of light coming in through the leaves. He stood up and pushed the leaves away, disinterring himself from the tomb. He rubbed his eyes and tried in vain to dust off the specks of dried leaves and twigs from his jacket and hair. He began walking back towards the house in a complete daze. He tried to reconstruct the events of the night before, the pain, the shock. He walked closer to the house and saw his mother running toward him with open arms. She gave him a big hug and carried him inside the way she used to carry him when he was a baby. The rest of the family was already at the table having coffee and hot cocoa. Everyone was starting at him with accusing eyes. “Go upstairs and get ready for your bath,” his mother said. He walked slowly up the stairs and began removing his jacket, shirt and pants.
When he got downstairs, breakfast was over and everyone had left to go to church. There was a plate with toast and eggs on it for him. He sat and ate in the cold, empty house. After he ate, he walked outside, put on his gloves, picked up his rake and got back to work on the yard. Why had his family left for church without him? What was wrong with him? These questions ran through his head as he slowly but surely cleared the leaves. His family returned and Buck was exhausted. He walked into the house and everyone was acting perfectly natural as if nothing happened. “Come on and get some food Buck,” his father said using his fork to point at the bacon sandwiches on the table. He sat and ate and stared out the window trying to avoid eye contact with anyone. The family ate in a silence only broken by the occasional murmurings about the sermon.
Part 4:
He walked outside the coffee shop and picked up the handle to his wagon and began dragging it back towards home. The newspaper clipping he found was a story about the death of a World War II veteran. He had died mysteriously forty years ago and the article described how new technologies were going to be used to determine how he actually died. Buck walked through town, staring at the picture of his father in his uniform wearing his Purple Heart and several other decorations he had earned fighting in both World Wars. He walked unconsciously, past his house and through the other side of town. The sun began to set and still Buck walked. He only snapped out of his focused state when he caught a strange glow out of the corner of his eye. He looked up and saw the blaze blowing up from the roof of a house. He stood and watched the strange beauty of the flame and a tear rolled down his check, through the wrinkles and divots of his skin like a mountain stream flowing through the cracks of rock down a mountain.
He dropped his wagon and tucked the newspaper in the front pocket of his coveralls. He walked as fast as he could toward the house. He took his handkerchief out and put it on the handle of the front door and twisted it. He could feel the heat coming from the inside and the smoke burned his lungs as he walked into the house. He called out and waited for a response. He heard a faint voice coming from upstairs. He grabbed onto the banister and pulled himself up the stairs. He was already feeling light-headed. He found the room and opened the door. A woman was lying in bed, her gray hair masked by the smoke. Buck stared at her for a moment and thought about the incident with the leaf pile. It all came flooding back and the shame and fear stung him like needles behind his eyes. She stared back at him as if she understood what he was thinking, as if she knew his pain and embarrassment that had caused him to live a life of ridicule. She knew why he hated his father so much and why he could never tell anybody what he did, she knew about the newspaper clipping and why he had looked through dozens of newspapers a day, she knew what he was looking for. “I,” he said and took a step forward. An enormous crack startled him and he looked up just in time to see several large trunks falling through the ceiling and the blaze that came with it. He fell down coughing and the old lady slowly moved to get out of bed, but her old bones were no help to her. Buck stood up and walked through the flames over to her. He tried to help her out of bed, but she just lay there with her white, stringy hair fanned out on the pillow. She looked up at him and Buck understood. She was done fighting and so was he. He took off his glasses and lay down on the bed with her and closed his eyes.
Dienstag, 23. September 2008
Jawbone, Kentucky
I sat on the front porch for over 3 hours, listening to music and writing about each song as it came on. An experiment I've tried before with mixes, but never had the patience to sit through a whole mix and write your justification for each song on the mix to the person you made it for. I listened to the music and the crickets and the sound of the neighbors sprinkler in the cold with tea and a sweatshirt on. It was one of the most theraputic things I've done in a long time. Writing and listening and just being outside while doing it was like meditation. It focused all of my senses on the moment. My left side and rights sides of my brain were simultaneously operating and communicating with each other, and I had a serene sense of being and connection with Rachel. I could imagine her listening to the mix and reading the letter and he reaction to certain phrases or songs.
Then I cam upstairs and saw my two room mates, each doing their own thing. One, laying on the recliner with a bowl of popcorn, headphones on and a movie on her laptop. The other, taking an on-line quiz for one of his Philosophy classes and we joke like old college buddies should. I felt inspired. I felt happy. I felt that even though America is in such a terrible mess, everything we've ever thought about American government will soon change, I'm not making enough money to get by,and neither is my mother or grandmother I know that this house will be a sanctuary from all of that. A place that like-minded people can live and write and read and learn together. Learning how to make the world a better place, as soon as we get around to changing it. Good music everywhere all the time. Laughter, jokes, spontenaeity, coffee, beer, sushi, card games, these things are what make it all worth it.
Dear Captain Zissou.
I am 11 and a half years old
and live in Jawbone, Kentucky.
A creek runs behind our house
where I live with my mother.
She met you once some years ago...
and I collect and catalog amphibians,
reptiles and insects.
I don't know what this one is called,
so I named it myself.
You are probably my one of,
if not the, favorite person I've ever studied.
I plan to be either,
"A, "an oceanographer...
"B, "an architect, "C, "a pilot.
Thank you very much for your good work.
Sincerely, Ned Plimpton,
Blue Star Cadet, Zissou Society.
P.S. Do you ever wish
you could breathe underwater?
I still wish
I could breathe underwater.
Me too, Ned.
- Fluorescent snapper!
- What?
Really? What's that?
- A good sign. The last time
we saw that big shitkicker, he -
Somethin' popped up there,
didn't it?
I heard a pin snap loose
in the rotator mechanism.
This is gonna hurt.
Ned!
Ned!
- Ned!
- Hey, Stevesy.
Are you okay?
I think I'm okay.
What happened?
Did we hit something?
Most likely not.
I think maybe
the pushrod failed.
I'm sorry, Ned. I should've scrapped
this chopper years ago.
You know, maybe
I should've autorotated...
and performed a high bank
through our descent.
We might've crashed
a little softer.
Probably wouldn't have made
any difference though.
Oh.
Then I cam upstairs and saw my two room mates, each doing their own thing. One, laying on the recliner with a bowl of popcorn, headphones on and a movie on her laptop. The other, taking an on-line quiz for one of his Philosophy classes and we joke like old college buddies should. I felt inspired. I felt happy. I felt that even though America is in such a terrible mess, everything we've ever thought about American government will soon change, I'm not making enough money to get by,and neither is my mother or grandmother I know that this house will be a sanctuary from all of that. A place that like-minded people can live and write and read and learn together. Learning how to make the world a better place, as soon as we get around to changing it. Good music everywhere all the time. Laughter, jokes, spontenaeity, coffee, beer, sushi, card games, these things are what make it all worth it.
Dear Captain Zissou.
I am 11 and a half years old
and live in Jawbone, Kentucky.
A creek runs behind our house
where I live with my mother.
She met you once some years ago...
and I collect and catalog amphibians,
reptiles and insects.
I don't know what this one is called,
so I named it myself.
You are probably my one of,
if not the, favorite person I've ever studied.
I plan to be either,
"A, "an oceanographer...
"B, "an architect, "C, "a pilot.
Thank you very much for your good work.
Sincerely, Ned Plimpton,
Blue Star Cadet, Zissou Society.
P.S. Do you ever wish
you could breathe underwater?
I still wish
I could breathe underwater.
Me too, Ned.
- Fluorescent snapper!
- What?
Really? What's that?
- A good sign. The last time
we saw that big shitkicker, he -
Somethin' popped up there,
didn't it?
I heard a pin snap loose
in the rotator mechanism.
This is gonna hurt.
Ned!
Ned!
- Ned!
- Hey, Stevesy.
Are you okay?
I think I'm okay.
What happened?
Did we hit something?
Most likely not.
I think maybe
the pushrod failed.
I'm sorry, Ned. I should've scrapped
this chopper years ago.
You know, maybe
I should've autorotated...
and performed a high bank
through our descent.
We might've crashed
a little softer.
Probably wouldn't have made
any difference though.
Oh.
The Roanoke Millionaire's Club
I've found my new favorite spot to sit. I'm on the top floor of our house, sitting in a camping chair, overlooking our neighbor's front lawn, trees, rooftops and Avenham Ave. SW. I watch cars go by, people riding bikes, running, walking, being happy healthy suburbanites. It's 10 in the morning. I have a cup of coffee and headphones on, listening to a new band called the Uglysuit. The tree in the yard is turning different colors. Today is the second day of autumn.
I had such a great time last night. I got home from work, ate my two Jr. Bacon Cheesburgers from Wendy's and a bowl of oatmeal while watching Arrested Development, went upstairs, cleaned my bathroom, then listened to and downloaded music all evening. Reid called and I suggested we go somewhere downtown for a beer. We walked from Reid's apartment down to Blues BBQ Co. one of two bars open on Monday nights. I guess it reminded me why I loved hanging out with my friends. I know that sounds awkward. But, it felt more natural than it has before. It felt like, of course we're all hanging out, this is our group of friends. Before it seemed forced like I didn't fit in or I hadn't found my place. We laughed, made plans, made fun of each other. Made old jokes, new jokes and slowly sipped our beers with no pressure to get drunk, afterall, it was a Monday night. We even saw the local news crew doing a report on the City Market building which was recently shut down because of a rat infestation.
We decided to go to Texas Tavern, a hamburger/chili stand and Roanoke institution fro drunks and poor people alike since 1930. I'll admit, I've only been there twice, last night being the second of the two. Jenny and I ordered Sprites, I ordered a cheesburger (my third of the day) and Jenny got a "chili with" (meaning with onions) and a "cheesy western with" meaning with every condiment they have.
The people working there are always characters. They'd have to be to work at an all-night burger stand. Vern served us with a smile. I asked how long he'd been working there. I expected something like 18 years, but I got a modest answer of 6 weeks. There's an old-fashioned cigarette machine, the kind they stopped making after angry mothers wanted to make it more difficult for their kids to get cigarettes. The price list mounted on the wall doesn't seem to have changed in 20 or so years. $1.40 for a hamburger. $1.35 for a soda (free refills of course). We joked with Vern about hair (I smoothed over mine when he mentioned the comb-over), crocs ("Those are them shoes with the holes in 'em. I always thought we bought shoes to put holes in 'em ourselves"). And Brett, accustomed to the abuse, smiled and laughed.
It was one of those nights that suspended time. It's frightening to think about the trouble our country is in. Not just our country, but the people we know and love that live in it. My mom might have to move out of her house because she can't find enough work. My grandmother might have to move into a smaller assisted living condo because her house sat on the market for a year depreciating in value as weary buyers saved their money, then the entire mortgage infrastructure collapsed this summer and now there's a FOR RENT sign on her front lawn. I told them this and we all laughed that we should move in there together. The rent can't be as much as their combined monthly cost of living. I don't think they wanted to consider such an idea as seriously as they did.
Yes, our economy is in the worst shape it has been in since the great depression. Yes, jobs are scarce and don't pay enough to pay for the gas to get there. Yes, our country is one of the poorest countries in the world due to our overwhelming amount of debt, little to no GNP and a war that's costing more per week than some country's entire annual budget. Yes, our people care more about celebrity gossip than learning about how the American government actually workds (most rely on their 8th grade civics class). And yes, most concerned voters are more concerned about abortion rights, gay marriage, gun control and religious affiliation to care about the future of the US in the ever-changing global economy. But hey, as long as we keep people from being happy and can buy shotguns at Wal-Mart when we turn 18 and make sure there aren't any Muslims lurking in our backyards waiting to plant bombs in our septic tanks, everything is AOK.
Then there are times like last night. The economy didn't matter, politics didn't matter, nothing mattered except the moment. A night downtown with friends, drinking Budweiser and eating cheap cheesburgers with Vern. And moments like this. The cool morning breeze drifts through the window, monarch butterflies flap past on their way south. Music in my headphones drowning out everything but the sound of new music. If my American History class in 11th grade tells me anything, its that America will bounce back. We've been through a civil war, we've been through total economic anihilation, we survived 8 years of the worst presidenting ever, but we can still go see a movie, drink a gallon of coke and eat a bucket of popcorn for 20 bucks. I guess it's not all too bad in America.
Samstag, 30. August 2008
noch zwei Wochen ohne Zigaretten
They say a man's head is the clearest just after having sex. For me, it's when I finish running. It's been almost two weeks since I quit smoking, unceremoniously, quietly, with grace. My two roommates smoke in the house. This makes the 6th or 7th time I've quit in my decade of nicotine addiction. I loved smoking in Europe. It made me feel normal and balanced, like there was still something in my life that didn't change when I moved. Here it seems pointless. It doesn't make me feel cool, it makes me feel bogged down with dependence. I love quitting smoking almost as much as I like starting up again. Usually in the fall when it cools off when I can stand outside breathing the fresh cool air, drinking a beer early in the day and have nothing to do but smoke. Now fall is coming and all I can think about is losing weight, paying off bills, and being able to run and run for as long as I want without getting tired.
Something made me think about the last time I saw Rachel. I was on the front door of her new apartment. She was pissed off at Franz for being lazy and not taking care of the dog after she had just hurt her ankle earlier that day. I remember her saying good-bye with a bit of a whimper. Tears were already rolling down her face under her glasses. I said, "there's no easy way to do this." Gave her a hug and started walking the mile or so back to the Starnberg Nord train station, with seconds before the train arrived. My last ride on the S-6.
I've tried hard not to get nostalgic about Munich. But in two days, it will be one year since I arrived in Munich. My life is flying by, seemingly out of my control. It's like those stop-motion movies of plants growing, dying, rotting and re-growing, over and over again. I've been fortunate to experience every year in a different setting (at least for the past 6). Roanoke College, Glen Mary, Munich. People have come and gone through my life. Some have stuck around to some degree and others faded completely away. Now Munich, one of my best friends for the past year is miles and miles away and just seeing a picture of the city is enough to make me pause and contemplate (my equivalent to crying, I guess). Will I ever go back? I've thought seriously about getting a degree in German and go back there to live. I think I'm going to make that a goal for the next five years. Leah used to have these 5 year plans. She had everything figured out and would tell me over bier and cigarettes at Andechs am Dom with the warming glow of the overhead heating lamps. pause....One time it started pissing down rain and we watched the people scurry through the streets.
sigh....
Donnerstag, 14. August 2008
Adults are only creative in their dreams, and how often do they even remember them?
Leah and I once had a conversation, or rather several about the public nature of writing, about how writers must be fearless in their writing, especially non-fiction. How could you write honestly about people you care about without offending someone you care about or revealing too much personal shit about friends and family that could potentially be read by a large amount of people? In the times of YouTube and blogs and camera phones, our lives are being perpetually published on the internet and sent out into the world for complete strangers to view or read. When print first came out, it took a machine the size of a house to make a book. Now "publishing" in the rough sense of the word is as easy as moving some fingers in the correct pattern on a machine that fits on your lap, warming it like a cat.
I learned recently that Brett and Jenny both have blogs and Brett is a bit more personal in his writing. It reminded me of the small writing assigned by pacifist professor Mike Heller. The only class Brett and I had together was a very revealing class. People wrote, occasionally, from their personal experiences. One girl wrote about coming down from cocaine addiction. I wrote once about the time day my mom told me she was leaving my dad. My pre-adolescent fredom cut short by the abrupt statement riding with my mom in her green Ford Astrostar mini-van on the deserted plains of a nature preserve somewhere in Pittsylvania County where my friend Jonathan lived. These stories feel personal, but once I sat in the class full of people who had read the story, hearing their compliments, I knew that it wasn't mine anymore. It existed in the 15 or so students and one teacher who had read it. How can a writer deal with that? What would my mom think if she knew that all of those people knew about one of the hardest moments for her? I was tempted after I had written it to give a copy of it to her. I could see her finishing it and crying. But I think I decided that she has enough to cry about without bringing up shit from the past.
I guess that's why authors hide behind fictional characters. They can ger away with being honest because it's not really them who has these thoughts, or does these things. I think that Brett, Jenny and I should continue the Heller tradion of doing small writings occasionally. I mean, we all have blogs. We could write them in our private time, post them, post comments about each others writings and talk about them. I realized from working a first grade classroom how much those kids create. Everyday of their lives, their asked to use their imaginations, using all media imaginable. Write a story about a trip to the north pole, draw a picture of a tiger in the jungle, write a play and create characters using different kinds of puppets. Adults are lucky to write even one sentence that causes them to use their imagination per week. The only time adults are creative is when they dream and how often do remember what our subconscious has created? What if adults made art as often as kids. how much more great art we would have and how much more imaginative would we be? I think at some point we just stop needing the praise from our teachers; we stopped trying to impress anyone with our creativity and started needing sex and acceptance from our peers more. Contrary to popular belief, creative writing and drawing pictures is not normally accepted as cool. But the praise of a teacher for a first grader is like having god give you a thumbs up.
I guess what I'm saying is that I want/need some kind of structure, or even feedback about my writing. I've been out of school for two years, after having been in school for the past 17 years of my life. I haven't gotten a grade for two years and it just feels weird. I feel like I'm letting my mind go to mush after writing hundreds of pages for professors and teachers and now I'm lucky if I can write two pages on a blog. But what if I just started writing all of the things I think? Fully aware of the fact that, chances are, nobody really cares and nobody is going to read it. Brett's blog posts read like an opinion column in a newspaper or magazine. Funny, topical, inciteful, personal, but not bleeding. He has a way of writing things more for an audience. I mean, I write for an audience, but while I was writing in Europe, I knew my audience was Reid, Brett, Jenny and Leah. But he didn't even give me his blog address. He's writing more for the masses. A way to pass the time at work, yes, but also a way of writing about all of the rediculous things he sees or reads about in the world in a way that he could never vocalize around anyone.
A resolve to take writng more seriously, do it more often and share it more with people. Maybe I'll type up my journals from Europe. In other words, Writing is Being. Well done, Mike. Thanks.
I learned recently that Brett and Jenny both have blogs and Brett is a bit more personal in his writing. It reminded me of the small writing assigned by pacifist professor Mike Heller. The only class Brett and I had together was a very revealing class. People wrote, occasionally, from their personal experiences. One girl wrote about coming down from cocaine addiction. I wrote once about the time day my mom told me she was leaving my dad. My pre-adolescent fredom cut short by the abrupt statement riding with my mom in her green Ford Astrostar mini-van on the deserted plains of a nature preserve somewhere in Pittsylvania County where my friend Jonathan lived. These stories feel personal, but once I sat in the class full of people who had read the story, hearing their compliments, I knew that it wasn't mine anymore. It existed in the 15 or so students and one teacher who had read it. How can a writer deal with that? What would my mom think if she knew that all of those people knew about one of the hardest moments for her? I was tempted after I had written it to give a copy of it to her. I could see her finishing it and crying. But I think I decided that she has enough to cry about without bringing up shit from the past.
I guess that's why authors hide behind fictional characters. They can ger away with being honest because it's not really them who has these thoughts, or does these things. I think that Brett, Jenny and I should continue the Heller tradion of doing small writings occasionally. I mean, we all have blogs. We could write them in our private time, post them, post comments about each others writings and talk about them. I realized from working a first grade classroom how much those kids create. Everyday of their lives, their asked to use their imaginations, using all media imaginable. Write a story about a trip to the north pole, draw a picture of a tiger in the jungle, write a play and create characters using different kinds of puppets. Adults are lucky to write even one sentence that causes them to use their imagination per week. The only time adults are creative is when they dream and how often do remember what our subconscious has created? What if adults made art as often as kids. how much more great art we would have and how much more imaginative would we be? I think at some point we just stop needing the praise from our teachers; we stopped trying to impress anyone with our creativity and started needing sex and acceptance from our peers more. Contrary to popular belief, creative writing and drawing pictures is not normally accepted as cool. But the praise of a teacher for a first grader is like having god give you a thumbs up.
I guess what I'm saying is that I want/need some kind of structure, or even feedback about my writing. I've been out of school for two years, after having been in school for the past 17 years of my life. I haven't gotten a grade for two years and it just feels weird. I feel like I'm letting my mind go to mush after writing hundreds of pages for professors and teachers and now I'm lucky if I can write two pages on a blog. But what if I just started writing all of the things I think? Fully aware of the fact that, chances are, nobody really cares and nobody is going to read it. Brett's blog posts read like an opinion column in a newspaper or magazine. Funny, topical, inciteful, personal, but not bleeding. He has a way of writing things more for an audience. I mean, I write for an audience, but while I was writing in Europe, I knew my audience was Reid, Brett, Jenny and Leah. But he didn't even give me his blog address. He's writing more for the masses. A way to pass the time at work, yes, but also a way of writing about all of the rediculous things he sees or reads about in the world in a way that he could never vocalize around anyone.
A resolve to take writng more seriously, do it more often and share it more with people. Maybe I'll type up my journals from Europe. In other words, Writing is Being. Well done, Mike. Thanks.
Montag, 11. August 2008
In America
I'm sitting in my new room in Roanoke, Virginia, USA smoking a cigarette and serenely pondering where I am and wondering if where I was wasn't some awesome drawn-out dream or maybe a book that I read that took too long to read. The smoky croon of Cat Power's Chan Marshall makes my eyelids heavy and my thoughts turn to heavier. I hung an American flag by my bed that predates the aquisition and purchase of Hawaii and Alaska giving it 6 rows of eight stars each representing the contintental states of the USA. I browsed through pictures from the photo CD that Anne had made for me of my photos of Paris. I clicked on one randomly and it happened to be the picture I took at the Lourve of the painting Liberty Leading the People (La Liberté guidant le peuple) by French painter Eugène Delacroix, commemorating the July Revolution of 1830. I read excerpts from Leah's blog, a person I knew once who is somewhere lost in paradise. She's far away from the realities we all face as Americans such as getting pissed off at traffic lights, on-line shopping, TV, TiVo, iPods, iPhones, air conditioning, credit card debt and news about the Olympics in a country that supports genocidal dictators.
People have asked me since I've moved back if I'm "settling in." I usually answer with a question..."what do you mean by "settling in"? I mean, I didn't have the culture shock I thought I was going to get, I didn't get depressed or confused or nostalgic like I thought I might. Instead, I've settled into a routine of hanging out. Enjoying doing nothing but hanging out with my new roomates and old friends Brett and Jenny. Mostly, I've been trying to convince myself that this is my life. This is permanent and this isn't a vacation from whatever it was I was doing before. I'm not going to pack everything I can carry with me on a plane or fit in my car and head off to the next adventure guaranteed to last a week or so then back to the routine of working and going back to my apartment in Munich which has felt more permanent and more home-like that anything I've had in the past year or so.
Settling in includes accepting the past and reconciling with the future. Back in the Winter, I was starting to make long-term plans for what I wanted the future to include. I looked up jobs on Roanoke.com, I revised my resume, I even printed out an application for a grad school program at Radford. Nothing has come from any of that preparation. I'm back where I started. No job, no hope for a job, no desire to start working, but eventually the money I made in Germany will run out and I'll be forced to join the working world again. Doing something so I can have money to do other things. It's not so bad, I guess.
Reid and I went for a hike today and as we were driving down the rural route to the top of Catawba Mountain, I paused to look at the small log-cabin businesses, houses proudly sporting the former flag of the Confederate States of America, tractors, subsistence farms in front lawns, the Moose Lodge and mountains encompassed by Kudzu. I thought about how interesting this would all seem to a person from England or Germany or anywhere else in the world. America is truly unique. Looking at European cities and towns everywhere from Starnberg, Germany to Leuven, Brussels, you get the feel that it all fits the same kind of pattern. But what would a Münchener think of Catawba, VA?
These thoughts mostly prevail as I drink can after can of Budweiser and try to smile and wink to the west when I think too much about all of the things I grew to hate about America and Americans after living abroad. Then I hear the sweet twang of a Southern accent and I feel at home. I truly feel now that wherever you are, there are going to be ass-holes and there are going to be people that revive your faith in the potential of humanity. And wherever you are, there's always an escape from it all. Just put on your favorite album and drift away to another time or place. Right now I'm drifting away to the cold streets of Munich with Leah on my arm stopping in to see the Sunday night service at the AltesPeterskirche after drinking a bottle of white wine in the Rathauskeller. There was real magic in those moments. There's also something to be said about listening to old and new records, drinking buds and playing cards with two my favorite people in the world here in the Star City of the South, Roanoke, VA.
People have asked me since I've moved back if I'm "settling in." I usually answer with a question..."what do you mean by "settling in"? I mean, I didn't have the culture shock I thought I was going to get, I didn't get depressed or confused or nostalgic like I thought I might. Instead, I've settled into a routine of hanging out. Enjoying doing nothing but hanging out with my new roomates and old friends Brett and Jenny. Mostly, I've been trying to convince myself that this is my life. This is permanent and this isn't a vacation from whatever it was I was doing before. I'm not going to pack everything I can carry with me on a plane or fit in my car and head off to the next adventure guaranteed to last a week or so then back to the routine of working and going back to my apartment in Munich which has felt more permanent and more home-like that anything I've had in the past year or so.
Settling in includes accepting the past and reconciling with the future. Back in the Winter, I was starting to make long-term plans for what I wanted the future to include. I looked up jobs on Roanoke.com, I revised my resume, I even printed out an application for a grad school program at Radford. Nothing has come from any of that preparation. I'm back where I started. No job, no hope for a job, no desire to start working, but eventually the money I made in Germany will run out and I'll be forced to join the working world again. Doing something so I can have money to do other things. It's not so bad, I guess.
Reid and I went for a hike today and as we were driving down the rural route to the top of Catawba Mountain, I paused to look at the small log-cabin businesses, houses proudly sporting the former flag of the Confederate States of America, tractors, subsistence farms in front lawns, the Moose Lodge and mountains encompassed by Kudzu. I thought about how interesting this would all seem to a person from England or Germany or anywhere else in the world. America is truly unique. Looking at European cities and towns everywhere from Starnberg, Germany to Leuven, Brussels, you get the feel that it all fits the same kind of pattern. But what would a Münchener think of Catawba, VA?
These thoughts mostly prevail as I drink can after can of Budweiser and try to smile and wink to the west when I think too much about all of the things I grew to hate about America and Americans after living abroad. Then I hear the sweet twang of a Southern accent and I feel at home. I truly feel now that wherever you are, there are going to be ass-holes and there are going to be people that revive your faith in the potential of humanity. And wherever you are, there's always an escape from it all. Just put on your favorite album and drift away to another time or place. Right now I'm drifting away to the cold streets of Munich with Leah on my arm stopping in to see the Sunday night service at the AltesPeterskirche after drinking a bottle of white wine in the Rathauskeller. There was real magic in those moments. There's also something to be said about listening to old and new records, drinking buds and playing cards with two my favorite people in the world here in the Star City of the South, Roanoke, VA.
Donnerstag, 19. Juni 2008
Nussbaum Park
Luke and I got home from work early and sat around discussing the details of our trip to Neushausen ob Eck for the Southside Festival. We talked about what types of food to get, butting heads on a few things, but working through it. I made tea and sat on the windowsill for a cigarette letting the afternoon sun warm my face the way it has so frequently these past months. Luke suggested something for dinner--steak, hummus, rocket wraps. We took our three cases of empty bier bottles left over from the party down to Tengelmann. We wandered around the store-hungry- figuring out what we could buy for dinner that night and we could bring with us to the festival. I solved one of our problems while wandering around the store. If we prep the meat and then freeze it, it should still be good after Radiohead plays and we're ready for dinner, dispelling our qualms about raw meat sitting in a tent all day and figuring out when exactly we would cook it, etc. I got a half kilo of ground beef and some sausages. I also had the thought of filling plastic bottles with pre-mixed rum and coke (since glass bottles aren't allowed and the problem of keeping the beer cold has been vexing me for at least a month). Luke suggested this as we were standing in line. I think we have it all figured out. We got home, with dinner fixins and a case of beer. Luke cooked the steaks and we made the wraps. I suggested we pack it to go and head down to the little park at the end of our street. We put 4 biers and the wraps in a bag, took a bier each to go and headed out. It was an evening that has been typical in Munich recently. It rains in the morning, then clears up by mid-afternoon, leaving a cool, clean feel to the air and broken clouds in the sky filtering the gold-orange sunlight. We passed people walking their dogs, passed the group of old people that plays chess on the over-sized chess set with broken, old wooden pieces. We found benches and began eating. We finished three wraps each and sat talking and smoking cigarettes. I talked about my fears about America and what we can do to rescue it from oblivion. We watched two guys playing soccer and watched as they kicked it into a tree. We sat and swung on the tire swings as they threw a rock at the ball twice, then walked to the bench, changed their shoes, had a cigarette and walked off. "They didn't try very hard" I said and took a swig of my bier. A small Turkish boy with the face of a thirty-five year-old picked up the same rock and tried to knock it down with no success. I commented on the Muslim women who must cover their faces completely except for their eyes. A woman was sitting next to a German man, just sitting and talking, black and concealed as a ninja. We talked about how little self-esteem they must have. "How could you live like that? You must feel like a piece of shit all the time." "How could you live being treated like less than human your entire life?" I said, "That's one thing that's great about America. It's so easy to forget. Move to America, abandon your faith, change your name, become and American citizen and work in a factory and you'll never look back. People have done it since the beginning." Luke climbed on the jungle gym as I walked over to inspect the location of the ball and whether it would be possible to climb, mirroring the conversation we had been having earlier about how Germans cut down the lower limbs of trees rendering them nearly impossible to climb.
I set down my bier and called Luke over. I tried giving him a leg up, but he could do it. We switched places and after the first attempt in which I fell down, I was up in the tree like a ninja. I knocked down the ball and hopped down. We kicked the ball around, feeling good. We tried to juggle, I threw my bier bottle at the ball at one point. We felt like kids, like we could really just live in this moment, kicking a ratty ball around drink bier and having fun. I forgot about going home, I forgot about living with a miserable room mate for the past year, I forgot about how my worries about America and every news article I read that makes me loathe America more and more, I forgot about reading that Bush wants to start drilling for oil in off-shore oil rigs and tapping into our reserves, the cost of oil, America's inability or refusal to accept the inevitable, and everything else that constantly tickles the back of my mind. Just kick the ball, run and get it, laugh at how bad we are. Luke went for the ball and slipped on a patch of mud and landed on his ass and we laughed and knew it was time for a bier. We sat down, still laughing and elated by our random night. We knew it had to end, so we packed up, finished our cigarettes, took our biers with us and headed home.
I'll be home in 28 days. These are the moments I'm going to miss. Freedom, anonymity, solitude.
I set down my bier and called Luke over. I tried giving him a leg up, but he could do it. We switched places and after the first attempt in which I fell down, I was up in the tree like a ninja. I knocked down the ball and hopped down. We kicked the ball around, feeling good. We tried to juggle, I threw my bier bottle at the ball at one point. We felt like kids, like we could really just live in this moment, kicking a ratty ball around drink bier and having fun. I forgot about going home, I forgot about living with a miserable room mate for the past year, I forgot about how my worries about America and every news article I read that makes me loathe America more and more, I forgot about reading that Bush wants to start drilling for oil in off-shore oil rigs and tapping into our reserves, the cost of oil, America's inability or refusal to accept the inevitable, and everything else that constantly tickles the back of my mind. Just kick the ball, run and get it, laugh at how bad we are. Luke went for the ball and slipped on a patch of mud and landed on his ass and we laughed and knew it was time for a bier. We sat down, still laughing and elated by our random night. We knew it had to end, so we packed up, finished our cigarettes, took our biers with us and headed home.
I'll be home in 28 days. These are the moments I'm going to miss. Freedom, anonymity, solitude.
Samstag, 31. Mai 2008
Easy/Lucky/Free
I sat on the window sill, leaning against the window, facing the opposite of normal way. I saw a completely new and inspiring view. The apartment window lights turned on and off as the shadows of people appeared ghost-like against the glow of the lamps. Above the buildings, a mushroom of clouds crept forward, dark and menacing. Flashes of lightning caught my eye, inside the clouds, flashing without thunder, as if it were a secret. The usual city noises drowned out by the desperate alcoholic lyrics of Bright Eyes' Digital Ash in a Digital Urn. I drank my iced coffee and smoked a cigarette feeling lonely and happy to be so. Silent moments alone are hard to come by living in a small apartment with two other people. Moments I share only with the music and the consoling smoke.
The apartment feels haunted. Silence and darkness fill the gaps between thought and daydreams of going home. Of not wanting to let this end, of wishing so badly I could share a beer with my dad and talk for three days straight and say all the things I've ever wanted to say to him since I've been here. I'm reminded of my first few weeks here. When the reality of what I'd gotten myself into set in. Buying lederhosen and going to Oktoberfest and being introduced to the city which would soon become my best friend. I walked through the cold streets of Munich and found solace with the people I passed by that I would never know. I felt liberated and frightened knowing that I couldn't speak to them. I was nervous whenever I had to speak German, even to ask for a coffee or a pastry.
The apartment is still dark and the last bits of light from the sun fade to the new lights of the flourescent bulbs lighting the streets below. Flashes of gold appear on the sides of the buildings, cars driving by, an ambulance screams somewhere, echoing through the streets making it impossible to discern exactly how far away it actually is. Poetic thoughts dance like moths batting against a light in an endless sea of darkness. These Saturday nights when the air is cool and dry make me forget about the dismal, cold winter when light was so hard to see and tunnel seemed eternal. I feel godless and unforgettable. I feel jittery from the coffee and wonder at the possibilities of the night in a city. I've never lived in a place with so many people everywhere. Solitude in Virginia is an underused country road and music blasting out the noise of the old, creaking trees, the chirping crickets and the faint twitterings of birds. Nights where you can hear a car driving down the interstate 10 miles away and the roar of a plane engine sounds like thunder.
I want it to rain all the time. It's the feeling of wanting something to happen. The impending storm that finally breaks and a miralce happens, breaking the routine of clear skies and occasional drifting clouds that never cease to come from beyond the horizon.
The days are hot and long. I don't mind sweating all day if only I could feel the breeze blowing through the windows to cool my face and reassure me. The summer brings me hope and inspiration. These are the days that we live for. To suffer through the cold and dark winters, lighting our world up for a few weeks in December to get us through the rest of the winter is all we can do. Then the world lights itself again and we remember which colors exist besides the spectrum of greys and browns that bespeckle the winter.
did it all get real, i guess it's real enough
they got refrigerators full of blood
another century spent pointing guns at anything that moves
sometimes i worry that i've lost the plot
my twitching muscles tease my flippant thoughts
i never really dreamed of heaven much until we put him in the ground
but it's all i'm doing now
listening for patterns in the soundof an endless static sea
but once the satellite's deceased
it blows like garbage through the streets
of the night sky to infinity
but don't you weep (don't you weep for them)
there is nothing as luckydon't you weep
there is nothing as lucky, as easy, or free
don't be a criminal in this police state
you better shop and eat and procreate
you got vacation days then you might escape
to a condo on the coasti set my watch to the atomic clock
i hear the crowd count down 'til the bomb gets dropped
i always figured that there'd be time enough
i never let it get me downbut i can't help it now
looking for faces in the cloudsi got some friends i barely see
but we're all planning to meetwe'll lay in bags as dead as leaves
all together for eternity
but don't you weep
there is no one as lucky
honey, don't you weep
there is nothing as lucky, as easy, or free
The apartment feels haunted. Silence and darkness fill the gaps between thought and daydreams of going home. Of not wanting to let this end, of wishing so badly I could share a beer with my dad and talk for three days straight and say all the things I've ever wanted to say to him since I've been here. I'm reminded of my first few weeks here. When the reality of what I'd gotten myself into set in. Buying lederhosen and going to Oktoberfest and being introduced to the city which would soon become my best friend. I walked through the cold streets of Munich and found solace with the people I passed by that I would never know. I felt liberated and frightened knowing that I couldn't speak to them. I was nervous whenever I had to speak German, even to ask for a coffee or a pastry.
The apartment is still dark and the last bits of light from the sun fade to the new lights of the flourescent bulbs lighting the streets below. Flashes of gold appear on the sides of the buildings, cars driving by, an ambulance screams somewhere, echoing through the streets making it impossible to discern exactly how far away it actually is. Poetic thoughts dance like moths batting against a light in an endless sea of darkness. These Saturday nights when the air is cool and dry make me forget about the dismal, cold winter when light was so hard to see and tunnel seemed eternal. I feel godless and unforgettable. I feel jittery from the coffee and wonder at the possibilities of the night in a city. I've never lived in a place with so many people everywhere. Solitude in Virginia is an underused country road and music blasting out the noise of the old, creaking trees, the chirping crickets and the faint twitterings of birds. Nights where you can hear a car driving down the interstate 10 miles away and the roar of a plane engine sounds like thunder.
I want it to rain all the time. It's the feeling of wanting something to happen. The impending storm that finally breaks and a miralce happens, breaking the routine of clear skies and occasional drifting clouds that never cease to come from beyond the horizon.
The days are hot and long. I don't mind sweating all day if only I could feel the breeze blowing through the windows to cool my face and reassure me. The summer brings me hope and inspiration. These are the days that we live for. To suffer through the cold and dark winters, lighting our world up for a few weeks in December to get us through the rest of the winter is all we can do. Then the world lights itself again and we remember which colors exist besides the spectrum of greys and browns that bespeckle the winter.
did it all get real, i guess it's real enough
they got refrigerators full of blood
another century spent pointing guns at anything that moves
sometimes i worry that i've lost the plot
my twitching muscles tease my flippant thoughts
i never really dreamed of heaven much until we put him in the ground
but it's all i'm doing now
listening for patterns in the soundof an endless static sea
but once the satellite's deceased
it blows like garbage through the streets
of the night sky to infinity
but don't you weep (don't you weep for them)
there is nothing as luckydon't you weep
there is nothing as lucky, as easy, or free
don't be a criminal in this police state
you better shop and eat and procreate
you got vacation days then you might escape
to a condo on the coasti set my watch to the atomic clock
i hear the crowd count down 'til the bomb gets dropped
i always figured that there'd be time enough
i never let it get me downbut i can't help it now
looking for faces in the cloudsi got some friends i barely see
but we're all planning to meetwe'll lay in bags as dead as leaves
all together for eternity
but don't you weep
there is no one as lucky
honey, don't you weep
there is nothing as lucky, as easy, or free
Donnerstag, 29. Mai 2008
Top Albums of All Time
Green Day-Kerplunk and Dookie
Grateful Dead- Workingman's Dead
Pink Floyd-Dark Side of the Moon
Little Feat-Let it Roll
Bush-Sixteen Stone
Oasis-(What's the Story) Morning Glory
Alanis Morrisette-Jagged Little Pill
Phish-Lawn Boy
Third Eye Blind-Third Eye Blind
Weezer-Pinkerton
Dave Matthews Band-Under the Table and Dreaming
John Mayer-Room For Squares
Beck-Odelay
Wilco-Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
Eminem-The Marshall Mathers LP
Crosby Stills and Nash-Deja Vu
Neil Young-Harvest/After the Gold Rush
Moby-Play
Smashing Pumpkins-Siamese Dream
The Beatles-The Beatles
Arcade Fire-Funeral/Neon Bible
Bright Eyes-I'm Wide Awake It's Morning/Digital Ash in a Digital Urn
Paul Simon-Still Crazy After All These Years
Beach Boys-Pet Sounds
Radiohead-OK Computer/Kid A
Coldplay-A Rush of Blood to the Head
Guster-Lost and Gone Forever
Tool-Aenima
Rage Against the Machine-Evil Empire
Ryan Adams-Gold
Wilco-Sky Blue Sky
Led Zeppelin-II
Allman Brothers-Brothers and Sisters
*A note on the list: These are not the best albums of all time, nor most influential. But they've been there for me whenever I need them. To reminisce, to escape, to remember why I listen to music. If there's any that I've forgotten, leave a comment and I'll consider adding it.
Grateful Dead- Workingman's Dead
Pink Floyd-Dark Side of the Moon
Little Feat-Let it Roll
Bush-Sixteen Stone
Oasis-(What's the Story) Morning Glory
Alanis Morrisette-Jagged Little Pill
Phish-Lawn Boy
Third Eye Blind-Third Eye Blind
Weezer-Pinkerton
Dave Matthews Band-Under the Table and Dreaming
John Mayer-Room For Squares
Beck-Odelay
Wilco-Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
Eminem-The Marshall Mathers LP
Crosby Stills and Nash-Deja Vu
Neil Young-Harvest/After the Gold Rush
Moby-Play
Smashing Pumpkins-Siamese Dream
The Beatles-The Beatles
Arcade Fire-Funeral/Neon Bible
Bright Eyes-I'm Wide Awake It's Morning/Digital Ash in a Digital Urn
Paul Simon-Still Crazy After All These Years
Beach Boys-Pet Sounds
Radiohead-OK Computer/Kid A
Coldplay-A Rush of Blood to the Head
Guster-Lost and Gone Forever
Tool-Aenima
Rage Against the Machine-Evil Empire
Ryan Adams-Gold
Wilco-Sky Blue Sky
Led Zeppelin-II
Allman Brothers-Brothers and Sisters
*A note on the list: These are not the best albums of all time, nor most influential. But they've been there for me whenever I need them. To reminisce, to escape, to remember why I listen to music. If there's any that I've forgotten, leave a comment and I'll consider adding it.
Musik
Luke stopped by my classroom to tell me of his latest discovery on npr.org/music. It was called DeVotchKa. I listened to it for a while in between classes and decided almost instantly that I didn't like it. I talked to him about it later and we started building our own musical genome. Why do certain people like certain types of music. How can I listen to a band for five minutes and immediately dismiss it? Why does my brother love Pantera, Aimee Mann, Brian Wilson, Ben Gibbard and Soulfly? Why do people like Sigor Ros? I told him that the reason I think I like the music that I do is because of probably 90% nurture and 5% nature, 4% random chance with a 1% margin of error.
My mom used to listen to the oldies station whenever we went anywhere. The Doors, the Beatles, the Beach Boys, the Supremes, the Four Tops, James Brown, Marvin Gaye, the Platters, etc. By the time we were ten, we could sing the chorus to Aretha Franklin's "Respect" and the whistling part to "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay." I think the Beach Boys was my favorite band. And still is up there, in the top 20 or so.
My dad listened to the opposite end of the spectrum, not opposite but pretty far on the other side. Crosby Stills and Nash, Traffic, Grateful Dead, Little Feat...well, Grateful Dead and Little Feat, mostly. My favorite song was "Let it Roll" by Little Feat off the album of the same name. I must have worn a hole in the tape on that song. It was the first song for which I'd memorized all the words. There's still something about listening to that album and driving that brings back the greatest memories of driving up to the cabin with my dad and brother. Sitting in the back seat, eating skittles and drinking Mountain Dew while my dad drank coffee and smoked cigarettes with the window down and the cold air blowing in across my face. For me, the journey there, listening to music, feeling cool with my dad and brother, was better than actually getting to the cabin to go fishing.
So my music genome is nothing but straight-up pop and soul. Everything I've ever liked has been based on the early blues, soul, R&B, pop, and rock and roll. Rock & Roll. Nothing could possibly be better for me. Give me a guitar riff, chord progressions, verse, verse, bridge, chorus, guitar solo! chorus, elongated ending or repeated and faded guitar riff with repeating choruses! oh! What could be better? In short, Nothing. So when I hear something like DeVotchKa or Sigor Ros, I hear beauty, but it makes me uncomfortable, in a bad way. It just doesn't sit well with me. The rhythm is too erratic (if there is a beat), it's a symmetrical, and the chord progressions don't match my natural biorhythm. If all you listened to since birth was rock and roll, you may not turn out to be a genius, like if you listened to Mozart, but you may turn out to become an intellectual who must constantly search out new and challenging ideas or bands or authors.l The steady, sometimes unexpected changes of rock and roll and the thump of a bass drum in time with the thumping of a guitar layered with guitar riffs and leads will never get old. It will continue to change and evolve into newer, more extreme levels. It will inspire kids to question things, question their parents, religion, teachers, authority. It will make them feel cool, it will be there for them when they get dumped, when they get drunk for the first time, when they smoke cigarettes or watch a Rated R movie, it will always be there to pick up the pieces of whatever is broken in their life. The music will always change, and thank god for that! but what won't change is the effect it will always have on impressionable youth.
The greatest thrill for me is hearing a band that makes feel like I'm hearing Green Day for the first time. Crunchy distorted guitar and incoherent lyrics. I didn't really know what their songs were about when I was 11, but I loved it. I remember the Kurt Loder interview on MTV with Beavis and Butt-head, when asked what kind of music they liked and they replied, "stuff that's cool." "And what's cool?" "Stuff we like." And so on. There a lot of truth to that, although it came from two animated characters, one of whom was named Butt-head. I mean, "types" of music are only in place so record stores know where to put an album and we know where to look for it. When asked what type of music I listen to, I've learned simply to say "Rock and Roll." Because, honestly, what else is there? It is the all-encompassing term for everything that rocks and everything that soothes and comforts you and tells you that no matter how shitty your life is, the guy on this record has it so much worse...but gives you hope because you know that if he can find a way to express himself and ease his mind, you can too...right? Couldn't anyone pick up the guitar, string some chords together and make a pop song?
I heard the guys from the National all worked for DotCom companies in Silicon Valley, formed a band and went on tour. Dave Matthews worked at a bar and lived in a small town outside of Charlottesville, VA. Sufjan Stevens doesn't own a guitar. Jon Bonham's drum solo on Moby Dick was his second take. This is my mythology.
My Music Genome is straight-forward and I could draw a music tree, linking all of the bands I've gotten into and why and who. There would be four great technological revolutions for me. Starting with my parents' car radios, my first Walkman and Green Day's "Kerplunk!" Then there was the CD player and the 90's British invasion...Bush and Oasis. Then about 300 CDs later, music became synonymous with the Internet and nothing has been the same since.
But for now, my heart beats and my fingers unconsciously tap out the rhythm to "Gold Mine Gutted" by Bright Eyes, my eyes blink in unison to the beat of "No Cars Go" by Arcade Fire and my mind is constantly cycling through the sad and euphoric lyrics of thousands of rock and roll songs that regulate my metabolism.
My mom used to listen to the oldies station whenever we went anywhere. The Doors, the Beatles, the Beach Boys, the Supremes, the Four Tops, James Brown, Marvin Gaye, the Platters, etc. By the time we were ten, we could sing the chorus to Aretha Franklin's "Respect" and the whistling part to "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay." I think the Beach Boys was my favorite band. And still is up there, in the top 20 or so.
My dad listened to the opposite end of the spectrum, not opposite but pretty far on the other side. Crosby Stills and Nash, Traffic, Grateful Dead, Little Feat...well, Grateful Dead and Little Feat, mostly. My favorite song was "Let it Roll" by Little Feat off the album of the same name. I must have worn a hole in the tape on that song. It was the first song for which I'd memorized all the words. There's still something about listening to that album and driving that brings back the greatest memories of driving up to the cabin with my dad and brother. Sitting in the back seat, eating skittles and drinking Mountain Dew while my dad drank coffee and smoked cigarettes with the window down and the cold air blowing in across my face. For me, the journey there, listening to music, feeling cool with my dad and brother, was better than actually getting to the cabin to go fishing.
So my music genome is nothing but straight-up pop and soul. Everything I've ever liked has been based on the early blues, soul, R&B, pop, and rock and roll. Rock & Roll. Nothing could possibly be better for me. Give me a guitar riff, chord progressions, verse, verse, bridge, chorus, guitar solo! chorus, elongated ending or repeated and faded guitar riff with repeating choruses! oh! What could be better? In short, Nothing. So when I hear something like DeVotchKa or Sigor Ros, I hear beauty, but it makes me uncomfortable, in a bad way. It just doesn't sit well with me. The rhythm is too erratic (if there is a beat), it's a symmetrical, and the chord progressions don't match my natural biorhythm. If all you listened to since birth was rock and roll, you may not turn out to be a genius, like if you listened to Mozart, but you may turn out to become an intellectual who must constantly search out new and challenging ideas or bands or authors.l The steady, sometimes unexpected changes of rock and roll and the thump of a bass drum in time with the thumping of a guitar layered with guitar riffs and leads will never get old. It will continue to change and evolve into newer, more extreme levels. It will inspire kids to question things, question their parents, religion, teachers, authority. It will make them feel cool, it will be there for them when they get dumped, when they get drunk for the first time, when they smoke cigarettes or watch a Rated R movie, it will always be there to pick up the pieces of whatever is broken in their life. The music will always change, and thank god for that! but what won't change is the effect it will always have on impressionable youth.
The greatest thrill for me is hearing a band that makes feel like I'm hearing Green Day for the first time. Crunchy distorted guitar and incoherent lyrics. I didn't really know what their songs were about when I was 11, but I loved it. I remember the Kurt Loder interview on MTV with Beavis and Butt-head, when asked what kind of music they liked and they replied, "stuff that's cool." "And what's cool?" "Stuff we like." And so on. There a lot of truth to that, although it came from two animated characters, one of whom was named Butt-head. I mean, "types" of music are only in place so record stores know where to put an album and we know where to look for it. When asked what type of music I listen to, I've learned simply to say "Rock and Roll." Because, honestly, what else is there? It is the all-encompassing term for everything that rocks and everything that soothes and comforts you and tells you that no matter how shitty your life is, the guy on this record has it so much worse...but gives you hope because you know that if he can find a way to express himself and ease his mind, you can too...right? Couldn't anyone pick up the guitar, string some chords together and make a pop song?
I heard the guys from the National all worked for DotCom companies in Silicon Valley, formed a band and went on tour. Dave Matthews worked at a bar and lived in a small town outside of Charlottesville, VA. Sufjan Stevens doesn't own a guitar. Jon Bonham's drum solo on Moby Dick was his second take. This is my mythology.
My Music Genome is straight-forward and I could draw a music tree, linking all of the bands I've gotten into and why and who. There would be four great technological revolutions for me. Starting with my parents' car radios, my first Walkman and Green Day's "Kerplunk!" Then there was the CD player and the 90's British invasion...Bush and Oasis. Then about 300 CDs later, music became synonymous with the Internet and nothing has been the same since.
But for now, my heart beats and my fingers unconsciously tap out the rhythm to "Gold Mine Gutted" by Bright Eyes, my eyes blink in unison to the beat of "No Cars Go" by Arcade Fire and my mind is constantly cycling through the sad and euphoric lyrics of thousands of rock and roll songs that regulate my metabolism.
Mittwoch, 28. Mai 2008
"Time to Pretend"-MGMT
I'm feeling rough, I'm feeling raw, I'm in the prime of my life.
Let's make some music, make some money, find some models for wives.
I'll move to Paris, shoot some heroin, and fuck with the stars.
You man the island and the cocaine and the elegant cars.
This is our decision, to live fast and die young.
We've got the vision, now let's have some fun.
Yeah, it's overwhelming, but what else can we do.
Get jobs in offices, and wake up for the morning commute.
Forget about our mothers and our friends
We're fated to pretend
To pretend
We're fated to pretend
To pretend
I'll miss the playgrounds and the animals and digging up worms
I'll miss the comfort of my mother and the weight of the world
I'll miss my sister, miss my father, miss my dog and my home
Yeah, I'll miss the boredem and the freedom and the time spent alone.
There's really nothing, nothing we can do
Love must be forgotten, life can always start up anew.
The models will have children, we'll get a divorce
We'll find some more models, everything must run it's course.
We'll choke on our vomit and that will be the end
We were fated to pretend
To pretend
We're fated to pretend
To pretend
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Let's make some music, make some money, find some models for wives.
I'll move to Paris, shoot some heroin, and fuck with the stars.
You man the island and the cocaine and the elegant cars.
This is our decision, to live fast and die young.
We've got the vision, now let's have some fun.
Yeah, it's overwhelming, but what else can we do.
Get jobs in offices, and wake up for the morning commute.
Forget about our mothers and our friends
We're fated to pretend
To pretend
We're fated to pretend
To pretend
I'll miss the playgrounds and the animals and digging up worms
I'll miss the comfort of my mother and the weight of the world
I'll miss my sister, miss my father, miss my dog and my home
Yeah, I'll miss the boredem and the freedom and the time spent alone.
There's really nothing, nothing we can do
Love must be forgotten, life can always start up anew.
The models will have children, we'll get a divorce
We'll find some more models, everything must run it's course.
We'll choke on our vomit and that will be the end
We were fated to pretend
To pretend
We're fated to pretend
To pretend
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Dienstag, 27. Mai 2008
MGMT
I bought two tickets for Rachel and I weeks ago for this gig. I had seen their video on MTV Deutschland and liked them immediately. It seemed like a revival of the energy of the sixties- creative, free, brightly-colored, a gigantic cat that a man could ride on, but without it sounding cheesy or pretentious. In fact, they are very sincere. So, Monday afternoon came and Rachel decided that, because she has a new puppy and she's concerned about her landlord finding out she has a dog in the building, she's spending the week in Augsburg...so, the ticket went to Luke who had been telling himself that he was going to buy his ticket for this show, but hadn't yet.
So on Monday after school, I got home, cleaned up a little bit and looked at stuff on the internet. Luke got home and we smoked. It was getting close to 8 and we realized we didn't have time to cook dinner, so we went out. We knew that the gig was on Sonnenstrasse, not 10 minutes-walk from our flat. So, we weren't worried about being late, considering most German gigs start late and have an opening act. We walked through the city talking about the usual petty item argued about I finally say stop talking about it, it's over. We kept walking past old Bavarian restaurant, including the Alteshackerhaus and the other place that's supposedly the oldest bierhall in Munich. We breeze past all of these, only to find ourselves at a place that I was a bit reluctant to go to. It's called Tuscado Moreno. We went there before and Rachel and Luke got steaks, I got chicken fajitas.
We sat outside and I could see the Altespeterkirche, or the Old St. Peter's Cathedral behind Luke. We stared at the menus for at least 10 minutes, ordered our beers and finally decided on the Tuscado Platter (or something like that). It included two spare ribs, two steaks, two pieces of Turkey, and two schwein steaks, plus potato wedges, home fries, grilled vegetables and two cobs of corn. I doubted our abilities to eat that much meat and still rock out at the gig. We ate and ate. By the end, all of the food was gone except half of the schwein and the mixed vegetables. I was full and content and not at all concerned about making it to the gig. I almost asked what time it was, until I looked up at the two enormous clocks on top of the church tower. It was almost 9 and the gig started at 8. Surely the supporting act would be over at this point.
We headed out in a hurry, still not sure exactly where the venue was. We walked down Sonnenstrasse, turned right and in that passage, completely devoid of people or music or anything except posters advertising MGMT playing in Georg Elserhalle at 9:30, we found the venue, 59 to1. We had just been there two nights ago for Vampire Weekend. We decided to take the train from Karlsplatz to Odeonsplatz, rather than Hauptbahnhof. Luke said that Hauptbahnhof was the work station, Karlsplatz is the concert station. Whatever. But first, we must smoke more. I told Luke we had plenty of time. It's only 9 o'clock now. "We're fine, don't worry!" We smoked and were out again in a flash. So we got on the train and played "spot the German." That's when you slyly point out people who are so obviously German you could spot them from a mile away. Including large mustaches (on both men and women), leather vests, jackets or hats, mullets, someone driving a BMW, etc. We got off the train feeling full and relaxed and bitched about the walk there. We passed the poster for the ManOwar gig that's coming up. With Ted Nugent, Whitesnake, Iron Maiden, etc. We got to the venue, the right venue, probably around 10 o'clock. There were tons of people standing around outside, drinking and smoking, there was no music playing and the house lights were on. Luke starts saying that we've missed it, "Gutted man, we missed it!" "I think it's just after the opening band, we're fine, we're fine" Which I'd been saying for over an hour. Like I said, I was full of food and unconcerned about actually making it to the gig. All of the meat and beer had left me in an apathetic euphoria. We got inside and it became clear that no one was actually leaving. We had made it. Righ--beers.
We got two cold beers which tasted great after walking for so long in the warm evening. That first one didn't last long enough, so right before the band went on, we got back in line for beers. The crowd was unusual like most indy gigs in Germany. You never really know who's going to show up. Old bikers with bad hair and tattoos, young hipsters, even younger teeny-boppers (there were a lot of them...but kudos for them for teeny-bopping a cool band). The house lights went out as Luke struggled to get any attention at the bar. I watched the barmaids take four full half-liter beers, lay four cups on the counter, spread out the four beers, putting a cup at the top of each one, lift and pour four perfect beers at the same time. That's worth the price of admission.
The band came on and started playing "Weekend Wars." The lead singer was dressed in a red lacy shirt/dress that was open at the chest revealing is lack of chest hair and his youth. He must have been 18 or19. The band had a good energy. Ben Goldwasser's eyes were piercing and intense, yet calm and placid as he sang his songs and played his guitar with equal ferocity and placidity. The music was loud, but it gave me a reason to relax and dance and smile as the endless possibilities of music opened in front of me. "Time to Pretend" came on and I rushed forward in the chaos of all of the young Germans dancing and pumping their fists. Germans might say something to you if you push in front of them, put they normally don't push back. It's usually quite easy to get to the front. I was standing, staring in awe at the lead singer, his Gibson Les Paul shining and brilliant in the stage lights. He looked like the ghost of some good-natured rock star from the sixties who worshiped Jimi Hendrix and channeled Jim Morrison but doing as naturally as if it were just a part of his nature.
The solos were spot on and face melting. "Handshake" was definitely a highlight for me. The whole show was great, revealing the potential of a band as fresh and untouched as a virgin in Alabama. Naive and clueless, yet focused and beautiful--a child of nature, a child of the 60's reborn in a time more like the 60's than any other decade since. A nation at war; people fighting of the right to marry unconventionally; a new, fresh presidential candidate at the forefront of a tumultuous and youth-driven election; the music industry collapsing in front of us and destroying everything we thought we knew about information and democratically spreading ideas more freely than ever. This is a time of flux, the difference being that it's not just change for America, but for the entire world. We're too connected as a human species to not be affected by everyone else. And the music brought that all back to me. This sense of connectedness with everyone and everything around me--lost in a guitar solo, sweating with a mass of humanity, swirling smiles and screaming teenagers, I saw it all. And then it was over. They ended the set with a club song. The two singers singing repetitively to a fixed beat, dancing and waving their arms on stage like Run DMC. The crowd went crazy and we danced until they left the stage.
Sweaty and pumped, we walked out. We both got outside and did the "Woah man! That was incredible!" thing and then we got more beer for the walk and train ride home. We went to the train station and got on the S-Bahn and realized that we were on the wrong train a second later. Fuck. We would have to wait at some shitty S-bahn station in bum-fuck Munich for like 10 minutes. We got off the train and stood in the florescent buzz of the silent station. No one was there. We decided to take the opportunity to walk on the train tracks. We tried to walk on the rails like a balance beam and laughed when we stumbled and fell onto the cross ties. The train finally came and we silently got on. We were taken down a notch by the boredom of the station, but still in high spirits. We rode back with our legs stretched out and our eyes glazed and staring fifteen miles away.
We got off at Karlsplatz feeling better to be back in the city and off the train. Luke suggested Burger King. I'm usually adamantly against fast food, but sometimes the power of suggestion overcomes my opposition. He wanted chicken nuggets, he got a chicken sandwich because they couldn't make chicken nuggets at 1 am. I noticed the pathetic looking man who plays the violin outside of the Burger King that I see everyday on my way to get groceries. He walked in the restaurant and went straight upstairs, ignoring the two chairs placed in front of the stairs to prevent people from going up. My curiosity about this man was growing. I too ignored the chairs and went up as well. I looked around and didn't see him. I looked around every corner and still no old man. I was on my way down and he came out of some back doorway, eyes downcast as always, ignoring me. I walked down the stairs feeling a little bit guilty for intruding on what little private space he has left in the world. I marveled at the tolerance of the Burger King, allowing him to come and go as he pleased, begging in front of their restaurant.
Luke and I and the chicken sandwich and the small Coke, started walking home. We finished the sandwich with about 3 bites each and went home. The magic was over and we were back in the boring flat with the Ikea furniture we hate and faced the reality of going to work the next day. It's hard living like a rockstar when you have to go to work everyday. We do our best though...and anyway, we're all "fated to pretend."
So on Monday after school, I got home, cleaned up a little bit and looked at stuff on the internet. Luke got home and we smoked. It was getting close to 8 and we realized we didn't have time to cook dinner, so we went out. We knew that the gig was on Sonnenstrasse, not 10 minutes-walk from our flat. So, we weren't worried about being late, considering most German gigs start late and have an opening act. We walked through the city talking about the usual petty item argued about I finally say stop talking about it, it's over. We kept walking past old Bavarian restaurant, including the Alteshackerhaus and the other place that's supposedly the oldest bierhall in Munich. We breeze past all of these, only to find ourselves at a place that I was a bit reluctant to go to. It's called Tuscado Moreno. We went there before and Rachel and Luke got steaks, I got chicken fajitas.
We sat outside and I could see the Altespeterkirche, or the Old St. Peter's Cathedral behind Luke. We stared at the menus for at least 10 minutes, ordered our beers and finally decided on the Tuscado Platter (or something like that). It included two spare ribs, two steaks, two pieces of Turkey, and two schwein steaks, plus potato wedges, home fries, grilled vegetables and two cobs of corn. I doubted our abilities to eat that much meat and still rock out at the gig. We ate and ate. By the end, all of the food was gone except half of the schwein and the mixed vegetables. I was full and content and not at all concerned about making it to the gig. I almost asked what time it was, until I looked up at the two enormous clocks on top of the church tower. It was almost 9 and the gig started at 8. Surely the supporting act would be over at this point.
We headed out in a hurry, still not sure exactly where the venue was. We walked down Sonnenstrasse, turned right and in that passage, completely devoid of people or music or anything except posters advertising MGMT playing in Georg Elserhalle at 9:30, we found the venue, 59 to1. We had just been there two nights ago for Vampire Weekend. We decided to take the train from Karlsplatz to Odeonsplatz, rather than Hauptbahnhof. Luke said that Hauptbahnhof was the work station, Karlsplatz is the concert station. Whatever. But first, we must smoke more. I told Luke we had plenty of time. It's only 9 o'clock now. "We're fine, don't worry!" We smoked and were out again in a flash. So we got on the train and played "spot the German." That's when you slyly point out people who are so obviously German you could spot them from a mile away. Including large mustaches (on both men and women), leather vests, jackets or hats, mullets, someone driving a BMW, etc. We got off the train feeling full and relaxed and bitched about the walk there. We passed the poster for the ManOwar gig that's coming up. With Ted Nugent, Whitesnake, Iron Maiden, etc. We got to the venue, the right venue, probably around 10 o'clock. There were tons of people standing around outside, drinking and smoking, there was no music playing and the house lights were on. Luke starts saying that we've missed it, "Gutted man, we missed it!" "I think it's just after the opening band, we're fine, we're fine" Which I'd been saying for over an hour. Like I said, I was full of food and unconcerned about actually making it to the gig. All of the meat and beer had left me in an apathetic euphoria. We got inside and it became clear that no one was actually leaving. We had made it. Righ--beers.
We got two cold beers which tasted great after walking for so long in the warm evening. That first one didn't last long enough, so right before the band went on, we got back in line for beers. The crowd was unusual like most indy gigs in Germany. You never really know who's going to show up. Old bikers with bad hair and tattoos, young hipsters, even younger teeny-boppers (there were a lot of them...but kudos for them for teeny-bopping a cool band). The house lights went out as Luke struggled to get any attention at the bar. I watched the barmaids take four full half-liter beers, lay four cups on the counter, spread out the four beers, putting a cup at the top of each one, lift and pour four perfect beers at the same time. That's worth the price of admission.
The band came on and started playing "Weekend Wars." The lead singer was dressed in a red lacy shirt/dress that was open at the chest revealing is lack of chest hair and his youth. He must have been 18 or19. The band had a good energy. Ben Goldwasser's eyes were piercing and intense, yet calm and placid as he sang his songs and played his guitar with equal ferocity and placidity. The music was loud, but it gave me a reason to relax and dance and smile as the endless possibilities of music opened in front of me. "Time to Pretend" came on and I rushed forward in the chaos of all of the young Germans dancing and pumping their fists. Germans might say something to you if you push in front of them, put they normally don't push back. It's usually quite easy to get to the front. I was standing, staring in awe at the lead singer, his Gibson Les Paul shining and brilliant in the stage lights. He looked like the ghost of some good-natured rock star from the sixties who worshiped Jimi Hendrix and channeled Jim Morrison but doing as naturally as if it were just a part of his nature.
The solos were spot on and face melting. "Handshake" was definitely a highlight for me. The whole show was great, revealing the potential of a band as fresh and untouched as a virgin in Alabama. Naive and clueless, yet focused and beautiful--a child of nature, a child of the 60's reborn in a time more like the 60's than any other decade since. A nation at war; people fighting of the right to marry unconventionally; a new, fresh presidential candidate at the forefront of a tumultuous and youth-driven election; the music industry collapsing in front of us and destroying everything we thought we knew about information and democratically spreading ideas more freely than ever. This is a time of flux, the difference being that it's not just change for America, but for the entire world. We're too connected as a human species to not be affected by everyone else. And the music brought that all back to me. This sense of connectedness with everyone and everything around me--lost in a guitar solo, sweating with a mass of humanity, swirling smiles and screaming teenagers, I saw it all. And then it was over. They ended the set with a club song. The two singers singing repetitively to a fixed beat, dancing and waving their arms on stage like Run DMC. The crowd went crazy and we danced until they left the stage.
Sweaty and pumped, we walked out. We both got outside and did the "Woah man! That was incredible!" thing and then we got more beer for the walk and train ride home. We went to the train station and got on the S-Bahn and realized that we were on the wrong train a second later. Fuck. We would have to wait at some shitty S-bahn station in bum-fuck Munich for like 10 minutes. We got off the train and stood in the florescent buzz of the silent station. No one was there. We decided to take the opportunity to walk on the train tracks. We tried to walk on the rails like a balance beam and laughed when we stumbled and fell onto the cross ties. The train finally came and we silently got on. We were taken down a notch by the boredom of the station, but still in high spirits. We rode back with our legs stretched out and our eyes glazed and staring fifteen miles away.
We got off at Karlsplatz feeling better to be back in the city and off the train. Luke suggested Burger King. I'm usually adamantly against fast food, but sometimes the power of suggestion overcomes my opposition. He wanted chicken nuggets, he got a chicken sandwich because they couldn't make chicken nuggets at 1 am. I noticed the pathetic looking man who plays the violin outside of the Burger King that I see everyday on my way to get groceries. He walked in the restaurant and went straight upstairs, ignoring the two chairs placed in front of the stairs to prevent people from going up. My curiosity about this man was growing. I too ignored the chairs and went up as well. I looked around and didn't see him. I looked around every corner and still no old man. I was on my way down and he came out of some back doorway, eyes downcast as always, ignoring me. I walked down the stairs feeling a little bit guilty for intruding on what little private space he has left in the world. I marveled at the tolerance of the Burger King, allowing him to come and go as he pleased, begging in front of their restaurant.
Luke and I and the chicken sandwich and the small Coke, started walking home. We finished the sandwich with about 3 bites each and went home. The magic was over and we were back in the boring flat with the Ikea furniture we hate and faced the reality of going to work the next day. It's hard living like a rockstar when you have to go to work everyday. We do our best though...and anyway, we're all "fated to pretend."
Shipment
I knew it was coming. I knew that sometime, some day, I would get a phone call. The man on the phone would tell me that the time has come for me to pack away my life and send it to America where it will be waiting for me upon my return home. Which will leave me with just enough clothes for the remaining five weeks that I'll be here. And the questions...how can I make this happen? What can I keep? How can I live without my guitar for five weeks? I have to wash all of my clothes. It's been 6 weeks. All of my winter clothes need to be packed and sent home. But I don't have any spring clothes. Am I really going home?
The weather here is beautiful. It's hot and hazy. The nights are warm with a nice breeze blowing through the wide streets. Everyone is sitting outside, drinking beer, wine, latte machiatto. Walking their dogs, holding hands, flowers blooming, birds singing and bands are playing. To ignore the looming truth of my departure, luckily, there have been two concerts in one weekend. Friday was Vampire Weekend, and last night, Monday was MGMT. But more on those later. I find myself in a state of happiness that only comes with the warm breeze and days oozing into night later and later. I'm filled with optimism and brimming with hope for the future. The next seven weeks are mine and life here is full of possibilities. Oh, and I also finished His Dark Materials. :)
The weather here is beautiful. It's hot and hazy. The nights are warm with a nice breeze blowing through the wide streets. Everyone is sitting outside, drinking beer, wine, latte machiatto. Walking their dogs, holding hands, flowers blooming, birds singing and bands are playing. To ignore the looming truth of my departure, luckily, there have been two concerts in one weekend. Friday was Vampire Weekend, and last night, Monday was MGMT. But more on those later. I find myself in a state of happiness that only comes with the warm breeze and days oozing into night later and later. I'm filled with optimism and brimming with hope for the future. The next seven weeks are mine and life here is full of possibilities. Oh, and I also finished His Dark Materials. :)
Sonntag, 18. Mai 2008
We went to See "In Bruges" last night. After a long, but ill-fated debate whether to see "Sex in the City" or not. I was not entirely opposed to it, but Luke put up a pretty strong fight. Turns out it wasn't even playing, so it was "In Bruges." Bruges is a small town in Belgium famous for its "fairy tale" atmosphere, ancient gothic churches and canals. I was glad we saw it when we were in Europe. I felt like I could understand Collin Ferrel's character's dilemma. His partner in crime, Ken loves the city. He carries around a tourists' guide to the city and drags his friend all over the city looking at crypts and tombs and old buildings. I mused later that when I first got to Europe, I wanted to see all the touristy stuff. Munich is a bit "fairy tale"-ish as well. But soon, the charm wore off and I found myself sitting at home relaxing and enjoying my time off without the pressure of going to see every little tourist attraction in the city. But, you know, after 9 months or so, there's not much more to see. Except for maybe the Hunting and Fishing Museum, or the Toy Museum. As we were walking from the theater, Luke took us the wrong way, but no one seemed to mind to much. The air was damp and clean from the rain earlier and the city was alight. We wandered past breweries and famous biergartens until we found ourselves in front of an imposing Romanesque structure. Huge columns, and archway from some dead kings reign. A monument to himself, alleviating his fear of mortality. We climbed the huge steps and looked around. There was a homeless couple obliviously asleep, curled up in their sleeping bags, side by side. On the other side of the archway were the Greek and Roman history museums flanking an open cobblestone courtyard. The disenchantment of Munich wore off immediately and I marveled at the scene. I put my arms as far as I could around one of the columns. It would have taken two or three of me to give it a complete hug. We continued home, or to the bar or wherever we were going. We got to Hauptbahnhof and I decided to go to the ATM. There was another homeless man sleeping inside the foyer of the bank.
Walking through the city center, with the Neuesrathaus towering over the former oxen market, church bells ringing and busy people walking through it all. You can tell the locals from the tourists by the angle of their necks. Head down, disdainful look, shopping bags in hand=local. Camera out, backpack on, necks craned to be able to see the top of the tower, dazed look=tourist. I'm somewhere in between. I find myself with a craned neck marveling at the beauty of the town hall occasionally, walking to get coffee, or concert tickets or whatever my business is. We call Munich "Toy Town." It still seems like a dreamworld. I sit in my flat above the city. An island of English-speaking comfort, safe and secure from the intimidating German-speaking world. I walk out my front door and I can see St. Peter's Cathedral, take a left and I can see the twin onion-dome towers of the Frauenkirchen peeking out from behind office buildings above the gas station. Luke and I were walking through a park by our house and stashed at the bottom of this small fountain were about 20 bottles of beer. We looked around and no one was watching it or looked as though they were drinking it. We thought that in either of our respective countries, we would totally take it, fill our pockets, go back to our flat and grab an empty case and fill it up. But not here. What makes Munich so different that people are just more honest and more trusting? People often don't lock up their bikes. Small children walk through the streets with their parents unconcerned about how far ahead their kid walks ahead of them. Munich stands on the edge between fairy tale wunderland and thriving economic and cultural dominance. It's an even balance. To quote "In Bruges"..."We'll balance the scales between culture and fun." "Well, I tend to believe that the scales will tip in favor of culture like a fat black woman on a see-saw with a midget." I think in Munich the scales tip in favor of fun and fun is such a big part of the culture that sometimes that line blurs and drinking in a bierhall is just as cultural and traditional as anyone can get in Munich. Bierhalls of been a part of this city for centuries. Rain falls silently outside in the city and I feel warm and comfortable inside my bubble, floating above the fairytale wunderland.
Walking through the city center, with the Neuesrathaus towering over the former oxen market, church bells ringing and busy people walking through it all. You can tell the locals from the tourists by the angle of their necks. Head down, disdainful look, shopping bags in hand=local. Camera out, backpack on, necks craned to be able to see the top of the tower, dazed look=tourist. I'm somewhere in between. I find myself with a craned neck marveling at the beauty of the town hall occasionally, walking to get coffee, or concert tickets or whatever my business is. We call Munich "Toy Town." It still seems like a dreamworld. I sit in my flat above the city. An island of English-speaking comfort, safe and secure from the intimidating German-speaking world. I walk out my front door and I can see St. Peter's Cathedral, take a left and I can see the twin onion-dome towers of the Frauenkirchen peeking out from behind office buildings above the gas station. Luke and I were walking through a park by our house and stashed at the bottom of this small fountain were about 20 bottles of beer. We looked around and no one was watching it or looked as though they were drinking it. We thought that in either of our respective countries, we would totally take it, fill our pockets, go back to our flat and grab an empty case and fill it up. But not here. What makes Munich so different that people are just more honest and more trusting? People often don't lock up their bikes. Small children walk through the streets with their parents unconcerned about how far ahead their kid walks ahead of them. Munich stands on the edge between fairy tale wunderland and thriving economic and cultural dominance. It's an even balance. To quote "In Bruges"..."We'll balance the scales between culture and fun." "Well, I tend to believe that the scales will tip in favor of culture like a fat black woman on a see-saw with a midget." I think in Munich the scales tip in favor of fun and fun is such a big part of the culture that sometimes that line blurs and drinking in a bierhall is just as cultural and traditional as anyone can get in Munich. Bierhalls of been a part of this city for centuries. Rain falls silently outside in the city and I feel warm and comfortable inside my bubble, floating above the fairytale wunderland.
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The Good Life
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