My friend Don in Chicago is batting .1000 when it comes to dropping new music on me. We check in with each other every few months, but I stalk his ass on Facebook enough to keep general tabs on him. The cat wears many hats - Chicago Innerview Magazine editor, music blogger, diamond broker, and indie artist manager. One of his artists, Joe Pug, is stirring the pot.
Here's what Jason Killingsworth, Deputy Editor of Paste Magazine, has to say:
"While most singer/songwriters are content to warble out a few semi-clever turns of phrase, Pug's scorching poetry and soulful, 'every phrase could be my last' voice will stop you cold. If you want to read the actual endorsement, touch the braille stretching up my arms. Twenty years from now, lazy journalists will compare every halfway decent songwriter to Joe Pug. Mark my words."
For what it's worth, this is my contribution to the movement. Check it out:
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Monday, December 22, 2008
back on the grift
lately, like many out there, i find time to worry and wring my hands over the dark clouds in life. the times are tough as nails, so who wouldn't sweat it really? at the same time, there's this side of me, something i'm still getting to know, that seems to enjoy the unknown, the giant gray area lurking around the corner. i realize that anyone in his right mind wants to control or have a finger on the pulse of things. of course the counterpoint is that philosophy sucks the unpredictability and chance of adventure from life and lends a contrived vibe to the whole thing. regardless of how i romanticize it in what's becoming a lame opening, we have clearly lost control and better get in rhythm with chaos.
sometimes this all takes me back to part of my life where i managed similar circumstances, and suddenly i know i'm going to be just fine. that part of my life was college.
each class of every semester began the same way - the teacher, matter-of-fact tone, calling me and few other deadbeats out for having a star next to our names in the class roster. in grammar school a star next to your name meant something swell, worthy of praise. suddenly a star means the bursar wants to see your ass about the unpaid tab and figures humiliating you before your classmates with this implication will get your attention. my parents had shit for money then, so i plunged deep, up to my neck, in loans and grants and had to come up with a few grand per semester to cover what financial aid didn't - no small feat for a college kid. to come up with that kind of coin i suppose i could have taken a job on campus, worked and saved obsessively over the summers, or both. instead i became something of a grifter.
i don't say that boastfully or necessarily with a swell of pride. it's not like i wanted to spend my college years with a pit in my stomach pertaining to tuition and rent on top of grades. naturally my preference would have been for my parents to cover me, which seemed to be the standard around me, so i could focus on school. alas, the dealer dealt me a different hand, so i learned to play the game with a chip on my shoulder and a series of bluffs to boot.
since i'm out on a virtual limb here and need to protect my name professionally and parentally, i can't go into tremendous detail about how i pulled off college life on the grift. maybe in 20 years when i retire, when the coast is clear, i will dispense the duplicitous tales. to do so now would be career suicide. not to mention, it would draw some real dirty looks from friends and family at imminent holiday parties.
i guess can share a few maneuvers. for example, to eliminate the classroom shame factor, i wised up by checking in with my professors before the bell to report that i was "working it out" with the bursar. this generally satisfied them and kept my name from being orally disgraced. and it was true - i was working out a plan with the bursar. looking back i wonder if that bursar considered it strange when each month i'd stand in line and make tuition payments with cash money. i certainly felt shady doing so.
in the end, i managed to pay for college, graduate, and grow up. i do feel compelled to acknowledge that i burned some bridges and made some enemies along the way. i am not proud of that either. still, as i've said so many times in my adult life, to change that path is to change who i am right now, so i can't say with any shred of honesty that i wish it all transpired differently.
back to the present and what looks to be modernized version of month-to-month existence - this time with kids, careers, and other such heavy commitments at stake. i think i still have it in me to make it through. this time around the grift will be rated PG-13 and result in zero burned bridges, i hope. and to the probable chagrin of my shrink, i'll fish that old chip from a junk drawer and re-apply it to my shoulder.
don't get me wrong - i'm not mad at the world or rocking a vendetta attitude, but i think some grit and raw energy will be in order if i'm going to make it through the rough sledding ahead. like i said, i've done it before on another stage, so i have no reason to think i can't do it again. hell, i didn't think i had half of what it takes to be a father, but somehow when a challenging occasion emerges on that front, i dig deep and rise to it. so i guess this is all by way of saying, i'm not afraid of what's coming. wow - typing that made me feel light.
sometimes this all takes me back to part of my life where i managed similar circumstances, and suddenly i know i'm going to be just fine. that part of my life was college.
each class of every semester began the same way - the teacher, matter-of-fact tone, calling me and few other deadbeats out for having a star next to our names in the class roster. in grammar school a star next to your name meant something swell, worthy of praise. suddenly a star means the bursar wants to see your ass about the unpaid tab and figures humiliating you before your classmates with this implication will get your attention. my parents had shit for money then, so i plunged deep, up to my neck, in loans and grants and had to come up with a few grand per semester to cover what financial aid didn't - no small feat for a college kid. to come up with that kind of coin i suppose i could have taken a job on campus, worked and saved obsessively over the summers, or both. instead i became something of a grifter.
i don't say that boastfully or necessarily with a swell of pride. it's not like i wanted to spend my college years with a pit in my stomach pertaining to tuition and rent on top of grades. naturally my preference would have been for my parents to cover me, which seemed to be the standard around me, so i could focus on school. alas, the dealer dealt me a different hand, so i learned to play the game with a chip on my shoulder and a series of bluffs to boot.
since i'm out on a virtual limb here and need to protect my name professionally and parentally, i can't go into tremendous detail about how i pulled off college life on the grift. maybe in 20 years when i retire, when the coast is clear, i will dispense the duplicitous tales. to do so now would be career suicide. not to mention, it would draw some real dirty looks from friends and family at imminent holiday parties.
i guess can share a few maneuvers. for example, to eliminate the classroom shame factor, i wised up by checking in with my professors before the bell to report that i was "working it out" with the bursar. this generally satisfied them and kept my name from being orally disgraced. and it was true - i was working out a plan with the bursar. looking back i wonder if that bursar considered it strange when each month i'd stand in line and make tuition payments with cash money. i certainly felt shady doing so.
in the end, i managed to pay for college, graduate, and grow up. i do feel compelled to acknowledge that i burned some bridges and made some enemies along the way. i am not proud of that either. still, as i've said so many times in my adult life, to change that path is to change who i am right now, so i can't say with any shred of honesty that i wish it all transpired differently.
back to the present and what looks to be modernized version of month-to-month existence - this time with kids, careers, and other such heavy commitments at stake. i think i still have it in me to make it through. this time around the grift will be rated PG-13 and result in zero burned bridges, i hope. and to the probable chagrin of my shrink, i'll fish that old chip from a junk drawer and re-apply it to my shoulder.
don't get me wrong - i'm not mad at the world or rocking a vendetta attitude, but i think some grit and raw energy will be in order if i'm going to make it through the rough sledding ahead. like i said, i've done it before on another stage, so i have no reason to think i can't do it again. hell, i didn't think i had half of what it takes to be a father, but somehow when a challenging occasion emerges on that front, i dig deep and rise to it. so i guess this is all by way of saying, i'm not afraid of what's coming. wow - typing that made me feel light.
Friday, October 17, 2008
to whom it may concern
A typed letter found stuffed in my mail slot last night said this:
To whom it may concern:
This is Danny. I am the kid from Friday night. I would like to start off by thanking you for not involving the police and apologizing for what I did. I had been drinking pretty heavily and only remember bits and pieces of what happened. My dad says I took a few things but I cannot even remember what was in my pockets aside from the iPod. I always do stupid things, however usually to smaller scale, when I drink and then have to clean up my mess in the morning. For what it is worth I do believe that when I woke up the next morning I would have seen your things and tried to return them to your car discreetly as possible, but there is no excuse for what I did. I have a habit of doing things without thinking them through all the way just for an adrenaline rush and that night was one of those times. I consider it a good thing that you caught me because I may have wound up making the same mistake on another night of drinking to another person who is less forgiving. I cannot begin to tell you how bad I feel for being so belligerent that night. I wrote this letter because I was not sure if you wanted to hear this from me face to face or not. If you would like to meet with me or if there is anything else I can do to make up for what I did, my number is xxx-xxx-xxxx. Please call me anytime. Again, I cannot tell you how stupid and terrible I feel and I appreciate the way you handled it.
Danny
Now, somehow, I feel for this kid, despite the fact that he was trying to rip me off. I think I will call and invite him over for a chat to let him know I certainly made and make my share of mistakes on the road of life and that there are no real hard feelings. I might even burn him the Arcade Fire collection to come off as an even cooler cat. Then I just might float the idea of him raking the leaves that are already starting to take over my yard. After all, my back is killing me (yes, I'm decrepit), so why not? It would beat the hell out of chain gang work. Will post later on how it goes.
To whom it may concern:
This is Danny. I am the kid from Friday night. I would like to start off by thanking you for not involving the police and apologizing for what I did. I had been drinking pretty heavily and only remember bits and pieces of what happened. My dad says I took a few things but I cannot even remember what was in my pockets aside from the iPod. I always do stupid things, however usually to smaller scale, when I drink and then have to clean up my mess in the morning. For what it is worth I do believe that when I woke up the next morning I would have seen your things and tried to return them to your car discreetly as possible, but there is no excuse for what I did. I have a habit of doing things without thinking them through all the way just for an adrenaline rush and that night was one of those times. I consider it a good thing that you caught me because I may have wound up making the same mistake on another night of drinking to another person who is less forgiving. I cannot begin to tell you how bad I feel for being so belligerent that night. I wrote this letter because I was not sure if you wanted to hear this from me face to face or not. If you would like to meet with me or if there is anything else I can do to make up for what I did, my number is xxx-xxx-xxxx. Please call me anytime. Again, I cannot tell you how stupid and terrible I feel and I appreciate the way you handled it.
Danny
Now, somehow, I feel for this kid, despite the fact that he was trying to rip me off. I think I will call and invite him over for a chat to let him know I certainly made and make my share of mistakes on the road of life and that there are no real hard feelings. I might even burn him the Arcade Fire collection to come off as an even cooler cat. Then I just might float the idea of him raking the leaves that are already starting to take over my yard. After all, my back is killing me (yes, I'm decrepit), so why not? It would beat the hell out of chain gang work. Will post later on how it goes.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
play dating other people
It has begun, and my social anxiety disorder can't stop it. Our 3 year old, Jack, with his sass, charm, and wit is building bridges in the neighborhood that we will cross, for better or worse. As it's my nature, I am being dramatic. I don't have social anxiety disorder, at least not a clinical case, and I recognize the bright horizons of getting to know other families in the neighborhood. Still, I can't deny, and hope I'm not the only one, that it stirs butterflies in my stomach now and then. Worlds colliding and all that...
The emails and calls began to trickle in a few weeks ago, once Jack had entrenched himself in the preschool scene and began spending alternate days at a DC Parks day program for kids - mothers suggesting play dates with Jack. It's terribly cute on one hand, sure. On the other, it means meshing and placating to a certain degree. Not to mention, now that we're bound to be crossing paths with other parent/friends, I need to pay a lot more attention to how I carry myself around the neighborhood. After all, there are eyes everywhere now.
Just the other day some guy rolled through a stop sign at an intersection blocks away from us and nearly side swiped me. Of course, I raised my arms to say WTF and moved on. Now suppose I bump into that guy at the preschool pot luck dinner in a few weeks. It's completely possible. So, do you see what I mean?
This reminds me of something that has been nagging me - the concept that everyone has multiple personality disorder. I mean, when you are in your car alone, aren't there certain behaviors you execute that you would likely never do in front of anyone? Once my wife received a voice message at work from a client who failed to end the call from her car after she finished her message. Here's how it went without her knowing she had an audience:
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!
MOVE!
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!
MOVE YOU FAT BLACK BASTARD!
So that's a racist side of someone, but it's likely her friends and family don't know her to be a racist at all. It makes me wonder, is our true self what we act on when we are alone? I really don't know. But I completely digress.
Like I said, worlds are colliding. I am ready for the unsolicited parenting advice, the pot luck, and, even better, the terrific bonds I will develop with other parents in the same trenches. It's no cake walk, despite the shiny fulfillment, so there has to be strength in numbers. Here's to hoping so.
See you at the tunnel slide.
The emails and calls began to trickle in a few weeks ago, once Jack had entrenched himself in the preschool scene and began spending alternate days at a DC Parks day program for kids - mothers suggesting play dates with Jack. It's terribly cute on one hand, sure. On the other, it means meshing and placating to a certain degree. Not to mention, now that we're bound to be crossing paths with other parent/friends, I need to pay a lot more attention to how I carry myself around the neighborhood. After all, there are eyes everywhere now.
Just the other day some guy rolled through a stop sign at an intersection blocks away from us and nearly side swiped me. Of course, I raised my arms to say WTF and moved on. Now suppose I bump into that guy at the preschool pot luck dinner in a few weeks. It's completely possible. So, do you see what I mean?
This reminds me of something that has been nagging me - the concept that everyone has multiple personality disorder. I mean, when you are in your car alone, aren't there certain behaviors you execute that you would likely never do in front of anyone? Once my wife received a voice message at work from a client who failed to end the call from her car after she finished her message. Here's how it went without her knowing she had an audience:
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!
MOVE!
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!
MOVE YOU FAT BLACK BASTARD!
So that's a racist side of someone, but it's likely her friends and family don't know her to be a racist at all. It makes me wonder, is our true self what we act on when we are alone? I really don't know. But I completely digress.
Like I said, worlds are colliding. I am ready for the unsolicited parenting advice, the pot luck, and, even better, the terrific bonds I will develop with other parents in the same trenches. It's no cake walk, despite the shiny fulfillment, so there has to be strength in numbers. Here's to hoping so.
See you at the tunnel slide.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
i went out into the night
There was no question as to the presence of ants in my pants last Friday as I watched the clock tick away the minutes of the afternoon. Guys night does not exactly come every week, or every month for that matter. Usually when it does, it's on a Thursday, which requires a certain degree of clenching the reigns to have some semblance of game for work the next day. In this case, we owned the night. The District would be our oyster.
As it happened, for better or worse, our oyster turned out to be the upper Northwest quadrant of the District and consisted of three stops, in descending order of quality: Buck's Fishing & Camping, Chevy Chase Lounge, and my basement.
I know, off the chain, right? Allow me to explain - when you're happily married with kids, the concept of grazing sceney clubs, bothering with velvet ropes, and scouting ass is not a paramount objective. "It's not like I'm trying to get laid," was a direct line I dispensed to Rebecca, my friend and amazing bartender at Buck's who was rightfully giving me shit when I told her the next venue would be Chevy Chase Lounge. So after strong drinks and warm conversation at Buck's we headed further uptown to the aforementioned Lounge.
Locals might know that the scene at Chevy Chase Lounge is extremely inconsistent with any coolness the name might imply. The typical patron brings to mind that dusty, old, hide-a-bed sofa relegated to a forgotten spare bedroom in your grandparents' home. You've never seen so many sets of crows feet in your life. In fact, the sole reason for going was that one of the guys wanted to see game one of the ALCS. The Lounge was a stone's throw away and has televisions, so it worked out.
After the game, for some reason my friend Ethan and I decided it would be a good idea to roll over to my place, mere blocks away from the Lounge, to continue with the drinking and smoking. Extending the night always sounds like a great call in the vacuum. The next morning, of course, regret finds you.
However, in this instance, our irresponsible behavior paid off. At 2AM, after a couple of vodkas, we decided to call it a night. I told Ethan I would walk him over to Connecticut Avenue where he could catch a cab. The walk, I figured, would do me some good. When we tiptoed out the front door so as not to alert my wife of our stupidity, I immediately noticed that the driver side door of my car was wide open. A few eye squints confirmed that some large person was in the car rifling through the console. Ethan said something like, "Does that guy think he-"
In a blurr, I was at the car door with a grip on this guy's collar, very impolitely asking, "WTF?" As you might imagine, he was completely shocked, and for that I don't blame him. I mean, in my neighborhood, hilariously referred to recently by the Washington City Paper as Upper Caucasia, what grown-up homeowner would be on the street at 2AM? Well, this one apparently. Naturally he flailed his arms in an attempt to break loose, which prompted me to do what I have done less than a handful of times in my life - I fed him a knuckle sandwich. This caused him to stumble out of the car, at which point I realized he dwarfed me in stature. It didn't matter, according to my fueled brain, so I literally high-jumped to get my arms around his neck and we both hit the street hard. Fortunately I ended up in a better position and managed to head-lock him on the ground where he hollered and begged to be released.
Immediately, based on his voice, I deduced he was a teenager, which quelled concerns that this could get uglier. No longer was I inclined to do damage. Why bother when a verbal assault would suffice. The dialogue from there was of this flavor:
Ethan: Wrong. Car. Mother. Fucker.
Me: Empty your pockets now.
Thief: I'm so sorry, please, please, please!
Ethan: Let's call the cops.
Thief: Please don't!
Me: Empty your fucking pockets!
From his pockets came my iPod, blackberry, iPod adapter, and at least $10 in quarters along with his phone and wallet. I scooped it all up with one hand while I held his neck in the cradle of my other arm. Soon I realized he was going nowhere, so I plucked the driver's license and tossed the wallet onto the ground next to him.
Thief: Please let me explain.
Me: It's pretty clear.
Thief: I just wanted your Arcade Fire!
Ethan: You can get lost or we can call the cops. Or...we can beat you down.
Eventually he got the picture and receded into the shadows, still muttering about Arcade Fire. I suppose a normal person would have called the cops. And by normal I mean not drunk on the Chevy Chase streets in the early hours of the morning. The last thing I wanted was to interface with police, and I suspect the last thing this kid's parents wanted was a cop on their front porch at that hour.
Instead they got me on their porch at 9AM after I'd slept and showered. The Jackal was coming with me on errands, so we dropped by the house, only half a block away from mine. As I conveyed to the dad that his 19 year-old son was caught with a pocket full of my electronic devices at 2AM, I experienced very mixed emotions. I couldn't really make eye contact with the guy, as if I was guilty of something.
Looking back, I think it was internal wrestling match with hypocrisy on my part. My wife and I often laugh about what it will be like to punish our kids for the same dirty deeds that litter our very own records. I guess this was my first confrontation with that sort of thing. I mean, I've done worse than what this kid tried and did not get caught, so naturally it felt strange ratting him out to his dad. When on occasion I did get caught, I faced the music. These days I guess the music they want to face is Arcade Fire, which reminds me of a rather appropriate lyric from "Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)":
I went out into the night.
I went out to pick a fight with anyone.
Light a candle for the kids,
Jesus Christ don't keep it hid!
As it happened, for better or worse, our oyster turned out to be the upper Northwest quadrant of the District and consisted of three stops, in descending order of quality: Buck's Fishing & Camping, Chevy Chase Lounge, and my basement.
I know, off the chain, right? Allow me to explain - when you're happily married with kids, the concept of grazing sceney clubs, bothering with velvet ropes, and scouting ass is not a paramount objective. "It's not like I'm trying to get laid," was a direct line I dispensed to Rebecca, my friend and amazing bartender at Buck's who was rightfully giving me shit when I told her the next venue would be Chevy Chase Lounge. So after strong drinks and warm conversation at Buck's we headed further uptown to the aforementioned Lounge.
Locals might know that the scene at Chevy Chase Lounge is extremely inconsistent with any coolness the name might imply. The typical patron brings to mind that dusty, old, hide-a-bed sofa relegated to a forgotten spare bedroom in your grandparents' home. You've never seen so many sets of crows feet in your life. In fact, the sole reason for going was that one of the guys wanted to see game one of the ALCS. The Lounge was a stone's throw away and has televisions, so it worked out.
After the game, for some reason my friend Ethan and I decided it would be a good idea to roll over to my place, mere blocks away from the Lounge, to continue with the drinking and smoking. Extending the night always sounds like a great call in the vacuum. The next morning, of course, regret finds you.
However, in this instance, our irresponsible behavior paid off. At 2AM, after a couple of vodkas, we decided to call it a night. I told Ethan I would walk him over to Connecticut Avenue where he could catch a cab. The walk, I figured, would do me some good. When we tiptoed out the front door so as not to alert my wife of our stupidity, I immediately noticed that the driver side door of my car was wide open. A few eye squints confirmed that some large person was in the car rifling through the console. Ethan said something like, "Does that guy think he-"
In a blurr, I was at the car door with a grip on this guy's collar, very impolitely asking, "WTF?" As you might imagine, he was completely shocked, and for that I don't blame him. I mean, in my neighborhood, hilariously referred to recently by the Washington City Paper as Upper Caucasia, what grown-up homeowner would be on the street at 2AM? Well, this one apparently. Naturally he flailed his arms in an attempt to break loose, which prompted me to do what I have done less than a handful of times in my life - I fed him a knuckle sandwich. This caused him to stumble out of the car, at which point I realized he dwarfed me in stature. It didn't matter, according to my fueled brain, so I literally high-jumped to get my arms around his neck and we both hit the street hard. Fortunately I ended up in a better position and managed to head-lock him on the ground where he hollered and begged to be released.
Immediately, based on his voice, I deduced he was a teenager, which quelled concerns that this could get uglier. No longer was I inclined to do damage. Why bother when a verbal assault would suffice. The dialogue from there was of this flavor:
Ethan: Wrong. Car. Mother. Fucker.
Me: Empty your pockets now.
Thief: I'm so sorry, please, please, please!
Ethan: Let's call the cops.
Thief: Please don't!
Me: Empty your fucking pockets!
From his pockets came my iPod, blackberry, iPod adapter, and at least $10 in quarters along with his phone and wallet. I scooped it all up with one hand while I held his neck in the cradle of my other arm. Soon I realized he was going nowhere, so I plucked the driver's license and tossed the wallet onto the ground next to him.
Thief: Please let me explain.
Me: It's pretty clear.
Thief: I just wanted your Arcade Fire!
Ethan: You can get lost or we can call the cops. Or...we can beat you down.
Eventually he got the picture and receded into the shadows, still muttering about Arcade Fire. I suppose a normal person would have called the cops. And by normal I mean not drunk on the Chevy Chase streets in the early hours of the morning. The last thing I wanted was to interface with police, and I suspect the last thing this kid's parents wanted was a cop on their front porch at that hour.
Instead they got me on their porch at 9AM after I'd slept and showered. The Jackal was coming with me on errands, so we dropped by the house, only half a block away from mine. As I conveyed to the dad that his 19 year-old son was caught with a pocket full of my electronic devices at 2AM, I experienced very mixed emotions. I couldn't really make eye contact with the guy, as if I was guilty of something.
Looking back, I think it was internal wrestling match with hypocrisy on my part. My wife and I often laugh about what it will be like to punish our kids for the same dirty deeds that litter our very own records. I guess this was my first confrontation with that sort of thing. I mean, I've done worse than what this kid tried and did not get caught, so naturally it felt strange ratting him out to his dad. When on occasion I did get caught, I faced the music. These days I guess the music they want to face is Arcade Fire, which reminds me of a rather appropriate lyric from "Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)":
I went out into the night.
I went out to pick a fight with anyone.
Light a candle for the kids,
Jesus Christ don't keep it hid!
Saturday, September 27, 2008
dear blog
dear blog,
it's been almost two months since my last confession. since then i have committed too many sins to count or catalog, but i've peppered a few good deeds here and there just to balance the seasoning. it's not that i don't enjoy our time together, because i really consider it a luxury, but i have to admit - i have been cheating on you with other social media mistresses, namely twitter and facebook.
truth be told, these forays have left me feeling hollow, empty, even cynical. sure, i have picked up "friends" and "followers" on this path of darkness, but i'm beginning to see that i need more than 140 words or the occasional wall scribble to peel this onion.
it all seems so fly-by-night, a progression of cheap thrills. it's the social media movement, where it's at, but getting on board sometimes leaves an odd taste in my mouth. suddenly i'm back in the 7th grade rocking parachute pants though i secretly can't stand the "swish" when i walk or the incredibly awkward fit. not to mention, they just don't pair well with my wide-tongued adidas sambas.
maybe i need to knock the chip off my shoulder and get over the internal dilemma as to whether it's perfectly acceptable for someone to glamorize the fact that for breakfast they ate an egg sandwich with havarti cheese purchased from the farmers market. i mean, perhaps it's truly earth shattering when some cat muses into the twittersphere about the wheels of his airplane being up or down. and when some gal is out on the town with tangible friends and manages 10 or more tweets throughout the night, i suppose it's fine that she's carving out time to broadcast each step to her followers instead of really soaking up the experience with her physical cohorts.
let's face it, one premise of social media is that the general public gives a fuck about your web 2.0 reality show. and i know, i know - i am a pig rolling around in the same muck, covered with the same shit, so i am calling myself out here too. i also broadcast slices of my life and portray myself as a modern fonzie the same way everyone else does.
the thing is, i can't see myself bailing on these avenues. it's almost like a car accident - much as i want to look ahead and drive past, i can't resist that urge to rubberneck. so i guess what i'm saying is, can we give polygamy a shot? i can't quit you, so please don't quit me.
love and rockets
will
it's been almost two months since my last confession. since then i have committed too many sins to count or catalog, but i've peppered a few good deeds here and there just to balance the seasoning. it's not that i don't enjoy our time together, because i really consider it a luxury, but i have to admit - i have been cheating on you with other social media mistresses, namely twitter and facebook.
truth be told, these forays have left me feeling hollow, empty, even cynical. sure, i have picked up "friends" and "followers" on this path of darkness, but i'm beginning to see that i need more than 140 words or the occasional wall scribble to peel this onion.
it all seems so fly-by-night, a progression of cheap thrills. it's the social media movement, where it's at, but getting on board sometimes leaves an odd taste in my mouth. suddenly i'm back in the 7th grade rocking parachute pants though i secretly can't stand the "swish" when i walk or the incredibly awkward fit. not to mention, they just don't pair well with my wide-tongued adidas sambas.
maybe i need to knock the chip off my shoulder and get over the internal dilemma as to whether it's perfectly acceptable for someone to glamorize the fact that for breakfast they ate an egg sandwich with havarti cheese purchased from the farmers market. i mean, perhaps it's truly earth shattering when some cat muses into the twittersphere about the wheels of his airplane being up or down. and when some gal is out on the town with tangible friends and manages 10 or more tweets throughout the night, i suppose it's fine that she's carving out time to broadcast each step to her followers instead of really soaking up the experience with her physical cohorts.
let's face it, one premise of social media is that the general public gives a fuck about your web 2.0 reality show. and i know, i know - i am a pig rolling around in the same muck, covered with the same shit, so i am calling myself out here too. i also broadcast slices of my life and portray myself as a modern fonzie the same way everyone else does.
the thing is, i can't see myself bailing on these avenues. it's almost like a car accident - much as i want to look ahead and drive past, i can't resist that urge to rubberneck. so i guess what i'm saying is, can we give polygamy a shot? i can't quit you, so please don't quit me.
love and rockets
will
Friday, August 8, 2008
joyeux anniversaire!
another year under my belt - the 35th to be exact. to celebrate, i'm going against the snake plissken grain and escaping to new york to kick it with some of my best friends in the world and to see radiohead at liberty state park at the all points west festival. tomorrow night i'll be scaling their wall of sound, man crushing on thom yorke. it won't be the first time, or the last.
i had all of these reflections stirring in my head last night, big plans for my 35th birthday blog post. alas, my friend rebecca, the world's coolest bartender who runs the scene at buck's fishing and camping, set us up very generously last night. in other words, my head is full of clouds. not to mention, i need to pack and hit the road toute de suite.
here's to another year. each time i hit this benchmark i'm pleased and sort of surprised. nyc, here i come...
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