beautiful, funny, sad & true

I have a cat staying with me for a few days. Her name is Zooey.

After all the stress and craziness in seemingly all aspects of life lately, not to mention the heavy subject matter (and arguments) here on El Blog-o lately, there’s nothing like a cute wittle kitteh to make you forget about all of it.

I came home from work yesterday to find her curled up asleep in the bathroom sink. Oh, how I wish I had a picture of that. She jumped down immediately and started rubbing on me. Cutest thing ever. After dinner, we both curled up on the sofa and watched Rock School. Hilarious documentary about a quasi-megalomaniac who teaches kids not just how to play instruments, but how to be rock stars. And no, he doesn’t hold back at all.

More good news; I’m going on tour with Breanna this summer, and we’re gallivanting all around the western U.S., the highlight of which will be a festival in Utah. ‘V. exciting,’ as Bridget Jones would say.

I heard a couple of funny statements today, from different people, that got me thinking:

“Last I heard, I’m not stupid, so–“

and

“I’m the most passionate person you’ll ever meet.”

It seems to me that ‘stupid’, like ‘crazy’, is not a diagnosis that can be reached by self-assessment. If it turns out that you actually ARE one of those things, then your objectivity completely dissipates, and your opinion is meaningless. Besides, it’s not very likely that any adult person is going to walk up to you and say, “Wow. . .you’re genuinely a stupid person,” even if you are one. That rarely happens in adult life. It happens all too frequently between children on the playground, and practically everywhere on the Web–anonymous blog hecklers and message-board flamers come to mind–but that kind of thing is very rare in society. In many cases, stupidity and craziness can run unchecked for decades, but because “last they heard” the person saw him- or herself as an enlightened super-genius, the myth gets perpetuated forever.

Same thing with ‘passionate.’ I’m lucky enough to know quite a few very passionate people, and the thing about them is that they don’t need to tell anybody how passionate they are, they just go and live their lives passionately. I get the feeling that the person who made that statement actually meant ostentatious; interested more in the outward display rather than motivated by genuine impulse.

This entry may sound a bit cynical, but I just immediately felt that those statements didn’t ring true, so I wanted to dissect them a little bit, and figure out why they bothered me so much. But then I suppose that anyone who has met my dad would understand why that particular brand of braggadocio would send a chill up my spine.

People who are genuinely intelligent, passionate, and well-adjusted would never dream of bragging about possessing those qualities. In fact, they’re often the most humble people you will ever meet. They choose to put the energy into their life, as opposed to making a flashy show out of everything, or talking endlessly about how much they know about a subject, or how they wish they could be doing something ‘if only–‘.

The point of all this is that if there’s something you’re passionate about, or that you would like to achieve in your lifetime, then stop talking about it, and just start doing the things you need to do in order to make it happen. It may be something small and simple, or it may be something huge and life-altering, but it can be done, whatever it is. Give yourself permission to do it, and then it will start happening for you, as if by magic. But it ain’t magic; not by a long shot. It’s constant vigilance and attention to everything.

God–not the devil–is in the details.

It’s 11:30 p.m., and it’s a very stormy night.

Nights like tonight are the nights that I really miss my old Taylor House apartment. You know, the one on the third floor of the hundred-year-old mansion. The one with the beautiful views of the city from three different directions. The one that I could watch fireworks downtown during the Rose Festival, the Starlight Parade, and on Independence Day. The one from which I watched almost every single sunset. The one that I called the Rock Star Factory. The one in which I learned how to play the accordion and the cello. The one in which I learned how to become a recording engineer and producer. The one in which I went from being a regular guy with a crappy job to a really talented guy doing what he was meant to do with his life. Basically, it was the place I lived when I learned how to do (and to be) all of the things that I’m doing (and becoming) now.

On stormy nights like tonight, the wind would beat the rain against all of the windows, and threaten to blow the roof off of the building, and I loved every minute of it. In fact, the more the wind howled, the more I enjoyed it. I would crack the window open, turn off all of the lights, turn off all of the music, light a candle or two, and just listen to the wind. I’d sit at the window and look out over the lights of downtown, or, on the warmer stormy nights, I’d stand outside on the fire escape, drinking a glass of wine, daring the wind to blow me down.

I wish I would’ve had a camera back then, because the sunsets alone were priceless. But then there are the countless memories of Katrina Petrovisky-Mouskewicz (the best cat ever), Amber and her fearless blind cat Kati and her mischievous rat Hannah, Craig, Kevin, Jeri, Meechai, Pelsang and the constantly rotating crowd of Tibetans, Erika, Daniel and the constantly rotating crowd of Brazilians, Henry, Morgan, Kristi, Amanda and Simon; the house parties until 4:00 a.m., Decemberists sing-alongs until the wee hours, mix CD’s which I still cherish and enjoy to this day, Jake and Skip flicking cigarettes from the fire escape to the street below, endless hours of recording my parts for Crystin Byrd’s “My Silence” CD, S.S. Flint and her pencil drawing, Jaime and Becky’s “Bus Song” and “12 Step”, rolling up the rug and recording the sound of Laurena the flamenco dancer weaving her magic spell, playing the cello badly while Andrea played the piano beautifully, climbing onto the roof for no reason at all, reading in the sun on the fire escape, seeing BoringFish again, walking with my guitars to the recording sessions at Jackpot, and a myriad of other things.

Here are some pictures of the apartment and me at the time. I have more, but they’re not on this computer. The best ones of all are the ones in my mind, anyway. The two gables on the right (top floor) are that apartment. Yes, I had a fireplace. And yes, I used it often.

I lived there for three and a half years, from when I was 30 and change to when I was 34. Moving out of there, while it wasn’t easy, was the right thing to do at the time. Sure was sad, though. It was by far my favorite place that I’ve ever lived, and I fully appreciated it the whole time I was there. I look back on it fondly as the place that I lived during the biggest changes of my entire life.

LoveItLoveItLoveItMissItLoveIt.

[edit: Incidentally, my gesture in the bottom picture has prompted a few questions. Since Crystin Byrd is the one who took that picture, I was doing an imitation of something our bass player and his girlfriend at the time used to do, which was to randomly make that face and gesture, and at the same time make the sound of a hissing cobra. It was very funny, and they would do it all the time. They might sneak up on each other in the kitchen, or it could be just as likely to happen when they were sitting and watching a movie. They could do it in a romantic and funny way too.

So there you have it. Not that it’s going to make any more sense, but at least you know the context, and that it’s not a “Hey, baby, lemme grab ya” expression or anything.]

Holy crap, I think I just invented a new sandwich. You know what? It was awesome. You know what else? It was vegetarian.

At its heart, it’s a BLT. I used Morningstar faux bacon, and toasted some of Grand Central’s Como bread. I added sliced avocado, tomato, mayonnaise, a little bit of horseradish sauce, and then ground a little bit of black pepper over the top, and put the sandwich together.

In the interest of full disclosure, I’m not a vegetarian anymore, since I do eat chicken regularly (and other things occasionally), but I was a veg-head for quite a few years. I don’t really miss most meat, but this sandwich I might actually try to make with real bacon sometime, though, because it was super good.

It may sound like an odd combination of ingredients, but I really recommend it highly. If you do make one, I’d love to know what you think of it.

The next time you’re at a restaurant, why not try asking for it by name…

The Mister T.

Try it in a sentence; it’s easy. “I’d like a Mister T.”

Hunh? Hunh? Nice.

It seems that I’m not alone; these last couple of weeks have been extremely strange and emotional for almost everyone. Unfortunately, the things that have been happening are not subjects that are appropriate for me to write about here, especially not with a certain someone slithering around. Family issues, friend issues, money issues…all seem to be par for the course at the same time. I suppose you know what they say about rain.

Let’s hope the worst is over.

Here’s a short list of some statistics for the week, though. It certainly ain’t all bad, either, by any stretch of the imagination:

• number of distressing phone calls from close friends in tears: 3
• number of best-in-my-whole-life drum recording sessions: 2
  
• number of cockroaches seen in my building: 1
• number of cockroaches seen in my apartment: ZERO
• number of days home sick from work last week: 2
• number of excellent Wes Anderson movies seen in the theater: 1
• number of excellent new anime’s I’ve watched online, for free: 4
• number of nights in which I got fewer than three hours of sleep: 3
• number of interesting and deep phone conversations, today alone: 3
• number of hilarious conversations today involving Hitler’s love life: 1

Clearly, if I’m able to incorporate Hitler–let alone his love life–back into my humor lexicon, I’m starting to feel like my usual self. I mean (with all due respect), the subjects of brain cancer and full-blown AIDS can almost always provide good fodder for comedy, but I generally have to be feeling at my tippy top in order to find humor in Hitler.

So. Moving on.

I’ve finally been feeling like writing again lately, and by that I mean writing about real and important subjects. Six months or so ago, I was poking around online, trying to find out information about all my old favorite guitarists and bands from the 80’s. I spent many hours sitting here alone, laughing out loud at the ridiculous clothes and videos, and of course, the music. But at the same time, it was a little more complicated than that, because I could still see and hear what I liked about them back in the day. Ever since that night, I’ve had the thought in the back of my mind that it would be fun to write a series of blog entries about some of those people and what my thoughts about them were, both then and now. Naturally, I would put up whatever videos I could find, so that you too could get in on the fun.

I’ve also needed to create a music-related e-mail list for a while now, so that people who are interested can keep up with my gigging and recording schedule, and this seems like the perfect time to do it.

But definitely check back here for the Eighties Röck Blög or whatever I end up calling it. I think that’ll be a fun project.