summer

Had a nice, lazy Memorial Day weekend. As much as I hate the winter in New York, there’s nothing quite like being here when it finally gets warm. Saturday we wandered around the city enjoying summer things like pigeons eating a dropped ice cream cone and people wearing ill-advised revealing outfits. One of my favorite things about summer is enjoying live music outdoors. This is seconded only by performing outdoors, but I’m on a self-imposed hiatus.

There was some surprisingly good street music going on around Union Square. First we saw a jazz trio (pictured above) and then a couple of guys playing congas. Hand drums are like a dog-whistle to my ears. Often this is not a good thing - on more than one occasion I’ve walked a block or crossed the street only to be subjected to the rhythmic equivalent of a piano played with fists. Fortunately on this occasion the drummers were good and played some nice rumba. I was inspired to go home and begin reorganizing my studio nook to allow for a practice space. Now that I’m done with school it’s time to start banging on things again. In between writing cover letters that no one will ever read, that is.

rain

Weather is the ultimate fallback conversation topic; it never fails. I use it with cab drivers, my barber, doctors, etc. Two years in Iowa gave me enough weather jargon for life. When we were having a yard sale before we left, I casually referred to the recent weather as “dry as a bone” while Julia watched in horror. I guess it was time to leave.

Everywhere I’ve lived people always talk about how crazy the weather is “here.” Also, everywhere I’ve lived people talk about how crazy everyone drives “here” and how expensive real estate has gotten “here.” At this rate, ten years from now we’ll all be racing around in our live-in SUVs (since none of us will be able to afford housing), cutting each other off and rear-ending each other, while swerving to avoid flash tornados and mudslides. Surely global warming has had an effect on the unpredictability (or at least the severity) of weather in recent years, but I think this says more about us than anything. As technology continues to allow for more control over more aspects of our lives, the fact that we still can’t stop it from raining, dammit, is all the more glaring.

It’s raining right now. I don’t have the stats to back it up, but I swear, it only rains in New York on Monday mornings and Friday evenings in the Spring. I hate rain. I like getting wet on my own terms, preferably when I’m not wearing glasses. Few things make me as uncomfortable as having wet socks. I hate everything about umbrellas: having to buy ANOTHER crappy one at a newsstand because I forgot mine again, dodging the people on the street who use those family sized monstrosity umbrellas, and most of all, the “thrust your inverted umbrella into the wind so that it’s no longer inside-out” motion that’s just downright humiliating. If I ever had to live in Seattle things would get ugly.

Whenever someone gleefully says "I love the rain!" or "I love the cold!" I'm always ashamed for them. I'm sure there are people that love torture or infectious disease, but at least they keep it to themselves. It's not like there aren't ways to deal with this. "I love the rain, but I'm getting help." I'll accept that.

I’m aware that rain is necessary for certain environmental things like the growth of plants and washing the stink off the Lower East Side in the summer, but I don’t care. I want to live in a world where moisture is injected into the soil. I’m done with seasons – I hate the cold, too. I want to live in California, but not when it’s raining. Now I have to go out and run errands and dodge the big umbrellas and do the inverted umbrella wind thing. At least I remembered to bring my crappy umbrella today. If only it were dry as a bone…

ten band name ideas that I'm never going to use

1. Steely Danielle Steele
2. Danielle Steely Dan
3. The Bi-Polar Bears
4. The Ironics
5. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe Malfunction
6. Lord of the Strings
7. Meta4
8. Geriatric Hat-Trick
9. Pun Intended
10. The Phallic Cymbals

the ninja and the monkey

I used to be better at socializing. I also used to drink more. The two are not mutually exclusive. As a required social obligation creeps closer on the calendar I prep myself for awkward conversation and interaction in the same way that professional athletes use visualization to calm themselves down before competition. Best-case scenario: I find someone into the same music as me or someone who “gets” my humor. Worst-case scenario: I accidentally knock my glasses off my face while using my hands to emphatically make a point (this happened once). Most likely scenario: several awkward conversations and repeated retreats to my wife’s side.

Don’t get me wrong, we know plenty of interesting, fun people and do plenty of interesting, fun things with them. It’s the open-ended large gatherings that frighten me. I end up bounced from one person to another, wondering what it is about me that makes people need to suddenly go get a drink. On these occasions I inevitably end up cornered with the most boring person in the apartment/bar. There is no awkward silence as painful as the one shared with someone you’ve known for less than five minutes. I start swinging wildly at pitches trying desperately to get a rally started. Oh, you grew up in Scranton? Wow, I used to drive through there on my way to Ithaca. Yeah, Scranton. Wow. Then I’ll take long sips of my drink while my eyes scan the room frantically for my wife, who’s inevitably on the other side of the room engrossed in what appears to be a fascinating conversation with three people I’ve never seen before. Meanwhile my new friend and I are shattering the record for most consecutive sentences started with the phrase “So, …”

I’m sure my own insecurity plays heavily into all this. The day I get a job that I’m not ashamed of will be the day I become more confident socially. I live in perpetual fear of the phrase “What do you do?” I also find that I need more alone time than the average person. This is something I’m completely comfortable with, but it’s difficult to explain to others. There’s a fine line between being someone who takes his time checking out someone’s music/book collection at party and an idiot savant. On these occasions my wife usually comes and finds me like a recess aide checking up on a kid playing alone. She’ll happily mention that she noticed me having a long conversation with someone before, her eyes showing how proud she is of me. And I know I’ll be scolded for being too critical if I start complaining about the guy from Scranton, so I just nod and ask when we can go home.

Julia is a conversational ninja. Maybe it’s the whole teacher thing or her insatiable appetite for peoples’ stories, but she can throw down with the best of them. When we hang out with one other person, I eventually just give up. I don’t blame her, though - I’d find her more interesting, too. Regardless, she claims to find the forced gatherings just as painful as I do. In social situations she’ll sometimes try to get me to dance or do my legendary monkey-impression so I can have a forum to display my strengths as well, but often this results in me dancing alone (simply not acceptable for a guy) or frightening a small child who just wasn’t ready for the monkey yet.

I think this is why I’ve found blogging so enjoyable; for whatever reason, I have an easier time expressing myself with the written word. This confuses me, having been an academic underachiever and only a sporadic reader. The Berklee College of Music wasn’t exactly Harvard. At least I don’t express myself best through song. I can dance, but I can’t sing.

the squirrel guy

I was going to combine something I wrote a few years ago with a new idea, but after having read the old piece for the first time in a while I got a kick out of it. Hopefully you will too. I gues this week's theme will be social awkwardness.

The Squirrel Guy

At some point it was decided that dolphin-research should be intensified. I don’t know how or why, but scientists figured out that by studying dolphin behavior we could perhaps learn to better understand ourselves. Before this discovery was made, animal research and funding would have been more evenly distributed, right? There must have been some pretty pissed-off scientists. Imagine spending years observing ferret-mating rituals, only to have to your funding cut in half overnight.

I assume that gradually the best scientists were recruited for dolphin research, while lesser ones were banished to sift through anteater feces or take the pulse of sheep. Whenever I see programs or articles about breakthrough dolphin-research on The Discovery Channel or in National Geographic, I wonder about the less-heralded animal research going on out there. I mean, after the whole dolphin thing blew up, what happened to everything else?

I bet there’s one guy out there who’s quietly regarded as the expert on squirrel research. It could be a woman, but I doubt it. I picture a hunched-over man who mumbles a lot and has a hard time making eye-contact. The only time he shows any emotion is when asked about squirrels, and then he tends to gesticulate wildly as his mouth fills up with saliva from talking too fast. I want to meet this man. Does he have friends? Family? If he has kids, do they respect him, or do they just tell people that their dad is a scientist and leave it at that?

Social circles being what they are, and my desire to socialize dwindling with age, it is rare that I meet someone who has a unique profession. This is in large part a geographical issue; I recently met someone from Houston who was surprised that I didn’t know anyone in the oil business. In New York I meet a lot of graphic designers, film editors, advertising people, teachers, musicians and writers of one variety or another, and despite the fact that these people are often interesting, they tend to have similar stories.

Meeting the man who does squirrel research at a party wouldn’t just make my day, it would make my month. I would interrogate him all night long and ignore his halitosis. We would leave the party and go out to the street so he could better demonstrate the variety of squirrel-movements.

He would get drunk and hit on my wife, and by the end of the evening (after the initial charm wore off) I would begin to realize that he did not smell very good. We would exchange email addresses and he would send me links to various articles he’d published in lesser-known animal research journals, but I would find it difficult to read past a few paragraphs.

Eventually we would lose touch, but for that night I would have made him feel special. And for the rest of my life I would tell the story of meeting the guy who did squirrel research at a party, leaving out the bad parts.

bjj

At this time last year I was REALLY into Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. I talked about it incessantly and read about it online at work. I ordered highlight DVDs and practiced in my head while I fell asleep. I was training three times a week, often staying after class for an hour to spar, and proudly wore my assorted scars. Everyone I know thought I had lost my mind. My friends and family would nod slowly while listening to me talk about my new passion, in the same manner one might respond to a kid too old to still believe in Santa Claus. At one point Julia asked me if I was considering doing “this” professionally. I wasn't. I mean, not really.

In September I fought in my first tournament. I had lost ten pounds in a week to make a lower weight class, which involved getting up early on the day of the tournament and running in 80-degree heat wearing two sweat-suits. With my brother as corner-man I won my first six matches – five by submission (that's me triangle-choking someone in the photo above). I choked someone unconscious and won an epic battle with a seventeen year-old. I lost in the finals via flying arm-bar (which resulted in a hyper-extended elbow) to a guy who only had to fight three times.

I shamelessly wore my medal in public for days after the tournament, hobbling on my mat-burned feet while cradling my wounded arm. The injury knocked me out of training for four months and required extensive physical therapy and multiple visits to a variety of doctors. By the time I could start training again all my white-belt friends had received their blue-belts and I had gained almost twenty pounds.

I’ve had a hard time training consistently since then due to assorted injuries and illnesses, school and vacation, but I’m looking forward to getting back in the groove over the summer – as a method of exercise and supplemental life-activity, that is. I think I’m over the whole obsession thing. What's nice about having an early mid-life crisis is that you can actually accomplish something.

wow

Courtesy of Matt,this deserves its own entry.

my top 100 albums in no particular order

1. Sly Stone, “Fresh”
2. Murcof, “Remembranza”
3. Eliades Ochoa, “Sublime Illusion”
4. Tower of Power, “Back to Oakland”
5. The Meters, “Look Ka Py Py”
6. Air, “Premiers Symptomes”
7. The Wild Tchoupitoulas, “The Wild Tchoupitoulas”
8. Biosphere, “Dropsconde”
9. Cachaito Lopez, “Cachaito”
10. Cheb I Sabbah, “La Kahena”
11. John Coltrane, “A Love Supreme”
12. Miles Davis, “Kind of Blue”
13. Miles Davis, “Bitches Brew”
14. Dabrye, “One/Three”
15. DJ Shadow, “Endtroducing”
16. Eminem, “The Marshall Mathers LP”
17. Herbie Hancock, “Thrust”
18. Herbie Hancock, “Flood”
19. Herbie Hancock, “Maiden Voyage”
20. Icarus, “Fijaka”
21. John Patton, “Let Em’ Roll”
22. King Tubby, “100% Dub”
23. Donald Byrd, “Kofi”
24. Koop, “Waltz for Koop”
25. Joao Donato, “Lugar Comum”
26. Dudley Perkins/Madlib, “A Lil’ Light (Instrumentals)”
27. Mark Farina, “Mushroom Jazz 2”
28. McCoy Tyner, “Extensions”
29. Medeski, Martin and Wood, “Friday Afternoon in the Universe”
30. Medeski, Martin and Wood, “Shack-Man”
31. Marcos Suzano, “Sambatown”
32. Airto, “Fingers”
33. Batacumbele, “Con Un Poco De Songo”
34. Tim Sparks, “At The Rebbe’s Table”
35. Tim Sparks, “Neshamah”
36. Cyro Baptista, “Cyro Baptista Plays the Music of Villa Lobos”
37. Guillermo Portabales, “El Carretero”
38. Quantic, “Mishaps Happening”
39. Squarepusher, “Go Plastic”
40. Stereolab, “Dots and Loops”
41. Steve Coleman, “Def Trance Beat (Modalities of Rhythm)”
42. Steve Reich, “Music for 18 Musicians”
43. Ray Barretto, “Live”
44. Ray Barretto, “Indestructible”
45. Eddie Palmieri, “Unfinished Masterpiece”
46. Eddie Palmieri, “Gold 73”
47. Eddie Palmieri, “Live at Sing Sing”
48. Cal Tjader, “Amazonas”
49. Cal Tjader, “Primo”
50. Escola de Samba de Padre Miguel, “Batucada #3”
51. Digable Planets, “Blowout Comb”
52. Digable Planets, “Reachin”
53. Run DMC, “Raising Hell”
54. A Tribe Called Quest, “Midnight Marauders”
55. A Tribe Called Quest, “The Low End Theory”
56. A Tribe Called Quest, “People’s Instinctive Travels & the Paths of Rhythm”
57. The Beastie Boys, “Check Your Head”
58. Mongo Santamaria, “Mongo 70”
59. James Brown, “Sex Machine”
60. James Brown, “Love Power Peace”
61. Paul Simon, “Rhythm of the Saints”
62. Nana Vasconcelos, “Saudades”
63. Egberto Gismonti, “Danca Das Cabecas”
64. Egberto Gismonti, “Duas Vozes”
65. Hermeto Pascoal, “Slaves Mass”
66. Quarteto Novo, “Quarteto Novo”
67. Lou Donaldson, “Aligator Bogaloo”
68. Lonnie Smith, “Lonnie Smith Live at Club Mozambique”
69. Lonnie Liston Smith, “Expansions”
70. Grant Green, “Ain’t it Funky Now”
71. Grant Green, “Matador”
72. De La Soul, “Three Feet High and Rising”
73. De La Soul, “Buhloone Mindstate”
74. Tito Puente, “Top Percussion”
75. Les McCann, “Layers”
76. Grupo Folklorico & Experimental Nuevayorquino, “Cocepts in Unity”
77. Joao Gilberto, “Getz/Gilberto”
78. Dr. John, “Dr. John’s Gumbo”
79. Stevie Wonder, “Innervisions”
80. Stevie Wonder, “Songs in the Key of Life”
81. Lauryn Hill, “The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill”
82. Santana, “Caravanserai”
83. Santana, “Lotus”
84. D’Angelo, “Brown Sugar”
85. D’Angelo, “Voodoo”
86. King Sunny Ade, “Juju Music”
87. Michael Spiro and Mark Lamion, “Bata Ketu”
88. Jimmy McGriff, “Greatest Hits”
89. Oliver Nelson, “Blues and The Abstract Truth”
90. Ezekiel Honig and Morgan Packard, “Early Morning Migration”
91. Jimmy Smith, “Root Down”
92. Carlos Malta, “Carlos Malta e Pife Muderno”
93. Robert Miles and Trilok Gurtu, “Miles Gurtu”
94. Amon Tobin, “Bricolage”
95. Sergio Mendes, “Brasileiro”
96. Sergio Mendes, “Primal Roots”
97. Walter Wanderley, “Batucada”
98. Jesus Alemany, “Cubanisimo!”
99. Cachao, “Cuban Jam Session In Miniature -- Descargas Vol 2”
100. Norah Jones, “Come Away With Me”

five things my grandfather nonchalantly told me in california

1. “I built your father a phonograph player when he was young. I used to work with sonar and radar, so it wasn’t that big of a deal.”

2. “The last time I cried was at your Bar Mitzvah.”

3. “When I was in the Navy my ship was torpedoed.”

4. “I hated living in New York – all the people and the yelling. One time I spent a week in the country and I cried when it was time to go back.”

5. “I don’t think I’ve ever been terrified of anything in my life.”

photo torture

I find the process of looking at other people's vacation pictures similar to being held hostage and forced to read your captives’ propaganda – you nod in mock appreciation, knowing you’ve got no choice but to comply, but can’t wait until it’s over. Wow, pictures of other people relaxing on the beach and drinking tropical drinks? I’ll be sure to think of those tomorrow when someone’s bag is repeatedly ramming me on the subway. As long as you’re gloating, why don’t you show me your tax returns, too?

That said, here are some pictures with captions from the trip. Feel free to stop reading at any time. Seriously.



Here are my second cousins, Maricel (4 weeks) and Rosalyn (3 years). Maricel doesn't do much other than eat, poop and make breathing sounds like Golum, but she will surely grow up to be a cute, brilliant ball of energy like her sister, Rosalyn.



Here’s my (only) cousin Jessica with the kids. I hadn’t seen her in fifteen years, which is a shame, considering how well we got along. It’s a little bittersweet, asking your only cousin things like “How old are you?” Anyways, this is a great picture, because you can see Rosalyn (who is struggling with how to be gentle and affectionate with the baby at the same time) unknowingly gagging her little sister, who threw up immediately after the photo was taken. This was O.K., though, because the mess was quickly consumed by…



…Lucky, my aunt and uncle’s infamous dog that my father never tires of referencing. In all seriousness, he is probably the coolest dog I’ve ever spent time with, even if he enjoys the taste of baby puke. He’s affectionate without being needy and has a good sense of when to play and when to chill. If more dogs were like him I’d consider dropping my cat-allegiance.



Julia says that the way I am with kids (more carefree, I guess) is the way I need to be with adults. If I start doing elaborate animal impressions the next time I see you, blame her.



On the drive from Santa Cruz to Saratoga we mistakenly took a longer route, which took us on a windy road through redwood forests that had some incredible views. It’s much better to get lost in California than, say, Queens.



One of the few things I remember vividly from my teenage trip to California was the drive down Route 1. The spectacular views, sharp turns and steep drops were unforgettable. It was even more incredible this time, at the wheel. I cannot imagine there being a more beautiful stretch of road in this country - every half a mile or so there is another uniquely stunning view. It is impossible to not say “wow” a lot. I would fly across the country again just for the drive. I love this picture because it reminds me of what it looked and felt like. It also kind of looks like an Irish Spring commercial. If you showed me this picture I’d hate you.

la super-rica

And so I return to the blogosphere after a fantastic vacation out west. It wasn’t that I didn’t have the opportunity to post out there, I just didn’t know where to begin. I will do my best to sum everything up throughout the week, which will be a nice way to focus on things like driving down the Pacific Coast Highway, while trying to ignore the miserable weather we returned to.

Today I want to talk about food. I love to eat, always have. Growing up in Washington, D.C. (a mediocre food city) I always had the feeling that there was something better out there, somewhere… When my dad took me to New Orleans for the first time my hunch was confirmed. He taught me an important lesson that still rings true today: often the best places to eat are in sketchy neighborhoods and might not be so clean, but are always worth it. If on the way there you felt like you were in the beginning of a Law Order episode, you’re on the right track. If the water is a little cloudy, you know you’re in for a good, no BS meal. My life changed the day I had my first soft-shell crab po’ boy; it probably cost less than $5.

I have a hard time relating to people that don’t have a passion for some kind of food. Now when I remember places I’ve lived or visited it’s always the food I think of first. Except for Iowa, which makes me think of cheap alcohol. My dairy “issues” are so bad at this point that even thinking about a pie-shake doubles me over.

One of the crucial aspects of our marriage is that Julia and I share nearly identical tastes in food. As soon as we’re alone after a meal out with friends one of us will say “That was terrible” or “How about that shrimp?” and the other will nod in silent agreement. At this point we’re in a zone, like a second basement and shortstop that have been turning double plays for years. That is not to say, however, that there isn’t a little friction involved. We have taken the process of ordering (and trying to manipulate the other to order accordingly) to a level of psychological manipulation that would make any military interrogator proud. On more than one such occasion I’ve found myself reduced to the mental state of a selfish toddler, whispering “I’m not sharing!” a little too loud.

We only disagree on two main points:

1. Julia loves anchovies (which I find revolting) and
2. I love Mexican food (which Julia claims makes her sick)

In every city I’ve lived in there has been a decent Mexican restaurant or taqueria. Even in Iowa there was a surprisingly good place about a half an hour out of town. The only thing I really miss about Boston is Anna’s Taqueria – I ate two meals there in the less than 48 hours I was in town last fall. Yet New York City has, to the best of my knowledge, surprisingly depressing options for Mexican food. You’re either eating at a glorified Taco Bell or paying $15 for a plate of bland chicken molé.

The flip side to this is that in my time in NYC I have discovered and fallen in love with Puerto Rican food, which is similar, but not the same thing. Since we’ve lived in Carroll Gardens, Smith Street has turned into Brooklyn’s restaurant row, but despite all the trendy new places I still think the best food is at the dumpy old Puerto Rican joint, El Nuevo Cibao. I’ll take a plate of pernil, red beans, yellow rice and maduros over Pad Thai, techno and hip décor any day.

Once I knew we were going to California I began dreaming about all the good Mexican food my ex-Californian friends are always telling me about. Everybody always said the same thing: the best thing to do is find random little places. The last time I was in California we were too rushed to find good Mexican food, but I was introduced to In-N-Out, which fortunately lived up to all the hype.

When we arrived in Santa Barbara the word on the street was that La Super-Rica Taqueria was THE place to eat. I managed to con Julia, who was distracted by the city’s lush vegetation and panoramic views, into walking about thirty blocks to find the place. Hot, sweaty and absolutely starving, when we finally found the little blue shack, a hand-written sign on the door said “closed Wednesday.” Devastated, I brought my increasingly agitated wife to a random Mexican restaurant a couple of blocks away. There I had a chopped, marinated pork burrito (enchilada style) that absolutely floored me. Even though it was spicy enough that it took two Pacificos and three glasses of water to get it down, I didn’t want it to end.

Later that night visiting family friends I mentioned our unsuccessful journey. Their eyes lit up when they talked about La Super-Rica and they mentioned that musicians always eat there when they come to town. The legend continued to grow. Having done my fare share of traveling and performing with bands, I know that other than maybe cab drivers NO ONE knows how to find the real food better than musicians. My mouth started watering on the spot.

The next day I used a Jedi mind trick on Julia and convinced her to return. I almost rear-ended someone while parallel-parking, foaming at the mouth in anticipation. Despite dirt-cheap prices and an enjoyable picnic-like setting, La Super-Rica failed to live up to what I now realize were unrealistic expectations. I kept ordering more and more food, but eventually gave up. The meat was well-seasoned, but the options were all variations on the same thing: some sort of meat and cheese in tortillas. The best thing I had was the coffee horchata. Overall, the food was good, but the previous day’s meal was much better. I guess everybody was right: the random places really are the best ones. Fortunately I documented the previous day’s burrito (above) and ate at In-N-Out on consecutive days in Orange County. I get knocked down, but I get up again.

almost

In five hours the alarm will go off and we will schlep our blurry-eyed selves out to the airport. We fly into San Jose, where we'll rent a car and work our way down the coast, stopping to see family friends and relatives in Santa Cruz, Saratoga, Pismo Beach, Santa Barbara, LA and finally Orange County, where our dear friends Kris and Caeli will be married. Officiating the ceremony is none other than Julia, Ordained Minister of the Universal Life Church.

It figures to be an emotional, yet enjoyable trip. I haven't been to California, my birth state, in fifteen years and will be seeing some people for the first time since then and others for possibly the last time. As Lifetime Network as it sounds, I'm looking forward to finding out a little more about my family, and possibly myself, in the process.

One of the five-thousand things I had to do at work today (and one of the few that was actually work-related) was to finish cleaning out my old boss' office. I enjoyed a total of maybe ten non-uncomfortable minutes in his presence over the three years we worked together (he was the albino frog from last week's list), but he always treated me well. After observing the standard two weeks of silent emptiness, someone pounced on his empty office, Corporate America style. Going through his shelves, I found a stack of self-help management books (pictured above), which helped me understand his awkwardness a little more. He was probably just as uncomfortable as I was. It might have helped if he had actually opened any of the books, but I guess the first step is admitting you have a problem.

I didn't know what to do with the rest of his stuff - I threw some things out, left others in communal areas, and brought the office supplies back to my desk. What really threw me though, was the 8x10 American flag printout tacked to the wall. I started to throw it out, but then wondered what I would say if someone asked me about it later. Having to confess my sin, I would confirm everyone's lingering suspicion that I am just not a team player. So now it sits buried in one of my drawers amongst assorted official-looking documents I'm too scared to throw out. When I return from my trip someone will have moved into my old boss' office, but his spirit will live on through multi-colored paper clips and a flag that could not be silenced.

procrastination

I managed to bang out the majority of this monstrous final paper, but not before writing a long complaint letter to CompUSA (feel free to boycott them), balancing the checkbook and doing other semi-productive nonsense. I finally went to Dr. Kenworthy today and found out that I don't have a heart condition, just stress-based chest pains. Says the doctor, "You just need to get to California." Thanks, doc - wanna help me with all the errands I need to run in the next 48 hours?

Before I could be sent home I needed to have a cardiogram, which sounds more like some kind of fitness e-card than what it really is. I took this opportunity to tell the nurse and then the doctor about my last cardiogram - I was in the ER with bruised ribs after taking too much Ibuprofen (I'll tell the whole story some other time), and for about an hour the staff mistook my naturally low heart-rate for a "cardiac event." That was fun. Despite my retelling of this semi-traumatic event, the nurse thought it would be funny to joke about how hairy I am. Thanks.

One of the censors slipped off my hairy belly, so the nurse had to start over and throw out the first printout, which I stole from the trash when no one was looking. Here it is (you can see the big blip where the censor slipped):


I like the idea of posting bizarre images here - expect to see more in the future. Also, I'm thinking about making every Wednesday "list day", so feel free to comment with any suggestions. Each week I'll submit the posting to McSweeney's, as suggested by Jackie.

For now, I've got to get back to this paper. After taking fifteen pictures of a cardiogram printout it's time to get serious. And when I'm done, I can relax, per Dr. Kenworthy's orders. I kind of wish he was a bad doctor, so I could call him Dr. Ken "not" Worthy or Dr. Kenworthless, but he's solid.

Relax, relax, relax...

tv

Last night Julia and I watched the first two episodes of HBO’s Big Love, which shows definite potential. Since Julia still refuses to get cable, which is probably more of a good than a bad thing, we are about six months behind the rest of the country in all of our shows. Julia has already plowed through every series at our local DVD store (one third of whose profits come from our late fees) and now relies solely on bootleg craigslist dealers who, like any good pusher, always manage to get us to buy in large quantity. Every now and then a suspicious package arrives containing nothing but a pile of crudely marked discs, which can only be viewed through some obscure media player, and Julia’s eyes get big and dreamy.

Our less-than-basic TV package offers all the networks, plus TBS, Spike TV (where I get my UFC fix) and several BCAT channels. For those not in the know, BCAT stands for Brooklyn Cable Access Television and features quality programming like footage from local strip clubs, groups of West Indian children dancing at talent shows and assorted drug-inspired DIY insanity. Once I watched a show that was nothing but footage of subway trains entering and exiting stations. It was either that or CSI, which is always on at least one channel.

As much as I’d prefer to have cable, there is nothing quite like having multiple episodes of a show in your possession at one time. I find that this works best for 24 (due to the whole “real time” thing), which happens to be my favorite series still running. I’m well aware that I could be watching the current season of 24 on Fox, but I’d rather wait and watch it on my terms – no commercials and in multiple episode blocks. Much like Jack Bauer, I like to be in control. With all due respect, no one tells me to wait a week between episodes. We don’t have that kind of time here! YOU’VE GOT TO TRUST ME! YOU DON’T HAVE A CHOICE!!!

We watched the first three seasons of 24 in a month, which had less of an effect on Julia, who works from home, but sent me into the city a little too riled up every day. On the subway I was always trying to figure out who had the bomb, and I developed a crippling fear of unmarked white vans. A friend of my brother's watched the ENTIRE first season of 24 in one sitting. I feel the same way about him that I do about Barry Bonds: regardless of what substances were involved, you've got to respect that kind of accomplishment.

A few months from now, Julia will forward me an email with the subject line “OH MY GOD BUY THIS NOW!!!!!!!!!!!” containing an offer for season five of 24, season four of The West Wing, back episodes of ER and interviews with the cast of Deadwood, all for $45. My fingers will tremble with anticipation as I log into PayPal and send the money.

the autobiographic final

In a fitting end to my academic career, I have managed to convince one of my professors to let me write my final paper about… myself. The course is titled Electronic Media and Live Performance, and sounds much cooler than it really is. The final paper has to be on a performing artist or media collective and explore the theories we’ve discussed in class. I wrote a carefully crafted email to my professor explaining that I would be drawing on my ten-plus years as a professional musician and my Berklee education. I still have to crank out 10 – 15 pages and cite five references (three from the course, two external), but getting to write a paper in first person is a dream come true. Having convinced the company I work for to pay for this degree and then taking as many production courses as possible (while avoiding the bulk of the media theory classes), this is my piece de resistance - a con within a con within a con.

Also, per a few requests, the comments option is now up and running, although I will hold veto/approval power. Manifestos and inflammatory language will not make it past the gates (are you listening, Fez?). I have an insane list of things to do this week before we head out to Cali, so my posting might be a bit sporadic. Thanks for all the positive feedback so far.

Last but not least, here is your sports news for the day.