04/19/12
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6WH0IZwiAQ4&list=FLDOR0Yyu7kfgsEaXXFj7Vqw&index=3&feature=plpp_video
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r5vSgRRJsgs&list=FLDOR0Yyu7kfgsEaXXFj7Vqw&index=2&feature=plpp_video
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ku-Rz-GAP5c&list=FLDOR0Yyu7kfgsEaXXFj7Vqw&index=1&feature=plpp_video
These are just three of the seven or eight videos I watched today. I think I've officially tumbled over the threshold of insanity.
Ok. I have three unachievable dreams. Number 1: I want a roller coaster in my backyard. Number 2: I want to be able to play guitar like Eric Clapton. Number 3: I want to be a ball striker.
Sad thing is, 1 and 2 are still more likely than 3 at this point in time.
Anyone who's played the game with me knows that I am often a hot mess. I can aim where I like, but my swing changes every time, so the ball could go damned near anywhere. Like I said yesterday, I shot a 99 at Old Avalon, and I don't know how I did THAT, since I really didn't bring ANY aspect of my game. From tee shots to putting, I was hackeriffic.
I want people to say, "Damn. That dude is a ball striker." I've said it about a few people. Friends. Dudes on the range. No one has ever said that about me. Because I'm not. My contact isn't solid. I sweep the ball. I go to the range. I've been there probably 10 times in the last three weeks. I'm ready to put in the work. But these damned YouTube videos simply are not getting it done. I'm only engraining my bad swing habits, becuase I don't know what to change. In fact, if I did golf tomorrow, I'm not sure I could hit the ball at this point. I literally was outside swinging in the dark just now. (My clubs.)
So, I dunno. I'm really at a loss. I watch videos like PGA golfer, Matt Kuchar--man, that guy is a ball striker. That's what I want. But he's got a flatter swing. Doesn't seem feasible.
Shit. And I just watched this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xdLVvfGbcYE&feature=related
What is that, a metal shelf?
So, anyhow--I'm going to get much better this summer. No matter what. Like, I've determined this. Perhaps, with about 2,300 more videos, and 10,000 more practice shots at the range, the simplicity of the golf swing will be apparent.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Golf & The Anger Monkey
04/18/12
That picture pretty much sums up what golf has done to me, off and on, for the past eight or nine years. I didn't start playing until I was in my mid-20s. Went with a couple of friends from school--just for laughs. Played 18 at Walnut Run that day, and I think I shot in the low 130s. It was awful. Somehow, out there, I got hooked. Now, I'll usually finish between 95-100 for 18. Quite a bit more efficient.
But the game of golf has forced me to address parts of my persona that I usually hide--namely, my competitive temper. I can get viciously angry. Not at people, usually. Just at myself. And hitting that damned white ball into that damned little cup can push that aspect to the limit.
The club you see above is on my fireplace mantle right now. My father-in-law thought it would be funny to display it for the family when they were here on Easter. It's been either three or four years since I snapped that club in two on an uphill par five (on purpose, by the way. I held it in my hand and kicked into two pieces like Ralph Macchio). But, I keep it around--as a reminder. All in all, I've broken two drivers, one 3-wood, two putters, and I threw a gap wedge 45 yards into a lake. Once again, this is several years ago. But it happened.
Just when I think I'm getting this game in check (for example, with my lovely at Mahoning yesterday, shooting a very respectable 43), the game puts ME back in check (for example, the run of 7,7,8,7,6 I took today at Old Avalon). The proverbial anger monkey sometimes, when agitated, will climb into my skull through my spinal column, and I want to explode. I'm blaming this on Fred Sr., indirectly. He told me when I first started playing that, "You should stop before you start. I played for three years, then one day, I got too angry, bent half my clubs around a tree, and threw the others, with the bag, into the pond. Never went back. You'll do it, too."
But I haven't. The other day, after going only 2 over through 5 holes, I took a 13 on a hole. A 13. Four into various ponds and lakes, and a four putt. Boom. You've got a 13.
I am lucky enough to have several friends who also golf. In fact, I have a foursome that goes out every Thursday during the summer. Every week. We play solo, sometimes best ball, 2 v 2 match play--whatever. But, I'm lucky to have Frank, Mark and Phil. They've seen me act like a five year old, on several occasions. But they keep asking me back, in spite of all my douchery. Some guys would KILL to have ONE dude to golf. I've got three. Plus my wife. And our friends. And other friends.
In other words, I'm glad I started playing. Pure and simple. I don't love very many hobbies more than golf. But, the other day, on my 13 hole, as the ball bounced off of the boulder in the bunker I was in, 40 yards backwards, and back INTO the lake I'd already been in three times that trip--I chuckled. And kept playing. I've got a BUNCH of character flaws, but this temper is the worst of them. And, I'm getting it under control.
Now, if I could just get this putter under control...
That picture pretty much sums up what golf has done to me, off and on, for the past eight or nine years. I didn't start playing until I was in my mid-20s. Went with a couple of friends from school--just for laughs. Played 18 at Walnut Run that day, and I think I shot in the low 130s. It was awful. Somehow, out there, I got hooked. Now, I'll usually finish between 95-100 for 18. Quite a bit more efficient.
But the game of golf has forced me to address parts of my persona that I usually hide--namely, my competitive temper. I can get viciously angry. Not at people, usually. Just at myself. And hitting that damned white ball into that damned little cup can push that aspect to the limit.
The club you see above is on my fireplace mantle right now. My father-in-law thought it would be funny to display it for the family when they were here on Easter. It's been either three or four years since I snapped that club in two on an uphill par five (on purpose, by the way. I held it in my hand and kicked into two pieces like Ralph Macchio). But, I keep it around--as a reminder. All in all, I've broken two drivers, one 3-wood, two putters, and I threw a gap wedge 45 yards into a lake. Once again, this is several years ago. But it happened.
Just when I think I'm getting this game in check (for example, with my lovely at Mahoning yesterday, shooting a very respectable 43), the game puts ME back in check (for example, the run of 7,7,8,7,6 I took today at Old Avalon). The proverbial anger monkey sometimes, when agitated, will climb into my skull through my spinal column, and I want to explode. I'm blaming this on Fred Sr., indirectly. He told me when I first started playing that, "You should stop before you start. I played for three years, then one day, I got too angry, bent half my clubs around a tree, and threw the others, with the bag, into the pond. Never went back. You'll do it, too."
But I haven't. The other day, after going only 2 over through 5 holes, I took a 13 on a hole. A 13. Four into various ponds and lakes, and a four putt. Boom. You've got a 13.
I am lucky enough to have several friends who also golf. In fact, I have a foursome that goes out every Thursday during the summer. Every week. We play solo, sometimes best ball, 2 v 2 match play--whatever. But, I'm lucky to have Frank, Mark and Phil. They've seen me act like a five year old, on several occasions. But they keep asking me back, in spite of all my douchery. Some guys would KILL to have ONE dude to golf. I've got three. Plus my wife. And our friends. And other friends.
In other words, I'm glad I started playing. Pure and simple. I don't love very many hobbies more than golf. But, the other day, on my 13 hole, as the ball bounced off of the boulder in the bunker I was in, 40 yards backwards, and back INTO the lake I'd already been in three times that trip--I chuckled. And kept playing. I've got a BUNCH of character flaws, but this temper is the worst of them. And, I'm getting it under control.
Now, if I could just get this putter under control...
Saturday, April 14, 2012
KKC: The writing process
04/14/12
Started my day out proctoring the ACT Test. Didn't have enough desks. When I went to move desks, dropped a book on my foot. It's just what I do.
But the event of the day was Kitchen Knife Conspiracy jamming. Jeremy (guitarist) came to the BeeHive with three or four new riffs. We, of course, start playing around with them. But, as anyone who knows my band knows--we have a different singer than we had for the previous five releases. Ian (who spent time in other bands, most notably IO) is ready to RECORD. Like, itching for it. So am I. We all are. In fact, up until the last album, we never went more than two years without releasing SOMETHING. It's been almost six years now. Tons of changes. But several things have really drawn out the process this time.
1. The Beehive. We spent a few years finishing the studio--which also serves as our practice space. For a while, KKC was without a jamming spot. Johnny's pops was a little tired of our shenanigans--leaving wrappers and drink bottles around--so we didn't really want to impose there any longer. So for several months, even if we wanted to jam, we couldn't.
2. No singer. John Prosenjak just kinda decided he was done with the band--due to his career, from all indications. I can see that being an excuse for some people. I can't ever imagine a point in my life where I won't be playing music. Like, when I'm 96 and living in a home, I'd insist on having a drum I could beat on with my flappy skin, just to create a beat. Lots of exciting imagery for y'all there.
3. Singer tryouts, and getting Ian up to speed on older stuff. Really, this was the biggest hurdle. We didn't know if we could find someone to fit the bill. Luckily, Ian is super-awesome and endlessly loves music. He wears Vanilla Ice shirts--but besides that, he's okay. I mean, stepping in to sing for a band where half the lyrics are still slightly undecipherable--that's a challenge. We had around 50 songs he needed to look through and learn. We'll have to revisit these before the next show.
4. My knee. I broke my kneecap. That's a boatload of shittiness, when you're a drummer.
5. The ambition of the new album. We decided to do a thematic-type thing. Seven deadly sins. So, there's instrumentals to be done. We've been chopping songs we don't like after a while. Changing them. Shifting titles. I'm pretty sure we've flirted with 20 different full songs by now, but we're still sitting around 12-14 potential tracks for the disc. No pressure. When you're in a death metal band in Youngstown, Ohio--I don't think you have pressure. Fans will just be pumped to hear new shit. And I guarantee, we'll be pumped to play it for them.
So, as Jeremy continues to bring bungloads of riffs, and Ian continues to bitch about how we can't write more songs until we record the ones we have--it's actually getting closer. Today, several of the newer songs were just getting really, really tight. Especially "They're All Dead in There"--oh. God. I can't WAIT until people can hear that track. It makes me want to punch myself in the face. No exaggeration. It's THAT balls-up.
Started my day out proctoring the ACT Test. Didn't have enough desks. When I went to move desks, dropped a book on my foot. It's just what I do.
But the event of the day was Kitchen Knife Conspiracy jamming. Jeremy (guitarist) came to the BeeHive with three or four new riffs. We, of course, start playing around with them. But, as anyone who knows my band knows--we have a different singer than we had for the previous five releases. Ian (who spent time in other bands, most notably IO) is ready to RECORD. Like, itching for it. So am I. We all are. In fact, up until the last album, we never went more than two years without releasing SOMETHING. It's been almost six years now. Tons of changes. But several things have really drawn out the process this time.
1. The Beehive. We spent a few years finishing the studio--which also serves as our practice space. For a while, KKC was without a jamming spot. Johnny's pops was a little tired of our shenanigans--leaving wrappers and drink bottles around--so we didn't really want to impose there any longer. So for several months, even if we wanted to jam, we couldn't.
2. No singer. John Prosenjak just kinda decided he was done with the band--due to his career, from all indications. I can see that being an excuse for some people. I can't ever imagine a point in my life where I won't be playing music. Like, when I'm 96 and living in a home, I'd insist on having a drum I could beat on with my flappy skin, just to create a beat. Lots of exciting imagery for y'all there.
3. Singer tryouts, and getting Ian up to speed on older stuff. Really, this was the biggest hurdle. We didn't know if we could find someone to fit the bill. Luckily, Ian is super-awesome and endlessly loves music. He wears Vanilla Ice shirts--but besides that, he's okay. I mean, stepping in to sing for a band where half the lyrics are still slightly undecipherable--that's a challenge. We had around 50 songs he needed to look through and learn. We'll have to revisit these before the next show.
4. My knee. I broke my kneecap. That's a boatload of shittiness, when you're a drummer.
5. The ambition of the new album. We decided to do a thematic-type thing. Seven deadly sins. So, there's instrumentals to be done. We've been chopping songs we don't like after a while. Changing them. Shifting titles. I'm pretty sure we've flirted with 20 different full songs by now, but we're still sitting around 12-14 potential tracks for the disc. No pressure. When you're in a death metal band in Youngstown, Ohio--I don't think you have pressure. Fans will just be pumped to hear new shit. And I guarantee, we'll be pumped to play it for them.
So, as Jeremy continues to bring bungloads of riffs, and Ian continues to bitch about how we can't write more songs until we record the ones we have--it's actually getting closer. Today, several of the newer songs were just getting really, really tight. Especially "They're All Dead in There"--oh. God. I can't WAIT until people can hear that track. It makes me want to punch myself in the face. No exaggeration. It's THAT balls-up.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Famous people die. Do I care? Sometimes.
04/13/12
So, well-known people die--supposedly in groups of three. I don't buy into that. My wife will be like, "Well, the third is due." And then somebody like Mr. Clean dies. And I'm like, "Does that count?"
"No," she says. "He wasn't famous enough."
Not sure what level of fame you have to possess to be counted in the groups of three thing. Either way, here's a list of people that died that you might care about, that didn't really matter to me at all.
People who died, but not really bummin' me out too much:
(1) Chuck Schuldiner - He was the singer/songwriter of the death metal band, Death. First of all, if you name your band Death, and people are sad when you die, I think there's gotta be some irony hiding around in there somewhere. Secondly, I really never liked Death. The band. Or the act of dying, really. But, the band never did anything for me. It was sad that he died early, of course. But, the whole metal world mourned, and I was like, "Mehhhh..."
(2) That Brad guy from Sublime - I hate Sublime. I hated them the first time I heard them, because it was "What I Got"--which is a blatant rip-off of "Lady Madonna" by the Beatles. They released that disc, and everyone who get smashed all the time loves it. It just doesn't really resonate with me. Had a chance to see them in concert. No thank you. The saddest thing about this is that, when he died, he became legitimized. If he hadn't died, Sublime would've faded away, and he'd be working at a vaccuum store.
(3) Amy Winehouse - Great voice. Bad decision-maker.
(4) Ringo Starr - Oh. Wait. He didn't die yet? Coulda fooled me.
People who died that really bummed me out, but you probably don't care, if you're part of the majority:
(1) Peter Steele - Lead singer and bassist of Type O Negative. His death still bothers me because I won't get any more music from TON. That sucks. My wife and I did see them in concert many, many times.
(2) Macho Man Randy Savage - My favorite wrestler, and a huge part of my childhood. Ooooh yeahhhh! Ohhhh noooooo!
(3) David Gold - Singer and songwriter for Woods of Ypres, from Canada. I really dig their music. Very atmospheric. Died in December 2011 in a car wreck. Sucks. Last song they released before he died? "Kiss My Ashes Goodbye" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QFfZYyOgjhM
(4) Pat Morita - I dunno why. I just hate that this guy's dead.
So, well-known people die--supposedly in groups of three. I don't buy into that. My wife will be like, "Well, the third is due." And then somebody like Mr. Clean dies. And I'm like, "Does that count?"
"No," she says. "He wasn't famous enough."
Not sure what level of fame you have to possess to be counted in the groups of three thing. Either way, here's a list of people that died that you might care about, that didn't really matter to me at all.
People who died, but not really bummin' me out too much:
(1) Chuck Schuldiner - He was the singer/songwriter of the death metal band, Death. First of all, if you name your band Death, and people are sad when you die, I think there's gotta be some irony hiding around in there somewhere. Secondly, I really never liked Death. The band. Or the act of dying, really. But, the band never did anything for me. It was sad that he died early, of course. But, the whole metal world mourned, and I was like, "Mehhhh..."
(2) That Brad guy from Sublime - I hate Sublime. I hated them the first time I heard them, because it was "What I Got"--which is a blatant rip-off of "Lady Madonna" by the Beatles. They released that disc, and everyone who get smashed all the time loves it. It just doesn't really resonate with me. Had a chance to see them in concert. No thank you. The saddest thing about this is that, when he died, he became legitimized. If he hadn't died, Sublime would've faded away, and he'd be working at a vaccuum store.
(3) Amy Winehouse - Great voice. Bad decision-maker.
(4) Ringo Starr - Oh. Wait. He didn't die yet? Coulda fooled me.
People who died that really bummed me out, but you probably don't care, if you're part of the majority:
(1) Peter Steele - Lead singer and bassist of Type O Negative. His death still bothers me because I won't get any more music from TON. That sucks. My wife and I did see them in concert many, many times.
(2) Macho Man Randy Savage - My favorite wrestler, and a huge part of my childhood. Ooooh yeahhhh! Ohhhh noooooo!
(3) David Gold - Singer and songwriter for Woods of Ypres, from Canada. I really dig their music. Very atmospheric. Died in December 2011 in a car wreck. Sucks. Last song they released before he died? "Kiss My Ashes Goodbye" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QFfZYyOgjhM
(4) Pat Morita - I dunno why. I just hate that this guy's dead.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Checkerboard: Possible "other" careers
04/12/12
While my profession has brought me quite a bit of satisfaction, teaching was not at the top of my dream jobs when I was younger. In fact, it never even blipped on my radar until I was almost 21 (and I got my job at Harding at 22). I thought it would be fun to look back on some other possible careers that I considered (some more briefly than others) as I grew up.
We'll start with the obvious ones:
(1) musician - I began as a music major, on a full-ride to Dana School of Music. In order to keep my full-ride, I just had to maintain a 3.0. I did that. But, I started to hate music. They made it far too scientific. Having rules you couldn't break (though many famous composers made their names BREAKING those very same rules). Truth be told, I just couldn't dedicate to trombone vehemently enough to become "great" at it. I was pretty damned good. But, a small fish in a big pond (filled with music snob fish) at Dana. So, after one year (and a minor in performance), it was off to DeBartolo Hall for me. In my high school yearbook, when asked WHERE I'D BE IN 10 YEARS, I answered, "Living in an A-Frame on a lake in Mecca, Ohio--writing music for a living". Yep. That's something you say when you're 17.
(2) writer - I headed over to DeBartolo, to start a BA in English. I knew I was a good writer, so I figured, I'd try to pursue it. This was a very successful endeavor. Graduated with a 3.5, and wrote a lot of stuff. Also, I read a lot of stuff--which still isn't one of my favorite hobbies, believe it or not. So, I went into the advisor's office and she was like, "So, you're gonna have a BA in English in one month. What are you gonna do?"
I'm like, "Uh. I dunno."
She says, "Well. Uh. You might wanna think about that now. You could move to a big city and become a writer or work for a publisher."
I'm like, "Uh. I like it here."
She says, "Well. That's odd. You could teach. Just take some education courses. You'd be done in about a year."
Im like, "Uh. Ok. I'll do that."
And, just like that, my dreams of becoming a writer ducked under a dusty tablecloth in the corner of my basement. They haven't emerged since.
(3) salesperson / Sears management - Believe it or not, this seemed possible. I worked there all through college, and I'm pretty sure a lot of the people above me at the store thought I'd pursue this. Being a salesperson actually fits me quite well. I like talking to people, and I can sound like I know my shit. So, I considered this for about six minutes. Then, I realized that a lot of the lifers there who were talking about their careers seemed absolutely miserable. Then, I heard Simon and Garfunkel's Bridge Over Troubled Waters, and I had to get away from that place forever as soon as possible.
(4) MLB Umpire - I'm a football guy now, but growing up, I loved baseball. I wasn't an athlete, but I was always the kid who wanted to umpire backyard games. This is just another reason why the ladies couldn't stay away from me. Ultra cool all the time. I really looked into becoming an umpire as a teenager. Once I saw how few made it, I decided that it was a pipe dream.
(5) broadcaster - Funny, because I've been teaching broadcasting for eight years now. I always wanted to be on TV or on the radio. Flirted with the idea. Once again, just seemed like it was a career that was shrinking (and this was BEFORE pod casting). Still, if teaching fell through, this would be my go-to second choice.
(6) actor - Damnit. I really wanted to act. I hated Fred Savage. I thought I would've been way better for the Wonder Years. And Winnie was super cute. I think I begged my mom to let me move to Hollywood a few times. She said it wasn't feasible. Imagine that. But, I'm going to do some theatre. Soon. Very soon.
So, I teach. And I love it. I really don't have regrets. But one can't help but wonder about the road not taken. Maybe, once teaching has faded away years from now, I'll brush the weeds from the unused paths behind me and go for a stroll.
While my profession has brought me quite a bit of satisfaction, teaching was not at the top of my dream jobs when I was younger. In fact, it never even blipped on my radar until I was almost 21 (and I got my job at Harding at 22). I thought it would be fun to look back on some other possible careers that I considered (some more briefly than others) as I grew up.
We'll start with the obvious ones:
(1) musician - I began as a music major, on a full-ride to Dana School of Music. In order to keep my full-ride, I just had to maintain a 3.0. I did that. But, I started to hate music. They made it far too scientific. Having rules you couldn't break (though many famous composers made their names BREAKING those very same rules). Truth be told, I just couldn't dedicate to trombone vehemently enough to become "great" at it. I was pretty damned good. But, a small fish in a big pond (filled with music snob fish) at Dana. So, after one year (and a minor in performance), it was off to DeBartolo Hall for me. In my high school yearbook, when asked WHERE I'D BE IN 10 YEARS, I answered, "Living in an A-Frame on a lake in Mecca, Ohio--writing music for a living". Yep. That's something you say when you're 17.
(2) writer - I headed over to DeBartolo, to start a BA in English. I knew I was a good writer, so I figured, I'd try to pursue it. This was a very successful endeavor. Graduated with a 3.5, and wrote a lot of stuff. Also, I read a lot of stuff--which still isn't one of my favorite hobbies, believe it or not. So, I went into the advisor's office and she was like, "So, you're gonna have a BA in English in one month. What are you gonna do?"
I'm like, "Uh. I dunno."
She says, "Well. Uh. You might wanna think about that now. You could move to a big city and become a writer or work for a publisher."
I'm like, "Uh. I like it here."
She says, "Well. That's odd. You could teach. Just take some education courses. You'd be done in about a year."
Im like, "Uh. Ok. I'll do that."
And, just like that, my dreams of becoming a writer ducked under a dusty tablecloth in the corner of my basement. They haven't emerged since.
(3) salesperson / Sears management - Believe it or not, this seemed possible. I worked there all through college, and I'm pretty sure a lot of the people above me at the store thought I'd pursue this. Being a salesperson actually fits me quite well. I like talking to people, and I can sound like I know my shit. So, I considered this for about six minutes. Then, I realized that a lot of the lifers there who were talking about their careers seemed absolutely miserable. Then, I heard Simon and Garfunkel's Bridge Over Troubled Waters, and I had to get away from that place forever as soon as possible.
(4) MLB Umpire - I'm a football guy now, but growing up, I loved baseball. I wasn't an athlete, but I was always the kid who wanted to umpire backyard games. This is just another reason why the ladies couldn't stay away from me. Ultra cool all the time. I really looked into becoming an umpire as a teenager. Once I saw how few made it, I decided that it was a pipe dream.
(5) broadcaster - Funny, because I've been teaching broadcasting for eight years now. I always wanted to be on TV or on the radio. Flirted with the idea. Once again, just seemed like it was a career that was shrinking (and this was BEFORE pod casting). Still, if teaching fell through, this would be my go-to second choice.
(6) actor - Damnit. I really wanted to act. I hated Fred Savage. I thought I would've been way better for the Wonder Years. And Winnie was super cute. I think I begged my mom to let me move to Hollywood a few times. She said it wasn't feasible. Imagine that. But, I'm going to do some theatre. Soon. Very soon.
So, I teach. And I love it. I really don't have regrets. But one can't help but wonder about the road not taken. Maybe, once teaching has faded away years from now, I'll brush the weeds from the unused paths behind me and go for a stroll.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Creating separation: Disassociation of music and events
04/11/12
Because my Zune (I'm such a hipster) is pulling a temporary vanishing act, I've been forced to just grab a CD on the way out the door for my on-my-way-to-work listening pleasure for the past few days. Today, I grabbed No Doubt's Return of Saturn. It's a strange album to listen to for a couple of reasons. Number one, I bought it with a gift card given to me by Mrs. Bowser, my cooperating teacher in my final student teaching assignment in Spring of 2000. So, for the last few days, I'd listen to it while driving to Girard High School and back. For some reason, the album really connected to me. Most of the songs on the disc dealt with Gwen Stefani's longing for motherhood and the internal conflict she was finding--career or family. At some strange level, my confusion as to whether I'd FIND a teaching job--or did I really EVEN WANT to teach at all--that connected to the album, in my mind. I was also reading a lot of Sylvia Plath, which I recently found out was what Gwen was reading at the time. So, maybe that's a connection. Strange. Secondly, the album is odd in that it escaped my decision, around 1995, to separate songs from life experiences.
Everyone connects music to times in their lives, right? Wrong. Not me. I force myself to avoid it. It started with the death of my grandmother, Meem, in October 1995. She had ridiculously long calling hours. On the way to the funeral home, for three days straight, I'd listen to "Jail" from Down's album, Nola. Here is a link to the most depressing track I've heard in my life:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vrfz71YEOZc
The song has nothing to do with death, really. But, after the saddest week I've ever known--now I always hear that song, and have to battle tears. Everything, from hearse rides, to flowers in caskets, to handwritten poems tucked into her hands--that song was the soundtrack. Hell, I have gray hair on my head from those three days. Literally. So, I made the decision. I wasn't going to let experiences form an association with songs. This is immensely difficult. Especially for someone like me, who connects to music on multiple levels. Life of Agony's River Runs Red album, Billy Joel's And So It Goes, the aforementioned Down song--these things were destroyed by negative spaces within my existence. So I turned that switch off. KCi and JoJo's song "All My Life" was a song that D and I danced to almost every Saturday at Sammi Mac's from ages like, 21 to 24. Logically, that was the song for our first dance as husband and wife. So, that song, pleasantly, has also been allowed to form a deep emotional connection to a memory. Otherwise, I've blocked that from my psyche.
Is this strange? Are there songs you connect to, on a personal level? Do you regret those connections, or do you cherish them?
I came up with a blog topic while listening to Gwen Stefani singing about washing in someone else's old bathwater. Odd, on its own.
Because my Zune (I'm such a hipster) is pulling a temporary vanishing act, I've been forced to just grab a CD on the way out the door for my on-my-way-to-work listening pleasure for the past few days. Today, I grabbed No Doubt's Return of Saturn. It's a strange album to listen to for a couple of reasons. Number one, I bought it with a gift card given to me by Mrs. Bowser, my cooperating teacher in my final student teaching assignment in Spring of 2000. So, for the last few days, I'd listen to it while driving to Girard High School and back. For some reason, the album really connected to me. Most of the songs on the disc dealt with Gwen Stefani's longing for motherhood and the internal conflict she was finding--career or family. At some strange level, my confusion as to whether I'd FIND a teaching job--or did I really EVEN WANT to teach at all--that connected to the album, in my mind. I was also reading a lot of Sylvia Plath, which I recently found out was what Gwen was reading at the time. So, maybe that's a connection. Strange. Secondly, the album is odd in that it escaped my decision, around 1995, to separate songs from life experiences.
Everyone connects music to times in their lives, right? Wrong. Not me. I force myself to avoid it. It started with the death of my grandmother, Meem, in October 1995. She had ridiculously long calling hours. On the way to the funeral home, for three days straight, I'd listen to "Jail" from Down's album, Nola. Here is a link to the most depressing track I've heard in my life:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vrfz71YEOZc
The song has nothing to do with death, really. But, after the saddest week I've ever known--now I always hear that song, and have to battle tears. Everything, from hearse rides, to flowers in caskets, to handwritten poems tucked into her hands--that song was the soundtrack. Hell, I have gray hair on my head from those three days. Literally. So, I made the decision. I wasn't going to let experiences form an association with songs. This is immensely difficult. Especially for someone like me, who connects to music on multiple levels. Life of Agony's River Runs Red album, Billy Joel's And So It Goes, the aforementioned Down song--these things were destroyed by negative spaces within my existence. So I turned that switch off. KCi and JoJo's song "All My Life" was a song that D and I danced to almost every Saturday at Sammi Mac's from ages like, 21 to 24. Logically, that was the song for our first dance as husband and wife. So, that song, pleasantly, has also been allowed to form a deep emotional connection to a memory. Otherwise, I've blocked that from my psyche.
Is this strange? Are there songs you connect to, on a personal level? Do you regret those connections, or do you cherish them?
I came up with a blog topic while listening to Gwen Stefani singing about washing in someone else's old bathwater. Odd, on its own.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
The spark: the desolation of being creatively challenged
04/10/12
I'm not quite sure when I realized that I was creative. I know that, as a kid, before my brother was born, I spent a lot of time fighting ninjas in my backyard. And they had jet packs and hurled pudding. And they spoke a foreign language when they were trying to plan their attacks on me--but I understood it (because I made the language up, you see)...
I learned Kenny Rogers songs before I could put actual sentences together on my own. I sang, as a kid, and people listened. I had three aunts on my mom's side that were crazy for me--I was the first. My brother came four years later, then a slew of young kids. But I soaked it up for four years. They sang to me. They teased me. When I cried, they'd mock me, and I'd be angry. I'd be overly dramatic. Like, extremely. My grandma tells me (almost every week) how I'd kick my legs up in the air and proclaim, behind false tears, that it was "just toooo much". Whether I had to clean up two toys, or two bedrooms full of toys, it was all too much. I wrote short stories. Music. Movie scripts. I'd call play-by-play for games, video games, and games going on in my head. My friend Ric was equally warped. So we were never bored. And we were, for the most part, misunderstood by those around us.
Today, on the way home, I became conflicted. I was doing this Friday by Five thing for a while with some friends, and it forced me to write and record one song a week--and post one every Friday. By five. Hence the name. Solo-wise, this was a prolific period of about eight months. I recorded 20-some songs. I'd alternate between a cover one week, and an original the next. And I MISS being forced to do that. So, I wanted to write something original and record it today. But I also have three more instrumentals for KKC's next album I want to do. Then, I have some lyrics for a song which I wrote today--a KKC song about gluttony. I actually became upset--which one do I do?
Then, I became frustrated with myself. Here I am, being upset about what type of thing I want to do--picking between these tasks, just like when I was three--is "just toooo much". (I did NOT start rolling around at Chipotle, kicking my legs in the air)
How selfish of me. I have been lucky enough to have all these outlets, and I'm bitching about which one I should do first. I cannot DRAW--I've always been awful in that department. But I can write, or play music, or (as the case is right now) blog about being swarmed by something that really should never SWARM me. There are so many people who don't have that outlet. I play in front of hundreds of people, in one of TWO bands, every year. I take it for granted. How many people would give their right ass cheek to just play THEIR music in an original band on-stage--once!?!
So, I'm going to start doing Friday by Five on my own, as soon as this Robotics season is over. I might even do it tonight. I've seen people struggle doing ANYTHING creative at all--so I need to force myself, through my whiny-bitchy tantrums, to create. Some people WISH they could bitch about that choice. Some people WISH they had pudding-flinging ninjas with jet packs. But that fight is mine alone.
I'm not quite sure when I realized that I was creative. I know that, as a kid, before my brother was born, I spent a lot of time fighting ninjas in my backyard. And they had jet packs and hurled pudding. And they spoke a foreign language when they were trying to plan their attacks on me--but I understood it (because I made the language up, you see)...
I learned Kenny Rogers songs before I could put actual sentences together on my own. I sang, as a kid, and people listened. I had three aunts on my mom's side that were crazy for me--I was the first. My brother came four years later, then a slew of young kids. But I soaked it up for four years. They sang to me. They teased me. When I cried, they'd mock me, and I'd be angry. I'd be overly dramatic. Like, extremely. My grandma tells me (almost every week) how I'd kick my legs up in the air and proclaim, behind false tears, that it was "just toooo much". Whether I had to clean up two toys, or two bedrooms full of toys, it was all too much. I wrote short stories. Music. Movie scripts. I'd call play-by-play for games, video games, and games going on in my head. My friend Ric was equally warped. So we were never bored. And we were, for the most part, misunderstood by those around us.
Today, on the way home, I became conflicted. I was doing this Friday by Five thing for a while with some friends, and it forced me to write and record one song a week--and post one every Friday. By five. Hence the name. Solo-wise, this was a prolific period of about eight months. I recorded 20-some songs. I'd alternate between a cover one week, and an original the next. And I MISS being forced to do that. So, I wanted to write something original and record it today. But I also have three more instrumentals for KKC's next album I want to do. Then, I have some lyrics for a song which I wrote today--a KKC song about gluttony. I actually became upset--which one do I do?
Then, I became frustrated with myself. Here I am, being upset about what type of thing I want to do--picking between these tasks, just like when I was three--is "just toooo much". (I did NOT start rolling around at Chipotle, kicking my legs in the air)
How selfish of me. I have been lucky enough to have all these outlets, and I'm bitching about which one I should do first. I cannot DRAW--I've always been awful in that department. But I can write, or play music, or (as the case is right now) blog about being swarmed by something that really should never SWARM me. There are so many people who don't have that outlet. I play in front of hundreds of people, in one of TWO bands, every year. I take it for granted. How many people would give their right ass cheek to just play THEIR music in an original band on-stage--once!?!
So, I'm going to start doing Friday by Five on my own, as soon as this Robotics season is over. I might even do it tonight. I've seen people struggle doing ANYTHING creative at all--so I need to force myself, through my whiny-bitchy tantrums, to create. Some people WISH they could bitch about that choice. Some people WISH they had pudding-flinging ninjas with jet packs. But that fight is mine alone.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Golfing and truck spoilers: A reflection of youth
04/09/12
Today, shortly after D went to work, I called my brother, Donnie, and we decided to golf at Olde Dutch Mill. Hit some good shots, including a brilliant 200 yard 3-wood, to within 8 feet. Left the putt short, like a frail woman. I also took six shots in a row out of a firm sand bunker. You'll see that I blog a lot about golf. Most people find that to be boring as shit, but I don't. It's my blog. Piss off.
However, the day AFTER the golf is where I found my greatest mental challenge. We decided to head out to Lake Milton to see my Aunt Margie and Uncle Don. This is where I spent most of my summers from the time I was 12 until I was 17. Five summers. Not really a long period of time, as adult me can confirm. But, to kid me--it was an eternity.
As soon as we got there, it was quite noticeable that things have become very cluttered at the lake. My aunt and uncle now reside in my grandma and grandpa's old trailer. Since they're both gone now, they just kinda have it as their own. My aunt, a pack-rat of legendary proportions, has now filled three sheds and a full trailer with random shit. Some of it means a lot to her--most of it, she doesn't know it's even there, truthfully.
The yard, where Donnie and I would play wiffle ball, now seems so minuscule. It's amazing how the years shrink the world. This place used to pretty much be one step below Municipal Stadium in size, when I was 12. I thought I was Eddie Murray or Kevin Mitchell. I think I wanted to be a black guy with facial hair when I was 12. Probably thought girls couldn't resist a black dude with a stache. That might STILL be my belief. I dunno. I let Donnie use the fat red bat back in the day, because he was four years younger--and I was convinced he had mental damage then. Now, I'd make that bastard use the skinny yellow bat. Of course, as I told him earlier, he'd just foul tip three balls over the trailer and down the hill--and our games would be over. Just like old times.
We talked to my aunt and uncle for a while. Unc is falling victim to Alzheimer's, and his memory is fading. The strange thing is, he knows it. He acknowledged, on several occasions, that he wants to keep forcing his memory to work, so he doesn't have to go to a home or something. He's such a wonderful man. He flirts with young girls a lot, which is funny, and creepy. It's funnily creepy. But he really has a great spirit. My Aunt Margie now sports a wig, just like my Mom Bailey (her mother, my great grandmother) used to do. But she's abrasive, and earnest. She used to force me to do homework every night. Like, not just mine. She'd CREATE more assignments for me. She was a teacher AND a nurse at the same time, and you just don't fuck with that. As a kid. Or ever, really.
But, if it hadn't been for her, I'd probably have a job where I carry boxes or get greasy. She's the first person that clued me in on the fact that EVERYTHING I could ever want, I could get through learning. She made me skip kindergarten. She made me read. She made me do math. I mean, she FORCED me to always want to learn, even if I didn't want to. Does that make sense? No. I guess not.
But, with my brother and his wife (my FAVORITE sister-in-law), while eating fried shrimp, I'm pretty sure I was moved by a shattering epiphany. Life is almost over. Like, standing on that porch, seeing my grandmother's Indian pipes and puzzles, covered by a static dust--she's so long gone, and it feels like yesterday. All the tomorrows I had hoped for--it seems like it was two weeks ago--became yesterdays ten years back. Being there, with my little brother--who was 12 last time we stayed there. He's a 30 year old man. And I'm older than THAT. It felt like we never left. My aunt and uncle, soon, will celebrate their 66th anniversary. Just the other day, I told Erin I couldn't believe we've already been married over six years. I'm sure my Uncle Don, even smothered in the milky haze of his failing memory, can remember saying the same kind of thing to my aunt once THEY had been married six years.
And, for him, he probably only feels like he's blinked twice since then. And it's all in his rear view.
Today, shortly after D went to work, I called my brother, Donnie, and we decided to golf at Olde Dutch Mill. Hit some good shots, including a brilliant 200 yard 3-wood, to within 8 feet. Left the putt short, like a frail woman. I also took six shots in a row out of a firm sand bunker. You'll see that I blog a lot about golf. Most people find that to be boring as shit, but I don't. It's my blog. Piss off.
However, the day AFTER the golf is where I found my greatest mental challenge. We decided to head out to Lake Milton to see my Aunt Margie and Uncle Don. This is where I spent most of my summers from the time I was 12 until I was 17. Five summers. Not really a long period of time, as adult me can confirm. But, to kid me--it was an eternity.
As soon as we got there, it was quite noticeable that things have become very cluttered at the lake. My aunt and uncle now reside in my grandma and grandpa's old trailer. Since they're both gone now, they just kinda have it as their own. My aunt, a pack-rat of legendary proportions, has now filled three sheds and a full trailer with random shit. Some of it means a lot to her--most of it, she doesn't know it's even there, truthfully.
The yard, where Donnie and I would play wiffle ball, now seems so minuscule. It's amazing how the years shrink the world. This place used to pretty much be one step below Municipal Stadium in size, when I was 12. I thought I was Eddie Murray or Kevin Mitchell. I think I wanted to be a black guy with facial hair when I was 12. Probably thought girls couldn't resist a black dude with a stache. That might STILL be my belief. I dunno. I let Donnie use the fat red bat back in the day, because he was four years younger--and I was convinced he had mental damage then. Now, I'd make that bastard use the skinny yellow bat. Of course, as I told him earlier, he'd just foul tip three balls over the trailer and down the hill--and our games would be over. Just like old times.
We talked to my aunt and uncle for a while. Unc is falling victim to Alzheimer's, and his memory is fading. The strange thing is, he knows it. He acknowledged, on several occasions, that he wants to keep forcing his memory to work, so he doesn't have to go to a home or something. He's such a wonderful man. He flirts with young girls a lot, which is funny, and creepy. It's funnily creepy. But he really has a great spirit. My Aunt Margie now sports a wig, just like my Mom Bailey (her mother, my great grandmother) used to do. But she's abrasive, and earnest. She used to force me to do homework every night. Like, not just mine. She'd CREATE more assignments for me. She was a teacher AND a nurse at the same time, and you just don't fuck with that. As a kid. Or ever, really.
But, if it hadn't been for her, I'd probably have a job where I carry boxes or get greasy. She's the first person that clued me in on the fact that EVERYTHING I could ever want, I could get through learning. She made me skip kindergarten. She made me read. She made me do math. I mean, she FORCED me to always want to learn, even if I didn't want to. Does that make sense? No. I guess not.
But, with my brother and his wife (my FAVORITE sister-in-law), while eating fried shrimp, I'm pretty sure I was moved by a shattering epiphany. Life is almost over. Like, standing on that porch, seeing my grandmother's Indian pipes and puzzles, covered by a static dust--she's so long gone, and it feels like yesterday. All the tomorrows I had hoped for--it seems like it was two weeks ago--became yesterdays ten years back. Being there, with my little brother--who was 12 last time we stayed there. He's a 30 year old man. And I'm older than THAT. It felt like we never left. My aunt and uncle, soon, will celebrate their 66th anniversary. Just the other day, I told Erin I couldn't believe we've already been married over six years. I'm sure my Uncle Don, even smothered in the milky haze of his failing memory, can remember saying the same kind of thing to my aunt once THEY had been married six years.
And, for him, he probably only feels like he's blinked twice since then. And it's all in his rear view.
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