Its A Beautiful Day

2009-01-09T10:57:00.002-06:00

Csyth looked into the setting sun with his hand cupped low on his brow. The road cut straight through the old growth forest toward the horizon, and seemed devoid of trouble but the base of his skull held a knotted ball of stress, and the tension would not allow him to regard such apparent innocence lightly. He twisted his facial features a bit as the fingers on his other hand pressured and poked at the wound in his side. The ragged exhalation of muted pain told him that he needed to keep moving, as he was in no shape to fight again.

His old tricks were enough to have gotten him this far, but he wasn't sure how many more he could summon, and if they would give him away for what he really was.

"Mithaynt was my age when I met him, the damned old fool. He seemed so much younger than I feel today," he thought with gritted teeth. Things had changed, he told himself. Starting out on one side of the law and the throne and ending up on the other did no favors for one's soul. Nor did bearing the responsibility of your teacher's demise inside yourself for the past several decades.

He moved back into the forest, far enough to feel the concealing canopy overhead, but still keeping the trail in sight, parallel to his path. Csyth knew he was moving faster than most in his condition, but it surely did not feel like it was fast enough. And it wasn't.

The bootheel struck a gnarled root awkwardly, and instantly Csyth knew where his attacker was. The resulting silence gave him the impression of others who had suddenly froze from the audible mistake. Like coloring in the empty space to make a picture, he could visualize three other attackers, all frozen in mid stride, trying to not even breathe.

"Four of them, just for me," his mind raced, "There's no way they could know what I am, and yet to send four of them..." He reached out with his mind for a visual, only a portion of a second that he could gather from the smooth eye-stones under their feet and the mist that hung in the air, but it was enough to get the impression that they were not coming with nets and shackles. Orders to kill. That made things easier for him.

If they were trying to capture him, they would know who he was and would have made special arrangements before attempting an ambush such as this.

His mind was counting down the seconds before one of them would be bold enough to make a move. Csyth had calculated almost every tactical option when his ears picked up the nearly silent whine of two bow strings being drawn. His knuckles clenched against his improvised walking stick, almost a crutch to him at this point. He lifted the end off the ground gently and as he heard fingers release gut he raised it at an odd angle and braced himself. The arrows hit simultaneously, for which Cysth was thankful, notching themselves, one in each end of his walking stick. In the din, he knew two more would follow.

Csyth's heart had barely begun to skip faster, as he calmly snapped his walking stick over his thigh and swatted the air in front of him. One arrow clattered to the ground, deflected; the other lodged akimbo to the first in the wood. He dropped the two halves and slowly knelt to the floor of the forest, pressing his hand against a bare spot of earth. He rotated his palm until he discovered the best tension-line of stressed rock hidden below and then tightened the muscles down his arm, compacting the dirt when he touched. He heard bones snap in one of the attacker's legs, and the cry of pain echoed through the trees. Two more arrows had buzzed just over Csyth's head while he was so engaged.

Csysth rotated to face the the attacker who's bootheel had given them away eight seconds previously, knowing that he would be the one to try and make up for his mistake by charging. There was a slight alley between the trees in that direction and the man was already covering the distance with fury burning in every step. Csyth 's hands expertly grasped his sword's hilt and drew them upward in a graceful and compact arc. There was a slight crystal goblet ring in the air, and Csyth's lips pursed together; adding a dissonant harmonic note to the ring. He stabilized his muscles and his legs seemed to root themselves into place. The attacker brought his weapon from overhead, crashing down. The note hanging in space seemed to peak, and Csyth's blade flashed brightly, as though somehow the sun found a way to pierce through the leaves. His attacker tried to pull up, or even adjust the angle of impact to glance the blow, sensing some devilry at work.

Contact should have been devasting to one or both of the combatants. But the attacker's moving sword shattered and crumbled around Csyth's defensive stance; his now gleaming sword unwavering against the blow. The attacker stood face to face with the gruff and graying warrior, eyes widening as he raised his hands to observe the bones turning to powder under the skin. Csyth butted him in the forehead brutally with the hilt of his sword and the man crumpled to ground. Csyth knew that the poor soldier's arms would be jelly from the elbows down by the time he came to rest.

The sound of forest silence emerged for a heartbeat. The other two attackers were nearer to each other, trying to determine whether to press the attack. Csyth reached towards them, fingers splayed painfully and brought forth a growl that crescendoed into a sharp shout. The two hidden men felt their noses and sternums seem to crack and then melt inside. They gave an anguished moan and fell where they crouched.

The forest now returned to a more normal state. Csyth nearly doubled over, and was able to sheathe his sword just before he retched. He picked himself up and spat a few times. He hobbled in the direction he was trying to head for almost an hour, found a rotted out tree stump and heaved his failing old body into it, hoping that he would awake in the morning. Whether it was a guard's blade or his own undoing, he hoped to have one more day before meeting that end. One more day to accomplish that which had eluded him his whole life. Tomorrow. Hopefully.

2009-01-03T12:19:00.004-06:00

Life is: hearing a song from someone else's car while you are walking through the parking lot with your bag containing the makings of a quite nice Italian dinner and the song totally takes you back to something really personal and private, like the first time you made out with a girl and by made out, you know that I mean like really got past just kissing for the first time, which just so happened to be at a church function and your friend was really addicted to this band and had them playing non-stop on their little mauve plastic boombox and even the kids over in the rec room playing kickball or volleyball or whatever the non-making-out kids were playing back then, were telling your friend to turn that horrible song off, and you kinda smiled a little bit which meant you lost your place in your make out session for a second and she started to wonder if she wasn't a very good kisser, which actually still haunts her to this day, and then a car horn lets you know you strayed out into the middle of the gray, slushy ice that still runs down the middle of the parking lot lane and when it startled you your day old french bread loaf that you were going to make homemade garlic bread with tumbles into the slush, but it was wrapped in that weird half paper-half clear plastic sleeve that every bakery in the world apparently uses so you're pretty sure its going to be okay for dinner and then you look up at the driver of the car and give them the mostly-polite-but-still-letting-you-know-I'm-kinda-pissed wave acknowledgment thing that we all do, even when we are really seething with hatred but we're in public and probably shouldn't act on it, and then when you hop in your car and set your bag in the passenger seat, taking care that the jar of the "expensive" sauce isn't going to fall over onto your middle console; just then the name of the make out girl pops in your head, even though 9 seconds ago you would have sworn that you would have never been able to come up with it in a million years, and then you remember the song and the way she smelled and you smile and then you drive home without remembering you forgot to buy the garlic you needed.

yep

2009-01-02T14:19:00.004-06:00

Life is: those two old people who always dance at weddings, when the band slides into some old 40's standard played in half-time; their orthopedic shoes shuffling point-counterpoint on the scuffed wood dance floor and you can tell that the joints are hurting and the artificial hip isn't quite as stable as it was, and you're sitting there with a watered down gin and tonic in a too tiny plastic cup next to your hand that rests on the commercially washed and starched table linen and the conductor notices the old couple and gently prods just a couple of extra beats per minute and a couple of extra decibels out of the band that was really hoping for a cigarette break three songs ago and everyone starts to hold their breath because the finale is coming and he gives her a little whirl and everything falls into place for just that split second and then he goes for the dip on the last "wah-wah"ing note and holds her perfectly and she gives the laugh/blush/peck on the cheek and everyone applauds, and your date who you only kind of knew but had to ask at the last minute because the girl you'd been obsessing over at the bar turned you down, but in a pretty nice way that makes you think that maybe next time it would work out; your date is wiping tears away but she looks a little dorky doing it because you bought her one of those wrist corsages and now you feel bad that you didn't get the cheaper one that pinned on but then you remember the old people and start to clap yourself and kind of smile and use everyone's diverted attention as a chance to run up to the bar to get another too tiny gin and tonic.

Blogging, Take Two

2008-07-23T22:28:00.003-05:00

"I don't want you to be the guy in the PG-13 movie everyone's *really* hoping makes it happen. I want you to be like the guy in the rated R movie, you know, the guy you're not sure whether or not you like yet. You're not sure where he's coming from. Okay? You're a bad man."

-Trent, Swingers

Fuck it. No apologies, but just a disclaimer. I've been "gone" for awhile. That doesn't mean I haven't been thinking and plotting and working and honing my craft. So this is the new blog. Welcome to a new beautiful day.

I set out into the blogosphere with good intentions. ("The road to... where again?") A pleasant little arts journal with some cynically biting riffs on my "daily life", that's all. Just a place to unwind in, and let all that extra observational dryer lint collect. I thought it would keep me happy.

"Nosce te ipsum." Indeed. Grander schemes and greener pastures and the answers on the other kid's test... They all have a certain allure to them, a gilt edge that catches my eye immediately. So the red Asian flower is gone. (Moment of silence... there. Thanks.) Much like the rest of the content forthcoming, I'm not sure what will replace it.

I have this habit of tackling challenges that I have no business tackling. With no formal training, I co-hosted a drive-time radio show. With no more than 36 hours of film competition under my belt, I started my own. I often find myself in improbable situations, armed only with my rolodex of contacts and my headstrong stubbornness. Sometimes it works out great (i.e. making up my own college degree) and sometimes... eh, not so much (sorry, Heidelberg waitstaff).

So, why not blogging? Why can't I be the one to innovate and swim upstream and pave the way and [insert cliche here]. I think I have something to offer, if only I can deliver.

In the meantime to restart some dialogue here, I'll field comments on this:

"Do you believe in talismans or good luck charms, and therefore, conversely cursed items? As in, the actual physical item causes said good or bad luck in the owner/wearer/handler's life?"

Its been awhile...

2008-05-19T23:24:00.002-05:00

But apparently I have something inside that is trying to claw its way out. I am out of practice and it hates me for it, not being able to exorcise itself with ease. So, after much torture, a poem to be read and forgotten...

Untitled

the colors are vivid like spilled paint and the earth
is baked and bountiful, a soft kind of warm in the stifling air
the stalks crowd around me tightly in their uniform rows
but they refuse to march
everything still, everything quiet and it is the quiet
that hammers down on me
the noisy city of air conditioners do not kick, rattle and sigh
even the wind settles slowly to keep the leaves from rustling
the colors green and yellow through lighted transparent leaves
crisping everything around me as the beaming sun strains with heated exertion

but oh, all that is glorious in some spinning unknown heaven
I bless thee for the silence
no crow-caws
no highway drone buzzing on the sill of the horizon
no concrete echoes

it envelopes me and holds me down with a parental strength
yet of course it is fleeting and small
and can be taken away an infinite number of things, mindlessly
but I can close my eyes and just be here now
and block out the rest
centering myself with a tight-lidded shudder

not enlightened by the dirt or the sky
but in a perfect unhappening, the utmost not-doing
the sound and the fury have left me to my own bare thoughts
and I don't care if they ever come back at all
because its right now

and now its not

the tractor crests a faraway hill and the bee bumbles awkwardly by
moving air drifts and trails its hand along the row of green
leaving rustling trembling in its wake
a name called out over the field-top, searching for someone with my name
but I curl and hide more
reveling in a furrowed bosom of calm

to not-wait again for the next void to not-happen

Without a net...

2008-05-13T20:53:00.006-05:00

Housekeeping note: I have signed this blog up with Feedburner.com, so if you click the link to the upper right, you can receive email updates for the blog, rather than clicking back here in between my posts, or waiting for one of my updates via a social networking site, personal email, etc.

Heard a great piece of writing advice the other day. "I don't understand writers who say they are suffering from writer's block. My father supported his family for 41 years by working in a factory, and never once did he suffer from 'factory block' ".

So as I sit here and let my mind wander and my fingers hang limply, I wonder where I should take today's blog post. It feels kind of like setting out through a field, trailblazing; and not being able to look back and see how many people are following me, or urging me to go in a different direction than the one I might be about to take. On one hand there is the exciting thrill of the unknown looming just ahead and on the other, the burden of readability and audience interest.

I don't think I have enough of a coherent train of thought today to launch into a typical (for this blog, anyways) post, so lets just stick with the housekeeping note theme and clean house a bit with some random thoughts.

-The "best side of original vinyl ever pressed" question I included at the end of my last post has generated quite a lot of debate amongst my friends. I am still working on a full post for this topic but I wanted to note some of the initial reflections I have gotten.

Beatles, White Album, Side 3
Led Zepplin, III, Side 1
Pearl Jam, Ten, Side 1
Jimi Hendrix, Electric Ladyland, Side 4
Michael Jackson, Off the Wall, Side 1

And several more... I am going to be conducting some research on this, and will have the full post soon. (None of those listed above are going to be #1, just FYI.) Please comment with any ideas you have on the subject!

-Speaking of music, have any of my Daniel Quinn fans (...and if you aren't yet, you should be. Run, don't walk, to your nearest library and check out Ishmael, by Daniel Quinn. Seriously, read this later. Go, go!) listened to 40 oz. of Freedom by Sublime, lately? "We're Only Going to Die from Our Own Arrogance" (track 4, I believe)

Early man walked away, as modern man took control
Their minds weren't all the same, to conquer was their goal
So they built their great empire, and slaughtered their own kind
And died a confused man, killed self with his own mind.

Interesting, eh?

-Brief political aside. Obama/Edwards versus McCain/Romney or McCain/Huckabee? The youth, progressiveness and vitality of one ticket contrasted against the senior, warhawking, conservative and heavily religious overtoned ticket on the other side. Can we really honestly imagine Barack and John debating in real time, live on national television? What's the over/under on "senior moments" and "misspeakings" for that event?

And even though Bill Richardson probably has Sec. of State all wrapped up, I think it would be humorous for Obama to offer THAT position to Hillary, seeing as she has so much foreign policy experience.

-I have been honored over the past couple weeks to read a lot of good, good writing and personal/emotional pieces from my other blogging friends. (You know, not banging these things out gives me a lot of extra time, for things like reading.) I'm glad I surround myself with people who are smarter and more personally available than me. A couple of housekeeping notes to them and others, hopefully they know who they are:

YOU have lots to give, and I don't think you can appreciate how much influence you wield, so please don't withhold anything from the world because it doesn't "feel right". Produce!
YOU think beyond me, and I enjoy every minute of struggling to catch up and grasping at where your mind is. Engage!
YOU engage so many, you fight multi-fronted wars, and undaunted you pick yourself up after each, dust yourself off and fight again. Inspiring!
YOU carry both the optimism and the ability. I feel that maybe there is a disconnect somewhere that if I could diagnose and fix I would, even though that would mean losing you to the world where you would be wildly successful. Entertain!
YOU are my outlet to a different world, and a connection I would have never thought I'd make. First and foremost, though, a friend. Prosper!

-Sometimes I look at the world that surrounds me and try to take things in, and process them, and make sense of it all. And not in a philosophical, Einstein, grand unified theory kind of way, but more like Michaelangelo climbing down from the scaffolding of the Sistine Chapel*, after having his nose an inch away from damp fresco paint for nine hours and going "Oh yeah, there's more to THIS than just the part I'm focusing on right now."

*With regards to my "movie scene" post and the Sistine Chapel, Robin Williams' monologue from Good Will Hunting is one of those few scenes (that I would have considered for that post) out there for me that switch categories; from good to great to wow and back again. Sometimes it feels trite ("...a Taster's Choice moment between guys?") and sometimes it feels almost painful ("...they knew the terms 'visiting hours' don't apply to you"). But, I guess I have, in the past caught that movie at just the right time, and felt the "wow" factor, too. ("...I can't learn anything from you, I can't read in some fuckin' book.")

Just kind of putting things back in perspective. I get very bound up in things, minute tiny details that fascinate or horrify me and I feel like I lose the overall gist of the world I inhabit, sometimes. And that's usually when I end up blogging, so all I can ask is that you bear with me if my writing gets muddied or too wandering.

***************************

Well, I'm not sure I conquered writer's block in any meaningful way, but I put the fingers to the keys and wrote. At least my muse didn't have to go looking for me today!

Raindrops on Roses

2008-05-04T09:56:00.008-05:00

GOULET!!!

Great to be back in Burbank, Johnny. Love what you've done with the set.

Anyways...

Its been a few days, and I guess I haven't stumbled over anything so outrageous as to provoke my blogging ire; therefore no posts. (Well, there has been ONE incident... but the players involved have made a bit of a non-blogging pact so that only our close friends have the 411, not the internet community at large.) So, in order to keep myself writing and composing and (hopefully) growing a reading audience I am copping out (in a sense) and starting a kind of personal favorites list. But to avoid a MySpace-bulletin-esque boring list, I will try to give some exposition to each choice and critically attack my choices, rather than just jotting them down.

By the way, thanks so much for all the responses I've gotten to previous posts. Obviously its nice to know that someone is tuning in and your words aren't just floating silently off into a vacuum. The MySpace posts from people without Google accounts, and even the "lost" answers for those of you who attempted to sign up with Google that were relayed to me in person; they are all very meaningful to me.

On to the first item on the list... err.. self-discussion... ahhh.. its a list. As a sidenote, I fully understand that my favorite [fill in the blank] often is not "the best" [fill in the blank] but sometimes... sometimes, it is. I'll be sure and let you know.

Alright. I'm letting you know. We are starting off with a favorite of mine that happens to be the best at what it is. I mean, why delay the inevitable, right?

Individual scene in a movie: Hopper and Walken's head-to-head confrontation in True Romance.

Now, some of you might say, "Whoa, Jay. How can the best individual scene in any movie ever made come from a little known action-ensemble piece from the mid 1990's?" I know. I know. Let me explain.

There are good scenes, there are great scenes and then there are... Wow.

Good scenes (that don't get shuffled off to the trailer just to get you in the darkened theater in the first place) come from a nice combination of writing, acting, cinematography, directing and editing. Obviously, I'm not telling my astute readers anything they don't already know. Good scenes grab you and get in your head in some way. They move the plot along, and are the moments you find yourself talking about afterwards. They could be re-created down at the community theater troupe with enough success to still be considered "good".

Great scenes can change the movie. They might physically jolt the audience, or mentally shock them. Most movies have to build and build towards the scene that the powers-that-be already know is going to be a great scene. Kiss of the Spider Woman. The Blair Witch Project. They can, of course, sneak up on you. Dreyfuss going crazy during Close Encounters. The "I'm black and I'm proud" scene from The Commitments. The less manufactured, the better.

Great scenes have some special quality to them that wouldn't translate to you and I trading the lines back and forth. Its more than just the lines or the delivery.

"Wow" scenes just... happen, though. Its ethereal and fleeting. But when you see them; you know. A certain actor embodies a certain character and finds a particular voice that resonates perfectly. Baldwin in Glengarry Glen Ross. Morgan Freeman walking (and narrating) on the beach at the end of Shawshank. Affleck in Gigli. Just kidding. *

*Anyone else noticed that Affleck's four best roles (Dazed and Confused, Good Will Hunting, Dogma, and Boiler Room) are all virtually UNCONNECTED with a female lead? Whenever he is paired with a starlet-darling (a starling?) the results are Chasing Amy, Armageddon, Forces of Nature, Pearl Harbor and the aforementioned Gigli? I'm just saying.

The True Romance scene, however tops them all. And, understand that in no way am I suggesting that True Romance is a better film than Godfather, or Casablanca or Apocalypse Now. Just singling out this particular scene.

If you haven't seen it, please CLICK HERE to watch it. The thing to understand while you are watching it is that these two actors (and just as importantly their typecasted histories) have embraced their characters in an impressive way. The penultimate bad boy Hopper plays the fatherly-protective ex-cop with ice water in his veins. And the creepily voiced veteran of The Deer Hunter and King of New York tries on the Mafia trenchcoat and attitude for size. The timing, pacing and flow of their back and forth sucks the audience in to the stuffy smoke filled trailer. Each of them knows how the encounter has to end, and each of them is vying for control of the ending.

*shivers*

I remember renting True Romance when I worked at Blockbuster Video and was on a QT kick as Pulp Fiction was about to be released. The cast of the movie is amazing, and I was enjoying it. But I vivdly recall stopping the movie and rewinding through that scene about three times during my FIRST viewing. Amazed hardly sums it up.

It is, for me; the greatest single scene in cinema history. It is a hidden gem in a working-class movie that doesn't get nearly enough recognition.

*************

Verbose, much? Yikes.

The next time I'm stuck for a post, hmmm.... what topic to try? I'm about 91% sure on my answer to the following: What is the best single side of vinyl music ever pressed? (Original releases only, obviously) But I am still doing some research on that one, so I guess we'll get to it next time.

I'd love to hear your favorite individual scene!

Paranthetical Birthday

2008-04-28T23:12:00.003-05:00

In lieu of a regular BeautifulDay post, I will henceforth be writing the god-awfully dull and rambling "birthday post". There are about 48 minutes left from this point until the official CDT calendar flipping of my birthday. (You can cut the tension with a knife, here.) At this point, please feel free to go re-organize the junk drawer in your kitchen, or have a sculpture contest of sorts with that weird sieve of dryer lint that would remind you of jai alai if you knew what that was. Basically this usually turns out to be a pretty boring exercise for everyone involved, and yet I continue ad nauseum, much like if you are on the Sparks Family Winter Holiday newsletter mailing list. You know who you are.

Usually birthdays bring out the categorizing, take-stock-of-it-all side of me. I have this and this and that, and have never/would like to/seemingly should have done that and that and this. I am trying very hard to resist that urge this year.

I have also found in my very intense pre-writing routine (also called "staring off into space on the couch") that this was much easier to write when I was a single guy. All my disaffection and angst and struggles seemed like monolithic, epic, unsurmountable things that I would tackle in my own headstrong and willful ways. Now, it all just kind of seems like whining. (But seriously, did I think I was THAT important?)

I mean, diapers and a mortgage will really put a damper on the 'ol world domination plans.

I was writing books with friends, I was reading everything I could get my hands on, I had valuable and exotic opinions on music and art; and I almost had politics and the world in general figured out. Everything was going my way (except for all the stuff that wasn't, but I was leaping like a spawn-maddened salmon upstream over every obstacle, except you know... saving money, or credit card debt, or being kind to others, or being healthy [sorry, liver]... but whatever, right? It was my birthday, damnit!) and things were clicking.

But now as I sit here as a 31-year old (midnight has come and gone whilst I typed, which is not quite as cool a way to spend a birthday-midnight as riding the needle ride on top of the Stratosphere, I might add) and look around at my life, its almost as if everything has been turned upside down. I am happy NOT being on the pathway to world domination. (Though I haven't totally discarded the idea of starting a religion. Have you seen the tax breaks?) I like buying diapers for my amazing kid, and being a bread-winner to pay off a mortgage and credit card debt and student loans to keep my wife and I in our house. I like picking mandarin orange slices out of the carpet, and wrestling with two 50 pound dogs with no regard for personal space. I like that my cat is mildly demented.

I like that my friends are out there somewhere making lives for themselves and going through things (new and different things than me, even) and I like it even better when we get to see each other for real, in person.

I like 18 year old Irish Whiskey, and I like this strange little concoction called an "Irish Car Bomb". I like being behind a bar more than in front of it, though.

I like getting dressed up, but only because it is the exception to the rule.

I like that people ask me sports trivia questions. If this means that Kevin Spacey will someday super glue a pill bottle to my hand and attempt to cut off my nose, then so be it. (There was also the Marcellus Wallace line from Pulp Fiction, but Fincher wins over QT everytime, sorry.) (Also Kitty from the X-Men, but I digress.)

I like random references.

There are a lot of things I like. And of course, some things I don't. But we'll save that for one of the other 365.25 days a year that isn't my birthday. Well, its a pretty happy 31 year old version of me. Maybe next year I'll get back to the gross overgeneralizations about my life and what is missing and all that jazz. Maybe not.

(If you made it this far, thanks for putting up with me for this.)

Happy Birthday, me. No candles, no friends tonight. Just me. And that's okay. I like me.

Parenthood

2008-04-22T12:03:00.004-05:00

So I'm watching the Disney channel this morning (I know... trust me, I know) and I catch this "music video" for a guy by the name of Dan Zanes. Its just a little throwaway number in between two shows, but its got a great vibe and wouldn't you know it... I notice that my feet are tapping and I'm kind of couch-grooving to this Disney music video. You know: couch-grooving. Don't play. We've all done it.

Sigh.

So I grab the laptop and consult with the almighty Google oracle to find out what the scoop is on this guy. Turns out he's a prolific kids & family musician with kind of a cool DIY vibe. He even apologizes for not having time to play all the birthday party requests, but offers this piece of advice:

I don't have the time, but I have a better idea for you. call your friends that play instruments and ask them if they will put a birthday band together for the occasion. three or four songs can go a long way and it's very inspiring for people to see friends gather together to make music. don' let the professionals have all the fun.

So that's pretty cool.

CLICK HERE for his video page. "Catch a Train" is the one I saw this morning. There are some other gems in there, but I won't spoil it for you, though "Down in the Valley" has a nice featured guest.

But anyways, I've been thinking a lot about music and how we as a species have this innate, silent beacon inside of us that radiates outward looking for sounds and rhythms and music. I've been trying to get more in touch with finding out WHY I am craving a particular artist at a particular time. Or to figure out how unexpected music that I encounter spins the dials of my emotional kaleidoscope.

For example, the past 3 days or so, I've been craving sad, slow, lamenting acoustic stuff. And I still haven't really figured out why I had such a pointed and specific need for that certain mode of music.

I guess a lot of this has been born out of our last Brickwall Film Competition. The assignment we gave to all of our teams (and to ourselves) was to make a music video for local bands here, and I noticed that Jim and I's brainstorming sessions were unusually creative and vivid. And since we finished that video (CLICK HERE to watch it if you'd like, its at a MySpace page so I hope it works) I've found my brain twisting back to music and video and the complex relationship we have cultivated between the two.

I have a lot of friends who are musically inclined, some of which are in functioning bands, some who are solo, and some who are just waiting for the right opportunity to present itself. I myself, not so much. I have other talents in other areas; I think would be a proper outlook on my musical situation. So which ever end of the spectrum you are on, please take just a moment and let me know about your music, and what inspires you or grabs you or that you secretly turn up in the car when it comes on the radio and no one else is riding with you.

And more importantly that WHAT you are listening to, but WHY were you called to listen to it in the first place?

And how does your mind process the music as it streams? Visually? Colors? Memories?

And then? (No and then!) And then? (No and then!)

Pop Quiz

2008-04-15T20:50:00.004-05:00

Okay I have some questions that need answered, and I turn to my reading audience for some enlightenment.

Questions:

a.) Are you allowed to get belligerent about a sporting moment/event/etc that you weren't old enough to remember watching? I just had a 23 year old blow up in the general direction of one of the Berg's TV's, using profanities to tear down the Royals when a clip of "The Call" from 1985 was shown. Do the math. He was 1. One. I (trying to be helpful) reminded him that it was ONLY Game Six when the call happened, with Cards leading 3-2. He spouted some more profanities in my general direction (still concerning the '85 Royals) and I just shook my head and walked off.

Honestly, you were ONE. There should be a statute of limitations on becoming irate about something you weren't even conscious enough to remember live, right? Right?

b.) I like a band. (Hypothetically let's call them... The Post Last Call Smartass Drunks. Or PLCSD for short.) As an outspoken advocate of this band, in all of their historical glory, retro appeal, or new hotness (take your pick)... shouldn't I have a certain basic knowledge about the band members side projects, or postmortem projects (should, Record-Gods forbid, they ever break up), or at least a working familiarity with a large percentage of their discography (say, 92% or more, given that a weird European b-side release with a ska cover of Boot Scootin' Boogie might have escaped my attention)??? I mean, if I try to make fun of a Beatles fan for a (gasp) not so great song of theirs (and by that I mean the one or two songs they ever produced that didn't go straight to #1 on every chart known to man, and a few of the lower-primates' charts, as well) and they just give me a blank stare that signifies they have never even heard OF this particular song, much less HEARD the damn song, can I hand them a "Fanship Revoked" card? Please?

c.) Is strawberry jelly/jam still an acceptable alternative to grape in the PB&J realm? (bleah)

d.) What "exclamatory" word/phrase are YOU trying to bring back? (I know Jim's answer, though his seems like a lost cause) Conversely, what slang-piece are you trying to eradicate from the face of the earth? (Once again, I know Jim's, and I for one, have made a concerted effort to reduce my number of "fo'sho"s)

This test is worth 10% of your grade, so I hope you studied, and I can't wait to hear back from all my devoted readers. Or my devoted reader. Or I'll just meditate in silence. Om...

Dropping like Flies....

2008-04-14T12:38:00.004-05:00

And I'm actually not speaking about Jose Guillen, though I finally get to write a sports-themed blog post! (This means Jim and Graham can roll their eyes and tune out...)

A moment of silence, if you please. Which in itself is ironic, considering the subject matter. I'm mourning right now; mourning the loss of a friend and confidant who guided me through my day, and gave me a fresh perspective (both culturally and geographically) on the topics I tune into.

Stephen A. I hardly knew thee, it seems. Like a north breeze on a muggy Missouri day, like a raving prophet with "the-end-is-nigh" plastered on cardboard... you showed up on my ESPNRadio dial and woke me up. No more of the same overstuffed white male analysts. No more careful eggshells when someone decided to play the race card. No more understated, dry humor.

Yours was a raucous, laugh out loud, in your face radio show; which obviously had polarizing effects here in Mid-Missouri. And at some level, the bad reviews must have outweighed the good. But people rarely call to complain about shows they like. (The "squeaky wheel" syndrome)

So here it is, in all its cliched glory my tribute to the passing of a great hour of my day, 2:00-3:00pm weekdays, The Stephen A. Smith Show on ESPNRadio:

(in full S.A.S intensity and volume) Quite frankly, I hope ESPN knows what it looks like. I hope they know... exactly what this move looks like to the demographic population of its listening radius. Shame on you, ESPN. You think Dan Patrick is going to bring us back? You think there is another Cowherd or Kornheiser waiting around every corner? My voice spoke where no other voices have gone, lately. And I want you to know that.

I'm not Isiah. I'm not Pacman. Don't send me off. My tail will not go between my legs, I will not cower and hide. It is YOUR loss ESPN. It is not me that you punish with my muting, but your own listening audience. You punish them by not letting another side of the story be heard.

But make your business decisions and do what you will. My voice gets stronger, even while you flip my switch "off". Thank you, and good day. See you tomorrow somehow, same bat time, different bat channel, peace out.

It will be interesting to see where ESPN goes with the extra hour. If DP makes an appearance, I guess I will just have to stream Colin online, and then tune into for just the Big Show, and let all those daytime advertising dollars fall on deaf ears.

Just thoughts...

2008-04-10T15:43:00.003-05:00

The world is a strange little place, and we stand in our places ready to say our lines like construction-paper figures, Elmer's glue globbed around our feet, mouths crookedly drawn with marker.

Kittentits.

Frustrations Mounting

2008-04-05T14:38:00.004-05:00

Sickness. Lack of Sleep. Work.

And then there are the things I sort of have some iota of control over. Like running a film competition. Marketing it. Giving interviews, both in print and on the radio. Greasing palms for sponsorships and door prizes. And then, you know, finding time to film your own entry for your own film competition in what amounts to less time than you've given the teams you've scrounged up.

That's where the real problem lies. I wasn't worried that we had a couple fewer teams than we originally dreamt up. I wasn't worried that turnout wasn't overwhelming at the kickoff show. I had a good time and listened to 3 great local bands that were generous enough to donate us some of their songs and some of their time.

[In case you are feeling lost, I am a co-organizer of the Brickwall Film Competition, local here to Columbia, Mo. Click here to be taken to another lovely blog that the other organizer Jim and I maintain for it.]

None of those things really bothered me too much. But the best attribute one can bring to the table when competing in a deadline competition is planning. And usually, even if we are running behind, or small stumbling blocks arise, our plan is strong enough to keep the ship righted and steaming on. Lets just say; we've done this a time or two.

And our plan this time just fell to shambles.

The finger pointing, head-butting and nail-chewing deliberation don't go here. We keep all that behind closed doors. But, suffice to say, we were in a bad way earlier today. [...next time on "How to Rhyme"... ahhh, it never ends.]

So.

A new plan. New ideas are birthed, new scenes are written and new actors chosen to fill new roles. Simpler quickly becomes complex and is then quickly amputated back to simple again. Time is a tourniquet. Work and real life are performing surgery on our weekend. And yet we persevere. We scribble and jot, we visualize, we pitch. We are both too stubborn to argue, because it serves no point. Just ask us about flipping a coin. It happens. We cajole, we dream and then we get serious again.

And at some point we film. At some point.

Its a grand time; running around your hometown trailing wires and equipment while battling the intoxicating effects of sleep deprivation. Trying to get amateur actors (i.e. soon-to-be-former-friends) to remember their lines and deliver those Oscar-worthy goodies without cracking a smile. And then after you drop your last actor off at their car and their whining has faded into the distance as a memory; you edit.

And let me tell the uninitiated among you. There is no activity that is less exciting than being at the "zombie" end of the exhaustion scale and sitting down in front of a monitor and watching the computer slowly (in real time) digest all of the footage YOU JUST SHOT.

And after all of that, the tears, the pain, the joy, all of it; the victorious arm raising moment can still be mercilessly snatched away from you. Denied by the cruel mistress who is technology. The "I forgot to save for the last 30 minutes and now the program is locked up" imp. The "why won't it read this DVD" succubus. Trust me, I could go on.

And the clock is counting down. Just the time it took me to write all this down, I could have fleshed out another scene, or brainstormed a new list of shooting locales. Oh well. Everything will get done. The plan will work out.

Let's just say; we've done this a time or two.

Please come check out ALL of the wonderful films that will be shown on Monday night, April 7th at 7pm in the Deja Vu Comedy Club. And any support (even mental and psychological) is welcome, too. We like good vibes from those of you too far away to attend!

What percent is enough?

2008-04-02T22:42:00.000-05:00

I sit here on my couch, fighting through coughing fits and trying to will myself to sleep for a few hours before tomorrow starts anew. I would normally be flipping through the channels mindlessly, attention deficit floating; but tonight I hardly touch the remote, except to mute out the droning commercials so the rest of the sleeping household won't hear.

My question I'm asking myself as I watch is this: What percentage of my current level of cynicism would I need to actually believe what Barack Obama is saying this evening?

Because I want to believe. The man brings so much to the table. He speaks with passion, he points towards compassion, and there is a quiet conviction and dedication to how he presents himself. He brings feasible ideas forward with clarity and ease. And yet...

I'm scared to let myself believe. How can he stand strong when and where so many others have fallen short? Why him, why now? How many cliches seem to fit? "If something seems to good to be true..."

I don't have a gauge or a good estimate to give a qualitative, objective answer to my question. What I know, for now at least, is that I am far too cynical to anoint him.

I will praise him, though, and with locusts and honey in my beard announce the coming of one who COULD be, and hope that I can be the one who was wrong in the end.

An Ode to my man Bob S

2008-03-25T14:20:00.000-05:00

I guess it might be the slacker side of me, but I have always appreciated what Bob Schneider brought to the table with these lyrics. The song is entitled "Orlando", and since I ripped off some more of his lyrics for the title of my blog, I guess I should give him some love here. Enjoy:

I was sitting naked in a Holiday Inn down in Orlando
And it was the morning of the last day of the year
I didn't know who I was and I thought I might be Marlon Brando
But if I was him... than what the hell was I doing here?
So I asked myself... one simple question
What would I do with the rest of my life?
If I knew I couldn’t fail I guess I'd get the hell
Out of Orlando and find me a rich and beautiful wife

Cause I don’t want to do a damn thing
And I want to be appreciated
And I want to get paid well for it
Don’t want to be hated
I don’t want to do a damn thing... 'cept lie in the sun
And be loved loved loved loved loved by everyone

So I called up the front desk to see if I could rent a porno
They said you better have a credit card I said honey I’m pretty hard up
But I ain’t got no visa I said honey could you please uh help me
She said she was sorry... but I think she was just disgusted
And I was kinda disgusted myself cause it had all come down to this
And I felt like a pervert but goddamn it gets lonely
When you’re sitting in your hotel room naked as a jaybird
Down in Orlando in the middle of the night

So I called up an old friend, just to see how he was doing
But he sounded like a robot... it was like I barely knew him
So I said I had to go now I couldn’t take it any longer
And the desire to throw my naked body out the fifth floor of the Holiday Inn kept getting stronger
I tried to take a cold shower... but I couldn’t get my nerve up
I just sat in that hotel room and tried to cut my own hair
That was the worst idea that I had all day
But goddamn it gets lonely down in f.l.o.r... ida

Then I thought to myself... what the hell was a jaybird
And just what the hell does it look like, what the hell am I thinking, what the hell am I doing
So I tried to write a good song.. but this is all I got
You know I sang it for your girlfriend and she said she liked it a lot, yeah
Except the part about killing myself and the part about trying to find a rich wife
She said you should have gone to Sea World... you might have had a better time
I said thanks for the input... thanks for the advice
But, honey, the only way I’m ever going back to Orlando is if I live life twice

Cause I don’t wanna to do a damn thing
And I want to be appreciated
And I want to get paid well for it
And I don’t want to be hated
I don’t want to do a damn thing except lie in the sun
And be loved loved loved loved loved by everyone