alone in the atlanta airport on easter sunday

Last night I dreamt Damien, Lorelei, and Derek were in my hotel room. They were joking and laughing and jumping around, as kids will do, and I was desperately trying to quiet them down before their dad heard them. Finally I became harsh, like him, and told them they had to go. The three of them started fading, their sounds started fading, and, when I looked again, they were gone.

I have cried so many tears last night and this morning and now I am numb.

more monster

lumps

What is the matter, what can it be
To be so unhappy, to be unhappy
Maybe you got the rabies and maybe you got the flu
But you can't try to fix it, 'cause you don't know what to do

Anxiety, and it's really gonna kill you
Anxiety, killing you like very slow poison

- The Electric Eels

There are times, like now, when my anxiety spikes and I feel like I'm not in control. And yet, at the same time, I also feel like a disembodied, neutral observer. I'm aware of the spike, and even though my insides are feeling off, it's as if I'm outside of the situation, like an objective scientist, measuring it. Wondering what it's all about and when it will pass. It's very strange, but in a way it's also comforting. I like to think that I'm not my anxiety. We may be two entities wrestling inside the same body, but I am separate and distinct. I'm stuck here in the ring, the uneasiness is here with me and I can feel it attacking, but this doesn't necessarily define who I am.

Tonight, however, I am feeling pinned.

birth of a monster

Started messing around with Adobe Illustrator, but had to finish in Photoshop. You can tell which parts I drew in Illustrator. It gives you really clean lines.

kamen mach two

I should never post anything until it's finished.

That said, this has been kicking my ass tonight. We'll call it a rough draft of my vision for installment number two in my Kamen Rider series. It somehow seems off and, try as I might, I haven't figured out how to tighten it up. Still, at least I have it down on paper. The idea has been birthed. Some nights that's the best you can hope for.

I had today off and basically did nothing. I just hung out here, me and the cats. Did laundry and it was warm enough to hang it outside. Cooked salmon for dinner. I have the only cats in the world who don't like salmon. Listened to tunes. Eleventh Dream Day. Don't want to go to work tomorrow. What's new?

lost and found

I've been doing a lot of cleaning lately, and, for a pack rat such as myself, it's sort of like undergoing an archaeological dig of my life. I've been finding a lot of mementos. Two of the items I've stumbled upon are "souvenirs" from my time on the island of Guam. One is a bullet I found while snorkeling in a tidal pool circa 1978. It was a remnant of the ferocious Battle of Guam, fought some 34 years before I found it that calm afternoon. That bullet may have more significance than anything I own, because it fired my imagination and kick started my interest in history at the tender age of eight. I ended up majoring in history, so that's got to count for something.

The other is this pendant. I have a penchant for finding things, and I found this on the schoolyard one day. It, too, has always fired my imagination. The dragon (with crown) around the edges is fascinating enough, but what's always intrigued me are the markings in the middle. This pendant is not worn at all, the outer detail is sharp, and yet the markings seem faint, as if they are shrouded in mist. Were they intended to be that way? And what do they mean, or stand for, if anything? They've always reminded me of a maze or labyrinth, which seems fitting.

Still, while I love a good mystery, I like a good answer, too. There are no markings on the back that lead me toward any jeweler or manufacturer. The only possible clue is that while this looks to be made of silver on the front, it's more like an alloy on the back. It's not ancient. It might not even be old. However, it's nonetheless intriguing. It meant something to someone once, but, to the rest of the world, it carries an air of the mystical.

Of course my superstitious side has wondered from time to time if the damned thing summons evil spirits and has somehow cursed my life. But you know, I wouldn't trade it for anything. This is the only life I know.

camping at Wal-Mart

I drove up to Wal-mart this evening to get a bag of cat litter, and it was out there again. It being the mystery RV that parks in the very back of the Wal-Mart parking lot, and has off and on for several months now. Some nights there's a light on inside, some nights not, but it's almost always sitting there, alone, way off in the distance.

I don't know what to think, but it obviously registers. My mind drifts to camping trips at various state parks, where there's usually an elderly couple, the camp stewards or whatever they're called, who stay for an entire summer and act as the campground caretakers. They ride around in a golf cart and make sure everyone is at the right site, ask how everyone is doing, answer basic questions, and other assorted pleasantries. But at Wal-Mart? What if there was a scuffle in the parking lot? Could I go to them for help? Could I knock on the RV door if I was looking for tea and sympathy? Or directions to Target? Is that what it's there for? It is reassuring to think there might be a friendly old couple inside.

Or maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe its presence is much more sinister. Perhaps a chronic shoplifter owns it and stays close to Wal-Mart to support his habit, all the cabinets and storage spaces crammed with stolen goods. Or worse, maybe an old pedophile camps out there. He probably hangs out on the candy aisle during the day, trying to lure kids back to the van. "Wanna see my Mystery Machine?" "Would you like a Scooby Snack?" I don't know, but it's all very strange.

And it's not just the RV. Sometimes semi trucks park back there, too, their drivers all snug in the beds behind their cabs. This definitely raises an eyebrow. I've never been in any truck stop USA that didn't have a condom dispenser in the men's restroom. Do truckers en masse suffer from delusions of grandeur, or is there really that much action going on at these places? I've certainly never seen it.

But then again, I don't really notice much, do I?

the things you cannot change

My inner life, that conglomeration of my thoughts, dreams and ideas, is as real as my outer existence. To me, one is just an extension of the other. And, more often than not, they all come crashing together. Yes, we all say that, but I walk the walk. I spend most of my time inside my head anyway, so this only makes sense. Inside my head, anything is possible. Imagine if you could carry that same malleability to the outside world.

Everything I see is filled with possibility. This extends to the random fragments we encounter each day. Perhaps especially the random fragments. Nature abhors a vacuum, and my mind can't stand loose ends. Sometimes I wish I had a film crew to document my life, outer and inner, and bring them both together for everyone to see. It would be the most surreal movie ever filmed.

Random comments heard in passing take on a life of their own, and the library is filled with random comments. Take the bit that you hear and plug in your own ending. It's that simple. Like the time I overheard a mom telling her kid that Velcro didn't exist before he was born, or, better yet, like today. On my way to the desk I passed a mother and child nestled together in a big comfy chair. The mom was explaining that race and sex are two things you can't change. How sweet. And that was all I heard as I proceeded along my path. In my mind, however, the story continued.

A mother and child sit nestled in a big, blue comfy chair, sharing a moment of closeness.

"Your race and sex are two things you can't change, dear," the mother says. The child looks up at her unquestioningly and smiles.

Suddenly my head appears over the child's shoulder and whispers two words into his ear. "Bowie did."

Mist appears, the sky opens, and the camera cuts to 20 or 30 seconds of vintage footage of Ziggy Stardust-era Bowie in raging, androgynous glory.

The image fades, revealing the child in a completely mind-blown state. "WOW," he gasps.

The mother is never heard from again.

Of course some people will dismiss this as a coping mechanism, while others will say I'm completely and hopelessly nuts. I only know that where my mind leads, I follow, and it makes for a colorful day.

I think this also explains why I should never, ever have children.

in the shadow of Fuji

This photograph is not mine, or at least it isn't mine in a legal sense. I found and "borrowed" it from a site dedicated to Japan brats, a term of affection for those military brats who did a stint of their childhoods in the Land of the Rising Sun. In another sense, however, this image is very much mine. Except for being slightly off (the apartment complex should be to the right), this was the view I had from the schoolyard at Shirley Lanham Elementary School at Atsugi Naval Air Station in Japan. Every school day, from the fall of 1979 until the spring of 1982, I gazed up at that majestic, snow-capped volcano. To frame this, try to imagine how many woodblock prints have been created over the centuries with Mount Fuji as the subject. I'm hardly the only person who has been awed by its magnificence.

So yes, this image is mine. It reverberates in my mind as clearly as it did 27 years ago. If I close my eyes, I can still see it. Everyone has a place and a time that they look back on with fondness. This is my place and time.

I've been doing a lot of reminiscing about Japan lately. Maybe it's something I'll elaborate on in upcoming posts. For tonight, after another unforgiving shift at work, I think that sharing this photo is enough.

Oyasumi nasai.

baby steps (reclaiming my muse, part one)

I had this idea to do a series on Kamen Rider, a childhood hero of mine. It was supposed to show him in the bloated, washed-out state of middle age. I may still fine tune that, but, whilst playing with a couple images last night, this came out instead. Actually, it's not so far from my original vision. Kamen Rider lunges forward with his fist while our "hero," almost without moving, strikes back with his remote. I like the juxtaposition of these two extremes. It also has the clean, symmetrical feel of an old propaganda poster. I could possibly expand on this. We'll see.

bad friend. bad

I woke up this morning to an e-mail from a friend in Buffalo. I've known him since high school, and although we aren't as close as we used to be, hey, people drift. Especially when years and geographic distance are involved. At any rate, my last correspondence with this friend was sending him and his wife a gift card in December, as they'd just returned home from Colombia with an adopted baby boy. All was well, or so I thought.

Today I got a nice wake up call in the form of a ripping, sarcastic message for not calling or writing to make sure the family was okay in the wake of the plane crash near Buffalo. The operative word here is "near." Anyone who knows me knows I am a news junkie and I pay attention to details. The plane fell on one singular house in a suburb of Buffalo, and my friend and his family live inside the city proper. The plane didn't take out an entire neighborhood, let alone wreak the kind of damage an earthquake or hurricane can do to a region. It involved one freaking house in a huge metro area.

Now don't get me wrong. I am not saying this was not a tragedy. I am not the heartless bastard many of you think. I am saddened whenever I learn of something like this, and putting the families of those lost [and their reactions] on television is especially painful. In fact, it is wrong. People should be allowed to grieve in private.

That said, I never had any reason for concern that my friend or his wife or son might have been affected by this tragedy, and so I went on with my life and my thoughts as I always do. And then I awake this morning to a knife through my computer monitor, as if I am lower than scum. And believe me, I felt low. I felt fucking terrible, but, at that point, what could I do?

This is exactly why I say I'm done with people. You can be riding along in your own little pod and get blasted out of the blue by another person's drama or bad day or whatever. You'll never even see it coming. Which is not to say I'm above creating drama myself, but damn. Why does every little action, or inaction, have to be taken as a personal affront? Whatever happened to peace, love, and understanding?

I love my friends, but not today.

detective on the case

I'm not with it today. This needs a lot more detective imagery added to it, but I'm feeling off:

I have more music than I know what to do with, and probably a quarter to a third of it is composed of albums I’ve found in thrift stores. In a purely monetary sense, it’s the only way I can afford to pursue my passion for tunes. I work in a library, for crissakes. More than money, though, there’s a certain thrill in walking into a thrift store and finding that one gem amidst the piles and piles of fool’s gold. I’m a treasure hunter. I love the element of the unknown, the not knowing when I walk in just what I’ll discover or in what directions these finds will take my collection. However, it’s not for the faint-hearted. You have to be committed and persistent, and you really, truly have to know your stuff. I spend as much time reading about music as I do listening to it, and that’s saying something. Knowledge is your best tool when hunting for anything.

That said, if there’s ever a time I’ve felt the pangs of wanting a Blackberry, it’s been in a thrift store. Inevitably I’ll come upon an album or artist I don’t know and that, for whatever reason, piques my interest. How great it would be if I could jump right on the Net and access Allmusic. Ah, information at my fingertips. But refer back to paragraph one. I work in a library. A Blackberry is a luxury I’ll have to do without. Still, even without direct information, there are things you can do to increase your odds. Yeah, okay, it’s only two or three bucks. What’s the big deal if you get home and it’s sour, right? Well, that shit adds up. Just take my advice and listen.

To start with, sometimes you can judge a book by its cover. The artwork, and sometimes even the font, can tell you something about the music. Something as simple as someone holding a guitar can tell you that you aren’t dealing with electronica. You can do even better than that, though, by deciphering the style. In some cases, the artist’s clothing and hairstyle can drop hints like atomic bombs. Simply by looking at a few visual clues, you can deduce a lot.
To dig deeper, pull the sleeve out of the jewel case and do some reading. The liner notes will usually tell you what instruments are played and, just as importantly, list the personnel. Who plays on the album? Who gets listed in the thank-you section? You might find someone you know dropped in to play on one song, and that can tell you volumes.

In some cases, though, you’ve got to go more intuitive. One way I’ve increased my odds with thrift store finds is by looking at all the music on the shelf. Albums, or anything in a thrift store, rarely occur in isolation. No one takes a solitary disc to a thrift store, the same way no one drops off just one shirt. Donations to thrift stores come in boxes and bags… in VOLUME.

Take today’s find, for example. I went into the Family Thrift Store on Wesleyan Drive and found several CDs on the shelf. An album by the local band Silverscene (jangly Morrissey worshippers, those guys) was there, along with two albums by Lush, one by Moz himself, one by The Connells, and one by Teenage Fanclub. There may have been others, too, but they are escaping me. This is enough, though, to show a point. It’s highly unlikely this assemblage of shoegaze, Britpop, and janglepop took place on its own, over time. These albums represent a very particular taste in music and probably came in together, from one person’s music collection. The only mystery, to me, is that someone decided they were over these bands and dumped them. They’re timeless!

But I digress. This helped me immensely with two discs I was uncertain about, an EP and a single from a band called The Bluetones. It seemed like I’d heard of this band before, but I just wasn’t sure. Oh, if only I’d had my Blackberry! But I didn’t, and I didn’t need it, because the clues were all there like so many fingerprints and blood stains. These CDs had all come in together, and they were all indicative of someone with evolved taste buds. I walked up to the register and made the leap of faith with The Bluetones, knowing the odds were with me.

And, of course, I won.

The Day The Music Died (February 3, 1959)

Oh how our hearts yearn for you. RIP, Buddy.

one day...

... I'm going to reach into my magic hat and pull out another rabbit, but not today. Today is grasping and feeling, but not really finding anything.

I don't know the secret to keeping a blog going when the muse isn't visiting. Sometimes that sea of white is a call to arms, a new world to be conquered, something to be twisted and shaped and morphed in any way one pleases. Something to be blasted and pounded, littered with dots and dashes, and splattered with ink until some shape, angel or devil, rises from the swirling chaos, all the while the writer, hands trembling, chants, "Rise, rise!"

And then other times it is an insurmountable wall.

Today I will not fight. Today I will be my avoidant self and immerse myself in R. Stevie Moore instead.

Ah, Stevie.

S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y night (an ode to scissors and gluesticks)

In 1999, at about this time on a Saturday night, I'd be heading up to Kinko's with a bundle of images and anecdotes in hand. There was never a plan. It was just cool to hang out until the wee hours, cutting and pasting and manipulating images, and listening to the always awful music they piped in. If I was lucky, my diligence at the copier would be interwoven with walk-ins from roaming drunks or the overly curious. Nobody had ever seen art created on a copy machine before, and some of the reactions I got were worth a million dollars. And the art, well, sometimes I'd hit on juxtapositions that would work and sometimes I didn't, but it was always a good time.

Ten years later, everybody's older, and I don't even think Kinko's is open that late anymore. Hell, it's not even called Kinko's now. So I sit at home, where nothing interesting ever happens, and play with Photoshop.

Blah. Am I dead yet?

mi gato/mi gator

Last night I dreamt one of my cats was an alligator. I was also living in one of those houses on stilts in a Louisiana swamp or something. Don't ask me how I knew the alligator was my cat; I just intuitively knew. In real life he's been biting me a lot, which may explain it. We're working through some issues.

At any rate, despite his being an alligator, I felt the need to hang out with him. You can't abandon your bud just because he's an alligator, right?

I think you know how it went.

late for the train

A friend of mine recently sent me a list of his favorite albums of '08 and asked if I had anything I could add. Befuddled, I reminded him that it might be years before I could make a solid "favorites of '08" list. Despite constantly keeping on top of new music for work, I'm always late to discover things for myself. Yes, in the last year I've been acquiring music at the same breakneck speed I always have, but only a small chunk of it is new. I'm only now feeling confident that I could give you a definitive list for 1978, let alone 2008.

That said, when I shoot, I shoot to kill. No, I'm not talking about hunting. I mean that when I buy music, including new music, I've researched the hell out of it first. If I'm giving you my money, you'd better be good. You'd better be something I intend to keep.

A few new titles I've picked up this year, off the top of my head and in no particular order:

The Fireman - Electric Arguments
Attic Lights - Friday Night Lights
Glasvegas - Glasvegas
Old 97's - Blame It On Gravity
Future Clouds & Radar - Peoria
Hacienda - Loud Is The Night
The Magnetic Fields - Distortion
Bob Mould - District Line

Wow, that suddenly seems very short. Of course it doesn't include older albums re-issued last year, which wouldn't be fair.

Check back with me again in five years or so.

you are hear

I wanted to kick this off with an awesome road trip story. Something gripping, you know? I was going to see Kevn Kinney, which, in a way, would have been some kind of full circle for me. My first show, some 20 years or so ago, was to see Drivin' n Cryin' at the Boathouse in Norfolk. And just recently I've rediscovered Kevn, but in the new light of his solo career. The Kevn of now is best summed up by that DnC song "Telling Stories." He has a much more quiet approach without all heavy riffing that characterized his earlier work, and, at his core, there's always a good story. We're both 20 years older, Kevn and I, and we no longer need all that posturing to prove a point.

I was also wanting to get out again, which I haven't done in a good long while. In the spirit of Kevn, maybe take some back road, two-lane highway and see some stretches I hadn't been down before. Take pictures, get lost in the moment, and be open to whatever came up.

At any rate, it wasn't meant to be. For that, Kevn, I apologize.

This is my second attempt at a blog. Or maybe third. I'm not sure. Historically, these things never work out and I always feel a need to downplay my attempts. There will be a lot of music, because music is important to me, but I've always struggled when talking about it. I sit with 1000 CDs to my back and still feel uninformed, like I lack the authority. I don't know the phrases or the influences or whatever it is I'm supposed to know. I only know what I like.

And yet, here I am. We'll see how it goes.