I am re-printing an article that I read in the L.A. Times yesterday while eating breakfast. If you'd like to see the actual article, click on the title above and it will take you to the L.A. Times page... but seeing as I have reprinted it for you, that's hardly necessary.
Creativity is not the domain of youth; some innovators get there through trial and error.
By David W. Galenson and Joshua Kotin
January 30, 2007
At 76, Clint Eastwood is making the best films of his career. "Letters from Iwo Jima" has been nominated for four Academy Awards — including best picture and best director. ("Flags of Our Fathers," which Eastwood also directed last year, received two nominations.) New York Times' film critic A.O. Scott recently named him "the greatest living American filmmaker." Such accolades are the latest development in Eastwood's creative ascension. Two years ago, his "Million Dollar Baby" won best picture and best director, a repeat of his success with "Unforgiven" at age 62 — his first Oscar after making movies for more than 20 years.
Sculptor Louise Bourgeois is 95. Later this year, she will be honored with a retrospective at London's Tate Modern museum. Last November, her "Spider," a sculpture she made at the age of 87, sold at auction for more than $4 million, the highest price ever paid for her work and among the highest ever paid for the work of a living sculptor.
Is such creativity in old age rare? Eastwood and Bourgeois often are considered anomalies. Yet such career arcs — gradual improvements culminating in late achievements — account for many of the most important contributions to the arts. That our society does not generally recognize this fact suggests that we're missing a key concept about creativity.
We often presume creativity is the domain of youth, that great artists are young geniuses, brash and brilliant iconoclasts. Arthur Rimbaud, Pablo Picasso, T.S. Eliot, Orson Welles, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Jasper Johns all revolutionized their artistic disciplines in their teens or 20s. (Picasso, for example, created the first cubist paintings at 25, and Welles made "Citizen Kane" at 25.) These artists made dramatic, inspired discoveries based on important new ideas, which they often encapsulated in individual masterpieces.
But there's another path to artistic success, one that doesn't rely on sudden flashes of insight but on the trial-and-error accumulation of knowledge that ultimately leads to novel manifestations of wisdom and judgment. This is Eastwood's and Bourgeois' path — and it was the path for a host of other artists: Titian and Rembrandt, Monet and Rodin, Frank Lloyd Wright and Le Corbusier, Mark Twain and Henry James, Robert Frost and Elizabeth Bishop, to name a few. (Twain wrote "Tom Sawyer" at 41 and bettered it with "Huckleberry Finn" at 50; Wright completed Fallingwater at 72 and worked on the Guggenheim Museum until his death at 91.)
Paul Cézanne is the archetype of this kind of experimental innovator. After failing the entrance exam for the prestigious École des Beaux-Arts, he left Paris frustrated by his inability to compete with the precocious young artists who congregated in the city's cafes. He formulated his artistic goal, of bringing solidity to Impressionism, only after the age of 30, then spent more than three decades in seclusion in his home in Aix, painstakingly developing his mature style trying to represent the beauty of his native Provence. Finally, in his 60s, he created the masterpieces that influenced every important artist of the next generation.
Frost also matured slowly. He dropped out of Dartmouth and then Harvard, and in his late 20s moved to a farm in rural New Hampshire. His poetic goal was to capture what he called the "sound of sense," the words and cadence of his neighbors' speech. He published his most famous poem, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening," at 49.
At 63, Frost reflected that although young people have sudden flashes of insight, "it is later in the dark of life that you see forms, constellations. And it is the constellations that are philosophy."
These two creative life cycles stem from differences in both goals and methods. Conceptual innovators aim to express new ideas or particular emotions. Their confidence and certainty allow them to achieve this quickly, often by radically breaking rules of disciplines they have just entered. In contrast, experimental innovators try to describe what they see or hear. Their careers are quests for styles that capture the complexity and richness of the world they live in.
The cost of ignoring Cézanne's example is tremendous — and not only for the arts. Our society prefers the simplicity and clarity of conceptual innovation in scholarship and business as well. Yet the conceptual Bill Gateses of the business world do not make the experimental Warren Buffetts less important. Recognizing important experimental work can be difficult; these contributions don't always come all at once. Experimental innovators often begin inauspiciously, so it's also dangerously easy to parlay judgments about early work into assumptions about entire careers.
But perhaps the most important lesson is for experimental innovators themselves: Don't give up. There's time to do game-changing work after 30. Great innovators bloom in their 30s (Jackson Pollock), 40s (Virginia Woolf), 50s (Fyodor Dostoevsky), 60s (Cézanne), 70s (Eastwood) and 80s (Bourgeois).
Who knows how many potential Cézannes we are currently losing? What if Eastwood had stopped directing at 52, after the critical failure of "Firefox," his 1982 film about a U.S. fighter pilot who steals a Soviet aircraft equipped with thought-controlled weapons?
DAVID W. GALENSON is an economist at the University of Chicago. JOSHUA KOTIN, a doctoral student in English at the University of Chicago, is editor of the Chicago Review.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
My Philosophy: Nine Rules To Live By
1. Never do what is expected of you. God made the world chaotic as a test of your faith. You may as well go with the flow of nature, right? Be disruptive, so long as it is the last thing anyone expects you to do. Be courteous, so long as people expect you to be disruptive. And if your friends start to expect the unexpected from you, fear not: Probability is on your side. There are infinite ways to accommodate chaos but there is a limited number of ways to execute order.
A noteworthy corollary to this: Never expect anything from anybody. Expect the unexpected. If a beautiful woman invites you to her place for a candlelit dinner, the LAST thing you should expect is to get laid. The minute you go in there expecting something, Murphy's Law will take effect and render your entire evening fruitless. Better to accept the aforementioned dinner date fully expecting to play Boggle or some other mundane board game. That way, the sex will feel greater than it would've been had you known what to expect.
2. Always believe everything you hear. There is nothing wrong with investing your imagination into the realms of possibility. I don't feel stupid if someone takes me for a fool or misleads me just to show how 'gullible' I am. Why should I feel stupid about believing that anything is possible?
Besides, a person who pulls your leg to see if you are 'gullible' has actually given you the advantage, unbeknownst to them. For you see, there are two types of people in this world: Those who lie and end up being believed, and those who tell the truth and end up being disbelieved. I'd rather be in the latter camp, because eventually the truth will out. On the other hand, to be in the former camp means the novelty gets lost after two or three times; after a while, one realizes that all they've done is reveal themselves to be liars who cannot be believed. And the advantage to that is knowing they were a liar before they realized it themselves.
3. Amuse yourself endlessly at the expense of others. I am not saying you should be cruel to others. What I am saying is that you shouldn't lose your sense of humor, and as we all know the best kind of humor is at someone else's expense. Limit your number of pranks and leg-pulls to a minimum, lest you suffer the fate I described in the last paragraph. Instead, treat everything around you as if life has suddenly transformed into a scene from a comedic movie. Notice how I didn't say "TV sitcom"-- that's because it is really embarrassing to wait for imaginary laugh tracks around people who aren't in on the joke.
4. Exaggerate everything about yourself. Why exaggerate personal details? Because if you don't write the large legend, then someone else will... and they might choose selectively when it comes to what needs to be exaggerated. Better to be thought a braggadocious self-promoter than a victim of slanderous libel. Plus, it gives your critics something to obsess over: No one but your enemies have the time to sift through what is the fact and the fiction of your life!
5. Shun the spotlight. This may seem contradictory on my part, but when you really examine what I've done with my life you'll begin to see that I rarely ever crave to be the center of attention. That's because being a participant is all that matters, and since I try to get by doing as little as possible (or more than is expected, which goes back to Rule #1) then that means being the center of attention is out of the question. And anyhow, it is easier to pull off these rules (especially #6) if no one really knows who you are.
I make it a point to change my personal appearance up often enough to keep even my own family guessing as to what I look like. My recent beard experiments have proven to be phenomenally successful in this regard; I intend to shave my head and wear glasses sometime later this year.
6. Cultivate mystery. This is the most difficult rule on the list, partly due to the fact that Mystery is a mystery unto itself. How does one cultivate Mystery anyway? And what do I mean by 'cultivating' in the first place?
What I mean is, keep people on their toes: Don't explain everything you do, or better yet give daft explanations for everything; Make liberal use of irony and sarcasm at all opportunities, so that no one will know where your true allegiances lie; and above all, never give a straight answer. Why? Because your enemies will use any accurate information against you, and your friends will think you work for the CIA.
7. Disregard the opinions of others. It sounds harsh, but let's face it-- everybody other than you is wrong about everything regarding you. Now, that doesn't mean you should admit to not giving a rat's ass about what other people think. If you are really good at any of these rules, you can feel contempt for everyone around you without them even knowing. And chances are, you have no idea how little weight others give to your own opinions as well.
8. Laugh as a method of self-defense. This is the easiest rule on the list to live by, because it doesn't take much to laugh at anything. I recommend using it as a method of self-defense because there are so many terrible things in this world that could kill us if not for our ability to scoff in the face of death and tragedy.
9. Always give 'em enough rope. If you are as watchful and diligent as I am, then you already know that anyone who is conspiring against you will eventually ensnare themselves in the very webs they created to ensnare you.
And when I say that others are conspiring, I don't mean to be paranoid. I'm just saying that every day, whether on minuscule or magnificent scales, there are mini-plots being waged against you, sometimes innocently and sometimes with a sinister undercurrent. Maybe that guy across from your cubicle is trying to beat you out for a promotion. Maybe that woman down the hall in your apartment complex wants you to proposition her so that she can make her husband jealous. These are all human emotions and feelings, and most of us NEVER act on them.
But the ones who DO act upon those human animal impulses... Well, they've set themselves up for a big fall in an even bigger way, haven't they? And if you are a true disciple of my Nine Rules, then they won't stand a chance when the time comes to exact some payback. So let them wreak their havoc, for it is a short-lived run for them. And after they've spent their energy on tripping you up, all you need to do is give a little tug on the hanging rope. It will not require much on your part, for they will have already fitted the noose around their own neck.
A noteworthy corollary to this: Never expect anything from anybody. Expect the unexpected. If a beautiful woman invites you to her place for a candlelit dinner, the LAST thing you should expect is to get laid. The minute you go in there expecting something, Murphy's Law will take effect and render your entire evening fruitless. Better to accept the aforementioned dinner date fully expecting to play Boggle or some other mundane board game. That way, the sex will feel greater than it would've been had you known what to expect.
2. Always believe everything you hear. There is nothing wrong with investing your imagination into the realms of possibility. I don't feel stupid if someone takes me for a fool or misleads me just to show how 'gullible' I am. Why should I feel stupid about believing that anything is possible?
Besides, a person who pulls your leg to see if you are 'gullible' has actually given you the advantage, unbeknownst to them. For you see, there are two types of people in this world: Those who lie and end up being believed, and those who tell the truth and end up being disbelieved. I'd rather be in the latter camp, because eventually the truth will out. On the other hand, to be in the former camp means the novelty gets lost after two or three times; after a while, one realizes that all they've done is reveal themselves to be liars who cannot be believed. And the advantage to that is knowing they were a liar before they realized it themselves.
3. Amuse yourself endlessly at the expense of others. I am not saying you should be cruel to others. What I am saying is that you shouldn't lose your sense of humor, and as we all know the best kind of humor is at someone else's expense. Limit your number of pranks and leg-pulls to a minimum, lest you suffer the fate I described in the last paragraph. Instead, treat everything around you as if life has suddenly transformed into a scene from a comedic movie. Notice how I didn't say "TV sitcom"-- that's because it is really embarrassing to wait for imaginary laugh tracks around people who aren't in on the joke.
4. Exaggerate everything about yourself. Why exaggerate personal details? Because if you don't write the large legend, then someone else will... and they might choose selectively when it comes to what needs to be exaggerated. Better to be thought a braggadocious self-promoter than a victim of slanderous libel. Plus, it gives your critics something to obsess over: No one but your enemies have the time to sift through what is the fact and the fiction of your life!
5. Shun the spotlight. This may seem contradictory on my part, but when you really examine what I've done with my life you'll begin to see that I rarely ever crave to be the center of attention. That's because being a participant is all that matters, and since I try to get by doing as little as possible (or more than is expected, which goes back to Rule #1) then that means being the center of attention is out of the question. And anyhow, it is easier to pull off these rules (especially #6) if no one really knows who you are.
I make it a point to change my personal appearance up often enough to keep even my own family guessing as to what I look like. My recent beard experiments have proven to be phenomenally successful in this regard; I intend to shave my head and wear glasses sometime later this year.
6. Cultivate mystery. This is the most difficult rule on the list, partly due to the fact that Mystery is a mystery unto itself. How does one cultivate Mystery anyway? And what do I mean by 'cultivating' in the first place?
What I mean is, keep people on their toes: Don't explain everything you do, or better yet give daft explanations for everything; Make liberal use of irony and sarcasm at all opportunities, so that no one will know where your true allegiances lie; and above all, never give a straight answer. Why? Because your enemies will use any accurate information against you, and your friends will think you work for the CIA.
7. Disregard the opinions of others. It sounds harsh, but let's face it-- everybody other than you is wrong about everything regarding you. Now, that doesn't mean you should admit to not giving a rat's ass about what other people think. If you are really good at any of these rules, you can feel contempt for everyone around you without them even knowing. And chances are, you have no idea how little weight others give to your own opinions as well.
8. Laugh as a method of self-defense. This is the easiest rule on the list to live by, because it doesn't take much to laugh at anything. I recommend using it as a method of self-defense because there are so many terrible things in this world that could kill us if not for our ability to scoff in the face of death and tragedy.
9. Always give 'em enough rope. If you are as watchful and diligent as I am, then you already know that anyone who is conspiring against you will eventually ensnare themselves in the very webs they created to ensnare you.
And when I say that others are conspiring, I don't mean to be paranoid. I'm just saying that every day, whether on minuscule or magnificent scales, there are mini-plots being waged against you, sometimes innocently and sometimes with a sinister undercurrent. Maybe that guy across from your cubicle is trying to beat you out for a promotion. Maybe that woman down the hall in your apartment complex wants you to proposition her so that she can make her husband jealous. These are all human emotions and feelings, and most of us NEVER act on them.
But the ones who DO act upon those human animal impulses... Well, they've set themselves up for a big fall in an even bigger way, haven't they? And if you are a true disciple of my Nine Rules, then they won't stand a chance when the time comes to exact some payback. So let them wreak their havoc, for it is a short-lived run for them. And after they've spent their energy on tripping you up, all you need to do is give a little tug on the hanging rope. It will not require much on your part, for they will have already fitted the noose around their own neck.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
unattainable
My birthday weekend was fun-filled and eventful.
Friday night I attended Rose's farewell party. She has decided to make the move up north. Apparently, Los Angeles was killing her inside.
I can't tell you how many women I've met in the past five or six years who came to L.A., ran out of steam and high-tailed it back to where they came from, or perhaps another city.
Los Angeles is a tough nut to crack.
I met some of Rose's friends, some of them impossibly beautiful females with "Unattainable" stamped into their foreheads. And yet I think I did alright, now that I am sporting a beard. Something about the facial hair makes me appear to be my actual age, which leads me to believe that there is something about a man who looks younger than his years that women find somehow deceitful or wrong.
I shaved the beard shortly before Christmas, after a full month of letting it grow as thick as I could. I literally watched myself get younger in the mirror as I shaved off the beard section by section. After that, I decided to let it grow again, with minimal trims and grooming.
Surprisingly, people like the beard. True, they can't recognize me at first if they haven't seen me wearing it yet, but once they settle in they are pleased by it. I'm not sure what it is exactly, but I am elated by it because I like to toy with my appearance, and a beard makes me feel as if I am in disguise or have somehow changed my physiognomy significantly.
I guess if I had a girlfriend right now, she might object... or she might like it. It appears that having a beard might lead to me having a girlfriend again.
*/*
I feel like I am finally ready to have a relationship with someone again.
Rose's departure was a bit sad for me, but I think I know now what she meant to me. I was never sure if I was just pining for companionship or if I was really head over heels for her. I feel now that I was just dipping my toes in the water and seeing if I was stable enough to pursue something with all of my heart.
With Rose, I was not 100% ready. But I also know that what I wanted from her was not based in physical attraction. Rather, Rose brought out my desire for romance again. Courtship. Holding hands. Looking into each other's eyes. Deep conversations. Baring souls and sighing.
I showed up late to the party at the Formosa Cafe. There were a lot of people already there. I mingled and hung out with JJ and Mack, the boys from my band. They were the ones who introduced me to Rose, and were also there to wish her a safe trip up north.
I saw her and she smiled and hugged me, wanting to take pictures. She was on her way to drunkenness. I gave her a gift, a kitschy handbag designed like a Chinese takeout box. Inside the box was a volume of modern poetry.
I hung out for a spell and met her friends, the unattainable ones. Foremost out of the lot emerged Jenny, a firebrand of a girl who stood 5'10", aged 24 years, and had done more in one lifetime than you could squeeze out of six others: a pilot, a singer, a dancer, a traveler, a model, an actress, an artist, a trophy girlfriend... she'd been there and done that and been that and done there fifty times over.
And she was talking to me.
I tell you, it's the beard.
However, I made the mistake of leaving the party to go with the Missing Digit boys over to Lava Lounge, where a friend of a friend's band was playing. I don't regret going, though-- as lackluster as the Lounge was compared to the Formosa (possibly informed by the sad revelation that Lava Lounge is closing its doors for good at the end of February) I needed to get out of there and breathe, lest I give in to rheumy emotion and confess to Rose that I thought I might be falling in love with her and that her leaving would render me vulnerable and sullen.
*/*
I ended up returning to Formosa just before 2am.
The population of the party had dwindled. Indeed, Firebrand Jenny had left long ago, and all that was left were a few stragglers.
Rose didn't see me as I walked in. I stood next to her for almost a full five minutes, watching her sway tipsily on her stool as friends hugged her and said goodbye.
Then, as if on cue (it always seems to me like it's on cue) she turned and focused her bleary eyes on me, and she smiled that grinny smile that habitually melted my icy heart.
"Jamessss," she slurred.
"Rose."
"Oh James," she said, as she hugged me long and hard. And when she pulled away, her hands were still on my face and my arms were around her waist. Her fingers massaged the fluffy wool of my jaw.
And we stood like that for a long time.
"I'm going to miss you," I said.
Rose stared at me as if she could kiss me on the lips. "I'm going to miss you too. But I'll see you in April."
"What, are you coming down to visit then?"
"No... JJ and Mack said you guys are going to play up north. Didn't they tell you?"
I paused. I thought about it. Then I replied, "No, they haven't."
"Really?"
"Hey, I'm just the bass player, what do I know?"
She laughed and kissed me on the cheek. And that was the last I saw of her before she left Los Angeles.
The next night, before we did our show at The Whiskey, I asked the boys about April. They laughed and said they had only suggested that they might go up north and play a show around springtime.
"Man, she musta been pretty wasted," Mack said.
I put on a fake smile and said, "Yeah, she really was..."
*/*
I felt lots of love from family and friends this past weekend, so I know that I am loved and that I have people to love in return. But I am craving romantic love now.
I want to come home and be with a girl and talk about our days and sit on the bed and laugh and joke and chat and maybe kiss and hold each other and caress and snuggle and not necessarily have sex but simply be, with each other, comfortable and carefree.
It's been a long time since I had something like that.
Even though it didn't pan out with Rose, I am glad that it brought me around to this fine point of knowing what it is that I want. I am not sure if I would've wanted anything intimate with Rose because it wasn't her looks that had me enthralled. Her smile was intoxicating, yes, but only because of what spawned the smile, not the smile itself.
Her smile stemmed from a positive belief in art and life.
She had me musing like I hadn't mused in who knows how long.
The last time I went through this was with Holly Golightly, shortly before she went back home to Florida. After Holly departed, I met up with Eve again and picked up where we left off, which was followed by an interim where we both dated other people. Then, Eve and I hooked up again and that lasted for a spell, but eventually it fell apart.
And now I'm on the verge of loving again, and this time I know what I want, and I think I know how to get it... but it's going to take patience, time, and a liberal dose of humor.
And as for Rose, I suspect (in hindsight, of course) that maybe she was just waiting for me to make some sort of declarative statement or bold move. It may not be as over as I think. I may still have a chance one day to discover what she has to offer, if I just take my time and not obsess over it.
In the meantime, I will reevaluate myself as I enter into what seems to be a whole new identity, thanks in large part to this growth of facial hair covering the lower part of my face.
Lately I've been getting strange girls to talk to me right out of the blue, without having to say or do anything. Ironically, my feeling has always been that a beard rendered me less desirable, but I guess I have been wrong all along.
I'm sure there's girls who dig the baby face, but maybe I should see where this goes and decide what to do as the tides of fate bat me to and fro.
It'd be nice to take that approach for a change.
Yes, I think I'm ready to have a worthwhile romance again. Everything around me is pointing to this as my next move. Now all I have to do is remember not to take things for granted or assume that it's easy. That's been my problem in the past: Getting too comfy, getting soft and lazy like the inside of an oyster.
Spring is nearing, and I want to be prepared.
Friday night I attended Rose's farewell party. She has decided to make the move up north. Apparently, Los Angeles was killing her inside.
I can't tell you how many women I've met in the past five or six years who came to L.A., ran out of steam and high-tailed it back to where they came from, or perhaps another city.
Los Angeles is a tough nut to crack.
I met some of Rose's friends, some of them impossibly beautiful females with "Unattainable" stamped into their foreheads. And yet I think I did alright, now that I am sporting a beard. Something about the facial hair makes me appear to be my actual age, which leads me to believe that there is something about a man who looks younger than his years that women find somehow deceitful or wrong.
I shaved the beard shortly before Christmas, after a full month of letting it grow as thick as I could. I literally watched myself get younger in the mirror as I shaved off the beard section by section. After that, I decided to let it grow again, with minimal trims and grooming.
Surprisingly, people like the beard. True, they can't recognize me at first if they haven't seen me wearing it yet, but once they settle in they are pleased by it. I'm not sure what it is exactly, but I am elated by it because I like to toy with my appearance, and a beard makes me feel as if I am in disguise or have somehow changed my physiognomy significantly.
I guess if I had a girlfriend right now, she might object... or she might like it. It appears that having a beard might lead to me having a girlfriend again.
*/*
I feel like I am finally ready to have a relationship with someone again.
Rose's departure was a bit sad for me, but I think I know now what she meant to me. I was never sure if I was just pining for companionship or if I was really head over heels for her. I feel now that I was just dipping my toes in the water and seeing if I was stable enough to pursue something with all of my heart.
With Rose, I was not 100% ready. But I also know that what I wanted from her was not based in physical attraction. Rather, Rose brought out my desire for romance again. Courtship. Holding hands. Looking into each other's eyes. Deep conversations. Baring souls and sighing.
I showed up late to the party at the Formosa Cafe. There were a lot of people already there. I mingled and hung out with JJ and Mack, the boys from my band. They were the ones who introduced me to Rose, and were also there to wish her a safe trip up north.
I saw her and she smiled and hugged me, wanting to take pictures. She was on her way to drunkenness. I gave her a gift, a kitschy handbag designed like a Chinese takeout box. Inside the box was a volume of modern poetry.
I hung out for a spell and met her friends, the unattainable ones. Foremost out of the lot emerged Jenny, a firebrand of a girl who stood 5'10", aged 24 years, and had done more in one lifetime than you could squeeze out of six others: a pilot, a singer, a dancer, a traveler, a model, an actress, an artist, a trophy girlfriend... she'd been there and done that and been that and done there fifty times over.
And she was talking to me.
I tell you, it's the beard.
However, I made the mistake of leaving the party to go with the Missing Digit boys over to Lava Lounge, where a friend of a friend's band was playing. I don't regret going, though-- as lackluster as the Lounge was compared to the Formosa (possibly informed by the sad revelation that Lava Lounge is closing its doors for good at the end of February) I needed to get out of there and breathe, lest I give in to rheumy emotion and confess to Rose that I thought I might be falling in love with her and that her leaving would render me vulnerable and sullen.
*/*
I ended up returning to Formosa just before 2am.
The population of the party had dwindled. Indeed, Firebrand Jenny had left long ago, and all that was left were a few stragglers.
Rose didn't see me as I walked in. I stood next to her for almost a full five minutes, watching her sway tipsily on her stool as friends hugged her and said goodbye.
Then, as if on cue (it always seems to me like it's on cue) she turned and focused her bleary eyes on me, and she smiled that grinny smile that habitually melted my icy heart.
"Jamessss," she slurred.
"Rose."
"Oh James," she said, as she hugged me long and hard. And when she pulled away, her hands were still on my face and my arms were around her waist. Her fingers massaged the fluffy wool of my jaw.
And we stood like that for a long time.
"I'm going to miss you," I said.
Rose stared at me as if she could kiss me on the lips. "I'm going to miss you too. But I'll see you in April."
"What, are you coming down to visit then?"
"No... JJ and Mack said you guys are going to play up north. Didn't they tell you?"
I paused. I thought about it. Then I replied, "No, they haven't."
"Really?"
"Hey, I'm just the bass player, what do I know?"
She laughed and kissed me on the cheek. And that was the last I saw of her before she left Los Angeles.
The next night, before we did our show at The Whiskey, I asked the boys about April. They laughed and said they had only suggested that they might go up north and play a show around springtime.
"Man, she musta been pretty wasted," Mack said.
I put on a fake smile and said, "Yeah, she really was..."
*/*
I felt lots of love from family and friends this past weekend, so I know that I am loved and that I have people to love in return. But I am craving romantic love now.
I want to come home and be with a girl and talk about our days and sit on the bed and laugh and joke and chat and maybe kiss and hold each other and caress and snuggle and not necessarily have sex but simply be, with each other, comfortable and carefree.
It's been a long time since I had something like that.
Even though it didn't pan out with Rose, I am glad that it brought me around to this fine point of knowing what it is that I want. I am not sure if I would've wanted anything intimate with Rose because it wasn't her looks that had me enthralled. Her smile was intoxicating, yes, but only because of what spawned the smile, not the smile itself.
Her smile stemmed from a positive belief in art and life.
She had me musing like I hadn't mused in who knows how long.
The last time I went through this was with Holly Golightly, shortly before she went back home to Florida. After Holly departed, I met up with Eve again and picked up where we left off, which was followed by an interim where we both dated other people. Then, Eve and I hooked up again and that lasted for a spell, but eventually it fell apart.
And now I'm on the verge of loving again, and this time I know what I want, and I think I know how to get it... but it's going to take patience, time, and a liberal dose of humor.
And as for Rose, I suspect (in hindsight, of course) that maybe she was just waiting for me to make some sort of declarative statement or bold move. It may not be as over as I think. I may still have a chance one day to discover what she has to offer, if I just take my time and not obsess over it.
In the meantime, I will reevaluate myself as I enter into what seems to be a whole new identity, thanks in large part to this growth of facial hair covering the lower part of my face.
Lately I've been getting strange girls to talk to me right out of the blue, without having to say or do anything. Ironically, my feeling has always been that a beard rendered me less desirable, but I guess I have been wrong all along.
I'm sure there's girls who dig the baby face, but maybe I should see where this goes and decide what to do as the tides of fate bat me to and fro.
It'd be nice to take that approach for a change.
Yes, I think I'm ready to have a worthwhile romance again. Everything around me is pointing to this as my next move. Now all I have to do is remember not to take things for granted or assume that it's easy. That's been my problem in the past: Getting too comfy, getting soft and lazy like the inside of an oyster.
Spring is nearing, and I want to be prepared.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
motown
Ask the average person to listen to a piece of music and pick out the individual parts. Chances are, they will not know the difference between a bass drum and a high-hat, nor will they know which part is the bass line and which part is the guitar (unless it's a guitar solo, to which they will proceed to play air guitar).
Until someone takes the time to point these things out to you, it's all mud, an amorphous mass of melody and harmony to the layman's ears until the smaller sections that comprise a song are dissected.
*/*
As a kid growing up, I loved the music that my parents played on their stereo. They played The Beatles and doo-wop oldies and a lot of Motown-- after all, this was the stuff they grew up on, so it meant more to them than it did to me.
The Motown selections were always upbeat, joyous and danceable. I never thought twice about the songs themselves. All I knew is that they were catchy and hummable, and I often found myself singing along without really knowing about the intricacies of the music.
As a full-grown man and a musician, I find myself time and again revisiting the Motown catalog and discovering a myriad of treasures. There was so much going on beneath the smooth, polished surface of those chestnuts from the Motor City.
*/*
Case in point: "Stop! In The Name Of Love" by The Supremes.
I'll admit right off the bat that The Supremes were not my cup of tea as a young boy. They were a girl group, for Pete's sake! I was more attuned to Smokey Robinson's balladeering romanticism and Marvin Gaye's simmering masculinity than to the uber-femme posturing of Diana Ross, Florence Ballard and Mary Wilson.
Smokey and Marvin spoke directly to my developing male psyche, whereas The Supremes seemed silly, soft and inconsequential.
I liked "I Hear A Symphony" and "Someday We'll Be Together" from them, and that was about it. I paid none of the other tunes no mind: "Baby Love" was annoying; "Where Did Our Love Go?" barely held my attention; "You Can't Hurry Love" and "You Keep Me Hanging On" were covered by Phil Collins and Kim Wilde respectively, so my bias leaned to the more modern versions (I don't count Soft Cell's interpolation of "Where Did Our Love Go?" on the extended single of "Tainted Love" as a cover).
It was about three or four months ago when I realized the true brilliance of "Stop! In The Name Of Love" during an epiphany that drove me into the deepest depths of tunacy heretofore.
I was driving around town late night, feeling sorry for myself and bemoaning my lack of luck concerning the opposite sex. I had the radio tuned to KRTH 101, the classic L.A. oldies station that has been cranking out the hits for over 35 years.
"Stop!" came on, and rather than switch the station I let it play. Something about that ominous organ intro that rallies into action at the song's onset enervated me.
And then I heard the epiphany, the lilting refrain that mesmerized me like the siren song of Greek mythology.
In the background, as Diana Ross sings the line "I watch you walk down the street/ Knowing your other love you'll meet" the other two Supremes are singing "baby baby" and harmonizing like soulful angels watching over the love affair described in the lyrics, a mournful chorus rhapsodizing poetic in time to the music.
In all the years that I have heard this song played, whether on radio stations or in someone's home or on the jukebox of some dive bar, I have never picked up on that small part, which is almost buried in the mix. I've always noticed Florence Ballard and Mary Wilson's more obvious contributions to that song, but never the "baby baby" part.
Ever.
That is, until recently.
*/*
Since then, I have been obsessed with that song, in particular that ghostly backup part that barely existed for me for the past three decades. I can't get that haunting refrain out of my head for the life of me. It is driving me insane.
It is so beautiful and sad, the way their voices glide underneath Ross' lead vocal, lamenting the poor choices of a figurative cad who is about to go off and break the heart of a woman who loves him dearly.
It could be my story. It could be your story.
Shortly after that epiphany, I began to re-investigate the Motown phenomenon, and realized that the other Supremes' presence wasn't the only thing that was taken for granted by the masses.
*/*
When asked about my influences as a bassist, I always cite one man in particular. And every time I drop this man's name, the interrogator pauses and makes a face, trying to figure out if I am pulling their leg or if I am being intentionally obscure.
I reassure them that I am not joking: My favorite bass player of all time is James Jamerson, who played with the Motown house band on nearly every single Motown hit that was released in their heyday.
I first heard the name James Jamerson when I read an L.A. Times book review of Allan Slutksy's book Standing In The Shadows Of Motown in 1989. By that time I was already well-versed and steeped in Motown trivia, so Jamerson's name clicked in my head immediately. Now I knew the name of the guy who played the famous opening notes of The Temptations' "My Girl", as well as countless other hits.
When I started playing bass guitar, I started getting the question of who my influences were. I had to think about it-- Who were my influences anyway?
Sure, I could say what everyone else says and cite Flea from the Chili Peppers, or Les Claypool from Primus. Maybe I could get all jazzy and deep and drop Jaco Pastorius' name as well. But I knew in my heart that my playing was not in the same league as those guys, and if there was any one bass player that entered my mind when I played it would have to be Jamerson.
So I started answering that question with his name, and people screwed their faces at me in response.
*/*
I never read the book Standing In The Shadows Of Motown, but I rented the DVD last week and marveled at the genius and talent of the unsung heroes of Motown: The Funk Brothers, as they were known back in the days jamming out in Studio A, aka "The Snakepit".
Remember the amorphous mass of melody and harmony I mentioned at the beginning of this blog? Well, in the case of Hitsville USA, that mass had a bunch of different names and personalities. Each name and personality lived a life of its own, and some of them died without ever having the kind of fame and recognition reserved for superstars like Stevie Wonder or Marvin Gaye.
The late James Jamerson emerges from the documentary as a forceful and mercurial performer, a true genius who taught himself how to play and elevated the instrument to another level. He wrote the complicated and syncopated bass lines himself, then played them with one finger on a Fender Precision (more commonly known as the P-Bass) with impossibly high action and heavy gauge strings that he never changed (according to his son, James Jr., never changing the strings on the bass "kept the funk in 'em").
My kinship with Jamerson extends to more than just playing the same instrument: We have the same first name; our birthdays are a week apart, and we share the same Zodiac sun sign (Aquarius); I have a P-Bass similar in design to his; we were both auto didactic (self-taught) musicians...
...And, I assume, both of us were fanatically dedicated with finding the perfect notes, capturing the proper pitch and appropriate feel of any given song.
Just listen to what James is doing on "Stop! In The Name Of Love", for example. He's not playing it straight-- he's putting English on it, making it swing and tapping out percussive flourishes that sneak by your subconscious in the most subliminal ways imaginable.
His genius was that you never noticed it.
*/*
What I don't possess in skill or technique, I make up for by having a good ear and knowing what to play in relation to the rhythm and the melody.
I describe the instrumental sections of the modern pop music combo as follows:
The voice and melody can be represented by the head, where the mouth is located. It is synonymous with the face, which is the first thing most people identify with when they see a group or a solo performer. Looks play a huge part in how music is received.
The guitar and/or keyboard parts are represented by the torso, which is not only attached to the arms but also makes up the main body or frame of a song. This is the heart of a tune, synonymous with the chest.
The drums are the legs of a song, making it move and propel forward, upon which the melodies stand. The tempo is synonymous with the pace of the legs, whether they are walking or running.
And the bass? The bass is the ass. The booty. The lower region. The "bottom end", so to speak. A good bass line will make you shake your booty uncontrollably. The late James Brown knew it, and so does any bass player worth their salt.
Where does the funk from your body emanate? From your ass, of course. Where does the funk come from musically? From the bass, silly.
All of my bass lines come not only from my heart but out of my ass as well.
*/*
One last thing before I go.
I never set out to play the bass.
No one ever sets out to play the bass. In fact, I've only known two people in my entire life who wanted to play the bass: my good friend and former band mate Clay Sails, and a kid who lent me his bass guitar shortly after high school. In both cases, they literally traded the bass for bigger and better things.
I was playing in a band and we didn't have a bassist. Since the other guitarist in the group was far superior to me on the six-string, it was decided that I be the bass player. Fair enough, I supposed, but none of us owned a bass and I had no money to go out and buy one.
An underclassman from my high school volunteered to let me borrow his bass and amplifier (both manufactured by Peavey) until I got one of my own. He barely played it, and although he had aspirations to be a musician, his true passion was cinema.
I never gave the bass back to that kid. It's not like I stole it, though: He would call me from time to time and ask for it back, and I'd say, "Sure man, come down here and take it" because I had no car of my own. But he never got back to me or demanded it back with any hurry.
Finally, I sold the bass one day after having it for two years. The kid never asked me about it, even during the few times when I ran into him again at a concert or a party.
I ended up buying an imitation Rickenbacker from Clay Sails, who was focusing more on guitar and piano. I owned that fake Rick for almost a decade before it was stolen from a friend's home.
These days I play the P-Bass, which was loaned to me by another friend. The P-Bass was just sitting in his garage, and when the fake Rick got robbed he lent me the guitar with no problem. He has never asked me for any money in return.
As for the kid who got me on the track to playing bass all those years ago... He's a movie director now. His major motion picture debut, an animated feature, opened last summer to rave reviews and made lots of money. I intend to rent the DVD just so I can hear his voice on the Commentary.
I wonder if he would've gotten into music more had I given it back to him, or if the bass would've collected dust in his room. Would I even be playing the bass today if not for him loaning it to me? If I had given it back, would I have gone out and bought another one for myself? Would he have neglected his movie dreams and become a first-class bassist par excellence?
It's hard to say. All I know is, he's happy, and so am I. And if I ever run into him again, I'm going to thank him with all of my heart for inadvertently introducing me to something that saved my life... as well as apologize for never giving it back.
Until someone takes the time to point these things out to you, it's all mud, an amorphous mass of melody and harmony to the layman's ears until the smaller sections that comprise a song are dissected.
*/*
As a kid growing up, I loved the music that my parents played on their stereo. They played The Beatles and doo-wop oldies and a lot of Motown-- after all, this was the stuff they grew up on, so it meant more to them than it did to me.
The Motown selections were always upbeat, joyous and danceable. I never thought twice about the songs themselves. All I knew is that they were catchy and hummable, and I often found myself singing along without really knowing about the intricacies of the music.
As a full-grown man and a musician, I find myself time and again revisiting the Motown catalog and discovering a myriad of treasures. There was so much going on beneath the smooth, polished surface of those chestnuts from the Motor City.
*/*
Case in point: "Stop! In The Name Of Love" by The Supremes.
I'll admit right off the bat that The Supremes were not my cup of tea as a young boy. They were a girl group, for Pete's sake! I was more attuned to Smokey Robinson's balladeering romanticism and Marvin Gaye's simmering masculinity than to the uber-femme posturing of Diana Ross, Florence Ballard and Mary Wilson.
Smokey and Marvin spoke directly to my developing male psyche, whereas The Supremes seemed silly, soft and inconsequential.
I liked "I Hear A Symphony" and "Someday We'll Be Together" from them, and that was about it. I paid none of the other tunes no mind: "Baby Love" was annoying; "Where Did Our Love Go?" barely held my attention; "You Can't Hurry Love" and "You Keep Me Hanging On" were covered by Phil Collins and Kim Wilde respectively, so my bias leaned to the more modern versions (I don't count Soft Cell's interpolation of "Where Did Our Love Go?" on the extended single of "Tainted Love" as a cover).
It was about three or four months ago when I realized the true brilliance of "Stop! In The Name Of Love" during an epiphany that drove me into the deepest depths of tunacy heretofore.
I was driving around town late night, feeling sorry for myself and bemoaning my lack of luck concerning the opposite sex. I had the radio tuned to KRTH 101, the classic L.A. oldies station that has been cranking out the hits for over 35 years.
"Stop!" came on, and rather than switch the station I let it play. Something about that ominous organ intro that rallies into action at the song's onset enervated me.
And then I heard the epiphany, the lilting refrain that mesmerized me like the siren song of Greek mythology.
In the background, as Diana Ross sings the line "I watch you walk down the street/ Knowing your other love you'll meet" the other two Supremes are singing "baby baby" and harmonizing like soulful angels watching over the love affair described in the lyrics, a mournful chorus rhapsodizing poetic in time to the music.
In all the years that I have heard this song played, whether on radio stations or in someone's home or on the jukebox of some dive bar, I have never picked up on that small part, which is almost buried in the mix. I've always noticed Florence Ballard and Mary Wilson's more obvious contributions to that song, but never the "baby baby" part.
Ever.
That is, until recently.
*/*
Since then, I have been obsessed with that song, in particular that ghostly backup part that barely existed for me for the past three decades. I can't get that haunting refrain out of my head for the life of me. It is driving me insane.
It is so beautiful and sad, the way their voices glide underneath Ross' lead vocal, lamenting the poor choices of a figurative cad who is about to go off and break the heart of a woman who loves him dearly.
It could be my story. It could be your story.
Shortly after that epiphany, I began to re-investigate the Motown phenomenon, and realized that the other Supremes' presence wasn't the only thing that was taken for granted by the masses.
*/*
When asked about my influences as a bassist, I always cite one man in particular. And every time I drop this man's name, the interrogator pauses and makes a face, trying to figure out if I am pulling their leg or if I am being intentionally obscure.
I reassure them that I am not joking: My favorite bass player of all time is James Jamerson, who played with the Motown house band on nearly every single Motown hit that was released in their heyday.
I first heard the name James Jamerson when I read an L.A. Times book review of Allan Slutksy's book Standing In The Shadows Of Motown in 1989. By that time I was already well-versed and steeped in Motown trivia, so Jamerson's name clicked in my head immediately. Now I knew the name of the guy who played the famous opening notes of The Temptations' "My Girl", as well as countless other hits.
When I started playing bass guitar, I started getting the question of who my influences were. I had to think about it-- Who were my influences anyway?
Sure, I could say what everyone else says and cite Flea from the Chili Peppers, or Les Claypool from Primus. Maybe I could get all jazzy and deep and drop Jaco Pastorius' name as well. But I knew in my heart that my playing was not in the same league as those guys, and if there was any one bass player that entered my mind when I played it would have to be Jamerson.
So I started answering that question with his name, and people screwed their faces at me in response.
*/*
I never read the book Standing In The Shadows Of Motown, but I rented the DVD last week and marveled at the genius and talent of the unsung heroes of Motown: The Funk Brothers, as they were known back in the days jamming out in Studio A, aka "The Snakepit".
Remember the amorphous mass of melody and harmony I mentioned at the beginning of this blog? Well, in the case of Hitsville USA, that mass had a bunch of different names and personalities. Each name and personality lived a life of its own, and some of them died without ever having the kind of fame and recognition reserved for superstars like Stevie Wonder or Marvin Gaye.
The late James Jamerson emerges from the documentary as a forceful and mercurial performer, a true genius who taught himself how to play and elevated the instrument to another level. He wrote the complicated and syncopated bass lines himself, then played them with one finger on a Fender Precision (more commonly known as the P-Bass) with impossibly high action and heavy gauge strings that he never changed (according to his son, James Jr., never changing the strings on the bass "kept the funk in 'em").
My kinship with Jamerson extends to more than just playing the same instrument: We have the same first name; our birthdays are a week apart, and we share the same Zodiac sun sign (Aquarius); I have a P-Bass similar in design to his; we were both auto didactic (self-taught) musicians...
...And, I assume, both of us were fanatically dedicated with finding the perfect notes, capturing the proper pitch and appropriate feel of any given song.
Just listen to what James is doing on "Stop! In The Name Of Love", for example. He's not playing it straight-- he's putting English on it, making it swing and tapping out percussive flourishes that sneak by your subconscious in the most subliminal ways imaginable.
His genius was that you never noticed it.
*/*
What I don't possess in skill or technique, I make up for by having a good ear and knowing what to play in relation to the rhythm and the melody.
I describe the instrumental sections of the modern pop music combo as follows:
The voice and melody can be represented by the head, where the mouth is located. It is synonymous with the face, which is the first thing most people identify with when they see a group or a solo performer. Looks play a huge part in how music is received.
The guitar and/or keyboard parts are represented by the torso, which is not only attached to the arms but also makes up the main body or frame of a song. This is the heart of a tune, synonymous with the chest.
The drums are the legs of a song, making it move and propel forward, upon which the melodies stand. The tempo is synonymous with the pace of the legs, whether they are walking or running.
And the bass? The bass is the ass. The booty. The lower region. The "bottom end", so to speak. A good bass line will make you shake your booty uncontrollably. The late James Brown knew it, and so does any bass player worth their salt.
Where does the funk from your body emanate? From your ass, of course. Where does the funk come from musically? From the bass, silly.
All of my bass lines come not only from my heart but out of my ass as well.
*/*
One last thing before I go.
I never set out to play the bass.
No one ever sets out to play the bass. In fact, I've only known two people in my entire life who wanted to play the bass: my good friend and former band mate Clay Sails, and a kid who lent me his bass guitar shortly after high school. In both cases, they literally traded the bass for bigger and better things.
I was playing in a band and we didn't have a bassist. Since the other guitarist in the group was far superior to me on the six-string, it was decided that I be the bass player. Fair enough, I supposed, but none of us owned a bass and I had no money to go out and buy one.
An underclassman from my high school volunteered to let me borrow his bass and amplifier (both manufactured by Peavey) until I got one of my own. He barely played it, and although he had aspirations to be a musician, his true passion was cinema.
I never gave the bass back to that kid. It's not like I stole it, though: He would call me from time to time and ask for it back, and I'd say, "Sure man, come down here and take it" because I had no car of my own. But he never got back to me or demanded it back with any hurry.
Finally, I sold the bass one day after having it for two years. The kid never asked me about it, even during the few times when I ran into him again at a concert or a party.
I ended up buying an imitation Rickenbacker from Clay Sails, who was focusing more on guitar and piano. I owned that fake Rick for almost a decade before it was stolen from a friend's home.
These days I play the P-Bass, which was loaned to me by another friend. The P-Bass was just sitting in his garage, and when the fake Rick got robbed he lent me the guitar with no problem. He has never asked me for any money in return.
As for the kid who got me on the track to playing bass all those years ago... He's a movie director now. His major motion picture debut, an animated feature, opened last summer to rave reviews and made lots of money. I intend to rent the DVD just so I can hear his voice on the Commentary.
I wonder if he would've gotten into music more had I given it back to him, or if the bass would've collected dust in his room. Would I even be playing the bass today if not for him loaning it to me? If I had given it back, would I have gone out and bought another one for myself? Would he have neglected his movie dreams and become a first-class bassist par excellence?
It's hard to say. All I know is, he's happy, and so am I. And if I ever run into him again, I'm going to thank him with all of my heart for inadvertently introducing me to something that saved my life... as well as apologize for never giving it back.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
writing
It is a dark time right now.
Our President wants to send more troops to Iraq, as if that would help. Our pop cultural heroes keep dying off, reminding us of our own mortality. The villains seem to win or get away unscathed, shuffling off from this mortal coil without having to answer for their crimes.
People are writing less, blogging less. Even myself. I took some time off from blogging last year because I thought I needed to, but I discovered I was wrong.
I like to write. I like to blog. I don't do it for money, or so that I can attract advertisers and generate whore-cash. I don't write to get published, and I don't write to convince the world of my point of view.
I write because it is in me. It has always been in me. And if it is in me, then it needs to come out and get into you.
I gave up on chastising the lazy bloggers and the fairweather writers a long time ago. I don't care anymore if I post rambling blog entries and get zero comments. I don't give a shit if you like what I have to say or not.
I'm going to keep writing, and I'm not going to give up.
*/*
Writing is the only thing at which I am good.
That is to say, writing is the only thing that makes me feel like a true Master.
There will always be more skilled bassists, or more talented artists, or people with funnier stories or far more advanced conversational techniques. There will always be men more handsome than me, or more rugged than me, or more sensitive than me. There will always be someone just a little bit better than me in general.
But when it comes to writing, no one is better than me. That is because no one can write like me, and my writing resembles nobody else's prose.
The great ones are only great because they are widely distributed and read. But I can write better than Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Bukowski.
Wanna know why? Wanna know what's behind my ballsy reasoning?
Because those guys are dead, and I'm still here.
Their words remain, and their words are inspirational and eternal and classic. Their words and their works are enduring pieces of art that stretch into infinity and elevate their ranking damn near sainthood.
But they're dead, and I'm still here. And as far as other living writers go, I'm better than the whole lot of 'em.
That is the attitude one must have when approaching the blank page or the typewriter or the computer keyboard. Otherwise, you shouldn't be writing at all.
*/*
Blood spills in a foreign land. Over here, on the homefront, people are acquiescing left and right, settling for less, throwing the fight, taking dives and accepting bribes.
I don't blame them. They have no choice. They have nothing to fight for, they have no dreams left. The world has plundered their souls and taken all it can take. They have nothing left to offer up in the way of sacrifice.
They live in the real world, where rents can't be be paid and jobs are lost. They live in the material world, where money and bullshit walk hand in hand like a lovestruck couple unaware of their apparent mental illnesses. They live in the physical world where ideas have no weight and currency and therefore serve no purpose...
...and yet they wonder why things are slowly turning insane around them.
I live inside my head. I like living there-- it is preferable to this ugly realm that everyone else seems bound to, this prison for the unimaginative and feeble.
Call me a dreamer. Go ahead. I don't care. We just celebrated the life and death of a dreamer yesterday, so I don't mind it at all. To be in the company of people like MLK or John Lennon is fine with me.
They're dead, but their words live on.
Tell me, people of Earth: When you die, are your words going to live on, or are you taking them with you into the grave?
I know where my words will be-- spinning into eternity!
*/*
I am no longer disappointed by everyone's refusal to realize their own true potentials.
The way I see it, their insistence on bowing down before their insatiable gods and demons is an advantage for me.
What they disinherit-- the kingdom of heaven, peace and prosperity --is all mine for the taking. I have no competition. No one is trying to beat me to it.
I can take my time, or I can rush headlong into the thick of it.
I have choices.
Tell me, people of Earth: What choice do you have when you've thrown in the towel and resigned yourself to defeat so early in the game?
Answer: None. You have no choices when you let the world win.
I'll tell you what: I may not be making any money off of this writing thing, but I feel like I am a wealthy man anyway.
*/*
One of these days I'll get it right. One of these days I'll string the right amount of letters together and form some magic sentence that will unlock the mysteries of the universe and bring happiness and joy to all who are literate and lucky enough to read it.
Until then, I'm going to keep on writing, and I'm not going to stop.
What are you going to do until then?
Our President wants to send more troops to Iraq, as if that would help. Our pop cultural heroes keep dying off, reminding us of our own mortality. The villains seem to win or get away unscathed, shuffling off from this mortal coil without having to answer for their crimes.
People are writing less, blogging less. Even myself. I took some time off from blogging last year because I thought I needed to, but I discovered I was wrong.
I like to write. I like to blog. I don't do it for money, or so that I can attract advertisers and generate whore-cash. I don't write to get published, and I don't write to convince the world of my point of view.
I write because it is in me. It has always been in me. And if it is in me, then it needs to come out and get into you.
I gave up on chastising the lazy bloggers and the fairweather writers a long time ago. I don't care anymore if I post rambling blog entries and get zero comments. I don't give a shit if you like what I have to say or not.
I'm going to keep writing, and I'm not going to give up.
*/*
Writing is the only thing at which I am good.
That is to say, writing is the only thing that makes me feel like a true Master.
There will always be more skilled bassists, or more talented artists, or people with funnier stories or far more advanced conversational techniques. There will always be men more handsome than me, or more rugged than me, or more sensitive than me. There will always be someone just a little bit better than me in general.
But when it comes to writing, no one is better than me. That is because no one can write like me, and my writing resembles nobody else's prose.
The great ones are only great because they are widely distributed and read. But I can write better than Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Bukowski.
Wanna know why? Wanna know what's behind my ballsy reasoning?
Because those guys are dead, and I'm still here.
Their words remain, and their words are inspirational and eternal and classic. Their words and their works are enduring pieces of art that stretch into infinity and elevate their ranking damn near sainthood.
But they're dead, and I'm still here. And as far as other living writers go, I'm better than the whole lot of 'em.
That is the attitude one must have when approaching the blank page or the typewriter or the computer keyboard. Otherwise, you shouldn't be writing at all.
*/*
Blood spills in a foreign land. Over here, on the homefront, people are acquiescing left and right, settling for less, throwing the fight, taking dives and accepting bribes.
I don't blame them. They have no choice. They have nothing to fight for, they have no dreams left. The world has plundered their souls and taken all it can take. They have nothing left to offer up in the way of sacrifice.
They live in the real world, where rents can't be be paid and jobs are lost. They live in the material world, where money and bullshit walk hand in hand like a lovestruck couple unaware of their apparent mental illnesses. They live in the physical world where ideas have no weight and currency and therefore serve no purpose...
...and yet they wonder why things are slowly turning insane around them.
I live inside my head. I like living there-- it is preferable to this ugly realm that everyone else seems bound to, this prison for the unimaginative and feeble.
Call me a dreamer. Go ahead. I don't care. We just celebrated the life and death of a dreamer yesterday, so I don't mind it at all. To be in the company of people like MLK or John Lennon is fine with me.
They're dead, but their words live on.
Tell me, people of Earth: When you die, are your words going to live on, or are you taking them with you into the grave?
I know where my words will be-- spinning into eternity!
*/*
I am no longer disappointed by everyone's refusal to realize their own true potentials.
The way I see it, their insistence on bowing down before their insatiable gods and demons is an advantage for me.
What they disinherit-- the kingdom of heaven, peace and prosperity --is all mine for the taking. I have no competition. No one is trying to beat me to it.
I can take my time, or I can rush headlong into the thick of it.
I have choices.
Tell me, people of Earth: What choice do you have when you've thrown in the towel and resigned yourself to defeat so early in the game?
Answer: None. You have no choices when you let the world win.
I'll tell you what: I may not be making any money off of this writing thing, but I feel like I am a wealthy man anyway.
*/*
One of these days I'll get it right. One of these days I'll string the right amount of letters together and form some magic sentence that will unlock the mysteries of the universe and bring happiness and joy to all who are literate and lucky enough to read it.
Until then, I'm going to keep on writing, and I'm not going to stop.
What are you going to do until then?
Friday, January 12, 2007
college
From time to time, all of us have our doubts about the paths we chose to take in our lives.
It's normal to contemplate what could have been. Hell, I do it all the time. In fact, this past year has been one long revaluation of every decision I've made in the past 15 or 16 years!
But I always manage to bounce back and "stay the course", so to speak. My will to carry on refuses to allow those innermost fears and doubts gnaw at me for very long.
However, I've been thinking lately: What if I put my stubborn pride aside and truly reflect on my past as if every decision I've made has been totally wrong?
What would I conclude?
Hmmmm...
*/*
Let's start with my decision to not go to college.
This is is tricky, because I did try to go to a community college. But I only enrolled in two classes, Criminal Law and Broadcasting. I received an Incomplete in one and a Withdrawal in the other.
The reason I didn't continue, I tell myself, is because I wanted to be a working stiff and I'd had enough of book learning. I wanted to experience life and earn a paycheck and I couldn't wait to do four years of college.
But the fact is, I could've applied for scholarships... and I probably would've garnered a few based upon my ethnicity alone. But I tell myself that I didn't think it was fair that I had a shot at a university when so many non-minority students with the same GPA as me were denied.
I also like to tell myself that right now I'd be up to my scalp in debt, or that the minute I finished college I would've encountered the Quarterlife Crisis that I hear so much about.
And finally, I have always trotted out that old sawhorse about going back to college anytime I want but not right now because I'm doing so much and learning vital skills at my job.
There is some truth in all of these rationalizations, but I wonder if I could've lived the life I lived in my early twenties and still received a quality education.
You may be wondering why I didn't finish those two classes. It's simple, really: I was carpooling with my good friend Sharky, who is known for his tardiness in all aspects of life. I hesitate to blame him for my continual lateness during that semester, because it was my choice to go along with his idea of the both of us going to the same community college. I could've gone to the local college and taken a bus every day, but I let myself be persuaded to tag along with Sharky... who is still taking college courses to this day, I might add.
Ultimately, I just didn't want to go to college. I figured that I'd learn things in the workplace and get experience I couldn't gather from classes. In that respect, I was correct-- I don't think I'd be as seasoned as I am with audio editing, for example, if I'd completed that Broadcasting class.
But then again, if I'd gotten some type of degree, maybe I'd be making more money right now. And maybe I would've met more people that I most likely would not have met. I probably would've gotten laid a lot more too.
It's something to consider.
*/*
The left side of my brain reasons that I had just as many doubts about going to college as I had about not going. Truthfully, I probably had more fears and anxieties about going than not going, because there is a lot of pressure being put upon the average college student in their first year.
I had no pressure from my parents, that's for sure. If they were ever disappointed in my decision to not go, they never voiced it. Shit, they didn't even have money saved up for me in case I did want to go, so it's apparent that they trusted me to make that decision on my own. I don't think they ever expected me to go off to college, to be perfectly frank.
Would they have supported me if I had gone? Maybe. But at the time both sides of my immediate family (split by divorce, of course) were not in any real position to help me financially. They might have suggested I pay for it myself and live at home while attending, but I don't think they would have (or could have) gone beyond that.
They're all doing great now, so if I were eighteen years old again I think college would seem more attainable, more realistic.
But then there's that self-destructive, devil-may-care side of me that would've shirked my responsibilities and squandered my opportunities by not taking it seriously or changing majors mid-term or pursuing dead-end career paths simply because everyone else said it would be beneficial.
And let's not forget that I definitely would've used college as a method of making up for an adolescence that was only begininng to build up juvenile steam in my Senior year. I wanted to par-tay, and I'm certain that I would've neglected my studies in order to hit up the keggers and the social events.
I think I would've folded beneath the weight of exams, living as an adult for the first time, wanting to be creative, looking to have fun, and thinking about long-term goals vs. short-term gain... or at least that's what I tell myself.
*/*
Last but not least, there is the issue of whether college would've been unnecessary or redundant, given my enrollment in Magnet schools from the time I was in second grade until I graduated from high school.
Indeed, many of my peers who went on to colleges and universities would remark to me later on that the first two years of college were basically rehashes of what we learned in our Humanities CORE program. Our high school curriculum was definitely college prep material, and I can't help but wonder if it would've seemed all too easy if I'd gone on to college.
Maybe I would've gotten bored and dropped out anyway. Or maybe it would've challenged me in ways that I cannot imagine. Maybe I would've found a niche for myself that I hadn't counted on, or maybe I would've soldiered on with single-minded concentration by focusing on one supreme goal, whatever that might've been.
And that's the bottom line right there, when you think about it: "Whatever that might've been..." I could go on and on thinking about the infinite possibilities, but none of the tangents I could conjure would get me any closer to knowing if it was a mistake to not go to college.
I often state that, for me, college would've been a disaster, but I don't begrudge anyone for applying themselves to it. I think there is a hint of resentment and envy inherent in that train of thought. It's as if I wrote off something that could've improved me or altered me irrevocably, merely because I was afraid of what might happen if I finished college.
What was I afraid of happening? Perhaps I feared that college would be too hard, that I wasn't smart enough or disciplined enough to hack it. Then again, maybe I was terrified of the notion of watching life pass me by yet again as I buried my nose in books and delayed the gratification of adulthood for another four years.
My half-assed foray into attending classes served as an excuse to not bother trying. Two wasted courses were enough for me to claim that I'd given it a try and it didn't work out. I've been riding the momentum of that claim for the longest time.
And yet, after all these years I am still conflicted over it. I think it is due to not knowing if I really wanted to go to college or not. I sometimes feel like I just dismissed it as sour grapes, but then again I don't feel a burning desire to do all the necessary things it takes to enroll.
I suppose I did the right thing for me at the time. I don't regret not going, but let's say that I had gone: Would I have regretted going? You never really hear people say they regret going to college. They might say it was a waste of time at the very worst, or that their degree is useless... but you never hear people say they regretted it.
There's that Butthole Surfers song where a voice says, "It's better to regret something you have done than to regret something you haven't done!" But that gets followed by the same man asking his son to scream "SATAN! SATAN! SATAN!" at his mother the next time he sees her, so that's not much help to me.
Still, I can't say I know for a fact that my life would be any different had I gone. At least now I can face up to the fears that motivated me to avoid it altogether. For whatever reasons I had for discouraging myself from higher learning, I am content knowing that the path I did take was exciting and challenging in its own way, and it has taken me this long to even entertain the notion that I made a bad move.
In the end, I'm here, I'm alive, I'm happy as I can be... Why ponder what may or may not have been my fate?
In my next post, I think I'll pontificate on my writing and the decisions I made regarding its place in my life.
It's normal to contemplate what could have been. Hell, I do it all the time. In fact, this past year has been one long revaluation of every decision I've made in the past 15 or 16 years!
But I always manage to bounce back and "stay the course", so to speak. My will to carry on refuses to allow those innermost fears and doubts gnaw at me for very long.
However, I've been thinking lately: What if I put my stubborn pride aside and truly reflect on my past as if every decision I've made has been totally wrong?
What would I conclude?
Hmmmm...
*/*
Let's start with my decision to not go to college.
This is is tricky, because I did try to go to a community college. But I only enrolled in two classes, Criminal Law and Broadcasting. I received an Incomplete in one and a Withdrawal in the other.
The reason I didn't continue, I tell myself, is because I wanted to be a working stiff and I'd had enough of book learning. I wanted to experience life and earn a paycheck and I couldn't wait to do four years of college.
But the fact is, I could've applied for scholarships... and I probably would've garnered a few based upon my ethnicity alone. But I tell myself that I didn't think it was fair that I had a shot at a university when so many non-minority students with the same GPA as me were denied.
I also like to tell myself that right now I'd be up to my scalp in debt, or that the minute I finished college I would've encountered the Quarterlife Crisis that I hear so much about.
And finally, I have always trotted out that old sawhorse about going back to college anytime I want but not right now because I'm doing so much and learning vital skills at my job.
There is some truth in all of these rationalizations, but I wonder if I could've lived the life I lived in my early twenties and still received a quality education.
You may be wondering why I didn't finish those two classes. It's simple, really: I was carpooling with my good friend Sharky, who is known for his tardiness in all aspects of life. I hesitate to blame him for my continual lateness during that semester, because it was my choice to go along with his idea of the both of us going to the same community college. I could've gone to the local college and taken a bus every day, but I let myself be persuaded to tag along with Sharky... who is still taking college courses to this day, I might add.
Ultimately, I just didn't want to go to college. I figured that I'd learn things in the workplace and get experience I couldn't gather from classes. In that respect, I was correct-- I don't think I'd be as seasoned as I am with audio editing, for example, if I'd completed that Broadcasting class.
But then again, if I'd gotten some type of degree, maybe I'd be making more money right now. And maybe I would've met more people that I most likely would not have met. I probably would've gotten laid a lot more too.
It's something to consider.
*/*
The left side of my brain reasons that I had just as many doubts about going to college as I had about not going. Truthfully, I probably had more fears and anxieties about going than not going, because there is a lot of pressure being put upon the average college student in their first year.
I had no pressure from my parents, that's for sure. If they were ever disappointed in my decision to not go, they never voiced it. Shit, they didn't even have money saved up for me in case I did want to go, so it's apparent that they trusted me to make that decision on my own. I don't think they ever expected me to go off to college, to be perfectly frank.
Would they have supported me if I had gone? Maybe. But at the time both sides of my immediate family (split by divorce, of course) were not in any real position to help me financially. They might have suggested I pay for it myself and live at home while attending, but I don't think they would have (or could have) gone beyond that.
They're all doing great now, so if I were eighteen years old again I think college would seem more attainable, more realistic.
But then there's that self-destructive, devil-may-care side of me that would've shirked my responsibilities and squandered my opportunities by not taking it seriously or changing majors mid-term or pursuing dead-end career paths simply because everyone else said it would be beneficial.
And let's not forget that I definitely would've used college as a method of making up for an adolescence that was only begininng to build up juvenile steam in my Senior year. I wanted to par-tay, and I'm certain that I would've neglected my studies in order to hit up the keggers and the social events.
I think I would've folded beneath the weight of exams, living as an adult for the first time, wanting to be creative, looking to have fun, and thinking about long-term goals vs. short-term gain... or at least that's what I tell myself.
*/*
Last but not least, there is the issue of whether college would've been unnecessary or redundant, given my enrollment in Magnet schools from the time I was in second grade until I graduated from high school.
Indeed, many of my peers who went on to colleges and universities would remark to me later on that the first two years of college were basically rehashes of what we learned in our Humanities CORE program. Our high school curriculum was definitely college prep material, and I can't help but wonder if it would've seemed all too easy if I'd gone on to college.
Maybe I would've gotten bored and dropped out anyway. Or maybe it would've challenged me in ways that I cannot imagine. Maybe I would've found a niche for myself that I hadn't counted on, or maybe I would've soldiered on with single-minded concentration by focusing on one supreme goal, whatever that might've been.
And that's the bottom line right there, when you think about it: "Whatever that might've been..." I could go on and on thinking about the infinite possibilities, but none of the tangents I could conjure would get me any closer to knowing if it was a mistake to not go to college.
I often state that, for me, college would've been a disaster, but I don't begrudge anyone for applying themselves to it. I think there is a hint of resentment and envy inherent in that train of thought. It's as if I wrote off something that could've improved me or altered me irrevocably, merely because I was afraid of what might happen if I finished college.
What was I afraid of happening? Perhaps I feared that college would be too hard, that I wasn't smart enough or disciplined enough to hack it. Then again, maybe I was terrified of the notion of watching life pass me by yet again as I buried my nose in books and delayed the gratification of adulthood for another four years.
My half-assed foray into attending classes served as an excuse to not bother trying. Two wasted courses were enough for me to claim that I'd given it a try and it didn't work out. I've been riding the momentum of that claim for the longest time.
And yet, after all these years I am still conflicted over it. I think it is due to not knowing if I really wanted to go to college or not. I sometimes feel like I just dismissed it as sour grapes, but then again I don't feel a burning desire to do all the necessary things it takes to enroll.
I suppose I did the right thing for me at the time. I don't regret not going, but let's say that I had gone: Would I have regretted going? You never really hear people say they regret going to college. They might say it was a waste of time at the very worst, or that their degree is useless... but you never hear people say they regretted it.
There's that Butthole Surfers song where a voice says, "It's better to regret something you have done than to regret something you haven't done!" But that gets followed by the same man asking his son to scream "SATAN! SATAN! SATAN!" at his mother the next time he sees her, so that's not much help to me.
Still, I can't say I know for a fact that my life would be any different had I gone. At least now I can face up to the fears that motivated me to avoid it altogether. For whatever reasons I had for discouraging myself from higher learning, I am content knowing that the path I did take was exciting and challenging in its own way, and it has taken me this long to even entertain the notion that I made a bad move.
In the end, I'm here, I'm alive, I'm happy as I can be... Why ponder what may or may not have been my fate?
In my next post, I think I'll pontificate on my writing and the decisions I made regarding its place in my life.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
mope
The song: "Girlfriend In A Coma", written by Morrissey/Marr and performed by The Smiths.
The video: This was the first Smiths video that I ever saw on MTV. I never knew what Morrissey looked like, because I never owned any Smiths albums prior to seeing this. All of my school friends adored them but it took some time before I caught on, and then by the time I even knew what they looked like they had broken up and that was it.
It is probably my all-time favorite Smiths song, because it is both hilarious and sad... plus it is very short and catchy, the way all perfect pop songs should be.
I have no idea what movie is superimposed over Morrissey, but I'm sure a nice thorough Google search will reveal that for me.
Enjoy.
The video: This was the first Smiths video that I ever saw on MTV. I never knew what Morrissey looked like, because I never owned any Smiths albums prior to seeing this. All of my school friends adored them but it took some time before I caught on, and then by the time I even knew what they looked like they had broken up and that was it.
It is probably my all-time favorite Smiths song, because it is both hilarious and sad... plus it is very short and catchy, the way all perfect pop songs should be.
I have no idea what movie is superimposed over Morrissey, but I'm sure a nice thorough Google search will reveal that for me.
Enjoy.
Monday, January 08, 2007
sick
The song: "While My Guitar Gently Weeps", written by the late George Harrison and originally recorded by The Beatles.
The event: The 2004 Rock & Roll Hall of Fame ceremonies.
The skinny motherfucker playing some mean-ass guitar: Prince, playing some of the best six-string slinging I've ever heard from him. I've been meaning to get a load of this when I first heard about his blistering solo during the traditional all-star git jam that happens at the end of the event, but I only got around to finding the clip on YouTube recently.
Enjoy.
The event: The 2004 Rock & Roll Hall of Fame ceremonies.
The skinny motherfucker playing some mean-ass guitar: Prince, playing some of the best six-string slinging I've ever heard from him. I've been meaning to get a load of this when I first heard about his blistering solo during the traditional all-star git jam that happens at the end of the event, but I only got around to finding the clip on YouTube recently.
Enjoy.
Friday, January 05, 2007
believe
Happy New Year!
Good news: I am clean and sober for the first time in 15 years.
OK, so I smoked some pot on New Year's Eve and washed it back with a Newcastle. But it wasn't my pot-- I haven't bought any weed for my own consumption in over a month. And the Newcastle was a freebie from the bartender with whom I am friends... I tipped her, of course, but the beer itself cost me nothing.
I haven't had any cocaine since last Saturday, and my dealer announced that he is no longer selling small bags, which is good for me since that's all I seemed to purchase.
I still smoke cigarettes though. That one is going to be tough, because I am truly addicted to nicotine.
Still, it feels good to be drug-free. I am not expecting to go cold turkey, but I know that my partaking has gone down in general ever since I made an earnest effort to quit smoking pot, which has always been my greatest love.
Once I cut down on the herb, everything else seemed to fall into place. And if I smoke it every now and then, that's fine-- I was sick of doing it all day every day. Every once in a while is the way it should be.
By the way: I don't consider these to be resolutions. The late Charles Bukowski's headstone is engraved with the words "Don't Try", which means that there is only doing and not doing-- there is no such thing as "try".
New Year's resolutions are nothing but a bunch of tries. But what I've done with myself... that's a bunch of dos and don'ts.
*/*
I owe some of my new found sobriety to Rose, whom I mentioned in my recent Las Vegas mini-epic posts.
I've only known Rose for about five months, but in that short time she has been nothing but wonderful in helping me find my way during the second half of 2006, a period where I felt like I'd lost my direction and sense of self.
Rose and I are not a couple. Rather, she has been quite possibly the purest muse I've had in many a year. I won't lie, though: I did like her right off the bat, but after a while I found myself wondering what about her held my fascination so raptly.
I think the answer lies in my unwillingness to rebound in the wake of my break-up with Eve. It would've been easier to just throw myself into something else. And even if I'd felt that Rose felt the same way as me (which, to be honest, I am not sure nor do I care to find out) I think that finding an immediate substitute for Eve would've been disastrous, considering that I was still trying to find myself again.
Plus, Rose had a "boyfriend" who lived out of state, a situation I (correctly) predicted would lead to no avail for her.
Rose broke up with said boyfriend shortly after Halloween, when she sang the Columbia and Magenta parts during Missing Digits' live interpretation of "Time Warp" from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I didn't hear from her for a while after that, and she cut back on her My Space access during that time.
Then, she re-emerged and started contacting me again. We made plans to go see the Rene Magritte exhibit at LACMA in December.
We went and ate breakfast at Swinger's in Hollywood, where she regaled me with the news of her relationship's end. I should've been happy-- now I had my chance to win her heart and woo her off her feet, right?
However, I had already decided by that time that, whatever it was I saw in her, it had nothing to do with wanting to date again. No, it had more to do with hearing things from a fresh perspective, and Rose was up to that task.
So when she went on about her reasons for terminating her affair with her out-of-state man, I paid it mind merely on the surface. Deep down, I did not want to know, just as I was sure she did not need to know about my cocaine binges, my borderline bipolar episodes, and my past girlfriends.
I was just happy to be in the company of a smart, cute, sensible girl who (after two and a half months of asking her out and having her straddle the fence with me) finally sought me out for my companionship.
We had a lot of fun that day, and then she told me that she was leaving Los Angeles because she was not happy here and she felt she could pursue a more meaningful existence in the northern part of California.
I saw this coming a mile away, and encouraged her to follow her bliss. Rose is like many girls I've met in the past five or six years: dissatisfied with her position and her place (to quote the great Bob Dylan), and disturbed by L.A.'s tendency to eat sensitive people alive.
Normally, news like this would cause me to sulk and possibly attempt to persuade said girl to stay despite her obvious interest in relocating. But this time around, I did the opposite and cheered her for her initiative.
Rose smiled when I told her not to give up, and the reason she smiled is because I explained to her that, when I was feeling like I could not continue to play in Missing Digits or pursue my own dreams, she was the one who told me not to quit.
Genuine reciprocity can sometimes be more romantic and sweet than holding hands or exchanging goo-goo eyes... and let's face it-- I was not ready for anything more than what we were sharing that day.
Rose has taught me a lot of lessons without even trying. The recent one that I'm about to mention qualifies as one of the biggest lessons I've learned not only this year but in my entire life as well.
*/*
She called me up and asked me what I had planned for New Year's Eve. I told her I might go and hang out with Big JJ at the nightclub where he works the door. She then invited me to go to her friend's house for a small party, and then maybe afterwards we could go to the club and grab a few drinks before calling it a night.
I agreed to that plan. Then, before I was about to get off the phone, I casually mentioned that I'd seen Jackass Number Two on DVD earlier in the day.
Rose paused and said, "Why is everyone in my life telling me this information? It seems like anyone I talk to these days has seen this movie and feels the need to inform me of it."
I sensed irritation in her voice, but rather than drop the subject I instead tried to explain its appeal. "In every man, there's a 15 year-old boy trying to break out."
"Yeah, but that's why you play in a rock band," she said.
"I thought it was funny. You can tell the Jackass guys are getting more creative with their stunts and--"
>click<
The phone went dead. I didn't assume that she had hung up on me, but when I called her back not once or twice but three times and got no answer, I suddenly wondered if she'd been so offended by my exaltation of Johnny Knoxville and company that she cut me off mid-sentence.
I didn't think Rose would be the type to do that, but it made no sense for the phone line to just cut off like that... and calling her back three times to listen to the line ring endlessly only made me more anxious.
I could've tried her cel phone, but my phone line has been on Toll Restriction since I refused to pay the long distance portion of my bill (long story, don't ask) and so I knew I would not be able to call her on that line.
So I waited.
She didn't call me back.
I got worried. I started to think about all the girls who never gave me an explanation for their dismissal of me. I wondered if Rose was worth knowing if she was so quick to judge me like that.
I snorted a gram of cocaine to my head, which only increased my paranoia. I stayed up all night hoping to hear the phone ring.
Before I finally went to sleep, I fired off an apologetic e-mail, hoping that I could reach her that way. I wasn't mad at her at all. If anything, I felt like I'd opened my big mouth once again and ruined everything with my inability to shut the fuck up.
The next morning, I resolved to go out to the club by myself. I did not want to go to her friend's party if she was upset at me. The rejection felt all too real. This past year was rife with rejection, not just from the likes of Eve but other individuals as well. Most of them didn't even give me the benefit of an explanation-- they just turned on me and didn't look back.
So when the eve of the New Year was upon me, I was determined not to let it get me down. I was ready to go out and get drunk and forget that I was seemingly repulsive to every female on the face of the planet.
Right before I left the apartment, I received a phone call. It was from Rose. But I did not pick it up-- I let it ring as I headed out the door. I did not want to know what she had to say to me.
I wound up at the club and talked with Big JJ and saw an incredible all-Asian punk band. I received a beer from the bartender and smoked some weed in the parking lot with JJ's girlfriend Carrie. I even ran into some friends whom I had invited to the club, seeing as they had no plans of their own for the New Year.
Then, just as we were about to go get some food at IHOP, Rose and her friends showed up. I walked over to her, a little out of my gourd and weary for the wear.
"Hey!" she said, smiling. "I called you. What happened?"
"Hi... I didn't hear back from you."
"I know, my power went out in my apartment and I couldn't use the phone because it's a portable, and my cel wasn't charged up."
"Ohhhh..." It all started to make sense.
"Why didn't you come to the party? I gave you directions and everything."
"I... I... I didn't think you wanted me to come."
"What? Are you crazy? Of course I wanted you to come."
I started to feel really stupid for flaking on her, so I changed the subject. "How was the party?"
"It was OK-- it would've been better if you'd shown up. Here, I have something for you."
She pulled out of her petticoat a small rectangle wrapped in paper. It was a gift.
"I got you a little something for Christmas and I wanted to give it to you tonight."
I was speechless. Unable to think properly, I proceeded to open the gift.
Rose talked as I unwrapped it. "Remember at LACMA when you were sketching in your notepad and that woman came up to you and started talking to you about art? And remember how I sat down and talked with the both of you but she just wanted to talk to you instead? And remember how you were kind enough to include me in the conversation anyway, even though she had her eyes on you? Well, I was thinking about that when I found this gift in Venice, and I wrote a little quote in there that reminded me of you."
Her gift to me was a small, portable sketch book. On the first page, in clear red handwritten print, was the following quote:
"To believe is to be strong. Doubt cramps energy. Belief is power. Only so far as a man believes strongly, mightily, can he act cheerfully, or do any thing that is worth the doing." --Frederick W. Robertson
And I laughed to myself when I read the words "Doubt cramps energy" and I looked at her and said, "Thank you. I have a gift for you too, at home. I can go get it if you want."
Rose laughed. "I think you'd better not worry about that. You look trashed. Get some coffee in you, sweetie. Happy New Year."
We hugged for what seemed like an eternity. I promised her I'd be back after getting some joe in my gullet, but she didn't take my tipsy words seriously. By the time I'd returned to the club, she had gone home.
*/*
We sorted the whole mess out, and eventually I gave her my gift: a book of Picasso's sketches, with accompanying slides.
I am going to miss her when she is gone, but we still have some time left before she makes the move up north. For her birthday, she is having a party... and this time I will not give in to my silly fears and wild anxieties.
This time, I will take her advice and be strong by believing in something. She reminded me of that only a few hours after the start of 2007, and so it is only appropriate that I take her up on that.
2006 was a bad year for me, but if I had to single out one event as being good, it would have to be meeting Rose for the first time. She gave me confidence when I had none, and she and I have shared a lot of love and warmth and encouragement.
We have the power to believe, and that's enough to get by on, isn't it?
Happy New Year, everyone...
Good news: I am clean and sober for the first time in 15 years.
OK, so I smoked some pot on New Year's Eve and washed it back with a Newcastle. But it wasn't my pot-- I haven't bought any weed for my own consumption in over a month. And the Newcastle was a freebie from the bartender with whom I am friends... I tipped her, of course, but the beer itself cost me nothing.
I haven't had any cocaine since last Saturday, and my dealer announced that he is no longer selling small bags, which is good for me since that's all I seemed to purchase.
I still smoke cigarettes though. That one is going to be tough, because I am truly addicted to nicotine.
Still, it feels good to be drug-free. I am not expecting to go cold turkey, but I know that my partaking has gone down in general ever since I made an earnest effort to quit smoking pot, which has always been my greatest love.
Once I cut down on the herb, everything else seemed to fall into place. And if I smoke it every now and then, that's fine-- I was sick of doing it all day every day. Every once in a while is the way it should be.
By the way: I don't consider these to be resolutions. The late Charles Bukowski's headstone is engraved with the words "Don't Try", which means that there is only doing and not doing-- there is no such thing as "try".
New Year's resolutions are nothing but a bunch of tries. But what I've done with myself... that's a bunch of dos and don'ts.
*/*
I owe some of my new found sobriety to Rose, whom I mentioned in my recent Las Vegas mini-epic posts.
I've only known Rose for about five months, but in that short time she has been nothing but wonderful in helping me find my way during the second half of 2006, a period where I felt like I'd lost my direction and sense of self.
Rose and I are not a couple. Rather, she has been quite possibly the purest muse I've had in many a year. I won't lie, though: I did like her right off the bat, but after a while I found myself wondering what about her held my fascination so raptly.
I think the answer lies in my unwillingness to rebound in the wake of my break-up with Eve. It would've been easier to just throw myself into something else. And even if I'd felt that Rose felt the same way as me (which, to be honest, I am not sure nor do I care to find out) I think that finding an immediate substitute for Eve would've been disastrous, considering that I was still trying to find myself again.
Plus, Rose had a "boyfriend" who lived out of state, a situation I (correctly) predicted would lead to no avail for her.
Rose broke up with said boyfriend shortly after Halloween, when she sang the Columbia and Magenta parts during Missing Digits' live interpretation of "Time Warp" from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I didn't hear from her for a while after that, and she cut back on her My Space access during that time.
Then, she re-emerged and started contacting me again. We made plans to go see the Rene Magritte exhibit at LACMA in December.
We went and ate breakfast at Swinger's in Hollywood, where she regaled me with the news of her relationship's end. I should've been happy-- now I had my chance to win her heart and woo her off her feet, right?
However, I had already decided by that time that, whatever it was I saw in her, it had nothing to do with wanting to date again. No, it had more to do with hearing things from a fresh perspective, and Rose was up to that task.
So when she went on about her reasons for terminating her affair with her out-of-state man, I paid it mind merely on the surface. Deep down, I did not want to know, just as I was sure she did not need to know about my cocaine binges, my borderline bipolar episodes, and my past girlfriends.
I was just happy to be in the company of a smart, cute, sensible girl who (after two and a half months of asking her out and having her straddle the fence with me) finally sought me out for my companionship.
We had a lot of fun that day, and then she told me that she was leaving Los Angeles because she was not happy here and she felt she could pursue a more meaningful existence in the northern part of California.
I saw this coming a mile away, and encouraged her to follow her bliss. Rose is like many girls I've met in the past five or six years: dissatisfied with her position and her place (to quote the great Bob Dylan), and disturbed by L.A.'s tendency to eat sensitive people alive.
Normally, news like this would cause me to sulk and possibly attempt to persuade said girl to stay despite her obvious interest in relocating. But this time around, I did the opposite and cheered her for her initiative.
Rose smiled when I told her not to give up, and the reason she smiled is because I explained to her that, when I was feeling like I could not continue to play in Missing Digits or pursue my own dreams, she was the one who told me not to quit.
Genuine reciprocity can sometimes be more romantic and sweet than holding hands or exchanging goo-goo eyes... and let's face it-- I was not ready for anything more than what we were sharing that day.
Rose has taught me a lot of lessons without even trying. The recent one that I'm about to mention qualifies as one of the biggest lessons I've learned not only this year but in my entire life as well.
*/*
She called me up and asked me what I had planned for New Year's Eve. I told her I might go and hang out with Big JJ at the nightclub where he works the door. She then invited me to go to her friend's house for a small party, and then maybe afterwards we could go to the club and grab a few drinks before calling it a night.
I agreed to that plan. Then, before I was about to get off the phone, I casually mentioned that I'd seen Jackass Number Two on DVD earlier in the day.
Rose paused and said, "Why is everyone in my life telling me this information? It seems like anyone I talk to these days has seen this movie and feels the need to inform me of it."
I sensed irritation in her voice, but rather than drop the subject I instead tried to explain its appeal. "In every man, there's a 15 year-old boy trying to break out."
"Yeah, but that's why you play in a rock band," she said.
"I thought it was funny. You can tell the Jackass guys are getting more creative with their stunts and--"
>click<
The phone went dead. I didn't assume that she had hung up on me, but when I called her back not once or twice but three times and got no answer, I suddenly wondered if she'd been so offended by my exaltation of Johnny Knoxville and company that she cut me off mid-sentence.
I didn't think Rose would be the type to do that, but it made no sense for the phone line to just cut off like that... and calling her back three times to listen to the line ring endlessly only made me more anxious.
I could've tried her cel phone, but my phone line has been on Toll Restriction since I refused to pay the long distance portion of my bill (long story, don't ask) and so I knew I would not be able to call her on that line.
So I waited.
She didn't call me back.
I got worried. I started to think about all the girls who never gave me an explanation for their dismissal of me. I wondered if Rose was worth knowing if she was so quick to judge me like that.
I snorted a gram of cocaine to my head, which only increased my paranoia. I stayed up all night hoping to hear the phone ring.
Before I finally went to sleep, I fired off an apologetic e-mail, hoping that I could reach her that way. I wasn't mad at her at all. If anything, I felt like I'd opened my big mouth once again and ruined everything with my inability to shut the fuck up.
The next morning, I resolved to go out to the club by myself. I did not want to go to her friend's party if she was upset at me. The rejection felt all too real. This past year was rife with rejection, not just from the likes of Eve but other individuals as well. Most of them didn't even give me the benefit of an explanation-- they just turned on me and didn't look back.
So when the eve of the New Year was upon me, I was determined not to let it get me down. I was ready to go out and get drunk and forget that I was seemingly repulsive to every female on the face of the planet.
Right before I left the apartment, I received a phone call. It was from Rose. But I did not pick it up-- I let it ring as I headed out the door. I did not want to know what she had to say to me.
I wound up at the club and talked with Big JJ and saw an incredible all-Asian punk band. I received a beer from the bartender and smoked some weed in the parking lot with JJ's girlfriend Carrie. I even ran into some friends whom I had invited to the club, seeing as they had no plans of their own for the New Year.
Then, just as we were about to go get some food at IHOP, Rose and her friends showed up. I walked over to her, a little out of my gourd and weary for the wear.
"Hey!" she said, smiling. "I called you. What happened?"
"Hi... I didn't hear back from you."
"I know, my power went out in my apartment and I couldn't use the phone because it's a portable, and my cel wasn't charged up."
"Ohhhh..." It all started to make sense.
"Why didn't you come to the party? I gave you directions and everything."
"I... I... I didn't think you wanted me to come."
"What? Are you crazy? Of course I wanted you to come."
I started to feel really stupid for flaking on her, so I changed the subject. "How was the party?"
"It was OK-- it would've been better if you'd shown up. Here, I have something for you."
She pulled out of her petticoat a small rectangle wrapped in paper. It was a gift.
"I got you a little something for Christmas and I wanted to give it to you tonight."
I was speechless. Unable to think properly, I proceeded to open the gift.
Rose talked as I unwrapped it. "Remember at LACMA when you were sketching in your notepad and that woman came up to you and started talking to you about art? And remember how I sat down and talked with the both of you but she just wanted to talk to you instead? And remember how you were kind enough to include me in the conversation anyway, even though she had her eyes on you? Well, I was thinking about that when I found this gift in Venice, and I wrote a little quote in there that reminded me of you."
Her gift to me was a small, portable sketch book. On the first page, in clear red handwritten print, was the following quote:
"To believe is to be strong. Doubt cramps energy. Belief is power. Only so far as a man believes strongly, mightily, can he act cheerfully, or do any thing that is worth the doing." --Frederick W. Robertson
And I laughed to myself when I read the words "Doubt cramps energy" and I looked at her and said, "Thank you. I have a gift for you too, at home. I can go get it if you want."
Rose laughed. "I think you'd better not worry about that. You look trashed. Get some coffee in you, sweetie. Happy New Year."
We hugged for what seemed like an eternity. I promised her I'd be back after getting some joe in my gullet, but she didn't take my tipsy words seriously. By the time I'd returned to the club, she had gone home.
*/*
We sorted the whole mess out, and eventually I gave her my gift: a book of Picasso's sketches, with accompanying slides.
I am going to miss her when she is gone, but we still have some time left before she makes the move up north. For her birthday, she is having a party... and this time I will not give in to my silly fears and wild anxieties.
This time, I will take her advice and be strong by believing in something. She reminded me of that only a few hours after the start of 2007, and so it is only appropriate that I take her up on that.
2006 was a bad year for me, but if I had to single out one event as being good, it would have to be meeting Rose for the first time. She gave me confidence when I had none, and she and I have shared a lot of love and warmth and encouragement.
We have the power to believe, and that's enough to get by on, isn't it?
Happy New Year, everyone...
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