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| I'm lying in the bunk of our bus, riding along I-40, headed home. The ball dropped in NYC about two hours ago and I celebrated by...well, watching MTV. I know, it's a little lame but my other option was watching Dick Clark's Rocking New Year on ABC. Honestly, I was a little more inclined to watch Mr. Clark. This year, however, Dick was sporting the effects of the stroke that kept him from hosting the show last year. Wow. Talk about a buzzkill. I'm sure his publicists and handlers all were hoping for an appearance that would seem heroic and Oprah-worthy...but instead it was just depressing. But I think that's okay--definitely more appropriate than the joining of two generic bands who formed one superbland on Music Television. Oh, I realize there's nothing wrong to ring in the new year with revelry, parties, and kisses at midnight (which I missed again this year...but at least this year I know who I wish I had been kissing). I mean, there's much to celebrate about the passing of 2005. But there's something a little more human, honest, and sobering to watch a man pass not-so-gracefully into old age. Dick Clark, the world's oldest teenager is now just an old man. There's comfort in that. In an odd way, I feel allowed to age gracelessly, to stumble and fall into my late 30s. To be human without reservation.
And that is grace indeed. | | |
| I swear I just woke up from this dream: I was sitting in an outdoor cafe in Los Angeles eating with my parents and I went up to order something from this pasta bar. While the guy was making me something with chicken and pesto (two truly perfect things) this cafe turned into something of a classroom (but was still a cafe...you know how dreams are). In this classroom, there was an interview with Cher going on in the mode of Inside the Actors Studio, but we were all sitting around in a circle at desks. The moderator asked her a question to the effect of, "Cher, put your head down on your desk. Now, respond to this: 'This desk is vibrating with eternal energy'" or something like that. She answered, "Yes, I believe that." For some reason, that really set something off in me and I made some sort of cynical comment like, "We'd better stop using that desk for such subserviant things," but I was totally amazed at how polite, coherent, and smart I was. Then as I continued to speak it was as if there was no classroom anymore, but now it was more of a cafe again but I was joined by Matt Mahaffey, Randy Jackson, Ariele Gentiles, Caroline Hammond, and others I didn't recognize but I was conscious that I knew them. I started explaining why it's ok for some things to be created for "greater" purposes and some to be created for "lesser" purposes, yet in our culture of political correctness, our society is constantly trying to lift up things of lower value to an unintentioned higher value and simultaneously trying to lower "greater" things to a lesser status, all in the name of equality but how doing that cheapens everything. I said that allowing things (I was talking about art, people, consumable items, etc) to perform the function they were created to perform gives the universe it's balance and I told a story to illustrate my point. The funny thing is that the story completely deconstructs the lyrics to Butterfly Boucher's "A Beautiful Book." I said, I've heard a story told where one day there was a tree. There was nothing particularly noble or grand about this tree as it was just another in a giant forest. But somehow the tree started to dream of becoming something great, like a poet's stool or an important book. He had heard of other trees becoming unimportant things that were discarded after one use and he did NOT want to become that. (the way I told this story in the dream sounded as if it were something from mythology the way it was put together, but I'm beginning to lose the details) Finally the day came where this tree was cut down and taken to a nearby farm. Indeed, it was made into a sturdy poet's stool (I'm not sure what makes a poet's stool different from any other. Actually I do. Someone writes poetry while sitting on it as opposed to, say, milking a cow. There's another thought beginning to develop in my head, but I digress). The tree was so happy that it had fulfilled its dream, its purpose, that it began to be snobby to the other wooden things on the farm...until one day it began to recognize himself all around in broom handles, buckets, a doorstop, etc. It was then that he realized that he had been made into many different things. Some more noble, some far less noble, but all from the same tree. [editors note: as I sit and write all of this out, I can't help but be reminded of St. Paul's explanation that the members of the Christian faith are like members of one body--some noble, some not so noble, yet important to the functioning of the body. But in my dream this escaped me, I think.] At this point in the dream I looked at my friend Matt (www.selfies.com if you want to know who Matt is) and said, "For instance, Matt's music is Greater than say, Kelly Clarkson, but he sells waaaaay less than her. Some would say this gives her greater validity but anyone who listens to Self has generally a higher IQ than the average Kelly Clarkson fan," to which he said something about his music being silly and artless, to which I said something about his art being very self-conscious (which makes his band name work on a different level) and intentionally shallow as opposed to Kelly Clarkson being simply simple. Then I went on to Andy Warhol and his theories on disposable culture and art. Somewhere in there I even tried to make a point by comparing a sweater from the Gap vs Burberry. I'll be honest, I have NO idea what was going on in my head to create such frivolity. But seriously, you should've been there. I sounded hella-smart. | | |
| Yeah, it's been a while and I apologize to all three of you who noticed. I've been gone for a while (in more ways than one). And while it's true that I've been connected to the world wide web 80% of the time I've been away, I just haven't had anything to say. Nor do I have anything to say right now. I'm simply forcing fingers to keyboard in an attempt to extract some greater meaning, some vivid interpretation to the things that float carelessly across the sky of my conscience. I don't know what to do in those times I have nothing to say. Unfortunately, in my line of work, much of the time I need to have something to say. It's in these times when I find myself doing the unthinkable: saying what I don't mean. I don't personally think there's anything "wrong" with being speechless, but it's more than a little disconcerting when I'm apathetic about it. What's particularly unsettling is how I could sit across the table from anyone (beit a close friend or casual acquaintence) and have a seemingly interesting conversation with that person yet walk away relatively uneffected and having never meant any of the things I was intimating. Now, that being said, I'm obliged by my self-centered nature to defend me. This is NOT the case with 95% of my conversations. I'm almost always "in the moment" and careful to truly listen. In fact, I'm usually a bit too much into the conversations that I have with friends. The best way I can put it is the way I think about Eddie Vedder. The guy is sincere, to say the least. And I bet that he really means what he says most of the time. But Ed can't be human and not simply "phone it in" every now and again. Right? I mean, he'd have to be Jesus otherwise. And I'm not so sure I want to worship a diety responsible for the NO CODE album.
So, yeah...maybe I did/do have a bit more to say than I thought. | | |
| Here comes the sun, and I say it's alright.
In San Antonio today and I'm seeing the sun for the first time in weeks. I didn't realize how much my moods are effected by weather, but I suppose they are. You go three weeks without seeing the sun though...and well, it sucks.
So, thank you Texas. Blue sky, white whisps of clouds, a slight breeze kissing my cheeks. If the weather was a girl, I'd flirt with her today. I might even buy her an ice cream cone. | | |
| Cleveland rocks!
Well, actually, I'm going to come right out and say it. Cleveland does not rock.
It's not poignant, it's not deep, but I believe this to be the truth. | | |
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