As Close As I'm Gonna Get To Saying Goodbye

A body washed up on the shores of Michigan recently. It was the body of someone I know. He was a musician. An engineer. A drinking buddy. A friend. No matter how dark things got with him, no matter how much I despise how it ended, I will always remember him in a good light.

Cheers, Dave.

Wristcutters: A Love Story – or – Cuddle Up And Crack Open A Vein.

This movie was given to me to watch. I didn't pick it out. There is no heart wrenching back story to why I would pick a movie with this title. I didn't know it existed before it was given to me, along with a whole bunch of other more-sweetly-titled movies, to watch on an airplane. I didn't watch it on an airplane. I took my sweet time getting around to it, but last night, after tossing around in my bed for a few hours, I gave up on trying to get any sleep and popped this movie in.



I'm not going to sit here and say shit like, "I not only loved the subtle nuances within the cinematography, scenery, and plot mechanics, but was pleasantly surprised by the subtle facial expressions utilized by the actors to express their character's emotional depth while never breaking out of the their constraining body casts dictated by the situations in which they find themselves."

Rather than say that and sound like a jerk, I'll just say that I really dig this movie. Even with it's seemingly pointless tangents and it's outright dark sense of humor, I found myself laughing, thinking, comparing similarities, pining for the days of a poolside walrus, and shortly there after, happily falling asleep.

I don’t care what time it is.

My bed is littered with instruments.

I can’t sleep there.

And everywhere else I look is already full of instruments that have no other place to go.

I have restrung them, retuned them, refurbished them, reintroduced them into the repertoire, refashioned my fingers around them, reacquainted myself with their tone, their strings, my calluses need time to readjust to their attack decay and release.

Attack. Decay. Release.

Is this really what happens to me after a dram of Irish Whiskey and a new Vampire Weekend album?

An Overheard Conversation - or - I Don't Think That They Offer A Masters In Understanding The Opposite Sex

I was drinking with some friends at the same table as these women. I know them, they know me, we were at the same table. This was a conversation between two ladies that didn’t know I was listening.

“If he is the kind of guy that you really like, that you know you want, then you know that you will jump at the opportunity. You will lie to him and tell him that you were wide awake and will meet him at that bar in a matter of minutes, even though you are in your pajamas and snuggled down in your bed. That’s what I mean. That’s jumping at opportunity.”

I left shortly after this conversation happened, knowing fully well that I’ve never been that guy for any woman I’ve ever met.

Seriously? - or - Fucking Seriously?!?

Bullshit bullshit bullshit.

I got a flat tire tonight, after having all my money stolen, my raise refused, my interest rates increased, and my health care canceled.

I’m waiting for something to go drastically right, because I’m getting a lot of the other direction from the swing of this pendulum.

The timing really sucks. The week is supposed to be great for me.

I Got Robbed Without Being There - or - Gimme My Money Back

$500 is all the money that I keep accessible to myself these days. Check that, KEPT. Someone stole it from an ATM at 4500 W North Ave block yesterday while I was at work.

WHILE I WAS FUCKING WORKING MY ASS OFF TO SCRAPE TOGETHER A LITTLE BIT OF MONEY SO THAT I CAN HAVE JUST A LITTLE BIT OF FUN IN MY REGULARLY VANISHING FREE TIME, SOME LOW LIFE ASSHOLE TOOK WHAT LITTLE MONEY I HAD. SOME SCUM SUCKING FUCK THAT ISN'T WORTH THE FUCKING CARBON HE OR SHE IS MADE OUT OF HACKED MY FUCKING BANK ACCOUNT AND WALKED AWAY WITH $500 OF MY HARD EARNED CASH!!

I'm pissed. I want my money back. I didn't even get to waste it on something stupid. The bank says that I will probably get the money re-credited to my account in a couple days, but until then it looks like I'll be buying dinner with laundry quarters. Will someone take me out on a date? Wine and dine me? I'll compliment your outfit and serenade you with Irish drinking songs. And that's what dating is really all about, right?

Chicago Is For Lovers! Or Drunks! - or - Preparation G

I hate being left alone to my own vices. Vices always seem to win. I need some serious distractions. Maybe I'll try learning figuring out the rubix cube, that should keep me out of harms way until the weekend.

Maybe I'll just buy a bunch of different coloured stickers and put them on every cube I see and just fool myself into feeling like a rubix cube master instead of actually being one.

Maybe I'll just rent 2012 and fall asleep to the apocalypse. Easy way out works for me. End of the world staring John Cusack, here I come. Do you have any idea what the street value of this mountain is?



post script - no, the title of this post doesn't make any sense to me either, but that's because my vices got to me before I knew I had set them loose. Damn vices, always a step ahead.

6:37am 3/5/2010 - or - Here's What's Happening So Far Today

It’s 6:08 am. Overcast and cool, probably 70˚ F. No air conditioning last night, didn’t need it. I slept with a sheet over me and the balcony door wide open. I have some ant bites on my ankles, which is a wonderful replacement for the frost bite that would have been Chicago’s alternative. Breakfast is a whole orange, peeled and sliced horizontally, a whole red apple – cored and sliced, a whole mango – sliced the way I’m learning is the only way to slice a mango, a whole banana – sliced into larger than bit sized sections, and half a pineapple – cut in a way that makes it look like a holiday decoration you’d hang from your porch rather than something you’d eat. All of this cost 120 pecos, just over a dollar. This is the second time I’ve gotten this fruit plate and I can’t finish it this time either. I’ll give some away to the kids that beg me for money. They seem to always go for the mango first. I don’t blame them, the mangos taste like nothing I’ve ever tasted before. They are soft and sweet and juicy and bright orange and inviting. I’m going to walk to the Ritzl gardens, maybe half a mile north of my surprisingly beautiful hotel (nestled in one of the many slums of Manila). I’ve got four hours until I have any real plans. The lack of sunshine today might be a bummer for me, but this whole place could use some rain. I’ve heard that there are massive droughts going on, and frankly, the place kinda needs a shower.

My first day I made the mistake of drinking the tap water. Stupid stupid stupid. I’m fine now. I’ve resolidified. Bottled water only, and no ice.

I’ve been waking up unbelievably early every morning, like a 12 year old at Christmas. Without hesitate, I walk around my new neighborhood, a stark contrast to northern Chicago. There is massive poverty, everywhere, but it is not morbid or depressing. I am greeted with wide-eyes stares that are quickly followed by toothy (and toothless) smiles as I wave and smile to strangers. “Good morning, sir!” the people say to me. “Good morning, Sir! Good morning, Miss!” I reply. Even the people sleeping on the street are happy and bubbly, either that or they are pretending to be happy. I’m not sure which, but they are damn good actors if it is the later. I give out fruit to the shirtless boys and girls who ask for money, tips to the street venders who sell me whatever food they think I want, high fives to the floods of laughing school children who fill the streets at 3pm, and handshakes to men and women on the street. There are security officers everywhere, so there is a sense of security, but honestly, they are just as happy to see me and shake hands as the school children, sometimes even more so.

I am only here for a week, but every second opens my eyes and makes me smile. And no matter what it smells like, or how uneven the roads are, or how absolutely crazy the traffic is, I’m loving every second of it. Every damn second.

The sun is breaking through the clouds just now. Gotta go be alive.

Time To Fly

Imelda De La Cruz Is Made Out Of Awesome - or - A Sneek Peek At Your Favorite Musicial Colaberation

Imelda De La Cruz and I will be playing a show at Chicago's Double Door on Tuesday, March 23rd. It is going to be our first show together and we are having a blast getting ready for it. If I haven't said it before, Imelda is the most talented and thoughtful musician I have ever had the privilege to not only play with, but to become friends with. Check her out.

In Just One Week It Will All Change - or - Bad Haircuts Are Indacitive Of Good Times On The Way

What to say, where to start, why aren't I sleeping? This always happens. I look at my mirror and sing Dire Straights lyrics to my reflection. "That ain't working, that's the way you do it." Something has got to change, and I know what it is. All my life, my hair has been the joke that my scalp plays on my social life. I've had mohawks and pho-hawks, parts and cowlicks, blond hair, red hair, brown hair, purple hair, blue hair, green hair, and now (my favorite) gray hair. It grows straight out of my head, perfecting ignoring gravity exactly the way the rest of the physical world cannot. It had gotten out of control lately, it looked like some horrible giant had stepped on a fuzzy forest animal and, in an effort to feel less horrible about destroying something fuzzy, had glued it to the top of my head. At one point in my early twenties, I remember naming my hair, Bob. I remember telling my employers that Bob was a sentient being and was no longer my responsibility to maintain. Bob could take care of himself. Bob mostly just made a mess of himself and my employers made it clear that Bob had to go. Bob makes cameo appearances once in a while.

Last time i got my haircut, I went to the Hair Cuttery down the street from where I live, mostly because the haircut I got before that was at a fancy place with a fancy name, cost me $45, and looked like God had taken a dump on my head. At the Hair Cuttery, a solemn black lady named Michelle cut my hair. I was single then, but I blamed the clipper strokes above my right ear on my non-existent girlfriend.

"I asked my girl to cut my hair," I lied to Michelle, "and look what she did to the side. One swipe of those clippers over my ear and I bolted out of that chair and I came here." I pointed to the bald spot above my right ear where, in a self-confident fit of stupid, I had pressed my clippers against my head forgetting to put on the #4 clip. This was a bold faced lie, but it was easier to have a patsy in the form of a non-existant lady-friend than to take any heat for trying to cut my own hair. In the words of Yoda, there was no try, there was only do not. "Think you can fix it?"

"Sure I can fix it, but learn your lesson. Keep her away from those clippers." She laughed. I joined her laughter with a guilty version of my own chortles while pulling off my glasses and entering the world of fuzzy vision. Now, it should be known that when I take off my glasses, I cannot see a damn thing. My chin has to be resting on the space bar in order for me to be able to read anything on the screen of my computer. So when I take off my glasses and I get my hair cut, I get no frame of reference as to how much is being lopped off and how much is being left on top. It's almost like magic when I put my glasses back on. Everything about me looks totally different. I'm cosmically (cosmetically) reborn, and I am either a beautiful, beautiful butterfly or the ugly duckling. Mostly it the latter, but I’ll get to that. This liberation from responsibility due to lack of visual clarity is a technique that I am putting into practice a lot these days; flying blind. Just letting go of everything and seeing where I float off to – sunny sandy beaches or class five white water rapids. Either way, someone else is steering. It is a cathartic release for a nit-picky pseudo-perfectionist like myself. Alas, it is not the best way to get your hair done. Michelle nailed it that first time though, months and months ago. Back then, when I put my glasses back on and she handed me that black handled mirror while spinning me around, I saw myself neatly trimmed-in on the sides and back, and slightly-to-mostly out of control on the top. Order and Chaos, Ying and Yang, ebb and flow, Cain and Abel, Donny and Marie, apples and uranium. It was like a modern mullet; business on the sides, insane asylum on the top. I got my passport pictures taken a few days later. I made sure to be holding Ray-Ray the Ukulele during the photo shoot and there is clearly a noticeable shit-eating-grin smeared across my face as a result of playing "Tonight, You Belong To Me" while getting my international identification card prepared. Point being, it was a damn good haircut, so I made a point to remember Michelle's name.

I went back there today. Fifteen minutes later and after clump after clump after clump of salt and pepper hair was sheared off my head and fell into my lap, I put my glasses back on. In all honesty, I wasn't surprised. Excluding the last haircut I got from Michelle, I never like the way my haircuts turn out, and this one defiantly fit into the category of, “I hate you, haircut.” It was more of a military functional flattop than a style. It sat on top of my head like an awkward patch of grass in the desert, like a dead squirrel weeks after the impact, like a dunce cap, like a bright orange traffic cone, like a groaner of a punch line. It looked bad. I was not upset though. I mostly went to the barber as a need to start the last week of the way my life has been for a long time, and a bad haircut is a great way to start the end of a lifestyle you want to stop.

Let's think about that for a second. The only points that I've made so far are that I like flying blind, I usually get bad haircuts, and I’m trying to change the way I live.

I realize that I only get haircuts before big events, like my brother's wedding, or my best friend's wedding, or passport photo day (which is a thirty-one year-old’s equivalent to school picture day). Since 1998, I've been buzzing my own hair hours after getting a bad haircut. You might think that after almost twelve years of paying for haircuts only to turn around and buzz it all down to #4 moments later is a waste of time and money. You would think right. But the action of getting my hair cut is worth more than the $15 (plus $5 tip, even though I don’t like the end result, I tip people who make me feel good) and the half hour it takes to get it done. The point is that this relinquishing of my image to someone with a pair of scissors and a bunch of combs in a jar full of blue liquid is a catalyst for change in my life, I’m preparing for vast changes and improvements. And totally unlike Reganomics, change and improvements in me most frequently start at the very top of my head and work their way into every aspect of my life. I gladly shelled out a twenty as I prepared myself for what might be the best decision I’ve ever made.

This time next week, I will be landing on the other world. I am going there to meet her, the woman I have been dreaming about, the woman I whisper goodnight to even though I know she can’t hear me, the woman I call amazing. I am nervous and excited and overwhelmed and short of breath and totally unprepared, but I’ve cut my hair, twice, so I know I ready for some of those big time changes I’ve been dreaming about. Beautiful Mystery, I'm on my way to you

An End To A Means - or - Where Am I?

It scares the absolute life out of me that there is such a vocal air of intolerance and hatred abound in the American population these days. Pro-lifers confessing, in the name of Jesus, to the murder of abortion doctors, huge groups of right-wing Christian fanatics demanding that public schools teach that the founding father meant for the US to be a Christian nation, political groups such as the Tea Party, Oath Keepers, and Friends for Liberty smearing together politics with blatant racism while forming armed militias, all of whom are fueled further into a blind nuke-um-all conservative rage by Fox News’ conservative extremist Glen Beck and his 9/12 Project. Quotes such as this one from Richard Behney, a Republican Senate candidate from my neighboring state of Indiana, who said that if the 2010 elections did not have the results he wanted, his reaction would be this. “I’m cleaning my guns and getting ready for the big show,” [sitation – New York Times - Tea Party Lights Fuse for Rebellion on Right] make it hard for me to sleep at night. I fear that the country that I am living in, that I am a part of, is becoming the face of modern intolerance. I am honestly scared for my sanity, my religious freedom, and my country. As Sarah Palin said to a sea of white, conservative, Christian zealots, who paid $350-$550 to see her disseminate her bigoted, sectarian, racist, yet totally hypocritical and self serving rhetoric at Nashville’s recent Tea Party Convention, “America is ready for another revolution!” You are right, Sarah. It is time to revolt against ideology, against intolerance, and against the ever-growing hatred being harbored within this countries white Christians zealots against all other people who differ, racially, morally or ethnically, from them. I will revolt towards true freedom of expression, true freedom of religion, and every single person’s right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That means my tolerance for intolerance has been exhausted, and I will call out bigotry whenever I see it. Tea Partiers be warned.

Beautiful Mystery - or - Botanical Mistress

This is my favorite flower.
Where I’m from, this is called Passion Vine.
Where I’m from, this doesn’t grow, doesn't bloom, doesn't survive the winter.
Where I'm from, it is sold fully grown on iron trestles.
I used to sell this plant to rich people with excessive gardens that they didn't tend.
I was always sad to send one off to it's doom.
Where Passion Vine is from, it is considered a weed.
I want to go there and try to find a flower I'd like more.
Maybe next week.

Change, Loss, And Other Verbs - or - I Got This Lil Grin Goin' Today

A month ago, I admitted that I had a problem that only I could solve. I started the cogs of a self-improvement machine, an experiment in self-control and decision-making. It started with a damn cold run along the lake, as well as the purchase of a couple of dumbbells and a small note pad that I now carry around with me where ever I go. It was time to start feeling more better, more often, without morphine.

A week ago, I signed up for a group, a class, and a change of personal philosophy.

Yesterday, I climbed. I was the only one to reach the top, and when I got back down to the floor, my forearms were burning, my fingers were numb and without any sensation, I was covered in sweat, and smiling like a madman.

Today I jumped at opportunity. It's more of a leap. Of blind faith. Off a cliff. In the dark. I don't know where I'll land, but I sure like falling.

Tomorrow, I play. My bands are getting out there more and more, playing better and better gigs for more and more people. Imelda and I have reconnected and will play a show together. My muses are in full swing and I am inspired to play my heart out like a madman.

I know what I want in my mind, in my heart, and in my life. And for the first time, I am doing everything I can to make it all happen. I am changing what didn’t work and focusing on what I know I want.

A lot of sad things have happened in my hometown lately. Unexpected deaths, seemingly unnecessary and unfortunate events, and my family, my friends, my community, and I are morning the loss of some very good people. It makes me realize that I shouldn’t wait to run and write and climb and jump and play and change. This is all the time we get, and I don’t want to waste it being angry at nothing, or at least nothing that I can't change. Instead I’m taking aim at what I want, what will make me feel like the man that I want to become. I will grab life by the…


Here are some links that make me feel good.
Charles Sparin's Happiness Project
Do Make Say Think is an instrumental band with a bunch of verbs for a name.
Storycatchers Theater does honest hard hitting theater with youth, some of whom are doing hard time, honest.
APTP will change the world, one play at a time.
I Love This World is a blog about the good things in life some of us forget to see.

What Are My Options? Vote Republican? - or - AIG Shitstorm

Today was Illinois' primary elections. I voted. I am pissed about the spineless Democratic party, flopping around like a bunch of jelly fish while the Republicans, who are still the minority, walk all over them. But A.I.G pisses me off more. The The New York Times is reporting that tomorrow, A.I.G. will dole out $100,000,000 of U.S. bailout money to it's employees as bonus money. Bonuses for A.I.G. investors, the lot who caused the majority of the financial woes of the last two years, to KEEP WORKING FOR A.I.G! It's not funny and I'm not joking. The bonuses are part of a package that was designed to stop the very people who pole vaulted us into near-depression type recession and double digit unemployment from leaving their jobs as financial investors at A.I.G. Fuck that and fuck A.I.G. I don't want to give them one penny. Not one red cent. Burn it to the ground.

Look what happened, now I'm talking about politics on this site. What the bloody hell is going on in this country? That's it. I want to be Canadian.