For the past few weeks I’ve been studying the music I’m preparing for grad school auditions by listening to recordings and watching countless guitar videos on youtube. A few nights ago I worked my way through a few recordings of Mexican composer Manuel Ponce’s Sonatina Meridional. I’ve always been curious about Mexican composers—how many can a music student/lover name? True, there’s Silvestre Revueltas, but smart money says his name is just a blip in most music history textbooks, somewhere towards the back of the book in a desperate attempt chapter to balance out the dead white Europeans with the rest of the world. There’s Cesar Chavez, although his name is probably just as popular. Both have symphonies and assorted works floating out there, but how often do you really hear them?
Anyway. Mexico, guitar…right. I was listening to Cuban master Manuel Barrueco’s recording of Sonatina, and a certain passage in the first movement stood out like a knife wound. This one bit is brief and simple: a single note line running up and down, connecting two contrasting sections, a flight Ponce seems to dare the guitarist to showcase and sculpt in some way. Barrueco, for whatever reason, unceremoniously rushes through the line like a child doing chores, as audibly romantic as binary code.
The next morning I scoured youtube for videos of the same piece and found Croatian superstar Ana Vidovic’s interpretation (illegally?) nicked from her new DVD. Same single line passage, nearly identical passionless run through. I have the music (with dynamic markings, I add), I’ve been coached on the piece before, and I’ve heard other recordings, enough to know that there isn’t just one way to interpret the line—it’s just as open to lush imagination as I think it is. Barrueco’s and Vidovic’s versions are separated by a good twenty years, so it can’t be some sort of “in vogue” interpretational statement of the times. What strikes me, however, is the fact that Vidovic studied with Barrueco, and it’s entirely safe to say she didn’t touch this piece until she began working with him.
I shouldn’t be surprised—study with someone and you’re likely to take on their characteristics, especially in music, especially if you’re studying with someone as renown as Barrueco. Still, well on my way to grad school auditions, there’s the unavoidable fact whomever I study with will have an outcome on how I play. Influence aside, I’m reassessing the idea that it’s a matter between processing the lessons like an apprentice or coming out a clone. The legacy of Segovia disciples, in my mind, casts an ominous shadow on the teacher/student relationship (for those not as nerdy as myself, Andres Segovia was/is the granddaddy of classical guitar, and his famous students carry on his romantically rich/archaic style of interpretation with fervor, scolding anyone who doesn’t submit to His style).
Then again, this has always been my skewed view on classical music. I’ve never been one to admit I’m the best student, and I know I’ll never be, but it’s odd to think that for some musicians there’s just one set way to interpret a piece of music—more freedom dilutes the “point” and more conservation stifles the “artistic intent.” What that interpretation may be and what taking it too far in either direction is always up for grabs, but the notion that there is just one way of doing it “right” is, well…
Naturally, not everyone thinks this way, and for me to imply this is the norm throughout the spectrum of classical music is a bastardly generalization. However, I know the totalitarian mentality is out there, and I don’t mean to imply Barrueco thinks this way (although Segovia, notoriously, did), but I’ll play my irresponsible, reckless youth card and say it’s dangerous. I just finished Rob Kaplilow’s brilliant book All You Have To Do Is Listen, and in his chapter about the artist and interpretation he makes the claim that while certain dynamic guidelines are written in for a reason, an artist’s interpretation of a piece will constantly change back and forth to their matured voice, no definite statement solidifying until the piece is finally recorded. I’d like to go a bit further and wonder if, once it’s recorded, pressed and sent off to the stores for sale, isn’t the way the musician played that piece nothing more than just how they felt it should be played at that moment? Just because it’s out there for the public for good doesn’t mean that’s how a musician will feel about a tune for the rest of their career. Things change, attitudes towards gestures, motions and “that one damn note” have every right to flip like a bipolar’s whim.
I hope I get this whole classical music thing sooner or later. Even if I don’t…it’s still kind of fun.
Listening: Imelda May—Love Tattoo
Everyone should own this.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Friday, December 4, 2009
a question
I just read an article about Leonard Bernstein and the classes he taught/lectures he gave while teaching at Tanglewood.
When making appropriate decisions about flow, is there really that much difference between programming an orchestra concert and carefully crafting a mix tape?
When making appropriate decisions about flow, is there really that much difference between programming an orchestra concert and carefully crafting a mix tape?
Friday, November 6, 2009
pro/con of europe
Pro: Beautiful destinations.
Pro: Legendary food and drink.
Pro: Perfect weather.
Con: Seven months of perfect weather=lowered immune system=I get a cold my first few days back home.
Advantage: Pro.
However-
Momentary advantage: con.
Damn it.
Pro: Legendary food and drink.
Pro: Perfect weather.
Con: Seven months of perfect weather=lowered immune system=I get a cold my first few days back home.
Advantage: Pro.
However-
Momentary advantage: con.
Damn it.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
A thought...
I was recently spending time at the Philadelphia airport, sipping coffee and watching the world in transit go by, while waiting out an unnecessarily long layover (even now the irony of waiting 5 hours for a connecting Philly-NY flight amuses me). There was something oddly calming about watching businessmen in finely pressed suits speaking desperately on cell phones and parents hustling around strollers filled with whining bundles of childhood; calming solely, I suppose, for the fact that it wasn’t me. While others may find an extended layover excruciating I saw these hours as a peaceful way to waste the day away: sitting at a café, entertained by a newly purchased paperback, spine still yearning to be cracked, and the circus unfolding around me.
It was only after an hour had passed, after I slowly waded my way through a few chapters that I was thrown from my Buddha-like trance as abruptly as a car crash. It wasn’t anything I heard from the traveling throng of passengers passing by—their conversations and squabbles became white noise with enough concentration. Instead, it started with a moment, one we all know oddly well enough: the moment where, for no specific or logical reason, a person happens to divert their attention from whatever task at hand and look up. Not at anything in particular, mind you, just an involuntary action with no apparent rhyme or reason. I could have seen nearly anything in that one moment my eyes glanced up from my book and have returned back down completely at peace and undisturbed. Anything, that is, except the Kindle.
The Kindle, for the uninitiated, is a device developed and marketed by online shopping kingpin Amazon.com within the past few years. To call the Kindle an iPod for books would be a blunt yet rather appropriate description for this slick, silver slate of technology. The Kindle is intended for the reader on the go, capable of storing hundreds of books, magazines and newspapers all available to users capable of scrolling, selecting and pressing buttons, an e-book for the e-generation. The Kindle has undergone a number of upgrades, the most recent being a sleek model smaller than the comparatively bulky original, capable of storing 1500 books alone. The Kindle was exactly what I saw that day in the airport in the hands of a pretty brunette with polite green eyes that devoured the futuristic tablet in her hands.
The Kindle must be stopped.
Let me digress for a moment to relate my appreciation for modern technology. True, I’m not always savvy with the latest updates in contemporary electronics. It’s not that I turn completely inept when something shiny and new with an internal motherboard crosses my path (are there any external motherboards?). I’m just not the type to see something cutting edge on the market and feel some innate desire to have it in my possession as soon as humanly possible. To buy accessories for it. To name it. To buy another one when the offer it in green. I mean, hell, I love my iPod (silver), my computer (silver, again) and my cell phone (a ha, green!) to the point of being a little too attached to them at times for my own taste. (Actually, scratch that with the iPod. I’m cool with loving that little bastard to death. I needs my jams.) Technology is fine, necessary, even. It’s a vital part of the human condition that helps gauge how far we’ve come as a culture. The Kindle, however, hides a secret ulterior motive.
My initial opinion of the Kindle was that an invention like this was inevitable. Mankind has already devised a portable music library the size of a stick of chewing gum, high-quality cameras installed as standard components in cell phones and handheld videogame systems that double as hi-res DVD players. Really, shouldn’t we have had a way to read and store the Lord of the Rings trilogy in a young child’s knapsack long before these miraculous little devices? After some inquiry I began to wonder if the Kindle would ever really be considered a hip bit of technology to bear in public places like subways and airports. Would this invention ever be as socially acceptable as an iPod? (Seemingly, yes, but given the chance I’d still snatch one from someone’s hands and show passers by how to turn it into the world’s first Frisbee that recites Hemingway. That’s right—the new models can talk.) After more pondering of this beast’s existence I realized that the download—only nature of the Kindle, a brilliant yet sadistic marketing play on Amazon’s behalf, would play out in a similar fashion to the way music did with the digital age: Dick and Jane buy books. One day, Dick and Jane buy a Kindle. Now, Dick and Jane only download their reading material, thereby making their necessity to purchase paper-based reading material obsolete. Bookstores slowly creep towards the way of the dinosaur. With society’s habit of craving commodities on an instant gratification basis it doesn’t seem illogical to assume that the habits of downloading daily newspapers, serialized novels and monthly publications with the aid of a few buttons will soon overtake our habits of pursuing newsstands and bookstores for the same material in tangible form.
Therefore: fuck the Kindle.
I’m not interested in spewing propaganda on the social and economic consequences of the Kindle (bookstore theory aside). I don’t see a purpose in ruminating how the Kindle has the potential to drive nails through the heart and nature of the printed word, how print shops will lose business and publishing houses will face grave financial losses in the wake of these pixilated-text bastards. Really, why contemplate how the ink industry will suffer when the powers that be realize virtually anything—textbooks, office memos, pamphlets, brochures—can essentially be distributed to consumers digitally. Never mind the initially subtle yet eventually catastrophic damage industries around the world will suffer once the concept of the page gets driven to extinction at the feet of this digital behemoth disguised as a family-friendly implement, no more sinister in deceptive appearance than a dinner plate. Seriously, it’s cool. Don’t worry.
Yet.
What really gets me is the fact that books will inevitably suffer. Not “books” as in the authors themselves or publishing companies, since the material needs to originate somewhere. I mean “books” as in the object themselves. A cover gently yet snugly embracing a set of pages telling stories, giving instructions, teaching life lessons to yearning, impassioned readers looking for a direction in life, inspiration to get through the day or simply just a humorous anecdote as they pass the time during a lunch break. Leave it to the Kindle to damn the idea of an innocent, inanimate object to a fiery demise.
That’s right, friends. Let’s not forget the hellish name itself: Kindle. Look into your hearts and tell me the word itself doesn’t inspire thoughts of a raging, devastating inferno. Just say the word itself and try not to taste the cackle of flames on your tongue. Rumors are amiss that owners attempting to download Fahrenheit 451 on their Kindle receive only heavily doctored versions of the first two chapters and a revised ending where those with the books drink blood and avoid daylight only to be foiled by those branding fire to exterminate the literary spirit as they ride in on chariots made of baseball and apple pie. Don’t even try to deny that the heads back at Amazon chose the name out of a domineering sense of irony. Sick, sick bastards.
The enemy is on the horizon, charging with their weapons drawn and drunk on bloodlust, but the fight can be won. The Kindle may be a soulless entity the creators of the Terminator franchise have only dreamed of, but we can rise up and seize the opportunity to deliver mankind from such a bleak future. Resist the Kindle. Realize and embrace the feel of a book, how each soft page read is another page conquered and each chapter finished is another step towards the brilliant light detailing the truth of the human spirit.
Plus, hey, if the book sucks, you can throw it at someone you don’t like. Bonus if it’s hardcover.
Let it be known that this is what I chose to do while I should be working on grad school applications.
It was only after an hour had passed, after I slowly waded my way through a few chapters that I was thrown from my Buddha-like trance as abruptly as a car crash. It wasn’t anything I heard from the traveling throng of passengers passing by—their conversations and squabbles became white noise with enough concentration. Instead, it started with a moment, one we all know oddly well enough: the moment where, for no specific or logical reason, a person happens to divert their attention from whatever task at hand and look up. Not at anything in particular, mind you, just an involuntary action with no apparent rhyme or reason. I could have seen nearly anything in that one moment my eyes glanced up from my book and have returned back down completely at peace and undisturbed. Anything, that is, except the Kindle.
The Kindle, for the uninitiated, is a device developed and marketed by online shopping kingpin Amazon.com within the past few years. To call the Kindle an iPod for books would be a blunt yet rather appropriate description for this slick, silver slate of technology. The Kindle is intended for the reader on the go, capable of storing hundreds of books, magazines and newspapers all available to users capable of scrolling, selecting and pressing buttons, an e-book for the e-generation. The Kindle has undergone a number of upgrades, the most recent being a sleek model smaller than the comparatively bulky original, capable of storing 1500 books alone. The Kindle was exactly what I saw that day in the airport in the hands of a pretty brunette with polite green eyes that devoured the futuristic tablet in her hands.
The Kindle must be stopped.
Let me digress for a moment to relate my appreciation for modern technology. True, I’m not always savvy with the latest updates in contemporary electronics. It’s not that I turn completely inept when something shiny and new with an internal motherboard crosses my path (are there any external motherboards?). I’m just not the type to see something cutting edge on the market and feel some innate desire to have it in my possession as soon as humanly possible. To buy accessories for it. To name it. To buy another one when the offer it in green. I mean, hell, I love my iPod (silver), my computer (silver, again) and my cell phone (a ha, green!) to the point of being a little too attached to them at times for my own taste. (Actually, scratch that with the iPod. I’m cool with loving that little bastard to death. I needs my jams.) Technology is fine, necessary, even. It’s a vital part of the human condition that helps gauge how far we’ve come as a culture. The Kindle, however, hides a secret ulterior motive.
My initial opinion of the Kindle was that an invention like this was inevitable. Mankind has already devised a portable music library the size of a stick of chewing gum, high-quality cameras installed as standard components in cell phones and handheld videogame systems that double as hi-res DVD players. Really, shouldn’t we have had a way to read and store the Lord of the Rings trilogy in a young child’s knapsack long before these miraculous little devices? After some inquiry I began to wonder if the Kindle would ever really be considered a hip bit of technology to bear in public places like subways and airports. Would this invention ever be as socially acceptable as an iPod? (Seemingly, yes, but given the chance I’d still snatch one from someone’s hands and show passers by how to turn it into the world’s first Frisbee that recites Hemingway. That’s right—the new models can talk.) After more pondering of this beast’s existence I realized that the download—only nature of the Kindle, a brilliant yet sadistic marketing play on Amazon’s behalf, would play out in a similar fashion to the way music did with the digital age: Dick and Jane buy books. One day, Dick and Jane buy a Kindle. Now, Dick and Jane only download their reading material, thereby making their necessity to purchase paper-based reading material obsolete. Bookstores slowly creep towards the way of the dinosaur. With society’s habit of craving commodities on an instant gratification basis it doesn’t seem illogical to assume that the habits of downloading daily newspapers, serialized novels and monthly publications with the aid of a few buttons will soon overtake our habits of pursuing newsstands and bookstores for the same material in tangible form.
Therefore: fuck the Kindle.
I’m not interested in spewing propaganda on the social and economic consequences of the Kindle (bookstore theory aside). I don’t see a purpose in ruminating how the Kindle has the potential to drive nails through the heart and nature of the printed word, how print shops will lose business and publishing houses will face grave financial losses in the wake of these pixilated-text bastards. Really, why contemplate how the ink industry will suffer when the powers that be realize virtually anything—textbooks, office memos, pamphlets, brochures—can essentially be distributed to consumers digitally. Never mind the initially subtle yet eventually catastrophic damage industries around the world will suffer once the concept of the page gets driven to extinction at the feet of this digital behemoth disguised as a family-friendly implement, no more sinister in deceptive appearance than a dinner plate. Seriously, it’s cool. Don’t worry.
Yet.
What really gets me is the fact that books will inevitably suffer. Not “books” as in the authors themselves or publishing companies, since the material needs to originate somewhere. I mean “books” as in the object themselves. A cover gently yet snugly embracing a set of pages telling stories, giving instructions, teaching life lessons to yearning, impassioned readers looking for a direction in life, inspiration to get through the day or simply just a humorous anecdote as they pass the time during a lunch break. Leave it to the Kindle to damn the idea of an innocent, inanimate object to a fiery demise.
That’s right, friends. Let’s not forget the hellish name itself: Kindle. Look into your hearts and tell me the word itself doesn’t inspire thoughts of a raging, devastating inferno. Just say the word itself and try not to taste the cackle of flames on your tongue. Rumors are amiss that owners attempting to download Fahrenheit 451 on their Kindle receive only heavily doctored versions of the first two chapters and a revised ending where those with the books drink blood and avoid daylight only to be foiled by those branding fire to exterminate the literary spirit as they ride in on chariots made of baseball and apple pie. Don’t even try to deny that the heads back at Amazon chose the name out of a domineering sense of irony. Sick, sick bastards.
The enemy is on the horizon, charging with their weapons drawn and drunk on bloodlust, but the fight can be won. The Kindle may be a soulless entity the creators of the Terminator franchise have only dreamed of, but we can rise up and seize the opportunity to deliver mankind from such a bleak future. Resist the Kindle. Realize and embrace the feel of a book, how each soft page read is another page conquered and each chapter finished is another step towards the brilliant light detailing the truth of the human spirit.
Plus, hey, if the book sucks, you can throw it at someone you don’t like. Bonus if it’s hardcover.
Let it be known that this is what I chose to do while I should be working on grad school applications.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
again...
I’ve had this blog up for over a year yet have only posted a handful of entries, even fewer of those containing anything of legitimate note. This leads me to the conclusion that living/working as a musician on a cruise ship can be a very passive experience.
I’ll sidestep for a moment and acknowledge that over the past nine months I’ve come to a good number of conclusions, experienced a few substantial epiphanies, and seen a good number of events go down to claim that this crazy ship thing was, overall, a “good learning experience.” (I regret my computer’s lack of, or my inability to, type up the little “trademark” tm sign in the upper right corner of that last sentence. I digress.) I’m sure that anyone/everyone who has worked on a cruise ship for a valid amount of time will roll their eyes out of boredom at this paragraph since it seems like the typical philosophical fluff coming from some ship newbie (turns out one year isn’t that long of an employment). Then again, not everyone out there in the living/breathing/walking/talking everyday world has worked on a cruise ship. So “VAH” I say to the naysayers. Again, digress.
So, yeah. Passive. Musicians, compared to most other employees on a cruise ship, don’t work very much. There. I said it. As a maximum I can say I’ve had five hours of legitimate musical labor pass through my hours on a given day. Five hours. I’ve worked other jobs (for less pay) where five hours would be considered a short day. I can’t say the free time is unappreciated, and it could be well argued that five hours of ballroom music is four and a half hellish hours too much. However, for the sake of argument, I’ll go with the conclusion that five hours is a pretty cherry gig for an inquisitive young chap.
True, crew members are allowed to explore port destinations, given free time and barring any limiting circumstances. Some have even said that we “live in a vacation land.” An experience it may be, consider that looming in the back of our heads is the fact that we have an all aboard time sometime a few hours on, where after we’ll resume washing plates, selling watches, mixing drinks, dealing poker games, playing “Strangers in the Night” or whatever various activity our contract obligates us to do. Again, I’m digressing, as well as speaking broadly. This is supposed to be about me, damn it!
Again, a passive life for musicians. Passive could very well be taken as “relaxing,” which isn’t a bad association to make. Learn your tunes, show up on time looking professional and well groomed (or at least a close approximate), smile when necessary, stay in tune, let common sense dictate the musical mood of the evening. Keep things in line, and the rest of the day’s 19 hours are all yours. Hell, you could sleep all day if you really want to, which some of my people do. Be the envy of all your colleagues, friends and family. Slumber all you want except to log in your hours and drink yourself silly, the price of which you’ll never pay less for on land.
Perhaps I’m a bit bold in saying this, perhaps still a bit too green to know any better, but this “passive” I see is less “relaxing” and more “boring.” Maybe this is just my mindset as I set into seven sea days ahead of me as the Noordam crosses the Atlantic. This could very well be a lasting quirk of my ability to “change personality like the wind” (something I’ve recently been told), but I think I miss the minor challenges of the everyday: traffic, waiting for the coffee machine to work, making and meeting doctor’s appointments, cooking, etc. I think it’s that very same passive/relaxing nature that’s stressing me out a bit. I want more of a challenge than carrying my guitar and song books up three flights of stairs. My cabin steward, a find man indeed, but not at all necessary at the end of the day: I can make my bed and clean up after myself quite well, thank you. The never-never land vibe one can get from doing this job isn’t quite as fulfilling anymore, honestly. ‘Twas good for what it was (the paycheck, too), but I’m looking forward to that first morning back home when I wake up, long before the a.m. digits multiply to two spaces, and make my own breakfast.
I’m even cool with the snow.
For now.
Listening to: Sergio Mendes.
Watching: City of God.
Reading: Revolutionary Road-Richard Yates
Brilliant moment: Scrubs, season eight. Ted singing “Hey Ya” in the Bahamas.
Priceless.
I’ll sidestep for a moment and acknowledge that over the past nine months I’ve come to a good number of conclusions, experienced a few substantial epiphanies, and seen a good number of events go down to claim that this crazy ship thing was, overall, a “good learning experience.” (I regret my computer’s lack of, or my inability to, type up the little “trademark” tm sign in the upper right corner of that last sentence. I digress.) I’m sure that anyone/everyone who has worked on a cruise ship for a valid amount of time will roll their eyes out of boredom at this paragraph since it seems like the typical philosophical fluff coming from some ship newbie (turns out one year isn’t that long of an employment). Then again, not everyone out there in the living/breathing/walking/talking everyday world has worked on a cruise ship. So “VAH” I say to the naysayers. Again, digress.
So, yeah. Passive. Musicians, compared to most other employees on a cruise ship, don’t work very much. There. I said it. As a maximum I can say I’ve had five hours of legitimate musical labor pass through my hours on a given day. Five hours. I’ve worked other jobs (for less pay) where five hours would be considered a short day. I can’t say the free time is unappreciated, and it could be well argued that five hours of ballroom music is four and a half hellish hours too much. However, for the sake of argument, I’ll go with the conclusion that five hours is a pretty cherry gig for an inquisitive young chap.
True, crew members are allowed to explore port destinations, given free time and barring any limiting circumstances. Some have even said that we “live in a vacation land.” An experience it may be, consider that looming in the back of our heads is the fact that we have an all aboard time sometime a few hours on, where after we’ll resume washing plates, selling watches, mixing drinks, dealing poker games, playing “Strangers in the Night” or whatever various activity our contract obligates us to do. Again, I’m digressing, as well as speaking broadly. This is supposed to be about me, damn it!
Again, a passive life for musicians. Passive could very well be taken as “relaxing,” which isn’t a bad association to make. Learn your tunes, show up on time looking professional and well groomed (or at least a close approximate), smile when necessary, stay in tune, let common sense dictate the musical mood of the evening. Keep things in line, and the rest of the day’s 19 hours are all yours. Hell, you could sleep all day if you really want to, which some of my people do. Be the envy of all your colleagues, friends and family. Slumber all you want except to log in your hours and drink yourself silly, the price of which you’ll never pay less for on land.
Perhaps I’m a bit bold in saying this, perhaps still a bit too green to know any better, but this “passive” I see is less “relaxing” and more “boring.” Maybe this is just my mindset as I set into seven sea days ahead of me as the Noordam crosses the Atlantic. This could very well be a lasting quirk of my ability to “change personality like the wind” (something I’ve recently been told), but I think I miss the minor challenges of the everyday: traffic, waiting for the coffee machine to work, making and meeting doctor’s appointments, cooking, etc. I think it’s that very same passive/relaxing nature that’s stressing me out a bit. I want more of a challenge than carrying my guitar and song books up three flights of stairs. My cabin steward, a find man indeed, but not at all necessary at the end of the day: I can make my bed and clean up after myself quite well, thank you. The never-never land vibe one can get from doing this job isn’t quite as fulfilling anymore, honestly. ‘Twas good for what it was (the paycheck, too), but I’m looking forward to that first morning back home when I wake up, long before the a.m. digits multiply to two spaces, and make my own breakfast.
I’m even cool with the snow.
For now.
Listening to: Sergio Mendes.
Watching: City of God.
Reading: Revolutionary Road-Richard Yates
Brilliant moment: Scrubs, season eight. Ted singing “Hey Ya” in the Bahamas.
Priceless.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
back from the dead
I have less than two months left in my contract and, while I’m still ecstatic about the prospect of going home, I’m not entirely as burnt out as I’d anticipate I’d be by this point. A few months ago I hit the proverbial wall, the point where every little nuisance that would otherwise just barely irk me would act like a terrible nail on chalkboard moment, where static, boring little moments would drag on and quiet nights playing to a handful of people made purgatory seem appealing. I was sick of the food, sick of sleeping in a cabin, sick of having to adhere to all-aboard times, sick waiting until 10 at night to start “working.”
In actuality, I am still sick of the food. I am tired of having to keep an eye on my watch so I don’t miss the ship. I’m more than ready to hang up my HALCat books and never dread another Ballroom-themed night again. I think the difference between me then and me now is that my perspective has matured enough to accept that this job really is a certain “lifestyle” that, while it was fun for beaches and tequila in Mexico and the Caribbean, I’ve been long overdue for a change in scenery.
Europe hasn’t necessarily lost its charm on me, but I think I’ve grown comfortable enough with it where I’m not awestruck by everything. Not every meal will be transcendent, the architecture, attractive as it may be, grows old (ha…) after a while, and sometimes the coffee here really does suck. It’s true. The thing that matters to me right now is picking up what little bits of life here and there I can and seeing if it makes sense. Eating lunch a bit slower. Taking fewer sips of a drink. Walking faster on occasion. Knowing when to observe everything around me and knowing when to damn it all with a book.
I came here curious for an adventure and, more or less, I’ve had one. Not the crazy one young people often come to Europe looking for, but one where you come out having learned a few things. I’d say I have.
Now, however, I’m ready to cook my own food.
Reading: The City of Falling Angels—John Berendt
Listening: Live at Ronnie Scott’s—Jamie Cullum
In actuality, I am still sick of the food. I am tired of having to keep an eye on my watch so I don’t miss the ship. I’m more than ready to hang up my HALCat books and never dread another Ballroom-themed night again. I think the difference between me then and me now is that my perspective has matured enough to accept that this job really is a certain “lifestyle” that, while it was fun for beaches and tequila in Mexico and the Caribbean, I’ve been long overdue for a change in scenery.
Europe hasn’t necessarily lost its charm on me, but I think I’ve grown comfortable enough with it where I’m not awestruck by everything. Not every meal will be transcendent, the architecture, attractive as it may be, grows old (ha…) after a while, and sometimes the coffee here really does suck. It’s true. The thing that matters to me right now is picking up what little bits of life here and there I can and seeing if it makes sense. Eating lunch a bit slower. Taking fewer sips of a drink. Walking faster on occasion. Knowing when to observe everything around me and knowing when to damn it all with a book.
I came here curious for an adventure and, more or less, I’ve had one. Not the crazy one young people often come to Europe looking for, but one where you come out having learned a few things. I’d say I have.
Now, however, I’m ready to cook my own food.
Reading: The City of Falling Angels—John Berendt
Listening: Live at Ronnie Scott’s—Jamie Cullum
Friday, July 3, 2009
Saturday, June 13, 2009
In short...
I love the passengers who buy the travel books for the ports we visit, despite the fact that they're only in each location for a few hours at a time and, for the most part, spend their time aimlessly wandering about lost. They're up there with the people who wear sandals with black socks.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Routine v.s. Surprise
As assuring and stable as routine may be, I suffer from the unfortunate personality type where things become stale quite soon after they become comfortable. I’ll eat the same food, run the same dance and song and pull the same tricks only so many times before things inevitably become predictable and I inevitably become bored. I suppose this happens to everyone at one point or another, regardless of job, home, place in life, etc., but I easily act as my own enemy by unconsciously feeling the grind a bit harder than it really is because, well, I guess I’m a bit of a bastard like that.
I guess at the moment I’m just opposed to the grand notion of “safe” and its place in everyday life. Life working as a musician on a cruise ship turns into an obvious routine of playing the same songs, setting up in the same lounges, repetition, da capo over and over again without a clear sign of a coda. Granted, I’m well aware how whiny this all sounds as I knew well enough what I was getting myself into with this contract.
True, I could go about changing things for myself—arranging new tunes to keep things fresh, changing my setup a bit, taking a leftish turn when I otherwise would have swerved directly opposite right. True, I very well should step up to these things, both to change my environment and to follow through with what I told myself I’d do. True, I’m spending more time in this blog complaining than actually writing anything insightful…when I actually do write anything at all, really.
On another note, how many times can I actually swell up me chest and promise to do better next time, that I’ll change, I swear, that the me tonight and the me tomorrow will be separated by a new attitude and spirit with what I want over the next (zoinks, Scooby!) five months. Hell, after writing that down and scanning it for a few moments it seems boring. Hell, it is boring, namely because it’s static. I could practice every waking moment during the day when I’m not working, but why spend all my time playing Bach in a freezing backstage area? I could swear to eat right and exercise everyday, but would I really be happier depriving myself of naps and cheeseburgers and beer (other than Guinness…I’ll always have Guinness)?
So…oddly enough…maybe it is good that I have my whiny little punk moments once in a while, so long as they’re typed rather than spoken. Maybe it’s good to get out every little nuance I’ve got running in my head at one point or another, to expose nearly every little twitch of emotion or mentality (within bounds) to the sun until that one becomes stale and I jump to the next one. Maybe it is all a process or a job of keeping myself intrigued and entertained.
Isn’t that the point of it, though? Desire and indulgence in your 20’s, process it all in your 30’s, dispense advice in your 40’s, write books in your 50’s, spend your 60’s living in the south of France drinking wine and enjoying the sunsets?
What I’m really trying to say, I guess, is that I’ve been listening to FutureSex/LoveSounds, and damn it all if isn’t not a killer album.
I guess at the moment I’m just opposed to the grand notion of “safe” and its place in everyday life. Life working as a musician on a cruise ship turns into an obvious routine of playing the same songs, setting up in the same lounges, repetition, da capo over and over again without a clear sign of a coda. Granted, I’m well aware how whiny this all sounds as I knew well enough what I was getting myself into with this contract.
True, I could go about changing things for myself—arranging new tunes to keep things fresh, changing my setup a bit, taking a leftish turn when I otherwise would have swerved directly opposite right. True, I very well should step up to these things, both to change my environment and to follow through with what I told myself I’d do. True, I’m spending more time in this blog complaining than actually writing anything insightful…when I actually do write anything at all, really.
On another note, how many times can I actually swell up me chest and promise to do better next time, that I’ll change, I swear, that the me tonight and the me tomorrow will be separated by a new attitude and spirit with what I want over the next (zoinks, Scooby!) five months. Hell, after writing that down and scanning it for a few moments it seems boring. Hell, it is boring, namely because it’s static. I could practice every waking moment during the day when I’m not working, but why spend all my time playing Bach in a freezing backstage area? I could swear to eat right and exercise everyday, but would I really be happier depriving myself of naps and cheeseburgers and beer (other than Guinness…I’ll always have Guinness)?
So…oddly enough…maybe it is good that I have my whiny little punk moments once in a while, so long as they’re typed rather than spoken. Maybe it’s good to get out every little nuance I’ve got running in my head at one point or another, to expose nearly every little twitch of emotion or mentality (within bounds) to the sun until that one becomes stale and I jump to the next one. Maybe it is all a process or a job of keeping myself intrigued and entertained.
Isn’t that the point of it, though? Desire and indulgence in your 20’s, process it all in your 30’s, dispense advice in your 40’s, write books in your 50’s, spend your 60’s living in the south of France drinking wine and enjoying the sunsets?
What I’m really trying to say, I guess, is that I’ve been listening to FutureSex/LoveSounds, and damn it all if isn’t not a killer album.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Just need to put this out there.
There have been moments…many moments…when I’ve found time to pause and ask myself if spending nine months on a ship touring exotic areas is really worth it. Granted, there’s the paycheck, the social interactions with people I’d otherwise never meet, the food, the drink, the scenery, the general sense of well-being and accomplishment that helps satisfy my restlessness and desire to travel and escape the dreaded confines of staying in the same place for far too long. Likewise, there’s the loneliness, the isolation of a tiny room on a floating metal object, the repetition of the same songs on the same schedule cruise in and cruise out, the dress code, the banality, the ever-present notion that the places where I sleep, eat and work are all too uncomfortably close to each other.
It’s a balance, really. Then again, so is everything in life, but working on a cruise ship presents another set of brilliant challenges and comforts. A very kind, intelligent person I know put it eerily well when she said that the experience of working on ships is rather bipolar; the highs are near soaring while the lows can be, well, suck. It’s not real life by any means, so it’s safe to consider that, while the highs are legitimate products of happiness, the lows are essentially the consequences of living in this odd never-never land of high school with cheap, free-flowing alcohol. In other words, when it’s great you’re thrilled; when it’s bad, you realize that it’s that way because you signed a contract. While the highs can be plentiful, the lows are, depending on circumstance, sometimes unfortunately common.
Which brings me to my first point: Harold and Kumar go to White Castle is an absolutely fucking brilliant, reaffirming movie.
Let me explain.
I was fortunate enough to witness this cinematic masterpiece a few days ago whilst taking care of some laundry, itself a pain in the ass low, really. I just picked it up to pass the time, but there’s an important lesson to be taken from that film. Simply put, they wanted something and they went for it. Never mind it was a fast food craving, and ignore the fact that they rode a cheetah at one point. Plain and simple, if you want something bad enough nothing should get in your way of obtaining what it is you really crave. Again, ignore the fact that “crave” is used in the movie to indicate the desire for tiny little hamburgers.
Thing about it, though. It’s a simple message, a cliché when you get down to it, yet how many people actually follow through with this in their lives? Call it a stupid stoner movie all you want, but realize that this stupid stoner movie, like it or not, contains a vital life lesson, a universal one at that, that not everyone has the clear mind to really follow.
This brings me to my second point: I need to stop being such a little punk about this whole ship thing.
I wanted to go back to Europe, and here I am. I’m even making a paycheck, so there’s the ultimate bonus. I’m here as an employee, name tag, khaki pants and all, but I’m here nonetheless. I’m here, and no amount of poolside sets or eating at designated hours can take that away from me or what I want out of this experience.
I wish I had a grander way of concluding this, but it’s about 1:30 in the morning here, and all I really wanted to do was write about how much I truly appreciate Harold and Kumar’s shenanigans and escapades on their way to White Castle. Mission accomplished.
Cheers.
It’s a balance, really. Then again, so is everything in life, but working on a cruise ship presents another set of brilliant challenges and comforts. A very kind, intelligent person I know put it eerily well when she said that the experience of working on ships is rather bipolar; the highs are near soaring while the lows can be, well, suck. It’s not real life by any means, so it’s safe to consider that, while the highs are legitimate products of happiness, the lows are essentially the consequences of living in this odd never-never land of high school with cheap, free-flowing alcohol. In other words, when it’s great you’re thrilled; when it’s bad, you realize that it’s that way because you signed a contract. While the highs can be plentiful, the lows are, depending on circumstance, sometimes unfortunately common.
Which brings me to my first point: Harold and Kumar go to White Castle is an absolutely fucking brilliant, reaffirming movie.
Let me explain.
I was fortunate enough to witness this cinematic masterpiece a few days ago whilst taking care of some laundry, itself a pain in the ass low, really. I just picked it up to pass the time, but there’s an important lesson to be taken from that film. Simply put, they wanted something and they went for it. Never mind it was a fast food craving, and ignore the fact that they rode a cheetah at one point. Plain and simple, if you want something bad enough nothing should get in your way of obtaining what it is you really crave. Again, ignore the fact that “crave” is used in the movie to indicate the desire for tiny little hamburgers.
Thing about it, though. It’s a simple message, a cliché when you get down to it, yet how many people actually follow through with this in their lives? Call it a stupid stoner movie all you want, but realize that this stupid stoner movie, like it or not, contains a vital life lesson, a universal one at that, that not everyone has the clear mind to really follow.
This brings me to my second point: I need to stop being such a little punk about this whole ship thing.
I wanted to go back to Europe, and here I am. I’m even making a paycheck, so there’s the ultimate bonus. I’m here as an employee, name tag, khaki pants and all, but I’m here nonetheless. I’m here, and no amount of poolside sets or eating at designated hours can take that away from me or what I want out of this experience.
I wish I had a grander way of concluding this, but it’s about 1:30 in the morning here, and all I really wanted to do was write about how much I truly appreciate Harold and Kumar’s shenanigans and escapades on their way to White Castle. Mission accomplished.
Cheers.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Been on my mind a while...
The first night I ever spent in Europe was in a hotel in Milan. The hotel itself was easy to miss; the entrance was packed tightly and inconspicuously alongside the rest of the shops and cafes laid out along the strip, their signs being the only indicator that this block wasn’t just some massive single entity. There was a sign for the hotel, white and black with a lion in the center crying out at the letters above its head. I don’t know the exact name for that type of sign…it’s the type you see advertising Heineken of Amstel beer outside of bars and pubs, the ones that look as if they’d light up at night but often don’t.
The sign was to the right of the doors, painted nonchalantly to match the dark color flow of the buildings on the block, really just one big mass of construction with the individual businesses nestling into each separate crevice. Past the doors, however, was to a spacious open area leading to the entrance or, further past, the courtyard. Being my first experience with lodging in another country, I was clearly taken up with “How cool is this! I’m in Europe! At a cool hotel! And I’m going to eat Italian food made in Italy by real Italians!”
My enthusiasm, unbridled but neatly restrained to the observing passerby, continued long into the day while I checked into the room, while I walked around the city, while I ventured out to by my first coffee, beer, glass of wine in another country, as long as it seemed when in reality it was less than two hours before I got back to my room, messenger bag starting to form a comfortable groove in my shoulder, turning on the TV and not recognizing a word or product advertisement, keeping that idealistic high shared by first time traveling youth. Then I looked out over the balcony (oh, right, “I had a cool balcony!’) below into the courtyard.
Directly in the center stood a solid black table occasionally interrupted by small white coffee cups, surrounded by three women cloaked in European fashion smoking cigarettes and casually conversing. Had I still been on that rush of excitement the scene would fit in perfectly—three beautiful women smoking over coffee in a courtyard. Almost cinematic, really. Something had changed, however, in the moment it took to open the doors, step out and look down. My sense of everything went from excitement to an odd calm. It wasn’t cynicism, and it wasn’t fear or intimidation. I didn’t realize it at first, but in retrospect I think it was acceptance.
I’ve been undeniably lucky the past few years in what I’ve done and seen, where I’ve traveled and whom I’ve met. After some breathing room with each experience I had a reoccurring notion that the me from a few years ago, just starting college or considering future employment for a classical guitarist, would never imagine this. I remember there were moments where Europe seemed an impossibility, that movies and books were the closest I’d ever come Italy or Spain. Now that I can say I’ve been there, and I’ll be going back in the coming months, I’ve come to realize that life is much more attainable than I once thought it was. Notions of “impossible” are based out of laziness or fear or just not thinking hard enough. Money and time may be concerns, but ability is essentially perseverance and desire. Luck as well, perhaps.
Those three women I saw from the balcony that day were a bit of a wake up call. They were (probably) not movie stars, they were (probably) not famous—they were (probably) just three completely ordinary women drinking coffee in a courtyard in the middle of the afternoon (probably…jet lag sucks). I suppose that has nothing at all to do with learning any lasting lesson, but the image was striking enough. Sort of a postcard image, but in real life. Curious. Glad I got to see it in person.
Side note: last night I got a cocktail napkin from a passenger requesting “Free Bird.”
Bastard.
The sign was to the right of the doors, painted nonchalantly to match the dark color flow of the buildings on the block, really just one big mass of construction with the individual businesses nestling into each separate crevice. Past the doors, however, was to a spacious open area leading to the entrance or, further past, the courtyard. Being my first experience with lodging in another country, I was clearly taken up with “How cool is this! I’m in Europe! At a cool hotel! And I’m going to eat Italian food made in Italy by real Italians!”
My enthusiasm, unbridled but neatly restrained to the observing passerby, continued long into the day while I checked into the room, while I walked around the city, while I ventured out to by my first coffee, beer, glass of wine in another country, as long as it seemed when in reality it was less than two hours before I got back to my room, messenger bag starting to form a comfortable groove in my shoulder, turning on the TV and not recognizing a word or product advertisement, keeping that idealistic high shared by first time traveling youth. Then I looked out over the balcony (oh, right, “I had a cool balcony!’) below into the courtyard.
Directly in the center stood a solid black table occasionally interrupted by small white coffee cups, surrounded by three women cloaked in European fashion smoking cigarettes and casually conversing. Had I still been on that rush of excitement the scene would fit in perfectly—three beautiful women smoking over coffee in a courtyard. Almost cinematic, really. Something had changed, however, in the moment it took to open the doors, step out and look down. My sense of everything went from excitement to an odd calm. It wasn’t cynicism, and it wasn’t fear or intimidation. I didn’t realize it at first, but in retrospect I think it was acceptance.
I’ve been undeniably lucky the past few years in what I’ve done and seen, where I’ve traveled and whom I’ve met. After some breathing room with each experience I had a reoccurring notion that the me from a few years ago, just starting college or considering future employment for a classical guitarist, would never imagine this. I remember there were moments where Europe seemed an impossibility, that movies and books were the closest I’d ever come Italy or Spain. Now that I can say I’ve been there, and I’ll be going back in the coming months, I’ve come to realize that life is much more attainable than I once thought it was. Notions of “impossible” are based out of laziness or fear or just not thinking hard enough. Money and time may be concerns, but ability is essentially perseverance and desire. Luck as well, perhaps.
Those three women I saw from the balcony that day were a bit of a wake up call. They were (probably) not movie stars, they were (probably) not famous—they were (probably) just three completely ordinary women drinking coffee in a courtyard in the middle of the afternoon (probably…jet lag sucks). I suppose that has nothing at all to do with learning any lasting lesson, but the image was striking enough. Sort of a postcard image, but in real life. Curious. Glad I got to see it in person.
Side note: last night I got a cocktail napkin from a passenger requesting “Free Bird.”
Bastard.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Transatlantic crossing: end. Europe: begin.
Life Lesson: If you go into the right place and order a beer, you get free food.
I was wondering in Almeria today and I found a café in a side street. The entrance was nearly blocked by all the construction work being done to the sidewalk, but from the outside I could see the tables filled with little old ladies arguing with impassioned faces and manically gesturing hands in front of tables with glasses of beer and littered ashtrays. Obviously, a good sign. While I’m well aware that cafes are all-too common in Europe (not a bad thing), I’m pleasantly surprised to find two beers on tap, free baked potato concoctions, and a wireless signal. Cheers!
As for things actually interesting to read about….
The transatlantic crossing (eight days at sea!) wasn’t nearly as bad as anticipated. There were enough guest entertainers to play for, and the band is working out far better than anticipated. I’ve heard horror stories about well-seasoned players who don’t take too kindly to youngins on the bandstand, but everyone seems kind and supportive. Plus, it’s almost like a U.N. of musicians: Romania, UK, Australia, Philippines… well, maybe not a U.N., but not too shabby, either.
Once again, cheers, y’all. Stay intrigued.
I was wondering in Almeria today and I found a café in a side street. The entrance was nearly blocked by all the construction work being done to the sidewalk, but from the outside I could see the tables filled with little old ladies arguing with impassioned faces and manically gesturing hands in front of tables with glasses of beer and littered ashtrays. Obviously, a good sign. While I’m well aware that cafes are all-too common in Europe (not a bad thing), I’m pleasantly surprised to find two beers on tap, free baked potato concoctions, and a wireless signal. Cheers!
As for things actually interesting to read about….
The transatlantic crossing (eight days at sea!) wasn’t nearly as bad as anticipated. There were enough guest entertainers to play for, and the band is working out far better than anticipated. I’ve heard horror stories about well-seasoned players who don’t take too kindly to youngins on the bandstand, but everyone seems kind and supportive. Plus, it’s almost like a U.N. of musicians: Romania, UK, Australia, Philippines… well, maybe not a U.N., but not too shabby, either.
Once again, cheers, y’all. Stay intrigued.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Last time I'll do this?
I had a notion in the back of my head that starting this contract would be sort of a balance between my other two contracts. On one hand, I already know the Noordam; I’m accustomed to the way things work, I understand the layout…it’ll work. Then again, I’m signed up for seven months, so in a sense I have no clue what I’m getting myself into. This contract will last literally the length of both my past contracts, plus two months. Like I said, balance.
I suppose then it should be a comfort that the day before I jump on the ship was a bit of a “gong show”, my favorite new term I’ve learned since working for Holland America. However, “gong show” can just as nearly be defined as my own term, a bit of “fuckery,” if you will. (Sorry, mom…but, hey, it’s creative, right?)
Before I even left for the airport I found out that my first flight was delayed an hour, giving me about half an hour to catch my connecting flight to Ft. Lauderdale (airline speak for “not gonna happen”). Thankfully, a graceful angel at the U.S. Airways desk booked me a new itinerary through Philly. All signs point to victory! Except the second flight was severely overbooked, delaying departure for another hour as they powers that be sorted through this segment of (look away, mom!) fuckery. (Side note: on the flight to Lauderdale I was surrounded by children, little children, equipped with cell phones. Really, now. Is that necessary? Do they need the hook up that badly? I digress…) I was lucky enough to escape the airport with my luggage (after waiting a heart-attack inducing length of time waiting for my guitars), only to take a $50 cab ride to a Quality Inn hidden far better than any government-based alien research facility you or I will ever speculate about.
But, hey, I’m here! And I had my good luck Guinness! And I’m in a lovely little Indian restaurant! And I’m going for another Guinness afterwards! I’d say this clearly redeems the day at hand. The flights actually happened, guitars are in solid condition, the ship will reimburse me for the taxi fee, I had my Irish nectar, and I’m being well-fed at 9:30 at night. All smiles, I suppose, right? The ends justify the means? Thank you, Cleveland, goodnight?
Cheers. Everything’s going to be alright.
I suppose then it should be a comfort that the day before I jump on the ship was a bit of a “gong show”, my favorite new term I’ve learned since working for Holland America. However, “gong show” can just as nearly be defined as my own term, a bit of “fuckery,” if you will. (Sorry, mom…but, hey, it’s creative, right?)
Before I even left for the airport I found out that my first flight was delayed an hour, giving me about half an hour to catch my connecting flight to Ft. Lauderdale (airline speak for “not gonna happen”). Thankfully, a graceful angel at the U.S. Airways desk booked me a new itinerary through Philly. All signs point to victory! Except the second flight was severely overbooked, delaying departure for another hour as they powers that be sorted through this segment of (look away, mom!) fuckery. (Side note: on the flight to Lauderdale I was surrounded by children, little children, equipped with cell phones. Really, now. Is that necessary? Do they need the hook up that badly? I digress…) I was lucky enough to escape the airport with my luggage (after waiting a heart-attack inducing length of time waiting for my guitars), only to take a $50 cab ride to a Quality Inn hidden far better than any government-based alien research facility you or I will ever speculate about.
But, hey, I’m here! And I had my good luck Guinness! And I’m in a lovely little Indian restaurant! And I’m going for another Guinness afterwards! I’d say this clearly redeems the day at hand. The flights actually happened, guitars are in solid condition, the ship will reimburse me for the taxi fee, I had my Irish nectar, and I’m being well-fed at 9:30 at night. All smiles, I suppose, right? The ends justify the means? Thank you, Cleveland, goodnight?
Cheers. Everything’s going to be alright.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
assorted, vol. 2
-I’m writing this all far too aware and tempted by the fact that it would be so easy, so comfortable to tilt my head back and fall asleep. The past few days I’ve been grudgingly fighting back a cold, denying its existence, pretending that it’s just a little difficult for my body to adjust to home than anticipated. Jetlag can last four days, right? Meanwhile, it’s been nice to spend the past few days reading, sipping tea and making naptime a priority.
-I saw Watchmen the other day. I’ve actually been anxiously awaiting this movie since reading the graphic novel. Truth be told, I never read the graphic novel until well into the promotional material for the movies started flooding the public consciousness. I’ve been vaguely aware of the movie for some time now due to the accolade: the only “comic book” on Time magazine’s 100 best books list, buckets of praise from the comic universe, and general awesomeness bestowed by accredited critics and basement-confined geeks in general.
I’m not really one for comic books or graphic novels, but I am one for stories. My tolerance for superheroes and mutant powers only goes so far—it’s nice and all, but I prefer characters with shady origins and conflicting moralities. That said, reading the actual graphic novel of the Watchmen was great. There’s an actual in-depth story in there. The “comic” itself goes beyond requirements and includes newspaper articles, government documents and fictionalized autobiographies of secondary characters to shed light on events that give further depth to an already well-established storyline.
Ok, established. Watchmen the graphic novel=brilliant piece of fiction. Watchmen the movie=interesting adaption.
To get the basics out of the way, numerous filmmakers over the past decade have attempted to turn Watchmen into a movie, never mind it’s been considered impossible. The depth of the work itself requires so much attention, so much respect that to cut down on anything would ruin the subtlety of the work itself. Then again, that’s what happens when you try to adapt written material for film, true? The nuances hidden within a single written sentence are obliterated when translated to a massive movie screen, right?
But isn’t that a requirement of an adaption? The intrinsic elements are included, but the work on the whole is modified and sculpted to the new medium. Most senses of subtly are lost in adapting the graphic novel to the big screen, but the work succeeds in gaining a new vehicle: the big screen. Look at how big everything is! See how badass Rorschach looks in person! Wonder at how bleak everything looks in the everyday world as opposed to on ink and paper.
Still, at nearly three hours long, maybe the creators of the movie felt they were at the mercy of the material as opposed to co-collaborators. To hell with convention—it’s in your hands now. That’s the bit that bothered me about the movie—I don’t think the team behind the movie took as many liberties as they could have. Rather than fill in on all the bits so deliciously carried on in the movie, carry on the story, as it would best translate on the big screen. Drop unnecessary dialogue, neglect scenes that would get in the way of the film’s flow, and don’t be afraid to take liberties. It’s your movie, you interpretation. Do it that way.
(Furthermore: put some goddamn pants on Dr. Manhattan and stop using Leonard Cohen’s “Halleluiah” in every tender scene in a movie. Granted, it’s a great song—Jeff Buckley’s version is as heartbreakingly beautiful as anything else you’ll hear—but for fuck’s sake, please stop.
-On Thursday I leave for Ft. Lauderdale, and the day after I get back on the Noordam for the next seven months. In honor of everything I’ll miss while I’m gone:
-The Temple
-Java’s
-Record Archive
-My french press
-Book stores
-The jazz festival
-Not having to do passenger boat drill
-Then again, I’m going to Europe for seven months. I think I’ll live (quite well, thank you.)
Cheers.
-I saw Watchmen the other day. I’ve actually been anxiously awaiting this movie since reading the graphic novel. Truth be told, I never read the graphic novel until well into the promotional material for the movies started flooding the public consciousness. I’ve been vaguely aware of the movie for some time now due to the accolade: the only “comic book” on Time magazine’s 100 best books list, buckets of praise from the comic universe, and general awesomeness bestowed by accredited critics and basement-confined geeks in general.
I’m not really one for comic books or graphic novels, but I am one for stories. My tolerance for superheroes and mutant powers only goes so far—it’s nice and all, but I prefer characters with shady origins and conflicting moralities. That said, reading the actual graphic novel of the Watchmen was great. There’s an actual in-depth story in there. The “comic” itself goes beyond requirements and includes newspaper articles, government documents and fictionalized autobiographies of secondary characters to shed light on events that give further depth to an already well-established storyline.
Ok, established. Watchmen the graphic novel=brilliant piece of fiction. Watchmen the movie=interesting adaption.
To get the basics out of the way, numerous filmmakers over the past decade have attempted to turn Watchmen into a movie, never mind it’s been considered impossible. The depth of the work itself requires so much attention, so much respect that to cut down on anything would ruin the subtlety of the work itself. Then again, that’s what happens when you try to adapt written material for film, true? The nuances hidden within a single written sentence are obliterated when translated to a massive movie screen, right?
But isn’t that a requirement of an adaption? The intrinsic elements are included, but the work on the whole is modified and sculpted to the new medium. Most senses of subtly are lost in adapting the graphic novel to the big screen, but the work succeeds in gaining a new vehicle: the big screen. Look at how big everything is! See how badass Rorschach looks in person! Wonder at how bleak everything looks in the everyday world as opposed to on ink and paper.
Still, at nearly three hours long, maybe the creators of the movie felt they were at the mercy of the material as opposed to co-collaborators. To hell with convention—it’s in your hands now. That’s the bit that bothered me about the movie—I don’t think the team behind the movie took as many liberties as they could have. Rather than fill in on all the bits so deliciously carried on in the movie, carry on the story, as it would best translate on the big screen. Drop unnecessary dialogue, neglect scenes that would get in the way of the film’s flow, and don’t be afraid to take liberties. It’s your movie, you interpretation. Do it that way.
(Furthermore: put some goddamn pants on Dr. Manhattan and stop using Leonard Cohen’s “Halleluiah” in every tender scene in a movie. Granted, it’s a great song—Jeff Buckley’s version is as heartbreakingly beautiful as anything else you’ll hear—but for fuck’s sake, please stop.
-On Thursday I leave for Ft. Lauderdale, and the day after I get back on the Noordam for the next seven months. In honor of everything I’ll miss while I’m gone:
-The Temple
-Java’s
-Record Archive
-My french press
-Book stores
-The jazz festival
-Not having to do passenger boat drill
-Then again, I’m going to Europe for seven months. I think I’ll live (quite well, thank you.)
Cheers.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
in transit
I’ve thought about airports quite a bit for the past few years. What was at first a fascination with the ability to travel thousands of miles away eventually turned into a love-hate relationship, followed by a love-mostly hate relationship, and has currently resolved itself into a love-still hate-fascination affair. The love of traveling collides with the hassle of waiting, delays, customs, more waiting, security checks, last minute gate changes and more waiting. Sort of makes you think that Kerouac had a good idea with hitchhiking. Dangerous, true, but at least he was never bored.
I think my curiosity with airports first developed when I flew to Milan out of JFK a year and a half ago. I sat around the international terminal, watching supermodels and jetsetters hustle around all suntanned and apathetic, obviously delayed with their flights to locales glorified in in-flight magazines and the Travel Channel. It really did fascinate me in a way—the fact that their presence was necessitated somewhere far away, somewhere warmer, sleeker, sexier than where they came from. I was the simple kid from suburban New York, guitar in hand, clueless as to what he was doing, only thinking about his hotel reservation and the passport in his back pocket. Everything seemed a little bigger; JFK was less of an airport hub and more of a (dare I say?) social scene.
Doing the cruise ship job, airports are inevitable. They’re one of your last beacons of dry land and your first light at the end of the contract as you go home. I suppose in a way the downtime between flights and connections can be a bit of a cleansing experience. You’re finally back in the “real” world, walking shoulder to shoulder with businessmen, families, college students, restless loaners, people with their own stories and reasons for getting from place to place. For me, it helps clear my head a bit, shows that I’m separated from the ship, from looking at people as either co-workers, passengers, or the fortunate few who don’t need to worry about all-aboard times.
Today in the Charlotte/Douglass International airport I ran into a sweetheart of a seeing eye dog in training, a lounge pianist playing Amy Winehouse, an impeccably dressed British gentleman, an angry businessman with the strangest bald spot I’ve ever seen, and two full grown adult women, twins, skipping to their gate as if they were pretending to be fairies. I feel like now would be the moment to make some grand statement about opening your eyes to what’s around you, but….I hate clichés, and this is one of the biggest offenders of them all. Entertaining, absolutely true, and a welcome change to seeing grumpy passengers holding up lunch lines and not applauding during shows, but shouldn’t your eyes be opened all the time anyway?
As I walked from terminal to terminal today to meet my connecting flight I ran into another guy with a guitar. We exchanged the universal greeting for crossing musicians (sight head nod) and walked our separate ways. The observing outsider could see it as the working, traveling musicians acknowledging and respecting each other for a brief moment before we carried on into whatever gig lie next.
A nice sentiment, but bullshit nonetheless. He was walking out of the bar that I walked into. Beer and free wireless are great selling points for my people.
Cheers.
I think my curiosity with airports first developed when I flew to Milan out of JFK a year and a half ago. I sat around the international terminal, watching supermodels and jetsetters hustle around all suntanned and apathetic, obviously delayed with their flights to locales glorified in in-flight magazines and the Travel Channel. It really did fascinate me in a way—the fact that their presence was necessitated somewhere far away, somewhere warmer, sleeker, sexier than where they came from. I was the simple kid from suburban New York, guitar in hand, clueless as to what he was doing, only thinking about his hotel reservation and the passport in his back pocket. Everything seemed a little bigger; JFK was less of an airport hub and more of a (dare I say?) social scene.
Doing the cruise ship job, airports are inevitable. They’re one of your last beacons of dry land and your first light at the end of the contract as you go home. I suppose in a way the downtime between flights and connections can be a bit of a cleansing experience. You’re finally back in the “real” world, walking shoulder to shoulder with businessmen, families, college students, restless loaners, people with their own stories and reasons for getting from place to place. For me, it helps clear my head a bit, shows that I’m separated from the ship, from looking at people as either co-workers, passengers, or the fortunate few who don’t need to worry about all-aboard times.
Today in the Charlotte/Douglass International airport I ran into a sweetheart of a seeing eye dog in training, a lounge pianist playing Amy Winehouse, an impeccably dressed British gentleman, an angry businessman with the strangest bald spot I’ve ever seen, and two full grown adult women, twins, skipping to their gate as if they were pretending to be fairies. I feel like now would be the moment to make some grand statement about opening your eyes to what’s around you, but….I hate clichés, and this is one of the biggest offenders of them all. Entertaining, absolutely true, and a welcome change to seeing grumpy passengers holding up lunch lines and not applauding during shows, but shouldn’t your eyes be opened all the time anyway?
As I walked from terminal to terminal today to meet my connecting flight I ran into another guy with a guitar. We exchanged the universal greeting for crossing musicians (sight head nod) and walked our separate ways. The observing outsider could see it as the working, traveling musicians acknowledging and respecting each other for a brief moment before we carried on into whatever gig lie next.
A nice sentiment, but bullshit nonetheless. He was walking out of the bar that I walked into. Beer and free wireless are great selling points for my people.
Cheers.
Monday, March 2, 2009
23
I always used to wonder what I’d be doing at age 23. I think the notion hit me when I first really started listening to Incubus. There’s a line in “Pardon Me” when he talks about being 23, and I think it was just the massive scope I heard in the song while listening to it on headphones that made me wonder what I’d be doing, what I’d be like, what my objectives in life would be at that time. Overall it seemed like a significant age—just out of college, two years past 21, five years after being 18 and on the brink of graduating high school and making such a loaded choice between college, getting a job or something (decidedly) else.
Five years ago I had no clue. Two years ago it looked like grad school. One year ago it looked like getting ready for grad school and working in a coffee shop somewhere. And now…I’ll spend most of my time at 23 years of age in Europe, working as a musician. Maybe this is overshooting a bit, but I’m certain that if you took me at all three of those ages and gave them a peak into where I was going and what I’d be doing you’d have three very similar answers, likely somewhere along the lines of “holy shit, no way,” or “holy shit, really?” or, possibly “son of a bastard, that’s awesome” (times change, hair styles change, exclamations merely shift).
I think I’m at the point where I’ve come out of my shell enough and the nervous, quiet me isn’t so nervous, isn’t so quiet. I think I’m coming into my own with the guitar. I willingly accept getting tossed around and into trouble as long as I can call it a good time and learn from it. I love digging into things I don’t understand and soaking them up until I’m sick of them, needing to step back until a day or two later when I can appreciate my recent crash course all over again. I’m completely comfortable and accepting of writing near nonsense and posting it on the internet for anyone to read, namely since it means I got you to read it. Ha. Take that.
Maybe it’s because I’m to the point where I’m not too nervous about the future. Maybe because I’ve finally dug into reading “On The Road” and I don’t feel like it’s over my head, that I can relate to what Sal Paradise wants to see. I’m not even sure what this “it” is, but “it” is not so bad. “It” is actually sort of nice. “It” is cool what whatever comes next, so long as there’s coffee and scones nearby. That’s the important thing.
Five years ago I had no clue. Two years ago it looked like grad school. One year ago it looked like getting ready for grad school and working in a coffee shop somewhere. And now…I’ll spend most of my time at 23 years of age in Europe, working as a musician. Maybe this is overshooting a bit, but I’m certain that if you took me at all three of those ages and gave them a peak into where I was going and what I’d be doing you’d have three very similar answers, likely somewhere along the lines of “holy shit, no way,” or “holy shit, really?” or, possibly “son of a bastard, that’s awesome” (times change, hair styles change, exclamations merely shift).
I think I’m at the point where I’ve come out of my shell enough and the nervous, quiet me isn’t so nervous, isn’t so quiet. I think I’m coming into my own with the guitar. I willingly accept getting tossed around and into trouble as long as I can call it a good time and learn from it. I love digging into things I don’t understand and soaking them up until I’m sick of them, needing to step back until a day or two later when I can appreciate my recent crash course all over again. I’m completely comfortable and accepting of writing near nonsense and posting it on the internet for anyone to read, namely since it means I got you to read it. Ha. Take that.
Maybe it’s because I’m to the point where I’m not too nervous about the future. Maybe because I’ve finally dug into reading “On The Road” and I don’t feel like it’s over my head, that I can relate to what Sal Paradise wants to see. I’m not even sure what this “it” is, but “it” is not so bad. “It” is actually sort of nice. “It” is cool what whatever comes next, so long as there’s coffee and scones nearby. That’s the important thing.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
.nice.
Philipsburg, St. Maarten. These ports are littered with tourist shops selling cheap t-shirts and expensive jewelry, duty-free liquor and Cuban cigars. Still, depending on the atmosphere, they can be good for a quick bite, a beer or two (or three…) and free internet, conditions depending.
I’ve never seen water this blue, not even in the Mexican Riviera. I can officially see why Jimmy Buffett does what he does. Hell, I’d play “Cheesburger in Paradise” everyday for the rest of my life if I can wake up every morning to see something this…nice.
That’s the funny thing about terminology with people working on a cruse ship. Sober and standing straight, when talking about a certain port, someone is prone to gush about scenery, food, drink, atmosphere…but when subdued by a few hours in a crew bar, more in line with the spirit of the working crew on a floating hotel/casino/theater, the word “nice” takes on a vast new meaning. It’s more than just a simple, placating word. All things considered I’m still new to this job (just over three months total with Holland), but I think “nice” is a valuable word. I’d be honored if someone said I was a “nice” player; I’d be excited if someone told me that an upcoming port was “nice,” especially if they didn’t hold on too long to the “sss” sound at the end of the word (and indicator of sincerity, no joke). “Nice” isn’t “fantastic,” isn’t “surreal” or “unbelievable.” Bombastic adjectives are for newbies, for the uninitiated and the inexperienced who don’t know what it’s like to come back to the same place over and over again. “Nice” makes you sound like you know what you’re doing, that you’re not prone to being so quickly sold to bright lights and colorful signs. That’s the funny thing about working on a cruise ship: it’s not just a job, it’s a lifestyle. Some people do this for a short time to make money, experience something different and see cool shit (like me). Others make an entire career out of working on a ship, who can name all the ships in a fleet because they’ve worked on most of them.
At that point, it becomes a matter of familiarity with the way things go. I think I’m getting the hang of it. Inevitably, it’s a glorious position. People pay thousands of dollars a cruise to see these places, and we get to see them for free. Nay, we get paid to see these places (well…we work…sort of…). So, while passengers struggle to take everything in all within a matter of hours in a given day, cruise ship crew get to slowly relax into the area, to drink it all in with slow sips of each area over a contract/itinerary.
True, they’re not completely revealing of the culture of a given area, but it’s as close as we can possibly get given the circumstances. Living in a house or an apartment somewhere else, buying groceries, sleeping nights in one of these ports lead you to experiencing what it’s like to live somewhere else, somewhere you’re not accustomed to, possibly reluctant to experience. Regardless, we get to experience what it’s like to see a world outside our own for months at a time. Even if it’s just a resort with readily available booze and food, it’s a taste of something different to living back at home, shoveling snow off a car, going though motions that lead to monotonous moments.
I’m happy I’m here. It’s nice.
I’ve never seen water this blue, not even in the Mexican Riviera. I can officially see why Jimmy Buffett does what he does. Hell, I’d play “Cheesburger in Paradise” everyday for the rest of my life if I can wake up every morning to see something this…nice.
That’s the funny thing about terminology with people working on a cruse ship. Sober and standing straight, when talking about a certain port, someone is prone to gush about scenery, food, drink, atmosphere…but when subdued by a few hours in a crew bar, more in line with the spirit of the working crew on a floating hotel/casino/theater, the word “nice” takes on a vast new meaning. It’s more than just a simple, placating word. All things considered I’m still new to this job (just over three months total with Holland), but I think “nice” is a valuable word. I’d be honored if someone said I was a “nice” player; I’d be excited if someone told me that an upcoming port was “nice,” especially if they didn’t hold on too long to the “sss” sound at the end of the word (and indicator of sincerity, no joke). “Nice” isn’t “fantastic,” isn’t “surreal” or “unbelievable.” Bombastic adjectives are for newbies, for the uninitiated and the inexperienced who don’t know what it’s like to come back to the same place over and over again. “Nice” makes you sound like you know what you’re doing, that you’re not prone to being so quickly sold to bright lights and colorful signs. That’s the funny thing about working on a cruise ship: it’s not just a job, it’s a lifestyle. Some people do this for a short time to make money, experience something different and see cool shit (like me). Others make an entire career out of working on a ship, who can name all the ships in a fleet because they’ve worked on most of them.
At that point, it becomes a matter of familiarity with the way things go. I think I’m getting the hang of it. Inevitably, it’s a glorious position. People pay thousands of dollars a cruise to see these places, and we get to see them for free. Nay, we get paid to see these places (well…we work…sort of…). So, while passengers struggle to take everything in all within a matter of hours in a given day, cruise ship crew get to slowly relax into the area, to drink it all in with slow sips of each area over a contract/itinerary.
True, they’re not completely revealing of the culture of a given area, but it’s as close as we can possibly get given the circumstances. Living in a house or an apartment somewhere else, buying groceries, sleeping nights in one of these ports lead you to experiencing what it’s like to live somewhere else, somewhere you’re not accustomed to, possibly reluctant to experience. Regardless, we get to experience what it’s like to see a world outside our own for months at a time. Even if it’s just a resort with readily available booze and food, it’s a taste of something different to living back at home, shoveling snow off a car, going though motions that lead to monotonous moments.
I’m happy I’m here. It’s nice.
Monday, February 9, 2009
End.>vaccum.
I've said it many a time, but working on a cruise ship is an odd, odd thing. Where else can you essentially work everyday, get fed for free, see bits of the world and live in a tiny little cabin, all the while essentially escaping great senses of responsibility from that bigger picture out there most call the "real world"? While on the ship crew are obligated to uniform themselves as "smart casual" as they cater to the wants and demands of the (often elderly) passengers who can afford however many thousands-a-cruise prices, while the moment crew shore leave is granted the employed masses pillage the port for cheap beer and wireless access. Crazy, innit?
Still...not a bad gig if you can get it. Especially considering the times right now, I'm thankful that I can get paid, even more so that i get to play guitar...even more so that i get to play guitar and travel. Still, I miss things and opportunities back home, naturally. Mom, dad, Lauretta, Java's, a kitchen...I'm getting the feeling that when I go home in March for that glorious week I'll force myself to stay awake 24 hours a day as i engage in a cooking/bookstore/coffee shop binge that will go down in (my) history as my utterly mad week to soak up every bit of Penfield that I appreciate before going into a recessive coma that will take up most of the time of my flight to Ft. Lauderdale to start my next contract (assuming I make the connection). So...that'll be fun.
Mike Einziger, my hero/guitarist of Incubus, is having his orchestral composition "End.>vaccum" premiered in August. Naturally, I won't be there, nor would I likely have been had I not taken the Mediterranean contract (but not for lack of interest). I fully realize that I'm not even close to being on his level, but it's making me thing that I need to step away from what I think I need to be playing right now and start to think about what I need to be doing musically right now. Not to sound lofty or pretentious, but one can play Bach only so many times before one sort of loses it, y'know?
Really, I'm just going on and on right now because I've found wireless in Aruba.
Cheers.
"Here's to another year of art, music, travel and discover"-Brandon Boyd
Still...not a bad gig if you can get it. Especially considering the times right now, I'm thankful that I can get paid, even more so that i get to play guitar...even more so that i get to play guitar and travel. Still, I miss things and opportunities back home, naturally. Mom, dad, Lauretta, Java's, a kitchen...I'm getting the feeling that when I go home in March for that glorious week I'll force myself to stay awake 24 hours a day as i engage in a cooking/bookstore/coffee shop binge that will go down in (my) history as my utterly mad week to soak up every bit of Penfield that I appreciate before going into a recessive coma that will take up most of the time of my flight to Ft. Lauderdale to start my next contract (assuming I make the connection). So...that'll be fun.
Mike Einziger, my hero/guitarist of Incubus, is having his orchestral composition "End.>vaccum" premiered in August. Naturally, I won't be there, nor would I likely have been had I not taken the Mediterranean contract (but not for lack of interest). I fully realize that I'm not even close to being on his level, but it's making me thing that I need to step away from what I think I need to be playing right now and start to think about what I need to be doing musically right now. Not to sound lofty or pretentious, but one can play Bach only so many times before one sort of loses it, y'know?
Really, I'm just going on and on right now because I've found wireless in Aruba.
Cheers.
"Here's to another year of art, music, travel and discover"-Brandon Boyd
Friday, February 6, 2009
adequate gyros in st. thomas, cafe au lait in dominica
I'm slowly getting back into the groove of ship life. Maybe it’s because I’m still getting used to the ship, but I get restless when I’m just in my cabin, lying around, watching tv. Playing guitar and reading helps if I can’t get off the ship, so I suppose it will force me to be productive—always a good thing. All I need to do is find an area to practice classical guitar in peace and I should be good.
I’ve heard good things about bits of the itinerary, but I think this contract will be a good one to just save up money, since Europe will likely take a decent cut of my bank account (stupid euro….). In a coffee shop in Dominica right now…I think I’ll call this place home every time we stop by here.
Yesterday at the sail away from St. Thomas the band met an individual named Bob. Bob was singing. Bob was dancing. Bob was (naturally) drunk. At one point this loud yet kind-hearted individual got at the microphone and talked about his wife—how she was the best thing that’s ever happened to him, how she’s given so much and never asked the same in return…very sweet of him. After our singer wrestled the mic away from Bob (who was in the middle of a sudden, inspired dirty joke), we played “Lady in Red,” and Bob got down on his knee and asked his wife to slow dance. Cheesy, perhaps (his wife is a redhead), but sweet nonetheless, but at the end of the tune Mrs. Bob threw him in the pool. I come to find out later that, as a gesture of thanks, Bob bought the band a case of beer.
So…I’m happy here.
I’ve heard good things about bits of the itinerary, but I think this contract will be a good one to just save up money, since Europe will likely take a decent cut of my bank account (stupid euro….). In a coffee shop in Dominica right now…I think I’ll call this place home every time we stop by here.
Yesterday at the sail away from St. Thomas the band met an individual named Bob. Bob was singing. Bob was dancing. Bob was (naturally) drunk. At one point this loud yet kind-hearted individual got at the microphone and talked about his wife—how she was the best thing that’s ever happened to him, how she’s given so much and never asked the same in return…very sweet of him. After our singer wrestled the mic away from Bob (who was in the middle of a sudden, inspired dirty joke), we played “Lady in Red,” and Bob got down on his knee and asked his wife to slow dance. Cheesy, perhaps (his wife is a redhead), but sweet nonetheless, but at the end of the tune Mrs. Bob threw him in the pool. I come to find out later that, as a gesture of thanks, Bob bought the band a case of beer.
So…I’m happy here.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
assorted, vol. 1
1) Jack Kerouac, everyone’s favorite proto-hipster, once wrote that if you own a rug you own too much. I first heard that at a time when I thought that following his every word and action would lead you to a fulfilling, dangerous, adventurous and compete youth (this was also before I found out, apparently, that he was kind of a whiny, immature dick, but I digress). In a way, this is a totally applicable statement—your baggage (get it, baggage) will eventually weigh you down while you (sorry for the cliché) journey through life as a young adult. These thoughts came rushing back to me today as I was packing for my next contract when, after carefully folding my black dress shirts into my large suitcase, I looked down at what lie before me and I thought “wow….that’s a lot of stuff.”
To be fair I’m not packing (packing, not cramming, I can confidently say) so much out of impulse; it’s out of necessity. Those two bags that laid out in front of me like bloated, cumbersome corpses on the ground were not filled with things I wanted, but rather things I needed for this job. Black dress shirts (my new favorite formal commodity), a new suit (a rather dashing European cut, if I do say so myself), khaki docker pants (not preferable), Hawaiian floral print shirts (hate them) and polo shirts (hate them more) are some of the required attire for this gig, for better or for worse, and I accept the fact that, in a sense, I’m a sellout for dressing so decidedly preppy because the Man tells me I need to. I say “sellout” because the me of yesterday would shout that same hurtful word at the me of today for choosing this life, to which I would promptly should out “I’m going to the Caribbean and playing guitar for money,” to which the me of yesterday would shout back “really? Never mind…”
Still, symbolically, it’s a bit of an odd transition. I attached to playing the guitar through Green Day and Pennywise, bands who embraced the general counterculture sentiment, and now my first quasi-legitimate job involves my beloved six-stringed weapon of choice, but I look less like me and more like an alternate Sears catalog version of me. Odd, indeed, but in retrospect I have no reason to complain about this stage in my life, nor do I want to. I’m satisfying my restless desire to get out and away from what I know all too well, and I’m playing guitar alongside great musicians doing it—all is well with life, y’know? If I could just wear flip-flops, jeans and a shirt of my choosing, I’d never stop smiling.
2) Michael Cera is awesome. True, Arrested Development was better than Juno, which was still good and better than Nick and Nora’s Infinite Playlist (which I never saw but one could assume), so in theory fame’s a bitch, but I don’t care. Even if I discredit his actually ability as an actor (which I can’t), I wholeheartedly stand for and respect the goofy, awkward character he’ll perpetually be, even if in his next movie he’s pumping stereotypical bad guys full of bullets and knives while nailing Jessica Alba and Jean Malone (all at the same time). It didn’t hit me until just recently, but no matter what he does with his acting career, he’ll always (at this age, anyway) represent the shy, dorky, timid masses of middle school and high school kids everywhere. For that, the Andy Juriks aged 13-18 across the nation thank you, good sir.
3) Mickey Rourke deserves an Oscar for The Wrestler. To side with the hype, Heath Ledger deserves an Oscar for The Dark Knight. Everyone involved with Slumdog Millionaire nominated for any Oscar in an capacity deserves it as well, especially Danny Boyle. Actually, Boyle deserves one on principle alone. WALL-E, the character, not the movie, should be constructed as an actual robot and appointed a position in Obama’s cabinet. Jake Shimabukuro should be awarded a Grammy, as well as an apology for having not been given one before.
4) Greatest Hits albums should be treated less like retrospectives and more like mixtapes.
Read: Shakespeare Wrote for Money by Nick Hornby
Listen: Orphans by Tom Waits
To be fair I’m not packing (packing, not cramming, I can confidently say) so much out of impulse; it’s out of necessity. Those two bags that laid out in front of me like bloated, cumbersome corpses on the ground were not filled with things I wanted, but rather things I needed for this job. Black dress shirts (my new favorite formal commodity), a new suit (a rather dashing European cut, if I do say so myself), khaki docker pants (not preferable), Hawaiian floral print shirts (hate them) and polo shirts (hate them more) are some of the required attire for this gig, for better or for worse, and I accept the fact that, in a sense, I’m a sellout for dressing so decidedly preppy because the Man tells me I need to. I say “sellout” because the me of yesterday would shout that same hurtful word at the me of today for choosing this life, to which I would promptly should out “I’m going to the Caribbean and playing guitar for money,” to which the me of yesterday would shout back “really? Never mind…”
Still, symbolically, it’s a bit of an odd transition. I attached to playing the guitar through Green Day and Pennywise, bands who embraced the general counterculture sentiment, and now my first quasi-legitimate job involves my beloved six-stringed weapon of choice, but I look less like me and more like an alternate Sears catalog version of me. Odd, indeed, but in retrospect I have no reason to complain about this stage in my life, nor do I want to. I’m satisfying my restless desire to get out and away from what I know all too well, and I’m playing guitar alongside great musicians doing it—all is well with life, y’know? If I could just wear flip-flops, jeans and a shirt of my choosing, I’d never stop smiling.
2) Michael Cera is awesome. True, Arrested Development was better than Juno, which was still good and better than Nick and Nora’s Infinite Playlist (which I never saw but one could assume), so in theory fame’s a bitch, but I don’t care. Even if I discredit his actually ability as an actor (which I can’t), I wholeheartedly stand for and respect the goofy, awkward character he’ll perpetually be, even if in his next movie he’s pumping stereotypical bad guys full of bullets and knives while nailing Jessica Alba and Jean Malone (all at the same time). It didn’t hit me until just recently, but no matter what he does with his acting career, he’ll always (at this age, anyway) represent the shy, dorky, timid masses of middle school and high school kids everywhere. For that, the Andy Juriks aged 13-18 across the nation thank you, good sir.
3) Mickey Rourke deserves an Oscar for The Wrestler. To side with the hype, Heath Ledger deserves an Oscar for The Dark Knight. Everyone involved with Slumdog Millionaire nominated for any Oscar in an capacity deserves it as well, especially Danny Boyle. Actually, Boyle deserves one on principle alone. WALL-E, the character, not the movie, should be constructed as an actual robot and appointed a position in Obama’s cabinet. Jake Shimabukuro should be awarded a Grammy, as well as an apology for having not been given one before.
4) Greatest Hits albums should be treated less like retrospectives and more like mixtapes.
Read: Shakespeare Wrote for Money by Nick Hornby
Listen: Orphans by Tom Waits
Monday, January 19, 2009
Can't buy you happiness, but can buy you cool new toys.
I spent a little over $400 today at Guitar Center. Writing that first sentence made me cringe a little bit, but I know it's for the greater good. Everything I picked up today I know I'll need for the Halcats gig on the Noordam, so I take solace in the fact that they're all useful pieces of equipment, albeit expensive, cool looking pieces of equipment.
There was something about the whole experience that made it a slightly comforting one, namely the fact that this is for my job. I get to play guitar and, therefore, necessitate awesome guitar gadgets of various functions, colors, and ambiguous names. The guitar geek I keep inside got to play around a bit today, to fawn and drool at all the expensive gear and pretend for a moment that price tags were an elaborate joke designed by "the man" to keep these beautiful works of art out of most hands. So, that was cool.
The other thing that stood out to me was how the clerk and I were talking to each other, namely the appropriate jargon that was tossed around the entire time: "I need a Line6 Pod...Dean Markly Blue Steels, 11's...I play a PRS, but the Ibanez will work...klaatu barada nikto..." and so forth.
I think I'm slowly becoming the person I wanted to be when I was 13.
Cheers.
There was something about the whole experience that made it a slightly comforting one, namely the fact that this is for my job. I get to play guitar and, therefore, necessitate awesome guitar gadgets of various functions, colors, and ambiguous names. The guitar geek I keep inside got to play around a bit today, to fawn and drool at all the expensive gear and pretend for a moment that price tags were an elaborate joke designed by "the man" to keep these beautiful works of art out of most hands. So, that was cool.
The other thing that stood out to me was how the clerk and I were talking to each other, namely the appropriate jargon that was tossed around the entire time: "I need a Line6 Pod...Dean Markly Blue Steels, 11's...I play a PRS, but the Ibanez will work...klaatu barada nikto..." and so forth.
I think I'm slowly becoming the person I wanted to be when I was 13.
Cheers.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
and....we're back.
I started my first blog because I was about to spend a semester in
Which is why I wanted to keep this blog going. It’s not about a fake semester—I’ve come to accept that Milan was an isolated incident of irresponsibility and debauchery (unless you’re my mom, in which case it was a good, wholesome time). This is about what’s “next” for me, the illusive, terrifying concept of the future and taking that next inevitable step towards adulthood (apparently highly overrated, from what I gather). True, much of this was fueled by playing guitar on a cruise ship, a post-college occupation I feel I can rightfully deem far more kick ass than most other post-college scenarios. Considering all the guff I got from everyone about being a guitar performance major, I actually take pride in how cool this job is. Law school or
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