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.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
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
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