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.
Friday, February 6, 2009
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
Monday, November 24, 2008
dear brian, i still listen to .moneen.
I think part of the reason I haven't updated in so long is because I've comfortably fallen into the groove of HALCat sets, production shows, guest entertainers and drinking Pacificos on beaches. Not bad, but whenever I fall into a steady pace like this it takes about two weeks before comfort becomes complacency becomes boredom. Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but when I know almost exactly what to expect day in and day out I tend to let myself drag, something I know I should work on. Writing would completely annihilate this tendency, but I've taken to the idea of writing after the fact, after I've processed everything in my head, made rhyme and reason to playing with debauchery and "Brown Eyed Girl." I guess Lately I've just been processing/acting sloth-like more than ususal as of late.
So, what better way to mix things up then to leave(DAMN IT!)? In about a week I'm officially gone, flying back to Rochester for a two month, snow-capped pause before jumping on the Nordam for about two months, possibly longer. I'm happy to go home, and have a notion of work again, but I'm still a bit offset at leaving.
Conclusion? I need to kick my ass and write more.
Be back.
So, what better way to mix things up then to leave(DAMN IT!)? In about a week I'm officially gone, flying back to Rochester for a two month, snow-capped pause before jumping on the Nordam for about two months, possibly longer. I'm happy to go home, and have a notion of work again, but I'm still a bit offset at leaving.
Conclusion? I need to kick my ass and write more.
Be back.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Late, I suppose...
(Written October 14th)
Living on a ship is sort of like living in Never-Never Land, except you wear a uniform and, itinerary permitting, you can get a tan. It strikes me as sort of ironic that, all throughout college, we’re being prepared for the real world, for responsibilities outside of dorm and scheduled classes, cafeteria lines and late night food, and, here I find myself, living in a tiny cabin, playing the same set times every week, eating in a buffet line restaurant every day with the possibility of room service at 2 in the morning.
But, hey, there’s a paycheck.
Not bad for a classical guitar major, no?
(Written October 16th)
Today the Ryndam became the first cruise ship to arrive at Guaymas, Mexico; in celebration, camera crews flooded the ship, the captain paraded well-attired “guests” around, and the locals gathered around the security check points to see the new arrivals and festivities to mark the occasion. It was undeniably surreal to suddenly have this odd significance(?) placed on our arrival. Passengers were given “Arriba Guaymas!” and the shore excursions left to applauding audiences.
If none of that sounds very interesting, maybe it’s because I’ve become a bit desensitized to the places we’ve hit so far. Tourist attractions are everywhere, signs are written in English with few bastardized Spanish phrases to hint at authenticity...it just never struck me as very real until Guaymas. Guaymas is real, and not afraid to show it. There’s dirt, cracked pavement, nearly no visible English, no souvenir shops or tourist-friendly locales. Other than an excursion kiosk right off the ship there’s really not much to see or do other than walk into the town itself and see something completely untouched (so far) and genuine.
Honestly, I dug it. No water taxi haggling, no one selling straw hats or sunglasses, just an actual, real, legitimate town. I got off the ship, walked around, and eventually ended up in a run down local bar with a few guys from the ship. We drank a few Pacificos, watched some kids play soccer, scoped out a lawn sale, then got back on the ship. Low key day, relatively uneventful, but nice. Calm. A completely welcome respite from seeing a damn Senior Frogs at every port (Senior Frogs=Mexico’s version of Hooters).
If you know me, you know I’m white. Very white. Unmistakably white. Therefore, I had “gringo” clearly stamped on my forehead. Still...I didn’t get any dirty looks. People smiled back at me, said “hola” or, if they spoke English, asked if I was from the ship. Everyone, literally everyone, at least acknowledged my presence in some friendly way. And, still, when I got back on the ship I heard passengers complaining about Guaymas, how there was nothing to do if you didn’t go on some shore excursion or find your way to the beach. I can’t lie, this pissed me off a little bit. Fine, there might not be attractions or big downtown areas, but at the very least you could just look around and enjoy the surroundings. Enjoy the fact that this part of Mexico is still Mexico, gritty, perhaps, but real, not modified for tourism. Maybe I’m being a bit of a punk writing that, but the thought struck me that day.
(Written October 17th)
Let me reiterate: I love my job.
Living on a ship is sort of like living in Never-Never Land, except you wear a uniform and, itinerary permitting, you can get a tan. It strikes me as sort of ironic that, all throughout college, we’re being prepared for the real world, for responsibilities outside of dorm and scheduled classes, cafeteria lines and late night food, and, here I find myself, living in a tiny cabin, playing the same set times every week, eating in a buffet line restaurant every day with the possibility of room service at 2 in the morning.
But, hey, there’s a paycheck.
Not bad for a classical guitar major, no?
(Written October 16th)
Today the Ryndam became the first cruise ship to arrive at Guaymas, Mexico; in celebration, camera crews flooded the ship, the captain paraded well-attired “guests” around, and the locals gathered around the security check points to see the new arrivals and festivities to mark the occasion. It was undeniably surreal to suddenly have this odd significance(?) placed on our arrival. Passengers were given “Arriba Guaymas!” and the shore excursions left to applauding audiences.
If none of that sounds very interesting, maybe it’s because I’ve become a bit desensitized to the places we’ve hit so far. Tourist attractions are everywhere, signs are written in English with few bastardized Spanish phrases to hint at authenticity...it just never struck me as very real until Guaymas. Guaymas is real, and not afraid to show it. There’s dirt, cracked pavement, nearly no visible English, no souvenir shops or tourist-friendly locales. Other than an excursion kiosk right off the ship there’s really not much to see or do other than walk into the town itself and see something completely untouched (so far) and genuine.
Honestly, I dug it. No water taxi haggling, no one selling straw hats or sunglasses, just an actual, real, legitimate town. I got off the ship, walked around, and eventually ended up in a run down local bar with a few guys from the ship. We drank a few Pacificos, watched some kids play soccer, scoped out a lawn sale, then got back on the ship. Low key day, relatively uneventful, but nice. Calm. A completely welcome respite from seeing a damn Senior Frogs at every port (Senior Frogs=Mexico’s version of Hooters).
If you know me, you know I’m white. Very white. Unmistakably white. Therefore, I had “gringo” clearly stamped on my forehead. Still...I didn’t get any dirty looks. People smiled back at me, said “hola” or, if they spoke English, asked if I was from the ship. Everyone, literally everyone, at least acknowledged my presence in some friendly way. And, still, when I got back on the ship I heard passengers complaining about Guaymas, how there was nothing to do if you didn’t go on some shore excursion or find your way to the beach. I can’t lie, this pissed me off a little bit. Fine, there might not be attractions or big downtown areas, but at the very least you could just look around and enjoy the surroundings. Enjoy the fact that this part of Mexico is still Mexico, gritty, perhaps, but real, not modified for tourism. Maybe I’m being a bit of a punk writing that, but the thought struck me that day.
(Written October 17th)
Let me reiterate: I love my job.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Blues Cruise: good for the soul, bad for the liver.
Mexico is nice. Not nice in the sense of cleanliness or ease of navigation once you get away from the touristy part of town near the port, but nice in the sense of....y’know...nice. Pretty, even. Sort of what you’d expect to see in Mexico. This is all a good chance to work on my haggling skills with taxi drivers, find restaurants with menus entirely in Spanish and drink café con leche on street corners. Most of the places the Ryndam will visit the next two months, I hear, are mostly touristy and safe. Understandable; as relaxed as Holland America may be about most things, they do need to watch their backs once in a while. Still, I’m interested in seeing what kind of trouble I can get into, then safely get away from. I’ve heard some good stories from the other guys in the band about this certain café or that certain bar where no one speaks English but you can get a full meal and good drinks for obscenely cheap prices. The other day in Mazatlan the band’s new keyboard player and I got massages at this place called The Aroma Spa for $15. After spending an hour having someone beat the hell out of my back and wrap me in hot towels I was walking much slower and not caring about the mile-long trek back to the port.
This past week was the Legendary Rhythm and Blues Cruise, a charter cruise that brought on a long list of blues acts with head liners like Etta James, Los Lobos and Koko Taylor. Music started everyday by at least 5:30 and kept going, one way or another, until 5 or so in the morning. Almost every place set up for the bands was packed with amplifiers and speakers, sometimes with the soundboard set up dangerously close to the bar.
In short, I don’t really work this week, but I get paid anyway. Which is nice.
The first few days were just killer. Koko Taylor and her band tore everything up, and the Los Lobos show was one of the loudest things I’ve ever heard (according to one of the stage managers our speakers are now, officially, shot). However, after almost an entire week of hearing blues music, I long to hear a ii chord. The energy is still there, but I’m getting a bit run over by how things are starting to run together. There’s been a ton of great shows I’ve seen so far, but I was really tripped up by seeing Etta James. It was just....odd. She really played up the sexuality to her act to the point where it just wasn’t appealing. It’s been, like it is with a lot of festivals, more enjoyable to listen to the smaller-name groups get up there and tear it up. One of the best acts I saw this week was a singer-guitarist named David Jacobs-Strain who sang this deep-down Delta-style blues while looking like an accountant. I don’t know why, but there’s something about a dorky-looking white guy playing guitar that I can relate to.
Still, it’s the passengers who make this cruise totally worth sticking around. The vibe everywhere is awesome; everyone is here for the same reason, and damn if they don’t know how to party. I heard from the beverage manager that their plan was to sell $85,000 worth of liquor on this cruise, and after the first night alone they sold $45,000. Certain hallways completely reek of suntan lotion and weed. The cabin stewards are either thrilled because they’re being tipped very well, or horrified because they’re cleaning up things they just don’t understand.
This week has been unreal.
But I can deal.
This past week was the Legendary Rhythm and Blues Cruise, a charter cruise that brought on a long list of blues acts with head liners like Etta James, Los Lobos and Koko Taylor. Music started everyday by at least 5:30 and kept going, one way or another, until 5 or so in the morning. Almost every place set up for the bands was packed with amplifiers and speakers, sometimes with the soundboard set up dangerously close to the bar.
In short, I don’t really work this week, but I get paid anyway. Which is nice.
The first few days were just killer. Koko Taylor and her band tore everything up, and the Los Lobos show was one of the loudest things I’ve ever heard (according to one of the stage managers our speakers are now, officially, shot). However, after almost an entire week of hearing blues music, I long to hear a ii chord. The energy is still there, but I’m getting a bit run over by how things are starting to run together. There’s been a ton of great shows I’ve seen so far, but I was really tripped up by seeing Etta James. It was just....odd. She really played up the sexuality to her act to the point where it just wasn’t appealing. It’s been, like it is with a lot of festivals, more enjoyable to listen to the smaller-name groups get up there and tear it up. One of the best acts I saw this week was a singer-guitarist named David Jacobs-Strain who sang this deep-down Delta-style blues while looking like an accountant. I don’t know why, but there’s something about a dorky-looking white guy playing guitar that I can relate to.
Still, it’s the passengers who make this cruise totally worth sticking around. The vibe everywhere is awesome; everyone is here for the same reason, and damn if they don’t know how to party. I heard from the beverage manager that their plan was to sell $85,000 worth of liquor on this cruise, and after the first night alone they sold $45,000. Certain hallways completely reek of suntan lotion and weed. The cabin stewards are either thrilled because they’re being tipped very well, or horrified because they’re cleaning up things they just don’t understand.
This week has been unreal.
But I can deal.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
