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.
Monday, May 25, 2009
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.
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