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.

and....we're back.

I started my first blog because I was about to spend a semester in Italy, and it naturally seemed like the right thing to do. I figured that, if nothing else, my friends and family back home could see what I was up to, and I'd keep up with writing in some way since, well, I had a writing minor thing going. When I got back to Ithaca the blog sort of faded out of my conscience; maybe because it was devoted to my “fake” semester and the “very much real” semester had begun, maybe because the stress of both a senior recital and an intensive independent study was enough to keep me busy, maybe both. Either way, the notion that I had a blog out there haunted me in a way. I felt as if I had failed in a way, that I couldn’t even take the time to write just a paragraph or two about life post-Milan, or my perspective about finishing up my undergrad. How lame is that?

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 Mexico? Sales analyst or playing guitar on a beach? Long commute to work or sail in the middle of a beautiful ocean? Flipping burgers or not flipping burgers? I rest my beautifully laid case.

If nothing else this is just to amuse myself, to see how many words I can pound out before I begin to repeat myself or grow bored with the subject matter. Then again, I feel like my life would really suck if I didn’t have anything remotely noteworthy to write about. If not suck, at least be boring, which itself would suck. I think that since I'm in a bit of a safe spot now (i.e. making money) I can relax in the comfort that things haven't really blown up in my face (i.e. being a jobless bum) while working for the next step (i.e. grad school). Until then, a few funny things need to happen at some point...true?

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.

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.

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.

"So, how was the party?" "What party?" "The one from last night." "Don't you remember?" "No, but I hurt all over for some reason."

Tonight (the 25th...who knows when I’ll find a good internet connection) was a curious night. The band had two sets at 7 and 8, which seemed pointless since most passengers would either be eating or seeing a show, but I’ve come to accept the (lack of) logic to the schedule. Normally this would have been a mellow two hours, mostly standards and maybe a few vocal tunes with a small scattering of passengers to offer scant applause.
That’s exactly how it would have been if the boat hadn’t been rocking. Non stop. Like a see-saw.
I’m not really one for sea-sickness. My first night was a bit rough, but other than that I’ve been fine with it; I think I’ll miss it when my contract ends, honestly. Tonight, however, Poseidon must have been pissed because the waves were relentless from about 5 until even now (midnight). When things first started to kick up I went outside and watched the ship smack into the water, casting out froth and water that looked like massive blue and white flowers. Mesmerizing stuff, really, once you get past the fact that you look like every other tourist, albeit a rather nicely attired tourist (it was formal night, after all).
Around 6:30 I got up to the Crow’s Nest, our designated spot most nights, got a drink and sat with the rest of the band, all of whom were surprised at how bad we were getting it. The place was dead, which is typical for the hour. 7 hit. 7:10. 7:15. Still completely dead, save for us and the bar staff. Sam, our piano player, went up to play solo for the first hour while the rest of us sat and waited for things to kick up enough for a group effort. Cameron left for a few minutes and came back with sheet music and the news that nearly a quarter of the passengers at the big production show left due to illness. Aside from the bad news that cast on the night, it dropped a big shadow over the prom-night gig we had to play at 10:30 that night.
The set at 7 ended with Sam having spent the entire time up there, essentially playing to no one. This was the most dead I’d ever seen the Crow’s Nest, even in the early afternoon when nothing is set to happen for hours. Since it’s pointless to get the entire band up there for an empty room, I split the second set with Sam–he played the first half while I grabbed my classical guitar and played the second half. It was nice getting to pay in semi-public for the first time in a while. At one point I got applause from an older couple sitting in some lounge chairs facing away from the staged–scared the hell out of me, but nice nonetheless. During my last song the couple got up to leave, but the husband stood around and listened to me play to my last note, leaving me with some very nice words afterwards. All in all, I left happy.
10:30 rolled around. Boat was still rocking pretty heavily. Band was on the stage, ready to play. Crow’s Next wasn’t even a third of what the prom-night gig typically gets. Still, maybe it was not really caring as much about the reception, but damn it all if it wasn’t one of the best fucking gigs we’ve played yet (sorry, mom). Everything just sounded so damn good and (shock) it was fun. Never mind how few there were in the crowd, everyone dug it. Honestly, they were just a fraction of what we typically get on this gig, but they were all so loud and danced the entire time. Aside from the fact that my music stand almost went toppling over a few times, this was easily one of the best gig nights I’ve had on the boat so far, looking over the unfortunate circumstances.
Lesson learned: Think things will sucks? Deal with it. You just might have fun.
Lesson for everyone else: If you like the musician/band playing, for the love of everything, please let he/she/them know. It’ll be much appreciated. Seriously.

in short....

-mexico in one week.
-the ryndam is chartering a blues cruise in a few weeks. i don't have to work, and i get to see etta james for free.

-damn right.