I had to wait a little while to detox from my day at the DMV before writing about it. I arrived, stood on line, took my number, and then waited almost four hours for an appointment that took ten minutes. It had to be the most inefficient system I have seen in a while. I sat in the waiting room listening to a woman scream that she has never done crack, casually reading my Economist. I almost finished the magazine. If you have ever picked up an Economist, you will know how much time they take to read. Not really a browsing little mag. I was sitting next to some people that were there to sort out a ticket and get their license back. They had both been caught driving without insurance. They bellyached and bitched about the state “nickel and diming you”. I restrained myself, but I wanted to say, “You assholes are driving around without insurance. You deserve every fine and inconvenience you are experiencing.” But I smiled, and placidly returned to my reading. I was astonished that if you have to have insurance to drive, why was I not asked to produce it before getting my license or registering my car. I mean, that’s just logical. Once I had my license, I had to then drive to the county clerk’s office to register my car. For realz? You can’t do both at the Department of Motor Vehicles??? Stupid. They have a blanket cost of $90 dollars to register your vehicle. They didn’t seem to care that the truck is 12 years old. When you live in states that don’t have income tax, people tend to brag about it with wide-eyed enthusiasm. But whether they take it from your check or not, they get their taxes. At least when it is deducted, you don’t quite notice it the same way as when you are paying 10% tax on your soda. Nevertheless, I am licensed and registered and that is good.
I started a part-time job at American Eagle to try and generate a little cash flow in the interim. The training was laughably anemic. I’m pretty sure they taught me to smile, but I can’t be positive. My first shift was on the dreaded black Friday. I was a little nervous because I really detest being unprepared. However, it was crazy boring. I really just stood there, said “All these hoodies are $19.77 and with the 20% discount in the store, that makes them $16.” and then refolded all the disturbed clothes over and over and over and over and over and over again. One of the managers approached me on Saturday to tell me he really thought I could be a top associate. “You have a good head on your shoulders. You’re smart. And you have managed a retail store. I don’t know what your plans are, but there is room to grow here.” It was really quite sweet. And he is a super cool guy so far. But I couldn’t help but laugh wildly on the inside and blast it on Facebook. I mean, honestly, retail management…um…no. I am finding my 19 year old coworkers to be a bit icy, but I didn’t really get the job to make friends. And after cleaning the store today, let me caution all of you from wearing clothes from a store without washing them first. Trust me. I have also recognized a slight ethical dilemma in working here. The major push is sales, obviously. But the tactics to try and get people to buy more than they intend sort of rubs me the wrong way. Without knowing whether or not they can afford it, it makes me really uncomfortable. Because 20% off is nice, but it makes you spend more than maybe you should. And I feel sleazy shoving products in their hands. So I really just avoid that admonishment altogether.
It is nice to have something to do, even if it makes me want to bash my brains in and involves listening to Katy Perry and that stupid “Teenage Dream” song twice an hour. Not that Weezer’s “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” is much better. Activity helps to keep all things in a bit of perspective. Or serves as a distraction, which is just as good.
I am thankful that I got a job. Thankful that I was able to spend Thanksgiving with a friend. Thankful that I am here even if I still don't know why.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
Blues Can Make You Feel So Good
Tuesday night, I was invited to a blues showcase at the Bluebird Café. I figured if it wasn’t good, it would at least be fodder for the blog. As my father says, “Good blues can make you feel so good.” There were three acts in this round. Dave Perkins (friend of my new friend), some other guy, and a couple whose band name is Blue Mother Tupelo.
Now, the guy who seemed to have organized the evening, ironic that I can’t remember his name, he sang mostly about food. I have deemed him to be bubblegum blues. He also shook his head in order to produce vibrato. That one stumps me. How do you not develop natural vibrato? Or why don’t you go see an ENT when your vocal cords no longer meet? Anyway, he was enjoyable in a pop blues kind of way. He told a story about a mentor of his named Coot Wilfred. Now, Coot was married to a woman called Susta Baby. She got this name by being the youngest girl in her family. When she went to college, she went by her given name. But when she married Coot she went back to Susta Baby because she didn’t want to be Winifred Wilfred. I turned to my friend and said, “Honestly, are these real words?” Classic southern story.
Dave Perkins was an interesting cat. He is apparently getting his PHD in religion. His music had blatant theological overtones. Which if you have listened to very much blues, if they have a theological bent, it is usually quite simple. But Dave’s music had well developed, conflicted, at times even doubting theological assertions. His was a very intellectual blues. Fantastic, to be sure. Remarkably talented guy. He had some of the smoothest and measured guitar licks I have ever heard. Although he is a bit out of my age range, he is still super cool looking. One of those folks with fashion sense that never expires. He ended his set playing a Robert Johnson tune that the entire group joined. It was…well…not sure I know the right word for it. “Marvelous” will have to do.
Then there was Blue Mother Tupelo. Oh my goodness. We all can appreciate the difference between talented people and those that have the cosmic “it” factor. These two have “it” and then some. The wife of the team sounded like Patty Griffin on steroids. She had that earthy, node-ridden quality to her voice. Her lines just flowed and danced through each song. She doesn’t have a very full or even sonorous voice. It was like coloratura husky. And when she played the tambourine, she looked like a boxer warming up for a fight. Every part of her body was moving and contracting as this 5 foot nothing pixie added percussion to the mix. Her husband was crazy good. He swapped back and forth between his acoustic and a steel string guitar. And when they sang together, they didn’t have harmonies that lived symbiotically. It was as if they were both singing their own melodies that just met up now and then. I was so enraptured with these two that I passed her a note in the middle of the show. It said, “You guys are rad. Best act I have seen in Nashville.” She thought it was so sweet she put it in her shirt “next to my heart.” I talked with both of them after the show like a bumbling fan. Couldn’t find an articulate word in my brain. I was so captured and lifted and mesmerized. I went home and bought one of their records on iTunes. And the best thing happened. I listened to it, loved it, and thought, “This doesn’t come close to the live show.” So much better than having a record that you love and then being profoundly disappointed by the performer live. If you have any interest in Americana/Blues, you need to add Blue Mother Tupelo to your catalogue.
Now, the guy who seemed to have organized the evening, ironic that I can’t remember his name, he sang mostly about food. I have deemed him to be bubblegum blues. He also shook his head in order to produce vibrato. That one stumps me. How do you not develop natural vibrato? Or why don’t you go see an ENT when your vocal cords no longer meet? Anyway, he was enjoyable in a pop blues kind of way. He told a story about a mentor of his named Coot Wilfred. Now, Coot was married to a woman called Susta Baby. She got this name by being the youngest girl in her family. When she went to college, she went by her given name. But when she married Coot she went back to Susta Baby because she didn’t want to be Winifred Wilfred. I turned to my friend and said, “Honestly, are these real words?” Classic southern story.
Dave Perkins was an interesting cat. He is apparently getting his PHD in religion. His music had blatant theological overtones. Which if you have listened to very much blues, if they have a theological bent, it is usually quite simple. But Dave’s music had well developed, conflicted, at times even doubting theological assertions. His was a very intellectual blues. Fantastic, to be sure. Remarkably talented guy. He had some of the smoothest and measured guitar licks I have ever heard. Although he is a bit out of my age range, he is still super cool looking. One of those folks with fashion sense that never expires. He ended his set playing a Robert Johnson tune that the entire group joined. It was…well…not sure I know the right word for it. “Marvelous” will have to do.
Then there was Blue Mother Tupelo. Oh my goodness. We all can appreciate the difference between talented people and those that have the cosmic “it” factor. These two have “it” and then some. The wife of the team sounded like Patty Griffin on steroids. She had that earthy, node-ridden quality to her voice. Her lines just flowed and danced through each song. She doesn’t have a very full or even sonorous voice. It was like coloratura husky. And when she played the tambourine, she looked like a boxer warming up for a fight. Every part of her body was moving and contracting as this 5 foot nothing pixie added percussion to the mix. Her husband was crazy good. He swapped back and forth between his acoustic and a steel string guitar. And when they sang together, they didn’t have harmonies that lived symbiotically. It was as if they were both singing their own melodies that just met up now and then. I was so enraptured with these two that I passed her a note in the middle of the show. It said, “You guys are rad. Best act I have seen in Nashville.” She thought it was so sweet she put it in her shirt “next to my heart.” I talked with both of them after the show like a bumbling fan. Couldn’t find an articulate word in my brain. I was so captured and lifted and mesmerized. I went home and bought one of their records on iTunes. And the best thing happened. I listened to it, loved it, and thought, “This doesn’t come close to the live show.” So much better than having a record that you love and then being profoundly disappointed by the performer live. If you have any interest in Americana/Blues, you need to add Blue Mother Tupelo to your catalogue.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Loneliness Blows
When I was younger, I used to write a lot of poetry. A lot. In fact, I wrote a new poem on the back of every Algebra test in 8th grade. My teacher loved them. She was a math teacher, so I am not sure she had any poetic expertise. I wrote mostly about the boys I liked. And the boys I didn’t like. Occasionally, I wrote on more serious matters like when my uncle died. At 15, I abruptly abandoned poetry. In the name of artistic prowess, I felt that the poetry was becoming a type of therapy. It was not written for its own sake. And I’ll be damned if I was going to be another teenager in black clothes writing about the grim world of my preternatural adolescent experience. Truth be told, I should have kept at it. I needed the outlet and the therapy. But my desire to never be a stereotype kept me from poetry and trendy haircuts I would be ashamed of later in life. Such concern for how the older me would judge the younger me.
I don’t think I have ever outgrown it. I never want to be somebody’s slogan. Always, always, always meaning what I say, wearing my feelings on my face, discontent with disingenuous conversation, and craving deep and cosmic connection. If you have read any previous entries on this blog, you could easily surmise that I am critical and opinionated. And in good faith, I am. I would hope that my critical eye is an effort to always find truth and beauty. However, I confess that a good portion comes from superiority. And I hate that. I hate that separation. I hate the distance it puts between me and whatever I have just observed.
If you could boil my basic theology into one word, it would be “inclusion”. Maybe “subsuming” because I like the sound of that word. I believe with all of my heart that God desires and works to include us in his heart, love, will, and work. And we are to do the same with Him and with others. And anything that begins to separate or distance us from others, from Him, and especially ourselves does more damage than we can know. There is fear in isolation. There is calamity that overcomes the human spirit in isolation. And there is a profound lack of perspective that creeps in and settles in our minds.
I also think that our most basic theologies have a great deal to do with our underlying pathologies. I have never been completely the odd man out. I have always been a part of the circle without ever really being a part of the circle. Just separate enough to be discouraged. And just a part of everything to feel paranoid and dramatic. It is has proven difficult to assimilate and also maintain my fierce devotion to being my own person. I know that I crave inclusion and it greatly influences my view of everything, especially God.
All that to say, and that was a lot to say to get to a very narrow point, loneliness blows. This is the toughest portion of the move. The time when you are no longer part of the place you came from, but not yet a part of the place you are.
I watched a lovely movie the other night where a character prayed this prayer.
“Dear God,
All I can do is stammer to You.
I can do nothing but hold out my heart to You.
You created us in Your likeness.
Our hearts are uneasy
until they find peace in You.
Amen”
That about sums it up.
I don’t think I have ever outgrown it. I never want to be somebody’s slogan. Always, always, always meaning what I say, wearing my feelings on my face, discontent with disingenuous conversation, and craving deep and cosmic connection. If you have read any previous entries on this blog, you could easily surmise that I am critical and opinionated. And in good faith, I am. I would hope that my critical eye is an effort to always find truth and beauty. However, I confess that a good portion comes from superiority. And I hate that. I hate that separation. I hate the distance it puts between me and whatever I have just observed.
If you could boil my basic theology into one word, it would be “inclusion”. Maybe “subsuming” because I like the sound of that word. I believe with all of my heart that God desires and works to include us in his heart, love, will, and work. And we are to do the same with Him and with others. And anything that begins to separate or distance us from others, from Him, and especially ourselves does more damage than we can know. There is fear in isolation. There is calamity that overcomes the human spirit in isolation. And there is a profound lack of perspective that creeps in and settles in our minds.
I also think that our most basic theologies have a great deal to do with our underlying pathologies. I have never been completely the odd man out. I have always been a part of the circle without ever really being a part of the circle. Just separate enough to be discouraged. And just a part of everything to feel paranoid and dramatic. It is has proven difficult to assimilate and also maintain my fierce devotion to being my own person. I know that I crave inclusion and it greatly influences my view of everything, especially God.
All that to say, and that was a lot to say to get to a very narrow point, loneliness blows. This is the toughest portion of the move. The time when you are no longer part of the place you came from, but not yet a part of the place you are.
I watched a lovely movie the other night where a character prayed this prayer.
“Dear God,
All I can do is stammer to You.
I can do nothing but hold out my heart to You.
You created us in Your likeness.
Our hearts are uneasy
until they find peace in You.
Amen”
That about sums it up.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
I Miss the Arclight
I have been to two movies since moving to Nashville. And I have gone to two different theaters. I have become painfully aware of how much the ambiance of the actual theater contributes to the overall experience of the movie. And how much the crappy ambiance can detract from it. I like to sit close to the screen in movie theaters for two reasons; most people sit in the middle or the back surrounding me with empty chairs in the front greatly reducing the chance that I am sitting next to a chatterbox or candy wrapping handicapped individual, and I like to be enveloped in the film. I like to sit so close that I forget I am at the movies. But when the theater sucks, it doesn’t matter how close I am to the screen. If that cloth collage of Charlie Chaplin is in my peripheral vision, it is all over. Who even likes those? So lame.
The first theater I went to was decorated in a lovely purple and green combo, complete with green neon lights running the length of the walls and ceiling. I felt like I was in “Tron” or 1991. I went down the stairs and into a hallway leading to my theater and was accosted with the most revolting smell. It was like a combo of popcorn butter, sweat, decades of foot traffic, and grime. Honestly, I would have preferred to step into a classroom with 25 fifth graders that just had PE. That is how bad it smelled. The theater itself barely shook off the hallway odor. I think I must have just started to ignore it. It greatly inhibited my emersion into “RED”. I went to this theater because it was in the cool part of town. Not really cool like “hip” but cool like “this is where the money is”. And it is completely surrounded by a remolded mall.
After that debacle, I decided that I would risk the theater closer to home. I mean, could it be worse? At least it was built in the last decade. Not much better. The smell wasn’t quite as repugnant. However, the projector was color challenged. Frequently throughout the film the color would be off and it registered most notably on the actor’s faces. They all looked like they had jaundice. Imagine Justin Timberlake with jaundice. Nobody needs to see that. BUT I DID! It really disrupts my experience when anything reminds me that I am in fact, watching a movie. I mean I know I am watching a movie. But when I get distracted by “Is that a really bad make-up artist making them all yellow?” instead of just thinking, “Wow. Armie Hammer turned out way hotter than I would have expected when he was 13”. (I used to go to church with him), well, that is lame.
All that to say, I miss the Arclight and its like-minded affiliates. I even miss the Laemmle theaters.
The first theater I went to was decorated in a lovely purple and green combo, complete with green neon lights running the length of the walls and ceiling. I felt like I was in “Tron” or 1991. I went down the stairs and into a hallway leading to my theater and was accosted with the most revolting smell. It was like a combo of popcorn butter, sweat, decades of foot traffic, and grime. Honestly, I would have preferred to step into a classroom with 25 fifth graders that just had PE. That is how bad it smelled. The theater itself barely shook off the hallway odor. I think I must have just started to ignore it. It greatly inhibited my emersion into “RED”. I went to this theater because it was in the cool part of town. Not really cool like “hip” but cool like “this is where the money is”. And it is completely surrounded by a remolded mall.
After that debacle, I decided that I would risk the theater closer to home. I mean, could it be worse? At least it was built in the last decade. Not much better. The smell wasn’t quite as repugnant. However, the projector was color challenged. Frequently throughout the film the color would be off and it registered most notably on the actor’s faces. They all looked like they had jaundice. Imagine Justin Timberlake with jaundice. Nobody needs to see that. BUT I DID! It really disrupts my experience when anything reminds me that I am in fact, watching a movie. I mean I know I am watching a movie. But when I get distracted by “Is that a really bad make-up artist making them all yellow?” instead of just thinking, “Wow. Armie Hammer turned out way hotter than I would have expected when he was 13”. (I used to go to church with him), well, that is lame.
All that to say, I miss the Arclight and its like-minded affiliates. I even miss the Laemmle theaters.
Monday, November 8, 2010
The Consolation of Winter
I was really angry with myself yesterday for a few reasons. The chief reason being that I completely missed the ending of daylight savings. I look forward to this time of year like most people look forward to Christmas. It isn’t that I don’t like daylight. I am a fan of the sun. Not that much of a fan since I have a delicate complexion and very sensitive eyes. But I don’t begrudge him his time to shine. The reason I love daylight savings is because of the glorious extra hour of sleep. It isn’t just the extra hour. It is the anticipation. It is knowing all day that I get to set my clock one hour earlier. It makes me giddy. It makes me feel all warm and cuddly. I almost always stay up an extra hour or two completely defeating the purpose. But when I wake up the next morning, it feels lovely. This year, in my state of funemployment, I tend lose track of the date and normal cycle of life. Completely missed the daylight savings. I had one alarm go off and then thinking I had slept in until 10, my phone alarm went off alerting me that it was in fact 9 am. I was confused for a moment. And then it occurred to me. I had missed my favorite holiday. It was just an ordinary Saturday night. Broke my heart a little.
Last night as I was falling asleep, taking stock of my day worrying about tomorrow, I interrupted my personal scolding to realize why I enjoy colder weather. Not arctic cold, just crispy cold. I had added a blanket underneath my comforter. Under the weight of my jersey sheets, blanket, and down comforter, I was gloriously replete. When I woke up in the night to use the bathroom (a nightly curse), I snuggled back into my den of hibernation. I sleep better with heavy blankets. I don’t know why. Maybe it is where I register on the autism scale. But the blankets, the weight, the cavern of warmth, this is my consolation. So I missed my favorite day of the year and my silly excitement over the time change. I had weight to comfort me as I slept.
Last night as I was falling asleep, taking stock of my day worrying about tomorrow, I interrupted my personal scolding to realize why I enjoy colder weather. Not arctic cold, just crispy cold. I had added a blanket underneath my comforter. Under the weight of my jersey sheets, blanket, and down comforter, I was gloriously replete. When I woke up in the night to use the bathroom (a nightly curse), I snuggled back into my den of hibernation. I sleep better with heavy blankets. I don’t know why. Maybe it is where I register on the autism scale. But the blankets, the weight, the cavern of warmth, this is my consolation. So I missed my favorite day of the year and my silly excitement over the time change. I had weight to comfort me as I slept.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
E-I-E-I-Oh No
Well, I am in Music City. So it is only fitting that I go hear music often. I need to find some venues that are not country oriented. The formulaic nature of country songwriting gets on my nerves. I would say the songs are riddled with play on words, but I don’t think that is it. They are more like a turn of phrase that sounds clever but is quite insubstantial. Tonight, I heard “One step closer to nowhere at all.” and “E-I-E-I-OOOO” a song about the lessons you learn living on a farm. I guess. There was a woman who by her third song I had trouble not laughing. In fact, I failed. I chuckled often. She kept jerking her face away from the microphone to spare it the overload. The irony of course was that she neither had a big enough voice to necessitate such a gesture nor was she singing loudly. She also had a machine gun vibrato that made me cringe. There was the odd family sitting a few tables away. If I didn’t know he was a fictional character, I would swear the son was Lenny from “Of Mice and Men”. He walked with a glazed crazed look on his face without moving his arms. There was also a man in a wheelchair that did not use the wheels to move the chair but rather his feet. Why do you need a wheelchair if you have the use of your legs? Very odd, indeed. Then came the third set of musicians. Holy night. There was this girl that has no business being in Nashville. Her voice alone much less her brilliantly quirky music belongs in a different market. Her name was Katie something and she was magnificent. Her voice was half Rachel Yamagata and half Billy Holiday. Intoxicating, really. The kind of work that makes me think I completely wasted my youth. And I am sure my brother will agree with that last sentence.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Cans of Beer
I went to the famous Bluebird Café last night to hear songwriter’s in a round. The Bluebird is interesting. It is this tiny little café in a strip mall with little to no parking. It sits across from an uber suburban mall not unlike The Grove. And yet, it is crazy famous. There were three songwriters. Two women and a married couple. They chit chat between songs and tell stories. The married couple was awesome. They call themselves “Carolina Sings”. I recommend exploring their music. One of the women had a lovely voice and her music was pretty good. Interesting lyrics, but not really any hooks to her songs. I don’t really remember a single song. Kind of like seeing a musical that you remember liking, but don’t walk away humming the music. The other artist was…well, I didn’t care for her. They are embarking on a tour today. The Bluebird was their first night. The café has a $7 minimum purchase of food and/or beverage. I thought a salad sounded lovely. But I forgot were I was. Iceberg lettuce is NOT a reasonable form of lettuce in a house salad. It has its place. Sandwiches, garnish, or even mixed in with darker greens, I suppose. But it was the only lettuce in the bowl. Felt like I was eating damp, crisp cardboard. I need to learn that lesson quickly. Good salads must be made at home. Then there were the cans of beer. None that I ordered, of course. But they were everywhere. Everybody had beer in a can. What self-respecting bar serves beer in a can? You drink canned beer at a frat party, or intertubing, or on your front lawn. You do not drink it in a bar. They should be ashamed of themselves. At one point, Ben of Carolina Sings was introducing the next song. He said it was inspired in reaction to the horrible movie “2012”. I never saw it so I can’t comment. But he showed his age and ignorance when saying that in an epic film like that the casting should be more thoughtful. “John Cusack? Who is that? He has “Serendipity” to his name and that is about it. They should have gotten Denzel.” I’m sorry, what? Serendipity? Are you serious? Have you ever heard of “Better of Dead”, “Say Anything”, “Gross Point Blank.”? Hell, I would put “Must Love Dogs” higher up on the list of credentials than “Serendipity”. I was a bit horrified. The other part that was quite a shift for me was the number of Christian centric songs. Really threw me when someone played a song she wrote for her Old Testament History class in college. When you go to hear music in LA, there is the occasional Christian song that makes an appearance. Usually, it is performed by a new arrival to the city. Geez, I got a terrible review for singing a spiritual a capella at a show. You can still find it with a simple Google search. It was a warning of what not to do. The reviewer failed to mention that the room went ape shit for the song, and it only bothered him. I figured if U2 can sing “40”, Cream can sing “Presence of the Lord”, and Phish can sing “Amazing Grace”, I was pretty safe at a dinky bar on Sunset. But I digress. One of the girls didn’t understand the reference of one of the songs. The other girl said, “Well, Amy, if you ever bothered to pick up a Bible you would know.” And the room erupted in an “Ooh”. Wow. I am in the South. When a “not reading your Bible” quip can provoke such a reaction from the crowd.
All in all, I dug it. The caliber of voices goes dramatically up in the Music City. Reminds me of Austin. LA for being the seat of the record labels really doesn’t provide a plethora of high quality singers. It is usually a find.
All in all, I dug it. The caliber of voices goes dramatically up in the Music City. Reminds me of Austin. LA for being the seat of the record labels really doesn’t provide a plethora of high quality singers. It is usually a find.
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