I Went to a War Memorial

Last weekend, I was at a war memorial for all American wars. There was an individual display for each war starting with the Revolutionary War all the way though to the current conflict in Iraq: in each display case, there was some clothing and other accessories from that particular war. At the end of the memorial, there was an empty display case for the next war.

First thought: "Wishful thinking."

Second thought: "It's sad that they have to have an empty display case for a future war."

Third thought: "It's sad that I think having only one empty display case is wishful thinking."

Good Sandwich

What food here is good to eat?

And the middle-aged, middle eastern lady standing behind the counter says, "Everything is good." Bold statement. I don't let her off easily and order the veggie sandwich: no meat to hide behind. I wish I could eat this sandwich now, but I need to go outside and wait for the bus going the wrong way.

Nearly every morning, I take the 145 bus south to downtown. Today, as I wait on the opposite side of the road, I get a brief chance to bask in the glow of that wonderful star that warms our planet. The bus pulls up, I jump over the gutter puddle, and get on.

About two stops down (or up, rather) the route, these two women with their two daughters get on the bus. "I love having fun on the bus, Mommy!" shouts one of the girls at the top of her lungs. "Buses aren't for having fun, dear. They're for sitting," her mother replies.

When did living life stop being fun?

Our bus passes a church with a nativity scene on display outside - it's only five months until Christmas. One of these little girls says to the other, "Let's pray for Jesus." They dive into a rehearsed ritual of prayer said both in Spanish and English. Flawless and synchronized, they wrap up their perfect performance with the traditional Catholic cross across the chest.

Brainwashing. That's all there is to it. These girls aren't more than six years old: they are completely incapable of comprehending the concept of what believing in higher power could possibly mean.

On the train, I listen to this couple behind me make love with their voices. The train comes to the Glencoe stop, and this couple suddenly realizes that they need to get off at this stop. The girl makes it off the train and the guy does not. The guy gets off at the next stop and begins to desperately search for a way to find his girlfriend. Luckily for him, it's Ravinia night and these cooler-toting suburbanites will be taking a path north to Ravinia Park. He will see them taking that path, and he'll take it south to where his girlfriend is.

Further down the line at another stop, I watch a man pick up a chunk of concrete and place it in a pile of other chunks of concrete. For no reason. He was just so OCD that he couldn't leave that lonely chunk of concrete be. I also notice the Starbucks in the front of the Jaguar dealership. Our train is running roughly eight minutes late due to "heavy passenger traffic". The man behind me quips, "Yeah...I thought I saw a few more fat asses on this train than usual."

In the car ride back to Kenosha, I'm able to decompress a little bit. This sandwich is really good.

Sorry That My Phone's Been Off

With laptop bag in hand, I sauntered around my morning corner to the bus stop. I glanced down at my pants with a great deal of frustration: the bottoms of my black Aeropostale jeans refuse to remain over the top of my shoes and seem to instead prefer tucking themselves into the flaps of my black loafers. This feeling of frustration floods my mind with memories of the last time I had this problem with these pants and these shoes.

Since Sunday night, I've felt a wide range of emotions.

Anger-
I hope those motherf*****s get shot in their legs and lay on the sidewalk and bleed to death.

Fear-
Dude...do you realize how close I was to dying?

Frustration-
ARGH! I wish I would've done something!

And...of course...humor-
We were six blocks away from Barack Obama's house, the most secure homestead in America, and we got held up at gun point. Haha!

It feels weird feeling emotions again because I was so apathetic about so many things for so long as a result of a rough school year. It's the same feeling that you see when you watch an old garden hose get used at the first sign of Spring, it's the same feeling you hear when your joints complain in the morning, and it's the same feeling you feel when you spend time with an old and almost-forgotten friend.

I remained completely calm when it was happening: I remained totally unflustered. I heard something along the lines of "Sonuvabitch" or "Aw, shit" said in a very pedestrian way, as though my friend had just realized he spilled something on his nice button-up shirt. I turned around to see that monster machine of metal with its cold, dead weight and unequivocal efficiency. It was spun around in front of my face and the faces of my friends.

"Don't worry. I ain't gunna shoot you or nuthin' like that."

Then, why the fuck do you have a gun?

I remained totally calm, did what they said, gave them my wallet, gave them my cell phone, and faced the other direction and walked.

It wasn't until I got home that night that these emotions hit me, and it wasn't until my jeans tucked themselves into my shoes this morning that I fully realized what happened and how I was reacting to it.

It's Our Weather, Whether Or Not You Like It

Summer is always a time of revelation for me: I have lots of time to sit down and read and think about things that I don’t have time for during the school year. Also, the beautiful weather makes creativity much, much easier, for, in the cold, you really have to try to be happy and inventive all the time. This is part of the reason why I love Chicago: one is never happier than that first day Spring decides to envelop you in a warm, windy embrace. (He says as he looks out his window at the very wet, windy weather.)

One of my recent revelations is that, sometimes, it’s okay to just sit there and watch the grass grow. In fact, not only is it okay, but one should revel in that time spent doing nothing. Everyone runs around like chickens with their heads cut off in order to make money so that they can have more free time to what…make more money? No! You make money so that you can afford to give yourself a day off every once in a while or, depending on how much money you make, give yourself the day off more than you don’t.

Another revelation that I’ve had is that, sometimes, it’s okay to like something popular. When you go to an arts school where more than 50% of the population is hipster (if you don’t know what a hipster is, go to urbandictionary.com and look it up), it seems as though anything that’s popular has no merit. I actually sat in a coffee shop once and listened to two hipsters attempt to name bands and songs that the other had never heard before just to show the other how “eclectic” their own tastes were. In my opinion, that’s conformity in the form of trying too hard not to conform.

I used to hide the fact that I enjoy certain popular (and stereotypically upper class) things like tea and rollerblading, and then, one day, I realized something very important. Maybe…just maybe…these things are popular because they’re good! Sure, there are more than a fair share of popular things out there that suck (Kanye West, Starbucks, and any computer that runs Windows…just to name a few), but many things are popular because they’re good!

This is a debate that comes up in jazz all the time. Was Miles Davis really as hip as everyone made him out to be? Yes, motherf***ers! He still is even almost two decades after he’s died. Another debate that is constantly raised: “Is Wynton Marsalis really a good musician even though he has a very classicist view of jazz?” He makes well over a million dollars a year by only playing, writing, recording, and teaching the music that he loves. What the hell else could you want from the man? Seriously!

Another revelation I’ve come across is that, sometimes, the best thing to do in a situation is to just not think about it. Based on the number of romantic, musical, and social situations I’ve messed up as a result of thinking about them too much, I’m surprised that it’s taken me this long to realize this. However, when you don’t think about something, you don’t worry about it, and, when you don’t worry about it, you generally don’t mess it up.

This brings me to my last, and probably biggest, revelation of my summer thus far. If you leave it alone and don’t worry about it, everything always works itself out. I didn’t know how I was going to pay for the rest of college. BOOM! Scholarship drops in my lap. I started looking for a place to live for last school year about fifteen days before I had to move. BOOM! I found the perfect place to live, for cheap, on my first day of apartment hunting. Ex-girlfriend tries to have sex with me the last time she was in Chicago, and I don’t let her. BOOM! Six months later she is pregnant because of failed birth control.

Everything works itself out. EVERYthing.

Taking A Step Back

Taking a step back without tripping can be a very difficult thing to do. It's so easy to get caught up in all of the things that you're supposed to be feeling. I'll be the first person to admit that I often get so caught up in trying to achieve a particular goal or feeling that I lose sight of what I'm doing in context of the bigger picture.

It's every musician's dream to practice alone, rehearse with many different groups, perform in many styles of music, and record every opportunity that they get. Being a musician, this is also my dream, and I've spent the last three years at school trying to put myself in a better position to attain this dream. This summer, I've spent so much time thinking about this dream that I didn't even realize that I was living it.

In the last month of my life, I've performed in styles ranging from jazz to blues to ska in many different settings from hotels to clubs to outdoor festivals. I've met and had conversations with so many different types of people from people who've never touched an instrument to those who've only just played in high school groups to those who are far greater musicians than I. I've also been able to get into the practice room a fair amount this summer: it's nice to sit down and s l o w down what it is that you're doing and be able to think about it in a very academic manner.

Last night at the recording session, as I started to get down on myself about some out of tune notes that I had played on a particular take, I took a step back. I'm living the dream. There I was in a really nice recording studio with a bunch of musicians that I love playing with making music that we all love to make. Who the f*** cares if I played a few slightly out of tune notes? When I think of all of the things that could've gone wrong (illness, injury, equipment malfunction, etc.), it's a f***ing miracle that I even made it to the studio and was able to do what I did.

This is a reminder (to myself mostly) that I need to constantly take a step back from what I'm doing and realize that, in so many ways, I'm living the dream. Is it a perfect dream? No, and I still have much practicing to do in order to improve my musicianship and, in turn, improve what's happening around me. Is it a start that not many people experience until many years after they graduate? Yes, and I'm going to run with it as far as I can and do my best to make it last forever.

It's Been A While...

...so, I'm just going to cut the crap and get right to the point.


Saw this beauty waiting for a green light outside of Panera Bread at the intersection of Congress and State in downtown Chi-town. Yes, that's a Coca-Cola commercial playing on the side of the truck.
















'Bout to play with The Radioactive Squirrels on Friday night at Bloomin' Days in Kenosha, WI.
















'Bout to play with Our Own Syndrome on Saturday afternoon at Bloomin' Days. The pamphlet that we were reading told us that Our Own Syndrome has one of the largest and most dedicated fan bases in the Kenosha area. They must've all been on vacation...
















'Twas a bit chilly that afternoon.
















Some of the street musicians at Bloomin' Days...
















My parents' new dog that effectively gooed all over me.
















This label reads:
"Use only to dry hands and face. Any other use can be DANGEROUS."

I'm not really sure what they think people are going to do with this towel in this bathroom, but they can bet they'll get sued for it if they don't say something.
















(No caption needed.)
















Herbie on the far left, Dukes of Hazard on the near right and the Mystery Machine on the far right.
















BAHAHAHAHA!!!
















Busy, busy weekend. See you folks soon.

I Only Get Internet In My Bathroom...

...but I only get cell phone reception in the rest of my apartment. Only someone of my generation would consider this a dilemma. As you can see, I've chosen impersonal, digital interactions with people over having a real-time voice-to-voice conversation.

I came home the other day, and the internet didn't exist in the places in my apartment where it usually does. Until it comes back, this is my office:
















Things are much more comfortable in the rest of my apartment...

Time Cannot Be Linear

As I stood there in the Lance Middle School auditorium in Kenosha, WI blowing through the solo section on the same exact arrangement of Weather Report's "Birdland" that I had blown a solo on eight years ago while attending that school, I was instantaneously taken back to eighth grade. I felt awkward, unattractive, and insignificant all over again. As I opened my eyes at the end of my solo, I half-expected to see all of those nasty, judgmental bastards that I went to middle school with.

But they weren't there. It was just my sister's band director (not the same one that I had), all of the kid's in my sister's middle school jazz band (not the same kids who were in mine), and an empty auditorium (still with the same ugly seats). But I still felt some of those same feelings hanging around that I had felt eight years ago near the end of my eighth grade and final year in middle school.

I then hung out with one of my very close friends from high school, and, as she and I drove around to some of the spots that we used to go when we'd skip class, all of those high school memories came streaming back. But they were good high school memories. Usually, when I think of high school, I think of the negative things that happen, and, when I think of high school girlfriends, I think of the ends of the relationships.

Not this time. As the two times in my life collided, I began reliving those same emotions that I felt when we'd cut class in senior year on a gorgeous spring day, grab some Taco Bell, and go sit down by the lake and talk about music. Suddenly, all of the other times in my life that I had relived that day became positive. My middle school memories became about hanging out with some of my good guy friends, of going camping with my dad, and playing too many video games with my cousin.

Yesterday, the time that I currently live in collided with several different other times in my life. I didn't just remember those times, I relived the memories and the emotions. I was those ages again, even if for only a brief moment or two. Physicists, psychologists, and whoever else can say what they like: I'm telling you that this was an absolute collision of my life now and my life in the past.

And it felt good. Being back in Kenosha doesn't make me feel so weighted down anymore. I don't feel like these memories are weighing on my shoulders anymore as much as they just hanging around simultaneously with each other.

Peace out, peeps.

I've Done Far Too Much Talking Lately

Started this day off right.



















This one's for you, Jaymor.


















Finally landed downtown.


















Enjoyed Grant Park's lush greenness today.

































Apparently, I wasn't the only one. This homeless guy screamed, "Fuck you all", as the seagulls tried to steal his food.


















Joke's on you Columbia College. You said that all of your spaces were going to be closed on Memorial Day, but I walked right into this one. HA!


















Memorial Day Services in Grant Park.


















We played for the cocktail hour after the services. See that light that's out? Yeah, Joe hit that with his bass: just look at his shame.

















Chowin' down with the recent Columbia grads. Oh, Rob...how you'll be missed around the music building.


















PEACE, BITCHES!

Let's Have a Lesson in Racial Profiling

Okay, I promised myself that I wasn't going to get too soap-boxy and preachy with this blog, but this is just too good to pass up.

As you may or may not know, Chicago is one of THE MOST racially and economically segregated major cities in the world, and nowhere is that more apparent than on the CTA red line. The red line runs from the far north (and predominantly middle to upper class white) side to the far south (and predominantly middle to lower class black) side, and it's no coincidence that there are twice as many stops north of downtown as there are south.

So, I walk onto the red line this afternoon and find this:
















(Just for clarity's sake, it reads, "Your Dad's House in Milwaukee?")

Now, I had to hold in my laughter: I couldn't believe what I was seeing. This is a cell phone advertisement that is ingeniously geared towards a specific market, the aforementioned middle to lower class black market. How do I know this? First off, the use of the phrase "Dad's House" makes it seem like the intended targets parents do not live together. Secondly, I also know, from growing up in Kenosha, WI, that there is a large black, lower class population in Milwaukee.

Of course, this cell phone company wasn't about to let the other half of the train go unadvertised to. On the opposite side of the train (the side facing you if you were to get on at one of the three stops in Lincoln Park, arguably the nicest neighborhood on the north side), was an identical poster that read, "Your Baby Sitter Next Door?". Poor people generally don't get babysitters; so, this one was geared towards the middle to upper class white folks that would be getting on the train in Lincoln Park.

These advertisements do not stop here. They had to include that new up-and-coming class of citizens. The spanish-speaking crowd.
















Now, I'm not dissing on this cell phone company at all, and I probably should've somehow blocked their logo on this last picture. This company is genius. I'm dissing on the city of Chicago for being so segregated; though, it is rather entertaining.

The View From My Box

Everyone has their own little box. The forgotten children in the Favelas of Brasil have their own little boxes: they sleep in them at night. The cab drivers in New York have their own little boxes: they drive them around the city all day long. These people have these boxes for protection from the outside elements. Others of us, though our boxes aren't as literal, have them for protection, as well. These boxes are often labeled things like "social class", "formality", and "manners", and we use them for protection from outside elements like "awkwardness", "discomfort", and "embarrassment".

I have been utilizing both the literal and the figurative types of boxes lately. Despite the wonderful weather, I've been cooped up inside of my apartment creating on my computer all day, and, rather than go out with people who I don't know as well, I make up excuses for why I cannot go out. Life is just easier when you sit in your studio apartment all day: there are tough and confusing things out there in the real world like public transportation...and people.

Unfortunately (or fortuately), I have no food in my kitchen right now, and I have not eaten in almost 24 hours. Hunger will be the thing that drives me from my box. It is also the thing that drives the children in the favelas from their boxes, and it is the thing that makes cab drivers drive their boxes all over New York.

The view from my box (ironically, onto other boxes):

Inbox (1)

Every once in a while, the Universe sends me a little message. The message is always the same, and it reads:

You're doing the right thing. Keep it up.

For as many frustrating practice sessions, disorganized rehearsals, low-paying gigs, late nights coming home, and near mental breakdowns I've had in the past several years, everything can be put into perspective with a simple 10-minute conversation.

As I was about to head out last night, a very important decision had to be made: CTA or cab? Being that it was already 10:30pm, I was not looking to spend $3 and 45 minutes on a couple of buses to get to the party that I was heading to. So, I opted for the cab: I flagged one down and off I went.

Once inside the cab, I did the thing that I always do: I asked the cab driver how his night was, where he's from, etc. After two or so minutes of this idle talk, we stumbled onto the topic of this little-known thing called music. Being that he is Indian, we discussed Eastern music at length, the differences between musical culture here in America and in India, and how music can truly bring together very, very different people. At the conclusion of the latter, as if cued by a conductor, we both immediately sat back in our seats, didn't utter a word, and just soaked up the beautiful Indian music he had playing through the speakers.

We both realized what had happened. Two very different people, one of them a white boy from the American Midwest and the other an older man from Western India, had just found a connection that they talked vivaciously about for ten minutes. Language and cultural barriers were torn to pieces.

You're doing the right thing. Keep it up.

Anxiety

Anxiety has been, for the most part, something that I've laughed in face of in recent months. While everyone else was flying around during finals week (and the weeks preceeding), I sat back and enjoyed myself. Musicians in the real world don't get to be busy too often; so, I soaked it up. Performances/gigs about three times a week, papers to write, final(s) to study for, and, of course, people who are not in Chicago for the summer to say good-bye to. It was an amazing three or four weeks of my semester, school year, calendar year, and time in college thus far.

Then summer crashed through the windshield of my hectic joy ride. Most people are excited to have the lazy days of summer upon us; however, I'm mourning the loss of my white-knuckled grip on the steering column connected to the end of my semester. Now that I have nothing immediate to do, I don't know what to do. I get anxious sitting around thinking about not having to do anything, and I think too much about things that I shouldn't even worry about.

The one thing that has stayed the same, though: instead of getting anxious about what I have to do (or don't have to do), I distract myself with scales played in weird patterns and Jason Mraz on my iPod.

One Can Never Truly Start Anew

No matter what the situation is or the conditions are, it is impossible for one to truly start anew.

I'd love to say that this blog is going to be different than my last. "I'll keep up on this one more."

I'd also love to say that this break from school is going to be different than the other winter and summer breaks I've had. "I'm going to practice more during this break."

I'd even love to say that this romantic situation that I'm staging is going to be different than any of the others that I've been in. "But guys, this one is going to be different."

As much as we may hate or love it, humans do all things in their lives in a way that is based on their past experiences. I always hear, "It's just going to turn out like the last one did" or "You always say that this one's going to be different, but the same thing just ends up happening." Until someone makes a real commitment to forming a habit that is representative of exactly what that person wants, they will continue to have these failed ventures.

Despite differences in the guises which these new ventures are started under, they all come crashing back to the same center that is my life. Fact of the matter is, I'm going to continue to have failed blogs until I make a real commitment, not just a verbal commitment, to keeping it up. I'm also going to continue having breaks from school end in the same way until I make it a habit to practice 20 hours a week. I'm even going to continue down the same socially suicidal road of romantic relationships until I meet someone who has the same outlook on life and cares for our relationship exactly as much as I do.

Until then, however, expect this blog to have an expiration date, expect me to shirk my practicing duties, and expect to hear many, many more interesting stories of my romantic ventures.

Book being read currently: "Moving to Higher Ground", by Wynton Marsalis - I highly recommend this to musicians and especially to non-musicians. More on this later.

Peace out, peeps.