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.