A delightful day

After watching the first of two halves of a documentary about Woody Allen, I've decided to take some advice. While he doesn't state it outright, the movie implies that Woody wakes up every day and writes. Clothes himself, brushes his teeth, readjusts the reeds on his clarinet then sets off to work. The documentary also makes this act seem so damn effortless. It's a habitual movement of his mind into reality than it is a tedious chore befit for grunts and complaints. Not one moment in the film was I wondering, "Hmm, does he actually like doing what he does?" Yes, asshole! He loves it! He loves writing and he loves the clarinet. He loves exploring the depths of humanity and the frivolity of it. He loves the ebb and flow of his natural working rhythm as much as he loves the improvisation that emits from his instrument. He loves to write. And he does it often. He is a story teller of the highest honor. And in watching his habits, to see his life spread out on the table and to notice the patterns of his behavior I can't help but wonder, "what am I doing?". I want to be a story teller yet I never write stories. For christs sake, I work as a WRITER and I never writer. Want to tell jokes but never think of any. It's a self defeatist spiral that I'm squashing with every stroke of my numbed fingers. By god I'm not going to take it anymore! Rather, I'm taking minor baby steps, ones that I've tip toed before and with great frequency but ones that I never truly owned up to. But instead of expecting some major metamorphosis, I begin by recanting my day, omitting nothing but the deliriously tedious or unnecessarily mundane, with an honest focus on the good. So let's start there. On this day, August 14th 2012, I awoke next to Liz. It was a bit earlier than I'd have liked but I'm slipping back into an ugly habit of over-sleeping. I have breakfast arranged for tomorrow morning so that'll have to kick me into gear. I hopped on the ol' bicycle for the ride to work. Initially outpaced by some overzealous chumps as I began the bridge climb into Manhattan, the competitive devil in my wouldn't rest. I steadied myself, chose a swanky song on Spotify and took chase. It was easier than expected and I caught them before the end of the first climb. Not to be outdone, I kept on the pedals, leaving them both to wonder why they were such huge pussies. It can't be denied - it felt great. The rush of over taking someone on a bike -- especially while wearing boat shoes -- is second to none. Getting to work, I reviewed my ride on Strava to find that I had set a new personal best time across the Williamsburg. Thanks, chumpos! Work consisted of mostly the same tired exercises: Intel updates and Chase brainstorming. I arrived early and so was able to email the 50+ contacts that my research assistant Kendra had found for me. She's turning out to be a great resource on my project. I imagine we'll work together on future projects. The response back was encouraging. Strangely, many Blue State contacts replied, confirming that they were in Red States and in need of a site like this. It will be interesting to see where these dating sites catch on, I predict that each site will find foot hold with the party that is the minority in whatever areas we focus on. I grabbed a quick half hour with Nicole from Outward Search about my half-baked idea for Rev Share Recruiters. I'm flabbergasted that the concept is not more firmly embraced by the recruitment industry, it's a no-brainer. A lay up. Leaving work around 6:30, I pedaled to meet Liz at the Nighthawk Theater in Brooklyn to catch "To Rome with Love" (I'm still buzzing from the Woody doc). Waiting outside with a Blue Point, Liz arrived and we went inside. Arriving a wee bit late, we had to switch movies and instead saw "Beasts Of The Southern Wild". It turned out to be a beautifully shot film. The plot was nearly non-existant save a few themes usually uttered by the young protagonist Hushpuppy but it struck a certain chord, leaving my eyes dewy near it's close. The theater was itself a treat. Liz and I got out own tiny table and order cider, calamari and a burger/pull pork sammy. Dinner AND a movie AT THE SAME TIME. Talk about efficiency. After a nice walk home, I find myself typing this now. All in all, a good day for the books. May tomorrow be similarly filled with interesting events and it's own share of creative intrigue.

Photo Poster

Something Found, Something Lost

I am officially an east coaster again.

Earlier today I noticed a marked difference between the two sides of this country in the form of a song.  Coconut Records (Jason Schwartzman's one man group btw) has a song called "West Coast". There is so much popular culture produced -- be it music, movies or folklore -- speaking to the magical power of the left coast. But have you ever tried to find the parity product that represents the east coast? No, you haven't.

Because it doesn't exist.

The east coast has a steady stream of rappers and the occasional rocker that speaks to their habitat. But listen closer- the description usually depicts a struggle -- a hard knock life, if you'll allow me -- that is lived through rather than enjoyed.

So while I've only been right coasting for a week, I can't help but be semi-influenced by the propaganda that exists in popular paradigms. The west coast is, and personally was, a place of perfect groundhog days, filled with sunshine, beachfront and good times.

But don't count the east out of the races. I love the east coast. It made me who I was. It shaped my growth, housed my family and delivered unto me the best friends I've ever had. Had I grown up in LA, I think I'd be less of a person for it. For too many reasons to write, living through the hardships of the east vs. the idilic existence of the west gave me perspective and compassion. I know was it is to hurt. And I equally know what it is to flourish.


Yet being back leaves me listless. It rustles up an assortment of old feelings that have otherwise lain dormant in my four + years of exile. I remember the bittersweet sentiment that coats every memory, both previous and future. I remember old relationships, romantic and other, that defined my understanding of the everyday. And to be honest it's hard. It hurts. The west relieved me of pain. The east promises to remind me of it everywhere.

I don't know.

Life continues. I'm no bigger player in it here as I was previously. But it's a new set of rules. The home team. I've been playing an away game. May the emotions that run so deep here not drown me, that's all I ask.

The Move Homeward

The impending move back east has me anxious. I can't sleep. I can't eat properly. I feel like I'm transgressing through a luke-warm purgatory where I'm neither here nor there. And it's the worst. It's like the first week back at school when the teacher is passing out the syllabus and explaining what you'll be covering and everyones deciding if this is going to be a fun class or if it's just a bunch of shit-pants losers where no spark of excitement will emerge. Fuck that period- just jump right in and teach me about rocks and fauna (drawing from a particularly painful earth science memory).

Yet I'm hopeful. This move is surely a new adventure. But "starting again" in a new city is always a challenge that too gets easier with time.

I miss the life and friends that I've built in California already. Los Angeles has been an amazing experience- one that started shaky, got off to a slow start but hit its stride beautifully, delivering a great neighborhood, fun jobs, exciting times and an amazing group of friends. For one of the first times I felt surrounded by people who had a sincere energy to create, to make, to do. So many smart, driven people. That's not to discount times past but LA delivered something different. It also allowed me to become more comfortable with myself than ever before. I felt at ease in my skin and in new situations. I felt funnier and smarter and happier.

I suppose I hope to carry that feeling across the country, to continue living what can only be considered a dream, a charmed existence.

Many adventures lay ahead, some business-minded that require my dedication and stalwartness and others that include new people, new places, new feelings.

Hell, it's going to be great.

The Moth

I am writing from the toilet.

There is a moth that has now been in my bathroom for at least two days. It may have been here longer but I cannot say for sure. Since I first acknowledged its presence, it has remained in the same place: In a corner of the shower, just below the ceiling. It's not particularly light there nor is there any type of food. Yet there it stays, presumably sedentary in the hours that I am not blogging from my toilet vantage.

But as I sit here, pants pulled to not the ankles but just below the knee- why go all the way to the ankle, it's too low, it's unnecessary- I feel a wave of mortality. Here is this creature that for no seeable reason chooses to live in a corner of my ho hum bathroom, content with never flinching or even facing a new direction.

In this bug, I can see part of me. I can see parts of everyone. I see so many lives that are spent in a manner far too similar to this bug. Unchanging. Uninspired. It makes me want to cry.

Why do we sit in the corner, facing what we know, or what we've chosen to accept, waiting for the day that we die? I am no bug scientist, but I'm pretty sure the average life span of a moth is what- a week? Two weeks tops? The moth in question has squandered a significant chunk of its waking days blending into a vanilla tile. And I hate the moth for that.

The time is now, moth! The moment is upon you. I know you're just a bug and likely won't read this, but you don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. And while you can't know this in your tiny gross brain, there might not be a tomorrow. I might kill you with a towel. But what I really want to say to you is this: leave the corner. Take a chance. Fly towards the light. You'll soon be dead because of me or because of your comically-short natural life cycle. You likely don't care about life experiences because you don't have a Facebook profile to share them on, but as someone who does I implore you to venture. A life staring at the wall is hardly a life at all.

Celebrity Morph by MyHeritage

MyHeritage: Family tree - Genealogy - Celebrity

truck stops on the jazz prairie: Stewart's #415, Route 9, Queensbury

a triumph. read derek dupre.


truck stops on the jazz prairie: Stewart's #415, Route 9, Queensbury: "After selling my bike to a demented Gurkha outside the old Archive cafe, I caught the L to 8th avenue and then shot up to Port Authority on ..."

Help, I'm Alive!

Life is hard. I think the problem is that we've passed the age of milestones. Now the milestones we reach are self-described and self-prescribed (I'm a woman! I'm getting married! I lost 50 pounds with Nutrasystems!)
There is no movie fade to black. We gotta wake up and do whatever it is we did yesterday again ad naseum. I mean, we don't HAVE to but unless your the dude I'm currently reading about who lives in a teepee and kills all his own food you do. And even his life is monotonous- wake up, bathe in a freezing river, make some squirrel soup, gets to killin'. Repeat until deers start jumping in front of your bullets.
So I think that's what's catching us up and catching a lot of people up. The cycle. Maybe it's just a reprieve we need- to slip out of the spin dry for a bit, get soggy and see what else might be happening outside of the centrifuge.

This song is surprising apt in this scenario. It just happened to be playing. Look past the dubstep/electro-everything. The title I guess is what got me- "Help, I'm Alive!"

http://hypem.com/#/track/1236601/Metric+-+Help+I+m+Alive+Krusha+Remix+

Truly New Anti-Social

For the better part of my life, I've been tethered to a computer. The addiction really went into full swing during college. With the inception of that damned facebook, I was hooked. This newly acquired digital diet did two things.

What do you want first, the good news or the bad news?

Let's start light (I love leading with the positive and then cleaning up with a depressing bit of language. I feel that it makes for a surprisingly savory slice of sadness that I have such an appetite for). With the computer came creativity. I have always been someone who is compelled to create. Maybe it's because I lack the basic attention span to sit and learn. I find the act of reading incredibly pleasurable, I just wish it wasn't so damn boring. I make things because it validates me. I think that's why we all make things- to validate our existence. It's not always for other people- sometimes it is- but we create so we can step back and have a visual representation of our time spent. And as I'm not about to save anyones life as a doctor or find a loophole in court legistlation, I need to use the tools I got. Amongst those tools is the computer. With it, you can literally create anything- drawings, scripts, movies, websites, ideas. It is a piece of technology that without it, I don't know I would be the person I am today. I have a hunger to learn and to explore because of it.

Now for the down side.

The more and more we explore the human results of interacting in "social networks" the more it becomes obvious that we are no more social than before. Rather, we're detached. The majority of my closest relationships happen in the keystrokes. Dusty memories remain top-of-mind because I will occasionally receive a status update. I spend a startlingly large portion of my life living through my computer rather than living in the breathing, unplugged world. And it's sad. I don't want to feel pangs of remorse for my past relationships. I don't want to see people through the window of a screen. I don't want to be this social creature.

Talking with Grandpa

I called my grandfather the other day. I haven't talked to him in a while. He has Parkinsons and dementia so it's hard for him to talk. And it makes it hard for me to call. It's difficult to hear him in a state he so obviously has no control over. Sometimes when we talk, he's pretty good, meaning he is lucid and tells me about his surroundings, the dog, the weather. But if I call later in the day, he's usually set sail into another world. Literally. I think when the current state of mind goes, a person drifts back to the time they most cherish. For my grandfather, that was when he was on the sea with his boats.

Our recent conversation went a little something like this:

Me: Hi Grandpa
Grandpa: Oh, hello....
Me: JD, it's JD.
Grandpa: Ok
Me: How are you doing?
Grandpa: Oh, doing fine, about to set sail here pretty soon. We have dinner plans at the next port.
Me: Sounds like a great time. Is the weather right for it?
Grandpa: Should be. The water's calm.
Me: That's great. Just wanted to call to say hello. Got a new job and just started.
Grandpa: Hmmm?
Me: A new job. Just working.
Grandpa: Ok. Well I think Eve will be here soon. There is a group in San Juan we're picking up, docking down there for a week.
Me: That will be a nice trip. It's gorgeous down there.
Grandpa: Yes, what is the name of your lady friend?
Me: Liz
Grandpa: Eh?
Me: Her name is Liz.
Grandpa: Ah, well that's good...
Me: Ok, I'll let you get ready for the trip, Grandpa. Just wanted to say hello. Love you.
Grandpa: Ok, bye for now.

In the conversation, he sways back and forth from reality and foggy memory. I know I shouldn't engage him in the fantasy, but in truth this distant time he travels to sounds like a much better place than where he actually resides. He's essentially bound to his chair, very immobile. A huge man crippled by an illness that has no cure. But in his head, he is the statuesque sailor steering his boat, a full gale filling his sails. Most of my early memories of him are like this; his perfectly-placed white hair keeping its shape as we skirt across offshore swells aboard one of his many boats. He never said much when we were younger, at least not to his grandchildren. On occasion, he'd have us take the wheel of the boat in open water when an error in direction meant nothing. He'd outfit the entire family in dark Yale blue slickers with white zippers- life preservers for the children- and meander up the Connecticut coastline. A scotch in hand, he'd watch the horizon as if it might otherwise vanish without his constant vigilance. Another constant was his mouth, frozen halfway between grit and grin.

Now in the twilight of his life, I think he's back on his boat, manning the helm, heading for that horizon. Maybe he's with his whole family. Maybe he's with his wife, my grandmother, Tabby. Maybe he's by himself. But I'm glad he's back on board, navigating himself, half grit and half grin. I wish I had heard his stories when he was healthy enough to tell them, but I appreciate the chance to catch the flash of memories as he sails along.

If my mind goes, I wonder where I will return to...

Describing what a djembe is, in relation to my djembe

A djembe is an African hand drum which translated means "everyone come together". And it also happens to be what my parents thought I'd most like for my 25th birthday, which in their own way, they were right. I don't much play it as much as I pat it rhythmically. It helps me network this difficult Los Angeles landscape. Just last week I played it in a circle of sweaty bums and drug addled tweakers. They had no business cards but I'm quite sure if I venture towards the boardwalk, I can find their offices under a palm tree. 

Nico Muhly - Fast Twitchy Organs

Nico Muhly - Mothertongue- I. Archive - Abigail Fischer.

SXSW Music Fest: Day 1

I arrive in Austin after a day of travel filled with misdirection and airport chili, which lead to more misdirection. My cab driver, from Somolialand (not to be confused with Somalia) was the first pleasant face of many I'd encounter. At the AT&T visitor, I picked up my roomcard and opened the door to a fantastic room.

Plush pimp paddage.

I got in touch with Hie and headed to the presidential suite where she, Alex, Noah and Christian were digging into a pack of Shiner Bock. Tunes and tales were tossed, leading to an exit for some tunes. A cab outfitted with enough green to turn greedy dropped us at Frank (NOT to be confused with FrankS) and we feasted on dogs and waffle fries. Kate Z from BU and her friend Jessie arrived and joined the merry crew.

Finishing our dogs we headed next door to The Phoenix and were greeted with a sound that resembled music if it were put in a blender and then abused as a child. No number of drinks could spin that sound into the positive, so we headed out into the warm night.

Made our way to 6th st or dirty sex or some other intelligent nickname for a section of town that can only be described as Cancun, Texas style. to the Dirty Nickel (?) where Kates roommate bartends. 2(0) sweet teas later, we're cutting rugs. Rather, we're dancing in a bar. We decide an actual dancefloor might be better. Quick stop off at a club with now ceiling and giant mammoth tusks (there was an elevated dancefloor, would have been cool when i was 18 but all I could think was that someone was going to fall and break their neck, mark my words...) then to Qua, which is supposed to be french for water. Or something. I think it translated, roughly, to slutty Dr.Evil palace. The dance floor was over a shark tank! That shits pimp. Broke it down for a bit and then Kate gave me a ride back to the hotel.

All in all, the first night was great. Not much music to speak of, but today should prove fruitful.

Chat Roulette Funny Piano Improv #1

Lady Gaga Telephone

POmplamoose is at it again.

Maverick Sabre - Sometimes [OFFICIAL VIDEO - HD]

Mos Def Freestyle