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