I've been thinking lately about how I grew to be enamored with music; how that relationship evolved. It's become such a big part of my life, such an important part and I often need to recount the journey.
When I was growing up music was much more than background noise to me. I would constantly hear the voices of Robert Plant, Roger Waters and Neil Young, poetic and raw, filling the rooms of our house, telling stories about Chelsea mornings and the earth moving under their feet. Later, in my teenage years I'd hear those familiar songs on the radio and my friends would laugh that I'd know every word, every guitar string strummed ... it felt like home to hear this chord or that hook. I'd remember the watermarked album covers in my dad's collection, strewn across the shag carpeting like lily pads on water.
This music stayed with me. Like the lines of poetry, songs have always stuck with me, the meaningful ones adhering somewhere inside, the less meaningful ones falling away through the years. And to date, I've built this abounding library of songs that correspond with particular moments in my life.
"A Long December" instantly pulls me back to high school, sitting cross-legged on the floor of my room, reading over that handwritten note asking me to Prom. "Whole Lotta Love" sends me to my basement, five years old, frenetically dancing with my sister. And Snow Patrol's "How To Be Dead" puts me right back in the middle of winter. Into the middle of bad memories. Of frozen feelings. And those moments have been stored for me, as if etched into the records themselves, released with a touch of the needle to the vinyl. I can keep them as close as a bookshelf away.
When I listen to the music of the 60's and 70's ...it breaks my soul that I'll never truly be able to capture that experience and it's something I think I chase. It's a romantic idea, changing history through music, through a movement. I don't see that happening with my generation. I guess I'm somewhat envious. I don't know if I will ever be a part of a galvanizing movement like that in my time. And I sure as hell don't have enough talent to start one of my own.
The history of music...how the trite, safe, homogenized music of the 50's evolved into the politically charged, inconsistently mellow music of the 60's into the truly innovative and, in my opinion, the most exciting time for music, the art-rock turned punk, kick you in the pants music of the 70's and early 80's. How the turmoil of whatever era we entered into shaped and paralleled the music that emerged from the underbelly of this war, or that recession. The urge to say SOMETHING ...and that made a serious impression on me.
I can recall specific moments that changed the way I looked at music, felt about music, what I believed music could do, be, change. I guess that's what captivated me about the whole thing--how different it was from everything else. I am attracted to that quality, that darker, mysterious side of things. The side left unexplored. The side people are afraid to explore.
It's because a group of people, a culture of people, had the desire to break the mold, even if it proved unpopular. That to me, is real courage, real risk. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't admire that with every ounce of my being ... and if everyday I didn't wish I could be a part of something like that.
I guess I just grew up in the wrong generation.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
What It Means
I need to write this.
I haven't spoken out loud very much these days, but I've been thinking to myself in what feels like surround sound. I can see so many things clearly, and feel so connected to myself and the world around me that I need to share my perspective with you.
I'm already aware that when I write anything, 50 percent of the response will be in support of it and the other 50 will want to discount it. This blog, though, exists 100 percent as an outlet for me. If my blog truly does have any affect, then it should be used for more than just pictures and funny youtube videos. No?
This is about us all.
This is about a level of self consciousness so high in my generation, that it's actually toxic.
This is about the girl in her bedroom who poses in front of the camera she's awkwardly holding in her outstretched hand. She'll take a hundred photos of herself until she comes up with one she's happy with, which inevitably looks nothing like her, and after she's done poring over images of herself, will post one on her Facebook page and then write something like " I don't give a fuck what you think about me."
This is about the person trying out for Canadian Idol, who while going off about how confident they are that they were born ready to sing in front of the world, are trembling so badly they can hardly breathe.
This is about me, the girl who will throw on a tutu in the middle of a crowded afterhours bar yet doesn't want anyone to look at her ...
This is about us all. Every one of us. Who all seem to know deep down that it's incredibly hard to be alive and interact with the world around us but will try and cover it up at any cost. For as badass and unaffected as we try to come off, we're all just one sentence away from being brought to tears ... if only such sentence was worded the right way. And I don't want to act immune to that anymore. I took the biggest detour from myself over the years and I committed myself to stop caring about what others thought. I got to the point where I had so much padding on that I couldn't feel the negativity ... but that's because I couldn't feel much of anything.
And I think I'm done with that.
I'm not the first person to admit we're all self conscious (I think Kanye was). But what I want to do is to shed a little of my light on why we're all in the same boat, no matter the shape of the life we lead: because every one of us were told since birth that we were special. We were spoken to by name through a television. We were promised we could be anything that we wanted to be, if only we believed it and then, faster than we saw coming, we were set loose into the world to rub shoulders with the millions of other people who were told the exact same thing.
And really? REALLY? It turns out we're just not all that fucking special, when you break it down. Beautifully unspectacular, actually. And that truth is going to catch up with us whether we want to run from it or not. It's just a matter of how old you are once you embrace that fact.
What now, then? I can only really say for myself: Enjoy who I am, the talents and the many liabilities. Stop acting careless. In fact, care more. Be vulnerable but stay away from where it hurts. Read. See more shows. Of any kind. Rock shows, art shows, boat shows. Create more art. Wear hoodies to dinner. Carry a notebook and hand it to people when they passionately recommend something and ask them to write it down for me.
Root for others.
Give more and expect the same in return.
Act nervous when I'm nervous, confused when I don't know what the hell to do, and smile when it all goes my way. And never in any other order than that.
And when it's all over, whether at the end of my career or of this beautiful life, I should look back and say that I had it good and I made the most of it while I was able.
And so should you.
I haven't spoken out loud very much these days, but I've been thinking to myself in what feels like surround sound. I can see so many things clearly, and feel so connected to myself and the world around me that I need to share my perspective with you.
I'm already aware that when I write anything, 50 percent of the response will be in support of it and the other 50 will want to discount it. This blog, though, exists 100 percent as an outlet for me. If my blog truly does have any affect, then it should be used for more than just pictures and funny youtube videos. No?
This is about us all.
This is about a level of self consciousness so high in my generation, that it's actually toxic.
This is about the girl in her bedroom who poses in front of the camera she's awkwardly holding in her outstretched hand. She'll take a hundred photos of herself until she comes up with one she's happy with, which inevitably looks nothing like her, and after she's done poring over images of herself, will post one on her Facebook page and then write something like " I don't give a fuck what you think about me."
This is about the person trying out for Canadian Idol, who while going off about how confident they are that they were born ready to sing in front of the world, are trembling so badly they can hardly breathe.
This is about me, the girl who will throw on a tutu in the middle of a crowded afterhours bar yet doesn't want anyone to look at her ...
This is about us all. Every one of us. Who all seem to know deep down that it's incredibly hard to be alive and interact with the world around us but will try and cover it up at any cost. For as badass and unaffected as we try to come off, we're all just one sentence away from being brought to tears ... if only such sentence was worded the right way. And I don't want to act immune to that anymore. I took the biggest detour from myself over the years and I committed myself to stop caring about what others thought. I got to the point where I had so much padding on that I couldn't feel the negativity ... but that's because I couldn't feel much of anything.
And I think I'm done with that.
I'm not the first person to admit we're all self conscious (I think Kanye was). But what I want to do is to shed a little of my light on why we're all in the same boat, no matter the shape of the life we lead: because every one of us were told since birth that we were special. We were spoken to by name through a television. We were promised we could be anything that we wanted to be, if only we believed it and then, faster than we saw coming, we were set loose into the world to rub shoulders with the millions of other people who were told the exact same thing.
And really? REALLY? It turns out we're just not all that fucking special, when you break it down. Beautifully unspectacular, actually. And that truth is going to catch up with us whether we want to run from it or not. It's just a matter of how old you are once you embrace that fact.
What now, then? I can only really say for myself: Enjoy who I am, the talents and the many liabilities. Stop acting careless. In fact, care more. Be vulnerable but stay away from where it hurts. Read. See more shows. Of any kind. Rock shows, art shows, boat shows. Create more art. Wear hoodies to dinner. Carry a notebook and hand it to people when they passionately recommend something and ask them to write it down for me.
Root for others.
Give more and expect the same in return.
Act nervous when I'm nervous, confused when I don't know what the hell to do, and smile when it all goes my way. And never in any other order than that.
And when it's all over, whether at the end of my career or of this beautiful life, I should look back and say that I had it good and I made the most of it while I was able.
And so should you.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Midgies
Yesterday on my way to Starbucks, I happened upon a large black man standing next to a small woman. A very small woman. She was a midget - with black hair. She was wearing a lacy black bra and belly shirt, which barely covered her little midget breasts and her tummy ran in muscular bumps to the crotch of her jeans. She was also wearing rainbow colored leg warmers... which I cannot say enough lovely things about. She was smoking a cigarette. Her lashes were the longest I've ever seen. I had never seen an attractive midge, but found myself in just such a sitch.
She looked vaguely familiar. That sometimes happens in Toronto. People look familiar. But it was more than her facial features that matched up, it was her whole body ... then I realized I had recently seen her fuck a fat man and his big fat black girlfriend on Cathouse: The Series.
I must say, Bridget the Midget is smoking hot ... and not because she smokes.
She looked vaguely familiar. That sometimes happens in Toronto. People look familiar. But it was more than her facial features that matched up, it was her whole body ... then I realized I had recently seen her fuck a fat man and his big fat black girlfriend on Cathouse: The Series.
I must say, Bridget the Midget is smoking hot ... and not because she smokes.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Fifty things I miss about California
1. Breakfast Burritos (did you guys think this would be any lower than #1 on my list?)
2. Cheap beer
3. Ghetto beach housing
4. Hearing my mailman, DZ, start up his roaring Harley outside my bedroom window at 6:00am.
5. My girls.
6. My boys.
7. Being able to drive on a road that actually moves
8. The smell of the ocean.
9. The Chargers
10. Happy hour at Cabo Cantina on Friday nights.
11. Sidewalk skateboarders.
12. RUBIO'S. Best fish taco's .. like EVER!
13. The fact that men don't wear skinnier jeans than I do.
14. Not paying $5 plus tip for a Bud Light.
15. Fashion Valley.
16. The leaves not falling from the trees in September.
17. The fact every 2nd store on Garnet is a tattoo shop ... or a bar.
18. Taco Tuesday's at World Famous.
19. Pacific Beach Pub
20. Not living amongst creatures.
21. Two-fer Sunday's at Moondoggies.
22. Not dealing with people who talk about how "important they are"
23. Wearing flip flops outside and not having my feet look like I walked on coals.
24. NOT HAVING TO WALK IN THE RAIN.
25. Being able to run outside and not worry about inhaling exhaust.
26. Being able to bike freely and worry about impending death.
27. Fat Tire Beer.
28. Women who spend a reasonable amount of money on purses.
29. Mexican food.
30. SoCal Punk Rock.
31. TAILGATING.
32. Having after work drinks on the beach
33. The Mexican Walk-In clinic.
34. My Dentist (sorry, he had the touch) I love you, Dr. Ferrario
35. Pacific Beach Block Party. Holla!
36. Being within driving distance of Mexico.
37. Not having people smoke crack in my courtyard.
38. Outlet malls in Carlsbad.
39. MOTHERFUCKING TARGET.
40. Trader Joe's.
41. The sound of crickets
42. No mosquitos.
43. Going to Padre games.
44. No fucking snow.
45. The tweaker who split wood in my alley all night long. Loved that guy.
46. No central air ... just open windows and ocean breezes.
47. Paying less than $100 for a decent haircut.
48. Being able to go about my day without having to drive, take the subway or taxi.
49. My boogie board.
50. A place to call my own.
2. Cheap beer
3. Ghetto beach housing
4. Hearing my mailman, DZ, start up his roaring Harley outside my bedroom window at 6:00am.
5. My girls.
6. My boys.
7. Being able to drive on a road that actually moves
8. The smell of the ocean.
9. The Chargers
10. Happy hour at Cabo Cantina on Friday nights.
11. Sidewalk skateboarders.
12. RUBIO'S. Best fish taco's .. like EVER!
13. The fact that men don't wear skinnier jeans than I do.
14. Not paying $5 plus tip for a Bud Light.
15. Fashion Valley.
16. The leaves not falling from the trees in September.
17. The fact every 2nd store on Garnet is a tattoo shop ... or a bar.
18. Taco Tuesday's at World Famous.
19. Pacific Beach Pub
20. Not living amongst creatures.
21. Two-fer Sunday's at Moondoggies.
22. Not dealing with people who talk about how "important they are"
23. Wearing flip flops outside and not having my feet look like I walked on coals.
24. NOT HAVING TO WALK IN THE RAIN.
25. Being able to run outside and not worry about inhaling exhaust.
26. Being able to bike freely and worry about impending death.
27. Fat Tire Beer.
28. Women who spend a reasonable amount of money on purses.
29. Mexican food.
30. SoCal Punk Rock.
31. TAILGATING.
32. Having after work drinks on the beach
33. The Mexican Walk-In clinic.
34. My Dentist (sorry, he had the touch) I love you, Dr. Ferrario
35. Pacific Beach Block Party. Holla!
36. Being within driving distance of Mexico.
37. Not having people smoke crack in my courtyard.
38. Outlet malls in Carlsbad.
39. MOTHERFUCKING TARGET.
40. Trader Joe's.
41. The sound of crickets
42. No mosquitos.
43. Going to Padre games.
44. No fucking snow.
45. The tweaker who split wood in my alley all night long. Loved that guy.
46. No central air ... just open windows and ocean breezes.
47. Paying less than $100 for a decent haircut.
48. Being able to go about my day without having to drive, take the subway or taxi.
49. My boogie board.
50. A place to call my own.
Friday, August 08, 2008
I've found my Nirvana
Justin, who by the way is the greatest friend like...evah, bought me a bottle of 16 year old Woodford Reserve Four Grain Bourbon the other day while he was at the liquor store. Now I've had a ton of bourbon, covering the gamut from cheap-ass rotgut to stuff that generally tops out at around $100 a bottle. This stuff however, is on another planet. I love 1792, and this is similar ... but on roids.
Immediately after opening the bottle and just sniffing the cork you get a heavy sense of the smoke and the wood that you're about to be treated to. Pouring it into the rocks glass and getting your nose in there only increases that sensation. And sipping it, good gravy. It is the best liquid I've ever consumed. It's like...drinking a BBQ done over oak and moss. But rather than being harsh, it's as smooth as fresh pressed silk.
And if you ever saw someone put ice on it, you should immediately scold them. Then punch them in the mouth.
Immediately after opening the bottle and just sniffing the cork you get a heavy sense of the smoke and the wood that you're about to be treated to. Pouring it into the rocks glass and getting your nose in there only increases that sensation. And sipping it, good gravy. It is the best liquid I've ever consumed. It's like...drinking a BBQ done over oak and moss. But rather than being harsh, it's as smooth as fresh pressed silk.
And if you ever saw someone put ice on it, you should immediately scold them. Then punch them in the mouth.
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