2fer

This is the panorama from the balcony. I went to Resonate last year for the first time, and it felt like I was on another planet--no drugs. Last year was at a warehouse on the west side of Chicago; I bought my ticket the day before online and never got an email with the exact address. Fortunately, my friend Leslie (la fille pirate) was a card-carying burner and told me (vaguely) where it was. Based on tales of that experience, I convinced a handful of people to come this year. And that handful, in turn, convinced another handful. And so on. All told, I probably brought a dozen people.

So many things were different this year. The venue, for one, was not a secret warehouse location but the Congress Theater. The crowd was less freakster, more hipster. No fire but instead body suspension. And I saw a pair of cops strolling through the crowd--ostensibly looking (and smelling) for illicit substances, which kind of ruined the "we're in another (post-apocalyptic) world" escapist illusion I was drifting in and out of all night.

From last year, here's a head with sticks of fire coming out of it. The black soot residue in my nose was one memorable part of the experience.

I didn't think about it till afterwards, but there was a lot of pressure on my recommendation. Even if I had thought about it beforehand, I would have stood by it. Rarely am I "plused" by something enough to effect desire in someone else. But still, my experience is uniquely mine, and it is impossible to predict how the same stimuli will affect someone else. In fact, the stuff that "everyone" likes is the exact stuff that leaves me nonplused. Even among my friends, only few would have a positive experience at Resonate.

This year, the two key friends who joined the party were Laura and Darick--both of whom seemed open to the experience. And they brought their significant others and a trail of friends--most of whom I knew too.

It was nice having a higher probability of encountering a familiar face as I wandered around the Congress. But my favorite part of the event is the random encounters with strangers. One of the principles of the event is "radical inclusion", which is all fine and good in theory but practice? In practice, some people get it and some don't. I saw this one girl who didn't, who looked uncomfortable standing there in her LBD--she maybe thought she was just going to a dance club? I know that feeling--that out of place feeling--so I told her she could join our dance circle, at which she looked relieved and then, surprisingly, did join us for a few songs. It's amazing how when you start radically including people--not judging them--you feel liberated and included yourself.

At 2:30, after the Indian, tabla-playing DJ finished his set--the best of the night--I was wiped out. Let's not forget that I was up till 3:30 the night before at Laura's party. [I was planning on staying over that night since I'd be there for the party, but that meant I couldn't sleep till the party ended. At some point, when there were just three annoying people left, I disappeared into the pantry to lay down and wait for them to leave. I almost slept there the whole night but didn't want to be in the way if people got up early.] Most of my friends had left but seemed to have a good time. Darick got a tattoo and liked the art--but, apparently, doesn't get into the dance part. Laura exuded a similar, altered state that I felt and seemed to get into the music. There's so much going on, there's something for everyone. Except, of course, for people who don't like to be overwhelmed by stimulation.

Still, I miss the fire; I like to watch it burn.

l'exception culturelle

Sometimes I get lost in translation.

Here's a helpful guide, English to French:

NHL=LNH

AIDS=SIDA

WTO=OMC

WTF=OMG

I found this great article on the perceived decline of the French language and thought about Classical music. First the article: on one side was a nationalist newspaperman who bemoans the foreign influence on both the language and the culture; on the other, there's the International Organization of the Francophonie that celebrates French around the world--like in Africa where it is often the most common language from among the hundreds.

The lesson is that French is thriving--albeit not in the way the French themselves want it. The French like their language like they like their gardens: carefully structured and manicured. But right now it's overgrowing its bounds. And, just like some in America are concerned about the influx of Spanish, they, too, are concerned about invasive species.

It made me realize that the ebbs and flows of cultures are intimately tied to their language--as well as their music. The Classical music concert tradition is a subculture that seems to be similarly waning. I don't think it will die out completely (even as it's audience members die off) but is in transition with a downward slope. There was a time, probably at the height of the Romantic period, when Classical music was almost popular in the "pop music" sense. The genre may never achieve such popularity again but that's no reason to assume that it will go away forever. The music will live on even though the language is no longer a living language.

So much to process; I keep procrastinating. I'll hopefully have a summary of events--still from the funeral all the way through Resonate--up soon.

I always understood minimalism as a reaction against the extreme dissonance coming out of Europe after the war. And that music was a reaction against totalitarian music: Hitler loved Wagner, so Romanticism became the symbol of oppression. So it makes perfect sense that, after the war, composers would follow Schoenberg's path, seeing as he was eschewed by both Hitler and Stalin. Shostakovich was a sometimes favorite of Stalin and so no good; Gershwin too commercial. Schoenberg's was the only language left that hadn't been rendered moot by association.

And his music, and what came after, really did represent the immolation and absolute abstraction of the Classical-Romantic system. By then, we had done just about everything with music, so the only option was to explore the outer limits.

But then minimalism, the savior, arises out of the ashes. People like La Monte Young made drone music; Philip Glass created music out of arrangements of simple rhythmic patterns; Steve Reich wrote incredibly obstinate ostinatos.

If serial music was about creating the most abstract, inhuman music, then minimalism was about creating the most concrete. Having rediscovered what makes music work--patterns of sound in time--minimalist composers used those techniques to build mass structures, out of which growing John Adams and Nico Muhly--both of whom have quirky, witty blogs.

I don't see minimalism as a specific type of music; I see it as an attitude, one that all composers must embrace. These times that we're living in can provide us with an overwhelming flow of information--and in music that means genres and styles. Now that we can do everything, how can we do anything? I think the minimalist impulse is the first step: first each composer must determine what makes music work for them. Minimalists found a style and made it work. And it's a good style because it's big enough to hold several composers. But it's getting pretty close to being played out. Let's not all jump on the bandwagon, abandoning what's left of our creativity.

I had this experience this week. Maybe I finally got sick of being a romantic. I got to the point where I felt like I had done enough exploring, like I have enough to work with. Now I'm trying to do more with less, go through my own mini Classical phase, keeping each piece limited to a few ideas instead of trying to cram them all into each one.

It's been a good week. I'm ready socially to come back tomorrow, but musically I wish I had a few more days. Same story, different week.

Resonate on Saturday: I'm excited.

gravity

In this picture, we had just laid my grandma to rest and were visiting the graves of my great-grandparents who were all buried nearby. [You can click on it to see it full size.] The sky was grey, but the light seemed more vibrant than usual, as I think the pictures show.

The cemetery was a long and narrow, a forgotten plot of land bordered by the remnants of Detroit's industry still slogging away.

When my grandma died in Florida, it was raining: a good day to die. When she was buried, it was bitterly cold and grey--and yet beautiful. There seemed to be more contrast than usual: the vibrant greens of the grass, the stoic greys of the graves and slag, and the clouds illuminated by our favorite star, the one holding our solar system together.

Much like that star, the sun, my grandma was the center of our familial solar system, the nucleus of my mom's side of the family. She was also quite the performer, something that I maybe inherited but only in fragments. It's definitely her side of the family that is the most responsible for my musical inheritance. Her parents apparently played folksy music (banjos and such), and her older sister (older by ~20 years) taught piano and played for silent films. Said sister, my mom's aunt, taught both my grandma and my mom.

My sister posted a great tribute to my grandma on her blog.

There's so much to process from the weekend itself; I'm sure it will be coming out over the next few months.

training

Everything we do is preparing us for what we do next. We can't avoid washing the dishes (for too long), so when we do, what skills are we honing and how can we turn that into something useful? Maybe life is like a Wagner opera: every moment is important, either building to a climax, climaxing, or recovering. So pay attention--even to the mundane. I don't have too many mundane moments in my current life; every day is something different. Which means I don't get too many opportunities to recenter myself. Hence, blogging and drinking coffee in the afternoon.

This discussion formed in my head when I started thinking about the skills that I am developing living this lifestyle. For one, it forces me to be more organized, more careful. If I forget my phone charger somewhere random, it could be serious. If I make bad choices about what I need for the next few days, I could be short on clean clothes, toothpaste, food, or the necessary cables to connect keyboards and computers. So far so good; I'm getting better at things that I never would have put on my résumé as strengths.

[It's not really "coffee" per se but a beautiful concoction that I've only seen at the Coffee Studio: a cortado. It's mostly espresso with a modicum of steamed milk--like a latte but with a higher percentage of the good stuff.

You never know how your skills might transfer over. My friend Corbett is a good example: he went from experimental pop musician to small business man, energy auditor in about a year. I had lunch with him, sitting on the grass in a park, sweating, and we celebrated his new-found solvency. His skills that made him a musician are quite different than mine, and I think it was those skills that made him successful in business. I should maybe get a taste of real business--without all this artsy fartsy bullshit--and then retrofit those lessons to my artistic life. Maybe not. Maybe I should but I probably won't.

I gave Corbett a copy of one of Scott Walker's most experimental albums: The Drift. If anyone needs to know about Scott Walker, it's him. And the documentary is available streaming on Netflix. Why am I so obsessed all of a sudden? His music confuses and intrigues more than it blows me away. It's almost too operatic, too theatrical for my tastes, his voice too saturated with unctuous pomp. But there is sincerity beneath the surface woven into the lush orchestrations and inventive production.

Here's what they say at Reckless about it:

This is SCOTT WALKER'S 11th solo album in 40 years, and his first in 11 years since the magnificent "Tilt" in 1995, using many of the same musicians. Walker eschews the song structure almost altogether and creates a work of art that is as incredible as it is terrifying. Like watching "Ringu" as directed by Francis Bacon, there is no casual listening here, but the rewards are many, from extreme slabs of noise to almost pastoral strings with SCOTT's once balmy baritone now a tortured yet still seductive croon. We are treated to the sounds of pork being smashed with fists, distressed donkeys and a satanic Donald Duck thrown in just to unnerve us completely. No one in pop or in the world of classical or jazz has made a record like "The Drift." Easily the man's greatest achievement at 63 years old.

Tonight, I'm going to the Chicago Symphony (with complimentary tickets) to see Mason Bates' piece "Music from Underground Spaces" and some Ravel and De Falla. Bates is the new composer in residence at the CSO--starting next year. I'm both excited and jealous that he is doing--ostensibly--similar experiments with classical and electronics that I am doing. Except he's finishing stuff. That's my goal for next week--now that the funeral music, Ashes to Ashes, is done. Start holding your breath; it can only inspire me to work faster.

Harder Better Faster Stronger. All over again.

scott walker

Jesus Camp sparked more interesting conversation between Darick and me. Apparently, getting saved sounds a lot like my mystical Reiki experience. And you can "get saved" more than once, every time you have the experience. I wonder what kind of monkey wrench it would throw into their world view if they knew that I've had the same sensation through Reiki and through Burning Man, that it's not exclusively an evangelical experience. For sure, it's an experience that feels so pure, so true, that you think you must be right. But at the same time, it could just be biological. Meditators have figured out how to have the experience on their own; evangelicals have found it through groupthink.

Ironically, Darick returned my copy of Living Buddha, Living Christ, which I've had since high school back when I just started to see the connections between all these different religions.

Sometimes you make the connections; sometimes the connections make you.

(That's my answer to the whole "fate" vs. "free will" debate that is at the center of Lost.)

I worked on the piece yesterday for the funeral. It is so helpful to have a few days off and approach a new piece with fresh ears. I feel like I should make this part of my routine: work feverishly on something until I hit some dead ends or get too tired to continue, then take a break. I can hear the moments that don't flow right so much clearer when it's not quite so fresh in my brain.

(I'm pretty pleased with myself that I was even able to get to work. Having the right set-up is so important for both overcoming my inertia to start working and then continuing. Learning a lot of helpful things to know when moving forward.)

So after discussing last night's Lost episode with Darick with tangents relating to Jesus Camp, I told him about some interesting documentaries I found on Netflix: the Examined Life and the Botany of Desire. We looked but instead found a documentary on Scott Walker, who I'd heard about from both Radiohead and my friend Ryan. I have always seen him as parallel or tangential to people like David Bowie but also maybe Leonard Cohen or Tom Waits--the latter two Darick likes a lot. But not Scott Walker. Turns out he just doesn't get it why all these great musicians in the doc are talking about how much they were influenced by his stuff: Johnny Marr from the Smiths, David Bowie himself, and Radiohead (minus Thom). He's growing on me in spite of his velvet-butter crooning voice.

I made a list for you on Grooveshark.

hara hachi bu

Staying at Darick's. They kept the program, the menu, from Too Much Light the other night, helping me remember some of the plays that got lost in the cobwebs of my mind. One, Hara Hachi Bu, is about the Japanese concept of eating until you are only 80% full--supposedly a concept that leads to longevity. It's given me plenty of food for thought.

I don't feel hunger or fullness like I used to. I don't like being hungry, but I don't think my habits are much better or worse for longevity than Hara Hachi Bu. I wait until I'm 80% hungry and then eat until it doesn't hurt any more. Every now and then I find myself really full, but typically only on special occasions: x-mas, b-days, and other jours fériés. More typically, I find myself riding back from work and have a sudden blood sugar drop, forcing me to stop and buy some food.

The other day, coming back from the bike tour on my lovely red bike, I had such a drop in my energy and stopped at 7-11 for gatorade and a banana. And while I was standing on the corner, dazed, nursing myself back to coherence, this drunk named Frank teetered over and wanted to make conversation. I was a sitting duck. But it wasn't so bad as long as he kept rambling on about his step-father who he thought was his real father until he was 17. But when he asked me about myself, I just didn't have the energy to make words come out of my mouth. Finally, I finished my snack and went to throw it away, muttering some excuse. At this point he wanted to make sure I didn't think he was gay. "I'm not gay you know." Dude, whatever. I just want to go "home" and shower. I come back from the garbage and he proselytizes me with his deeply held theological tenets: "God made Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve." If I had had the energy, I would have taken this bait and run with it, but I didn't. Schade.

You can probably meet Frank yourself if you hang out near Truman College at Wilson and Racine.

Coffee yesterday turned into a party as Sarah's old roommate popped and then so did my old roommate, Brian, who knew where I was from foursquare. Every now and then it works like that: "hey, I'm here!" "cool! I'll join you." Then I went on a nearly 40-mile bike ride (according to map my ride) with my friend Anna (who just got a swanky new road bike) down to Hyde Park and then back to Wicker Park where I taught my piano lesson for the week and had dinner (ribs). Then back to Darick's to rest.

Then, they brought me back some ice cream and we watched Jesus Camp. Holy Hell. These fundamentalist evangelical kids are getting brainwashed into thinking they've been enlisted (by god) in the army of good versus the forces of evil led by satan. I think they are scared shitless by what they see on FuxNews about Muslim fundamentalist terrorist camps, which then becomes their model. The atmosphere in the camps reminded me much more of Jim Jones rather than traditional Christianity. [I've seen that documentary on Jones on MSNBC a couple times, and I really don't think Jonestown was such a terrible idea (up until the mass murder/suicide). The people they interview remember a sense of community that I have never seen nor experienced (even in the co-op). The methods may be suspect, but the results seem positive.] In Jesus Camp, the language they use can be revolting, emotionally manipulative, but the tears and joy they feel is real. How much lying can be justified by the ends? Which parts of our world views are based on unfounded beliefs that we invented or held on to because they make us feel more comfortable?

Who but children can believe that the world is so black and white? I happen to think children should be taught black and white rules first and then learn about grey. But the camp is run by adults: a small number of in denial about the heterogenous nature of the right and wrong, rebelling against the greyness by indoctrinating children and then feeding off their naïve idealism.

Crying meditation: because you're a bad person and need to repent.

Darick, who is from Missouri like a lot of the kids in the movie, actually went to such camps and remembers speaking in tongues (which sounds a lot like gibberish). And look at him; he turned out alright.

Some religions try to escape the evil in the world; some try to embrace the natural world as good and wholesome. Some aspire to ascend; some descend. Which makes Atheism a religion. Atheists are the ultimate version of descending: there is no up there, only down here. Pagans are pretty much about descending too. Buddhists and Christians, on the other side, are not so different: down here is evil, an illusion; we should overcome it. And I want it all from Burning Man to Thich Nhat Hanh. Stuck in the middle yet again.

Thich Nhat Hanh brainwashing some people.

red bike luv

I have my red bike at my disposal and have been riding with it back and forth to downtown along Chicago's incomparable lakefront bike path. This is the first bike I bought as an adult from Working Bikes back in 2002. I took it with me to grad school, riding it around Iowa City, and then riding it across Iowa state. When I rode it on RAGBRAI, it was still a 10-speed. At some point after getting back to Chicago, I got doored and bent the right crank. After replacing it, the bike was left a 5-speed. Really, in Chicago, you hardly need gears at all. So, at some point, I converted it to a fixed-gear by replacing the wheels, the crankset, and the chain.

In the history of bikes, fixed gears came right after pennyfarthings, the latter not really being a "geared" bike at all having no chain.

Wikipedia: "the 1870s saw the development of the "safety bicycle" which roughly resembles bicycles today, with two wheels of equal size, initially with solid rubber tyres. These were typically equipped with a front spoon brake and no rear brake mechanism, but like penny-farthings they used fixed gears, allowing rear wheel braking by resisting the motion of the pedals."

This is pretty much exactly like my bike. It's so über-retro. The 80s are totally in these days, but my bike goes back a hundred years earlier. So it's like way even cooler than that.

[Ok, so I don't ride my bike because it's cool. Or, at least I don't love it because it's cool.]

When I started riding fixed, I mostly wanted to see what the fuss was about. Now I'm here to tell you what the fuss is about. It's about symbiosis as opposed to domination, analog versus digital. When the bike is in motion, you are in motion. There is no coasting, so there is no lazing around while the bike does all the work. Starting is work, stopping is work. Maintaining speed is the path of least resistance, for you can let your legs go somewhat limp and just let them follow the flow of the pedals. It helps to have your feet clipped in to the pedals. It encourages you to try to maintain a constant speed, for that requires the least work. So instead of stopping at red lights, I slow down way before and try to time them. If I fail, I can always practice my trackstand, which makes me look so super-ridiculous-cooler-than-thou. When I'm riding fixed, I never really stop, I just slow way down, like approaching zero Kelvin.

Most of that is just surface details or ex post facto rationalizations of my irrational feelings of joy riding my bike. It's all about going super fast while staying in control. Riding in traffic, I don't go quite as fast because I really can't stop as easily as on a "modern" bike. (I do, however, have a brake on the front wheel for emergencies.) Riding on the path, I can go faster but still keep it under 20 because you never know what kind of idiots are out there. Yesterday, it was super crowded and I had to do some fancy maneuvering. It was pleasing to blow by the plump yuppies on multi-thousand-dollar carbon fiber road bikes with their girth restricted by spandex. Bikes are not symbols of status but symbols of freedom.

I would hate for my expensive 1000-dollar racing bike to get the wrong idea. I love her too. When it comes to bikes, I'm a dyed-in-the-wool polyamorist like this guy. [This is Oberon holding the scull of a unicorn he made by fusing the horns of a goat into one. Judging by what is left of the unicorn, he did so for sexual purposes. I saw him speak once at the Occult bookstore thanks to she-who-was-called "pirate girl".] The bikes are just different riding experiences: the road bike is about the goal, the destination; the fixie is about the journey. Any way you want it, that's the way you need it.

I'm staying in Chicago for the next few days to: teach a piano lesson, give a bike tour, review a concert at the symphony. Apparently, everyone who is anyone will be at the symphony on Thursday: synchronicity. And then Friday to Détroit pour les obsèques.

Merci d'avoir lu jusqu'au bout. Que des conneries que j'ai racontées au jourd'hui. Tant pis.

partial logistics

Sometimes I impress even myself, but I could just be getting better through practice.

I stayed in Michigan through Friday night working on my piece for the funeral. I was building momentum throughout the week, and just as the end was in sight, I heard a noise. I have long since had a sensitive ear to random noises at the house in Michigan. I think that, since most noises in Chicago are made by humans, I assume the same out there. But in Michigan, most noises are just random, caused by the way the wind or tree branches hit the house, caused by the furnace or hot water heater doing whatever it is they do, caused by pots of rice on the stove burning over. But this noise was different, and I was sure it was someone coming into the house. It was. I hastily extracted myself from whatever distant planet my mind visits to be musical and went out front, calling out hello. It was Carl, one of the people with whom my parents share ownership of the house. Apparently, he was headed up to Kalamazoo the next day (yes, home of Bell's) and stopped off at the cottage for the night. I felt guilty and awkward about the dishes left in the sink, but I was right in the middle of writing and had put it off. I finished up the music for the night, did some cleaning and went to bed.

But between going to bed and falling asleep, I fell into a French movie that I had actually seen before. On Netflix, they called it Happenstance, with Audrey Tattoo, who is one of the most pleasing people to watch on screen. But, the French title is "Le Battement d'ailes de Papillon"--the beating of butterfly wings. Same idea different words. Fortunately, it's one of those movies that I could probably watch several times since the plot is really a thick web of activity. A bit like Lost. A bit like my life. And it had been a long while since I'd seen it, and I probably saw it without subtitles, causing me to miss a few things. Either way, I love that ilk of movie, showing how our random actions today cause all sorts of unintended consequences.

Another good one is "Adieu plancher des vaches", but I don't know what it is in English.

Then sleep. For only a few hours. Woke up on Saturday morning at 6:30 (Michigan time)--Carl was up around then too to head to Michigan--cleaned up (in haste), packed, put my bike on the back of the car, and drove to Chicago. I got into the city about 8:20 local time and allowed my complicated logistical scheme unfold. I parked where I knew I could find free parking--just off Milwaukee, south of Chicago. (Milwaukee and Chicago are playing streets in this scenario, not cities.) Biked to Bobby's for a tour guide open house. Did stuff. Had to help out in the shop a bit because we were so busy. Went through some paralyzing indecision most likely caused by an extreme fatigue, lack of sleep, lack of food. Ended up biking to my car, threw my bike in the back, drove to Darick's in Andersonville to drop off my computers (so I wouldn't have to bike with them), and then biked to Nicole's where I would be staying later. Took a shower and then headed back to Darick's neighborhood to celebrate his birthday. Went to Hama Matzu, the restaurant with the bidet toilets again. The crowd of 12 people included Darick's parents, brother, sister-in-law, friend Tim and his boyfriend, and a couple other people. He claimed it was his best birthday ever, especially comparing it to the last one which was the exact day he and his then wife decided to split. Rather, when she decided. A lot can change in a year. Or a day.

As I'm writing this, I can't believe it's just one day.

After Hama Matzu, went to Konak's, which is next to the Hopleaf but worlds away. Darick prefers Konak's because you can usually find a seat and you don't have to push your way to the bar--much less crowded, less cool, more divey. I do love the Hopleaf, but I can appreciate his reasons for disliking it. One day, he should try eating there.

Konak's was just to kill time before one of my favorite theatrical performances in the city. I started going in high school when it was the cool thing to do: drive in from the burbs, head up LSD, get in line at 10:30 for the 11:30 show, and experience 30 plays in 60 minutes, getting home at 2 or so. Apparently, Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind has been around for 22 years. I realized I have been going for 13 of those years. I've seen so many different casts come through but, before last night, hadn't been for a couple years--maybe since I went with Laura (back when we were dating, on our second date). That time, she got called up on stage and they made her dance around. She seemed somewhat embarrassed by the whole thing. It was cute. Last night, we got involved again.

You get what you pay for.

To enter TML, you pay $9 plus whatever you roll on a die. I rolled a 6, which seemed less of a big deal now that I'm an adult than when I was a broke teenager. So I paid the $15 and went to get my name tag. They ask you what your name is, but they don't write down what you say, so I have always had a hard time answering the question honestly. So, being very (underscored) witty, I said "I don't have a name." Which is a lot like how I don't have a home. I don't really know if they listen to what you say, but, in this case, I think she might have, because she wrote down "Someone Else". Which is also the name of one of my songs from a couple years ago. I took it off the internet because I couldn't sing yet. Odd.

Then the play. Greg Allen, the founder, claimed in one of the plays that he keeps getting older and the audience stays the same age. Mostly true. He's almost 50, the audience is a diverse range from 16 to mid-30s. What do you expect when you have a show at 11:30 on a Saturday? I guess I can mark my age by comparing myself to the crowd at TML. When I started going, we were certainly among the youngest there and felt cool hanging out with the hip urbanites. Now, I'm supposedly playing the role of hip urbanite and wondering if the kids are thinking of me as such. Meh. Whatever.

I mentioned that it was Darick's birthday? One of the plays was called Surprise Birthday Party. One of the actors came up to Selena, Darick's girlfriend, sitting right next to Darick, and said "Did you know that it was your birthday?" And then proceeded to throw her a surprise party in her seat, ending with us singing her Happy Birthday. I thought it so almost coincidental that they almost picked Darick, which would have been perfect, but ended up picking Selena which was almost more perfect. That is, Darick already knew it was his birthday; it wouldn't have been a surprise.

To signal the end of one play (and to invite the audience to pick the next play) the actors yell "Curtain!" One of the plays was called something like "Curtains, the neo-futurist mascot". The play starts, one of the actors, the girl who had just been topless on stage throwing herself against a canvas in the name of art, brought me out of the audience and up on stage. It was a tryout to be the mascot. We had to: scream, dance, and shout cheers at the audience. I won, of course, because, I mean, well, there is no because. I just did. And they dressed me up in cardboard box hat and a cape. And a tail. I had to sit on stage during the plays and then play halftime mascot between plays. It's a lot like performing, but it's more like earning people's affections for being absolutely ridiculous. Which is something that I am very practiced in. Darick got some pictures and a movie. I'll post it once he sends it to me.

Absolutely ridiculous.

Then I rode my bike back to Lakeview and fell into a dreamless sleep.

Che

After watching 2 hours of Che Guevara, I felt like I could understand Spanish--of the Cuban variety. The movie wasn't all in Spanish, and the parts that were had subtitles, but I got it by the end: Cubans don't say much "S". Ernesto becomes "Ernetto"; Dos becomes Do. Und so fort.

It made me want to be a revolutionary. But what doesn't make me want to be a revolutionary? In fact, maybe it would be good to redefine myself as such, so that when I meet people at parties I can say "revolutionary" instead of "composer." They would probably meet with the same reaction. Let's try it: I'll switch it up, do a field test, see what happens. On second thought, what kind of pretentious ass defines himself (or herself) as a revolutionary? I would hate to be "that guy" (or "that girl"). Really, though, it's all a lie; to be more accurate, I should say "homeless" or "vagabond"--call me what you will.

The best part of the documentary was seeing the total certainty expressed by the revolutionaries (how else do you win a war?) and then contrasted with the absolute hatred lavished upon Che when he came to the UN in NYC. If everyone's right, then no one is right.

I made good music yesterday. Not quite revolutionary but not quite typical. [New though: that will the line I'll use at parties.]

I realized the other day that I have a ton of pretty decent stuff laying around in unfinished states on my hard drive. First, I should back it up. Second, I should finish some of it, make a CD. Third, I should ride my bike across the country, stopping in small towns and playing some tunes.

Now, though, I've got miles to go before I sleep.

It's another cold, damp day here in Michigan. The bushes in front of the house are apparently called forsythia and are blooming; the magnolia tree down the block is preggers with potential. I know what magnolia are from the movie.

Yesterday was a sisyphean day that ended on a high note (figuratively). I've been working on music for my grandma's funeral next weekend and have been struggling. I've come up with several 1/2-baked ideas that then appear infeasible or inappropriate by the next day. Last night, after working in one direction all day, I changed tacks yet again. (That metaphor is also good for writing music--sailing: sometimes tacking into the wind, sometimes going with it.) Around dinner, I had a beer and made a fire--one of the best of each I've had in a while. The beer I bought up here in Michigan, wanting to get something local but not wanting to resort to the ubiquitous Bell's. I got this beer from Ypsilanti from the Dark Horse brewery called "Amber Ale." And despite the lackluster name (or because of it), it was fantastic. I asked my homebrewer friend Russ about it, who said that Dark Horse is one of his favorite breweries. I vaguely remembered a post he did about the brewery on his homebrew blog. Turns out, the funeral is in Detroit, which is close to Ypsilanti.

So after the beer and the fire, I got back to the tiny room at the back of the house with a glass of scotch. And I think I found the right mood. We'll see how I feel today. I'm generally not a fan of drinking and writing, but sometimes your mind gets into a negative feedback loop, for which a nip of something alcoholic provides the appropriate escape.

So I felt like I was neglecting Netflix and so made a little quality time with me and the limitless stream. First, Arrested Development. So good. I hadn't seen any in years but could watch the whole thing all over again. Then, per suggestion from several friends and random encounters, Dexter. What? A show about a serial killer? He's more than just a serial killer, he's also a forensic cop who does blood evidence work. I agree with the people on Facebook: there should be a dislike button. Even if it weren't practically midnight, I would have found the show disgusting and revolting, from the surgical murder in the opening scene, to the discovery of dismembered parts, to the quick clip of a rape in an internet video, and on to to the next murder. No thanks.

So to cleanse the mental palette before bed, I turned to South Park. That shows just how horrible Dexter is. And the next one in line was about Cartman using his "psychic" powers to catch a serial killer. Geez, I can't win. So I watched the next one too, about the Woodland Critters Christmas special, which is making me laugh out loud right now as I type. Heilige Sheise. To sum it up: Stan discovers woodland critters about to celebrate Christmas and does their bidding until he realizes that they are about to bring forth the spawn of Satan and implant it in a human host. Watch it if you have 20 minutes. Even though it's not Christmas. Actually, it's probably better to watch this episode when it's NOT Christmas--even remotely.

Finally, sleep. And now to see if what I came up with yesterday is any good.

what you see is what you get

This morning woke up in a damp, grey fog like they get in the mountains. After about an hour, though, the sun worked its way through to start warming up the air.

It's the start of baseball season. I'm really only excited in sympathetic vibration with a few diehard fans, only realizing it was today because of some posts on facebook. I think, in the game of life, you're either a pitcher or a hitter. The hitters expect mostly fastballs and then are always surprised when they are thrown a curveball. The pitchers know what's coming next, following a loose plan of attack to keep the hitters off guard. For me, I think I've mostly been a hitter but have been slowly drifting to the pitching staff. These days, I'm pretty much my own pitcher and hitter, throwing myself curveballs and then seeing if I can hit them. This entire discussion grew out of a pain in my elbow--a tangible, physical pain--that made me wonder if I was throwing too many curveballs. Maybe I should give myself a break and just throw some fastballs, increase my batting average.

"Sports are to War as pornography is to Sex." A quote from some TED talk I heard recently.

With no coffee or food in the house or in my system, I took a walk. Got coffee and then ambled on to the beach. The fog was resisting the sun's advances, but eventually gave up. I got to catch a couple of those moments.

On the way to the beach, the sun called forth steam from a damp road.

When I first got to the beach, the water in the air was hiding the water on the ground.

10 minutes later, the lake was revealed.

I saw a pair of bluebirds that got scared when I sneezed.

lube, relube, repeat

In Chicago. Bike tour last night with 8 people. Good group, small, but really more like 4 different groups riding together: a family of 3, 2 Chinese students with limited English ability, a brother-sister duo in their early 20s, a woman from Seattle on business. Not a lot of mingling but not too awkward.

Before that, I spent the afternoon overhauling my bottom bracket on a bike that I've been riding: the Trek hybrid left behind by an old roommate. It's too small for me and not really my style, but it gets me where I'm going. When I took apart the bottom bracket (the part of the frame around which the pedals turn), I noticed that there was NO grease and that on one side the bearing retainer had completely disintegrated. The retainer is by no means necessary, but without it, there is room for more bearings. So without the retainer, it's like missing a couple bearings. No grease, missing bearings. No wonder it felt so shitty.
In the picture, you can see the tub of grease at the bottom, the bearings in the retainer above that to the left, the two bottom bracket cups above that with loose bearings packed in with fresh grease, the tool to take apart the bottom bracket above that. The end result is so much better, almost making it fun to ride. Almost. Still not quite my style.

A couple years ago, the mechanic at Bobby's was doing some late night hanging out with a buddy of his, living the High Life, when they decided to jump some of the older, barely functioning bikes off a make-shift ramp. Unfortunately, this caused the coaster brakes to go out upon landing, and the bike ended up in the river. (It's really a slip, a dock, that connects to the river.) Then, this year, the boat tour company was doing some underwater maintenance, found it, and dragged it up. Here it is, mussels and all.

infestation

Spring is here--wherever here is. And with it comes all sorts of breeding and feeding. For the cottage, that means ants. I scared both my mom and sister about the mice, but I've seen neither tail nor poop since I cleaned up the bird seed. Instead, I've found dozens, possibly hundreds of ants and have summarily disposed of them. Isn't that just about the nicest way to say "killed them by squishing"?

Tonight was no different. After spending the evening fasting from video entertainment--Lost, Netflix, whatever--I sipped on a couple shots of Absinthe. I remembered that I've been forgetting to remember lots of things and so made a couple lists while listening to Kid A and Amnesiac by Radiohead, finishing off the evening with Gorecki's 3rd Symphony. If you don't know that last piece, you should. [And you should introduce yourself to it by drawing a bath, lighting some candles, and piping it through your Böse Wave Radio. Or just through a nice stereo. It's rather low, so any computer speakers or cheap boom boxes will not do it justice.]

After taking a stroll through memory lane, wistfully remembering who came after whom, and after nearly falling into a sort of hypnotic sleep, lulled by Gorecki's sad songs, I made my way to the kitchen to tidy up before bed. Somehow or another, I picked up the honey jar, which had attracted a half dozen ants--the big fat black ones--into its crevices, hoping for one sweet lick. Summarily killed. I get no pleasure out of feeling the squish--far from it. I'm not a bad person.

I took a bike ride in the evening after spending most of the beautiful day cooped up in a room with a view and an open window. I think I got a tan somewhere between reading my "biography" of Chicago and riding my beloved fixie.

Tomorrow's back to Chicago. Dinner plans tomorrow night. Will probably run into Ashleigh, who is back from Montréal, on Saturday. Someone remind me to bring her phone charger with me. And giving some bike tours Saturday night and Sunday afternoon. It's like a weekend, but it's more like work.