So It's Come To This... Subtitle: The Human, The Orchid and The Octopus
'The visions science bestows us can guide us into a bright new age. But first . . .
we must stop using the powers of science to threaten other nations and begin
using them to heal our global divisions. We must finally learn that one nation's
turning against another is like a hand turning against a heart, two living elements
of one living body, trying to damage its own parts and thereby destroying its whole. 1 ' -Jacques Yves Cousteau
For years, I've treated inspiration like a commodity - there when
I need it but never enough to really power me through and make
me so sick of it as I work at it in slaving mind salivation.
I believe that inspiration is partially divine and partially human -
there is no way that humans can take full credit for something
that seemingly materializes out of thin air and makes us want to
take action.
In a work co-written by Jacques Cousteau and Susan Schiefelbein
(entitled 'The Human, The Orchid and The Octopus'), Cousteau
gets partly auto-biographical in the analysis of arguably the most
complex vertebrate and the most complex plant. I've read
snippets online but I really want to get the whole book as I hear
its as challenging as they come. Apparently, his readers expected
another Cousteau-esque offering complete with visions and
colourful images and documentation of unknown sea creatures
but were disappointed when Cousteau actually became
philosophical and a tad existential in his writings.
We should never be afraid to venture forth beyond what we
are known to do.
I relate very closely to this truth even just in the context of
this blog. I've been doing it in a way that I know how - in a way
that makes me feel warm, secure and comfortable. The real
agents of positive change in this life, though, rarely stick with
doing what is warm and secure. I'm not talking about massive
life changes and all of us flying to Iraq tomorrow - I'm talking
about the little things in our own backyard.
North Americans.
Christians.
Buddhists.
Sikhs.
Nihilists.
Hylozoists.
Let's get it done. Let's go, Cousteau.
The winter of our discontent has gone on for far too long.
Thanks for being with me. 365 days of blogging ends now.
Let us continue to dissect the orchid, understand the
octopus and...
...usher in the spring.
All Filler No Killer Notice the italics. They mean something.
In his lifelong pursuit of making honest, non-cookie cutter
music, Stephen Malkmus has been a bit of a massive musical
mentor for me - especially in his ability to write songs with
absolute stream of consciousness overflow.
I think this coming year will be more about Malkmus and
less about Bazan.
Don't get me wrong - I love Bazan - and I always will.
But sometimes, in order to get to the deep heart of death,
life and all in between like he does, you have let your
mind and words mesh out in a tapestry of weird thoughts
as they come to you in rapidfire succession - like Malkmus.
Bedroom belonging. Burlesque blogging. Bastille bending.
You feel me?
Batten Down The Hatches Becky Time for a little dippity-dip road trip to Cobourg. I'm not
looking forward to it considering the amount of snow
coming down everywhere but it's something that must
be done. It's like paying a bill - you feel a slight pinch in
your side (like the insertion of a flu shot needle) but
after a while, you notice it less and less. Your pain
receptors in that specific area of skin begin to die.
Pretty soon, we're all big lumps of dead skin cells.
Time hatches eggs of loneliness and vain conceit.
We hope the rubber on our tires lasts longer.
Each revolution brings wear, tear and scare.
The speedometer rages back and forth.
The sun hides away for a day plus 1.
We're all going to go away someday.
Can't Wait This 365 days of (almost every day) blogging has sort of wrecked
me. I mean - December has basically been a write-off in terms
of keeping up with any sort of steady workflow. On top of that, I
haven't been inspired in this forum for eons and I long for that
feeling to return - when I load up blogger and really have
something ground-breaking or zenith-esque to say.
Then again, this whole thing was started way back (almost a year
ago) by thoughts of Pedro The Lion and getting down and dirty
into some form of creative work. Maybe it's all been a part of a
pilgrimage in the sense that I have followed through with my
words and shown that I am someone who is reliable, hard-working
and motivated - or maybe I'm learning to become more like that.
Whatever the case, I long for 2 more days where I can wave bye
to this 365 day long voyage and start a newer, fresher approach.
I want to thank people like The Dox, Charn, Melinda, Tyrone, Ollie,
Square Corner, Todd, Dalton, Buck, Andy J and many more who
have constantly popped by my mindspace to see 'the haps'.
It is always encouraging to have others running the creative
race with you and cheering you on every step of the way.
Thank you.
Catatonia Zombied.
The candied yams and cranberry stuffings have taken over.
The armchair seems to far of a trek.
My bowels churn in a slow rumble of gravy and turkey mash.
I'm getting ready to change.
Happy Materialism Day! This was the sight at my parents pad...just kidding.
Almost, though. Everyone cleaned up in a year where
'we were all supposed to be tight with money'. Funny
how that works.
Anyways - best of the season to you and your
overworked liver and bowels.
Twas The Night Before Christmas The above is an old picture of my cousin Mike sleeping beside
his sister Emily. When they were young, they had the same
room before it was a cultural no-no to do such things. This
was a portrait my brother Adam painted while he was
awake one night in his flannel paisley jammies. Adam got
an easel from Mike's closet and went to work. To this day,
Adam claims the sugar-plum visions were real but Adam
was a bit of a sugar junkie when he was young. I think he
was hallucinating.
It's still a nice picture.
Merry Christmas y'all.
Placido Domingo I think Francis 'Chainsaw' Grimm made Placido Domingo
more famous than he actually is. For ten shekels, can
anyone get the reference, here?
Feelin' It This was the site of the scene.
The light turned green when the trap was clean.
The ghosts were all stored in a machine.
They couldn't even use the latrine.
Lots of heavy drinking post-teens.
Everyone was rosy and lean.
I played the guitar like a fiend.
This morning, I asked Sarah if it was a dream.
The Pre-Tinsel Plunge The Christmas Season is a limbering giant of spend-dom and
unforgiving on the bowels - kinda like a massive night at
the pub with old college friends.
I am in Ottawa now and Sarah and I are about to head out
into this wintry nation's cap and do some serious spending.
I've already had a coffee...but I need another. I can feel the
exhaust itch of drippy, brown mall parking lots, devoid of
any light, crawling up the inside of my shirt. I can sense the
over-dressed, over-jewelled fifty-something perfume lady
at The Bay stepping out to ask me if I would like to try a
sample of some awfully throat-enclosing, over-flowered
scent that I basically already bathed in by standing within
a 5 foot zone of her. I can already envision the long lines
at cash registers with impatient man-children standing
in them, tweeting on their mobile devices in their trench
coats while jingling their pocket change as their
countenances seem to say 'Ha ha - I'm already in line.
It will be much longer when YOU go to buy anything,
sucker.' I can hear the squeaky rubber wheels of baby
strollers being used as battering rams to get through
people at a faster pace with mothers sipping starbucks
leaving trace lipstick on their white foam mocha skinny
lids.
And then I awake - and I realize - I am still here in my
parent's house - typing at their computer.
We haven't even left yet. Oh joy that is to come.
S'About Time! Everyone wants to see a quarterback run the 2 minute drill
and beat a team single-handedly. It is nostalgic. It is thrilling.
It is Elway-esque and we love it. When a defense beats a team,
though, it is dirty and gritty and often like a car wreck that
you want to look away from but can't bear to in the same
motion.
Finally, there is some justice for a struggling Cowboys team
who has only won once over the past 2 December and January
schedules. Beating the undefeated Saints (thanks in large
part to a rejeuvenated DeMarcus Ware and the Cowboys D),
the Boys could finally hold their heads high after a game.
It had all the trappings of a classic photo finish game - a
fumble, a missed field goal, a great early deep ball TD from
Romo, the underdog shining and an unbeaten team finally
showing signs of slowing down.
Work the sidelines.
Run the clock.
Run the draw.
Wildcat.
Do it.
Double Time Christmas Swarmed swamped holiday season.
The bells ring and the children sing.
Exhaust fills the air with Christmas cheer.
People run each other down for Wii's and Xboxes.
Kids because accustomed to getting what they want.
Trees looked whored under massive amounts of
glitter and electronics - far from their natural state.
I am a white porcelain star of david.
I only do dog paddle
Someone recently told me a story about Andre The Giant
pertaining to his massive bowel movements. Apparently,
when Andre would come to town and stay in a hotel in
the continental US or Canada, he would rent two hotel
rooms.
The reason for renting two rooms was simple. In one room,
he would live in and sleep in when in the hotel. Due to
Andre's girth, however, the second room was strictly for
taking dumps...namely, into the bathtub. Apparently, hotel
cleaning staff would often vomit while cleaning the second
room and speak of it as a horror beyond this realm.
I feel like the second room bathtub. Full of dung and
dog paddling in the dung.
I'm waiting for slow songs.
Sent from my iPhone
Hi folks. It's matt. Something has happened to me -I got an iPhone. It is taking me over, slowly but surely, and morphing me into something horrendous and scrupulous. It inserts words - even when I don't mean to type them. It predicts. It watches. It warms. It knows.
Be on alert.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Back In The Cap I am back in the cradle of my existence - and yet - it is the forefront
of my being. I long for it. I long for the community and the ethnicity.
I am trying to breathe.
It's hard.
The Man I Used To Be In 'The Rundown', Dwayne (The Rock) Johnson's character
always tries to stay away from the centre of himself because
he knows the horror that lurks there. In some ways, I can
relate to this notion in the sense that I have done some
galactically stupid things in my time. I think back to my
university years and it was then where I truly lived with
conviction and a healthy serving of discipline. But was I
happy? I'm over 30 now and still unsure as to how one can
ultimately define happiness. It's a bit of a gong-clang. I feel
like 'happiness' and 'passion' used to mean something - or
maybe they still do - but they have become cultural buzzwords
for a society who never wants to claim any responsibility for
their actions.
I don't know.
Almost...But Not Quite
Another bomb for the boys. How do they keep getting
themselves into these claw-back 4th quarter situations?
Although I despise Eli Manning (and I really despise him),
unlike Romo, he is NOT afraid to air it out deep and see
if he can beat someone. Romo is a bit too timid with his
pass choices, especially late in the game. Bit by bit won't
help you win when you have no timeouts and the clock
is not on your side.
At any rate, I've been watching less football which oddly
enough frees up sundays a LOT more.
Is Mike Holmes a robot or a human? Just curious.
Double Quarter Pounder Sometimes, you gotta do damage to yourself to have a good time.
Take a McD's DQP for example:
1200 calories.
Enough salt and sugar to keep you going for 3 days.
And yet...there is a certain euphoric feeling one gets from the
mystery and intrigue of not really knowing what they are
sinking their teeth into...but still, the taste makes it worth the
uncertainty.
It's odd what we will do for a thrill. We will risk thousands to
feel the rush of a big hand in a poker game only to be under-
matched by one card and lose it all. We will risk a stable financial
situation for the possibility to make more than what we have
in a shaky investment and watch both the future and present die.
But is it worth it? Like Pieces - when it's all said and done,
will it have been better to have lived a safe life or one of risk?
The Parable of the Talents (Matthew 25:14-30) 14 "Again, it will be like a man going on a journey, who called his servants and entrusted his property to them. 15 To one he gave five talents of money, to
another two talents, and to another one talent, each according to his ability.
Then he went on his journey. 16 The man who had received the five talents went
at once and put his money to work and gained five more. 17 So also, the one with
the two talents gained two more. 18 But the man who had received the one talent
went off, dug a hole in the ground and hid his master's money.
19 "After a long time the master of those servants returned and settled accounts
with them. 20 The man who had received the five talents brought the other five.
'Master,' he said, 'you entrusted me with five talents. See, I have gained five
more.'
21 "His master replied, 'Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been
faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and
share your master's happiness!'
22 "The man with the two talents also came. 'Master,' he said, 'you entrusted
me with two talents; see, I have gained two more.'
23 "His master replied, 'Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been
faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and
share your master's happiness!'
24 "Then the man who had received the one talent came. 'Master,' he said,
'I knew that you are a hard man, harvesting where you have not sown and
gathering where you have not scattered seed. 25 So I was afraid and went out
and hid your talent in the ground. See, here is what belongs to you.'
26 "His master replied, 'You wicked, lazy servant! So you knew that I
harvest where I have not sown and gather where I have not scattered
seed? 27 Well then, you should have put my money on deposit with the
bankers, so that when I returned I would have received it back with interest. 28 " 'Take the talent from him and give it to the one who has the ten talents.
29 For everyone who has will be given more, and he will have an abundance.
Whoever does not have, even what he has will be taken from him. 30 And
throw that worthless servant outside, into the darkness, where there will be
weeping and gnashing of teeth.'
The Essay That Wrote Itself Part 3 (Finale)
And so it was. The day of destiny had come and somehow Dan
had jammed himself into this awful predicament of:
-biting off more than he could chew
-drowing in a pool of hype
-living in the shadow of his family name
-taking on a daunting essay to sound amazing
-locking himself in a library to write said essay the night
before it was due.
Oh Danny boy - the pipes were, in fact, NOT calling.
The last thing Dan apparently remembered was floating in a
massive vat of Beau's Beer at the Lugtread Lager Brewery in
Vankleek Hill. But in his dreamy state, and while he was
realizing in his conscious mind that he was in a dreamy state, he
tried to drink as much beer as he could but for some reason,
the beer was staining his clothes in a tri-colour rainbow-esque
fashion. The beer was, in essence, turning into a rainbow - a
beam of post-rain light deflecting off of the earth's atmosphere
and while he tried to drink it, he realized that he was falling
through cold air - with colours all around him - unable to
take anything into his mouth. All the while, he kept falling
through the rainbow as a lake appeared below him in rapid
form - a black, deep-bluey lake with a colourful tube that was
getting bigger and bigger. And all of a sudden (in the dream, of
course), Dan was the Kool-Aid man - a giant glass pitcher,
falling through cold air with many colours about to hit a
lake. And SMASH!
Dan awoke to the sound of a clock chime somewhere on the
Carleton campus. Due to his massive night of drinking with
the drummer of Arcade Fire and his state of delirium, he had
slept with his head down post-head bob (to a Bob song,
in actuality) and accumulated quite a sea of drool on his
camo pants. He looked at the clock on his computer after
refreshing the screen - 7:31 AM. He also saw that the empty
word document he had opened yesterday was in fact still
completely blank. Devoid of words. A blinking cursor.
A laughing cursor. HA_YOU_SUCK_LA_COCK_...or so it
seemed to say. The essay was due at 8:00 AM - a mere 29
minutes away - and Dan hadn't composed a lick of the
most meagre sentence structure.
Dan, with his flushed face, pounded the desk. He grabbed
his hair and wished he could have pulled it all out as
anything would have felt better than what he was feeling -
complete failure. The thought of his parents, profs and
friends finding out about this made him feel queasy and
wrong all over. Dan broke out in a cold sweat and stared
into the early morning winter sun - so cold and bleak but
yet, so raw and beautiful at the same time. A hot tear
rolled down Dan's flushed face.
SLAP! A hand whacked Dan square in the back. He turned
to see who it was, thinking it was a mad librarian. It was
not - It was his scarved/toqued writer friend - Matt
McKechnie. Matt had a semi-smile on his face but also a
bit of an annoyed look. His gruff beard and barrel chest,
mixed with his keen fashion sense, made him a swaying
lumberjack of a man who attracted attention due to his
keen wit and verbose conversationalism. Matt, although
a decade older than Dan, had remained friends with Dan
through odd venues and has been a successful music
writer. Along with writing whenever he wants for Rolling
Stone, Spin and The Huffington Post, Matt had quite a
laundry list when it came to writing (especially since he
currently spent a month with Paul McCartney in his
Italian Villa after publishing 'The Truth About Lennon').
Matt was a happy-go-lucky guy person but also a very
busy writer. Dan was a little shocked to see him in the
humble abode of the Carleton Library.
'Come on Dan'
Matt squeaked out. 'I've been up all night, ok? I want to
get some breakfast. Let's do this.' Dan stared blankly
back at Matt - 'Wha?' Dan retorted with eyes half open.
'What the fudge are you talking about, Matt?' Matt peered at
Dan with a sneering annoyance. 'Daniel - I don't have time
for your stoner games. I - WANT - TO -EAT -
BREAKFAST. Let's get out of this dumper.'
Dan looked puzzled, perplexed and now angry. He wiped his
sleepy eyes and stood up to face Matt in a pissed off state. 'Look
Matt - o FAMOUS Matt - OOOHH! Rolling Stone MATT! If you're
finished with your little soliloquy or joke or whatever this little
GAME is, take two steps BACK because you're PISSING ME OFF!'
Matt was in shock and saw the severe frustration in Dan's eyes.
'What the H E double ringette sticks are you talking about, D? It's
all good, dude!' Matt smiled dopily. Dan pounced 'NO! It's NOT
FUDGING ALRIGHT!! I was supposed to write an ESSAY - A
FUDGING WORLD CLASS ESSAY - AND NOW...I have nothing.
I'm out of this school - I'm out of my family - I'm just...out.'
Dan was winded and sat back down in the chair holding his
head.
Matt smiled and put his hand on Dan's shoulder. 'Brendan still
doesn't know how to use his damn iPhone, does he?' Dan moved
his head slightly...and thought back.
The buzz. The cell phone. It buzzed before Dan fell asleep.
Brendan.
Matt grabbed a dusty chair from the lectern beside Dan's and
sat down beside the troubled mess.
'Dude - check your cell phone', Matt jested. Dan looked up and
slowly but willingly reached in his London Fog trenchcoat
pocket and found his cell - one bar of battery left. He had not,
in fact, turned it off and there was a new message indicator.
Dan flipped his ancient cell and hit the left action button
while Matt stretched out in the uncomfortable study
chair. It was a text - from Brendan. It read: 'Dude - I'm sorry
- you're not an ass. Sounds like an ass situation, though. I
am calling Matt. He'll know what to do. Oh - and by the
way - I'm turning the iPhone thing back on so BITE it.
- sent from my iPhone'. Dan, still confused and groggy,
looked over at Matt, still annnoyed.
'Okay - great. How are you gonna help me, Mister Rolling
FUDGING Stone? I mean really - What - did you...did you
write a FUDGING essay for me about Jungian Rhythms in
modern music LAST NIGHT?' Matt looked at his nails. 'Nope -
I did not.' Dan sighed. Matt reached into his plaid satchel
which was littered with Mudhoney and Dinosaur Jr buttons.
'I DID, however, write an essay about Jungian Rhythms
about 7 years ago when I went to Guelph.' Matt handed
Dan a thick, fully bound and pressed essay. Dan's eyes were
saucers. 'Don't worry', Matt whispered - 'It was a 98 percent.'
Dan blinked back at Matt holding the warm papers with
mouth a-gap. Matt whispered again - 'That's an A plus,
Daniel.' Matt stood up and pushed in his chair. 'Dude -
I gotta pinch a serious loaf. Meet ya downstairs. Eby is
meeting us there with some of his weird hippie friends.
Hopefully, his vegetable oil truck will get us to the damn
breakfast place.'
And like that, Matt was gone. Dan wasn't sure whether to
cry or laugh. He stared at the essay - his ticket to the next
step - and wondered if he was still dreaming. He stood
up and began gathering his things and cracked a deep
smile.
As Dan packed up his things, he saw the old librarian,
peering at him from down the hall, shaking her head. Dan
raised up the essay, in her direction, and she seemed
taken aback. Dan, in a state of re-kindled passion, began
singing very loudly (not at all at a library volume level)
the old Dionne Warwick hymn 'That's What Friends Are
For' while giving the librarian the finger.
The Essay That Wrote Itself - Part 2 Although the results of the essay loomed large, Dan didn't care.
He was tired of living in the shadow of his Hawkesbury billionaire
parents who are known as the elite music producers of Vankleek Hill
- Ruthie and Darius Larocque. Darius has had a reputation for flying
artists in from all over the world to only work on 1 or 2 vocal tracks
in his private 10 board, midi-digital recording studio and then flying
them home (on his private concord, of course - the
fuel is cheaper than buying them regular standby airline tickets).
Ruthie, meanwhile, is a bit of a lively one and loves to throw wild house
parties on the Larocque estate (apparently, 2 weeks ago, Burt
Reynolds and Dolly Parton were photo'd by paparazzi streaking
across their 300 acre property).
Before the essay, Dan caught an interview with his Dad on BBC
while he was eating his daily mister noodles on his tv tray in his
apartment. Dan perked up to hear the interviewer asking Darius
if he was worried about his son and the daunting title of the essay.
Darius responded (in his usual gruff tone) 'F*ck, no. Dan's a big
boy. He knows that the family name is his birthright and he WILL
NOT screw this up.'
But that was all null and void - the time was now. Dan stood up
from the study lectern and paced through the periodicals a bit. In
his pacing, an ancient, wilted librarian startled him 'Are you lost,
sir?' Dan smiled. 'Oh no, no.' Dan held his chest and exhaled after
being startled. 'You just scared me, that's all.' The librarian
peered at him over the top of her daisy-chained bifocals for a
few seconds. 'You're that Larocque kid, aren't you?' Dan smiled
again. 'Guilty!' he said, raising his hand. The ancient lady turned
toward him. 'Shouldn't you be out celebrating your grand essay
or something? I mean...surely you've submitted it by NOW!'
She folded her arms and peered again. Dan's smile fell. 'Oh!
Yes, yes - of course I have! I'm just...brushing up on some...'
Dan looked to see what periodical section he was in '...Gestalt.
Love that Gestalt.' The librarian mumbled something incoherent
and aged, walking away.
Dan exhaled and felt the weight of a thousand tons hanging
closer and closer to his spirit. He trudged back to the study
lectern, almost hoping for a miracle. On top of everything else,
though, Dan was wiped - more wiped than usual. Instead of
working hard on preparing his essay last night, he personally
racked up an 85 dollar tab at Pub Italia as he was not about back
down to a challenge from his friend Jeremy Garra (of the band
Arcade Fire) who wagered $500 if Dan could try every beer in
the beer bible.
Dan pulled out a tuna sandwich from his bag and gnawed what
he could. He had one of those tossy-turny sweaty sleeps which
was mostly due to drinking, but partially due to stress. Dan
stared at the empty open word document on his desktop. The
blinking cursor seemed to be laughing at him with every flash
(HA_HA_HA_HA) and reminding him that with each flash,
precious seconds ticked away.
BUZZZZZZ. Dan was awakened from his uneventful cursor
staring by a text message from his Kingston friend who
owned the Kingston Guitar Shop - Brendan Lorimer. The
text message read 'whats up la-COCK! OOOHHH! -sent from
my iPhone'. Dan smiled and texted him back 'vry funny gtr man.
yer beard shows cultish traits. super stressd'. A long pause
occurred and then another vibrating text buzzed in. 'you havent
written the paper yet, HAVE you? oh MAN! -sent from my
iPhone' Dan shook his head and responded: 'good werk
sherlock. no i havent. any ideas musik man?' Brendan
buzzed back: 'Yer on yer own, prodigy. You're finally off your
biscuit - now you have to RISK IT! OHHHH SNAP! Oh and
by the way, t9 is for ludites. I could write that essay in a
FLASH on my iPhone BITCH! -sent from my iPhone' Dan
was getting annoyed as Brendan has always had a tendency
to run his mouth: 'ya - ok thanks fer yer great help. oh - and u
know u can turn off that stupid 'sent from my iphone' thing eh?
whats a ludite?' Dan chuckled with the snark of his
retort. After another long pause, a final message came in from
Brendan: 'ass'.
Deciding to nullify distractions, Dan turned his phone
completely off. Putting in his earbuds, Dan decided to scroll
around on his iTouch for some overplayed, overwrought
Dylan - 'Rainy Day Woman No. 12 and 35'. As the harmonicas
and juicy guitars set in, Dan found himself staring at the
cursor once again, bobbing his head slightly.
And then...as he bobbed his head...he remembered hearing
his phone buzz one more time...which was odd, he thought,
as he remembered turning it off...and then...with one massive
lulling head-bob as Dylan preached the wonders of mary-
jane into his pleasure centers, Dan fell asleep.
The Essay That Wrote Itself Dan settled himself into the Carleton University library. He sighed as
he took off his scarf and settled himself into a cube desk. He pulled out
his first generation iPod and turned off Beirut that had been playing
on a loop for the entire bus ride over. The cube desks were mostly
deserted and Dan had to take his glasses off and set them down on the
lectern as they were fogged from the changing temperatures. The first
snowfall had hit the nation's capital with a vengeance.
Dan finally sat down, after removing his damp layers, and looked
around. He was on the 5th floor near the periodicals - a deserted spot
in the library with only a few desks that barely anyone knew about.
Dan had grown familiar to the soothing hum of the flourescent lights
above. The carpet was a deep 1970's royal purple with a gray-ish
border. Sometimes Dan would look down the aisles of periodicals
and remember scenes from Ghostbusters with the elderly librarian
lady.
On this particular day, though - Dan had a mission. He was setting
out to write the final paper of his university career. It was to be
titled 'The Philosophy Of Music - A Jungian Pursuit of Rhythmic
Law'. He was pretty proud of the title and even many profs in the
Carleton music department has heard about it and were intrigued.
Even Dan's friends and family were excited about the mysticism
surrounding this paper and would hint at him for details - but Dan
humbly smiled and stayed silent. The whole music department
of Carleton had received grants on the strength of Dan's essay
title and re-distributed some of the funds to Dan, himself. In
his music classes, it had become a bit of a corral as fellow students
seemed to be raising their hands - not to ask the profs questions -
but to ask Dan about his essay.
Yes sir - there was a buzz about campus on this wintery day.
The truth, though, was that the essay was merely a title. The paper
was due in 24 hours...and Dan had not even written a lick of one
phrase. Dan sighed and stared at his mac laptop, holding his head
in his hands.
(to be continued).
Deep Into Winter We All Must Go When I first changed the name of this blog, I was interested
with the core - the soul. I wanted to be truthful without
abandon. But in all seriousness, I think I have strayed from
that because of fear. In the end, fear always gets us.
Fear takes - it never gives.
The winter is closing in. Another season of being alive starts
to feign and wane with the weeping willows that are now
dusted in white icy frost. The weight of the cold is heavy -
it brings a deep pain.
The winter brings honesty and self-reflection. We can only
think forward and hope for what is coming because living in
the now becomes too stark.
I want to be honest.
I want to get the bug out.
I want out.
We Did The Things I hope that at the end of my life, I can say what Christopher Lloyd's
character 'Pieces' says in this film clip.
Things To Do In Denver When You're Dead is a snapshot of
cinematic brilliance in that it is the true full package - comedy,
suspense, action, romance, drama, and more. Andy Garcia
pulls off one of his best performances in this flick and the
cast features Garcia, Walken, Bill Nunn, Christopher Lloyd,
Steve Buscemi AND Treat Williams (to name a few). Not only
does the film keep you involved but it makes you reflect upon
your own dwelling and ask the questions that need to be
asked.
I think I can say 'I did the things' but in so many ways, and
although I am getting old, I still feel so very young. I've been
to the bottom of the Supai Canyon in Arizona - but I've never
been overseas. I've tasted love - but in so many ways, I know
I've only sipped from river. I've been in bands - but I've never
been in an 'all or nothing' situation.
I've always had a back-up plan.
But that may be changing.
Holy Romo Sometimes, the game gets past you. It slips through your
fingers. A victory becomes a loss.
The dirt and the wind fly up from a desert highway and
soak your eyes. A sunrise seemingly glorious has turned
piercing and blisters your skin.
You cannot stop for anyone-
You cannot rest for anyone-
Steal, cheat and lie to your heart's content-
To find out what forgiveness once meant.
And now all that was once true is less amazing.
And the trucks roll by in clusters horns-a blazing.
And all your life, you've wished that you could switch it -
But you can't so you stick your thumb out-
and you hitch it.
The T.O. Pho & Street Meat Yesterday, Sarah and I needed to get out of this backwater burg and
hit some big city action (including a vast array of food ethnicity). We
grabbed some Pho on queen st. and it was wholly pleasuring to the
epicenters of our minds. Tantalizing, even.
After that, we hung with a few friends at a local watering hole (The
Black Bull) and heard Hey Rosetta play a few songs for free while we
sat in the front part of the horseshoe. After copious amounts of
Creemore, Jill, Brian, Viv, Sarah and myself decided that street meat
was in order so we hit that up (complete with all the fixin's) and hit
the hay on a comfy futon.
After a bit of a sleep in, we ventured to a waffle joint where Brian
works and I had 'waffled bacon' which is essentially bacon cooked
into waffle batter. It was pretty dang amazing.
I feel full and ready to inflict some pain on myself this week in the
exercise circuit.
Sometimes, you gotta get out.
I Just Wanna Bang On My Drum All Day Why do drummers always die quicker than other band members?
A lot of the time, I think about Zeppelin. Their music influenced
me in a very vulnerable musical stage in my life. In fact, 'Black
Country Woman' is playing in the background as I write this.
Their southern bluesy structure mixed with the ridiculous
vocality of Plant and extra-terrestrial riffage of Sir Page were
and are something to marvel. I think that all modern music
listeners need to go through a Zeppelin stage.
For me, it was when I was 16. I loved 'Tangerine'. Something
about it reminded me of summer in a way that nothing else
could. It also helped me to sit in my bedroom for hours on end
and reminisce instead of living in the now. There's a certain
nostalgic aspect to their style that cannot be fully explained.
And although I look back and think 'Man, I spent a lot of time
reminiscing and listening to Zeppelin in my late teens', I now
know an immutable truth about living life to the fullest:
Living in the now is pretty overrated.
December Remember The holiday season is upon us in full, shiny tinsel-y throttle.
Who's up for a neighbourhood carol sing?
Ollie - you and Rebekah should come hang out at the McKechnie
house on Christmas eve for a little bit. Maybe we can fall in stupor
on the snowbanks across the street and barf egg nog on people's
driveways? Adam - I want you to wear reindeer sweater from Dec.
19th onward. Is this a possibility? I also want you to sing 'Deck The
Halls' in falsetto as much as possible.
I want you...
on Team Zissou.
Booking and Books
When you google the word 'booking', this is the first image that
pops up.
Rightfully so.
Booking is basically and extended version of balancing and
filling a calendar - but with so many variables. It's been a large
project for that has really sucked a lot of my soul and time.
I spend a lot of my day online - probably 8 hours or more.
People see me on facebook and say 'Matt - how do you have
so much time on your hands?' The right response would be
'Go f*ck yourself'. Actually scratch that - the right response
would be 'I use facebook, myspace, twitter and email as
networking tools for clients and email is where the real
brass tax business is done'. Email makes a hard copy form of
conversations. It also leaves a contractual footprint, if
need be, so I always know what's been said.
It's really tough, though, and most days I wake up and wish
I was just bartending again. I spend a lot of time talking to
people who don't seem to be there - but then, after about
20 emails, they show up. It's often like climbing a muddy
hill. You feel like you're going nowhere (and often, this is
the case) but then, all of a sudden, you're at the summit.
The afternoon light is closing in at 4:18 pm and I feel like
I should be doing more with my life but for now, it seems
like this is my lot.
Welcome December. May I book you up solid and fill a
book with entries of booked bands.
