As you may or may not know, I have been roadtripping again. This time I was off to Columbus, GA to meet up with my dad for the World War II Ranger Reunion. Every year we run the "Hospitality Suite" (aka tend bar) for the old Veterans. My grandpa was an original Darby's Ranger, 1/B. It is our way of honoring his legacy. This year, since the reunion didn't begin until Wednesday, I opted to take a few extra days and play my way down there, so I did a show Monday in Starkville, MS. Tuesday I hit up Marty's in Birmingham, AL, and then Wednesday did a set at the Loft in Columbus. I have lots to say about this adventure, but I need time to construct my thoughts, and time, sadly, I do not have at the moment.
I did, however, want to share a poem I wrote while visiting the Birmingham Art Museum.
The Truth in this Sculpture
Surrounded by stoic souls
frozen by bronze cast
many years before he took his first breath
ponders garden emptiness
diagonal bricks
weathered and mossy
central ponds
black and white tile circles beneath filtered water
leaves settled on turquoise and lavender ceramic squares
mathematically placed and divisible by 2 to create his number
one greater than his number
he paces in the underbelly of Birmingham
seedy story of a city that pursued the great division of color
your fountain
his fountain
afraid to touch the very handle colored hands turned to drink the very same water
now hiding in the thick nappy weave of goatees
proving we are not so far removed
if they could have just seen the Rodin statue
as he sees it now
facially Caucasian but structure folkloric African
immense ape like hands attached to ground dragging arms
chest
thick-wide-powerful
like Silverback standing upright
pounding to display dominance
Martin did not pound chest
pounded pulpit
two streets over
where he rallied those that saw the truth in this sculpture
and the truth
the truth shall set you free
but the world hums
above-besides-below-between
never stopping
always go-go-going
ruining the tranquility of his moment
this moment
when solitude inspired clarity begs to be shared
Hello, Are you there? Are you listening?
It may take me a couple weeks, but I will recap the entire trip soon. Hope you enjoyed the poem. Oh and you can see some Video on my YouTube page, embedded videos are conveniently located to the right... :-)
Monday, October 26, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Community
Thirteen years since I wrote my first song, and I still host/frequent Open Mics. I have actually been hosting the Open Mic at St. Charles Coffee House every Tuesday for just about two years now. I don't get paid anything for it, have nothing really to gain from playing 3 to 4 songs every Tuesday when I am sitting on over 4 hours of original material, but I do it. For some, I think this is a hard concept to embrace. I mean you’ve played the Pageant why would you subjugate yourself back to the ranks of Open Mic performer? Community.
In the scene that gave life to Eric the performing singer/songwriter, Open Mics were an essential step in your evolution. You could not book a gig until you had proven yourself on the Open Mic scene, of course recording was more expensive back then and very few people starting out had CDs. Now, kids are dropping discs before they have even worked a crowd. The problem is you can make a slurring drunk with a toothless lisp and no upper register sound good with the right studio tools. As a result, I think the performance level at our venues is inconsistent which results in smaller crowds because people are less willing to go out and see a band they have never heard of if they are not confident they are going to be good.
Wait…wait…I was two seconds away from a cliff jumping diatribe, and that was not the intent, today. Community.
I got a Facebook message on Wednesday from Whitney, an Open Mic Regular and budding Poet. She thought it would be cool to dress up for the 10/27 Open Mic. Now that is what I am talking about, someone from the community coming up with an idea to improve the community. Of course, I totally agreed. Spooktacular Open Mic is a great idea, but it could be a little difficult because I am out of town next week, so it is going to be up to the community to spread the message. Luckily, we are a very trendy Open Mic and are connected via Social Media, #StCCHOpenMic for you Twitters, myspace.com/stcchopenmic…I know I should have a Facebook fan page for it, but it seems redundant when most of the regulars are already on my friends list…someday, when I have time, I will break down and do that. So, I sent out a couple tweets and people are on board. What about folks that stumble into the coffeehouse, those that are not regulars, we need to get flyers made for them, but I am slammed and don’t have time to make one. What to do? Go to the community, I know Cara, Tom Dugan’s girlfriend, is a Graphics Designer (Tom is hosting in my absence, by the way), so I reach out to her, she is more than willing to do it, by the end of the day I have a flyer in hand (actually on an attachment, cyber talk doesn’t always lend itself to the dramatic). I was up at FedEx Office on Saturday morning and dropped off the flyers soon after.
If you were just thinking “Hmmm, the communal nature of Eric’s Open Mic is probably a metaphor for his social-political ideology” you were correct. For those that did not pick-up on it, let me be a little clearer. I want Universal Health Care and would gladly pay more to the community to ensure that every man, woman, and child had coverage. For those that do not want this, that think Health Care Reform is some how the first step in an Orwellian, Big Brotheresque, government take over, that stand on the corner of suburban streets with revolutionary banners threatening to dump tea and wage war, I ask where the hell is your humanity? I do not want big government. I am not pro-huge deficits, but I do want to know that if some little kid gets injured it is not going to bankrupt the single-mother that is raising her. That if something happens and I lose my job, I do not have to worry that a bout of H1N1 is going to find me in debt. Oh and if you are planted firmly on the religious right wondering WWJD, I’ve read the books and he would want universal health care, just sayin’.
Well there you have it…ah the power of the flashing cursor and a blank page. When I got up this morning I was just going to post a poem that I read last Tuesday because Whitney said she liked it. I guess I'll give you the poem now.
How my Heart Heard
Closed eyes to Duncan
so I could recall your head on my chest
my fingers skating on your skin
Dreamt of you
your tired eyes peaceful slumber
interrupted by cognition
Dreamt of all the things
I wanted to say
I wanted my Gray’s moment
wanted to stand on chair
hands to ceiling
pleading with you
to pick me
choose me
puff my silver back chest
so you could see my value
I didn’t
fearing I would
lose the moment
lose the silent sound
of life cyclically dancing
from your lungs to mine
of blue light
red hue
purple shimmer
of 9 holes and 90’s tights
of me wrapped around you in need
So I remain mute
allowing Duncan
to speak for me
And how I shed such tears but never cry
This is how I want her
And how I kiss her lips and taste goodbye
This is how I want her
Run from the moment
knowing I was too deep
Startled eyes
opened at 8
knowing it was too soon
drifted off
to dream of the
softness of your kiss
In the scene that gave life to Eric the performing singer/songwriter, Open Mics were an essential step in your evolution. You could not book a gig until you had proven yourself on the Open Mic scene, of course recording was more expensive back then and very few people starting out had CDs. Now, kids are dropping discs before they have even worked a crowd. The problem is you can make a slurring drunk with a toothless lisp and no upper register sound good with the right studio tools. As a result, I think the performance level at our venues is inconsistent which results in smaller crowds because people are less willing to go out and see a band they have never heard of if they are not confident they are going to be good.
Wait…wait…I was two seconds away from a cliff jumping diatribe, and that was not the intent, today. Community.
I got a Facebook message on Wednesday from Whitney, an Open Mic Regular and budding Poet. She thought it would be cool to dress up for the 10/27 Open Mic. Now that is what I am talking about, someone from the community coming up with an idea to improve the community. Of course, I totally agreed. Spooktacular Open Mic is a great idea, but it could be a little difficult because I am out of town next week, so it is going to be up to the community to spread the message. Luckily, we are a very trendy Open Mic and are connected via Social Media, #StCCHOpenMic for you Twitters, myspace.com/stcchopenmic…I know I should have a Facebook fan page for it, but it seems redundant when most of the regulars are already on my friends list…someday, when I have time, I will break down and do that. So, I sent out a couple tweets and people are on board. What about folks that stumble into the coffeehouse, those that are not regulars, we need to get flyers made for them, but I am slammed and don’t have time to make one. What to do? Go to the community, I know Cara, Tom Dugan’s girlfriend, is a Graphics Designer (Tom is hosting in my absence, by the way), so I reach out to her, she is more than willing to do it, by the end of the day I have a flyer in hand (actually on an attachment, cyber talk doesn’t always lend itself to the dramatic). I was up at FedEx Office on Saturday morning and dropped off the flyers soon after.
If you were just thinking “Hmmm, the communal nature of Eric’s Open Mic is probably a metaphor for his social-political ideology” you were correct. For those that did not pick-up on it, let me be a little clearer. I want Universal Health Care and would gladly pay more to the community to ensure that every man, woman, and child had coverage. For those that do not want this, that think Health Care Reform is some how the first step in an Orwellian, Big Brotheresque, government take over, that stand on the corner of suburban streets with revolutionary banners threatening to dump tea and wage war, I ask where the hell is your humanity? I do not want big government. I am not pro-huge deficits, but I do want to know that if some little kid gets injured it is not going to bankrupt the single-mother that is raising her. That if something happens and I lose my job, I do not have to worry that a bout of H1N1 is going to find me in debt. Oh and if you are planted firmly on the religious right wondering WWJD, I’ve read the books and he would want universal health care, just sayin’.
Well there you have it…ah the power of the flashing cursor and a blank page. When I got up this morning I was just going to post a poem that I read last Tuesday because Whitney said she liked it. I guess I'll give you the poem now.
How my Heart Heard
Closed eyes to Duncan
so I could recall your head on my chest
my fingers skating on your skin
Dreamt of you
your tired eyes peaceful slumber
interrupted by cognition
Dreamt of all the things
I wanted to say
I wanted my Gray’s moment
wanted to stand on chair
hands to ceiling
pleading with you
to pick me
choose me
puff my silver back chest
so you could see my value
I didn’t
fearing I would
lose the moment
lose the silent sound
of life cyclically dancing
from your lungs to mine
of blue light
red hue
purple shimmer
of 9 holes and 90’s tights
of me wrapped around you in need
So I remain mute
allowing Duncan
to speak for me
And how I shed such tears but never cry
This is how I want her
And how I kiss her lips and taste goodbye
This is how I want her
Run from the moment
knowing I was too deep
Startled eyes
opened at 8
knowing it was too soon
drifted off
to dream of the
softness of your kiss
Saturday, October 10, 2009
The Tale of T-Rex and the Sports Coat
There are a variety of euphemisms that can be used in place of fat. There is the fun and cutesy, Pleasantly Plump, but I ain’t that cute. I believe Thick is reserved for black women. Big Boned sounds good, but it does not explain my love handles or belly. Of course we have the ever popular Big and Beautiful, but frankly that just seems too desperate, like we are trying to convince the world that we can still be beautiful even though we are big. Although I agree with that statement, until Rubens makes a come back, I don’t think the world is going to listen. So, I use Big Boy. I am a Big Boy. This fact affects my life in many ways. It definitely finds its way into my poetry and music from time to time, and is always present at Christmas time.
Like most 35 year olds with a Master’s degree, a good job, a house, etc., I pretty much have everything I need. So, every Christmas this conversation occurs.
Mom: “Sweetie, what do want for Christmas, and I am not buying you CDs. I am tired of buying you CDs.”
Me: “Well, how about a DVD.”
Mom: “No…try again.”
Me: “Well, I could always use some clothes.”
This is not because I love clothes, more because I hate them and therefore rarely shop for them, as a result I could always use some new threads, as the holey undershirts and shredded skivvies will attest (okay it is not that bad, but they are worn).
Mom: “Okay, sounds good.”
It took me a few years to figure this out, but this is a horrible gift to give a Big Boy because the shit never fits. After trying on four shirts that look like a wetsuit when squeezed over the belly the emotions take a turn for the worst and the hatefest ensues. Before you know it, you are curled up in a ball with tears dried to your cheek and a slice of thick crust pepperoni and bacon consoling you. So I decided to get smart about it.
Mom: “Sweetie, what do want for Christmas, and I am not buying you CDs. I am tired of buying you CDs.”
Me: “Well, how about a DVD.”
Mom: “No…try again.”
Me: “Well, how about a gift card to the Big and Tall store (the need for clothes is still there, but this way I would be in control and could prevent the week of self-degradation)”
Innocent Pause
Mom: “But, you are just big, you’re not tall.”
Me: “Thanks mom. It is really big OR tall.”
Mom: “Well, sweetie, I am going to make a Short and Stout store.”
My mom meant no ill will by that statement. It was just her first experience with Big Boys-R-Us, and the reality is, she was right. The clothes at the Casual Male XL are really geared more towards tall people that are also big, rather than just Big Boys.
Flash forward to this week. I had a wedding to attend. Patrick, my musical chameleon from Pawnshop Testimonies, the Frontline, and now So Much Closer, got married last night, and I had a date to his wedding, not only a date, but a date with an extremely special girl, someone I have been pursuing for years…when you speak of me you will speak of my persistence.
I wanted to look cute for this event, hip, like all the thin 20 something hipsters at my office. I get this idea of sports coat, oxford, tie, and some nice dirty jeans, a look I wore for years when I was thinner and haunting the coffeehouses of San Diego. So, I busted out of work early one day to ensure I could get to the store on time. Casual Male XL knows they are our only real option, so there is no need for them to be accommodating with their hours. I rolled up in there ready to drop some serious coin on their ridiculously inflated prices and began the process. Two coats into it, and it was completely evident that while most of you are decedents of Chimpanzees, I evolved from the Tyrannosaurus Rex. Not one coat fit me. Not one. And I tried on every sports coat in there, even ones that I would never wear. Apparently with my shoulder to belly ratio I should also have arms that drag the ground. Seriously, there were times when I couldn’t even see my hands (Rachel, I promise if someone else was there to take photos, I would have shot them just for you). It was pathetic and saddening.
I went to the wedding sporting the standard Khakis, Blue Oxford, and Tie.
I know this is totally unrelated to the weight story, but it is about Christmas, and I wanted to stick to my poetry in every blog declaration.
Christmas in Arizona
The wind came in as jet wash
Cutting between Huachuca and Mule Mountain
The whistle and howl
Replaced by guttural growl
As if the underworld
Was trying to speak to the heavens
Tangled vines and thorns
Chase coyotes across common ground
While neighborhood dogs sound Centurion Alarms
Pacing fences with protector's strut and erect tails
Sinister clouds clothe a dawn sky
Like great cape of super hero menace
High Desert winter shower
Washes red dirt from exhausted buildings
Beat down by an oppressive sun
As the rains stop
Children emerge from deep dreams
Of sugar plum dances and wrapping paper
The wonder of twinkling lights
And bows reflected in innocent eyes
While parents pass out gifts
From Santa's workshop
Like most 35 year olds with a Master’s degree, a good job, a house, etc., I pretty much have everything I need. So, every Christmas this conversation occurs.
Mom: “Sweetie, what do want for Christmas, and I am not buying you CDs. I am tired of buying you CDs.”
Me: “Well, how about a DVD.”
Mom: “No…try again.”
Me: “Well, I could always use some clothes.”
This is not because I love clothes, more because I hate them and therefore rarely shop for them, as a result I could always use some new threads, as the holey undershirts and shredded skivvies will attest (okay it is not that bad, but they are worn).
Mom: “Okay, sounds good.”
It took me a few years to figure this out, but this is a horrible gift to give a Big Boy because the shit never fits. After trying on four shirts that look like a wetsuit when squeezed over the belly the emotions take a turn for the worst and the hatefest ensues. Before you know it, you are curled up in a ball with tears dried to your cheek and a slice of thick crust pepperoni and bacon consoling you. So I decided to get smart about it.
Mom: “Sweetie, what do want for Christmas, and I am not buying you CDs. I am tired of buying you CDs.”
Me: “Well, how about a DVD.”
Mom: “No…try again.”
Me: “Well, how about a gift card to the Big and Tall store (the need for clothes is still there, but this way I would be in control and could prevent the week of self-degradation)”
Innocent Pause
Mom: “But, you are just big, you’re not tall.”
Me: “Thanks mom. It is really big OR tall.”
Mom: “Well, sweetie, I am going to make a Short and Stout store.”
My mom meant no ill will by that statement. It was just her first experience with Big Boys-R-Us, and the reality is, she was right. The clothes at the Casual Male XL are really geared more towards tall people that are also big, rather than just Big Boys.
Flash forward to this week. I had a wedding to attend. Patrick, my musical chameleon from Pawnshop Testimonies, the Frontline, and now So Much Closer, got married last night, and I had a date to his wedding, not only a date, but a date with an extremely special girl, someone I have been pursuing for years…when you speak of me you will speak of my persistence.
I wanted to look cute for this event, hip, like all the thin 20 something hipsters at my office. I get this idea of sports coat, oxford, tie, and some nice dirty jeans, a look I wore for years when I was thinner and haunting the coffeehouses of San Diego. So, I busted out of work early one day to ensure I could get to the store on time. Casual Male XL knows they are our only real option, so there is no need for them to be accommodating with their hours. I rolled up in there ready to drop some serious coin on their ridiculously inflated prices and began the process. Two coats into it, and it was completely evident that while most of you are decedents of Chimpanzees, I evolved from the Tyrannosaurus Rex. Not one coat fit me. Not one. And I tried on every sports coat in there, even ones that I would never wear. Apparently with my shoulder to belly ratio I should also have arms that drag the ground. Seriously, there were times when I couldn’t even see my hands (Rachel, I promise if someone else was there to take photos, I would have shot them just for you). It was pathetic and saddening.
I went to the wedding sporting the standard Khakis, Blue Oxford, and Tie.
I know this is totally unrelated to the weight story, but it is about Christmas, and I wanted to stick to my poetry in every blog declaration.
Christmas in Arizona
The wind came in as jet wash
Cutting between Huachuca and Mule Mountain
The whistle and howl
Replaced by guttural growl
As if the underworld
Was trying to speak to the heavens
Tangled vines and thorns
Chase coyotes across common ground
While neighborhood dogs sound Centurion Alarms
Pacing fences with protector's strut and erect tails
Sinister clouds clothe a dawn sky
Like great cape of super hero menace
High Desert winter shower
Washes red dirt from exhausted buildings
Beat down by an oppressive sun
As the rains stop
Children emerge from deep dreams
Of sugar plum dances and wrapping paper
The wonder of twinkling lights
And bows reflected in innocent eyes
While parents pass out gifts
From Santa's workshop
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