Can Your Parents Dance Like This?

Why One Should Always Keep Paper and Pen (or My Hatred For Microsoft Word)

By the time this damn things opens
And a blank white screen appears
I've forgotten what it was
I wanted to say
And my Nobel Prize goes out the window

Help Me Finish This Story

I need your help.
I've been working on this story (off and on) for a couple of weeks now. The trouble is, I can't seem to decide how to end it.
Let me clarify.
This story is called Jumprope Politics. As you read, you'll notice it's a rather obvious allegory for the polarization occurring in the United States political system. The trouble I'm having with ending it is that I am torn between the boys (gov't) being remorseful for their actions or being sly and snide, continuing to plot further antics. They seem shy at first, but that's because they've just been busted.  Are they really sorry or thieving punks just waiting for the adults to leave them to their plotting and selfish endeavors once more?
I'm torn between what I think is realistic and what I hope for.
So, finish my story!
Write your own ending! (Use the comment section)
I'll pick one, and maybe there can be a prize of some sort. A printed and bound version of it or something. Or coffee or beer or something. You know, whatever. :)
Tell your friends! Let's have fun with this!
Here is the story. Pick up where I end.

Despite recess ending over an hour before, two oversized 4th graders from Washington Elementary remained fixed at their game. Billy Clifton and Georgie Baum each pulled mightily from either end of a purple nylon jump rope that was showing extensive wear near its middle. Hidden behind the bushes, they had evaded their teacher, Mr. Samson, as he marched the remaining student body back into the classroom. As their peers sweated over fractions, beads of perspiration formed a crown round each boy’s head as he kept his feet firmly planted, angled his body near parallel to the ground, and insisted through clenched teeth that he would not surrender.

Finally the rope snapped in two, sending Billy and Georgie soaring through the air, each landing with a great thud on the ground.  Holding back tears, each boy slowly pushed himself up from the soil. Georgie’s knee oozed a small stream of blood, Billy’s elbow began to develop an instant bruise.

“You big dumb smelly ass, Billy! I’m telling Principal Burgher you made me bleed!”

“Oooh, I’m really scared!” Billy retorted. “Go ahead, Dumbo! If you weren’t so fat, you wouldn’ta broke the rope.”

At this, Georgie lunged and seized Billy by the shirtsleeve pulling him to the ground once more. Entwined, each boy did his best to bring his fist to his opponent’s torso as they writhed and flopped in the playground dust.

“That’s enough, boys!” boomed Mr. Samson’s voice as he pulled the still swinging boys from each other’s grasps.  Holding them at arm’s length, Mr. Samson escorted the duo to their awaiting principal a few feet away. She did not look pleased. He left them to her stare and made his way back into the school.

The boys stood at her feet, Georgie digging his foot into the dirt, Billy suddenly fascinated by his fingernails.

“Sit.”

 Ms. Burgher spoke quietly, but sternly and with great authority. Georgie and Billy quickly took their place on the hard ground, eyes studying the soil beneath them. Dry and cracked, ants scrambled in and out of the crevasses and both boys felt just as small. Surely it was only a matter of time before Ms. Burgher would bring out a magnifying glass and let the sun do its work. They braced themselves for the scolding that was sure to come.

But Ms. Burgher did not speak.

She simply stood, one half of the rope dangling from each hand. Its once brilliant purple fibers now muddied and ruined. She laid each broken piece in front of each of them.  Billy and Georgie shifted uncomfortably, unsure what action to take. Should they speak? Should they continue to wait? The longer Ms. Burgher’s eyes bored into them, the more impossible to stay still.

It was then that Mr. Samson re-emerged from the school; a small girl clutched his hand as he led her toward them. Her face was smudged with dirt and grime, clean streaks present only from the tears that had cleansed away the filth. Her dress had at one time been lavender, soft and lovely, but was now a dull sort of grey. The dingy lace collar clung on by a few scarce threads here and there. Her knees showed dried scabs and mosquito bites. Her toes were evident through shoes too small. Her hair hung stringy and greasy in her eyes as she stared at the dirt below.

“I believe the two of you have something that belongs to Susie, is that true?” Ms. Burgher asked.

Georgie and Billy nodded their heads.

“And how did the two of you come to be in possession of Susie’s new jumprope?”

Several moments passed before Billy finally managed to squeak out the words, “We took it from her.”

“I see,” said Ms. Burgher. “And what reason do you have for taking this little girl’s toy? This is the only toy she has, and she brought it to share with her schoolmates. You, boys, have now not only robbed Susie of her brand new jump rope, but have ruined the opportunity for others to play as well. What have you to say for yourselves?"

I'm Like So Totally Guilty Of This, You Know?

A Promise

Now if I can just figure out how to make that happen...

Travel N Twain

Thoughts In Airplanes While Up In The Sky

Somewhere I presume over the western slope of the Rocky Mountains. Listening to Zeppelin’s “Going to California,” because I am.

Ah….traveling.  This is what I need. Somehow the chaos centers me. The moment I walked into the airport, I somehow felt at peace, more with and more like myself. Just being there, walking in, bags in tow, seeing people scurrying this way and that, it makes me stop and think, “This is right.”

Folks keep asking me if I’ve decided what I’m going to do with my life. First family, now even friends are posing the question. The fact that I’m nearing 30, unmarried, unsettled, this does not bode well for most people. It is, in fact, strange and people perhaps have begun to wonder what is wrong with me. I sometimes wonder what is wrong with me.  Then, in these instances when I feel most like myself, I am able to remember, I am able to articulate, “Nothing. This is me, and I love it.” Even those who have met me momentarily are able to see that this is what I need to be doing.  I need to be out in the world, observing, processing, writing, ever in wonder of this vast and varied world. I miss this greatly about being in Korea-the mentality that one does not need to surrender to the great “American Dream” involving settling into dometicality and a single location. These two things are two of my greatest fears. I want to want them. Really, I do. But this, being out, traveling, wandering, exploring….this is who I am.

I meant to start writing immediately upon hitting 10,000 feet after departing Sioux Falls. My mind was already alive and churning madly with thoughts of the need for travel, being at home in travel, as well as a general political geeking out and further contemplating polarization. See, while awaiting my flight out of Sioux Falls, I stopped to fill up my water bottle from the fountain. I turned around to see a recognizable face, so when I did a double take by turning around again, I was shocked to see the very tall and rather tan Senator John Thune waiting behind me.

“Hi, how are you?” he asked.

“Hey!” I beamed cheerfully, totally politically crushing. “Good! How are you?” That was pretty much the extent of our conversation despite a host of other thoughts simultaneously careening through my head. Thoughts such as

Did you get my letter?

Do you need a staff writer?

Do you remember me from camp?

Can we talk about polarization?

I continued to dance around in line, due to the 12 ounces of caffeinated coffee I had just ingested, trying not to gawk at him. It was then that cemented the idea that I really do need to amass my writing on a professional website and print business cards for such a time as this. It would be so handy to be able to whip one out, hand it over, have its recipient pour over my writing and be completely taken aback by it and demand I write for them, while paying me a pretty fee no less.

But, alas, I did not have such life changing business cards. So I just got on the plane and immediately took out my notebook and began scribbling down all the thoughts I would soon be typing once electronic devices were permitted.

But those thoughts have been put aside until now, this second leg of the journey, the flight from Denver to Sacramento. Because as much as I like to put in my headphones, block out the world, and hammer out my  inner thoughts on little black keys, I even more enjoy conversations with strangers on airplanes, particularly when they are with a young Catholic priest who wears combat boots and has the Dead Kennedy’s on his iphone.

As Tyler Durden was to the Narrator, Father Peter was “by far the most interesting single serving friend I’ve ever met.” Wearing his priestly collar, looking friendly and roughly my age, I struck up conversation even prior to take-off.

Rather than the basic, "Hello, where are you going today? " I just pointed to the collar. “Does that mean stimulating theological conversation throughout the flight?” I asked. He laughed and agreed that would be enjoyable.

After admitting a lack of intellectual theological conversation in my life as of late, mostly due to my lack of continued theological education, we dove right into the Pope. Hmm, perhaps that’s not the best choice of words given unfortunate light Catholic priests have cast upon them. As conversation does, it evolved from papal authority, to “calls” from God, to intellect and reason (or lack thereof) within the Faith, to books to be read, and music to be heard. Quality music this fellow enjoys, and band names were exchanged for each of us to check out. Hoorah, new music!

And in an intuitive manner that I’m not sure stems from seminary training or his personal nature, he pretty much pinpointed me as in need of constant travel, confirming that this need will not relent, but will need constant tending throughout my life. How right he is. We soon started to descend and it seemed to me the flight went too quickly. These sorts of instances with strangers are what draw me to this traveling thing. They are rare, precious, and to be cherished. “Don’t talk to strangers,” is great and necessary advice when one is a child, but should be a discarded mentality shortly thereafter.

It is when traveling that I most feel the blessings and I daresay even the presence of God poured out upon me. Someone call up Lonely Planet and tell them I need a job.

God?

To believe or not to believe? That is the question...for a lot of folks anyway. I've pretty much given up the argument. Still, I found the responses interesting. 

The Night I Saw U2

I’ve been trying to write about Saturday night off and on for about 36 hours. It’s not coming easily. Words can be a bitch somedays. How do you put words to something that encompasses so much more than what they offer? That void where words fail…this is the place for art, for music.  So to write about that thing that fills in the wordless void?

I don’t know. I’m struggling.

I want to breathtakingly describe those precious hours. I want to remind myself, I want to share with you that feeling of absolute excitement that left me jumping in an erratic and giddy manner. I want you to understand fully that sense of awe and wonder and beauty that lead to being able to do nothing but stand completely still and allow whatever the hell it is that moves through music move into you. God, I think. There are differing opinions.

 But to recreate those moments, and moments similar, I think not even the best writer can put into words. Those moments are not what words are for.  But still….still I try to write.

I keep trying to write about my experience, about the details of what happened. About how when “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For,” started, I leaned over to my friend and said “Sorry if I start crying. I’m an emotional sap and music has a strong effect on me.” And how I was reminded the next day by another friend that “That’s what music is for.”

I want people to know the simple joy of been standing outside, content with the excitement of being so near, the sound and the monitors making it seem we were there. The brick walls of the stadium seemed like nothing but a thick paper separating us from such an event. Because, when tickets sell out in 20 minutes for a fairly substantial price, being this close is what you know will be the closet you will ever come to seeing them live.

Until it’s not.

I want you to read these words and your eyes grow wide as you see the unattended gates, know that fraction of a moment  when it’s now or never, feel the air rush past your face as you run through rain and crwod, ignoring that secrurity guard who is yelling powerlessly at this homeless mob who have suddenly been let in on Thanksgiving dinner. I want your mouth to drop agape at that moment you realize…We’re in.

I want people who read this to feel the rain pouring down on their heads, feel their clothes soaking wet, hanging heavily from limb and torso. I want them to feel the anxiousness of lightning bolts striking around the stadium, to tremble at the immensity of thunder that came from above… and from the kits of Larry Mullen, Jr. I want you to see the look of pure happiness on Adam Clayton’s face, despite 30 years of limelight and lots of the same songs. I want you to do a little dance for joy when you realize, “Oh my God, The Edge is right there.” I want you to feel the movement of 60,000 people fall into a silent stillness while the first notes of “With Or Without You,” began. To know the power of 60,000 people singing “Sunday, Bloody Sunday.” To see the power of lanterns held aloft, circling the stage, in a beacon of hope while Bono urges us to “Be Strong. Walk on.” I want you to be totally absorbed in a chorus of Cohen’s “Hallelujah” only to be swept into a place “Where The Streets Have No Name.”

I want my words to have the power that Bono’s words have…when millions of people worldwide, and tens of thousands around me, sing them, word for word. When his influence is such that people are moved into action to seek justice, fight AIDS, poverty, hunger. His words effect me, they bring me to a place beauty, hope, strength. But he has more than words, he has that undeniable power of music, which bring me to those same places.

So as I try feebly to use my own words to describe they seem so insignificant. Words are just not enough. And so, despite the poor quality, I leave you with the best thing that I can to share the evening with you: Two videos I took from some outstanding, unexpected, much appreciated seats at the U2 concert I wasn’t supposed to see.  It’s the best I can do. It's not much. Because it was too much.

Music Snobbery (Why Pop Radio Blows and Music Snobs Have A Handle on Something Grand)

I’m sorry if you think I’m pretentious. There’s more than a good chance I come across that way. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve discovered I’m a self-proclaimed snob. And I think I am not alone. There are countless others out there in the world just like me, strutting around with our heads held high, sure to make it known that we like what we like and it’s better than what you like. Again, we’re not trying to be rude (okay, some of us get off on being rude, but I don’t count myself as one of them. I actually worry about being rude.) but we just happen to be thoroughly convinced that what we like IS better than what others around us like, for good reason. Let me clarify, folks like me who know what they like, which is most likely contrary to what is popular with the general masses, are the ones who come across rude or pretentious mainly because what we like is in fact not what is embraced by most of society.

What is the meaning of all this blathering, you may be asking. Let me back up a bit. As per usual, this blog post is simply stemming from things that have been stewing around in my head for quite some time. Usually, after things have been stewing for quite some time, something I see, hear, overhear, or somet unknown muse sends a spark and the whole batch of stew erupts like a gas station falling victim to a careless smoker (a la Zoolander). Suddenly all that has been swimming around in my mind comes spewing out of my fingertips and into words read here or elsewhere. As I’m bad (aka lazy) about editing, I fear that often these words stay a jumbled unorganized mess, but since I know what I’m saying, I simply leave them be. There’s always time for editing, I tell myself. It’s nice to tell yourself things sometimes. This is not where I’m going with my self-proclaimed snobbery post, but is indeed a preview into the chaotic inner-workings of my mind. Perhaps what you read here or hear me say in person will now make a bit more sense with the knowledge that most of what’s written and spoken by me is simply verbally processed spew…which in itself aids in the mental processing, uh, process.

All that to say, as I was on my way to my coffee shop the other afternoon, something lit the match and the gas station erupted and now I’m spewing wordy flames, sorting out the idea that somehow it became okay for music to cease to be art and instead become a mindless opiate for the masses. And that’s when I started to think about how I sound (and probably am) really pretentious. Yet, I remain firm in my convictions.

The music I like, the music my friends like, and that several of my friends make, is in fact better than most of what is heard on popular radio. Let me clarify by what I mean by “better.” Let’s be honest, if we’re basing what is considered “good” music solely on numbers sold and amounts of money amassed, then the majority of true music is not considered good, and therefore definitely not better than what’s on popular radio. But herein lies the problem. Good music doesn’t sell. I mean, it does, but not nearly in the amounts that its popular counterpart does. I suppose that what I mean by “better,” is mostly “higher quality.” So if good music doesn’t make millions of dollars, what constitutes as good/true music?

One word: artistry.

It is the time, dedication, hard work, and yes even natural abilities that makes one a good musician.

Just because someone puts on a pair scrubs, tosses a stethoscope around their neck, that doesn’t make them a nurse. In the same fashion, just because a person is handed a guitar, a microphone, or even a recording contract, that doesn’t make them a musician. I hesitate to even use the term “recording artist” as the word “artist” is involved. If it didn’t make them sound like a small woodwind instrument given to elementary school students, I would just call them “recorders.” So…what do we call the individuals who get so much radio play today, but do very little besides gyrate their bodies while scantily clad? Who cares! It’s sexy, and sex sells. And besides sex and money, what really matters anyway?

I’d like to know who is responsible for deciding music no longer needs to have any sort of quality before being fed to the masses and punch them in the face. You know, if I wasn’t a borderline pacifist. Maybe I can just glare at them intensely and make them uncomfortable with my unwavering stare. But it’s not just their fault. Folks line up to buy this fabricated crap (Well, not so much anymore. Now they click their little keys and make sure gratification is nothing but instant.) The masses feed the industry that feeds the masses.

Okay, obviously not all popular music is terrible. It’s catchy and thus fun to listen to. That has to count for something. I’d say it’s fun to dance to, which given the right crowd, it can be. But dancing these days has turned into nothing more than rubbing against one another’s genitals in a public space with lots of flashing lights…and generally really off-beat.

I often have people ask me how I learn about the musicians that I listen to. It starts with turning off the radio. Sounds strange, doesn’t it? Wanna find out about good music? Turn off the radio! Hmm, no, turn off pop radio. Feel free to leave it on the classic rock station, the classical music station, or NPR (I promise they’ll play you good music and not turn you into a flailing socialist.) Also, stations like KEXP and The Current do a good job at playing music that wasn’t written in 45 minutes by some dude with a computer in a cubicle. Though, theoretically, they’re tied to public radio, so return to the NPR comment and move on.

Fellow music snob friends help, too. It’s important to keep the cycle flowing of telling folks you know about a new band you just heard, so that they may return the favor. And on and on it goes. And you know, the internet might have a little something out there about music. I’m not sure. It’s pretty vast.

Let my conclude by showing you two videos. One is of mega popular multimillion dollar pop star Rihanna. “Her” song “Rude Boy,” was a chart topper written by several dudes (okay, in her defense, she helped) whose native language isn’t even English. Hope you don’t have to dial 1 to understand the lyrics, cuz you know, it would be absurd to be a multi-lingual nation. Wait….that’s off topic and being saved for another blog. Honestly, I think I’d prefer Rihanna’s song in another language. If I couldn’t understand it, I wouldn’t feel the need to douse my eardrums in Holy Water every time I’m unfortunate enough to fall within earshot. Obviously, singing about sex isn’t a bad thing. It’s a totally natural event that people think about on a daily basis. Good music and art and the like lose their power if they aren’t engaging in that which makes us human, both good and bad. But, if I want to hear a woman describe how she’ll give her man an erection, I’ll just hang around the condom aisle in Wal-mart.



The second video is by Drew Grow (formerly of the band Five O’Clock People) who while makes a decent living, continues to play sold out shows to possibly hundreds of people. He is a working artist, constantly developing his craft. Ever evolving as an artist and human, rather than changing with the passing trends. I chose to pair Drew Grow with Rihanna relatively arbitrarily. He just came on my ipod as I’m finish up this post. So I went to his website where he has a post that touches on things similar what you’ve just read. He, as a quality musician should, wrestles with the larger questions and struggles of life and invites his listeners to do the same. He, like a quality musician should, convies emotion and moves his listeners, with and without words.(Close your eyes and listen instead of watching the video.) He might even talk about sex sometimes, who knows. He's playing here with The Portland Cello Project who also find themselves to be pretty outstanding musicians. He also often plays with a band and together they are called Drew Grow and the Pastor's Wives, if you should feel so inclined to check them out. You should feel so inclined. :)



I know stylistically these two songs are super different. Apples and oranges if you will. I'm not so much focusing on that though. For the moment, ignore style. Focus on quality.

You’re free to like what you like, and we're all going to stick with what we like anyway. But I'm going to  stick with quality artistry. (Okay, with the occasional guilty pleasure of music that falls short of the title of “good,” because, damn, that mass-pleasing music is catchy!)

At last, the soap-box is free now. I’m off it.

++It should be noted that simply because someone writes and sings a song in a language other than their own, it doesn’t have to suck. Example here.