Have you ever dreamed of drowning, being underwater and knowing that somewhere above you there was air and plenty of it, clutching fistfulls of water as you struggle to break the surface and knowing that no matter how hard you try you're always ten feet away? Then you wake up and realize that it was all a cruel, terrible dream; but you also know that no matter how hard you struggle and work to avoid it during the day, to buy your way into a better one, that when you get home and lay down you're likely to get the same story, served cold again to you that night.
This is how I feel about Baton Rouge, La.
I'm leaving this city, finally and hopefully for good. I feel like a robber who sets up a tent in the vault of the bank he's just knocked off...for almost two years I've had the nagging suspicion that no real progress could be made while I live within walking distance of my old haunts, but filed it away as some passing malaise that would fade with time. Tiger football! Right? If that's the only reason I'm still here, I'm a moron.
It's not, of course. And there's only three months until my curtain call, grand finale, encore performance in B.R. Then off to a new stage, a new place to exist, and one that will likely foster my talents instead of suppressing them. Thanks for nothing, Jigga City.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
12 Play Day
So, instead of Easter, a holiday which I no longer recognize or really endorse the celebration of, I propose this alternative: National 12 Play Day, in which everyone basically takes The-Dream's advice, puts "12 Play" on the boombox, and proceeds to get right with their significant other. Have you ever really listened to "12 Play" all the way through? I just did! And believe me, before the scandal and years of collaborations and guest verses, R. Kelly had a masterpiece already in the can. This album is amazing for whatever you happen to be getting into, not just fucking (a common misconception). Grocery shopping? Check; nothing gets you down the aisles faster than "I Like the Crotch On You". Awkward family gathering? "Back To the Hood of Things" will help you bide the time until you leave and get slammed drunk. See? Perfect.
If "12 Play" isn't available, substitute "Love Vs. Money" instead; kindred spirits, 16 years apart.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Temporary Insanarchy; or, Hey, We All Make Mistakes, Right?
2009 is not at all what I wanted it to be, and it's only April. My fears and insecurities multiply, my confidence has crashed into the mountain, and I'm left grasping at straws like I used to frantically search the apartment for the missing medicine bottle with one last dose of magic inside. I know I'm better off, a better person, better this, better that...whatever. The measuring stick by which I calculate success is so simple, yet so unbelievably hard for me to live up to. Unloveable. That's what it comes down to. Am I?
I'm starting to think that if you plugged my battery in anywhere else, another city, another country, I'd instantly find what I was looking for. But my bull-headed resistance (to this point) to change my location, for fear that my identity would flee me just as quickly as I'd flown from Baton Rouge, has prevented me from finding my one missing happiness. I can't see why everyone else can be happy here and I can't, but it may just be the case.
Or, horror of horrors, I leave and find that it is me, something implicit to myself that prevents me from getting any real joy from life no matter where I call home. What would I do then? Paralysis. Hamlet, anyone?
Why do I even think like this? I mean, everybody tells me how great I have it, etc. Why can't I feel it at all? I wish there was something simple that I was missing, something that I could pick up all of a sudden and see what everybody is talking about. If such a thing exists, and you know about it, please let me in. The joke is seriously not funny anymore. It wasn't funny in sixth grade, and it's not funny now. It gets more bitter and confounding with age.
Remind me about this post, when I'm old and happy with my family around me and reflecting on how wonderful my life was. Remind me of the crossroads, and the path I took, and all the good it did me. Don't let me forget.
I'm starting to think that if you plugged my battery in anywhere else, another city, another country, I'd instantly find what I was looking for. But my bull-headed resistance (to this point) to change my location, for fear that my identity would flee me just as quickly as I'd flown from Baton Rouge, has prevented me from finding my one missing happiness. I can't see why everyone else can be happy here and I can't, but it may just be the case.
Or, horror of horrors, I leave and find that it is me, something implicit to myself that prevents me from getting any real joy from life no matter where I call home. What would I do then? Paralysis. Hamlet, anyone?
Why do I even think like this? I mean, everybody tells me how great I have it, etc. Why can't I feel it at all? I wish there was something simple that I was missing, something that I could pick up all of a sudden and see what everybody is talking about. If such a thing exists, and you know about it, please let me in. The joke is seriously not funny anymore. It wasn't funny in sixth grade, and it's not funny now. It gets more bitter and confounding with age.
Remind me about this post, when I'm old and happy with my family around me and reflecting on how wonderful my life was. Remind me of the crossroads, and the path I took, and all the good it did me. Don't let me forget.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Some things I've picked up on lately...
1. The-Dream has released the album of the year so far in "Love Vs. Money". This is not open for debate. I'm actually thinking about doing a song for song acoustic tribute to this record...if you know any musicians who share my affinity for dirty ass R&B, please let me meet them!
2. I need to stop being so self-obsessed and negative. My point of view isn't the only one that matters; I've used the mememe approach as a defense mechanism since I got sober, and for a while there was actually reasoning behind it, but I'm too in the clear now to go on pretending that I'm on an island. However, I can't go too far out, because from what I hear they're still producing liquor, and don't intend to stop anytime soon.
3. I'm awesome. I need to believe myself more when I say that. More people also need to understand this.
4. This will shake the world:
5. People are infinitely complex. They deserve way more credit for this than I sometimes give them. Not everything needs to be broken down and categorized in order to be understood. In fact, some things can't be.
6. I need to meet more new people, which is hard in such a small town. I know there's folks in this world just like me, but I don't know them yet.
7. Internal editing is a good thing.
2. I need to stop being so self-obsessed and negative. My point of view isn't the only one that matters; I've used the mememe approach as a defense mechanism since I got sober, and for a while there was actually reasoning behind it, but I'm too in the clear now to go on pretending that I'm on an island. However, I can't go too far out, because from what I hear they're still producing liquor, and don't intend to stop anytime soon.
3. I'm awesome. I need to believe myself more when I say that. More people also need to understand this.
4. This will shake the world:
5. People are infinitely complex. They deserve way more credit for this than I sometimes give them. Not everything needs to be broken down and categorized in order to be understood. In fact, some things can't be.
6. I need to meet more new people, which is hard in such a small town. I know there's folks in this world just like me, but I don't know them yet.
7. Internal editing is a good thing.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Marital Bliss without the Marital.
Cleaning the house, making food and good sweet tea, sitting around the kitchen table talking...this is what I always imagined the perfect life would consist of. Or at least a close approximation. Never thought it'd be on State St. (and until recently in my life didn't know what State St. was), but that's just the way the damn thing snakes around on you.
I need to get a stand-alone record player, so I don't need to worry about also getting a tuner or speakers to listen to my albums. This will happen very, very soon. Dusty is calling from her plastic sheath, "Let me serenade you!"...and how can you refuse Dusty? You can't, that's how.
Everything is beautiful, and nothing hurts.
I need to get a stand-alone record player, so I don't need to worry about also getting a tuner or speakers to listen to my albums. This will happen very, very soon. Dusty is calling from her plastic sheath, "Let me serenade you!"...and how can you refuse Dusty? You can't, that's how.
Everything is beautiful, and nothing hurts.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Code Duello
It was just decided by my roommate Michael and I that a new method of settling disputes should be adopted. Seeing as our brains are slowly being channeled and filtered, like the mighty Mississippi that's been reduced to a docile stream through the concrete will of dead men, and it seems like the side that has the better stable of lawyers is always in the right, we propose a different, non-aggressive, final fix for the address of grievances.
It is: four square.
That's right, the beloved game in which everyone is equal, and wits, reflexes, and caffeine determine the victors. You would draw up the squares, with yourself directly facing the person with whom you have the argument, and flanking you on either side is the chief council for your (and his) legal team. The only way the law will matter in this system is whether or not your lawyer has better knees and a quicker reaction time than that of your opponent.
All results are accepted as absolutes. No do-overs. In this method, only the bold and dangerous will be victorious.
Just a thought.
Let's run with it.
It is: four square.
That's right, the beloved game in which everyone is equal, and wits, reflexes, and caffeine determine the victors. You would draw up the squares, with yourself directly facing the person with whom you have the argument, and flanking you on either side is the chief council for your (and his) legal team. The only way the law will matter in this system is whether or not your lawyer has better knees and a quicker reaction time than that of your opponent.
All results are accepted as absolutes. No do-overs. In this method, only the bold and dangerous will be victorious.
Just a thought.
Let's run with it.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Mystick Crewe of Idunnowho: Sober Gras 09 Verbal Blowout Edition!!!!!
They say you have to strike while the iron is hot, and I agree with them. That is why today, Mardi Gras Day, I'm going to take the time to tell you about what just transpired in the most unholy, revelrous, and glorious of cities, New Orleans, which shall be known from here on as Sober Gras 2009. By me, anyway.
It started about a week ago, when my plans for the season were being finalized. I decided to ask my friend Jamie to join me this year, for a number of reasons: 1) she's crazy fun, and I felt like Mardi Gras would bring out the best in both of us (it did!), and 2) I knew she wouldn't have a problem with staying sober, which is a requirement for my accompaniment and makes it much easier for me to deal with those that choose not to do so. She agreed to go, and the wheels were in motion.
I had to slog through one of the most intolerable work weeks of my life, because I've been dealing with a cold and my recent foray into non-smokerdom, which combined to make me unbearably sick for the better part of the last two weeks. Combine that with the fact that I'm losing patience with the company I work for and their lack of consideration for the employees they actually have, and you see a perfect storm that almost threatened to overwhelm my Mardi Gras before it got off the ground. But that's just pithy banter now, considering what actually took place.
Once the main characters had been decided upon, the bags packed, the mixes made, it was time to look into what we'd actually be doing in the city once we got there. For a moment I just thought we'd stay in the Monkey House and enjoy the wild fun the rest of our friends were having, but the realization that we would get absolutely no sleep (and anyone who knows me knows how I am when I need sleep...more on that later) eventually capsized that idea. A phone call was made, and Xtina was kind enough to open her home to us for what we assumed would be two nights of restful, rejuvenating mid-Mardi Gras sleep; this is a rare find, and always welcome.
Sunday night came, and we were off. A tussle with the bikes (yes, we were able to cram two full size bikes into the back seat / trunk of my car; how we did this, I still have no clue) eventually ended in complete victory, and we were able to get into the city for around 9:30 that evening. We hit up the nearest Rally Burger with Tina and her friend Brock (who was a DJ when I was at KLSU years ago, come to find out), and went to sleep anticipating the next day's triumphant goings-on.
At this point it's important for me to give you a small aside: the song of Mardi Gras this year, at least for Jamie and I, was the "Stanky Leg". If you've never heard this song, or are unfamiliar with how the corresponding dance is performed, here's a refresher:
If you were to look for it, you'd see "Hit da booty doo" written on several French Quarter street corners. I'm just saying.
Anyways, we were up at 8, out for 9, and enjoying beignets at Cafe du Monde in short order. Bikes are the way to go for Mardi Gras, and we made the ride from Bordeaux to downtown so many times yesterday that I'm saddlesore today. Go figure. But we never had to worry about tickets or traffic, so I'd say we picked the right poison. We were in line to get the beignets, which was notably long, of course, when Jamie tapped my shoulder and pointed to the tent forming the wall of the building...all I could see was the face of a small Asian woman with the CdM hat on, asking us what we wanted. We gave her our order, very hush hush and under the table, and she proceeded to bring it to us in front of all the other folks who had to wait in line. Such was the story of our MG.
We rode over to Frenchmen and around the Quarter for a bit, went to Mona's and would've given my number to a beautiful waitress if I'd only had a pen (and believe me, we went all over that fucking restaurant looking for one, but came up empty), and then I started placing calls to meet up with my crew for midday madness. The only answer came from Andy G., who told me that Ghost Mice were playing a show at the Iron Rail at 4. This turned out to be perfect, since we needed something to do before the night's main course (which was the Quintron / Andrew WK show, btw; bad narration on my part, sorry). The show was amazing, and let me catch up with my B.R. crewmembers I hadn't seen to that point.
After the show we decided to ride back to Tina's, to catch a short nap before we'd ride out again for AWK. These plans went unfulfilled, however, as we ran into Orpheus and were trapped on the wrong side of Napoleon til the parade had run. Jamie had a lot of fun seeing her first night parade, and I got to read the new Slingshot.
We got back to the apartment, but did no sleeping. We decided it would be a better idea to drive to the show, since we were both dog tired and had been on bikes all day. That was unwise. We got stuck on Canal and were forced to return to home base, since I don't have the best New Orleans map in my head, and take the horses back out of the stable. By this time riding was getting me down, but we had to do it or miss the show.
It was all worth it in the end, as we saw many, many more B.R. denizens at the club and were treated to one of the most gloriously insane musical experiences I've ever witnessed. The opening act was bizarre white porno funk with a half naked Har Mar lookalike for a singer and two beautiful backup singers who teased, but simply refused to remove any clothing. I assumed Quintron would be next, but to my surprise the curtain opened on Mr. Andrew WK, alone with a keyboard and a woman he called his wife, sans band, who proceeded to melt faces with his frenetic energy and almost vomited about eight times onstage. The no band thing was a legitimate qualm, as I'd really wanted to see what that would be like, all metal mania and whatnot, but it was so unbelievable that I couldn't be disappointed by the product.
After he played I felt like I was going to die, a mixture of the cigarette smoke, sickness, and all day bike riding having taken all my energy hours before. But we still had to ride home, which we did, all the way back Uptown, and were ready to crash for the evening, when...she wasn't home. We were thinking Tina was going to just pack it in after we left, but she wound up going out and we were unaware. We broke the bikes down to give us something to do while they returned, and when they finally did and we saw the crowd of people (knowing that sleep was out of the question at this point) we decided to buck up and head for home.
Half dead and zoning, we drove the hour back to the Capital City, at which point I crashed and slept, until very recently. So that's my story, having touched all the bases and painted with very broad strokes. I'm sure there's some small details I omitted, and they are for me to savor. Photos will be up soon. Til then, here's hoping your Carnival was as inspiring as mine was. And here's looking at Sober Gras 2010!
It started about a week ago, when my plans for the season were being finalized. I decided to ask my friend Jamie to join me this year, for a number of reasons: 1) she's crazy fun, and I felt like Mardi Gras would bring out the best in both of us (it did!), and 2) I knew she wouldn't have a problem with staying sober, which is a requirement for my accompaniment and makes it much easier for me to deal with those that choose not to do so. She agreed to go, and the wheels were in motion.
I had to slog through one of the most intolerable work weeks of my life, because I've been dealing with a cold and my recent foray into non-smokerdom, which combined to make me unbearably sick for the better part of the last two weeks. Combine that with the fact that I'm losing patience with the company I work for and their lack of consideration for the employees they actually have, and you see a perfect storm that almost threatened to overwhelm my Mardi Gras before it got off the ground. But that's just pithy banter now, considering what actually took place.
Once the main characters had been decided upon, the bags packed, the mixes made, it was time to look into what we'd actually be doing in the city once we got there. For a moment I just thought we'd stay in the Monkey House and enjoy the wild fun the rest of our friends were having, but the realization that we would get absolutely no sleep (and anyone who knows me knows how I am when I need sleep...more on that later) eventually capsized that idea. A phone call was made, and Xtina was kind enough to open her home to us for what we assumed would be two nights of restful, rejuvenating mid-Mardi Gras sleep; this is a rare find, and always welcome.
Sunday night came, and we were off. A tussle with the bikes (yes, we were able to cram two full size bikes into the back seat / trunk of my car; how we did this, I still have no clue) eventually ended in complete victory, and we were able to get into the city for around 9:30 that evening. We hit up the nearest Rally Burger with Tina and her friend Brock (who was a DJ when I was at KLSU years ago, come to find out), and went to sleep anticipating the next day's triumphant goings-on.
At this point it's important for me to give you a small aside: the song of Mardi Gras this year, at least for Jamie and I, was the "Stanky Leg". If you've never heard this song, or are unfamiliar with how the corresponding dance is performed, here's a refresher:
If you were to look for it, you'd see "Hit da booty doo" written on several French Quarter street corners. I'm just saying.
Anyways, we were up at 8, out for 9, and enjoying beignets at Cafe du Monde in short order. Bikes are the way to go for Mardi Gras, and we made the ride from Bordeaux to downtown so many times yesterday that I'm saddlesore today. Go figure. But we never had to worry about tickets or traffic, so I'd say we picked the right poison. We were in line to get the beignets, which was notably long, of course, when Jamie tapped my shoulder and pointed to the tent forming the wall of the building...all I could see was the face of a small Asian woman with the CdM hat on, asking us what we wanted. We gave her our order, very hush hush and under the table, and she proceeded to bring it to us in front of all the other folks who had to wait in line. Such was the story of our MG.
We rode over to Frenchmen and around the Quarter for a bit, went to Mona's and would've given my number to a beautiful waitress if I'd only had a pen (and believe me, we went all over that fucking restaurant looking for one, but came up empty), and then I started placing calls to meet up with my crew for midday madness. The only answer came from Andy G., who told me that Ghost Mice were playing a show at the Iron Rail at 4. This turned out to be perfect, since we needed something to do before the night's main course (which was the Quintron / Andrew WK show, btw; bad narration on my part, sorry). The show was amazing, and let me catch up with my B.R. crewmembers I hadn't seen to that point.
After the show we decided to ride back to Tina's, to catch a short nap before we'd ride out again for AWK. These plans went unfulfilled, however, as we ran into Orpheus and were trapped on the wrong side of Napoleon til the parade had run. Jamie had a lot of fun seeing her first night parade, and I got to read the new Slingshot.
We got back to the apartment, but did no sleeping. We decided it would be a better idea to drive to the show, since we were both dog tired and had been on bikes all day. That was unwise. We got stuck on Canal and were forced to return to home base, since I don't have the best New Orleans map in my head, and take the horses back out of the stable. By this time riding was getting me down, but we had to do it or miss the show.
It was all worth it in the end, as we saw many, many more B.R. denizens at the club and were treated to one of the most gloriously insane musical experiences I've ever witnessed. The opening act was bizarre white porno funk with a half naked Har Mar lookalike for a singer and two beautiful backup singers who teased, but simply refused to remove any clothing. I assumed Quintron would be next, but to my surprise the curtain opened on Mr. Andrew WK, alone with a keyboard and a woman he called his wife, sans band, who proceeded to melt faces with his frenetic energy and almost vomited about eight times onstage. The no band thing was a legitimate qualm, as I'd really wanted to see what that would be like, all metal mania and whatnot, but it was so unbelievable that I couldn't be disappointed by the product.
After he played I felt like I was going to die, a mixture of the cigarette smoke, sickness, and all day bike riding having taken all my energy hours before. But we still had to ride home, which we did, all the way back Uptown, and were ready to crash for the evening, when...she wasn't home. We were thinking Tina was going to just pack it in after we left, but she wound up going out and we were unaware. We broke the bikes down to give us something to do while they returned, and when they finally did and we saw the crowd of people (knowing that sleep was out of the question at this point) we decided to buck up and head for home.
Half dead and zoning, we drove the hour back to the Capital City, at which point I crashed and slept, until very recently. So that's my story, having touched all the bases and painted with very broad strokes. I'm sure there's some small details I omitted, and they are for me to savor. Photos will be up soon. Til then, here's hoping your Carnival was as inspiring as mine was. And here's looking at Sober Gras 2010!
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