Work continues on the memoir. It’s nearing two-hundred fifty pages with plenty to go. The great and terrible part about this process is that the farther I get, the more I realize how to fix what I’ve already written. My writing has improved to where I must go back and reshape the rest of the book, which is both maddening and fulfilling. I will get there.
Not wanting to get embroiled in a Million Little Pieces like scandal, I think I’m going to prune the blatantly false parts. For instance, I wasn’t born the "son of a sharecropper on the Mississippi Delta after the Great Rains of ’71." I have no idea why I wrote that in the first place. No, wait... I had chugged Robotussin that day. It may have clouded my memory. I also really need to take out that I dated Shannen Doherty "before she got all bitchy." Shannen was always a handful, throwing things and casting that evil, lopsided eye. I will trim her altogether from the book.
In other news, as a creative exercise, I have been posting reviews on Citysearch and Yelp under the persona, Theodore Lester. Ted is a forty-two year old, overweight lover of the culinary arts. And he’s as gay as a french horn. He’s lovingly modeled after one of my favorite customers at the restaurant. The reviews are drawn from actual dining experiences, but filtered through Ted’s unique point of view. Writing in his voice and providing a backstory has been a blast. Check out Ted’s reviews here.
Last, but definitely not least, Homestar Runner, Y.O.U. and yours truly are mounting an epic fake Woodstock of sorts. For those of you familiar with the Homestar universe, and more specifically, Strong Bad, you might recognize his favorite band Limozeen. They pop up from time to time on the site. Well, now you can see them live, with me inhabiting the role of Gary Paloroncini, lead guitarist and discoverer of the "Hardest Chord Ever." Here’s the announcement and a snippet of us practicing in the basement. As if that weren’t enough, Sloshy opens the show, and we might perform a beloved Taranchula song, featuring the wankiest solo I’ve ever recorded (played by a skeleton in the video. Makes me proud).
Oh, and I’m getting married early October. That’s the best news of all. There will be a more formal announcement, with far less annoying links, in the future. Stay tuned.
The first thing people said to me after stating my intention of moving to Brooklyn was that I would finally meet the right girl before setting off. I can't tell you how many times I heard this. Maybe it's one of those stock things people say in the hopes of dissuading a friend from leaving home. Or maybe there's some divine, mystical power that comes with making a bold decision that sends positive things your way. In any case, I scoffed the notion, confident I'd remain that hermit at the coffeeshop hunched over his Macbook with little concern for companionship. Never before had I been as ambivalent about meeting that special someone.
Of course everyone was right. Dana and I have been inseparable (and insufferable) since the beginning of this year. What sweet relief to find someone who actually cherishes my many quirks and isn't a glutton for arguments. And Dana is just the sweetest, strangest creature. She continually surprises and delights - no small feat.
Things progressed quickly, as they do when you realize that, unlike Bono, you have found what you've been looking for. Living together has been a breeze, as has traveling, which can be a bitter eye-opener for some couples. Despite bad experiences in the past, we started a family by adopting two cats, naming them Joel, a finicky orange tabby, and Doctor Forrester, a silver tabby who, despite being an endless source of affection, farts way too much.
They are so very gay for each other.
The idea of marriage had been trotted out during previous relationships though it was little more than an abstract concept meant to give the illusion of a long future together. Whether delayed by bad timing, drug use, or flat out delusion, I never got to the point where buying a ring and popping the question was imminent. Not so with Dana. This was someone truly deserving of a lifetime of my nonsense.
But how to do it? The traditional methods of asking her at dinner or getting her pregnant first were out. It had to be something unique, hence over many weeks I devised a plan. Dana performs improv at Dad's Garage, a place I have a long history with. With the help of one of the big cheeses over there, I orchestrated a scenario sure to catch Dana off guard. Dana was placed on an improv team with two of her favorite people, Brian and Jenny. I then phoned both Brian and Jenny and requested they prompt an improv game in which Dana would be accused of murder and sent out of the room. The remaining improvisors then ask the audience for suggestions as to who Dana killed, the location she dumped the body and, most crucially, which murder weapon was used. For that clue, a plant in the audience would yell "wedding ring." Once Dana is back onstage, Brian and Jenny bark like detectives trying to berate a confession out of the suspect. Using solely their accusations, Dana is to guess, and thereby, confess to the who, where, and how of the murder.
Everything was in place by that afternoon, but there was a problem. Dana had been feeling sick, and was threatening to skip the show for some rest. It was nerve-wracking trying to gently persuade her to do the performance anyway without giving away the secret. I convincingly lied about an emergency at work that led Dana to believe I couldn't make the show. In truth I spent the early evening at the mall, resolute in finding a nice outfit and getting my shoes shined. I'm glad I did that. Popping the question in Chuck Taylors is a little too gauche, even for me.
There was a buzz at Dad's Garage as I was whisked backstage once the show began. It seemed everyone but Dana knew what was coming. I stereotypically shook in anticipation and needed a couple belts of tequila to right my nerves. Awaiting my cue from the wings, I listened as Dana was sent from the room, and Brian fielded suggestions from a very vocal audience. A ring was chosen as the weapon. Excellent. Dana was led back in, sat on a stool, and grilled for her heinous crime.
Now the idea was that Brian and Jenny were to be so vague that they'd need the help of the "lieutenent," who would appear from backstage and really let Dana have it. Heart pounding in my throat, I listened to Brian and Jenny frantically work over the suspect until they requested their superior.
As I strode onstage, a strange calm overcame me. Dana was shocked. She kept screaming "WHAT?" with a crazed expression. I explained to the audience that not only was I the lieutenant, but that I was also the subject's boyfriend.
I then described the murder weapon as "small, round, goes on your finger, and shows how much I love you."
Dad's Garage was a fitting place. After all, it was on this same stage that I first spied Dana, hilarious and adorable, acting in a show.
She said yes. And she loves the ring. A vintage setting with a lovely, gleaming diamond (that I really hope didn't come from an oppressed mine worker), several times a day I catch her twirling her hand and fawning over it.
So there it is everyone. If you state you're going to move out of town, true love will beckon. Thanks to everyone who have sent their congratulations over the weeks. And to answer your next spate of questions:
1. We haven't set a date, though most likely it'll be next October.
2. There are no plans to move in the immediate future. After the wedding we may leave Georgia, but nothing is set.
3. If we do move, it may not be to Brooklyn as originally intended. To be honest, I don't care where we go. I have the perfect traveling partner. Everywhere is better now.
Currently
listening
:
Sun Bear Concerts
By
Keith Jarrett
Release date: 12 September, 2000
Lest you think I harbor some delusions of literary worth, but a number of people have asked of late why I haven't been blogging. "Hey," they shout as I cross a busy thoroughfare, "what's up with the writing?" Or, as I peruse the aisles at Kroger, a stranger pipes up from behind a box of Wheaties, "What? You out of stories, fag?"
No, I'm not out of stories. Truth be told, I've been typing up a storm, though not here. Commenced a year ago this week, my memoir now stands at over a hundred and fifty pages of awkward teenage hijinxs and family strife. And it's only half done with the bulk of anecdotes that spurred its creation yet to be written. So much to do, and, unfortunately, the hours spent crafting the blog had to be sacrificed. I mean, I'd like to finish the book and have it displayed in your local Urban Outfitters and Starbucks before the age of forty.
The blog will return, triumphant and better than ever. I plan, however, to move away from this once fertile land of MySpace - a place now ridden with fake profiles and spammers - to its own proper address in cyberspace. When I officially make that move, I hope those of you who've kept tabs on me follow. Thank you for the near thirty thousand glances you've granted. Your attention has emboldened my confidence and inspired an unexpected, fulfilling course for my life. There's so much more to come.
Not that I'm shutting my profile down or anything. And if inspired, I still might post again. I just want my work to reach more people, and I truly believe that'll be possible with a well-crafted site without distractions like PRESS THE FART BUTTON or WHICH CELEBRITY IS THIS: BEYONCE, EMINEM, OR NIPSEY RUSSELL? ads riding shotgun. I'm no David Sedaris, but I deserve better. So do you.
In sixth grade, I was given my first stereo system. A dusty hand-me-down from my parents, I nevertheless cherished the boxy unit, and took great pride in cleaning it up and granting it new life. A giant silver knob dialed in both 93.3 WMMR and 94.1 WYSP, two competing rock stations from across the Delaware River in Philadelphia. While hearing rock blocks of AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, and Yes was a thrill, I was even more excited about the turntable, which sat idle for weeks awaiting an appropriate album. My father's cache of Air Supply and Barry Manilow records were out of the question. That was his music. I craved music that would belong to me.
My brother Bill visited one evening with a black, dog-eared rectangle tucked under his arm. "I think you'll like this," he said handing it over. I was instantly fascinated. The front cover was a mysterious tableau of workers with grand mustaches moving framed portraits in front of a sobbing family. One of the portraits was of a witch being burned alive. Another depicts a pack of dogs playing poker. The cover photo was bordered in black with austere, red lettering denoting the title and artist of what would be my first album: Moving Pictures by Rush.
After hustling upstairs and clumsily dropping the needle on the record, I sat spellbound through both sides. I deeply connected with each of the album's seven cuts. Track two, the sprawling six minute, nine second opus, "Red Barchetta," captured my imagination the most. The tale of a boy who takes a joyride in his uncle's car ("a brilliant Red Barchetta from a better vanished time") played out in vibrant images in my head. I replayed the song incessantly and, subsequently, became obsessed with all things Rush for many years.
Which brings me to my thesis: Rush is the herpes of rock bands. Few things have brought me greater scorn than liking them, but, alas, I'm saddled for life. Though I haven't owned an album they've recorded over the past twenty-five years, my embrace of their early material remains steadfast and true. I totally understand why so many detest their intellectual bombast, topped with the shrieking vocals of Geddy Lee. But their music is the soundtrack to countless memories, and thus remains dear to my heart.
So I gamely accept the insults. It's only fair. If you've around me for five minutes, chances are I'll launch a hateful diatribe against music that you hold dear. Of course, my hatred of Bob Marley, the Flaming Lips, and the Pixies is usually a one sided affair. When someone starts dissing Rush, people love to dogpile on.
Well, there are some of us who still care about this trio of Canadian virtuosos. A large group of us are putting on a tribute show tomorrow night at 10 High.
Apparently, karaoke performances of "Tom Sawyer," and "The Spirit of Radio" have garnered a level of infamy. Just the other day, I was walking into the Local when a guy pointed at me and yelled, "HEY! IT'S GEDDY LEE!!!" It's strange being known as the guy who sounds like the guy from Rush. It's like being the town's tallest midget. But it's still something of an honor.
So tomorrow night, I'll be replicating Geddy's piercing vocals on "Red Barchetta," "Fly By Night," and their eighteen minute masterwork, "2112." These songs are almost impossible to sing, but I'll try my hardest. I can't blame you for not coming, but if you wanted to see me live out a teenage dream, head to 10 High at nine o'clock, sharp. I'm singing the first song, so don't come at 10:30 and bitch about missing me. The show is free - though I realize the heavy cost of experiencing music loved by geeks the world over.
P. S. Please don't bother leaving comments stating how much you hate Rush. It goes without saying. I know.
Currently
listening
:
Moving Pictures
By
Rush
Release date: 03 June, 1997
The voice, gruff but very enthusiastic, startled me. Looking up from my guitar, I saw a man in a Cliff Huxtable-like sweater holding a banana. We were working on separate albums in a Memphis recording house during the winter of 1998. When waiting to record my parts, I would sometimes mindlessly blitz through scales through a miniature amp in the kitchen. The fruit wielding man was producing a rap album in Studio B, where both bass heavy beats and a marijuana fog had seeped through its thick oak door for weeks.
"I'm producing some tracks for Tela and could use some guitar. You interested?" Needless to say, I jumped at the offer, especially after being told I'd be paid $150 a song. Making that much to noodle on guitar was too good to be true. Making it even sweeter was that the singer of my band was somewhat annoyed and jealous by the opportunity (we had that kind of antagonistic relationship).
That night I was ushered into Studio B. A room full of rappers and producers - all wearing oversized shirts and baseball caps - gazed at me like stoned owners of husky white fish. I improvised over throbbing beats while the audience bobbed their heads in either guitar or weed induced reverie. Tela came in midway sporting a serious necklace. Before his arrival, I'd been told that his last album sold over four hundred thousand copies and that this new one just had to break him worldwide. In fact Tela told me his next album would be named, "Now or Never."
Given the album's poor sales, never it is. Though it's hard to discern much of what I played, I'm particularly proud of the gentle acoustic line I contributed to "Too Slick (The Movie)." The song is a dramatic retelling of a man finding his woman in a sticky predicament.
Girl you drive me crazy I thought you was my lady Tryin' to be too slick But I caught you suckin' dick
Good stuff.
Two years later, I interned at a video production house. In additional to local commercials, we worked on many music projects. As a result, I helped interview several heavyweights including Jermaine Dupri, TLC, Kandi, and Americal Idol judge - and one time bassist for Journey - Randy Jackson.
Life was strange. I spent an entire day with Pink, who was enjoying her first hit single, "There You Go." The fellow Philly native was very green and unpolished at that point. When asked on camera if she considered herself ambitious, she looked perplexed. "Ambitious? What that mean?" When I defined the word, she shot a huge smile. "Oh... I like that. Am-bit-ious. I'm gonna use that." After finishing the interview, we shopped in Little Five Points and then parted forever.
Anyway, I met Rico Wade of Organized Noize - a production crew consisting of Outkast, Goodie Mob and several other Atlanta ballers I tend not to bump into. When I mentioned recording with Tela, his eyes lit up. "Can you play? I'm always looking for someone new. Give me your number."
This was amazing news. But as I drove through the metal gates leading to his estate, I wondered if I'd bitten off more than I could chew. Royalties from the TLC blockbuster, "Waterfalls" and Outkast's, Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik had netted Rico untold riches. I parked behind his huge plantation house, next to a battery of jet-skis and ATVs. With a deep breath, I knocked on the door of, what Rico called, the Dungeon.
In every stoner movie, there is always a scene in which the side door of a van opens releasing a mushroom cloud of reefer smoke. That's was exactly what it was like when the Dungeon opened. I was leveled like Nagasaki. That might sound blissful to some of you, but I hate pot. Not only does it like Bonnaroo, but it seriously impairs your judgment as to which shirts to wear in public. No thank you.
The den outside the closed studio was teeming with rappers, who sat solemnly on giant leather couches, scribbling rhymes between games of Madden football. I felt just a little out of place. After what felt like a year, the studio door finally opened and Rico summoned me in. For two hours, I played along with whatever percolated from the speakers, while Rico peppered me with feedback.
Make it bounce! Lil' more than that! Bring that shit back! More evil! Nasty! Nastier!Make it rock! Not that much! Okay, a little more! That's it! That's the shit!
Once satisfied, Rico pulled a mammoth wad of cash from his pants, peeled off three hundred dollar bills, and sent me home richer and suffering from my first case of the munchies.
I returned half a dozen times over the next few months. Out of the blue, Rico started calling me "Smashing." I asked why he used that name. "You know, like Smashing Pumpkins." Given that I wasn't bald and hated the band, I wasn't sure why he chose that moniker, but didn't care. If you pay me hundreds of dollars to noodle on my guitar, you can shove onions in my face. I did come up with, what I felt, was a more appropriate nickname and shared it with Rico: Thug Lite. He didn't find it as funny as I did.
After not being paid for an afternoon in which I sat for hours and wasn't used, I stopped working with Rico and thus ended my gangsta rap career. I have no idea what happened to the tracks I riffed on. Every now I peek at the liner notes of albums Organized Noize has produced in the hopes of finding my name. More than likely, my contributions have been erased or not credited. That's fine. The experience proved that I could hang with the roughest of crews. It was the closest I've ever come to being a baller.
Currently
listening
:
Now or Never
By
Tela
Release date: 06 October, 1998
On October 15th, 1997, my twenty-sixth birthday, my band signed a record deal with RCA at The Globe, a regal bar in Athens. One by one we signed our names, sealed our fate, and then drank deep into the night with visions of commercial glory dancing in our heads. I left early, but was told afterward that Michael Stipe stopped by the table to offer congrats. Whether my bandmates kissed his ring is up to speculation.
After rehearsing in Atlanta for a couple weeks - we stayed at the Clairmont Hotel (?!) - the band weathered four wet, miserable months in Memphis. Battling the elements, a shoddy recording studio, and the high caloric intake of an all barbeque and soul food diet, by next spring we had both an album of disinfected rock songs and bloated stomachs in urgent need of sit-ups.
Few experiences have been more sickening than watching reps at the label listen our songs for the first time. Gathered in a Manhattan studio after weeks of mixing, we anxiously awaited the opinions of our marketing team, who were eager to hear potential hits. They loved us as people, but when our lifeless tracks seeped from the speakers, the color ebbed from their faces, as they surely thought, "I have to promote this? Methinks I'll spend more time on Lit, Eve 6, and that new boy band, N'SYNC."
The album was released and bombed. Despite the disaster, there was still hope. On January 3rd of 1998, a convention was slated in San Diego for RCA, and its parent company, BMG. A massive event, label reps from around the world would be attending conferences, parties, and most importantly, a concert held at 4th and B, a revered club. After much pleading by our contact at the label and our manager, we were chosen to play alongside another, more successful act, Vertical Horizon.
This was a huge deal. With a strong performance and presence, we could turn around the label's lack of motivation and gain converts to our fight to make another record, tour the nation in a proper bus, and pay our rent on time. But the label wanted more than an inspiring concert. They requested video footage to show and distribute at the convention. Sharp visuals would further the cause and right our sinking ship.
Now the label didn't necessarily want to spend any more scratch for a traditional promo. They asked if we could muster something ourselves on the cheap. So we found a local director, who'd worked with Collective Soul and produced many Coke and Braves commercials, to helm the project for almost nothing. He promised tasteful, arty videos that would showcase the band as we really were.
Bad idea. At the time, there were disagreements both within the group and with the label regarding our image. For years, we'd moved toward a more glammy look due mostly to Tommy, our outspoken bassist, who looked to both T. Rex and Poison for inspiration. Gelling spikes into my hair and glittering my eyes wasn't as natural as it was for my bandmates. But as the comparatively paunchy member with abysmal style, I was willing to do whatever it took to keep up with my gaudy and lithe brethren.
After a day of shooting Monkees like scenes in Little Five Points for the song, "Throwaway Culture," we assembled the next day to shoot in black and white for the ballad, "Pure." The resulting video, with its moody scenes and impassioned performance, was to highlight the band at its most powerful and emotive. But a queer thing happened in the process.
Without further ado...
It still shocks me. Our video is this most inadvertent piece of homoeroticism this side of Wrestlemania. Or, to paraphrase Patton Oswalt, it's gayer than eight guys blowing nine guys. The glam look that befitted Tommy onstage renders him looking like Stockard Channing from Grease. Our singer, Brian, seems to be suffering a rare form of OCD as he repeatedly parts the air with his giant hands. And what's with that giant chair, for fuck's sake? Poor Jeff meekly dabbing paint onto a canvas while sizing Derry, who, in truth, had no qualms with being shirtless.
And then there's little ol' me sitting on a bench, waiting patiently for the Nineties to end. With my puffy face and darkened eyes, I power stroke my guitar with husky abandon while fretting that my emerging double chin would be caught on tape.
Needless to say our San Diego excursion didn't resuscitate our flagging health. The videos played on a giant screen just prior to a brief set in which we played poorly. The rest of the night was lost in an alcoholic daze as I jettisoned all hope for the album to take off. Back in Atlanta, we awaited the label's next move and they provided one by sending us songs they wanted us to record. Making music on our terms was over. Time to play ball.
Old pictures can be embarrassing. The video above certainly is, but I've developed other feelings toward it over the years. The person in the silver tie, fake singing with Brian during the last chorus, is stuck in time with no clue where to go next. How I want to let him know that even though the video will fail miserably in the short term, it'll be resurrected years later and incorporated in something positive. Something he will create and take real pride in. Something he controls as he pleases. Something that will carry him out of disbelief and doubt and grant a new life in a new town. He would've never believed it.
For those of you iPod or iTunes savvy, I'm featured in a USA Today podcast. The writer asked for submissions regarding their fifteen minutes of fame, so I sent her a blog about almost having a hit single (which took place right after the debacle described above). She loved the story and conducted an interview by phone.
If you'd like to hear the tale from the horse's mouth, check out the info here.
Mine story is the last one and as a bonus, you get to hear the song. Brace yourself: it's real bad.
Currently
listening
:
Forget Tomorrow
By
Macha
Release date: 03 August, 2004
During the mid-nineties, I eked out a living as a telemarketer while waiting for my band to take off. My friend Lance Bangs, on the other hand, was a burgeoning filmmaker. With the help of mutual friend Chris Bilheimer - himself a gifted artist - and Michael Stipe of R.E.M., Lance quickly earned a reputation as a talented creator of eight millimeter films. Clearly he was going places, while I struggled with an uncertain future.
One of Lance's first big breaks occurred early in 1995. Michael Stipe asked Lance to create films that would serve as backdrops for R.E.M. during their tour. This was an amazing opportunity that Lance seized and capitalized on beautifully. Drawing upon his many friends and utilizing locations scattered about Athens, he created stark black and white films that would accompany "Man on the Moon" and "Country Feedback" - one of his favorite songs.
Lance's good fortune was bittersweet for me. He certainly deserved the opportunity, and I was proud of how he responded to the creative pressure. But I was hurt that I was the only friend he didn't ask to be in his films. I didn't look the part. Husky with unfortunate hair and an embarrassing wardrobe of baggy clothes, I didn't represent the kind of person Lance wanted to capture with his lens. It was humiliating, but I understood. I couldn't blame him.
But here's another reason it stung. Since discovering R.E.M. in high school, I wore my appreciation of them like a hipster badge. They were the first band that made me feel sophisticated and mature for liking them. I learned how to sing by harmonizing with Michael Stipe and arpeggiate chords by playing along with Peter Buck. Strange fate planted me in the very town R.E.M. sprang from and their presence was everywhere. Athens was heaven for a raving fan like myself.
Here's the thing about living in the same town as your favorite band: You can't let it faze you. R.E.M. cherish their ability to blend in with the local town folk, who respect their privacy by acting as if they aren't huge stars. I first met Michael Stipe briefly when he sat down to join a lunch between Lance, Chris, and myself at the Taco Stand. Bottling my glee, I calmly ate my burrito and feigned nonchalance even though the bald person across from me inspired my band to relocate to Georgia. We spoke of the movie "Heavenly Creatures" and a couple other films scheduled at the Tate Center. I was giddy for days.
So my image would not be displayed behind my favorite band on their Monster world tour. Perhaps sensing my disappointment, Lance came up with an idea. "R.E.M. is playing two shows at the Spectrum in Philadelphia, one of those days being your birthday. How about you and I drive up there to catch the shows? We'll see if Michael wants to hang out."
On October 15th, 1995, my twenty fourth birthday, I met up with Lance at the Spectrum. It was mid afternoon as we entered the venue via a doorway normally reserved for sport stars and celebrities. R.E.M. were onstage writing the song "E-Bow the Letter", as I sat in silent awe. After soundcheck, the bandmates headed in different directions. Michael had the entire Flyers hockey team dressing room to himself. The other guys were, I believe, banished to a closet one tenth the size.
Lance and I headed to a room adjacent to Michael's. "Now wait here," Lance instructed. "I'm going to go see if Michael is up to. I'll be right back."
A couple minutes had passed when Lance returned with a reluctant smile on his face. "So, you really want to hang out with Michael?"
"Sure. I mean, if it's okay. I don't want to bother him." There was something he wasn't telling me.
"Are you sure?" Lance nervously chuckled.
"Yes. What's the deal?"
"Okay, the deal is this: Michael is next door with this other guy, a friend who's appeared in some of R.E.M.'s videos. They're actually in the jacuzzi... naked. Michael invited us to join them in the jacuzzi... naked."
Let's temporarily set aside the obvious and focus on the task itself. I haven't any problem doffing my clothes these days. But back then, the thought of displaying my wares around anyone couldn't have been a more nauseating prospect. And around Lance, no less. This was one activity that had never arose during our exploits to Taco Bell and Q-Zar.
But this was too bizarre to pass up. This biggest rock star in North America wants to share space with me in the buff? Game on.
"Let's do it." We hustled to the next room, where, sure enough, was the lead singer of R.E.M. waist deep in hot water.
Lance introduced me, but Michael offered, "Actually we've met before, right? Taco Stand, awhile ago? We talked about movies."
I was elated that he remembered me, but had to temper my delight with the terror of disrobing. After quickly stripping, I plunged my gangly legs into the bath. When my nether region met the scalding water, I wanted to wail like a tea kettle, but played it cool. Just another day of relaxing with a rock star while my testicles boiled.
There was small talk of Michael's recent hernia and the tour, though for the most part, we simmered in silence. At one point, Michael stepped out, walked to an adjacent urinal, and relieved himself. In retrospect, that was probably a little too close a glimpse at celebrity. You probably shouldn't see your hero urinate.
After exiting the water, I hustled back into my clothes back on without properly toweling off. It was then that I almost fainted. Dizzy and unable to think or see straight, I slumped in the dressing room. Michael, looking similarly weak, sat next to me.
"I don't feel so good," said Michael.
"Me neither. I think we were in there too long."
Michael's eyes lit up. "You know, um... I think we should get a vehicle and um... find a sunny place to relax before the show."
Michael summoned one of his handlers and asked for a van to take the four of us out of the Spectrum. Calls were made and we headed to driveway at the back of the venue. Joining us on the way were members of opening act Grant Lee Buffalo, who also sought some fresh air. We filled a van and set off. As we made our way out, I watched scores of people walking past our vehicle to the Spectrum. Eighteen thousand people were coming to see the person seated next to me. Bet they'll never see him pee.
We didn't find a proper place to bask in the sun. So we parked in a litter strewn field next to the Delaware River. The early evening was beautiful, as it often is in mid October. The group quietly conversed until Michael perked up, turned to us, and said in his low, distinctive voice, "Hey. You see that Wal-Mart over there?" He pointed to the store, way in the distance. "We should, um... go there and buy Halloween costumes... (slight pause) because Halloween is comin'"
And, indeed, we went to Wal-Mart. We found the aisle bearing costumes and took turns trying on masks and wigs. The shock of being in his company had diminished and I found myself acting natural and less timid.
A cherished memory is of Michael in a rainbow colored Afro wig and deadpanning, "How about this?"
"All you need now is a cardboard sign reading "John 3:16" and you're set," I replied.*
Michael bought fake blood capsules. "I'll try to get the guys to use these tonight," he said as we climbed back into the van. Dusk accompanied our return to the Spectrum, where Lance and I separated from the musicians. We ate their catering and then claimed our fantastic seats.
The show was amazing. Between songs, Michael spoke about Lance, who stood tearing up beside me. The films provided beautiful counterpoint to the music. On four massive screens, I watched giant images of my friends frame my favorite band. The disappointment regarding my exclusion faded. That evening was one of the best nights of my life and I had Lance entirely to thank.
Lance moved to Portland a number of years ago. He has a rock star wife, a son, and a chaotic career. He's working on concert DVDs of the Arcade Fire and Beck. Occasionally, we catch up over the phone but our adventures together are few and far between given the miles and increasing years between us. I miss him. I may not have looked the part, but I savored my role as his close friend.
As for J. Michael Stipe, after our rendezvous in the cauldron, I bumped into him quite a bit in Athens. I watched Wallace and Gromit videos over his house, got shushed by him at 12 Monkeys, and went swimming with him a few times. Though he was friendly, I never felt completely at ease around him. Imagine an icon from your youth trying on your new glasses and mussing up a fresh haircut with their hand. Or picture him showing up to your housewarming party and roosting on the porch.
"I love the colors of the walls," he said while surveying our place. "And the Christmas lights are a nice touch." He drank two beers, ate some nachos, and left. Just another neighbor who also had the world by the ear.
* During the seventies, there was this guy who turned up at football games wearing a rainbow Afro wig and holding a "John 3:16" sign. Maybe Michael didn't get it either.
There's a banged up boombox that sits above the large sinks in our kitchen at work. Every night it blares out the preferred radio station of whoever is in charge for a given shift. Most of the managers keep it set to 99X or, most dreadfully, 96 Rock. I hate most of what passes for music on these stations, but am occasionally pleased by a familiar song.
When McDade, a country boy with a deep seeded love of the Georgia Bulldogs, chewing tobacco, and the Republican party (he named his daughter Reagan) helms the kitchen, we are treated to the latest hits from a genre of music I'd avoided: new country.
At first, the wistful tunes about pick-up trucks, American can-do, and God's lil' miracles were painful reminders that I'm not deaf. But a bizarre thing happened over time: I found myself recognizing certain songs and getting excited when they came on. This was because new country contains some of the most ridiculous lyrics ever penned by anyone older than thirteen.
Today's country music comes from such a different point of view than mine, that enjoying it on any level is like finding out that I suddenly understand another language. Imagine going to Japan and after a month, what sounded like gibberish starts making sense. That's what appreciating Toby Keith is like.
The first song that really caught my ear last month was "Watching You" by Rodney Atkins (even their names crack me up). The song is a sweet tale of a boy emulating his Dad after a trip to the most American of eateries.
Driving through town just my boy and me With a happy meal in his booster seat Knowing that he couldn't have the toy Till his nuggets were gone Green traffic light turned straight to red I hit my breaks and mumbled under my breath His fries went a flying and his orange drink covered his lap Well then my four year old said a four-letter word That started with "s" and I was concerned So I said son now where did you learn to talk like that?
(Here is the chorus) He said I've been watching you dad, ain't that cool? I'm your buckaroo, I wanna be like you And eat all my food and grow as tall as you are We got cowboy boots and camo pants Yeah we're just alike, hey ain't we dad I wanna do everything you do So I've been watching you
We got back home and I went to the barn I bowed my head and I prayed real hard Said lord please help me help my stupid self Then this side of bedtime later that night Turning on my son's Scooby Doo nightlight He crawled out of bed and he got down on his knees He closed his little eyes, folded his little hands And spoke to god like he was talking to a friend And I said son now where'd you learn to pray like that?
(Repeat chorus. There's another verse but it isn't as good)
First of all, do you know how hard it is to artfully place the word "buckaroo" into a song? Leonard Cohen has spent his entire life trying to achieve just that. And referencing both God and Scooby Doo in the same stanza deserves special praise. I think you need to experience the video for yourself (watch at least the first half).
Country music videos are the most literal artform there is. There's no room for artsy-fartsy interpretation or symbolism. Let David Finscher smear vaseline onto a lens and throw rotted meat at a bondaged Trent Reznor, leaving you, the viewer, to figure out how that ties into being fucked like an animal. When Rodney sings that his son's fries went a flyin,' you witness those goddamn fries up in the air. He sang that lyric, and now you're going to see what it looks like.
One new country hit almost caused a car crash the other night due to Sarah and I laughing so hard. "Me and God" by Josh Turner is a simple affirmation between humble servant and powerful entity. But writing such a song leads to some problems, which you might be able to suss out by reading the lyrics.
There ain't nothing that can't be done By me and God Ain't nobody come in between me and God One day we'll live together Where the angels trod Me and God
Early in the morning, talking it over Me and God Late at night, talking it over Me and God You could say we're like two peas in a pod Me and God
He's my Father He's my friend The beginning and the end He rules the world With a staff and a rod We're a team Me and God
Say what you will about the his omnipotence, fearful wrath, or mere existence: God makes a terrible rhyming partner. When was the last time you heard the word 'trod'? And, with a straight face, to proclaim that God and you are like 'two peas in a pod' is one of the most unintentionally hilarious things ever uttered.
My favorite lyric is that God that rules with a staff and a rod. Because creating and steering the universe clearly merits not one, but two long pointy sticks. I can imagine Josh Turner seated at his Nashville home with a yellow pad of paper. Rhymes for God are scrawled on it with notes on the side.
cod (God created all the cod, so maybe...) odd (there's nothing really odd about God... He made platypuses, though...) trod (do angels trod?... must consult my Pastor) clod (might work... that's what I was before before I met Him) pod (peas in a pod could work, though it sounds retarded) plod (God probably plods given all He has to do) prod (being prodded might send the wrong message) rod (shoot! I wanted to use 'magic wand,' but this is a better rhyme) squad (not bad... if the song goes over three minutes, I'll cram it in)
As of this post, there is no video for the song. Maybe one is in the works, but I suspect there won't be one. Given the Country Music Video Paradigm I spelled out above, how would you film such a song? You'd have to actually show Josh Turner in a peapod with the Almighty. On a special effects level, we're not quite there yet (though James Cameron is working feverishly on it).
In lieu of that, here is a little taste of "Me and God" from yours truly. If you genuinely love these songs, please don't take offense. Believe me, I can tear apart Death Cab for Cutie just as easily. There will be a post soon featuring video from my old band. When you watch our monstrosity, you'll marvel how I have the right for ridiculing anyone else's efforts at all.
Currently
listening
:
Your Man
By
Josh Turner
Release date: 24 January, 2006
I wish it stood for Justice. Or Jugband. Alas, it stands for Joseph, a name I've never liked. When I had a paper route, I told some of my customers my name was Alexander. I was a troubled child.
HOW IS THE BOOK COMING ALONG?
After writing over a hundred pages, I realized I made a huge mistake. The narrative had been written in the past tense. Some books work when composed as a reminiscince by the author. But for a book to have more impact, writing in the present tense places the reader in the action. So I've been editing for the past few weeks and the improvement is staggering.
WHEN IS YOUR BOOK GETTING PUBLISHED?
Well, like I just said, I'm only a third done. And then I have to find an agent, edit some more, and hope someone takes a chance on me.
WHEN CAN I GO TO BORDERS AND GET YOUR BOOK?
Are you not listening? That a ways off. There's nothing I'd like more than for you to walk into Borders and purchase my work, but that is such a pipe dream at the moment. Please be patient.
HOW ABOUT AMAZON? CAUSE I DON'T GO OUT OFTEN BECAUSE OF MY BAD LEG. I LIKE BUYING THINGS ONLINE. I LIKE READING. SO I WANT YOUR BOOK FROM AMAZON. WHEN IS THAT GOING TO HAPPEN?
May 31, 2009. Mark your calendar. The cover will be of me being shot in the face with a garden hose. I'll come to your house and autograph it. I'll stay for dinner. We will watch VH-1.
THAT'S FANTASTIC! HOW ABOUT AN AUDIOBOOK VERSION?
Sounds good, but I probably won't read it myself. At the moment, Dakota Fanning is leaning toward the project.
WHAT IS THE NAME OF THE BOOK?
The working title is "Groping and Cancer."
WHAT IS IT ABOUT?
Read the title. That's pretty much sums it up.
BUT WHAT IS GROPING? IS THAT LIKE WHEN YOU DEAL WITH A TOUGH ISSUE? LIKE CANCER? OR CALCULUS?
No, that's coping with cancer (or calculus). Groping is a term denoting a sort of awkward attempt at getting physical with another person.
AND YOU GROPED SOMEONE WITH CANCER? CAUSE I DON'T BUY BOOKS ABOUT THINGS LIKE THAT ANYMORE.
No. My father had cancer and I was the groper.
THAT'S GROSS.
No, no, no... I didn't grope my father before or during his illness. It's about learning about love in the late eighties while my father dealt with a terrible disease. What is wrong with you?
SORRY. LET'S CHANGE THE SUBJECT. YOU ARE MOVING TO NEW YORK, RIGHT?
Brooklyn to be exact.
WHEN ARE YOU MOVING?
The date has been pushed back a bit. The new tentative move date is February 29th, 2008 - Leap Day. Seems appropriate to uproot and relocate on such a occasion. My last Leap Day was weird.
WHAT HAPPENED?
Bizarre argument with my girlfriend at the time. Still don't understand it. And I wouldn't even remember it had it not occurred on that day. Next year, I want to steer a moving van northward.
WHY NEW YORK?
Because I'm still young and crave a change of pace. If I desire publication, I need to be where the action is.
PLUS THEY'RE VERY ACCEPTING OF YOUR LIFESTYLE UP THERE. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE QUEEN ALBUM?
Wait a second... what do you mean by 'lifestyle'?
OH, YOU KNOW, YOU'RE THIRTY FIVE BUT DRESS LIKE A MEMBER OF THE FAINT. YOU'RE A GRANDPA HIPSTER.
I guess that's true.
SO IN BROOKLYN, YOU'LL FLOAT IN A SEA OF PEOPLE WHO LOOK LIKE YOU.
Sort of. What's wrong with that?
NOTHING. BUT WILL YOU STAND OUT? REMEMBER THAT FAR SIDE CARTOON WITH THE PENGUINS?
The one when they're on a block of ice?
YEAH, AND THE ONE PENGUIN IS SINGING, "I GOTTA BE ME!"
Oh, I was thinking about the one where a polar bear is seated amongst the penguins in a crude costume. He's been eating the penguins. It's funny. But I know the one you're bringing up as well. Amid black and white conformity, the singing penguin is affirming its individuality.
ARE YOU GOING TO BE THAT PENGUIN?
I'm gonna try. Incidentally, I love penguins.
ME TOO! MARCH OF THE PENGUINS JUST CAME FROM AMAZON. GREAT MOVIE, BUT TELL YOU WHAT: YOU CAN'T GET OFF MORE THAN TWICE FROM WATCHING IT.
What?
NOTHING, NOTHING... LET'S WRAP THIS UP BECAUSE I KNOW YOU HAVE TO GO TO WORK. IN SHORT: YOU'RE WRITING UNTIL YOU LEAVE FOR BROOKLYN ABOUT A YEAR FROM NOW.
Exactly. I get asked these questions all the time and wanted to give this update.
GOOD LUCK AND KEEP WRITING! WE SHUT-INS LOVE A GOOD READ. KEEPS OUR MIND OFF THE DWINDLING CLOCK LEADING TO DEATH'S FRIGID GRIP.
Glad I can help.
Currently
listening
:
Frengers
By
Mew
Release date: 23 January, 2007
If you choose to witness the spectacle that brought Boston to a standstill: Aqua Teen Hunger Force: The Movie, pay special attention to the sexy jam that accompanies a chase scene in the film. My girlfriend Dana works for Adult Swim and got the opportunity to co-write and sing the instant classic, "I Like Your Booty (But I'm Not Gay)." The resulting masterwork is a labyrinth of throbbing synths and alternate terms for booty. My favorite is "puddincups."
Her pending cinematic glory reminded me of a story I composed a year and a half ago. _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
As stated in my profile, I used to play in various bands. One, in particular, achieved that most elusive goal: We were signed to a major record label. Now let me make this clear: I'm not going to state the name of the band. If you do your homework, you can discover on your own. I don't want to name names. Figure it out.
We recorded an album, which had some decent songs. But we used a first time producer who, with his computer aided henchman, stripped the life from the tracks. Every note was made pitch perfect, and every drumbeat was perfectly synchronized. Prior to this experience, we were ragged and sloppy. We were assured that most bands that are played on the radio - which was absolutely a goal - were processed and digitally cleansed.
After countless months recording, mixing, and remixing, we finally finished the album. No one liked it. Well, some of our family and friends appreciated it, especially those whose name made the thank you list.
It seemed as if our big chance had been squandered when our rep at the label gave us one last chance at commercial redemption. He wanted us to record songs written by a "professional hit writer." This led to a giant schism within the band. I had no qualms with it. We'd already sold our souls by making a commercially drab album. If we were to be dropped anyway, what could we lose by, at least, trying to manufacture a hit single? Let Ian MacKaye wrestle with the ethics of such a decision. I was approaching thirty and wanted to get paid.
So we headed to L.A. and recorded some new songs, one of which was especially geared for maximum impact. The song is INXS lite with moronic, repetitive lyrics and large, dopey hooks. It is also very, very catchy. Hedging its bets, the label brought in the bald guitarist from the Wallflowers and the drummer from Smashmouth (who co-produced the sessions) to provide extra 'oomph.' It was a bewildering experience that destroyed the band and frayed the friendships within. But the whole time there truly was a sense that this crazy idea just might work.
After the sessions, I flew back to Atlanta, and resumed my duties as intern at a video production house. Next door at a recording studio toiled another intern with grand musical aspirations. A gifted guitarist, he enjoyed hearing my bizarre tales from the music industry. Hungry for a record deal, he fleeced advice and label contacts through me, and I subsequently set up an audition at the label. As skewed as my situation was, I considered myself lucky to be in such a position and not trying to still 'make it' like my friend next door.
The song was released to radio and it took off. It was the second most added song in the country behind some typical Celine Dion ballad. Seriously. And it really hit big in Canada, where it peaked at number 13 (placing just ahead of "The Thong Song"). Giddy with disbelief, I charted its success from my computer at home and watched the song top playlists in Chicago, San Francisco, and Philadelphia.
With all signs pointing toward hitting the road and capitalizing on these encouraging signs, we waited for the label to mount a proper tour and fund a video. But it wasn't meant to be. All our momentum was snuffed by Leslie Fram, programming director at 99X - one of the most influential radio stations in the nation. She never liked the band, and her refusal to add the song to the rotation - in our hometown - triggered a decline of interest across the country. The label had spent too much money by that point and didn't want to subsidize a tour. Hanson ("Mmmbop," anyone?) even requested we open the entire northwestern leg of the tour, an offer we sadly had to turn down. That would have been amazing.
On the bright side, we opened for Duran Duran on a couple dates. Keyboardist Nick Rhodes was hilarious. After the shows, we traded critiques on the various mullet haircuts spied in the audience(like he should talk). Another treasured memory is of Simon LeBon drunkenly stumbling into our dressing room and witnessing in a peculiar after show ritual. Our drummer, Derry, was half Tommy Lee and half Sling Blade. He'd taken to administering and receiving spankings via a thick leather belt. Simon took a seat on a leather couch and watched in fascinated horror as Derry accepted a torrent of hard smacks from a statuesque blonde.
"May I be spanked?" asked the dough faced frontman. And, indeed, various ladies in the room took turns spanking the author of "The Union of the Snake." The fun was cut short when one of Simon's handlers stepped into the room and whisked him away. Simon was all waves and smiles as he bid us goodnight while being yanked from the room.
Despite its premature demise, the song still wound up being used on "Beverly Hills 90210," "Roswell," and numerous other shows. There's even a karaoke disc with a wordless version of the song on it (and, no, I don't own it). The song made a lot of money for its author, a person I never met, but am grateful for enabling my encounter with Mr. Lebon.
Cut to five years later. I'm seated on my couch, exhausted from a sleepless night and early meeting at school. I'm in my work attire: black shirt and black pants, both of which are stained with food and beer. With an hour before work, I flip to the USA Network. They're showing a movie called Loser. If you're not familiar with this work, I can't blame you. I've not seen it, though I am tied to it. Our near hit figures prominently in a scene where Jason Biggs (the kid who fucks a pie in American Pie) is trying to study. The song is playing on his stereo. A roommate of Biggs comes into his room and changes the station to the Offspring's "Pretty Fly for a White Guy" - which is one of the worst fucking songs ever. Biggs winds up changing the station back. I didn't go to the theater at the time to see the scene, so it was startling to realize what it was.
So Monday afternoon, I heard myself playing guitar through a movie. The circumstances leading to this pairing of music and film seem like a million years ago. And the strange part is that, no matter the general gist of the posts I've written recently, I am so much happier now. Those were not good times. An emotional wreck, I had zero direction in life past hitching my fate to a terrible song. Facing these days of college and work blows away the constant disappointment and uncertainty that characterized my life for so long.
One last thing: The intern who worked next door at the recording studio wound up doing pretty well. His name is John Mayer.
Yes, that guy.
Currently
listening
:
Chest
By
Nels Cline
Release date: 04 April, 1996
As you can tell from my expression, I was fully ensconced in a dream world of magic a couple weeks ago. Courtney planned on visiting the Magic Kingdom with her family and suggested that we meet up. I hadn't been to Disney World since my twenty-first birthday. So the idea of returning while on the cusp of middle age was very enticing. What better time to get in touch with my inner child and scare the shit out of him with thrill rides and costumed characters?
I flew into Orlando during a Monday evening in which few people seemed headed to my destination: the Grand Floridian, a massive resort located right next to the Magic Kingdom. While waiting for two knuckleheads to find my reservation, I noted a pretty girl working the far side of the Disney Welcome Desk. Half of her left arm was missing. I might have quickly cast aside this detail, but then noticed that one of the knuckleheads was also missing an arm. Things got stranger still when someone lacking legs greeted me before I boarded the bus. Say what you will about Disney's imperialistic march across the globe, or their homogenized form of entertainment: Disney hires the limbless.
Our whimsical adventure began in earnest the next afternoon with a trip to Disney MGM studios. Immediately after entering the park, we learned that Areosmith had a roller coaster. The idea of sitting through a dozen Areosmith songs should've given pause (the're dreadful), but with a little prodding from Courtney, we decided to experience a thrill ride imagineered by the grating septuagenarians.
After a mercifully short wait in line, we entered a room and watched a video of Aerosmith tweaking a track in the studio. Some of them have aged well, but a couple guys in the band have weird, misshapen heads a lá Rocky Dennis from Mask.
We rode the coaster, and truth be told: It was pretty awesome. Courtney's favorite part occurred just as we slowed to a stop. The speakers behind our heads, which blasted an Aerosmith megamix, concluded with the band harmonizing "Love in a Roller Coaster." You win this round, Steven Tyler.
Just past the exit, we spied a couple who had to be in their mid to late fifties. They were wearing matching U.S.A. tracksuits. Too good to be true, I stood in front of them, and asked Courtney to snap a picture of the couple on the sly. Unfortunately, the man offered to get up, and take a photo of Courtney and I. We vowed to find them again, and capture their patriotic, vinyl glory.
A strange feature of MGM is that rather than Mickey and Minnie popping up, the park is rife with actors portraying anachronistic stereotypes. This cop had his routine down pat, and chided me for interrupting his duties. Does he truly has any jurisdiction over the denizens of the park? Could he comically club a smarmy ne'er-do-well while gnawing on his glazed donut?
Found them. There they are in the background being accosted by a screeching starlet. All sarcasm aside, if you've been with someone long enough to wind up in matching jumpsuits, you've obviously achieved something fantastic with your life. I can only dream of having a relationship as lasting. So let the skinny hipster snicker - that couple has won.
(Side note: The Scary Apothecary is the name of my new emo project. Spread the word).
I consider myself fairly abreast with the goings on of youth culture. That said, High School Musical is so out of my give-a-shit range that its omnipresence at MGM studios frightened me. That much feigned enthusiasm can't be a good thing. Being dressed as Chip or Dale is a magical transformation worth getting excited about. Jumping up and down as a cheerleader isn't impressive and hardly merits a float. And I witnessed two of these parades in a couple hours.
We left MGM and eventually made our way to Epcot Center. I love everything about the half futuristic/half globe trotting park. Anytime an animatronic puppet robot recites a stilted history about communication, the power of imagination, or Norway, I'm spellbound. Another fun aspect is how outdated many of the buildings look. Back in the early eighties, the geometric shapes and rounded fonts were cutting edge. In the harsh light of 2007, parts of Tomorrow World are hopelessly out of time. And, of course, Courtney and I reveled in this incongruity.
Last year, I was having dessert with Chris, Hillary, and Sarah when Epcot Center came up. I described "Journey Into Imagination," a favorite ride from childhood. Hillary became excited and said, "Ooh, that's the ride with the little purple dragon named Fidget."
Actually his name is Figment, but Hillary's mistake made me delirious with laughter. Just before heading to this ride, Courtney asked if we were going to see Figlet. Sometimes the silly things make me the happiest.
Anytime I confront something both large and inflatable, I'm torn between two silent, pressing urges: Should I pop it or fuck it? I chose the latter.
I'd heard that there was an adult, entertainment district named Pleasure Island, and that every night, they celebrated New Year's Eve. Can you imagine working in such a place? What a hellish nightmare that would be. Well, there was no ticking clock when we showed up, just a lot of half empty clubs, and a plummeting temperature. We settled on an Irish bar and drank away the day's aches.
The next day began with a return visit to Epcot. Courtney and I slowly snaked our way around the miniature countries. Here I am in a German store holding what looks like Paris Hilton's bald, shrunken head. Epcot is full of many wonders.
You can't but help to be impressed with all the work put into the many sights of Disney World. There are moments when you are inspired to drop your cynicism and sweetly pose for the camera.
And then there are moments when you act like a jackass.
Rounding out the trip was a visit to the hub of all things Disney: the Magic Kingdom. Courtney and I hustled to Space Mountain, the Haunted Mansion, and Space Mountain. I know these rides intimately (well, almost... Johnny Depp now pops up repeatedly throughout the Pirates cruise), but still delight in their sweet familiarity. Experiencing these rides is most satisfying way to go back in time.
The night ended with Courtney and I shivering on Main Street awaiting fireworks. Though I've been the Disney World several times, I've not witnessed the nightly display. Just prior to the first explosion, Jiminy Cricket reminded everyone that 2007 is "The Year of a Million Wishes" (a grand update from 2006's "A Year of a Dozen Wishes" which many industry insiders felt was a tad lackluster). As the night sky burst into colorful forms, Jiminy asked everyone to shut their eyes, and make a wish.
Arms crossed and shaking in the cold, I did exactly that. The two days I spent in Disney World were, indeed, magical. When the disembodied voice of a fictional talking cricket promised that my wishes would come true simply by shutting my eyes and believing, I was willing to give it a shot.
And you know what? It totally worked. Scoff all you want, but one very specific wish has come true. So the next time you're confronted with Disney magic, think twice before shuffling off. Shut your eyes. Forget your sore feet. Forget the massive amount of fried food digesting in your body. Make a wish and wait. You never know.
Long ago, I was on a date. Seated at the old Jittery Joe's in Athens, conversation was brisk, though I kept noting a strange look of unease lodged on the girl's face. After an hour, she asked, "So... where are your black glasses?"
At the time, I alternated between contact lenses and thick black glasses. When she met me, I had my glasses on, but on this evening I wanted my naked face to take center stage.
