Hello blog world.
A: I realize that not many follow the blog. To those that do follow, I'm grateful and flattered and entirely undeserving given my recent dearth of posts.
B: I'm not going to post on this blog for a while.
The reason is, Stacy and I recent underwent an adoption process which requires a great deal of confidentiality, for the safety and protection of the baby. As much as I love to write, I have been waiting to decide what I want to do... and what I'm going to do is to continue my blog privately on Facebook (as I have been doing) and discontinue it on here until the privacy concerns have been satisfied.
Thank you so much to the many, many folks who have read and posted comments on this blog... it has been an INCREDIBLE form of expression and catharsis for me, and has allowed me the impossible luxury of sharing my deepest thoughts without fear of face-to-face confrontation or rebuttal. THANK YOU. If we're friends, I'll see you on Facebook. Otherwise, I'll likely pick it up again soon; I'm just going to pause for now.
My very best,
Justin
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
It has been a long, long time since I've posted.
I'm starting to wonder if my zeal for life is somehow tied proportionately to the global economy? It seems that when we are in times of plenty, so are my hopes, my aspirations, my trips to the gym, and my blog posts. When we are in tumult, the dreaming, running and writing stop. It's a bit unnerving that AIG and Fannie Mae may have more control over my daily life-improvement choices than I do... but I digress.
So, with that all said, here is a random list of the 5 saddest non-country songs I can think of, with a few relevant lyrics (but click and listen to the whole song where you can).
#5: Alone (Blues Traveler)
In order to truly understand the sadness of this BT bar anthem of unrequited love, download a picture of John Popper circa 1995 and stare at it as you listen. Picture this overweight songster with a meeky alto voice and a homemade vest of harmonicas trying his best to keep the attention of the one woman who could make him truly happy...
#4: When I Fall (Barenaked Ladies)
I love this ode to the underappreciated and underrealized. Here's a man whose life's work, at its best, amounts to leaving nothing behind, and who knows it... all the while his every day forces him to stare in at contemporary royalty and wonder what it's like in the air-conditioned comfort of being somebody who matters.
#3: Slow Dancing in a Burning Room (John Mayer)
The only thing sadder than unrequited love (see #5) is perfect love going wrong, and being perfectly conscious as you are unable to control its gradual demise. To me, it's the romantic and spiritual equivalent of Lou Gehrig's disease. I love this song for its wrenching tension of holding and dancing with the only love you've ever had, and realizing that it will never, ever work. As you listen, let Mayer bring you into that last dance, and feel the heat from their bodies as you feel the slow burn from the support walls melting around you.
#2: Hush, Hush, Hush (Herbie Hancock feat. Annie Lennox [written by Paula Cole])
I don't know who Paula Cole was thinking of when she wrote this song, but I wish I had. With as sad as songs 3-5 were, this one rises head and shoulders above for me... the crushing story of a gay man dying of AIDS at the age of 20, and his father sitting nearby trying to comfort him. He waited his whole life to come out and find true love, and it was too late to save him from the mistakes made in the dark corners of his closeted life. If you don't cry during the bridge, you may want to check your pulse.
#1: Praying for Time (George Michael)
I once had a Christian-savvy friend of mine tell me that the saddest verse in the Bible is the verse in Job where God searches the planet for a righteous man and can only find one (Job), and that Job eventually lets him down too. "Praying for Time" seems to believe that Job has long gone, and we are left with no one. I made the mistake of listening to this song on the way to work once, and had to pull over outside of my office and cry for a good ten minutes before I could go in. I hope you listen to this (the Carrie Underwood version is surprisingly moving) and find something genuinely worthwhile to do.
I'm starting to wonder if my zeal for life is somehow tied proportionately to the global economy? It seems that when we are in times of plenty, so are my hopes, my aspirations, my trips to the gym, and my blog posts. When we are in tumult, the dreaming, running and writing stop. It's a bit unnerving that AIG and Fannie Mae may have more control over my daily life-improvement choices than I do... but I digress.
So, with that all said, here is a random list of the 5 saddest non-country songs I can think of, with a few relevant lyrics (but click and listen to the whole song where you can).
#5: Alone (Blues Traveler)
In order to truly understand the sadness of this BT bar anthem of unrequited love, download a picture of John Popper circa 1995 and stare at it as you listen. Picture this overweight songster with a meeky alto voice and a homemade vest of harmonicas trying his best to keep the attention of the one woman who could make him truly happy...
I said I love you
She began to cry
She said she needed a friend
I said I'll try
Soon we'd say nothing
Somehow I never wondered why
You see, she left me
She left me
I'm alone
Beauty and the beast
Was how it seemed to be
A love like hers
Ain't meant for guys like me
Some call me crazy
Some politely call me free
But either way you see
You see, she left me
She left me
I'm alone
I guess some day
Love will soon be here
And maybe then
I'll see things more clear
I guess I got excited
Cause it felt so near
And
You see, she left me
She left me
I'm alone
#4: When I Fall (Barenaked Ladies)
I love this ode to the underappreciated and underrealized. Here's a man whose life's work, at its best, amounts to leaving nothing behind, and who knows it... all the while his every day forces him to stare in at contemporary royalty and wonder what it's like in the air-conditioned comfort of being somebody who matters.
I look in the boardroom; a modern pharaoh's tomb
I'd gladly swap places, if they care to dive
They're lined up at the window, peer down into limbo
They're frightened of jumping, in case they survive.
Look straight in the mirror, watch it come clearer
I look like a painter, behind all the grease
But painting's creating, and I'm just erasing
A crystal-clear canvas is my masterpiece
I wish I could fly
From this building, from this wall
And if I should try,
would you catch me if I fall?
#3: Slow Dancing in a Burning Room (John Mayer)
The only thing sadder than unrequited love (see #5) is perfect love going wrong, and being perfectly conscious as you are unable to control its gradual demise. To me, it's the romantic and spiritual equivalent of Lou Gehrig's disease. I love this song for its wrenching tension of holding and dancing with the only love you've ever had, and realizing that it will never, ever work. As you listen, let Mayer bring you into that last dance, and feel the heat from their bodies as you feel the slow burn from the support walls melting around you.
It's not a silly little moment,
It's not the storm before the calm.
This is the deep and dying breath of
This love that we've been working on.
I was the one you always dreamed of,
You were the one I tried to draw.
How dare you say it's nothing to me?
Baby, you're the only light I ever saw.
We're going down,
And you can see it too.
We're going down,
And you know that we're doomed.
My dear,
We're slow dancing in a burning room.
#2: Hush, Hush, Hush (Herbie Hancock feat. Annie Lennox [written by Paula Cole])
I don't know who Paula Cole was thinking of when she wrote this song, but I wish I had. With as sad as songs 3-5 were, this one rises head and shoulders above for me... the crushing story of a gay man dying of AIDS at the age of 20, and his father sitting nearby trying to comfort him. He waited his whole life to come out and find true love, and it was too late to save him from the mistakes made in the dark corners of his closeted life. If you don't cry during the bridge, you may want to check your pulse.
Long white arms
Losing their strength and form
Sixty year man on twenty year old skin
Skeleton, your eyes have lost their warmth
Look to your father for some support
Oh maybe next time
You'll be Henry the 8th
Wake up tomorrow Alexander the Great
Open your eyes in a new life again
Oh maybe next time
You'll be given a chance
Hush, hush, hush
Says your daddy's touch
Sleep sleep sleep
Says the hundredth sheep
Peace peace peace
May you go in peace
#1: Praying for Time (George Michael)
I once had a Christian-savvy friend of mine tell me that the saddest verse in the Bible is the verse in Job where God searches the planet for a righteous man and can only find one (Job), and that Job eventually lets him down too. "Praying for Time" seems to believe that Job has long gone, and we are left with no one. I made the mistake of listening to this song on the way to work once, and had to pull over outside of my office and cry for a good ten minutes before I could go in. I hope you listen to this (the Carrie Underwood version is surprisingly moving) and find something genuinely worthwhile to do.
This is the year of the hungry man
Whose place is in the past
Hand in hand with ignorance
And legitimate excuses
The rich declare themselves poor
And most of us are not sure
If we have too much
But well take our chances
Because God stopped keeping score
These are the days of the empty hand
Oh you hold on to what you can
And charity is a coat you wear
Twice a year
So you scream from behind your door
Say whats mine is mine and not yours
I may have too much
But Ill take my chances
Because God stopped keeping score
And you cling to the things
They sold you
Did you cover your eyes when
They told you
That he cant come back
Because he has no children
To come back for
So... it's hardly an exhaustive list, but I'd like to hear yours. What are the 5 saddest non-country songs you can think of?
Thursday, February 12, 2009
I was recently reading a book about writing, and the art of writing, when I came upon an apocryphal tale of the power of brevity. I’m not sure where and when and even if it happened, but it’s rumored to, and it doesn’t matter if it did because the story is just as powerful as a story.
The story tells us that Ernest Hemingway, an American literary deity who was maligned by Classics scholars for his undecorative, straight-to-the-point writing style, was dared by a friend and contemporary to “write a compelling short story in six words.” The only rules were that the story must have a beginning, middle, and end, and must be compelling enough to get published. Hemingway accepted, and spent an evening or two with pen to paper, scrawling out miniature narratives. He returned with a story so compelling, and with such depth, that it was published the very next week in The New Yorker. The story read:
For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.
As I read this little gem of writer’s folklore, I was struck by how powerful, rich, and deep this six-word story was. It brought so much to mind...let my imagination fill in the plot gaps and the faces and the names... but what was more remarkable was how much it explicitly told me. In six expertly selected words, I could access 29 years of human experience to instantly and powerfully fill in these gaps with more than just conjecture... I could lean on my gut to fill in the gaps...and without wild subjective conjecture or speculation. Someone had a baby on the way (pregnant, likely), and planned ahead. She anticipated that child, she looked forward to it, and even planned far enough into the child’s life to invest into shoes the baby wouldn’t need for several months into his/her life. Then, something happened. Likely something dreadful. The baby was gone, the dream with it, and the shoes rendered a purposeless reminder of what should have been. The would-be parent even went so far as to sell the shoes; to post an ad to both remunerate her now useless purchase, and to excise this tragic memento from her home.
This is a tragic story with a beginning, middle, and end, and is every bit as emotionally compelling and haunting as some of the best short fiction I’ve read. And it reminds me that, when crafted carefully and artfully, even a few words can tell a very big story. Whether in a letter to a loved one, a Carlos-Williams poem, a song lyric, a quotation scrawled on a blackboard, an epithet yelled at an enemy, a commercial concept, a political mantra, etc. etc., it only takes a few choice words to make a huge impact. And when I sit down to write long summaries of research, or tell a neverending tale to a friend, or to pen lengthy blog entries (such as this one), I do well to remember that, and to flex the power of selection a bit.
As an aside, if you haven’t explored this genre of “flash fiction” (stories written in a few words or a single sentence), I encourage you to check out onlineflashfiction.com and onesentence.org. There are some very funny, sad, and encouraging pieces on there [one read something like, “‘I’ll never do that again,’ he thought, as he slipped cautiously into the warm tub.”]. And I hope you’ll try to write your own...you can’t possibly claim you don’t have the time. Here are four one-sentence short stories I wrote on a flight back from Orlando:
“No one will hear you scream through the gauze,” he told me as the nitrous took over.
As I groped for my wallet in the dark, the morning sun made it clear she was not, in fact, a flight attendant.
The only sound left was disposable booties toeing the linoleum floor, and the long, thin electronic whine.
“’How much,’ will never matter again,” he told himself, as his last quarter scraped his final ticket.
Cheers,
Justin
The story tells us that Ernest Hemingway, an American literary deity who was maligned by Classics scholars for his undecorative, straight-to-the-point writing style, was dared by a friend and contemporary to “write a compelling short story in six words.” The only rules were that the story must have a beginning, middle, and end, and must be compelling enough to get published. Hemingway accepted, and spent an evening or two with pen to paper, scrawling out miniature narratives. He returned with a story so compelling, and with such depth, that it was published the very next week in The New Yorker. The story read:
For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.
As I read this little gem of writer’s folklore, I was struck by how powerful, rich, and deep this six-word story was. It brought so much to mind...let my imagination fill in the plot gaps and the faces and the names... but what was more remarkable was how much it explicitly told me. In six expertly selected words, I could access 29 years of human experience to instantly and powerfully fill in these gaps with more than just conjecture... I could lean on my gut to fill in the gaps...and without wild subjective conjecture or speculation. Someone had a baby on the way (pregnant, likely), and planned ahead. She anticipated that child, she looked forward to it, and even planned far enough into the child’s life to invest into shoes the baby wouldn’t need for several months into his/her life. Then, something happened. Likely something dreadful. The baby was gone, the dream with it, and the shoes rendered a purposeless reminder of what should have been. The would-be parent even went so far as to sell the shoes; to post an ad to both remunerate her now useless purchase, and to excise this tragic memento from her home.
This is a tragic story with a beginning, middle, and end, and is every bit as emotionally compelling and haunting as some of the best short fiction I’ve read. And it reminds me that, when crafted carefully and artfully, even a few words can tell a very big story. Whether in a letter to a loved one, a Carlos-Williams poem, a song lyric, a quotation scrawled on a blackboard, an epithet yelled at an enemy, a commercial concept, a political mantra, etc. etc., it only takes a few choice words to make a huge impact. And when I sit down to write long summaries of research, or tell a neverending tale to a friend, or to pen lengthy blog entries (such as this one), I do well to remember that, and to flex the power of selection a bit.
As an aside, if you haven’t explored this genre of “flash fiction” (stories written in a few words or a single sentence), I encourage you to check out onlineflashfiction.com and onesentence.org. There are some very funny, sad, and encouraging pieces on there [one read something like, “‘I’ll never do that again,’ he thought, as he slipped cautiously into the warm tub.”]. And I hope you’ll try to write your own...you can’t possibly claim you don’t have the time. Here are four one-sentence short stories I wrote on a flight back from Orlando:
“No one will hear you scream through the gauze,” he told me as the nitrous took over.
As I groped for my wallet in the dark, the morning sun made it clear she was not, in fact, a flight attendant.
The only sound left was disposable booties toeing the linoleum floor, and the long, thin electronic whine.
“’How much,’ will never matter again,” he told himself, as his last quarter scraped his final ticket.
Cheers,
Justin
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
The order in which I hunt down and eat specific ingredients in my Grilled Chicken Salad:
Other "improv" ingredients, such as broccoli, egg, and bacon bits, cannot be addressed here, as giving this apparently limitless collection of foodstuffs proper review would make the blog unweildy and even more unreadable. Please consult your local Salad provider for more information on these rogue additions.
Cheers,
Justin
- Grilled chicken
This one is a given. Always go for the meat first. It's sustaining, life giving, and tastes like meat. As the "Grilled Chicken Salad" name implies, the rest of the salad is simply a medium to hold up the meat. - Dressing-saturated croutons
Everyone knows that dressing is, right after meat, the main reason you eat a Grilled Chicken Salad. However, since "dressing" isn't an ingredient you can hunt out discreetly, you have to seek out the most efficient dressing-carriers...the porous dressing-sponge known as "crouton." I will warn you here, mixing saturated croutons and unsaturated croutons is dangerous, as you will chomp down as if expecting a marshmallowy wet crouton, and instead crack your pearlies onto a granitesque dry one. - Cheese Shreds
After picking out the meat and dressing-saturated wonderments, the next best tasty is the Cheese Shreds. Unfortunately, much like the dressing, Cheese Shreds are more a fluid than a solid, and tend to spread ubiquitously throughout, making them difficult to solo out without accidentally tining some of that yucky lettuce. Your best bet here is to use the side of your fork as a shovel, and scrape around the outside of the bowl or carryout container, as Dressing+Cheese creates a covalent bond with Container, and will result in a delightfully minimal cheese-to-lettuce ratio. - Non-Saturated Croutons
Well, it's not great, but it beats lettuce and tomatoes (see "Lettuce and Tomatoes" below for further information). - Lettuce and Tomatoes
Lettuce and tomatoes are the primordial stew from which the salad phylum evolved, and I think we owe L&T a debt of quiet gratitude for that. However, as far as vittles go, Lettuce and Tomatoes are less of an ingredient, and more of a penance for eating the other salad components.
Author's note: For those who consider Lettuce a separate ingredient from Tomatoes, and one which merits its own address... well, you're wrong. By the time they've lived in the salad for a few minutes, they taste exactly the same. And shut up.
6. Onions
The only ingredient I seek out less than Lettuce and Tomatoes is Onions, which I actively avoid scooping up with every forkload. I still have no idea why raw Onions made it into the Salad Canon, but presume it was clever lobbying by the Red Onion Association, and certainly not due to consumer demand. These sour and spicy groundlings are magnificent in other applications, and delictable when cooked... but in a Salad only serve to make everything taste like onions, and to leave your breath reeking like humid shoe closet.
Other "improv" ingredients, such as broccoli, egg, and bacon bits, cannot be addressed here, as giving this apparently limitless collection of foodstuffs proper review would make the blog unweildy and even more unreadable. Please consult your local Salad provider for more information on these rogue additions.
Cheers,
Justin
Saturday, January 31, 2009
There is a social experiment spreading rampantly on Facebook. Instead of the tired "answer these 25 mundane questions about your favorite color, book, etc. that nobody cares about," the challenge is simply to post "25 Random Things" about yourself.
It has been so intriguing to find out what people think of when they are encouraged to pick any 25 points of data about themselves. Sometimes, you get things like, "I like blue." Other times you get things like, "since my wife died, I've been more empathetic to others' suffering," and sometimes it's things like "I don't have a particular side of the bed. Every night I pick a random side, my husband sleeps on the other." I love this experiment; they could pick ANYTHING, and it says a lot what each person chooses.
So, with that, here are the 25 things I posted. I encourage you to try it... on your blog, on Facebook, on your locker, on your mirror at home...it's worth the 15 minutes to find out what comes to the top of your own mind when given free reign to pick 25 facts about yourself.
25 Random Things
1. I have no recollection of ever using Chap-Stik, or any derivations of lip balm thereof. It's gross, and you're just going to have to get over that.
2. I am not a real germaphobe. I am a selective germaphobe, choosing to focus only on bodily fluids (i.e. - no concern for dirt, outdoor germs, rotten food, etc.), and completely lose my germaphobia when in a state of total comfort. If I were a shrink, I'd bet it's a control thing.
3. I learned to play the bass at age 12 because my older brother had already become a shreddin' guitar player, and I thought playing only on 4 strings would make me better faster. I'm now playing guitar in his band. Well, the best laid plans...
4. I got an English degree largely by accident. I kept taking English courses, and my Comm advisor mentioned that if I take 1 more I'd have a degree. So, Avant Garde Lit, here I come!
5. I have an intense fear of being snuck up on. (Don't even think about it; I'll freak and punch your throat or something).
6. I'm learning to hug. (It has heretofore been more of an academic activity than an experiential one). [Thanks, Alison]
7. I'm smack dab in the middle of a major spiritual quest, and discovering I have far more questions than answers. Almost no answers, really. Lots of questions. It's both a cold and luminous place to be.
8. I cried through most of my brother's wedding. And my other brother's. And mine. Shut up.
9. I was the Prom King and Homecoming Prince my senior year, and both as a result of what I'm fairly sure was a cruel joke by the popular kids.
10. Despite years of acting lessons, dialectic practice, and an intense desire to be cool, I am entirely incapable of using slang in any kind of believable way. (I had my license to use slang revoked by a jazz drummer once... which is like having your license to drive revoked by Dale Earnhardt).
11. I read three books at a time: one fiction, one non-fiction, one philosophical/spiritual. And all of them very slowly.
12. I love mushy, lumpy food. Mashed potatoes, chicken pot pie, shepherd's pie, biscuits and gravy, chicken w dumplings... if my meal can be mushed into a big steaming amalgam of goo, it's right for me.
13. My worst job was as an overnight radio announcer and board operator on a traditional jazz station. I worked midnight - 8:00, two days a week, and was on the air for ONE MINUTE every hour doing traffic and weather...and there was a CCTV camera to make sure you didn't sleep inbetween. (But I did learn to love jazz, and to love the station).
14. My best job ever is the one I have now, and I feel tremendously lucky about that.
15. To borrow a line from Ben Doepke, music trumps almost anything. It is the truest language of the holy.
16. I have a deep and abiding love for Eminem's music. (Which is only enhanced when it's flanked by Edgar Meyer and Parliament on my iPod's shuffle).
17. I'm insecure about most things. If I'm coming off arrogant or condescending, it's because I probably worry you're better than I am.
18. I collect 2-5 new cigars a week, and smoke one or less a week. So... the collection keeps growing... and I'm running out space.
19. Despite being around it in the music scene for the last 15 years, I've never smoked pot. I really want to give it a shot, but I want to do it up right... save the experience for a really decent atmosphere and moment in time. Anybody got any suggestions?
20. Self-disclosure gives me the willies. This gives me the willies. I have the willies. I'm wondering if I'll ever publish it.
21. I once got to meet my musical hero, Bela Fleck, and the only thing I could think of to say to him was, "do you like pie?" Then I got embarrassed and walked away. We haven't spoken since.
22. My favorite drink is a Knob Creek, on the rocks, with a splash to open it up. My favorite beer is Guinness, in a glass, followed by another.
23. I come from 5 generations of Irish firefighters. My brothers and I blew it for everybody by becoming a doctor, a lawyer, and whatever the hell it is I do. (Fortunately, my cousin is keeping the tradition alive in NYC).
24. I dream of publishing a book some day. The problem is, I'm not sure about what, or written to whom. Again... anybody got any suggestions?
25. Growing up, my nickname was "fussy." I've never had a nickname since.
Peace to you,
Justin
It has been so intriguing to find out what people think of when they are encouraged to pick any 25 points of data about themselves. Sometimes, you get things like, "I like blue." Other times you get things like, "since my wife died, I've been more empathetic to others' suffering," and sometimes it's things like "I don't have a particular side of the bed. Every night I pick a random side, my husband sleeps on the other." I love this experiment; they could pick ANYTHING, and it says a lot what each person chooses.
So, with that, here are the 25 things I posted. I encourage you to try it... on your blog, on Facebook, on your locker, on your mirror at home...it's worth the 15 minutes to find out what comes to the top of your own mind when given free reign to pick 25 facts about yourself.
25 Random Things
1. I have no recollection of ever using Chap-Stik, or any derivations of lip balm thereof. It's gross, and you're just going to have to get over that.
2. I am not a real germaphobe. I am a selective germaphobe, choosing to focus only on bodily fluids (i.e. - no concern for dirt, outdoor germs, rotten food, etc.), and completely lose my germaphobia when in a state of total comfort. If I were a shrink, I'd bet it's a control thing.
3. I learned to play the bass at age 12 because my older brother had already become a shreddin' guitar player, and I thought playing only on 4 strings would make me better faster. I'm now playing guitar in his band. Well, the best laid plans...
4. I got an English degree largely by accident. I kept taking English courses, and my Comm advisor mentioned that if I take 1 more I'd have a degree. So, Avant Garde Lit, here I come!
5. I have an intense fear of being snuck up on. (Don't even think about it; I'll freak and punch your throat or something).
6. I'm learning to hug. (It has heretofore been more of an academic activity than an experiential one). [Thanks, Alison]
7. I'm smack dab in the middle of a major spiritual quest, and discovering I have far more questions than answers. Almost no answers, really. Lots of questions. It's both a cold and luminous place to be.
8. I cried through most of my brother's wedding. And my other brother's. And mine. Shut up.
9. I was the Prom King and Homecoming Prince my senior year, and both as a result of what I'm fairly sure was a cruel joke by the popular kids.
10. Despite years of acting lessons, dialectic practice, and an intense desire to be cool, I am entirely incapable of using slang in any kind of believable way. (I had my license to use slang revoked by a jazz drummer once... which is like having your license to drive revoked by Dale Earnhardt).
11. I read three books at a time: one fiction, one non-fiction, one philosophical/spiritual. And all of them very slowly.
12. I love mushy, lumpy food. Mashed potatoes, chicken pot pie, shepherd's pie, biscuits and gravy, chicken w dumplings... if my meal can be mushed into a big steaming amalgam of goo, it's right for me.
13. My worst job was as an overnight radio announcer and board operator on a traditional jazz station. I worked midnight - 8:00, two days a week, and was on the air for ONE MINUTE every hour doing traffic and weather...and there was a CCTV camera to make sure you didn't sleep inbetween. (But I did learn to love jazz, and to love the station).
14. My best job ever is the one I have now, and I feel tremendously lucky about that.
15. To borrow a line from Ben Doepke, music trumps almost anything. It is the truest language of the holy.
16. I have a deep and abiding love for Eminem's music. (Which is only enhanced when it's flanked by Edgar Meyer and Parliament on my iPod's shuffle).
17. I'm insecure about most things. If I'm coming off arrogant or condescending, it's because I probably worry you're better than I am.
18. I collect 2-5 new cigars a week, and smoke one or less a week. So... the collection keeps growing... and I'm running out space.
19. Despite being around it in the music scene for the last 15 years, I've never smoked pot. I really want to give it a shot, but I want to do it up right... save the experience for a really decent atmosphere and moment in time. Anybody got any suggestions?
20. Self-disclosure gives me the willies. This gives me the willies. I have the willies. I'm wondering if I'll ever publish it.
21. I once got to meet my musical hero, Bela Fleck, and the only thing I could think of to say to him was, "do you like pie?" Then I got embarrassed and walked away. We haven't spoken since.
22. My favorite drink is a Knob Creek, on the rocks, with a splash to open it up. My favorite beer is Guinness, in a glass, followed by another.
23. I come from 5 generations of Irish firefighters. My brothers and I blew it for everybody by becoming a doctor, a lawyer, and whatever the hell it is I do. (Fortunately, my cousin is keeping the tradition alive in NYC).
24. I dream of publishing a book some day. The problem is, I'm not sure about what, or written to whom. Again... anybody got any suggestions?
25. Growing up, my nickname was "fussy." I've never had a nickname since.
Peace to you,
Justin
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Today, I was party to the changing of our story.
At 4:30 this morning, I woke up from my air mattress on the floor of the Elections Assistance Commission in downtown Washington DC, where my brother works, and began my meeting with something truly historical. Stacy, my brother Matt, and my sister-in-law Jo had done a magnificent job of planning and packing...and we lit out for the subways around 5:00, armed with longjohns, cameras, subway tickets, and our Silver Passes to the standing-room section of the Capitol reflecting pool area.
By 5:30, we were on a short train ride to the Capitol, surrounded by the earliest-rising of the Obama inauguration-goers, all with eyes puffy with morning but wide with anticipation. By 6:00, we had joined thousands of people who had lined up for entrance to the "Silver Section" for those with passes.
The crowd was astonishingly polite, considering the time, the temp, the throngs, and the tease of six hours of waiting before we got to see our new President sworn in. Folks huddled with their friends and family for warmth, and good-natured joking prevailed over the few pushes and scattered dumbassiness. We worked our way through line after line, through checkpoints and by National Guardsmen and countless police and volunteers. (I told a bit more of the story of getting to our spot, complete with pics, here on my Flickr account, or on the ol' Video Diary if'n you're interested).
The hope that seemed to electrify the air in the District yesterday became actual overt, tangible expressions of joy and energy today. Everywhere we went, people were talking to strangers, chatting it up about what Barack Obama means to them, sharing stories of their excitement, their background, their journey to this spot, and their hopes for what today's inaguruation means. Obama ran on a platform of change and hope...these are sentimental footnotes to most Presidential campaigns, the kind of comulsory claptrap used to putty together vague campaign promises. But for this campaign...for this candidate...change and hope were built-in...they were inherent in becoming the first African-American president. You couldn't elect Barack Obama without electing for change. I won't list here all the reasons why the person and policy of Barack Obama, far beyond his race, underscores every inch of his platform for hope and change...it's a topic I've covered before and will likely cover again soon...but what the people of the US voted for was real change, echoing well beyond politics and into damn near every facet of how we live together as Americans.
The inauguration was stunning. By the time we were in and shifted a few times (again, check out the Flickr account), we were about 400 yds away from the Capitol steps, and surrounded on all sides by coats, hats, and the steaming breath of the excited. Three hours of waiting punctuated by the occasional shot of Obama's limo closing in on the Capitol (which was always met with huge cheers from the crowd) were spent trying to keep the handwarmers warm and the toes from getting stepped on. The anticipation built with every passing minute, and despite chilly winds and more than a little claustrophobic crowding, we couldn't but palaver with those around us as if we had all just come from the same cocktail party, and had already spent an evening chattering. Despite being in the absolute racial minority (I'm guessing 70/30 black/white mix in our section), I was talked to as a brother and Stacy as a sister...I was encouraged into choruses of "Yes We Did!" and presumed to be an equal advocate for social and political racial equality. It was incredible...and the sense of general trust and positive regard for humanity was tremendously inspiring.
As musicians played and speakers spoke and poets read, there was a slow-sea change in my heart...I began to feel proud of my country...not just in my head; not just in theory anymore. I don't tend to feel much of anything until I've really thought about it first...and today was finally my chance to culminate my many thoughts on what makes this election mean so much to me into actual feelings about it. My chest was swelled with national pride as the trumpet flourishes announced the arrival and entrance of our new President, and my own cheers drowned out the screams around me as he took his seat, and as he took his oath.
President Obama (I'm not getting tired of saying that any time soon, if you're wondering) gave a very stirring speech that truthfully, I need to read a half dozen more times to truly understand. I encourage you to take the time to read it...preferably out loud...but here are two passages that instantly brought tears to my eyes:
We remain a young nation, but in the words of Scripture, the time has come to set aside childish things. The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness.
In reaffirming the greatness of our nation, we understand that greatness is never a given. It must be earned. Our journey has never been one of shortcuts or settling for less. It has not been the path for the fainthearted -- for those who prefer leisure over work, or seek only the pleasures of riches and fame. Rather, it has been the risk-takers, the doers, the makers of things -- some celebrated, but more often men and women obscure in their labor -- who have carried us up the long, rugged path toward prosperity and freedom.
and...
To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds. And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to suffering outside our borders; nor can we consume the world's resources without regard to effect. For the world has changed, and we must change with it.
By the conclusion of the ceremony, I was exhausted...physically, mentally, emotionally...and I was euphoric. As we joined the streaming throngs who filled the streets to celebrate and meander back towards wherever it was we were going, it was as if we'd spilled into a post-WWII ticker-tape parade. There was cheering, laughing, hugs, signs being waved, and bits and pieces of paper and scraps flying everywhere. I felt like our nation, in that moment, exhaled...like we had finally made it through, and felt comfortable enough to just rest for a moment.
We found our way to L'Enfant Plaza station, shuffled our way through the tired (and by this point occasionally crabby) crowds, and found our train towards home. By the time we made it through the front door and collapsed into bed for a late-afternoon warming nap, I had spent nearly everything I had in me to take part in this historic event...and I loved it. I'm so grateful to have been one of the 2,000,000 people there to congratulate our new President and, most importantly, to share in this massive step forward for our country.
More to come.
Peace to you,
Justin
Monday, January 19, 2009
I can't help but feel like I'm just hours before experiencing a pivotal moment in my life.
I'm in Washington DC, staying with my brother, and getting ready to head to the inauguration of America's first African-American President. We will be joining the estimated 2 million other Americans in reveling in this historic occasion. I can't believe I get to be a part of it.
The drive out here had a sense of electricity throughout. Technically, it was just Stacy and I in the car together for nine hours plowing our way through the snowy and largely darkened midwest...but it felt like we were part of something much much bigger. As we passed and rode alongside the other drivers bound for DC, I felt like an electron chasing a wire towards the first electric bulb. I felt momentum, a sense of moving forward...something I haven't felt for a long time, and certainly something I wouldn't have felt driving towards our nation's capital.
To think I'm currently sitting a few miles from the spot where Barack Obama will be elected tomorrow...and to think that tomorrow I will be standing only couple hundred yards away while it happens...it's insane. I have never before seen two million people in one place. I have never heard the roar of two million voices, or the rattle of two million hands...I can't wait to hear it tomorrow as President Obama concludes his oath. I can't wait to celebrate with two million others...to scream and cheer with those around me...to embrace my loved ones around me and the strangers to either side of me in a communal celebration of a truly new day. To walk in the center of the electricity that is this remarkable moment in history.
We must be careful not to deify Mr. Obama...not to mistake this remarkable man as the sole reason for our energy and vibrance this week. I am more thrilled to have Barack Obama as our next Commander in Chief than I can articulate, and for reasons that I have largely already articulated in public and private forums...but this is not about Obama alone; far from it. It's about our next huge step, and the realization that we have finally broken the barrier to the nations most aspirational role. A country as rebellious, young, and radical as ours is bound to have massive flaws as we grow and create our own rules...and the flaw of cultural and institutional racism against Africans (and then African-Americans) has been perhaps our most visible sin. While the battle against this type of racism is far from over, tomorrow we get to celebrate our next biggest step.
To think that I get to be party to this culmination of the story of our nation to this date...it's unimaginable. I will keep ya'll updated as we go... but please join me in celebrating this unprecented victory step in the war against racism in this country, and in embracing and welcoming our nation's new leader.
I'm really, really charged.
Peace to you,
Justin
I'm in Washington DC, staying with my brother, and getting ready to head to the inauguration of America's first African-American President. We will be joining the estimated 2 million other Americans in reveling in this historic occasion. I can't believe I get to be a part of it.
The drive out here had a sense of electricity throughout. Technically, it was just Stacy and I in the car together for nine hours plowing our way through the snowy and largely darkened midwest...but it felt like we were part of something much much bigger. As we passed and rode alongside the other drivers bound for DC, I felt like an electron chasing a wire towards the first electric bulb. I felt momentum, a sense of moving forward...something I haven't felt for a long time, and certainly something I wouldn't have felt driving towards our nation's capital.
To think I'm currently sitting a few miles from the spot where Barack Obama will be elected tomorrow...and to think that tomorrow I will be standing only couple hundred yards away while it happens...it's insane. I have never before seen two million people in one place. I have never heard the roar of two million voices, or the rattle of two million hands...I can't wait to hear it tomorrow as President Obama concludes his oath. I can't wait to celebrate with two million others...to scream and cheer with those around me...to embrace my loved ones around me and the strangers to either side of me in a communal celebration of a truly new day. To walk in the center of the electricity that is this remarkable moment in history.
We must be careful not to deify Mr. Obama...not to mistake this remarkable man as the sole reason for our energy and vibrance this week. I am more thrilled to have Barack Obama as our next Commander in Chief than I can articulate, and for reasons that I have largely already articulated in public and private forums...but this is not about Obama alone; far from it. It's about our next huge step, and the realization that we have finally broken the barrier to the nations most aspirational role. A country as rebellious, young, and radical as ours is bound to have massive flaws as we grow and create our own rules...and the flaw of cultural and institutional racism against Africans (and then African-Americans) has been perhaps our most visible sin. While the battle against this type of racism is far from over, tomorrow we get to celebrate our next biggest step.
To think that I get to be party to this culmination of the story of our nation to this date...it's unimaginable. I will keep ya'll updated as we go... but please join me in celebrating this unprecented victory step in the war against racism in this country, and in embracing and welcoming our nation's new leader.
I'm really, really charged.
Peace to you,
Justin
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