Well, we passed denyingphoenix’s one year anniversary a week or so back, and seeing as how the lack of air conditioning is stalling my brain waves, let’s see what I’ve learned in the past year:

• The left coast isn’t all that scary, but an 8% sales tax is a sure sign of another earthquake.
• Protein powder and Metamucil do not taste good in diet coke. Water does just fine you idiot.
• Digital cameras do not bounce on concrete. Instead they produce images that induce panic and earn them a few week stay in a resort in upstate New York.
• A person can indeed make themselves enjoy pickles. Peaches are still a lost hope.
• Gatlinburg, TN is heaven & hell mixed together. Get rid of the Las Vegas schtick and we’ll talk again.
• It will never be un-weird to go to an old friend’s wedding, but scotch helps.
• Cell phones are not the tool of the Devil. But the games on them definitely blow.
• Unopened 27-year old whiskey from your parent’s wedding is phenomenal. Opened vodka from the same event tastes like grandma.
• Painting a room will never be fun. Painting a room red is eternal damnation.
• You can, in fact, wear a studded punk belt with dress clothes in a high-level meeting without anyone noticing.
• A person can improve their Scrabble skills by playing every day.
• Life is indeed fragile, and I’m often too absorbed in watching what’s coming around the bend to take stock.

I’m not sure what happened to the idea of a “lazy summer day.” Whoever the hell said that surely didn’t try and hold down a real job. Maybe they were a musician. Or a skateboarder. All I know is, as sure as the cicadas are gone, summer flies by in anything but a lazy manner.

I feel guilty. I neglect this site in spurts. The rest of the daily grind catches up with me and this falls by the wayside. Funny, as I’d much rather be redesigning and writing than rowing or going to meetings. Hell, I don’t even have time to work on my other art. Perhaps this is merely a metaphor for life in general: the things that one enjoys most often take a backseat to responsibility and duty. Well, to that I say, “bah!”

I’m sorry, poor, little crappy site that I neglect to make better either through writing or redesign. I won’t shun you again, turning away leaving you cold and empty. I’m just trying to find a balance…

N.B. - I know that this post was obnoxiously journal-like, which I swore I’d never do. I hate to recognize the purpose of the medium itself in tone. Perhaps it should be read in a tone of apology to myself for neglecting those things in life that make me happiest. Yea. That’s it.

Some nights are just meant to be. Not in any sweeping, dramatic way. But moreso a subtle, comforting way of making your soul at ease. No bars. No chaos or cacophony. Just friends, a couch and the weight of the world lifted from shoulders.

This should come as no surprise. I guess by nature I’m a “coffee shop” person. By this I simply mean that I’m a more low-key, conversation-centered individual. In high school I actually preferred going to a (get ready) coffee shop as opposed to watching another movie at someone’s house. I’m not sure most of my other friends felt the same way, and in fact I often caught flack for not wanting to just watch a movie. I just love talking with friends. It reaffirms my humanity and warms my soul to connect with a friend in great dialogue.

College was bliss because I found a group of people who shared the same sentiments. One year nine of us lived in this grand house, many of us staying up late at night after our studying to just talk. These were exhausting conversations because of their length, breadth of topic and consequence; knowing that you’re only going to get 2 hours of sleep adds a layer of excitement, rebelliousness and somehow, more worth to the experience. You go through the next day sluggish and dragging, yet comforted by the notion that it was all more than worth it and you’d do it again in a heartbeat. I came out of college, geographically, with one friend with whom I still share the most incredible discussions.

I’m unspeakably lucky to live with him, but unfortunate that our career paths disallow us much time to indulge in what we used to wield so freely. Our talks are few and far between, and always seem to carry the silent caveat of “not being able to talk for long.” But be that as it may, our rare discussions are the most invaluable, precious items in my life. Sad as it may seem, it’s those types of talks that recharge my being. It’s as if connecting with someone on that deep level restores my faith in humanity, and reminds me that there are a few people left that defy the arrogant, ignorant, self-absorbed drone stereotype that I hold to most of adults (note: bad, bad habit I have. too much Bad Religion). This may seem like a shallow, weak sentiment for my friends. But indeed in my backwards way of thinking it’s the highest compliment that I could pay. They restore my hope.

So anyway, long story long, last night was one of those nights. Caution to the wind, sleep be damned and previous plans diverted, an evening at home with some friends, a good documentary and plenty of time to talk leaves one feeling fresh and rejuvenated.

I needed that. Badly.

I know it’s all old hat now, but to hell with it. Yes, former president Regan died recently and although I know naught of his politics during the first part of my life, he seemd like a swell guy. But what about Ray Charles? I dunno, perhaps it’s my gravitation towards musicians as opposed to politicians, but still. Ray Charles? Dead? We truly have lost an icon, and I’m not sure we know what’s been taken from us.

Sure Ray’s getting some press, but no where near what he deserves. I can honestly say that my introduction to Ray’s work has only been a recent development. About a year and a half ago when I got Modern Sounds In Country and Western Music. Since then (combined with my diving into much soul music), i’ve developed a profound love for this man’s work and what he’s done for the modern music scene. He truly is the cat’s pajamas. And, frankly, I’m a bit saddened that little is being done (media-wise) to honor such a certified genius.

Looking back on his catalogue, I’m breathless as to just how much he published, and how expansive his style was. Ray’s work came before Led Zepplin and The Band. Listen to them and it’s impossible to ignore the influence. His work predated Aretha and Motown. Even pop and country music was never the same after he recorded. There isn’t a genre of music (save opera and electronic) that Ray Charles’ influence didn’t impact greatly. So it was much more than soul music that Ray changed forever.

We’ve lost a former president in the last week, but we’ve also lost one of the cornerstones of music history. As we honor one with grandiose displays of pomp and circumstance, let us also honor the other in our hearts with just as much solemnity.

If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t. Not that this pertains to anything in particular, but perhaps that’s the point.

The roommate and I, in our ever-continual remarkable discussions, were chatting last night about missed opportunities in life. Regrets. And while I try to live life without regretting anything, I always seem to lose at that. I’ve begun to think that I regret most things in my life, whether they deserve this emotion or not. Hell, it’s safe to say that I regret having regrets (and more regrets only begets more regrets, and…ok I’m done).

I’m the type of individual who, in the long run, doesn’t trust their own decision making capacity. I don’t trust that, whatever my choice is, that this affirmation is the better of the two scenarios. The other is always the wiser choice, and I failed to make that. And even if the result isn’t failure, and my original decision was made in the best light of things, I always just chalk it up to some cosmic fortune floating freely in the air…not my own analytical abilities.

So what regrets take the proverbial cake in my life? Not staying diligent with my music. Not following my dream of learning how to spin soul records. Not learning more in school when I had the chance. Not giving hockey a shot as a sport.

But here’s the catch. The normal, unbiased person’s response to this would surely be: You play and write music just fine. It’s still not too late to get some turntables and vinyl. You don’t have to stop learning now. Why not join a rec hockey league? Because, in my mind, it’s too late. The time for realizing all of this is gone.

I believe that as we slowly morph from adolescent to adult, with it comes the ability to let go of dreams; to sweetly surrender to roads not taken and aspirations left to die. We come to embrace the idea that life is finite, that all things cannot possibly be done in 24 hours, and more importantly that everything comes at a cost. Sure I could practice writing and playing music a few hours a day to get my creative wind back. I most certainly could buy the equipment and teach myself the art of dj’ing. But at what cost? No time for reading, neglected household duties, missed workouts or less sleep.

I suppose in the end it’s all about balance. And for me, learning that whatever cannot get balanced doesn’t mean that I’m a failure. If I choose my health over something I’ve always wanted to learn, I suppose that I’m still a valid person. It’s just coming to trust this that’s the hard part.

There’s something calming about knowing how to disassemble something, be it a toy or a house or a car. I’m sure deep down it’s a control issue, needing to understand how every little part of a whole works. But for me it really is a curiosity thing. I just like to understand how objects/people work so that I can more fully appreciate them…and perhaps know what to do when one breaks.

For the past few weekends, I’ve been helping to tear apart and partially remodel a house. Granted, the house in question isn’t in poor condition. And thankfully, since I’m not the major financial backer in the situation I can feel free to make mistakes without worry of causing too much damage to the pocketbook.

It’s not as if we’ve done anything major. Please, let’s not get thoughts of This Old House or even Extreme Home Makeover dancing around your head. In the past two weeks we’ve moved on from disassembling locks, switch plates and closet systems to ripping up tiles and removing sub-floors. This past weekend in particular was especially intriguing because it involved (get ready): uninstalling toilets and sinks and removing vanities! Now, while this wouldn’t exactly tickle the fancy of too many people as a romping good time on the weekend, I was quite happy.

Maybe it’s just an ego stroke for me. I’d hate to reduce it to that but I’m not sure. As I go through life, I’m the type of person that picks up random things and files them away in my head; how to use a sandblaster to remove paint from a car; how to change the rotating belt in a dryer, etc. Now when it comes time to actually apply these random pieces of crap that are tucked away in my noggin I feel a sense of satisfaction. Maybe it’s because people are always poking fun at me for retaining info that they would deem useless (like clean leather with a 6:1 ratio of water to woolite!). Perhaps it’s mere vindication for me that the stupid stuff that sticks in my cerebral cortex is valid and applicable. Or maybe I just like feeling handy. I dunno. But to me, knowing how to remove a toilet and all of the associated functions of how this pipe is connected to this one and why the wax seal is there amuses me. Now every time I see a toilet I know exactly how all parts of it work, and if someone asked me to help them remove it I could without blinking.

All in all, I guess it’s not the worst flaw to have. I could be weak for heroin or be a habitual liar or something. I just like to take things apart. And thankfully I get to use other peoples belongings as learning tools. However, unlike all of my sister’s toys that I took apart and never put back together, I think I’m going to have to put the toilets back in as soon as I’m done learning how to lay a tile floor.

PS - by the way, the four-point hinges/knuckle joints that hold on Star Wars/GI Joe figurines heads are definitely worth a closer look.

I thought everyone was paranoid in early spring when people started mentioning the pending arrival of the cicadas. There was much moaning and gnashing of teeth. Recounted horror stories of childhood memories dominated watercooler discussions. 17 years had passed and you would have thought that the plague of all plagues was about to descend upon the tri-state area.

Starting about four weeks ago, the hype surrounding the arrival of the cicadas grew a thousand-fold. The trenches were dug. Frightened suburbanites began covering every green thing in sight with over-priced netting from that orange store. I was literally convinced that the world was ending, and I was scoffing the rest of them to high hell. I wasn’t buying into it, no sir, no way.

And then the little bastards came.

I didn’t really notice it until I was walking back from a meeting across campus and spotted a tree with a trunk that was moving. Surely if I were to ever participate in the illegal activity of consuming hallucinogenic drugs, this is one of the visuals I had always expected would accompany such. The entire trunk of this poor little tree was covered in these tiny shrieking wanna-be cockroaches. Nasty. In awe, I meandered back to my office, plunked myself down at my desk and dutifully began checking voicemails and returning emails. And then one crawled out the back of my shirt and up through my hair. Right. This was war.

Within the next few days, the full onslaught of all 5 billion (not kidding here folks) of the little jerks was realized. From dawn to dusk they shriek. I’m not sure physiologically how they do it, but their chorus is so deafening you can hear them traveling in a car at 50mph with music on and taking. With the windows closed they still overpower your conversations. It’s mind-numbing how loud these things are.

And the intelligence of them…stunning (or rather lack thereof). God certainly played a cruel joke on these things on creation day. Everyone’s heard the joke of being “last in line when God was handing out intelligence,” right? Yea, well these little asshats weren’t even aware there was a line. They fly into *everything* and don’t care. They’re like airborne thumbs. No sense of aerodynamics. They’ll fly straight at your head, bounce off, and land on their backs, unable to flip themselves over as if, “holy llamas on a stick, how’d I get here?” At least if you’re going to annoy me, be adaptively clever about it.

Life as I know it has been altered irrevocably. These small winged henchmen of Satan himself have taken away every freedom that is supposed to accompany this time of year. As spring lazily melts into summer, car windows are supposed to be down. Evening walks are to be had. Working in the sun is supposed to be rejuvenating. Now, all are lost, sacrificed at the altar of these malevolent pests. And for what, I ask? So that after 17 years these little crapballs can emerge from the ground to hump everything in site, crawl up trees, dump their spawn into the ground and go to sleep for another 2 decades. Evolution be damned, this is not to be stood for!

I’m not sure when they’re supposed to die off. All I know is that when I start having conversations with them, their little red, beady eyes staring back at me blankly, it’s time for one of us to leave. And seeing as I plan on being around next summer, I’m staking my claim. I’m taking it back. I’m taking it all back.